the lonely way: intermezzo: countess mizzie three plays by arthur schnitzler translated from the german with an introduction by edwin bjÖrkman new york mitchell kennerley mcmxv copyright, , by mitchell kennerley contents page introduction vii the lonely way intermezzo countess mizzie introduction hermann bahr, the noted playwright and critic, tried one day to explain the spirit of certain viennese architecture to a german friend, who persisted in saying: "yes, yes, but always there remains something that i find curiously foreign." at that moment an old-fashioned spanish state carriage was coming along the street, probably on its way to or from the imperial palace. the german could hardly believe his eyes and expressed in strong terms his wonderment at finding such a relic surviving in an ultra-modern town like vienna. "you forget that our history is partly spanish," bahr retorted. "and nothing could serve better than that old carriage to explain what you cannot grasp in our art and poetry." a similar idea has been charmingly expressed by hugo von hofmannsthal in the poem he wrote in --when he was still using the pseudonym of "loris"--as introduction to "anatol." i am now adding a translation of that poem to my own introduction, because i think it will be of help in reading the plays of this volume. the scene painted by hofmannsthal might, on the whole, be used as a setting for "countess mizzie." for a more detailed version of that scene he refers us to "canaletto's vienna"--that is, to the group of thirteen viennese views which were painted about by the venetian bernardo belotto (who, like his more famous uncle and model, antonio canale, was generally called canaletto), and which are now hanging in one of the galleries of the _kunsthistorische hofmuseum_ at vienna. the spirit of those pictures may be described, i am told, as one of stately grace. they are full of latin joy in life and beauty. they speak of an existence constantly softened by concern for the amenities of life. it is just what survives of their atmosphere that frequently makes foreigners speak of vienna with a tender devotion not even surpassed by that bestowed on paris or rome. an attempt to understand the atmosphere and spirit of modern vienna will carry us far toward a correct appreciation of schnitzler's art. and it is not enough to say that vienna is one of the oldest cities in europe. it is not even enough to say that it preserves more of the past than paris or london, for instance. what we must always bear in mind is its position as the meeting place not only of south and north but also of past and present. in some ways it is a melting-pot on a larger scale than new york even. racially and lingually, it belongs to the north. historically and psychologically, it belongs to the south. economically and politically, it lives very much in the present. socially and esthetically, it has always been strongly swayed by tradition. the anti-semitic movement, which formed such a characteristic feature of viennese life during the last few decades, must be regarded as the last stand of vanishing social traditions against a growing pressure of economical requirements. like all cities sharply divided within itself and living above a volcano of half-suppressed passions, vienna tends to seek in abandoned gayety, in a frank surrender to the senses, that forgetfulness without which suicide would seem the only remaining alternative. emotions kept constantly at the boiling-point must have an outlet, lest they burst their container. add to this sub-conscious or unconscious craving for a neutral outlet, the traditional pressure of the latin inheritance, and we have the greater part of the causes that explain schnitzler's preoccupation with the themes of love and death. for schnitzler is first of all viennese. * * * * * arthur schnitzler was born at vienna on may , . his father was professor johann schnitzler, a renowned jewish throat specialist. i am told that _professor bernhardi_ in the play of the same name must be regarded as a pretty faithful portrait of the elder schnitzler, who, besides his large and important practice, had many other interests, including an extensive medical authorship and the editing of the _wiener klinische rundschau_. it is also to be noticed that _professor bernhardi_ has among his assistants a son, who divides his time between medicine and the composition of waltz music. the younger schnitzler studied medicine at the vienna university, as did also his brother, and obtained his m.d. in . during the next two years he was attached to the resident staff of one of the big hospitals. it was also the period that saw the beginning of his authorship. while contributing medical reviews to his father's journal, he was also publishing poems and prose sketches in various literary periodicals. most of his contributions from this time appeared in a publication named "_an der schönen blauen donau_" (by the beautiful blue danube), now long defunct. he was also continuing his studies, which almost from the start seem to have turned toward the psychic side of the medical science. the new methods of hypnotism and suggestion interested him greatly, and in he published a monograph on "functional aphonia and its treatment by hypnotism and suggestion." in he made a study trip to england, during which he wrote a series of "london letters" on medical subjects for his father's journal. on his return he settled down as a practicing physician, but continued to act as his father's assistant. and as late as - we find him named as his father's collaborator on a large medical work entitled "clinical atlas of laryngology and rhinology." there are many signs to indicate uncertainty as to his true calling during those early years. the ensuing inner conflict was probably sharpened by some pressure exercised by his father, who seems to have been anxious that he should turn his energies undividedly to medicine. to a practical and outwardly successful man like the elder schnitzler, his own profession must have appeared by far the more important and promising. while there is no reason to believe that his attitude in this matter was aggressive, it must have been keenly felt and, to some extent at least, resented by the son. one of the dominant notes of the latter's work is the mutual lack of understanding between successive generations, and this lack tends with significant frequency to assume the form of a father's opposition to a son's choice of profession. this conflict cannot have lasted very long, however, for the younger schnitzler proved quickly successful in his purely literary efforts. the "anatol" sketches attracted a great deal of attention even while appearing separately in periodicals, and with their publication in book form, which occurred almost simultaneously with the first performance of "a piece of fiction" at a viennese theater, their author was hailed as one of the most promising among the younger men. from that time he has been adding steadily to his output and his reputation. when his collected works were issued in , these included four volumes of plays and three volumes of novels and stories. since then he has finished another play and two volumes of prose sketches. it is rare to find an author turning with such regularity from the epic to the dramatic form and back again. and it is still more rare to find him so thoroughly at home and successful in both fields. in schnitzler's case these two parallel veins have mutually supported and developed each other. time and again he has treated the same theme first in one form and then in another. and not infrequently he has introduced characters from his plays into his stories, and vice versa. a careful study of his other works would undoubtedly assist toward a better understanding of his plays, but i do not regard such a study essential for the purpose. it is my belief that schnitzler has given himself most fully and most typically in his dramatic authorship, and it is to this side of his creative production i must confine myself here. * * * * * "anatol" is nothing but seven sketches in dramatic form, each sketch picturing a new love affair of the kind supposed to be especially characteristic of viennese life. the man remains the same in all these light adventures. the woman is always a different one. the story is of the kind always accompanying such circumstances--one of waxing or waning attraction, of suspicion and jealousy, of incrimination and recrimination, of intrigue and counter-intrigue. the atmosphere is realistic, but the actuality implied is sharply limited and largely superficial. there is little attempt at getting down to the roots of things. there is absolutely no tendency or thesis. the story is told for the sake of the story, and its chief redeeming quality lies in the grace and charm and verve with which it is told. these were qualities that immediately won the public's favor when "anatol" first appeared. and to some extent it must be counted unfortunate that the impression made by those qualities was so deep and so lasting. there has been a strong tendency observable, both within and outside the author's native country, to regard him particularly as the creator of _anatol_, and to question, if not to resent, his inevitable and unmistakable growth beyond that pleasing, but not very significant starting point. and yet his next dramatic production, which was also his first serious effort as a playwright, ought to have proved sufficient warning that he was moved by something more than a desire to amuse. "a piece of fiction" (_das märchen_) must be counted a failure and, in some ways, a step backward. but its very failure is a promise of greater things to come. it lacks the grace and facility of "anatol." worse still, it lacks the good-humor and subtle irony of those first sketches. instead it has purpose and a serious outlook on life. the "piece of fiction" refers to the "fallen" woman--to the alleged impossibility for any decent man to give his whole trust to a woman who has once strayed from the straight path. _fedor denner_ denounces this attitude in the presence of a young girl who loves him and is loved by him, but who belongs to the category of women under discussion. when he learns her history, he struggles vainly to resist the feelings of distrust and jealousy which he had declared absurd a little while earlier. and the two are forced at last to walk their different ways. unfortunately the dialogue is heavy and stilted. the play is a tract rather than a piece of art, and the tirades of _fedor_ are equally unconvincing when he speaks for or against that "fiction" which is killing both his own and the girl's hope of happiness in mutual love. yet the play marks a step forward in outlook and spirit. schnitzler's interest in hypnotism, which had asserted itself in the first scene of "anatol," appears again in the little verse-play, "paracelsus," which followed. but this time he used it to more purpose. by the help of it, a woman's innermost soul is laid bare, and some very interesting light is shed on the workings of the human mind in general. "amours" (_liebelei_) may be regarded as a cross, or a compromise, between "anatol" and "a piece of fiction." the crudeness of speech marking the latter play has given room to a very incisive dialogue, that carries the action forward with unfailing precision. some of the temporarily dropped charm has been recovered, and the gain in sincerity has been preserved. "amours" seems to be the first one of a series of plays dealing with the reverse of the gay picture presented in "anatol." a young man is having a love affair with two women at the same time, one of them married, the other one a young girl with scant knowledge of the world. yet she knows enough to know what she is doing, and she has sufficient strength of mind to rise above a sense of guilt, though she is more prone to be the victim of fear. then the married woman's husband challenges the young man, who is killed. and the girl takes her own life, not because her lover is dead, not because of anything she has done, but because his death for the sake of another woman renders her own faith in him meaningless. "outside the game laws" (_freiwild_) is another step ahead--the first play, i think, where the real arthur schnitzler, the author of "the lonely way" and "countess mizzie," reveals himself. it has a thesis, but this is implied rather than obtruded. in style and character-drawing it is realistic in the best sense. it shows already the typical schnitzlerian tendency of dealing with serious questions--with questions of life and death--in a casual fashion, as if they were but problems of which road to follow or which shop to enter. it has one fault that must appear as such everywhere, namely, a division of purpose. when the play starts, one imagines that those "outside the game laws" are the women of the stage, who are presented as the legitimate prey of any man caring to hunt them. as the play goes on, that starting point is almost lost sight of, and it becomes more and more plain that those "outside the game laws" are sensible, decent men who refuse to submit to the silly dictates of the dueling code. but what i have thus named a fault is mostly theoretical, and does not mar the effective appeal of the play. what must appear as a more serious shortcoming from an american viewpoint is the local nature of the evil attacked, which lessens the universal validity of the work. "change partners!" (_reigen_) was produced about the same time as "outside the game laws," but was not printed until , and then only privately. yet those ten dialogues provoked from the first a storm which seriously threatened schnitzler's growing reputation and popularity. when vienna finds a work immoral, one may look for something dreadful. and the work in question attempts a degree of naturalism rarely equaled in france even. yet those dialogues are anything but immoral in spirit. they introduce ten men and as many women. the man of one scene reappears with a new woman in the next, and then that woman figures as the partner of a new man in the third scene. the story is always the same (except in the final dialogue): desire, satisfaction, indifference. the idea underlying this "ring dance," as the title means literally, is the same one that recurs under a much more attractive aspect in "countess mizzie." it is the linking together of the entire social organism by man's natural cravings. and as a document bearing on the psychology of sex "change partners!" has not many equals. in "the legacy" (_das vermächtnis_) we meet with a forcible presentation and searching discussion of the world's attitude toward those ties that have been established without social sanction. a young man is brought home dying, having been thrown from his horse. he compels his parents to send for his mistress and their little boy, and he hands both over to the care of his family. that is his "legacy." the family tries hard to rise to this unexpected situation and fails miserably--largely, it must be confessed, thanks to the caddish attitude of a self-made physician who wants to marry the dead man's sister. the second act ends with the death of the little boy; the third, with the disappearance and probable suicide of his mother. the dead man's sister cries out: "everything that was his is sacred to us, but the one living being who meant more to him than all of us is driven out of our home." the one ray of light offered is that the sister sees through the man who has been courting her and sends him packing. it is noticeable in this play, as in others written by schnitzler, that the attitude of the women is more sensible and tolerant than that of the men. the physician is one of the few members of that profession whom the author has painted in an unfavorable light. there is hardly one full-length play of his in which at least one representative of the medical profession does not appear. and almost invariably they seem destined to act as the particular mouthpieces of the author. in a play like "the lonely way," for instance, the life shown is the life lived by men and women observed by schnitzler. the opinions expressed are the opinions of that sort of men and women under the given circumstances. the author neither approves nor disapproves when he makes each character speak in accordance with his own nature. but like most creative artists, he has felt the need of stating his own view of the surrounding throng. this he seems usually to do through the mouth of men like _dr. reumann_ in the play just mentioned, or _dr. mauer_ in "the vast country." and the attitude of those men shows a strange mingling of disapproval and forbearance, which undoubtedly comes very near being schnitzler's own. the little one-act play "the life partner" (_die gefährtin_) is significant mainly as a study for bigger canvases developing the same theme: the veil that hides the true life of man and woman alike from the partner. and the play should really be named "the life partner that was not." another one-act play, "the green cockatoo," is laid at paris. its action takes place on the evening of july , --the fall of the bastille and the birth of the revolution. it presents a wonderful picture of social life at the time--of the average human being's unconsciousness of the great events taking place right under his nose. "the veil of beatrice," a verse play in five acts, takes us to bologna in the year , when cesare borgia was preparing to invest the city in order to oust its tyrant, giovanni bentivoglio (named lionardo in the play), and add it to the papal possessions. all the acts take place in one night. the fundamental theme is one dear to schnitzler--the flaming up of passion under the shadow of impending death. the whole city, with the duke leading, surrenders to this outburst, the spirit of which finds its symbol in a ravishingly beautiful girl, _beatrice nardi_, who seems fated to spread desire and death wherever she appears. with her own death at dawn, the city seems to wake as from a nightmare to face the enemy already at the gates. the play holds much that is beautiful and much that is disappointing. to me its chief importance lies in the fact that it marks a breaking-point between the period when schnitzler was trying to write "with a purpose," and that later and greater period when he has learned how to treat life sincerely and seriously without other purpose than to present it as it is. that was his starting point in "anatol," but then he was not yet ready for the realism that must be counted the highest of all: the realism that has no tendency and preaches no lesson, but from which we draw our own lessons as we draw them from life itself in moments of unusual lucidity. "hours of life" (_lebendige stunden_), which has given its name to a volume of four one-act plays, may be described as a mental duel between two sharply opposed temperaments--the practical and the imaginative. an elderly woman, long an invalid, has just died, and a letter to the man who has loved and supported her during her final years reveals the fact that she has taken her own life because she feared that the thought of her was preventing her son, a poet, from working. the duel is between that son and the man who has befriended his mother. the play constitutes a scathing arraignment of the artistic temperament. bernard shaw himself has never penned a more bitter one. "even if you were the world's greatest genius," the old man cries to the young one, "all your scribbling would be worthless in comparison with a single one of those hours of real life that saw your mother seated in that chair, talking to us, or merely listening, perhaps." the most important of those four one-act plays, however, is "end of the carnival" (_die letzten masken_). an old journalist, a might-have-been, dying in a hospital, sends for a life-long friend, a successful poet, whom he hates because of his success. all he thinks of is revenge, of getting even, and he means to achieve this end by disclosing to the poet the faithlessness of his wife. once she had been the mistress of the dying man, and that seems to him his one triumph in life. but when the poet arrives and begins to talk of the commonplaces of daily life, of petty gossip, petty intrigues, and petty jealousies, then the dying man suddenly sees the futility of the whole thing. to him, who has one foot across the final threshold, it means nothing, and he lets his friend depart without having told him anything. there is a curious recurrence of the same basic idea in "professor bernhardi," where the central figure acquires a similar sense of our ordinary life's futility by spending two months in jail. to what extent schnitzler has studied and been impressed by nietzsche i don't know, but the thought underlying "the lady with the dagger" is distinctly nietzschean. it implies not only a sense of our having lived before, of having previously stood in the same relationship to the people now surrounding us, but of being compelled to repeat our past experience, even if a sudden flash of illumination out of the buried past should reveal to us its predestined fatal termination. this idea meets us again in the first act of "the lonely way." the fourth of those one-act plays, "literature," is what schnitzler has named it--a farce--but delightfully clever and satirical. those four plays, and the group of three others published under the common title of "puppets" (_marionetten_), are, next to "anatol," the best known works of schnitzler's outside of austria and germany. they deserve their wide reputation, too, for there is nothing quite like them in the modern drama. yet i think they have been over-estimated in comparison with the rest of schnitzler's production. "the puppet player," "the gallant cassian" and "the greatest show of all" (_zum grossen wurstel_) have charm and brightness and wit. but in regard to actual significance they cannot compare with plays like "the lonely way," for instance. the three plays comprised in the volume named "puppets" constitute three more exemplifications of the artistic temperament, which again fares badly at the hands of their author. and yet he has more than one telling word to say in defense of that very temperament. that these plays, like "hours of life" and "literature," are expressive of the inner conflict raging for years within the playwright's own soul, i take for granted. and they seem to reflect moments when schnitzler felt that, in choosing poetry rather than medicine for his life work, he had sacrificed the better choice. and yet they do not show any regrets, but rather a slightly ironical self-pity. a note of irony runs through everything that schnitzler has written, constituting one of the main attractions of his art, and it is the more acceptable because the point of it so often turns against the writer himself. "the puppet player" is a poet who has ceased writing in order to use human beings for his material. he thinks that he is playing with their destinies as if they were so many puppets. and the little drama shows how his accidental interference has created fates stronger and happier than his own--fates lying wholly outside his power. the play suffers from a tendency to exaggerated subtlety which is one of schnitzler's principal dangers, though it rarely asserts itself to such an extent that the enjoyment of his work is spoiled by it. his self-irony reaches its climax in the one-act play which i have been forced to name "the greatest show of all" because the original title (_zum grossen wurstel_) becomes meaningless in english. there he proceeds with reckless abandon to ridicule his own work as well as the inflated importance of all imaginative creation. but to even up the score, he includes the public, as representative of ordinary humanity, among the objects of his sarcasms. and in the end all of us--poets, players, and spectators--are exposed as mere puppets. the same thought recurs to some extent in "the gallant cassian," which is otherwise a piece of sheer fun--the slightest of schnitzler's dramatic productions, perhaps, but not without the accustomed schnitzlerian sting. when, after reading all the preceding plays, one reaches "the lonely way" (_der einsame weg_), it is hard to escape an impression of everything else having been nothing but a preparation. it is beyond all doubt schnitzler's greatest and most powerful creation so far, representing a tremendous leap forward both in form and spirit. it has less passion than "the call of life," less subtlety than "intermezzo," less tolerance than "countess mizzie." instead it combines in perfect balance all the best qualities of those three plays--each dominant feature reduced a little to give the others scope as well. it is a wonderful specimen of what might be called the new realism--of that realism which is paying more attention to spiritual than to material actualities. yet it is by no means lacking in the more superficial verisimilitude either. its character-drawing and its whole atmosphere are startlingly faithful to life, even though the life portrayed may represent a clearly defined and limited phase of universal human existence. the keynote of the play lies in _sala's_ words to _julian_ in the closing scene of the fourth act: "the process of aging must needs be a lonely one to our kind." that's the main theme--not a thesis to be proved. this loneliness to which _sala_ refers, is common to all people, but it is more particularly the share of those who, like himself and _julian_, have treasured their "freedom" above everything else and who, for that reason, have eschewed the human ties which to a man like _wegrath_ represent life's greatest good and deepest meaning. again we find the principal characters of the play typifying the artistic temperament, with its unhuman disregards of the relationships that have primary importance to other men. its gross egoism, as exemplified by _julian_, is the object of passionate derision. and yet it is a man of that kind, _sala_, who recognizes and points out the truer path, when he say: "to love is to live for somebody else." the play has no thesis, as i have already said. it is not poised on the point of a single idea. numerous subordinate themes are woven into the main one, giving the texture of the whole a richness resembling that of life itself. woman's craving for experience and self-determination is one such theme, which we shall find again in "intermezzo," where it practically becomes the dominant one. another one is that fascinated stare at death which is so characteristic of latin and slav writers--of men like zola, maupassant, and tolstoy--while it is significantly absent in the great scandinavian and anglo-saxon poets. "is there ever a blissful moment in any decent man's life, when he can think of anything but death in his innermost soul?" says _sala_. the same thought is expressed in varying forms by one after another of schnitzler's characters. "all sorrow is a lie as long as the open grave is not your own," cries the dying _catharine_ in "the call of life." it is in this connection particularly that we of the north must bear in mind schnitzler's viennese background and the latin traditions forming such a conspicuous part of it. the latin peoples have shown that they can die as bravely as the men of any other race or clime, but their attitude toward death in general is widely different from the attitude illustrated by ibsen or strindberg, for instance. a certain gloom, having kinship with death, seems ingrained in the northern temperament, put there probably by the pressure of the northern winter. the man of the sunlit south, on the other hand, seems always to retain the child's simple horror at the thought that darkness must follow light. we had better not regard it as cowardice under any circumstances, and cowardice it can certainly not be called in the characters of schnitzler. but the resignation in which he finds his only antidote, and which seems to represent his nearest approach to a formulated philosophy, cannot be expected to satisfy us. one of his own countrymen, hermann bahr, has protested sharply against its insufficiency as a soul-sustaining faith, and in that protest i feel inclined to concur. with "the lonely way" begins a series of plays representing not only schnitzler's highest achievements so far, but a new note in the modern drama. to a greater extent than any other modern plays--not even excepting those of ibsen--they must be defined as psychological. the dramas of strindberg come nearest in this respect, but they, too, lag behind in soul-revealing quality. plots are almost lacking in the schnitzler productions during his later period. things happen, to be sure, and these happenings are violent enough at times, but they do not constitute a sharply selected sequence of events leading up to a desired and foreshadowed end. in the further development of this period, even clearly defined themes are lost sight of, and the course of the play takes on an almost accidental aspect. this is puzzling, of course, and it must be especially provoking to those who expect each piece of art to have its narrow little lesson neatly tacked on in a spot where it cannot be missed. it implies a manner that exacts more alertness and greater insight on the part of the reader. but for that very reason these later plays of schnitzler should prove stimulating to those who do not suffer from mental laziness or exhaustion. "intermezzo" (_zwischenspiel_) might be interpreted as an attack on those new marital conventions which abolish the old-fashioned demand for mutual faithfulness and substitute mutual frankness. it would be more correct, however, to characterize it as a discussion of what constitutes true honesty in the ever delicate relationship between husband and wife. it shows, too, the growth of a woman's soul, once she has been forced to stand on her own feet. viewed from this point, the play might very well be classified as feministic. it would be easy, for one thing, to read into it a plea for a single moral standard. but its ultimate bearing goes far beyond such a narrow construction. here as elsewhere, schnitzler shows himself more sympathetic toward the female than toward the male outlook on life, and the creator of _cecilia adams-ortenburg_ may well be proclaimed one of the foremost living painters of the woman soul. the man who, in "anatol," saw nothing but a rather weak-minded restlessness in woman's inconstancy, recognizes in "intermezzo" woman's right to as complete a knowledge of life and its possibilities as any man may acquire. the same note is struck by _johanna_ in "the lonely way." "i want a time to come when i must shudder at myself--shudder as deeply as you can only when nothing has been left untried," she says to _sala_ in the fourth act. this note sounds much more clearly--one might say defiantly--through the last two acts of "intermezzo." and when _amadeus_, shrinking from its implications, cries to _cecilia_ that thereafter she will be guarded by his tenderness, she retorts impatiently: "but i don't want to be guarded! i shall no longer permit you to guard me!" in strict keeping with it is also that schnitzler here realizes and accepts woman's capacity for and right to creative expression. it is from _cecilia's_ lips that the suggestion comes to seek a remedy for life's hurts in a passionate abandonment to work. in fact, the established attitudes of man and woman seem almost reversed in the cases of _amadeus_ and _cecilia._ significant as this play is from any point viewed, i am inclined to treasure it most on account of the subtlety and delicacy of its dialogue. i don't think any dramatist of modern times has surpassed schnitzler in his ability to find expression for the most refined nuances of thought and feeling. to me, at least, it is a constant joy to watch the iridescence of his sentences, which gives to each of them not merely one, but innumerable meanings. and through so much of this particular play runs a spirit that can only be called playful--a spirit which finds its most typical expression in the delightful figure of _albert rhon_, the poet who takes the place of the otherwise inevitable physician. i like to think of that figure as more or less embodying the author's conception of himself. all the wit and sparkle with which we commonly credit the gallic mind seems to me abundantly present in the scenes between _albert_ and _amadeus_. the poise and quiet characterizing "the lonely way" and "intermezzo" appear lost to some extent in "the call of life" (_der ruf des leben_), which, on the other hand, is one of the intensest plays written by schnitzler. the white heat of its passion sears the mind at times, so that the reader feels like raising a shield between himself and the words. "it was as if i heard life itself calling to me outside my door," _marie_ says in this play when trying to explain to _dr. schindler_ why she had killed her father and gone to seek her lover. the play might as well have been named "the will to live," provided we remember that mere existence can hardly be called life. its basic thought has much in common with that of frank wedekind's "earth spirit," but schnitzler spiritualizes what the german playwright has vulgarized. there is a lot of modern heresy in that thought--a lot of revived and refined paganism that stands in sharp opposition to the spirit of christianity as it has been interpreted hitherto. it might be summarized as a twentieth century version of achilles' declaration that he would rather be a live dog than the ruler of all the shades in hades. "what a creature can i be," cries _marie_, "to emerge out of such an experience as out of a bad dream--awake--and living--and wanting to live?" and the kind, wise, schnitzlerian doctor's answer is: "you are alive--and the rest _has been_...." life itself is its own warrant and explanation. unimpaired life--life with the power and will to go on living--is the greatest boon and best remedy of any that can be offered. the weak point of "the call to life" is _marie's_ father, the old _moser_--one of the most repulsive figures ever seen on the stage. it may have been made what it is in order that the girl's crime might not hopelessly prejudice the spectator at the start and thus render all the rest of the play futile. we must remember, too, that the monstrous egoism of _moser_ is not represented as a typical quality of that old age which feels itself robbed by the advance of triumphant youth. what schnitzler shows is that egoism grows more repulsive as increasing age makes it less warranted. the middle act of the play, with its remarkable conversation between the _colonel_ and _max_, brings us back to "outside the game laws." that earlier play was in its time declared the best existing stage presentation of the spirit engendered by the military life. but it has a close second in "the call of life." to anyone having watched the manners of militarism in europe, the words of the _colonel_ to _max_ will sound as an all-sufficient explanation: "no physicians have to spend thirty years at the side of beds containing puppets instead of human patients--no lawyers have to practice on criminals made out of pasteboard--and even the ministers are not infrequently preaching to people who actually believe in heaven and hell." if "the lonely way" be schnitzler's greatest play all around, and "intermezzo" his subtlest, "countess mizzie" is the sweetest, the best tempered, the one that leaves the most agreeable taste in the mouth. it gives us a concrete embodiment of the tolerance toward all life that is merely suggested by the closing sentences of _dr. schindler_ in the last act of "the call of life." it brings back the gay spirit of "anatol," but with a rare maturity supporting it. the simple socio-biological philosophy of "change partners!" is restated without the needless naturalism of those early dialogues. the idea of "countess mizzie" is that, if we look deep enough, all social distinctions are lost in a universal human kinship. on the surface we appear like flowers neatly arranged in a bed, each kind in its separate and carefully labeled corner. then schnitzler begins to scrape off the screening earth, and underneath we find the roots of all those flowers intertwined and matted, so that it is impossible to tell which belong to the _count_ and which to _wasner_, the coachman, which to _miss lolo_, the ballet-dancer, and which to the _countess_. "young medardus" is schnitzler's most ambitious attempt at historical playwriting. it seems to indicate that he belongs too wholly in the present age to succeed in that direction. the play takes us back to , when napoleon appeared a second time outside the gates of vienna. the central character, _medardus klähr_, is said to be historical. the re-created atmosphere of old vienna is at once convincing and amusing. but the play is too sprawling, too scattered, to get firm hold on the reader. there are seventy-four specifically indicated characters, not to mention groups of dumb figures. and while the title page speaks of five acts and a prologue, there are in reality seventeen distinct scenes. each scene may be dramatically valuable, but the constant passage from place to place, from one set of characters to another, has a confusing effect. there is, too, a more deep-lying reason for the failure of the play as a whole, i think. the ironical outlook so dear to schnitzler--or rather, so inseparable from his temperament--has betrayed him. irony seems hopelessly out of place in a historical drama, where it tends to make us feel that the author does not believe in the actual existence of his own characters. i have a suspicion that "young medardus" takes the place within the production of schnitzler that is held by "peer gynt" in the production of ibsen--that _medardus klähr_ is meant to satirize the viennese character as _peer gynt_ satirizes the norwegian. the keynote of the play may be found in the words of _etzelt_, spoken as _medardus_ is about to be shot, after having refused to save his own life by a promise not to make any attempts against napoleon's: "god wanted to make a hero of him, and the course of events turned him into a fool." the obvious interpretation is that the pettiness of viennese conditions defeated the larger aspirations of the man, who would have proved true to his own possibilities in other surroundings. a more careful analysis of the plot shows, however, that what turns the ambitions of _medardus_ into dreams and words is his susceptibility to the charms of a woman. once within the magic circle of her power, everything else--the danger of his country, the death of his sister, his duty to avenge the death of his father--becomes secondary to his passion. and each time he tries to rise above that passion, the reappearance of the woman is sufficient to deflect him from his purpose. it is as if schnitzler wanted to suggest that the greatest weakness of the viennese character lies in its sensuous concern with sex to the detriment of all other vital interests. to me it is a very remarkable thing to think that such a play was performed a large number of times at one of the foremost theaters in vienna, and that, apparently, it received a very respectful hearing. i cannot but wonder what would happen here, if a play were put on the stage dealing in a similar spirit with the american character. "the soul is a vast country, where many different things find place side by side," says dr. theodor reik in his interesting volume named "arthur schnitzler als psycholog" (minden, ). thus he explains the meaning of the title given to "the vast country" (_das weite land_). and i don't think it is possible to get closer than that. nowhere has schnitzler been more casual in his use of what is commonly called plot. nowhere has he scorned more completely to build his work around any particular "red thread." event follows event with seeming haphazardness. the only thing that keeps the play from falling apart is the logical development of each character. it is, in fact, principally, if not exclusively, a series of soul-studies. what happens serves merely as an excuse to reveal the reaction of a certain character to certain external pressures or internal promptings. but viewed in this light, the play has tremendous power and significance. dr. reik's book, to which i just referred, has been written to prove the direct connection between schnitzler's art and the new psychology established by dr. sigmund freud of vienna. that the playwright must have studied the freudian theories seems more than probable. that they may have influenced him seems also probable. and that this influence may have helped him to a clearer grasp of more than one mystery within the human soul, i am willing to grant also. what i want to protest against, is the attempt to make him out an exponent of any particular scientific theory. he is an observer of all life. he is what _amadeus_ in "intermezzo" ironically charges _albert rhon_ with being: "a student of the human soul." and he has undoubtedly availed himself of every new aid that might be offered for the analysis and interpretation of that soul. the importance of man's sub-conscious life seems to have been clear to him in the early days of "anatol," and it seems to have grown on him as he matured. another freudian conception he has also made his own--that of the close connection between man's sexual life and vital phenomena not clearly designed for the expression of that life. but--to return to the point i have already tried to make--it would be dangerous and unjust to read any work of his as the dramatic effort of a scientific theorizer. schnitzler is of jewish race. in vienna that means a great deal more than in london, stockholm or new york. it means an atmosphere of contempt, of suspicion, of hatred. it means frequently complete isolation, and always some isolation. it means a constant sense of conflict between oneself and one's surroundings. all these things are reflected in the works of schnitzler--more particularly the sense of conflict and of isolation. life itself is blamed for it most of the time, however, and it is only once in a great while that the specific and localized cause is referred to--as in "literature," for instance. and even when schnitzler undertakes, as he has done in his latest play, "professor bernhardi," to deal directly with the situation of the jew within a community with strong anti-semitic tendencies, he does not appear able to keep his mind fixed on that particular issue. he starts to discuss it, and does so with a clearness and fairness that have not been equaled since the days of lessing--and then he drifts off in a new direction. the mutual opposition between jews and catholics becomes an opposition between the skeptical and the mystical temperaments. it is as if he wanted to say that all differences are unreal except those between individuals as such. and if that be his intention, he is right, i believe, and his play is the greater for bringing that thought home to us. the play is a remarkable one in many respects. it deals largely with the internal affairs of a hospital. an overwhelming majority of the characters are physicians connected with the big hospital of which _professor bernhardi_ is the head. they talk of nothing but what men of that profession in such a position would be likely to talk of. in other words, they are all the time "talking shop." this goes on through five acts. throughout the entire play there is not the slightest suggestion of what the broadway manager and the periodical editor call a "love interest." and yet the play holds you from beginning to end, and the dramatic tension could not be greater if its main theme were the unrequited love of the professor's son instead of his own right to place his duties as a physician above all other considerations. to one who has grown soul-weary of the "triangle" and all other combinations for the exploiting of illicit or legitimized love, "professor bernhardi" should come as a great relief and a bright promise. * * * * * these are the main outlines of schnitzler's work as a dramatist. they indicate a constant, steady growth, coupled with increased realization of his own possibilities and powers as well as of his limitations. in all but a very few of his plays, he has confined himself to the life immediately surrounding him--to the life of the viennese middle class, and more particularly of the professional element to which he himself belongs. but on the basis of a wonderfully faithful portrayal of local characters and conditions, he has managed to rear a superstructure of emotional appeal and intellectual clarification that must render his work welcome to thinking men and women wherever it be introduced. and as he is still in the flower of his manhood, it seems reasonable to expect that still greater things may be forthcoming from his pen. schnitzler's "anatol" spearhead fences, yew-tree hedges, coats of arms no more regilded, sphinxes gleaming through the thickets.... creakingly the gates swing open. with its tritons sunk in slumber, and its fountains also sleeping, mildewed, lovely, and rococo, lo ... vienna, canaletto's, dated seventeen and sixty. quiet pools of green-brown waters, smooth and framed in snow-white marble, show between their mirrored statues gold and silver fishes playing. slender stems of oleander cast their prim array of shadows on the primly close-cropped greensward. overhead, the arching branches meet and twine to sheltering niches, where are grouped in loving couples stiff-limbed heroines and heroes.... dolphins three pour splashing streamlets in three shell-shaped marble basins. chestnut blossoms, richly fragrant, fall like flames and flutter downward to be drowned within the basins.... music, made by clarinettes and violins behind the yew-trees, seems to come from graceful cupids playing on the balustrade, or weaving flowers into garlands, while beside them other flowers gayly stream from marble vases: jasmin, marigold, and elder.... on the balustrade sit also sweet coquettes among the cupids, and some messeigneurs in purple. at their feet, on pillows resting, or reclining on the greensward, may be seen abbés and gallants. from perfumed sedans are lifted other ladies by their lovers.... rays of light sift through the leafage, shed on golden curls their luster, break in flames on gaudy cushions, gleam alike on grass and gravel, sparkle on the simple structure we have raised to serve the moment. vines and creepers clamber upward, covering the slender woodwork, while between them are suspended gorgeous tapestries and curtains: scenes arcadian boldly woven, charmingly designed by watteau.... in the place of stage, an arbor; summer sun in place of footlights; thus we rear thalia's temple where we play our private dramas, gentle, saddening, precocious.... comedies that we have suffered; feelings drawn from past and present; evil masked in pretty phrases; soothing words and luring pictures; subtle stirrings, mere nuances, agonies, adventures, crises.... some are listening, some are yawning, some are dreaming, some are laughing, some are sipping ices ... others whisper longings soft and languid.... nodding in the breeze, carnations, long-stemmed white carnations, image butterflies that swarm in sunlight, while a black and long-haired spaniel barks astonished at a peacock.... hugo von hofmannsthal, (_edwin björkman._) chronological list of plays by arthur schnitzler anatol (anatol); seven dramatic scenes; - ( ). a piece of fiction (das märchen); a drama in three acts; ( ). paracelsus (paracelsus); a verse-play in one act; ( ). amours (liebelei); a drama in three acts; ( ). outside the game laws (freiwild); a drama in three acts; ( ). change partners! (reigen); ten dialogues; - ( ). the legacy (das vermächtnis); a drama in three acts; ( ). the life partner (die gefährtin); a drama in one act; ( ). the green cockatoo (der grüne kakadu); a grotesque in one act; ( ). the veil of beatrice (der schleier der beatrice); a drama in five acts; ( ). the lady with the dagger (die frau mit dem dolche); a drama in one act; ( ). hours of life (lebendige stunden); an act; ( ). end of the carnival (die letzten masken); a drama in one act; ( ). literature (literatur); a farce in one act; ( ). the puppet player (der puppenspieler); a study in one act; ( ). the gallant cassian (der tapfere cassian); a puppet play in one act; ( ). the lonely way (der einsame weg); a drama in five acts; ( ). intermezzo (zwischenspiel); a comedy in three acts; ( ). the greatest show of all (zum grossen wurstel); a burlesque in one act; ( ). the call of life (der ruf des leben); a drama in three acts; ( ). countess mizzie (komtesse mizzi); a comedy in one act; ( ). young medardus (der junge medardus); a history in five acts with a prologue; ( ). the vast country (das weite land); a tragicomedy in five acts; ( ). professor bernhardi (professor bernhardi); a comedy in five acts; ( ). the gallant kassian (der tapfere kassian); a musical comedy in one act, with music by oscar straus; ---- ( ). the veil of pierrette (der schleier der pierrette); a comic opera in three acts, with music by ernst von dohnnanyi; (not published). the figures without brackets indicate the dates of production as given in the collected edition of arthur schnitzler's works issued by the _s. fischer verlag_, berlin, . the figures within brackets, showing the dates of publication, are taken from the twenty-fifth anniversary catalogue of the same house (berlin, ), and from c. g. kayser's "_vollständiges bücher-lexikon_" (leipzig, - ). "anatol" was first published by the _bibliographische bureau_ (berlin, ), and "a piece of fiction" by e. pierson (dresden, ). both were reprinted by the _fischer verlag_ in . the original versions of "a piece of fiction" and "amours" have been considerably revised. "change partners!" was printed privately in , and was subsequently published by the _wiener verlag_, vienna. "the gallant kassian" was published by ludwig doblinger, leipzig. "the green cockatoo," "paracelsus" and "the life partner" appeared in one volume with the sub-title "three one-act plays." "hours of life," "the lady with the dagger," "end of the carnival," and "literature" were published together under the title of the first play. "the puppet player," "the gallant cassian," and "the greatest show of all" were brought out in a single volume under the title of "puppets"(_marionetten_). for additional bibliographical data, see "arthur schnitzler: a bibliography," by archibald henderson (_bulletin of bibliography_, boston, ); "the modern drama," by ludwig lewisohn (new york, ), and "the continental drama of today," by barrett h. clark (new york, ). a good, though brief, analysis of schnitzler's work is found in dr. lewisohn's volume. a list of first performances of plays by arthur schnitzler anatol: deutsches volkstheater, vienna, and lessingtheater, berlin, dec. , . a piece of fiction: deutsches volkstheater, vienna, dec. , . paracelsus: burgtheater, vienna, march , . amours: burgtheater, vienna, oct. , . outside the game laws: deutsche theater, berlin, . the legacy: burgtheater, vienna, nov. , . the life partner: burgtheater, vienna, march , . the green cockatoo: burgtheater, vienna, march , . the veil of beatrice: lobetheater, breslau, dec. , . the lady with the dagger: deutsche theater, berlin, jan. , . hours of life: deutsche theater, berlin, jan. , . end of the carnival: deutsche theater, berlin, jan. , . literature: deutsche theater, berlin, jan. , . the puppet player: deutsche theater, berlin, september, . the gallant cassian: kleines theater, berlin, oct. , . the lonely way: deutsche theater, berlin, feb. , . intermezzo: burgtheater, vienna (with joseph kainz as _adams_), oct. , . the greatest show of all: lustspieltheater, vienna, march , . the call of life: lessingtheater, berlin, feb. , . countess mizzie: deutsches volkstheater, vienna, january, . young medardus: burgtheater, vienna, nov. , . the vast country: lessingtheater, berlin, oct. , . professor bernhardi: kleines theater, berlin, nov. , . the veil of pierrette: hofopernhaus, dresden, jan. , . single scenes from "anatol" were given at ischl in the summer of , and at a matinée arranged by the journalistic society "concordia" at one of the vienna theaters in . a czechic translation of the whole series was staged at smichow, bohemia, sometime during the nineties. three of the dialogues in "change partners!" were performed by members of the _akademisch-dramatischer verein_ at munich in . the official records of the burgtheater at vienna show that, up to the end of , the eight schnitzler plays forming part of its repertory had been performed the following number of times: "paracelsus," ; "amours," ; "the legacy," ; "the life partner," ; "the green cockatoo," ; "intermezzo," ; "young medardus," ; "the vast country," . the list of dates given above has been drawn chiefly from "das moderne drama," by robert f. arnold (strassburg, ); "das burgtheater: statistische rückblick," by otto rub (vienna, ), and the current files of _bühne und welt_ (berlin). for dates of schnitzler performances in america and england, see the henderson bibliography previously mentioned. the lonely way (der einsame weg) a drama in five acts persons professor wegrat } president of the academy } of plastic arts gabrielle } his wife felix } } their children johanna } julian fichtner stephan von sala irene herms dr. franz reumann } a physician fichtner's valet sala's valet a maid at the wegrats' the lonely way the first act _the little garden attached to professor wegrat's house. it is almost surrounded by buildings, so that no outlook of any kind is to be had. at the right in the garden stands the small two-storied house with its woodwork veranda, to which lead three wooden steps. entries are made from the veranda as well as from either side of the house. near the middle of the stage is a green garden table with chairs to match, and also a more comfortable armchair. a small iron bench is placed against a tree at the left._ _johanna is walking back and forth in the garden when felix enters, wearing the uniform of a uhlan._ johanna (_turning about_) felix! felix yes, it's me. johanna how are you?--and how have you been able to get another furlough? felix oh, it won't last long.--and how's mamma? johanna doing pretty well the last few days. felix do you think she would be scared if i dropped in on her unexpectedly? johanna no. but wait a little just the same. she's asleep now. i have just come from her room.--how long are you going to stay, felix? felix to-morrow night i'm off again. johanna (_staring into a fancied distance_) off.... felix oh, it sounds big! but one doesn't get so very far off--not in any respect. johanna and you have wanted it so badly.... (_pointing to his uniform_) now you've got it. and are you not satisfied? felix well, at any rate it is the most sensible thing i have gone into so far. for now i feel at least that i might achieve something under certain circumstances. johanna i believe you would make good in any profession. felix i have my doubts whether i could get anywhere as a lawyer or an engineer. and on the whole i feel a good deal better than ever before. often it seems to me as if i hadn't been born at the right time. i think i should have come into the world while there was still so much of order left in it, that one could venture all sorts of things one couldn't possibly venture nowadays. johanna oh, but you are free--you've got place to move. felix only within certain limits. johanna they are a great deal wider than these at any rate. felix (_looking around with a smile_) well, this is not a prison.... really, the garden has turned out quite pretty. how bare it looked when we were children.--what's that? a row of peach trees? that doesn't look bad at all. johanna one of dr. reumann's ideas. felix yes, i should have guessed it. johanna why? felix because i can't believe any member of our family capable of such a useful inspiration. what are his chances anyhow?--i mean in regard to that professorship at gratz? johanna i don't know anything about it. (_she turns away_) felix i suppose mamma is outdoors a good deal these fine days? johanna yes. felix are you still reading to her? do you try to divert her a little? to cheer her up? johanna just as if it were such an easy thing! felix but you have to put some spunk into it, johanna. johanna yes, felix, it's easy for you to talk. felix what do you mean? johanna (_speaking as if to herself_) i don't know if you'll be able to understand me. felix (_smiling_) why should it all at once be so hard for me to understand you? johanna (_looking calmly at him_) now when she is sick, i don't love her as much as before. felix (_startled_) what? johanna no, it's impossible that you could quite understand. all the time she is getting farther away from us.... it is as if every day a new set of veils dropped down about her. felix and what is the meaning of it? johanna (_continues to look at him in the same calm way_) felix you think...? johanna you know, felix, that i never make any mistakes in things of that kind. felix i _know_, you say...? johanna when poor little lillie von sala had to die, i was aware of it in advance--before the rest of you knew that she was sick even. felix yes, you had had a dream--and you were nothing but a child. johanna i didn't dream it. i knew it. (_brusquely_) it's something i can't explain. felix (_after a pause_) and papa--has he resigned himself to it? johanna resigned himself?--do you think he too can see those veils coming down? felix (_having first shaken his head slightly_) nothing but imagination, johanna--i am sure.--but now i want to.... (_turning toward the house_) papa hasn't come home yet? johanna no. as a rule he's very late these days. he has an awful lot to do in the academy. felix i'll try not to wake her up--i'll be careful. (_he goes out by way of the veranda_) [_while alone for a while, johanna seats herself on the garden bench with her hands clasped across her knees. sala enters. he is forty-five, but looks younger. slender to the verge of leanness, and smooth-shaven. his brown hair, which has begun to turn gray at the temples, and which he wears rather long, is parted on the right side. his features are keen and energetic; his eyes, gray and clear._ sala good evening, miss johanna. johanna good evening, mr. von sala. sala they told me your mother was having a little nap, and so i permitted myself to come out here in the meantime. johanna felix just got here. sala well? have they already granted him another furlough? in my days they were stricter in that regiment. however, we were then stationed near the border--somewhere in galicia. johanna i can never keep in mind that you have gone through that kind of thing too. sala yes, it's long ago now. and it didn't last more than a couple of years. but it was good fun as i look back at it now. johanna like almost everything else you have experienced. sala like much of it. johanna won't you sit down? sala thank you. (_he seats himself on the support of the armchair_) am i permitted? (_johanna having nodded assent, he takes a cigarette from his case and lights it_) johanna are you already settled in your new place, mr. von sala? sala i move in to-morrow. johanna and it gives you a great deal of pleasure, doesn't it? sala that would be a little premature. johanna are you superstitious? sala well, for that matter--yes.--but that was not what i had in mind. i only take possession temporarily, not for good. johanna why not? sala i'm going abroad--for a prolonged stay. johanna oh? you are to be envied. i wish i could do the same--go here and there in the world, and not bother myself about a single human being. sala still at it? johanna still at it.... what do you mean? sala oh, i recall how the same kind of schemes for traveling used to occupy your mind when you were nothing but a little girl. what was it you wanted to become?--a ballet dancer, i think. wasn't that it? a very famous one, of course. johanna why do you say that as if it were nothing at all to be a ballet dancer? (_without looking at him_) you, in particular, mr. von sala, should not be talking like that. sala why not i, in particular? johanna (_glances up calmly at him_) sala i don't quite make out what you mean, miss johanna.... unless i must.... (_simply_) johanna, did you know at the time that i was looking at you? johanna when? sala last year, when you were in the country, and i came out once and stayed over night in your attic. it was bright moonlight, and i thought i could see a fairy gliding back and forth in the meadow. johanna (_nods with a smile_) sala and it was for me? johanna oh, i saw you very well, where you stood behind the curtain. sala (_after a brief pause_) i suppose you will never dance like that for other people? johanna why not?--i have already. and then, too, you were looking on. of course, it was a good while ago.--it happened on one of the greek islands. a large number of men stood in a circle around me ... you were one of them ... and i was a slave girl from lydia. sala a princess in captivity. johanna (_earnestly_) don't you believe in such things? sala if you want me to--certainly. johanna (_still very serious_) you should believe everything in which the rest cannot believe. sala when the time comes for it, i suppose i shall. johanna you see--i can rather believe anything than that i should now be in the world for the first time. and there are moments when i recall quite clearly all sorts of things. sala and at that time you had such a moment? johanna yes, a year ago, when i was dancing for you in the meadow that moonlit summer night. i am sure it was not the first time, mr. von sala. (_after a short pause, with a sudden change of tone_) where are you going anyhow? sala (_falling into the same tone_) to bactria, miss johanna. johanna where? sala to bactria. that's quite a remarkable country, and what's most remarkable about it is that it doesn't exist any longer. what it means is that i am joining an expedition which will start next november. you have read of it in the papers, haven't you? johanna no. sala the proposition is to make excavations where it is supposed the ancient ecbatana stood once--some six thousand years ago. that goes even farther back than your lydian period, you see. johanna when did you get hold of this idea? sala only a few days ago. conversationally, so to speak. count ronsky, who is at the head of the matter, inspired me with a great desire to go. that wasn't very hard, however. he stirred an old longing within me. (_with more spirit_) think of it, miss johanna: to be watching with your own eyes the gradual rising of such a buried city out of the ground--house by house, stone by stone, century by century. no, it wasn't meant that i should pass away until i had had this wish of mine fulfilled. johanna why talk of dying then? sala is there ever a blissful moment in any decent man's life when he can think of anything else in his innermost soul? johanna i don't suppose a single wish of yours was ever left unfulfilled. sala not a single one...? johanna i know that you have also had many sad experiences. but frequently i believe you have longed for those too. sala longed for them...? you may be right, perhaps, in saying that i enjoyed them when they came. johanna how perfectly i understand that! a life without sorrow would probably be as bare as a life without happiness. (_pause_) how long ago is it now? sala what are you thinking of? johanna that mrs. von sala died? sala it's seven years ago, almost to a day. johanna and lillie--the same year? sala yes, lillie died a month later. do you often think of lillie, miss johanna? johanna quite often, mr. von sala. i have never had a girl friend since that time. (_as if to herself_) she too would have to be called "miss" now. she was very pretty. she had black hair with a bluish glint in it like your wife, and the same clear eyes that you have, mr. von sala. (_as if to herself_) "then both of them walked hand in hand along the gloomy road that leads through sunlit land...." sala what a memory you have, johanna. johanna seven years ago that was.... remarkable! sala why remarkable? johanna you are building a house, and digging out submerged cities, and writing queer poetry--and human beings who once meant so much to you have been rotting in their graves these seven years--and you are still almost young. how incomprehensible the whole thing is! sala "thou that livest on, cease thou thy weeping," says omar nameh, who was born at bagdad in the year of the mohammedan era as the son of a cobbler. for that matter, i know a man who is only thirty-eight. he has buried two wives and seven children, not to speak of grandchildren. and now he is playing the piano in a shabby little prater[ ] restaurant, while artists of both sexes show off their tights and their fluttering skirts on the platform. and recently, when the pitiful performance had come to an end and they were turning out the lights, he went right on, without apparent reason, and quite heedless of everything, playing away on that frightful old rattle-box of his. and then ronsky and i asked him over to our table and had a chat with him. and then he told us that the piece he had just played was his own composition. of course, we complimented him. and then his eyes lit up, and he asked us in a voice that shook: "gentlemen, do you think my piece will make a hit?" he is thirty-eight years old, and his career has come to an end in a small restaurant where his public consists of nurse-girls and non-commissioned officers, and his one longing is--to get their applause! [ ] the prater is at once the central park and the coney island of vienna, plus a great deal more--a park with an area of , acres bounded by the danube on one side and by the danube canal on the other, full of all kinds of amusement places. reumann (_enters_) good evening, miss johanna. good evening, mr. von sala. (_shakes hands with both of them at the same time_) how are you? sala fine. you don't suppose one must be your victim all the time because one has had the honor of consulting you once? reumann oh, i had forgotten all about it. however, there are people who feel just that way.--i suppose your mother is having a little rest, miss johanna? johanna (_who apparently has been startled by the few words exchanged between the physician and sala, and who is looking intently at the latter_) she is probably awake by this time. felix is with her. reumann felix...? you haven't telegraphed for him, have you? johanna not that i know of. who could have...? reumann i only wondered. your father is inclined to get frightened. johanna there they are now. mrs. wegrat (_enters from the veranda with felix_) how are you, my dear doctor? what do you think of the surprise i have just had? [_all the men shake hands._ mrs. wegrat good evening, mr. von sala. sala i am delighted to see you looking so well, mrs. wegrat. mrs. wegrat yes, i am doing a little better. if only the gloomy season were not so close at hand. sala but now the finest time of the year is coming. when the woods sparkle with red and yellow, and a golden mist lies on the hills, and the sky grows pale and remote as if it were scared by its own infinity...! mrs. wegrat yes, that ought to be worth seeing once more. reumann (_reproachfully_) mrs. wegrat.... mrs. wegrat pardon me--but thoughts of that kind will come. (_brightening up a little_) if i only knew how much longer i might count on my dear doctor? reumann i can reassure you on that score, madam: i shall stay in vienna. mrs. wegrat what? has the matter been settled already? reumann yes. mrs. wegrat so another man has actually been called to gratz? reumann no, not that way. but the other man, who was practically sure of the place, has broken his neck climbing a mountain. felix but then your chances should be better than ever. whom could they possibly consider besides you? reumann i suppose my chances wouldn't be bad. but i have preferred to forgo them. mrs. wegrat how? reumann i won't accept the call. mrs. wegrat is that out of superstition? felix or out of pride? reumann neither. but the thought of having another man's misfortune to thank for my own advancement would be extremely painful to me. half my life would be spoiled for me. that is neither superstition nor pride, you see, but just commonplace, small-minded vanity. sala you're a subtle one, doctor. mrs. wegrat well, all i gather is that you are going to stay. which shows how mean your thoughts grow when you are sick. reumann (_changing the subject on purpose_) well, felix, how do you find life in a garrison? felix fine. mrs. wegrat so you are really satisfied, boy? felix i feel very thankful to all of you. especially to you, mamma. mrs. wegrat why to me especially? after all, the decision lay with your father in the last instance. reumann he would, of course, have preferred to see you choose a more peaceful calling. sala oh, but to-day there is none more peaceful. felix that's where you are right, mr. von sala.--by the by, i was to give you the regards of lieutenant-colonel schrotting. sala thank you. does he still remember me? felix not he alone. we are constantly being reminded of you--at every meal, in fact. yours is among the pictures of former officers that hang in the mess rooms. wegrat (_enters_) good evening.--why, felix, are you here again? what a surprise! felix good evening, papa. i have applied for a two-day furlough. wegrat furlough ... furlough? a real one? or is it another one of those little brilliant tricks? felix (_cheerfully and without taking offence_) i am not in the habit of fibbing, papa, am i? wegrat (_in the same tone_) i meant no offense, my boy. even if you had been guilty of deserting the flag, your longing to see your mother would be sufficient excuse for you. mrs. wegrat to see his parents, you mean. wegrat of course--to see us all. but as you are a little under the weather, you come foremost just now.--well, how are you getting along, gabrielle? better, are you not? (_in a low voice, almost timidly_) my love.... (_he strokes her brow and hair_) love.... the air is so mild. sala we are having a wonderful autumn. reumann have you just got away from the academy, professor? wegrat yes. now, when i am also the president of it, there is a whole lot to do--and all of it is not pleasant or grateful. but i seem to be made for it, as they have insisted. and i suppose it will have to go on this way. (_with a smile_) as somebody once called me--an art-official. sala don't be so unjust to yourself, professor. mrs. wegrat you must have been walking all that long way home again? wegrat i even went out of my way some distance--to pass across the old turkish fort.[ ] i am awfully fond of that road. on evenings like this the whole city lies beneath you as if bathed in a silvery mist.--by the by, gabrielle, i have some greetings to deliver. i met irene herms. [ ] the place where the turks fortified themselves before driven from vienna by john sobieski in is now a small park, "_türkenschanz-park_," located in döbling, one of the northwestern quarters of greater vienna. only a little ways south of this park, and overlooking it, stands the astronomical observatory, not far from which schnitzler has been living for a number of years. numerous references to localities in this play indicate that he has placed the wegrat home in that very villa quarter of währing, where he himself is so thoroughly at home. mrs. wegrat is she in vienna? wegrat just passing through. she intends to call on you. sala has she still got an engagement at hamburg? wegrat no, she has left the stage, she told me, and is now living in the country with her married sister. johanna i saw her once in a play of yours, mr. von sala. sala then you must have been a very small girl indeed. johanna she played a spanish princess. sala unfortunately. for princesses were not at all in her line. she has never in her life been able to treat verse properly. reumann and you can still bear that in mind, mr. von sala--that some lady on some occasion happened to handle your verse badly? sala well, why shouldn't i, my dear doctor? if you were living at the center of the earth, you would know that all things are of equal weight. and were you floating in the center of the universe, you would suspect that all things are of equal importance. mrs. wegrat how does she look anyhow? wegrat she is still very pretty. sala has she preserved her resemblance to that portrait of hers which is hanging in the museum? felix what portrait is that? johanna is her portrait really in the museum? sala oh, you know it. in the catalogue it is labeled "actress"--just "actress." a young woman in the costume of a harlequin, over which she has draped a greek toga, while at her feet lie a confused heap of masks. with her staring glance turned toward the spectators, she stands there all alone on an empty, dusky stage, surrounded by odd pieces of misfit scenery--one wall of a room, a forest piece, part of an old dungeon.... felix and the background shows a southern landscape with palms and plane trees...? sala yes, and it is partly raised so that still farther off you can see a pile of furniture, steps, goblets, chandeliers--all glittering in full daylight. felix but that's julian fichtner's picture? sala exactly. felix i had not the slightest idea that the figure of that woman was meant for irene herms. wegrat twenty-five years have passed since he painted that picture. it caused a tremendous sensation at the time. it was his first big success. and to-day i suppose there are lots of people who no longer remember his name.--come to think of it, i asked irene herms about him. but strange to say, not even his "perennial best girl" could tell where in this world he happens to be straying. felix i talked with him only a few days ago. wegrat what? you have seen julian fichtner? he was in salzburg?--when? felix only about three or four days ago. he looked me up, and we spent the evening together. [_mrs. wegrat throws a quick glance at dr. reumann._ wegrat how is he doing? what did he tell you? felix he has turned rather gray, but otherwise he didn't seem to have changed at all. wegrat how long can it be now since he left vienna? two years, isn't it? mrs. wegrat a little more. felix he has traveled far and wide. sala yes, now and then i have had a postcard from him. wegrat so have we. but i thought you and he were corresponding regularly. sala regularly? oh, no. johanna isn't he a friend of yours? sala as a rule i have no friends. and if i have any, i repudiate them. johanna but you used to be quite intimate with him. sala he with me rather than i with him. felix what do you mean by that, mr. von sala? johanna oh, i can understand it. i suppose you have had the same experience with most people. sala something very much like it, at least. johanna yes, one can see it from what you write, too. sala i hope so. otherwise it might just as well have been written by somebody else. wegrat did he say when he would be back in vienna? felix soon, i think. but he didn't say very definitely. johanna i should like to see mr. fichtner again. i am fond of that kind of people. wegrat what do you mean by "that kind of people"? johanna who are always arriving from some far-off place. wegrat but as a rule he never arrived from far-off places when you knew him, johanna.... he was living right here. johanna what did it matter whether he was living here or elsewhere?--even when he came to see us daily, it was always as if he had just arrived from some great distance. wegrat oh, of course.... felix i had often the same feeling. wegrat well, it's strange how he has been knocking about in the world--these last few years at least. sala don't you think his restlessness goes farther back? were you not students together in the academy? wegrat yes. and to know him properly, you must have known him then. there was something fascinating about him as a young man, something that dazzled. never have i known anybody whom the term "of great promise" fitted so completely. sala well, he has kept a whole lot of it. wegrat but think of all he might have achieved! reumann i believe that what you might achieve you do achieve. wegrat not always. julian was undoubtedly destined for higher things. what he lacked was the capacity for concentration, the inward calm. he could never feel at home for good anywhere. and the misfortune has been that in his own works, too, he has lived only as a transient, so to speak. felix he showed me a couple of sketches he had made recently. wegrat good? felix to me there was something gripping about them. mrs. wegrat why gripping? what kind of pictures were they? felix landscapes. and as a rule very pleasant ones at that. johanna once in a dream i saw a spring landscape, very sunlit and soft, and yet it made me weep. sala yes, the sadness of certain things lies much deeper than we commonly suspect. wegrat so he's working again? then, perhaps, we may expect something out of the ordinary. sala in the case of anybody who has been an artist once you are never safe against surprises. wegrat that's it, mr. von sala. that's where the great difference lies. in the case of an official you can feel perfectly safe on that score. (_with cheerful self-contempt_) such a one paints every year his nice little picture for the exhibition, and couldn't possibly do anything else. reumann it is still open to question who do most for the advancement of life and art: officials like you, professor, or--our so-called men of genius. wegrat oh, i have not the least intention to play the modest one. but as to men of genius--we had better not talk of them at all. there you are dealing with a world by itself, lying outside of all discussion--as do the elements. reumann my opinion, i must confess, is utterly different. wegrat oh, it's of no use discussing anybody but those who have distinct limitations. and what i have found is--that he who knows his own limitations best is the better man. and on this point i have pretty good reason for self-respect.--do you feel chilly, gabrielle? mrs. wegrat no. wegrat but you had better pull the shawl a little closer about you, and then we should have a little exercise--in so far as it's possible in here. mrs. wegrat all right.--please, doctor, give me your arm. you haven't paid the least attention to your patient yet. reumann at your service! [_the rest start ahead, johanna walking with her brother, and wegrat with sala. dr. reumann and mrs. wegrat seem about to follow, when she suddenly stops._ mrs. wegrat did you notice his eyes light up--i mean, the eyes of felix, when they were talking of _him?_ it was most peculiar. reumann men of mr. fichtner's type appear undoubtedly very interesting to young people. they seem to carry with them an odor of romance. mrs. wegrat (_shaking her head_) and he looked him up.... it is perfectly clear that he went to salzburg just to see him again. i suppose he is beginning to feel a little deserted. reumann why not pay a visit to a young friend when one happens to be near the place where he is living? i can see nothing peculiar in that. mrs. wegrat perhaps you are right. perhaps i might have looked at the matter in the same way not long ago. but now, in the face of.... no, doctor, i am not going to be sentimental. reumann i don't object to sentiment, but to nonsense. mrs. wegrat (_smiling_) thank you.--however, i have occasion to think of many different things. and it is no reason for taking it too seriously, my dear friend. you know, of course, that i told you everything merely that i might have a kind and sensible man with whom to discuss the past--and not at all to be absolved of any guilt. reumann to give happiness is more than being free of guilt. and as this has been granted you, it is clear that you have made full atonement--if you'll pardon the use of such a preposterously extravagant term. mrs. wegrat how can you talk like that? reumann well, am i not right? mrs. wegrat just as if i couldn't feel how all of us, deceivers and deceived, must seem equally contemptible to you in particular! reumann why to me in particular...? what you call contempt, madam--supposing i did feel anything like it--would, after all, be nothing but disguised envy. or do you think i lack the desire to conduct my life as i see most other people conducting theirs? i simply haven't the knack. if i am to be frank, madam--the deepest yearning of all within me is just to be a rogue: a fellow who can dissemble, seduce, sneer, make his way over dead bodies. but thanks to a certain shortcoming in my temperament, i am condemned to remain a decent man--and what is still more painful perhaps: to hear everybody say that i am one. mrs. wegrat (_who has been listening with a smile_) i wonder whether you have told the truth about what is keeping you here in vienna? reumann certainly. indeed, i have no other reason. i have no right to have any other. don't let us talk any more of it. mrs. wegrat are we not such good friends that i can talk calmly with you of everything? i know what you have in mind. but i believe that it might be in your power to drive certain illusions and dreams out of the soul of a young girl. and it would be such a comfort to me if i could leave you for good among these people, all of whom are so near to me, and who yet know nothing whatever about each other--who are hardly aware of their mutual relationships even, and who seem fated to flitter away from each other to god knows where. reumann we'll talk of those things, madam, when it's time to do so. mrs. wegrat of course, i regret nothing. i believe i have never regretted anything. but i have a feeling that something is out of order. perhaps it's nothing but that strange glimmer in the eyes of felix which has caused all this unrest within me. but isn't it peculiar--uncanny almost--to think that a man like him may go through the world with all his senses open and yet never know whom he has to thank for being in the world? reumann don't let us indulge in generalities, mrs. wegrat. in that way you can set the most solid things shaking and swaying until the steadiest eyes begin to grow dizzy. my own conclusion is this: that a lie which has proved strong enough to sustain the peace of a household can be no less respectable than a truth which could do nothing but destroy the image of the past, fill the present with sorrow, and confuse the vision of the future. (_he goes out with mrs. wegrat_) johanna (_entering with sala_) in this way one always gets back to the same spot. i suppose your garden is bigger, mr. von sala? sala my garden is the whole wide woods--that is, for people whose fancy is not restrained by a light fence. johanna your villa has grown very pretty. sala oh, you know it then? johanna a little while ago i saw it again for the first time in three years. sala but three years ago they hadn't put in the foundations yet. johanna to me it was already standing there. sala how mysterious.... johanna not at all. if you will only remember. once we made an excursion to dornbach[ ]--my parents, and felix, and i. there we met you and mr. fichtner, and it happened on the very spot where your house was to be built. and now everything looks just as you described it to us then. [ ] a suburb near the western limits of vienna and not far from the location indicated for the wegrat home. sala but how did you happen to be in that vicinity? johanna since mamma was taken sick i have often had to take my walks alone.... sala and when was it you passed by my house? johanna not long ago--to-day. sala to-day? johanna yes. i went all around it. sala oh? all around it?--did you also notice the little gate that leads directly into the woods? johanna yes.--but from that spot the house is almost invisible. the leafage is very thick.--where have you placed those busts of the roman emperors? sala they stand on columns at the opening of an avenue of trees. right by is a small marble bench, and in front of the bench a little pool has been made. johanna (_nodding_) just as you told us that time.... and there is a greenish gray glitter on the water--and in the morning the shadow from the beech tree falls across it.... i know. (_she looks up at him and smiles; both go out together_) curtain the second act _in the home of julian fichtner. a pleasant, rather distinguished room in a state of slight disorder. books are piled on two chairs, while on another chair stands an open traveling bag. julian is seated at a writing desk, from the drawers of which he is taking out papers. some of these he destroys, while others are thrown into the waste-paper basket._ valet (_announcing_) mr. von sala. (_he goes out_) sala (_enters. his custom to walk up and down while talking asserts itself strikingly during the following scene. now and then he sits down for a moment, often only on the arm of a chair. at times he stops beside julian, putting his hand on the latter's shoulder while speaking. two or three times during the scene he puts his hand to the left side of his chest, in a manner suggesting discomfort of some kind. but this gesture is not sharply accentuated_) julian i am delighted. (_they shake hands_) sala so you got back early this morning? julian yes. sala and mean to stay...? julian haven't decided yet. things are a little upset, as you see. and i fear they'll never be quite in shape again. i intend to give up this place. sala too bad. i have become so accustomed to it. in what direction are you going to move? julian it's possible that i don't take any new quarters at all for a while, but just keep on moving about as i have been doing the last few years. i am even considering to have my things sold at auction. sala that's a thought which gets no sympathy from me. julian really, i haven't got much sympathy for it myself. but the material side of the question has to be considered a little, too. i have been spending too much these last years, and it has to be evened up somehow. probably i'll settle down again later on. sometime one must get back to peace and work, i suppose.--well, how goes it with you? what are our friends and acquaintances doing? sala so you haven't seen anybody yet? julian not one. and you are the only one i have written about my being here. sala and you have not yet called on the wegrats? julian no. i even hesitate to go there. sala why? julian after a certain age it would perhaps be better never to put your foot in any place where your earlier years were spent. it is so rare to find things and people the same as when you left them. isn't that so?--mrs. gabrielle is said to have changed considerably in the course of her sickness. that's what felix told me at least. i should prefer not to see her again. oh, you can understand that, sala. sala (_rather surprised_) of course, i understand. how long is it you have had no news from vienna? julian i have constantly started ahead of my mail. not a single letter has overtaken me during the last fortnight. (_alarmed_) what has happened? sala mrs. gabrielle died a week ago. julian oh! (_he is deeply moved; for a while he walks back and forth; then he resumes his seat and says after a pause_) of course, it was to be expected, and yet.... sala her death came easily.... you know how those left behind always pretend to know such things with certainty. anyhow, she fell asleep quietly one night and never woke up again. julian (_in low voice_) poor gabrielle!--did you see anything of her toward the end? sala yes, i went there almost daily. julian oh, did you? sala johanna asked me. she was literally afraid of being alone with her mother. julian afraid? sala the sick woman inspired her with a sort of horror. she has calmed down a little now. julian what a strange creature.... and how does our friend, the professor, bear up under his loss? resigned to the will of god, i suppose? sala my dear julian, the man has a position. i fear we cannot grasp that, we who are gods by the grace of the moment--and also less than men at times. julian of course, felix is not here? sala i talked with him less than an hour ago, and informed him that you were here. it made him very happy to have you call on him in salzburg. julian it looked so to me. and he did me a lot of good. for that matter, i have really thought of settling down in salzburg. sala for ever? julian for a while. on account of felix, too. his unspoiled nature affects me very pleasantly--it makes me actually feel younger. were he not my son, i might almost envy him--and not on account of his youth alone. (_with a smile_) thus there is nothing left for me but to love him. i must say that i feel a little ashamed at having to do it incognito, so to speak. sala are not these feelings a little belated in their appearance? julian oh, i suppose they were there long before i knew. and, you know, i saw the youngster for the first time when he was ten or eleven years old, and it was only then i learned that he was my son. sala it must have been a strange meeting between you and mrs. gabrielle, ten years after you had committed that piece of hideous perfidy--as our ancestors used to put it. julian it wasn't strange even. it came about quite naturally. shortly after my return from paris i happened to meet wegrat on the street. of course, we had heard of each other from time to time, and we met as old friends. there are people who seem born to a fate of that kind.... and as for gabrielle.... sala she had forgiven you, of course? julian forgiven...? it was more or less than that. only once did we talk of the past--she without reproach, and i without regret: as if the whole story had happened to somebody else. and after that never again. i might have thought some miracle had wiped those earlier days out of her memory. in fact, as far as i am concerned, there seemed to be no real connection between that quiet matron and the creature i had once loved. and as for the youngster--well, you know--at first i didn't care more for him than i might have cared for any other pretty and gifted child.--of course, ten years ago my life had a different aspect. i was still clinging to so many things which since then have slipped away from me. it was only in the course of time that i became more and more drawn to the house, until at last i began to feel at home there. sala i hope you never took offense at my gradual discovery of the true state of affairs. julian you, at any rate, didn't think me very sensible.... sala why not? i too find that family life in itself is quite attractive. only it ought, after all, to be experienced in one's own family. julian you know very well that i have frequently felt something like actual shame at the incongruity of that relationship. it was in fact one of the things that drove me away. of course, there were a lot of other things that pressed on me at the time. especially that i couldn't make a real success out of my work. sala but you hadn't been exhibiting anything for a long time. julian it wasn't external success i had in mind. i could never get into the right mood any more, and i hoped that traveling would help me again, as it had done so often in earlier years. sala and how did you fare? we have heard so little of you here. you might really have written me a little more frequently and fully. for you know, of course, that i care a great deal more for you than for most other people. we have such a knack of giving each other the right cue--don't you think? there are sentimental people who speak of such a relation as friendship. and it is not impossible that we used to address each other by our christian names some time during the last century, or that you may even have wept your fill on my shoulder. i have missed you more than once during these two years--honestly! on my lonely walks i have quite frequently thought of our pleasant chats in the dornbach park, where we were in the habit of disposing temporarily of (_quoting_) "what is most lofty and profound in this our world."--well, julian, from where do you come anyhow? julian from the tyrol? during the summer i made long tours on foot. i have even turned mountain climber in my old days. i spent a whole week at one of those pasturing grounds in the alps.... yes, i have been up to all sorts of things. it's a wonder what you can do when you are all alone. sala and you have really been all alone? julian yes. sala all these last years? julian if i don't count a few nonsensical interruptions--yes. sala but there should have been no difficulty in that respect. julian i know. but i cannot rest satisfied with what is still offered me of that kind of thing. i have been badly spoiled, sala. up to a certain period my life passed away in a constant orgy of tenderness and passion, and of power, you might say. and that is all over. oh, sala, what pitiful fictions i have had to steal, and beg, and buy, during these last years! it gives me nausea to look back at it, and it horrifies me to look ahead. and i ask myself: can there really be nothing left of all that glow with which i once embraced the world but a sort of silly wrath because it's all over--because i--_i_--am no less subject to human laws than anybody else? sala why all this bitterness, julian? there is still a great deal to be had out of this world, even when some of the pleasures and enjoyments of our earlier years have begun to appear tasteless or unseemly. and how can you, of all people, miss that feeling, julian? julian snatch his part from an actor and ask him if he can still take pleasure in the beautiful scenery surrounding him. sala but you have begun to work again while you were traveling? julian hardly at all. sala felix told us that you had brought some sketches from your trunk in order to show him. julian he spoke of them? sala yes, and nothing but good. julian really? sala and as you showed those things to him, you must have thought rather well of them yourself. julian that was not the reason why i let him see them. (_walking back and forth_) i must tell you--at the risk of having you think me a perfect fool. sala oh, a little more or less won't count. speak out. julian i wanted him at least not to lose faith in me. can you understand that? after all, he is nearer to me than the rest. of course, i know--to everybody, even to you, i am one who has gone down, who is finished--one of those whose only talent was his youth. it doesn't bother me very much. but to felix i want to be the man i was once--just as i still _am_ that man. when he learns sometime that i am his father, he must be proud of it. sala when he learns it...? julian i have no intention to keep it hidden from him forever. now, when his mother is dead, less than ever. last time i talked to him, it became clear to me, not only that it would be right, but that it would almost be a duty, to tell him the truth. he has a mind for essentials. he will understand everything. and i shall have a human being who belongs to me, who knows that he belongs to me, and for whose sake it is worth while to keep on living in this world. i shall live near him, and be with him a good deal. once more i shall have my existence put on a solid basis, so to speak, and not hung in mid-air, as it is now. and then i shall be able to work again--work as i did once--as when i was a young man. work, that is what i am going to do--and all of you will turn out to have been wrong--all of you! sala but to whom has it occurred to doubt you? if you could only have heard us talk of you a little while ago, julian. everybody expects that, sooner or later, you--will find yourself again completely. julian well, that's enough about me, more than enough. pardon me. let us hear something about yourself at last. i suppose you have already moved into your new house? sala yes. julian and what plans have you for the immediate future? sala i am thinking of going to asia with count ronsky. julian with ronsky? are you going to join that expedition about which so much has been written? sala yes. some such undertaking has been tempting me for a long time. are you perhaps familiar with the rolston report on the bactrian and median excavations of ? julian no. sala well, it is positively staggering. think of it--they suspect that under the refuse and the dust lies a monster city, something like the present london in extent. at that time they made their way into a palace, where the most wonderful paintings were found. these were perfectly preserved in several rooms. and they dug out stairways--built of a marble that is nowhere to be found nowadays. perhaps it was brought from some island which since then has sunk beneath the sea. three hundred and twelve steps glittering like opals and leading down into unknown depths.... unknown because they ceased digging after they had reached the three hundred and twelfth step--god only knows why! i don't think i can tell you how those steps pique my curiosity. julian but it has always been asserted that the rolston expedition was lost? sala no, not quite as bad as that. out of twenty-four europeans, eight got back after three years in spite of all--and half a dozen of them had been lost before they ever got there. you have to pass through pretty bad fever belts. and at that time they had to face an attack of the kurds, too, by which several were done for. but we shall be much better equipped. furthermore, at the border we shall be joined by a russian contingent which is traveling under military escort. and here, too, they think of putting a military aspect on the affair. as to the fever--that doesn't scare me--it can't do me any harm. as a young man i spent a number of particularly dangerous summer nights in the _thermae_ of caracalla--you know, of course, what boggy ground that is--and remained well. julian but that doesn't prove anything. sala oh yes, a little. there i came across a roman girl whose home was right by the appian way. she caught the fever and died from it.... to be sure, i am not as young as i was then, but so far i have been perfectly well. julian (_who has already smoked several cigarettes, offers one to sala_) don't you smoke? sala thanks. really, i shouldn't. only yesterday dr. reumann told me i mustn't.... nothing particular--my heart is a little restless, that's all. well, a single one won't do any harm, i suppose. valet (_enters_) miss herms, sir. she's asking whether she can see you. julian certainly. ask her to come in. valet (_goes out_) irene herms (_enters. she is about forty-three, but doesn't look it. her dress is simple and in perfect taste. her movements are vivacious, and at times almost youthful in their swiftness. her hair is deeply blonde in color and very heavy. her eyes are merry, good-humored most of the time, and easily filled with tears. she comes in with a smile and nods in a friendly manner to sala. to julian, who has gone to meet her, she holds out her hand with an expression on her face that is almost happy_) good evening. well? (_she has the habit of pronouncing that "well" in a tone of sympathetic inquiry_) so i did right after all in keeping my patience a couple of days more. here i've got you back now. (_to sala_) can you guess the length of time we haven't seen each other? julian more than three years. irene (_nods assent and permits him at last to withdraw his hand from hers_) in all our lives that has never happened before. and your last letter is already two months old. i call it "letter" just to save my face. but it was only a view-card. where in the world have you been anyhow? julian sit down, won't you? i'll tell you all about it. won't you take off your hat? you'll stay a while, i hope? irene of course.--and the way you look! (_to sala_) fine, don't you think? i've always known that a gray beard would make him look awfully interesting. sala (_to julian_) now you'll have nothing but pleasantries to listen to. unfortunately i shall have to be moving. irene you're not leaving on my account, i hope? sala how can you imagine such a thing, miss herms? irene i suppose you are bound for the wegrats'?--what do you think of it, julian? isn't it dreadful? (_to sala_) please give them my regards. sala i'm not going there now. i'm going home. irene home? and you say that in such a matter-of-fact way? i understand you are now living in a perfect palace. sala no, anything but that. a modest country house. it would give me special pleasure, miss herms, if sometime you would make sure of it in person. my garden is really pretty. irene have you fruit trees, too, and vegetables? sala in this respect i can only offer you a stray cabbage and a wild cherry tree. irene well, if my time permit, i shall make a point of coming out there to have a look at your villa. julian must you leave again so soon? irene certainly. i have to get home again. only this morning i had a letter from my little nephew--and he's longing for me. a little rascal of five, and he, too, is longing already. what do you think of that? sala and you are also longing to get back, i suppose? irene it isn't that. but i'm beginning to get accustomed to vienna again. as i'm going about the streets here, i run across memories at every corner.--can you guess where i was yesterday, julian? in the rooms where i used to live as a child. it wasn't easy by any means, as a lot of strangers are living there now. but i got into the rooms just the same. sala (_with amicable irony_) how did you manage it, miss herms? irene i sneaked in under a pretext. i pretended to believe that there was a room to be let--for a single elderly lady. but at last i fell to weeping so that i could see the people thought me out of my mind. and then i told them the true reason for my coming there. a clerk in the post-office is living there now with his wife and two children. one of these was such a nice little chap. he was playing railroad with an engine that could be wound up, and that ran over one of my feet all the time.... but i can see that all this doesn't interest you very much, mr. von sala. sala how _can_ you interrupt yourself like that, miss herms, just when it is most exciting? i should have loved to hear more about it. but now i must really go, unfortunately. good-by, julian.--then, miss herms, i may count on a visit from you. (_he goes out_) irene thank god! julian (_smiling_) do you still have the same antipathy for him? irene antipathy?--i hate him! nothing but your incredible kindness of heart would let him come near you. for you have no worse enemy. julian where did you get that idea? irene my instinct tells me--you can feel such things. julian i fear, however, that even now you cannot judge him quite objectively. irene why not? julian you can't forgive him that you failed in one of his plays ten years ago. irene unfortunately it's already twelve years ago. and it wasn't my fault. for my opinion in regard to his so-called poetry is, that it's nonsense. and i am not the only one who thinks so, as you know. but you don't know him, of course. to appreciate that gentleman in all his glory, you must have enjoyed him at a rehearsal. (_imitating sala_) oh, madam, that's verse--it's verse, dear madam.... only when you have heard that kind of thing from him can you understand how limitless his arrogance is.... and everybody knows, by the way, that he killed his wife. julian (_amused_) but, girl, who in the world put such horrible ideas into your head? irene oh, people don't die willy-nilly like that, at twenty-five.... julian i hope, irene, that you don't talk like this to other people? irene what would be the use? everyone knows it but you. and i for my part have no reason to spare mr. von sala, who for twenty years has pursued me with his jeers. julian and yet you are going to call on him? irene of course. beautiful villas interest me very much. and they tell me his is ravishing. if you were only to see people who.... julian hadn't killed anybody.... irene really, we show him too much honor in talking so long about him. that ends it.--well, julian? how goes it? why haven't you written me oftener? is it possible you didn't dare? julian dare...? irene were you forbidden, i mean? julian i see.--nobody can forbid me anything. irene honestly? you live all by yourself? julian yes. irene i'm delighted. i can't help it, julian, but i am delighted. although it's sheer nonsense. this day, or the next, there'll be something new going on. julian those days are past. irene if it were only true!--can i have a cup of tea? julian certainly. the samovar is right there. irene where?--oh, over there. and the tea?--oh, i know! (_she opens a small cupboard and brings out what she needs; during the next few minutes she is busy preparing the tea_) julian so you are really going to stay here only a couple of days more? irene of course. i have done all my ordering. you understand, in my sister's house out there one doesn't need to dress up. julian tell me about it. how do you like it out there? irene splendidly. oh, it's bliss merely to hear nothing more about the theater. julian and yet you'll return to it sometime. irene that's where you are completely mistaken. why should i? you must remember that i have now reached the goal of all my desires: fresh air, and woods right by; horseback riding across meadows and fields; early morning seated in the big park, dressed in my kimono, and nobody daring to intrude. to put it plainly: no people, no manager, no public, no colleagues, no playwrights--though, of course, all are not as arrogant as your precious sala.--well, all this i have attained at last. i live in the country. i have a country house--almost a little palace, you might say. i have a park, and a horse, and a kimono--to use as much as i please. it isn't all mine, i admit--except the kimono, of course--but what does that matter? in the bargain, i live with the best people one could hope to find in this world. for my brother-in-law is, if possible, a finer fellow than lora herself even. julian wasn't he rather making up to you once? irene i should say he was! he wanted to marry me at any cost. of course!--it was always in me that they were at first--i mean that they always _have been_ in love with me. but as a rule the clever ones have gone over to lora. in fact, i have always felt a little distrustful toward you because you never fell in love with lora. and how much she is ahead of me--well, _you_ know, and it's no use talking of it. what all don't i owe to lora!... if it hadn't been for her...!--well, it's with them i have been living the last half year. julian the question is only how long you are going to stand it. irene how long...? but, julian, i must ask you what there could be to make me leave such a paradise and return to the morass where i (_in a lowered voice_) spent twenty-five years of my life. what could i possibly expect out of the theater anyhow? i am not made for elderly parts. the heroic mother, the shrewish dame and the funny old woman are equally little to my liking. i intend to die as "the young lady from the castle"--as an old maid, you might say--and if everything goes right, i shall appear to the grandchildren of my sister some hundred years from now as the lady in white. in a word, i have the finest kind of a life ahead of me.--why are you laughing? julian it pleases me to see you so jolly again--so youthful. irene it's the country air, julian. you should try it yourself for a good long while. it's glorious! in fact, i think i have missed my true calling. i'm sure the good lord meant me for a milkmaid or farm girl of some kind. or perhaps for a young shepherd. i have always looked particularly well in pants.--there now. do you want me to pour a cup for you at once? (_she pours the tea_) have you nothing to go with it? julian i think there must still be a few crackers left in my bag. (_he takes a small package out of his traveling bag_) irene thanks. that's fine. julian this is quite a new fancy of yours, however. irene crackers...? julian no, nature. irene how can you say so? i have always had a boundless love for nature. don't you recall the excursions we used to make? don't you remember how once we fell asleep in the woods on a hot summer afternoon? and don't you ever think of that shrine of the holy virgin, on the hill where we were caught by the storm?... oh, mercy! nature is no silly illusion. and still later--when i struck the bad days and wanted to kill myself for your sake, fool that i was ... then nature simply proved my salvation. indeed, julian! i could still show you the place where i threw myself on the grass and wept. you have to walk ten minutes from the station, through an avenue of acacias, and then on to the brook. yes, i threw myself on the grass and wept and wailed. it was one of those days, you know, when you had again sent me packing from your door. well, and then, when i had been lying half an hour in the grass, and had wept my fill, then i got up again--and began to scamper all over the meadow. just like a kid, all by myself. then i wiped my eyes and felt quite right again. (_pause_) of course, next morning i was at your door again, setting up a howl, and then the story began all over again. [_it is growing dark._ julian why do you still think of all that? irene but you do it, too. and who has proved the more stupid of us two in the end? who? ask yourself, on your conscience. who?... have you been more happy with anybody else than with me? has anybody else clung to you as i did? has anybody else been so fond of you?... no, i am sure. and as to that foolish affair into which i stumbled during my engagement abroad--you might just as well have overlooked it. really, there isn't as much to that kind of thing as you men want to make out--when it happens to one of us, that is to say. (_both drink of their tea_) julian should i get some light? irene it's quite cosy in the twilight like this. julian "not much to it," you say. perhaps you are right. but when it happens to anybody, he gets pretty mad as a rule. and if we had made up again--it would never have been as before. it's better as it is. when the worst was over, we became good friends once more, and so we have been ever since. and that is a pretty fine thing, too. irene yes. and nowadays i'm quite satisfied. but at that time...! oh, mercy, what a time that was! but you don't know anything about it, of course. it was afterward i began really to love you--after i had lost you through my own thoughtlessness. it was only then i learned how to be faithful in the true sense. for anything that has happened to me since then.... but it's asking too much that a man should understand that kind of thing. julian i understand quite well, irene. you may be sure. irene and besides i want to tell you something: it was nothing but a well-deserved punishment for both of us. julian for both of us? irene yes, that's what i have figured out long ago. a well-deserved punishment. julian for both of us? irene yes, for you, too. julian but what do you mean by that? irene we had deserved no better. julian we...? in what way? irene (_very seriously_) you are so very clever otherwise, julian. now what do you say--do you think it could have happened as it did--do you think i could have made a mistake like that--if we--had had a child? ask yourself on your conscience, julian--do you believe it? i don't, and you don't either. everything would have happened in a different way. everything. we had stayed together then. we had had _more_ children. we had married. we might be living together now. i shouldn't have become an old-maidish "young lady from the castle," and you wouldn't have become.... julian an old bachelor. irene well, if you say it yourself. and the main thing is this: we _had_ a child. i had a child. (_pause_) julian (_walking back and forth_) what's the use, irene? why do you begin to talk of all those forgotten things again...? irene forgotten? julian ... things gone by. irene yes, they are bygone, of course. but out there in the country you have plenty of time. all sorts of things keep passing through your head. and especially when you see other people's children--lora has two boys, you know--then you get all sorts of notions. it almost amounted to a vision not long ago. julian what? irene it was toward evening, and i had walked across the fields. i do it quite often, all by myself. far and wide there was nobody to be seen. and the village down below was quite deserted, too. and i walked on and on, always in direction of the woods. and suddenly i was no longer alone. you were with me. and between us was the child. we were holding it by the hands--our little child. (_angrily, to keep herself from crying_) it's too silly for anything! i know, of course, that our child would be a gawky youngster of twenty-three by now--that it might have turned into a scamp or a good-for-nothing girl. or that it might be dead already. or that it had drifted out into the wide world, so that we had nothing left of it--oh, yes, yes.... but we should have had it once, for all that--once there would have been a little child that seemed rather fond of us. and.... (_she is unable to go on; silence follows_) julian (_softly_) you shouldn't talk yourself into such a state, irene. irene i am not talking myself into anything. julian don't brood. accept things as they are. there have been other things in your life--better things, perhaps. your life has been much richer than that of a mere mother could ever have been.... you have been an artist. irene (_as if to herself_) i don't care that much for it. julian a great, famous one--that means something after all. and your life has brought you many other exquisite experiences--since the one with me. i am sure of it. irene what have i got left of it? what does it amount to? a woman who has no child has never been a woman. but a woman who once might have had one--who should have had one, and who--(_with a glance at him_)--has never become a mother, she is nothing but--oh! but that's what a man cannot understand! it is what not one of them can understand! in this respect the very best one of the lot will always remain something of a cad. is there one of you who knows how many of his own offspring have been set adrift in the world? i know at least that there are none of mine. can you say as much? julian and if i did know.... irene how? have you got one really?--oh, speak, please! you can tell _me,_ julian, can't you? where is it? how old is it? a boy? or a girl? julian don't question me.... even if i had a child, it wouldn't belong to you anyhow. irene he has a child! he has a child! (_pause_) why do you permit it to be drifting around in the world then? julian you yourself have given the explanation: in this respect the very best of us remains always something of a cad. and i am not the best one at that. irene why don't you go and get it? julian how could it be any of my concern? how could i dare to make it my concern? oh, that's enough.... (_pause_) do you want another cup of tea? irene no, thanks. no more now. (_pause; it is growing darker_) he has a child, and i have never known it! (_protracted silence_) valet (_enters_) julian what is it? valet lieutenant wegrat asks if you are at home, sir? julian certainly. ask him in. valet (_goes out after having turned on the light_) irene young wegrat?--i thought he had already left again.--the poor chap! he seemed utterly stunned. julian i can imagine. irene you visited him at salzburg? julian yes, i happened to be there a couple of days last august. felix (_enters, dressed as a civilian_) good evening.--good evening, miss herms. irene good evening, lieutenant. julian my dear felix--i was going to call on you--this very evening. it's extremely nice of you to take the trouble. felix i have to be off again the day after to-morrow, and so i wasn't sure whether i could find any chance at all to see you. julian won't you take off your coat?--think of it, i didn't have the slightest idea.... it was sala who told me--less than an hour ago. [_irene is looking from one to the other._ felix we didn't dream of this when we took that walk in the mirabell gardens[ ] last summer. [ ] the palace of mirabell is one of the sights of salzburg, the city near the bavarian border, where felix's regiment was stationed. it is now used as a museum. the gardens adjoining it are of the formal type so dear to, and so characteristic of, the eighteenth century. julian was it very sudden? felix yes. and i, who couldn't be with her.... late that evening i had to leave, and she died during the night. irene say rather that she didn't wake up again next morning. felix we owe a lot of thanks to you, miss herms. irene oh, please...! felix it always gave my mother so much pleasure to have you with her, chatting, or playing the piano to her. irene oh, don't mention my playing...! [_a clock strikes._ irene is it that late? then i have to go. julian what's the hurry, miss herms? irene i'm going to the opera. i have to make good use of the few days i shall still be here. felix shall we see you at our house again, miss herms? irene certainly.--you'll have to leave before me, won't you? felix yes, my furlough will be up.... irene (_as if en passant_) how long have you been an officer anyhow, felix? felix for three years really--but i didn't apply for a commission until this year--a little too late, perhaps. irene too late? why?--how old are you, felix? felix twenty-three. irene oh! (_pause_) but when i saw you four years ago as a volunteer, i thought at once you would stay in the service.--do you remember, julian, i told you so at the time? julian yes.... felix that must have been in the summer, the last time you called on us. irene i think so.... felix many things have changed since then. irene indeed! those were still happy days.--don't you think so, julian? for we haven't met either since we spent those beautiful summer evenings in the garden of the wegrats. julian (_nods assent_) irene (_stands again looking now at julian and now at felix; brief pause_) oh, but now it's high time for me to be gone.--good-by. remember me at home, lieutenant.--good-by, julian. (_she goes out, accompanied to the door by julian_) felix haven't you made some changes here? julian not to my knowledge. and how could you know anyhow? you have only been here two or three times. felix yes. but the last time at one of the most important moments in my life. i came here to get your advice. julian well, everything has turned out in accordance with your wish. even your father has resigned himself to it. felix yes, he has resigned himself. of course, he would have preferred to see me continue my technical studies. but now he has seen that it is quite possible to lead a sensible life in uniform too--without any debts or duels. in fact, my life is almost too smooth. however, there is at least more to anticipate for one of us than for most people. and that's always something. julian and how are things at home? felix at home.... really, it's almost as if that word had lost its meaning. julian has your father resumed his duties again? felix of course. two days later he was back in his studio. he is wonderful. but i can't quite understand it.... am i disturbing you, mr. fichtner? you were putting your papers in order, i think. julian oh, there's no hurry about that. they're easily put in order. most of them i burn. felix why? julian it's more sensible, don't you think, to destroy things one hardly cares to look at any more? felix but doesn't it make you rather sad to clean out your past like that? julian sad?... no, it's entirely too natural a process for that. felix i can't see it that way. look here. to burn a letter, or a picture, or something of that kind, immediately after you have got it--that seems quite natural to me. but something at all worthy of being kept as a remembrance of some poignant joy or equally poignant sorrow would seem incapable of ever losing its significance again. and especially in the case of a life like yours, that has been so rich and so active.... it would seem to me that at times you must feel something like--awe in the face of your own past. julian where do you get such thoughts--you, who are so young? felix they just came into my head this minute. julian you are not so very much mistaken, perhaps. but there is something else besides, that makes me want to clean house. i am about to become homeless, so to speak. felix why? julian i'm giving up my rooms here, and don't know yet what my next step will be. and so i think it's more pleasant to let these things come to a decent end rather than to put them in a box and leave them to molder away in a cellar. felix but don't you feel sorry about a lot of it? julian oh, i don't know. felix and then you must have mementoes that mean something to other people besides yourself. sketches of all kinds, for instance, which i think you have saved to some extent. julian are you thinking of those little things i showed you in salzburg? felix yes, of those too, of course. julian they are still wrapped up. would you like to have them? felix indeed, i should feel very thankful. they seemed to have a particular charm for me. (_pause_) but there's something else i wanted to ask of you. a great favor. if you will let me.... julian tell me, please. felix i thought you might still have left a picture of my mother as a young girl. a small picture in water colors painted by yourself. julian yes, i did paint such a picture. felix and you have still got it? julian i guess it can be found. felix i should like to see it. julian did your mother remember this picture...? felix yes, she mentioned it to me the last evening i ever saw her--the evening before she died. at the time i didn't imagine, of course, that the end was so near--and i don't think she could guess it either. to-day it seems rather peculiar to me that, on that very evening, she had to talk so much of days long gone by. julian and of this little picture, too? felix it's a very good one, i understand. julian (_as if trying to remember_) where did i put it? wait now.... (_he goes to a book case, the lower part of which has solid doors; these he opens, disclosing several shelves piled with portfolios_) i painted it in the country--in the little house where your grandparents used to live. felix i know. julian you can hardly recall the old people, i suppose? felix very vaguely. they were quite humble people, were they not? julian yes. (_he has taken a big portfolio from one of the shelves_) it ought to be in this portfolio. (_he puts it on the writing desk and opens it; then he sits down in front of it_) felix (_stands behind him, looking over his shoulder_) julian here is the house in which they lived--your grandparents and your mother. (_he goes through the sketches, one by one_) and here is a view of the valley seen from the cemetery. felix in summer.... julian yes.--and here is the little inn at which your father and i used to stop.... and here.... (_he looks in silence at the sketch; both remain silent for a long while_) felix (_picking up the sketch_) how old was my mother at the time? julian (_who remains seated_) eighteen. felix (_going a few steps away and leaning against the bookcase in order to get better light on the picture_) a year before she was married, then. julian it was done that very year. (_pause_) felix what a strange look that meets me out of those eyes.... there's a smile on her lips.... it's almost as if she were talking to me.... julian what was it your mother told you--that last evening? felix not very much. but i feel as if i knew more than she had told me. what a queer thought it is, that as she is now looking at me out of this picture, so she must have been looking at you once. it seems as if there was a certain timidity in that look. something like fear almost.... in such a way you look at people out of another world, for which you long, and of which you are afraid nevertheless. julian at that time your mother had rarely been outside the village. felix she must have been different from all other women you have met, wasn't she?--why don't you say anything? i am not one of those men who cannot understand--who won't understand that their mothers and sisters are women after all. i can easily understand that it must have been a dangerous time for her--and for somebody else as well. (_very simply_) you must have loved my mother very much? julian you have a curious way of asking questions.--yes, i did love her. felix and those moments must have been very happy ones, when you sat in that little garden with its overgrown fence, holding this canvas on your knees, and out there on the bright meadow, among all those red and white flowers, stood this young girl with anxiously smiling eyes, holding her straw hat in one hand. julian your mother talked of those moments that last evening? felix yes.--it is childish perhaps, but since then it has seemed impossible to me that any other human being could ever have meant so much to you as this one? julian (_more and more deeply moved, but speaking very quietly_) i shall not answer you.--in the end i should instinctively be tempted to make myself appear better than i am. you know very well how i have lived my life--that it has not followed a regulated and direct course like the lives of most other people. i suppose that the gift of bestowing happiness of the kind that lasts, or of accepting it, has never been mine. felix that's what i feel. it is what i have always felt. often with something like regret--or sorrow almost. but just people like you, who are destined by their very nature to have many and varied experiences--just such people should, i think, cling more faithfully and more gratefully to memories of a tender, peaceful sort, like this--rather than to more passionate and saddening memories.--am i not right? julian maybe you are. felix my mother had never before mentioned this picture to me. isn't it strange?... that last night she did it for the first time.--we were left alone on the veranda. the rest had already bid me good-by.... and all of a sudden she began to talk about those summer days of long, long ago. her words had an undercurrent of meanings which she probably did not realize. i believe that her own youth, which she had almost ceased to understand, was unconsciously taking mine into its confidence. it moved me more deeply than i can tell you.--much as she cared for me, she had never before talked to me like that. and i believe that she had never been quite so dear to me as in those last moments.--and when finally i had to leave, i felt that she had still much more to tell me.--now you'll understand why i had such a longing to see this picture.--i have almost the feeling that it might go on talking to me as my mother would have done--if i had only dared to ask her one more question! julian ask it now.... do ask it, felix. felix (_who becomes aware of the emotion betrayed in the voice of julian, looks up from the picture_) julian i believe that it can still tell you a great many things. felix what is the matter? julian do you want to keep that picture? felix why...? julian well ... take it. i don't give it to you. as soon as i have settled down again, i shall want it back. but you shall have a look at it whenever you want. and i hope matters will be so arranged that you won't have far to go either. felix (_with his eyes on the picture_) it grows more alive every second.... and that look was directed at you.... that look...? can it be possible that i read it right? julian mothers have their adventures, too, like other women. felix yes, indeed, i believe it has nothing more to hide from me. [_he puts down the picture. then a long pause follows. at last felix puts on his coat._ julian are you not going to take it along? felix not just now. it belongs to you much more than i could guess. julian and to you ... felix no, i don't want it until this new thing has become fully revealed to me. (_he looks julian firmly in the eyes_) i don't quite know where i am. in reality, of course, there has been no change whatever. none--except that i know now what i ... julian felix! felix no, that was something i could never have guessed. (_looks long at julian with an expression of mingled tenderness and curiosity_) farewell. julian are you going? felix i need badly to be by myself for a while.--until to-morrow. julian yes, and no longer, felix. to-morrow i shall come to your--i'll call on _you_, felix. felix i shall be waiting for you. (_he goes out_) julian (_stands quite still for a moment; then he goes to the writing desk and stops beside it, lost in contemplation of the picture_) curtain the third act _a room at the wegrats' adjoining the veranda. the outlook is, of course, determined by the location._ johanna (_is seated on a stool with her hands folded in her lap_) sala (_enters_) good morning, johanna. johanna (_rises, goes to meet him, and draws him close to herself_) are you coming for the last time? sala for the last time? what an idea! there has not been the slightest change in our arrangements. to-day is the seventh of october, and the ship will leave genoa on the twenty-sixth of november. johanna some day you will suddenly have disappeared. and i shall be standing by the garden door, and nobody will come to open it. sala but that sort of thing is not needed between us two. johanna no, indeed--bear that in mind. felix (_enters_) oh, is that you, mr. von sala? (_they shake hands_) well, how far have you got with your preparations? sala there are hardly any needed. i shall pack my trunk, pull down the shades, lock the doors--and be off for the mysteries of far-away. there is something i want to ask you apropos of that, felix. would you care to come along? felix (_startled_) if i care.... are you asking seriously, mr. von sala? sala there is just so much seriousness in my question as you wish to put into it. felix what does it mean anyhow? if i want to go along to asia? what use could they have for me in a venture of that kind? sala oh, that's pretty plain. felix is the expedition not going to be one of purely scientific character? sala yes, that's what it is meant for, i suppose. but it is quite possible that various things may happen that would make the presence of some young men like you very desirable. felix men like me...? sala when rolston went out there seven years ago, a lot of things happened which were not provided for in the original program. and they had to fight a regular battle, on a small scale, in the kara-kum district, not far from the river amu-daria. reumann (_who has entered while sala was speaking_) to those who had to stay behind forever the scale of your battle was probably large enough. (_all greet each other and shake hands without letting the conversation be interrupted_) sala in that respect you are probably right, doctor. felix pardon me, mr. von sala, but does this come from you alone? is it just a sudden notion--or something more? sala i have received no direct request from anybody to speak of this. but after the conference which took place at the foreign department yesterday, and which i attended, i feel entitled to add a little more.--oh, no secrets at all!--you have probably read, felix, that a member of the general staff as well as several artillery and engineering officers are being sent with us in what might be termed a semi-official capacity. on account of the latest news from asia--which, however, does not seem very reliable to me, as it has come by way of england--it has been decided to secure the additional cooperation of some young line officers, and all arrangements of this kind must be left to private initiative. felix and there might be a possibility for me...? sala will you permit me to speak to count ronsky? felix have you already mentioned my name to him? sala i have received permission to ask whether you could be prepared to board the ship with the rest at genoa on the twenty-sixth of november. reumann do you mean to leave vienna as soon as that? sala (_sarcastically_) yes. why did you look at me like that, doctor? that glance of yours was a little indiscreet. reumann in what respect? sala it seemed to say: yes, you can start, of course, but if you ever come back, that's more than doubtful. reumann let me tell you, mr. von sala, that in the face of a venture like yours one might well express such doubts quite openly. but are you at all interested in whether you get back or not, mr. von sala? i don't suppose you belong to the kind of people who care to put their affairs in order. sala no, indeed. especially not as, in cases of that kind, it is generally the affairs of others which give you needless trouble. if i were to be interested at all in my own chances, it would be for much more selfish reasons. johanna what reasons? sala i don't want to be cheated out of the consciousness that certain moments are my final ones. reumann there are not many people who share your attitude in that respect. sala at any rate, doctor, you would have to tell me the absolute truth if i ever asked you for it. i hold that one has the right to drain one's own life to the last drop, with all the horrors and delights that may lie hidden at the bottom of it. just as it is our evident duty every day to commit every good deed and every rascality lying within our capacity.... no, i won't let you rob me of my death moments by any kind of hocus-pocus. it would imply a small-minded attitude, worthy neither of yourself nor of me.--well, felix, the twenty-sixth of november then! that's still seven weeks off. in regard to any formalities that may be required, you need have no worry at all. felix how long a time have i got to make up my mind? sala there's no reason to be precipitate. when does your furlough end? felix to-morrow night. sala of course, you are going to talk it over with your father? felix with my father.... yes, of course.--at any rate i'll bring you the answer early to-morrow morning, mr. von sala. sala fine. it would please me very much. but you must bear in mind: it will be no picnic. i expect to see you soon, then. good-by, miss johanna. farewell, doctor. [_he goes out. a brief pause. those left behind show signs of emotion._ johanna (_rising_) i'm going to my room. good-by, doctor. (_she goes out_) reumann have you made up your mind, felix? felix almost. reumann you'll come across much that is new to you. felix and my own self among it, i hope--which would be about time.... (_quoting_) "the mysteries of far-away ..." and will it really come true? oh, the thrill of it! reumann and yet you ask time to consider? felix i hardly know why. and yet ... the thought of leaving people behind and perhaps never seeing them again--and certainly not as they were when you left them; the thought, too, that perhaps your going will hurt them ... reumann if nothing else makes you hesitate, then every moment of uncertainty is wasted. nothing is more sure to estrange you from those dear to you than the knowledge that duty condemns you to stay near them. you must seize this unique opportunity. you must go to see genoa, asia minor, thibet, bactria.... oh, it must be splendid! and my best wishes will go with you. (_he gives his hand to felix_) felix thank you. but there will be plenty of time for wishes of that kind. whatever may be decided, we shall meet more than once before i leave. reumann i hope so. oh, of course! felix (_looking hard at him_) doctor ... it seems to me there was a final farewell in that pressure of your hand. reumann (_with a smile_) is it ever possible to tell whether you will meet again? felix tell me, doctor--did mr. von sala interpret your glance correctly? reumann that has nothing to do with your case anyhow. felix will he not be able to go with us? reumann (_with hesitation_) that's very hard to predict. felix you have never learned to lie, doctor. reumann as the matter stands now, i think you can bring it to a successful conclusion without further assistance. felix mr. von sala called on you a few days ago? reumann yes, it was only a while ago. (_pause_) well, you can see for yourself that he is not well, can't you?--so god be with you, felix. felix will you continue to befriend this house when i am gone? reumann why do you ask questions like that, felix? felix you don't mean to come here again?--but why? reumann i assure you ... felix i understand ... reumann (_embarrassed_) what can there be to understand...? felix my dear doctor ... i know now ... why you don't want to come to this house any more.... it's another case of somebody else breaking his neck.... dear friend ... reumann good luck to you ... felix ... felix and if anybody should call you back ... reumann nobody will.... but if i should be _needed_, i can always be found ... johanna (_comes into the room again_) reumann good-by ... good-by, miss johanna ... johanna are you going already, doctor? reumann yes.... give my regards to your father. good-by.... (_he shakes her hand_) johanna (_calmly_) did he tell you that sala is doomed? felix (_hesitates about what to say_) johanna i knew it. (_with an odd gesture of deprecation as felix wants to say something_) and you are going--with or without him? felix yes. (_pause_) there won't be much doing in this place after this. johanna (_remains unmoved_) felix and how are you going to live, johanna?... i mean, how are the two of you going to live--you and father? johanna (_gives him a look as if his question surprised her_) felix he is going to be lonely. i think he would feel very grateful if you took a little more interest in him--if you went for a walk for him when there is time for it. and you, too ... johanna (_brusquely_) how could that help me or him? what can he be to me or i to him? i was not made to assist people in days of trial. i can't help it, but that's the way i am. i seem to be stirred by a sort of hostility against people who appeal to my pity. i felt it like that all the time mother was sick. felix no, you were not made for that.... but what were you made for then? johanna (_shrugs her shoulders and sits down as before, with hands folded in her lap and her eyes staring straight ahead_) felix johanna, why do you never talk to me any more as you used to? have you, then, nothing to tell me? don't you remember how we used to tell each other everything? johanna that was long ago. we were children then. felix why can't you talk to me any longer as you did then? have you forgotten how well we two used to understand each other? how we used to confide all our secrets to each other? what good chums we used to be?... how we wanted to go out into the wide world together? johanna into the wide world.... oh, yes, i remember. but there is nothing left now of all those words of wonder and romance. felix perhaps it depends on ourselves only. johanna no, those words have no longer the same meaning as before. felix what do you mean? johanna into the wide world ... felix what is the matter, johanna? johanna once, when we were in the museum together, i saw a picture of which i often think. it has a meadow with knights and ladies in it--and a forest, a vineyard, an inn, and young men and women dancing, and a big city with churches and towers and bridges. and soldiers are marching across the bridges, and a ship is gliding down the river. and farther back there is a hill, and on that hill a castle, and lofty mountains in the extreme distance. and clouds are floating above the mountains, and there is mist on the meadow, and a flood of sunlight is pouring down on the city, and a storm is raging over the castle, and there is ice and snow on the mountains.--and when anybody spoke of "the wide world," or i read that term anywhere, i used always to think of that picture. and it used to be the same with so many other big-sounding words. fear was a tiger with cavernous mouth--love was a page with long light curls kneeling at the feet of a lady--death was a beautiful young man with black wings and a sword in his hand--and fame was blaring bugles, men with bent backs, and a road strewn with flowers. in those days it was possible to talk of all sorts of things, felix. but to-day everything has a different look--fame, and death, and love, and the wide world. felix (_hesitatingly_) i feel a little scared on your behalf, johanna. johanna why, felix? felix johanna!--i wish you wouldn't do anything to worry father. johanna does that depend on me alone? felix i know in what direction your dreams are going, johanna.--what is to come out of that? johanna is it necessary that something comes out of everything?--i think, felix, that many people are destined to mean nothing to each other but a common memory. felix you have said it yourself, johanna--that you are not made to see other people suffer. johanna (_shrinks slightly at those words_) felix suffer ... and ... julian (_enters_) how are you? (_he shakes hands with felix_) johanna (_who has risen_) mr. fichtner. (_she holds out her hand to him_) julian i could hardly recognize you, johanna. you have grown into a young lady now.--has your father not come home yet? johanna he hasn't gone out yet. he has nothing to do at the academy until twelve. julian i suppose he's in his studio? johanna i'll call him. [_julian looks around. as johanna is about to leave the room, wegrat enters, carrying his hat and stick._ wegrat (_giving his hand to julian_) i'm delighted, my dear fellow. julian i heard of it only after my arrival here yesterday--through sala. i don't need to tell you ... wegrat thank you very much for your sympathy. i thank you with all my heart.--but sit down, please. julian you were going out? wegrat oh, it's no hurry. i have nothing to do in the academy until twelve. johanna, will you please get a carriage for me, just to be on the safe side? [_johanna goes out. wegrat seats himself, as does julian. felix stands leaning against the glazed oven._ wegrat well, you stayed away quite a while this time. julian more than two years. wegrat if you had only got here ten days earlier, you could have had a last look at her. it came so very suddenly--although it wasn't unexpected. julian so i have heard. wegrat and now you are going to stay right here, i suppose? julian a little while. how long i am not yet able to tell. wegrat of course not. the making of schedules has never been your line. julian no, i have a certain disinclination for that kind of thing. (_pause_) wegrat oh, mercy, my dear fellow ... how often have i not been thinking of you recently! julian and i.... wegrat no, you haven't had much chance for it.... but i.... as i enter the building where i now hold office and authority, i remember often how we two young chaps used to sit side by side in the model class, full of a thousand plans and hopes. julian why do you say that in such a melancholy tone? a lot of those things have come true, haven't they? wegrat some--yes.... and yet one can't help wanting to be young again, even at the risk of similar sorrows and struggles.... julian and even at the risk of also having to live through a lot of nice things over again. wegrat indeed, those are the hardest things to bear, once they have turned into memories.--you have been in italy again? julian yes, in italy too. wegrat it's a long time now since i was there. since we made that walk together through the ampezzo valley,[ ] with the pack on our backs--to pieve, and then right on to venice. can you remember? the sun has never again shone as brightly as it did then. [ ] one of the main routes through the dolomites, leading from southern tirol into italy. it is in part identical with the route outlined by albert in "intermezzo," but parts from it at cortina to run straight south. julian that must have been almost thirty years ago. wegrat no, not quite. you were already pretty well known at the time. you had just finished your splendid picture of irene herms. it was the year before i married. julian yes, yes. (_pause_) wegrat do you still recall the summer morning when you went with me to kirchau for the first time? julian of course. wegrat how the light buggy carried us through the wide, sun-steeped valley? and do you remember the little garden at hügelhang, where you became acquainted with gabrielle and her parents? felix (_with suppressed emotion_) father, is the house in which mother used to live still standing? wegrat no, it's gone long ago. they have built a villa on the spot. five or six years ago, you know, we went there for the last time to visit the graves of your grandparents. everything has been changed, except the cemetery.... (_to julian_) can you still remember that cool, cloudy afternoon, julian, when we sat on the lower wall of the cemetery and had such a remarkable talk about the future? julian i remember the day very clearly. but i have entirely forgotten what we were talking about. wegrat just what we said has passed out of my mind, too, but i can still remember what an extraordinary talk it was.... in some way the world seemed to open up more widely. and i felt something like envy toward you, as i often did in those days. there rose within me a feeling that i, too, could do anything--if i only wanted. there was so much to be seen and experienced--and the flow of life was irresistible. nothing would be needed but a little more nerve, a little more self-assurance, and then to plunge in. ... yes, that was what i felt while you were talking. ... and then gabrielle came toward us along the narrow road from the village, between the acacias. she carried her straw hat in her hand, and she nodded to me. and all my dreams of the future centered in her after that, and once more the whole world seemed fitted into a frame, and yet it was big and beautiful enough. ... why does the color all of a sudden come back into those things? it was practically forgotten, all of it, and now, when she is dead, it comes to life again with a glow that almost scares me. ... oh, it were better not to think of it at all. what's the use? what's the use? (_pause; he goes to one of the windows_) julian (_struggling to overcome his embarrassment_) it is both wise and brave of you to resume your regular activities so promptly. wegrat oh, once you have made up your mind to go on living. ... there is nothing but work that can help you through this sense of being alone--of being _left_ alone. julian it seems to me that your grief makes you a little unjust toward--much that is still yours. wegrat unjust...? oh, i didn't mean to. i hope you don't feel hurt, children ...! felix, you understand me fully, don't you? there is so much, from the very beginning, that draws--that lures--that tears the young ones away from us. we have to struggle to keep our children almost from the very moment they arrive--and the struggle is a pretty hopeless one at that. but that's the way of life: they cannot possibly belong to us. and as far as other people are concerned.... even our friends come into our lives only as guests who rise from the table when they have eaten, and walk out. like us, they have their own streets, their own affairs. and it's quite natural it should be so.... which doesn't prevent us from feeling pleased, julian--sincerely pleased, when one of them finds his way back to us. especially if it be one on whom we have put great store throughout life. you may be sure of that, julian. (_they shake hands_) and as long as you remain in vienna, i shall see you here quite often, i trust. it will give me genuine pleasure. julian i'll be sure to come. maid (_enters_) the carriage is here, professor. (_she goes out_) wegrat i'm coming. (_to julian_) you must have a lot to tell me. you were as good as lost. you understand it will interest me to hear all you have done--and still more what you intend to do. felix told us the other day about some very interesting sketches you had showed him. julian i'll go with you, if you care to have me. wegrat thanks. but it would be still nicer of you to stay right here and take dinner with us. julian well ... wegrat i'll be through very quickly. to-day i have nothing but a few business matters to dispose of--nothing but signing a few documents. i'll be back in three-quarters of an hour. in the meantime the children will keep you company as they used to in the old days. ... won't you, children?--so you're staying, are you not? good-by for a little while then. (_he goes out_) [_long pause._ felix why didn't you go with him? julian your mother was without blame. if any there be, it falls on me alone. i'll tell you all about it. felix (_nods_) julian it had been arranged that we were to go away together. everything was ready. we meant to leave the place secretly because, quite naturally, your mother shrank from any kind of statement or explanation. our intention was to write and explain after we had been gone a few days. the hour of our start had already been settled. he ... who later became her husband, had just gone to vienna for a couple of days in order to get certain documents. the wedding was to take place in a week. (_pause_) our plans were all made. we had agreed on everything. the carriage that was to pick us up a little ways off had already been hired. in the evening we bade each other good-night, fully convinced that we should meet next morning, never to part again.--it turned out differently.--you mustn't keep in mind that it was your mother. you must listen to me as if my story dealt with perfect strangers. ... then you can understand everything. felix i am listening. julian i had come to kirchau in june, one beautiful summer morning--with him.... you know about that, don't you? i meant to stay only a few days. but i stayed on and on. more than once i tried to get away while it was still time. but i stayed. (_smiling_) and with fated inevitability we slipped into sin, happiness, doom, betrayal--and dreams. yes, indeed, there was more of those than of anything else. and after that last farewell, meant to be for a night only--as i got back to the little inn and started to make things ready for our journey--only then did i for the first time become really conscious of what had happened and was about to happen. actually, it was almost as if i had just waked up. only then, in the stillness of that night, as i was standing at the open window, did it grow clear to me that next morning an hour would come by which my whole future must be determined. and then i began to feel ... as if faint shiverings had been streaming down my body. below me i could see the stretch of road along which i had just come. it ran on and on through the country, climbing the hills that cut off the view, and losing itself in the open, the limitless.... it led to thousands of unknown and invisible roads, all of which at that moment remained at my disposal. it seemed to me as if my future, radiant with glory and adventure, lay waiting for me behind those hills--but for me alone. life was mine--but only this one life. and in order to seize it and enjoy it fully--in order to live it as it had been shaped for me by fate--i needed the carelessness and freedom i had enjoyed until then. and i marveled almost at my own readiness to give away the recklessness of my youth and the fullness of my existence.... and to what purpose?--for the sake of a passion which, after all, despite its ardor and its transports, had begun like many others, and would be destined to end like all of them. felix destined to end...? _must_ come to an end? julian yes. must. the moment i foresaw the end, i had in a measure reached it. to wait for something that must come, means to go through it a thousand times--to go through it helplessly and needlessly and resentfully. this i felt acutely at that moment. and it frightened me. at the same time i felt clearly that i was about to act like a brute and a traitor toward a human being who had given herself to me in full confidence.--but everything seemed more desirable--not only for me, but for her also--than a slow, miserable, unworthy decline. and all my scruples were submerged in a monstrous longing to go on with my life as before, without duties or ties. there wasn't much time left for consideration. and i was glad of it. i had made up my mind. i didn't wait for the morning. before the stars had set, i was off. felix you ran away.... julian call it anything you please.--yes, it was a flight, just as good and just as bad, just as precipitate and just as cowardly as any other--with all the horrors of being pursued and all the joys of escaping. i am hiding nothing from you, felix. you are still young, and it is even possible that you may understand it better than i can understand it myself to-day. nothing pulled me back. no remorse stirred within me. the sense of being free filled me with intoxication.... at the end of the first day i was already far away--much farther than any number of milestones could indicate. on that first day her image began to fade away already--the image of her who had waked up to meet painful disillusionment, or worse maybe. the ring of her voice was passing out of my memory.... she was becoming a shadow like others that had been left floating much farther behind me in the past. felix oh, it isn't true! so quickly could she not be forgotten. so remorselessly could you not go out in the world. all this is meant as a sort of expiation. you make yourself appear what you are not. julian i am not telling you these things to accuse or defend myself. i am simply telling you the truth. and you must hear it. it was your mother, and i am the man who deserted her. and there is something more i am compelled to tell you. on the very time that followed my flight i must look back as the brightest and richest of any i have ever experienced. never before or after have i reveled to such an extent in the splendid consciousness of my youth and my freedom from restraint. never have i been so wholly master of my gifts and of my life.... never have i been a happier man than i was at that very time. felix (_calmly_) and if she had killed herself? julian i believe i should have thought myself worth it--in those days. felix and so you were, perhaps, at that time.--and she thought of doing it, i am sure. she wanted to put an end to the lies and the qualms, just as hundreds of thousands of girls have done before. but millions fail to do it, and they are the most sensible ones. and i am sure she also thought of telling the truth to him she took to husband. but, of course, the way through life is easier when you don't have to carry a burden of reproach or, what is worse, of forgiveness. julian and if she had spoken.... felix oh, i understand why she didn't. it had been of no use to anybody. and so she kept silent: silent when she got back from the wedding--silent when her child was born--silent when, ten years later, the lover came to her husband's house again--silent to the very last.... fates of that kind are to be found everywhere, and it isn't even necessary to be--depraved, in order to suffer them or invoke them. julian and there are mighty few whom it behooves to judge--or to condemn. felix i don't presume to do so. and it doesn't even occur to me that i am now to behold deceivers and deceived where, a few hours ago, i could only see people who were dear to me and whose relationships to each other were perfectly pure. and it is absolutely impossible for me to feel myself another man than i have deemed myself until to-day. there is no power in all this truth.... a vivid dream would be more compelling than this story out of bygone days, which you have just told me. nothing has changed--nothing whatever. the thought of my mother is as sacred to me as ever. and the man in whose house i was born and raised, who surrounded my childhood and youth with care tenderness, and whom my mother--loved.... he means just as much to me now as he ever meant--and perhaps a little more. julian and yet, felix, however powerless this truth may seem to you--there is one thing you can take hold of in this moment of doubt: it was as my son your mother gave birth to you.... felix at a time when you had run away from her. julian and as my son she brought you up. felix in hatred of you. julian at first. later in forgiveness, and finally--don't forget it--in friendship toward me.... and what was in her mind that last night?--of what did she talk to you?--of those days when she experienced the greatest happiness that can fall to the share of any woman. felix as well as the greatest misery. julian do you think it was mere chance which brought those very days back to her mind that last evening?... don't you think she knew that you would go to me and ask for that picture?... and do you think your wish to see it could have any other meaning than of a final greeting to me from your mother?... can't you understand that, felix?... and in this moment--don't try to resist--you have it before your eyes--that picture you held in your hand yesterday: and your mother is looking at you.--and the glance resting on you, felix, is the same one that rested on me that passionate and sacred day when she fell into my arms and you were conceived.--and whatever you may feel of doubt or confusion, the truth has now been revealed to you once for all. thus your mother willed it, and it is no longer possible for you to forget that you are my son. felix your son.... that's nothing but a word. and it's cried in a desert.--although i am looking at you now, and although i know that i am your son, i can't grasp it. julian felix...! felix since i learned of this, you have become a stranger to me. (_he turns away_) curtain the fourth act _the garden belonging to mr. von sala's house. at the left is seen the white, one-storied building, fronted by a broad terrace, from which six stone steps lead down into the garden. a wide door with panes of glass leads from the terrace into the drawing-room. a small pool appears in the foreground, surrounded by a semi-circle of young trees. from that spot an avenue of trees runs diagonally across the stage toward the right. at the opening of the avenue, near the pool, stand two columns on which are placed the marble busts of two roman emperors. a semi-circular stone seat with back support stands under the trees to the right of the pool. farther back glimpses of the glittering fence are caught through the scanty leafage. back of the fence, the woods on a gently rising hillside are turning red. the autumnal sky is pale blue. everything is quiet. the stage remains empty for a few moments._ _sala and johanna enter by way of the terrace. she is in black. he has on a gray suit and carries a dark overcoat across his shoulders. they descend the steps slowly._ sala i think you'll find it rather cool. (_he goes back into the room, picks up a cape lying there, and puts it around johanna's shoulders; little by little they reach the garden_) johanna do you know what i imagine?... that this day is our own--that it belongs to us alone. we have summoned it, and if we wanted, we could make it stay.... all other people live only as guests in the world to-day. isn't that so?... the reason is, i suppose, that once i heard you speak of this day. sala of this...? johanna yes--while mother was still living.... and now it has really come. the leaves are red. the golden mist is lying over the woods. the sky is pale and remote--and the day is even more beautiful, and sadder, than i could ever have imagined. and i am spending it in your garden, and your pool is my mirror. (_she stands looking down into the pool_) and yet we can no more make it stay, this golden day, than the water here can hold my image after i have gone away. sala it seems strange that this clear, mild air should be tinged with a suggestion of winter and snow. johanna why should it trouble you? when that suggestion has become reality here, you are already in the midst of another spring. sala what do you mean by that? johanna oh, i suppose that where you go they have no winter like ours. sala (_pensively_) no, not like ours. (_pause_) and you? johanna i...? sala what are you going to do, i mean, when i am gone? johanna when you are gone...? (_she looks at him, and he stands staring into the distance_) haven't you gone long ago? and at bottom, are you not far away from me even now? sala what are you saying? i am here with you.... what are you going to do, johanna? johanna i have already told you. go away--just like you. sala (_shakes his head_) johanna as soon as possible. i have still the courage left. who knows what may become of me later, if i stay here alone. sala as long as you are young, all doors stand open, and the world begins outside every one of them. johanna but the world is wide and the sky infinite only as long as you are not clinging to anybody. and for that reason i want to go away. sala away--that's so easily said. but preparations are needed for that purpose, and some sort of a scheme. you use the word as if you merely had to put on wings and fly off into the distance. johanna to be determined is--the same as having wings. sala are you not at all afraid, johanna? johanna a longing free from fear would be too cheap to be worth while. sala where will it lead you? johanna i shall find my way. sala you can choose your way, but not the people that you meet. johanna do you think me ignorant of the fact that i cannot expect only beautiful experiences? what is ugly and mean must also be waiting for me. sala and how are you going to stand it?--will you be able to stand it at all? johanna of course, i am not going to tell the truth always as i have done to you. i shall have to lie--and i think of it with pleasure. i shall not always be in good spirits, nor always sensible. i shall make mistakes and suffer. that's the way it has to be, i suppose. sala of all this you are aware in advance, and yet...? johanna yes. sala and why?... why are you going away, johanna? johanna why am i going away?... i want a time to come when i must shudder at myself. shudder as deeply as you can only when nothing has been left untried. just as you have had to do when you looked back upon your life. or have you not? sala oh, many times. but just in such moments of shuddering there is nothing left behind at all--everything is once more present. and the present is the past. (_he sits down on the stone seat_) johanna what do you mean by that? sala (_covers his eyes with his hand and sits silent_) johanna what is the matter? where are you anyhow? [_a light wind stirs the leaves and makes many of them drop to the ground._ sala i am a child, riding my pony across the fields. my father is behind and calls to me. at that window waits my mother. she has thrown a gray satin shawl over her dark hair and is waving her hand at me.... and i am a young lieutenant in maneuvers, standing on a hillock and reporting to my colonel that hostile infantry is ambushed behind that wooded piece of ground, ready to charge, and down below us i can see the midday sun glittering on bayonets and buttons.... and i am lying alone in my boat adrift, looking up into the deep-blue summer sky, while words of incomprehensible beauty are shaping themselves in my mind--words more beautiful than i have ever been able to put on paper.... and i am resting on a bench in the cool park at the lake of lugano, with helen sitting beside me; she holds a book with red cover in her hand; over there by the magnolia, lillie is playing with the light-haired english boy, and i can hear them prattling and laughing.... and i am walking slowly back and forth with julian on a bed of rustling leaves, and we are talking of a picture which we saw yesterday. and i see the picture: two old sailors with worn-out faces, who are seated on an overturned skiff, their sad eyes directed toward the boundless sea. and i feel their misery more deeply than the artist who painted them; more deeply than they could have felt it themselves, had they been alive.... all this--all of it is there--if i only close my eyes. it is nearer to me than you, johanna, when i don't see you and you keep quiet. johanna (_stands looking at him with wistful sympathy_) sala the present--what does it mean anyhow? are we then locked breast to breast with the moment as with a friend whom we embrace--or an enemy who is pressing us? has not the word that just rings out turned to memory already? is not the note that starts a melody reduced to memory before the song is ended? is your coming to this garden anything but a memory, johanna? are not your steps across that meadow as much a matter of the past as are the steps of creatures dead these many years? johanna no, it mustn't be like that. it makes me sad. sala (_with a return to present things_) why?... it shouldn't, johanna. it is in hours like those we know, that we have lost nothing, and that in reality we cannot lose anything. johanna oh, i wish you had lost and forgotten everything, so that i might be everything to you! sala (_somewhat astonished_) johanna.... johanna (_passionately_) i love you. (_pause_) sala in a few days i shall be gone, johanna. you know it--you have known it right along. johanna i know. why do you repeat it? do you think, perhaps, that all at once i may begin to clutch at you like a love-sick thing, dreaming of eternities?--no, that isn't my way--oh, no!... but i want to tell you once at least that i am fond of you. may i not for once?--do you hear? i love you. and i wish that sometime later on you may hear it just as i am saying it now--at some other moment no less beautiful than this--when we two shall no longer be aware of each other. sala indeed, johanna, of one thing you may be sure: that the sound of your voice shall never leave me.--but why should we talk of parting forever? perhaps we shall meet again sooner or later ... in three years ... or in five.... (_with a smile_) then you have become a princess perhaps, and i may be the ruler of some buried city.... why don't you speak? johanna (_pulls the cape more closely about her_) sala do you feel cold? johanna not at all.--but now i must go. sala are you in such a hurry? johanna it is getting late. i must be back before my father gets home. sala how strange! to-day you are hurrying home, fearful of being too late, lest your father get worried. and in a couple of days.... johanna then he will no longer be waiting for me. farewell, stephan. sala until to-morrow, then. johanna yes, until to-morrow. sala you'll come through the garden gate, of course? johanna wasn't that a carriage that stopped before the house? sala the doors are locked. nobody can get out into the garden. johanna good-by, then. sala until to-morrow. johanna yes. (_she is about to go_) sala listen, johanna.--if i should say to you now: stay! johanna no, i must go now. sala that was not what i meant. johanna what then? sala i mean, if i should beg you to stay--for--a long time? johanna you have a peculiar way of jesting. sala i am not jesting. johanna do you forget, then, that you--are going away? sala i am not bound in any respect. there is nothing to prevent me from staying at home if i don't feel like going away. johanna for my sake? sala i didn't say so. maybe for my own sake. johanna no, you mustn't give it up. you would never forgive me if i took that away from you. sala oh, you think so? (_watching her closely_) and if both of us were to go? johanna what? sala if you should risk going along with me? well, it takes a little courage to do it, of course. but you would probably not be the only woman. the baroness golobin is also going along, i hear. johanna are you talking seriously? sala quite seriously. i ask if you care to go with me on that journey ... as my wife, of course, seeing that we have to consider externals like that, too. johanna i should...? sala why does that move you so deeply? johanna with you?--with you...? sala don't misunderstand me, johanna. that's no reason why you should be tied to me for all time. when we get back, we can bid each other good-by--without the least ado. it is a very simple matter. for all your dreams cannot be fulfilled by me--i know that very well.... you need not give me an answer at once. hours like these turn too easily into words that are not true the next day. and i hope i may never hear you speak one word of that kind. johanna (_who has been looking at sala as if she wanted to drink up every one of his words_) no, i am not saying anything--i am not saying anything. sala (_looking long at her_) you are going to think it over, and you'll let me know to-morrow morning? johanna yes. (_she looks long at him_) sala what is the matter? johanna nothing.--until to-morrow. farewell. (_he accompanies her to the garden gate, through which she disappears_) sala (_comes back and stands looking into the pool_) just as if i wanted to find her image in it.... what could it be that moved her so deeply?... happiness?... no, it wasn't happiness.... why did she look at me like that? why did she seem to shrink? there was something in her glance like a farewell forever. (_he makes a sudden movement as of fright_) has it come to that with me?... but how can she know?... then others must know it too...! (_he stands staring into space; then he ascends the terrace slowly and goes into the drawing-room, from which he returns a few moments later accompanied by julian_) julian and you want to leave all these splendors so soon? sala they'll be here when i come back, i hope. julian i hope you will, for the sake of both of us. sala you say that rather distrustingly.... julian well, yes--i am thinking of that remarkable article in the daily post. sala concerning what? julian what is going on at the caspian sea. sala oh, are the local papers also taking that up? julian the conditions in certain regions through which you have to pass seem really to be extremely dangerous. sala exaggerations. we have better information than that. according to my opinion there is nothing back of those articles but the petty jealousy of english scientists. what you read had been translated from the daily news. and it's fully three weeks since it appeared there.--have you seen felix, by the way? julian he was at my house only last night. and this morning i called on the wegrats. he wanted to have a look at that picture of his mother which i painted twenty-three years ago.--and one thing and another led to my telling him everything. sala oh, you did? (_thoughtfully_) and how did he take it? julian it stirred him rather more than i had thought possible. sala well, i hope you didn't expect him to fall into your arms as the recovered son does in the play. julian no, of course not.--i told him everything, without any attempt at sparing myself. and for that reason he seemed to feel the wrong done to his mother's husband more strongly than anything else. but that won't last very long. he'll soon understand that, in the higher sense, no wrong has been done at all. people of wegrat's type are not made to hold actual possession of anything--whether it be wives or children. they mean a refuge, a dwelling place--but never a real home. can you understand what i mean by that? it is their mission to take into their arms creatures who have been worn out or broken to pieces by some kind of passion. but they never guess whence such creatures come. and while it is granted them to attract and befriend, they never understand whither those creatures go. they exist for the purpose of sacrificing themselves unconsciously, and in such sacrifices they find a happiness that might seem a pretty poor one to others.... you are not saying a word? sala i am listening. julian and have no reply to make? sala oh, well--it is possible to grind out scales quite smoothly even when the fiddle has got a crack.... [_it is growing darker. felix appears on the terrace._ sala who is that? felix (_on the terrace_) it's me. the servant told me ... sala oh, felix! glad you came. felix (_coming down into the garden_) good evening, mr. von sala.--good evening, mr. fichtner. julian good evening, felix. sala i am delighted to see you. felix what magnificent old trees! sala yes, a piece of real woods--all you have to do is to forget the fence.--what brought you anyhow? i didn't expect you until to-morrow morning. have you really made up your mind already? julian am i in the way? felix oh, no. there is nothing secret about it.--i accept your offer, mr. von sala, and ask if you would be kind enough to speak to count ronsky. sala (_shaking felix by the hand_) i am glad of it.... (_to julian_) it has to do with our asiatic venture. julian what?--you intend to join the expedition? felix yes. sala have you already talked it over with your father? felix i shall do so to-night.--but that's a mere formality. i am determined, provided no other obstacles appear.... sala i shall speak to the count this very day. felix i don't know how to thank you. sala there is no reason at all. in fact, i don't have to say another word. the count knows everything he needs to know about you. valet (_appearing on the terrace_) there is a lady asking if you are at home, sir. sala didn't she give her name?--you'll have to excuse me a moment, gentlemen. (_he goes toward the valet, and both disappear into the house_) julian you are going away? felix yes. and i am very happy this occasion has offered itself. julian have you also informed yourself concerning the real nature of this undertaking? felix it means at any rate genuine activity and the opening of wider worlds. julian and couldn't those things be found in connection with more hopeful prospects? felix that's possible. but i don't care to wait. [_sala and irene enter._ irene (_still on the terrace, talking to sala_) i couldn't leave vienna without keeping my promise. sala and i thank you for it, miss herms. irene (_descending into the garden with sala_) you have a wonderful place here.--how do you do, julian? good evening, lieutenant. sala you should have come earlier, miss herms, so that you could have seen it in full sunlight. irene why, i was here two hours ago. but it was like an enchanted castle. it was impossible to get in. the bell didn't ring at all. sala oh, of course! i hope you pardon. if i had had the slightest idea.... irene well, it doesn't matter. i have made good use of my time. i went on through the woods as far as neustift and salmansdorf.[ ] and then i got out and followed a road that i remembered since many years ago. (_she looks at julian_) i rested on a bench where i sat once many, many years ago, with a close friend. (_smilingly_) can you guess, mr. fichtner? the outlook is wonderful. beyond the fields you have a perfect view of the whole city as far as the danube. [ ] former villages, now suburbs of vienna, lying still nearer the city limits than dornbach, where sala is living. sala (_pointing to the stone seat_) won't you sit down here for a while, miss herms? irene thanks. (_she raises her lorgnette to study the busts of the two emperors_) it makes one feel quite roman.... but i hope, gentlemen, i haven't interrupted any conference. sala not at all. irene i have that feeling, however. all of you look so serious.--i think i'll rather leave. sala oh, you mustn't, miss herms.--is there anything more you want to ask me about that affair of ours, felix? felix if miss herms would pardon me for a minute.... irene oh, certainly--please! sala you'll excuse me, miss herms.... felix it is a question of what i should do in regard to my present commission.--(_he is still speaking as he goes out with sala_) irene what kind of secrets have those two together? what's going on here anyhow? julian nothing that can be called a secret. that young fellow is also going to join the expedition, i hear. and so they have a lot of things to talk over, of course. irene (_who has been following felix and sala with her eyes_) julian--it's he. julian (_remains silent_) irene you don't need to answer me. the matter has been in my mind all the time.... the only thing i can't understand is why i haven't discovered it before. it is he.--and he is twenty-three.--and i who actually thought when you drove me away: if only he doesn't kill himself!... and there goes his son. julian what does that help me? he doesn't belong to me. irene but look at him! he is there--he's alive, and young, and handsome. isn't that enough? (_she rises_) and i who was ruined by it! julian how? irene do you understand? ruined.... julian i have never suspected it. irene well, you couldn't have helped me anyhow. (_pause_) good-by. make an excuse for me, please. tell them anything you want. i am going away, and i don't want to know anything more. julian what's the matter with you? nothing has changed. irene you think so?--to me it is as if all these twenty-three years had suddenly undergone a complete change.--good-by. julian good-by--for a while. irene for a while? do you care?--really?--do you feel sad, julian?--now i am sorry for you again. (_shaking her head_) of course, that's the way you are. so what is there to do about it? julian please control yourself. here they are coming. sala (_returns with felix_) now we're all done. felix thank you very much. i shall have to leave now. irene and to-morrow you are already going away again? felix yes, miss herms. irene you're also going toward the city now, lieutenant, are you not? if you don't object, i'll take you along. felix that's awfully kind of you. sala what, miss herms...? this is a short visit indeed. irene yes, i have still a few errands to do. for to-morrow i must return to the wilderness. and probably it will be some time before i get to vienna again.--well, lieutenant? felix good-by, mr. fichtner. and if i shouldn't happen to see you again.... julian oh, we'll meet again. irene now the people will say: look at the lieutenant with his mamma in tow. (_she gives a last glance to julian_) sala (_accompanies irene and felix up the steps to the terrace_) julian (_remains behind, walking back and forth; after a while he is joined by sala_) have you no doubt that your appeal to count ronsky will be effective? sala i have already received definite assurances from him, or i should never have aroused any hopes in felix. julian what caused you to do this, sala? sala my sympathy for felix, i should say, and the fact that i like to travel in pleasant company. julian and did it never occur to you, that the thought of losing him might be very painful to me? sala what's the use of that, julian? it is only possible to lose what you possess. and you cannot possess a thing to which you have not acquired any right. you know that as well as i do. julian does not, in the last instance, the fact that you need somebody give you a certain claim on him?--can't you understand, sala, that he represents my last hope?... that actually i haven't got anything or anybody left but him?... that wherever i turn, i find nothing but emptiness?... that i am horrified by the loneliness awaiting me? sala and what could it help you if he stayed? and even if he felt something like filial tenderness toward you, how could that help you?... how can he or anybody else help you?... you say that loneliness horrifies you?... and if you had a wife by your side to-day, wouldn't you be lonely just the same?... wouldn't you be lonely even if you were surrounded by children and grandchildren?... suppose you had kept your money, your fame and your genius--don't you think you would be lonely for all that?... suppose we were always attended by a train of bacchantes--nevertheless we should have to tread the downward path alone--we, who have never belonged to anybody ourselves. the process of aging must needs be a lonely one for our kind, and he is nothing but a fool who doesn't in time prepare himself against having to rely on any human being. julian and do you imagine, sala, that you need no human being? sala in the manner i have used them they will always be at my disposal. i have always been in favor of keeping at a certain distance. it is not my fault that other people haven't realized it. julian in that respect you are right, sala. for you have never really loved anybody in this world. sala perhaps not. and how about you? no more than i, julian.... to love means to live for the sake of somebody else. i don't say that it is a more desirable form of existence, but i do think, at any rate, that you and i have been pretty far removed from it. what has that which one like us brings into the world got to do with love? though it include all sorts of funny, hypocritical, tender, unworthy, passionate things that pose as love--it isn't love for all that.... have we ever made a sacrifice by which our sensuality or our vanity didn't profit?... have we ever hesitated to betray or blackguard decent people, if by doing so we could gain an hour of happiness or of mere lust?... have we ever risked our peace or our lives--not out of whim or recklessness--but to promote the welfare of someone who had given all to us?... have we ever denied ourselves an enjoyment unless from such denial we could at least derive some comfort?... and do you think that we could dare to turn to any human being, man or woman, with a demand that any gift of ours be returned? i am not thinking of pearls now, or annuities, or cheap wisdom, but of some piece of our real selves, some hour of our own existence, which we have surrendered to such a being without at once exacting payment for it in some sort of coin. my dear julian, we have kept our doors open, and have allowed our treasures to be viewed--but prodigal with them we have never been. you no more than i. we may just as well join hands, julian. i am a little less prone to complain than you are--that's the whole difference.... but i am not telling you anything new. all this you know as well as i do. it is simply impossible for us not to know ourselves. of course, we try at times conscientiously to deceive ourselves, but it never works. our follies and rascalities may remain hidden to others--but never to ourselves. in our innermost souls we always know what to think of ourselves.--it's getting cold, julian. let's go indoors. (_they begin to ascend the steps to the terrace_) julian all that may be true, sala. but this much you have to grant me. if there be anybody in the world who has no right to make us pay for the mistakes of our lives, it is a person who has us to thank for his own life. sala there is no question of payment in this. your son has a mind for essentials, julian. you have said so yourself. and he feels that to have done nothing for a man but to put him into the world, is to have done very little indeed. julian then, at least, everything must become as it was before he knew anything at all. once more i shall become to him a human being like anybody else. then he will not dare to leave me.... i cannot bear it. how have i deserved that he should run away from me?... and even if all that i have held for good and true within myself--even if, in the end, my very fondness for this young man, who is my son--should prove nothing but self-delusion--yet i love him now.... do you understand me, sala? i love him, and all i ask is that he may believe it before i must lose him forever.... [_it grows dark. the two men pass across the terrace and enter the drawing-room. the stage stands empty a little while. in the meantime the wind has risen somewhat. johanna enters by the avenue of trees from the right and goes past the pool toward the terrace. the windows of the drawing-room are illumined. sala has seated himself at a table. the valet enters the room and serves him a glass of wine. johanna stops. she is apparently much excited. then she ascends two of the steps to the terrace. sala seems to hear a noise and turns his head slightly. when she sees this, johanna hurries down again and stops beside the pool. there she stands looking down into the water._ curtain the fifth act _the garden at the wegrats'._ reumann (_sits at a small table and writes something in his notebook_) julian (_enters quickly by way of the veranda_) is it true, doctor? reumann (_rising_) yes, it's true. julian she has disappeared? reumann yes, she has disappeared. she has been gone since yesterday afternoon. she has left no word behind, and she has taken nothing at all with her--she has simply gone away and never returned. julian but what can have happened to her? reumann we have not been able to guess even. perhaps she has lost her way and will come back. or she has suddenly made up her mind--if we only knew to what! julian where are the others? reumann we agreed to meet here again at ten. i visited the various hospitals and other places where it might be possible to find some trace.... i suppose the professor has made a report to the police by this time. felix (_enters quickly_) nothing new? reumann nothing. julian (_shakes hands with felix_) reumann from where do you come? felix i went to see mr. von sala. reumann why? felix i thought it rather possible that he might have a suspicion, or be able to give us some kind of direction. but he knows nothing at all. that was perfectly clear. and if he had known anything--had known anything definite--he would have told me. i am sure of that. he was still in bed when i called on him. i suppose he thought i had come about my own matter. when he heard that johanna had disappeared, he turned very pale.... but he doesn't know anything. wegrat (_enters_) anything? [_all the others shake their heads. julian presses his hand._ wegrat (_sitting down_) they asked me to give more details, something more tangible to go by. but what is there to give?... i have nothing.... the whole thing is a riddle to me. (_turning to julian_) in the afternoon she went out for a short walk as usual.... (_to felix_) was there anything about her that attracted attention?... it seems quite impossible to me that she could have had anything in mind when she left the house--that she could know already--that she was going away forever. felix perhaps though.... wegrat of course, she was very reserved--especially of late, since the death of her mother.... i wonder if it could be that?... would you think that possible, doctor? reumann (_shrugs his shoulders_) felix did any one of us really know her? and who takes a real interest in another person anyhow? reumann it is apparently fortunate that such is the case. otherwise we should all go mad from pity or loathing or anxiety. (_pause_) now i must get around to my patients. there are a few calls that cannot be postponed. i shall be back by dinner-time. good-by for a while. (_he goes out_) wegrat to think that you can watch a young creature like her grow up--can see the child turn into girl, and then into a young lady--can speak hundreds of thousands of words to her.... and one day she rises from the table, puts on hat and coat, and goes ... and you have no idea as to whether she has slipped away--if into nothingness or into a new life. felix but whatever may have happened, father--she wanted to get away from us. and in that fact, i think, we should find a certain consolation. wegrat (_shakes his head in perplexity_) everything is fluttering away--willingly or unwillingly--but away it goes. felix father, we can't tell what may have happened. it's conceivable, at least, that johanna may have formed some decision which she does not carry out. perhaps she will come back in a few hours, or days. wegrat you believe ... you think it possible, do you? felix possible--yes. but if she shouldn't come--of course, father, i shall give up the plan of which i told you yesterday. under circumstances like these i couldn't think of going so far away from you for such a long time. wegrat (_to julian_) and now he's going to sacrifice himself for my sake! felix perhaps i could arrange to have myself transferred here. wegrat no, felix, you know very well that i couldn't accept such a thing. felix but it's no sacrifice. i assure you, father, that i stay with you only because i _can't_ go away from you now. wegrat oh, yes, felix, you can--you will be able. and you are not to stay here for my sake--you mustn't. i could never be sure that it would prove of any help to me to have you give up a plan which you have taken hold of with such enthusiasm. i think it would be inexcusable of you to draw back, and wicked of me to permit it. you must be happy at having found a way at last, by which you may reach all you have longed for. it makes me happy, too, felix. if you missed this opportunity, you would regret it all your life. felix but so much may have changed since yesterday--such a tremendous lot--for you and for me. wegrat for me, perhaps.... but never mind. i won't stand it--i will not accept such a sacrifice. of course, i might accept it, if i could find it of any special advantage to myself. but i shouldn't have you any more than if you were gone away ... less ... not at all. this fate that has descended on us must not add to its inherent power what is still worse--that it makes us do in our confusion what is against our own natures. sometime we always get over every disaster, no matter how frightful it be. but whatever we do in violation of our innermost selves can never be undone. (_turning to julian_) isn't that true, julian? julian you are absolutely right. felix thanks, father. i feel grateful that you make it so easy for me to agree with you. wegrat that's good, felix.... during the weeks you will remain in europe we shall be able to talk over a lot of things--more perhaps than in the years gone by. indeed, how little people know about each other!... but i am getting tired. we stayed awake all night. felix won't you rest a while, father? wegrat rest.... you'll stay at home, felix, won't you? felix yes, i shall wait right here. what else is there to do? wegrat i'm racking my brain until it's near bursting.... why didn't she say anything to me? why have i known so little about her? why have i kept so far away from her? (_he goes out_) felix how that man has been belied--all his life long--by all of us. julian there is in this world no sin, no crime, no deception, that cannot be atoned. only for what has happened here, there should be no expiation and no forgetfulness, you think? felix can it be possible that you don't understand?... here a lie has been eternalized. there is no getting away from it. and she who did it was my mother--and it was you who made her do it--and the lie am i, and such i must remain as long as i am passing for that which i am not. julian let us proclaim the truth then, felix.--i shall face any judge that you may choose, and submit to any verdict passed on me.--must i alone remain condemned forever? should i alone, among all that have erred, never dare to say: "it is atoned"? felix it is too late. guilt can be wiped out by confession only while the guilty one is still able to make restitution. you ought to know yourself, that this respite expired long ago. sala (_enters_) felix mr. von sala!--have you anything to tell us? sala yes.--good morning, julian.--no, stay, julian. i am glad to have a witness. (_to felix_) are you determined to join the expedition? felix i am. sala so am i. but it is possible that one of us must change his mind. felix mr. von sala...? sala it would be a bad thing to risk finding out that you have started on a journey of such scope with one whom you would prefer to shoot dead if you knew him completely. felix where is my sister, mr. von sala? sala i don't know. where she is at this moment, i don't know. but last evening, just before you arrived, she had left me for the last time. felix mr. von sala.... sala her farewell words to me were: until to-morrow. you can see that i had every reason to be surprised this morning, when you appeared at my house. permit me furthermore to tell you, that yesterday, of all days, i asked johanna to become my wife--which seemed to agitate her very much. in telling you this, i have by no means the intention of smoothing over things. for my question implied no desire on my part to make good any wrong i might have done. it was apparently nothing but a whim--like so much else. there is here no question of anything but to let you know the truth. this means that i am at your disposal in any manner you may choose.--i thought it absolutely necessary to say all this before we were brought to the point of having to descend into the depths of the earth together, or, perhaps, to sleep in the same tent. felix (_after a long pause_) mr. von sala ... we shall not have to sleep in the same tent. sala why not? felix your journey will not last that long. [_a very long pause ensues._ sala oh ... i understand. and are you sure of that? felix perfectly. (_pause_} sala and did johanna know it? felix yes. sala i thank you.--oh, you can safely take my hand. the matter has been settled in the most chivalrous manner possible.--well?... it is not customary to refuse one's hand to him who is already down. felix (_gives his hand to sala; then he says_) and where can she be? sala i don't know. felix didn't she give you any hint at all? sala none whatever. felix but have you no conjecture? has she perhaps established any connections--abroad? had she any friends at all, of which i don't know? sala not to my knowledge. felix do you think that she is still alive? sala i can't tell. felix are you not _willing_ to say anything more, mr. von sala? sala i am not _able_ to say anything more. i have nothing left to say. farewell, and good luck on your trip. give my regards to count ronsky. felix but we are not seeing each other for the last time? sala who can tell? felix (_holding out his hand to sala_) i must hurry to my father. i think it my duty to let him know what i have just learned from you. sala (_nods_) felix (_to julian_) good-by. (_he goes out_) [_julian and sala start to leave together._ julian (_as sala suddenly stops_) why do you tarry? let's get away. sala it is a strange thing to _know_. a veil seems to spread in front of everything.... "away with you!"--but i don't care to submit to it as long as i am still here--if it be only for another hour.... julian do you believe it then? sala (_looking long at julian_) do i believe it...? he behaved rather nicely, that son of yours.... "we shall not have to sleep in the same tent."... not bad! i might have said it myself.... julian but why don't you come? have you perhaps something more to tell after all? sala that's the question i must put to you, julian. julian sala? sala because i didn't say anything about a peculiar hallucination i experienced just before coming here. i imagine it was.... julian please, speak out! sala what do you think of it? before i left my house--just after felix had gone--i went down into my garden--that is to say, i ran through it--in a remarkable state of excitement, as you may understand. and as i passed by the pool, it was exactly as if i had seen on the bottom of it.... julian sala! sala there is a blue-greenish glitter on the water, and besides, the shadow of the beech tree falls right across it early in the morning. and by a strange coincidence johanna said yesterday: "the water can no more hold my image...." that was, in a way, like challenging fate.... and as i passed by the pool, it was as if ... the water had retained her image just the same. julian is that true? sala true ... or untrue ... what is that to me? it could be of interest to me only if i were to remain in this world another year--or another hour at least. julian you mean to...? sala of course, i do. would you expect me to wait for it? that would be rather painful, i think. (_to julian, with a smile_) from whom are you now going to get your cues, my dear friend? yes, it's all over now.... and what has become of it?... where are the _thermæ_ of caracalla? where is the park at lugano?... where is my nice little house?... no nearer to me, and no farther away, than those marble steps leading down to mysterious depths.... veils in front of everything.... perhaps your son will discover if the three-hundred and twelfth be the last one--and if not, it won't give him much concern anyhow.... don't you think he has been acting rather nicely?... i have somehow the impression that a better generation is growing up--with more poise and less brilliancy.--send your regards to heaven, julian. julian (_makes a movement to accompany him_) sala (_gently but firmly_) you stay here, julian. this is the end of our dialogue. farewell. (_he goes out quickly_) felix (_entering rapidly_) is mr. von sala gone? my father wanted to talk to him.--and you are still here?... why did mr. von sala go? what did he tell you?--johanna...! johanna...? julian she is dead ... she has drowned herself in the pool. felix (_with a cry of dismay_) where did he go? julian i don't think you can find him. felix what is he doing? julian he is paying ... while it's time.... wegrat (_enters from the veranda_) felix (_runs to meet him_) father.... wegrat felix! what has happened? felix we must go to sala's house, father. wegrat dead...? felix father! (_he takes hold of wegrat's hand and kisses it_) my father! julian (_has left the room slowly in the meantime_) wegrat must things of this kind happen to make that word sound as if i had heard it for the first time...? curtain intermezzo (_zwischenspiel_) a comedy in three acts persons amadeus adams } a musical conductor cecilia adams-ortenburg } his wife, an opera singer peter } their child, five years old albert rhon marie } his wife sigismund, prince maradas-lohsenstein countess frederique moosheim } an opera singer governess } } at the adamses count arpad pazmandy } _the scene is laid in vienna at the present day._ intermezzo the first act _the study of amadeus. the walls are painted in dark gray, with a very simple frieze. a door in the background leads to a veranda. on either side of this door is a window. through the door one sees the garden, to which three steps lead down from the veranda. a cabinet stands between the door and the window at the right; a music-stand holds a corresponding position to the left of the door. antique bas-reliefs are hung above the cabinet as well as the stand. the main entrance is on the right side in the foreground. farther back at the right is a door leading to cecilia's room. a door finished like the rest of the wall leads to the room of amadeus at the left. a tall book case, with a bust of verrochio on top of it, stands against the right wall. in the corner back of it are several columns with tall vases full of flowers. a fireplace occupies the foreground at the left. above it is a large mirror. on the mantelshelf stands a french clock of simple design. a table surrounded by chairs is placed in front of the fireplace. farther back along the same wall are shelves piled with sheet music, and above them engravings of schumann, brahms, mozart, and other composers. a bust of beethoven occupies the farthermost corner at the left. halfway down the stage, nearer the left wall, stands a piano with a piano stool in front of it. an armchair has been moved up close to the piano on the side toward the public. a writing desk holds a similar position at the right. back of it are an easy-chair and a couch, the latter having been moved close to the table._ amadeus (_thirty years old, slender, with dark, smooth hair; his movements are quick, with a suggestion of restlessness; he wears a gray business suit of elegant cut, but not well cared for; he has a trick of taking hold of the lapel of his sack coat with his left hand and turning it back; he is seated at the piano, accompanying frederique_) frederique (_twenty-eight, is dressed in a bright gray tailor-made suit and a red satin waist; wears a broad-brimmed straw hat, very fashionable; her hair is blonde, of a reddish tint; her whole appearance is very dainty; she is singing an aria from the opera "mignon"_) "ha-ha-ha! is 't true, really true?" (_while singing she is all the time making a motion as if she were beating the dust out of her riding suit with a crop_) amadeus (_accompanying himself as he gives her the cue_) "yes, you may laugh. i am a fool to ruin my horse ..." frederique "maybe you would like ..." amadeus (_nervously_) oh, wait!... you don't know yet why i have ruined my horse.... "to ruin my horse for a quicker sight of you ..." frederique (_with the same gesture as before_) "maybe you would like me to weep?" amadeus "oh, i regret already that i came." frederique (_as before_) "well, why...." amadeus g sharp! frederique (_as before_) "well, why don't you go back? soon enough i shall see you again." amadeus you should say that ironically, not tenderly. "soon enough i shall see you again...." frederique (_as before_) "soon enough i shall see you again...." amadeus not angrily, countess, but ironically. frederique call me frederique, and not countess, when you are working with me. amadeus now, that's the tone philine should use. hold on to it.... and that's the right look, too.... if you could do that on the stage, you might almost be an artist. frederique oh, mercy, i have sung philine more than twenty times already. amadeus but not here, freder ... countess. and not when mrs. adams-ortenburg was singing the part of mignon. (_he leans forward so that he can look out into the garden_) frederique no, she isn't coming yet. (_with a smile_) perhaps the rehearsal isn't over. amadeus (_rising_) perhaps not. frederique is it true that mrs. adams-ortenburg has been requested to sing in berlin next fall? amadeus nothing has been settled yet. (_he goes to the window at the right_) if you'll permit.... (_opens the window_) frederique what a splendid day! and how fragrant the roses are. it is almost like.... amadeus almost like tremezzo--yes, i know. frederique how can you--as you have never been there? amadeus but you have told me enough about it. a villa standing at the edge of the water--radiantly white--with marble steps leading straight down to the blue sea. frederique yes. and sometimes, on very hot nights, i sleep in the park, right on the sward, under a plane tree. amadeus that plane tree is famous.--but time is flying. it would be better to go on with the singing. (_he seats himself at the piano again_) the polonaise--if you please, countess. (_he begins the accompaniment_) frederique (_singing_) "titania, airiest queen of fairies, has descended from her blue cloud throne, and her way across the world is wending more quickly than the bird or lightning flash..." amadeus (_interrupts his playing and lets his head sink forward_) no, no--it's no use!... please tell the director that he will have to look after your part himself. as for me, i have certain regards even for people who go to the opera in summer. they should not be forced to accept _anything_. tell the director, please, that i send him my regards and that--there are more important things to occupy my time. (_he closes the score_) frederique (_quite amicably_) i believe it. how's your opera getting along? amadeus for the lord's sake, please don't pretend to be interested in things of that kind! why, nobody expects it of you. frederique will it soon be finished? amadeus finished...? how could it be, do you think? i have to conduct two nights a week at least, and there are rehearsals in the morning, not to mention singers that have to be coached.... do you think a man can sit down after an hour like _this_ and invite his muse? frederique after an hour like _this_...? i don't think you feel quite at your ease with me, amadeus. amadeus not at my ease? i? with you?--i don't think you have imagined in your most reckless moments, countess, that my wife might have anything to fear from you. frederique you are determined to misunderstand me. (_she has gone to the fireplace and turns now to face amadeus_) you know perfectly well why you pretend to be cross with me. because you are in love with me. amadeus (_looks straight ahead and goes on playing_) frederique and that chord proves nothing to the contrary. amadeus that chord.... tell me rather what kind of chord it is. (_he repeats it in a fury_) frederique a flat major. amadeus (_in a tone of boredom_) g major--of course. frederique (_close by him, with a smile_) don't let that semi-tone spoil our happiness. amadeus (_rises, goes toward the background and looks out into the garden_) frederique is it your wife? amadeus no, my little boy is playing out there. (_he stands at the window, waving his hand at somebody outside; pause_) frederique you take life too hard, amadeus. amadeus (_still at the window, but turning toward frederique_) i can't lie--and i don't want to. which is not the same as taking life hard. frederique can't lie...? and yet you have been away from your wife for months at a time--haven't you? and your wife came here while you were still conducting somewhere abroad, didn't she?... so that.... amadeus those are matters which you don't quite comprehend, countess. (_he looks again toward the main entrance_) frederique no, your wife can't be here yet. she won't give up her walk on a wonderful day like this. amadeus what you have in mind now is pretty mean, frederique. frederique why so? of course, i know she takes a walk with you, too, now and then. amadeus yes, when my time permits. and often she goes out with sigismund. to-day she's probably with him--and that's what you wanted to bring home to me, of course. frederique why should i? you know it, don't you? and i assure you, it has never occurred to me to see anything wrong in it. he's a friend of yours. amadeus more than that--or less. he used to be my pupil. frederique i didn't know that. amadeus ten years ago, while still a mere youngster, i used to live in his father's palace. it's hard to tell where i might have been to-day, had it not been for old prince lohsenstein. you see, we men have generally another kind of youth to look back at than you ... frederique ... women artists. amadeus no, countesses, i meant to say. for three years i spent every summer in the palace at krumau.[ ] and there--for the first time in my life--i could work in peace, all by myself, with nothing more to do than to instruct sigismund. [ ] a small bohemian city near the border of upper austria. on a high rock, with a wonderful view along the river moldau, stands the schwarzenberg castle, which the author seems to have had in mind. frederique did he want to become a pianist? amadeus not exactly. he wanted to join some monastic order. frederique no? is that really true?--oh, it's queer how people change! amadeus they don't as much as you think. he has remained a man of serious mind. frederique and yet he plays dance music so charmingly...? amadeus why shouldn't he? a good waltz and a good hymn are just as acceptable to the powers above. frederique how delightful those evenings in your house used to be! no farther back than last winter.... the count and i frequently talk of them.--have you ceased to invite prince sigismund, as you have me? amadeus he was here only a fortnight ago, my dear countess--and spent the whole evening with us. we had supper in the summer-house, and then we came in here and sat chatting for a long while, and finally he improvised some variations on the cagliostro waltzes before he left.--and what my wife and he say to each other during their walk, when i am not with them, will no more be hidden from me than i would hide from her what you and i have been talking of here. that's how my wife and i feel toward each other--if you'll please understand, frederique! frederique but there are things one simply _can't_ say to each other. amadeus there can be no secrets between people like my wife and myself. frederique oh, of course ... but then ... what you have been saying to me will be only a small part of what you must tell your wife to-day, amadeus. good-by.... (_she holds out her hand to him_) amadeus what's in your mind now, frederique? frederique why resist your fate? is it so very repulsive after all? what you are to me, nobody else has ever been! amadeus and you want me to believe that? frederique i shall not insist on it. but it is true nevertheless. good-by now. until to-morrow, amadeus. life is really much easier than you think.... it might be so very pleasant--and so it shall be! (_she goes out_) amadeus (_seats himself at the piano again and strikes a few notes_) it is getting serious ... or amusing perhaps...? (_he shakes his head_) albert rhon (_enters; he is of medium height; his black hair, slightly streaked with gray, is worn long; he is rather carelessly dressed_) amadeus oh, is that you, albert? how are you? albert i have come to ask how you are getting along with our opera, amadeus. have you done anything? amadeus no. albert again nothing? amadeus i doubt whether i can get a chance here. we'll have to wait until the season is over. i have too much to do. we are now putting on "mignon" with new people in some of the parts.... albert if i'm not very much mistaken, i saw philine float by--with a rather intoxicated look in her eyes.... oh, have i put my foot into it again? i beg your pardon! amadeus (_turning away from him_) that's right. she was here. oh, that damned business of private rehearsals! but i hope it won't last much longer. the coming winter is going to decide my future once for all. i have already got my leave of absence. albert so you have made up your mind about that tour? amadeus yes, i shall be gone for two months this time. albert within germany only? amadeus i'll probably take in a few italian cities also. yes, my dear fellow, they know more about me abroad than here. i shall conduct my third symphony, and perhaps also my fourth. albert have you got that far already? amadeus no. but i have hopes of the summer. once more i mean to do some real work. albert well, it's about time.--i have made out the schedule for our walking tour, by the by. and i brought along the map. look here. we start from niederdorf, and then by way of plätzwiesen to schluderbach; then to cortina; then through the giau pass to caprile; then by way of the fedaja[ ].... [ ] the names used in this passage occur a number of times in the various plays, indicating that their author probably has been drawing on experiences obtained during his own walking tours through the dolomites. as far as cortina, the route is identical with the one mentioned by _wegrath_ in "the lonely way." the giau pass is a little known footpath across monte giau, showing that the intention of _albert_ is to avoid the routes frequented by tourists. amadeus i leave all that to you. i rely entirely on you. albert then it's settled that we'll don knapsack and alpenstock once more, to wander through the country as we used to do when we were young...? amadeus yes, and i am looking forward to it with a great deal of pleasure. albert you need simply to pull yourself together--a few weeks of mountain air and quiet will get you out of this. amadeus oh, i haven't got into anything in particular. i am a little nervous. that's all. albert can't you see, amadeus, how you have to force yourself in order to use this evasion toward me, who, of course, has no right whatever to demand any frankness? can't you see how you are wasting a part of your mental energy, so to speak, on this slight disingenuousness? no, dissimulation is utterly foreign to your nature, as i have always told you. if you should ever get to the point where you had to deceive one who was near and dear to you, that would be the end of you. amadeus your worry is quite superfluous! haven't you known us long enough--me and cecilia--to know that our marriage is based, above all else, on absolute frankness? albert many have good intentions, but their courage often deserts them at the critical moment. amadeus we have never yet kept anything hidden from each other. albert because so far you have had nothing to confess. amadeus oh, a great deal, perhaps, which other people keep to themselves. our common life has not been without its complications. we have had to be parted from each other for months at a time. i have had to rehearse in private with other singers than philine, and (_with an air of superiority_) other men than prince sigismund must have discovered that cecilia is pretty. albert i haven't said a word about cecilia. amadeus and besides, it would be quite hopeless for cecilia or me to keep any secrets. we know each other too well--i don't think two people ever existed who understood each other so completely as we do. albert i can imagine a point where the understanding would have to end, and everything else with it. amadeus everything else maybe--but not the understanding. albert oh, well! if nothing is left but the understanding, that means the beginning of the end. amadeus those are--chances that every human being must resign himself to take. albert you don't talk like one who has resigned himself, however, but like one who has made up his mind. amadeus who can be perfectly sure of himself or of anybody else? we two, at any rate, are not challenging fate by feeling too secure. albert oh, when it comes to that, my dear fellow--fate always regards itself challenged--by doubt no less than by confidence. amadeus to be safe against any surprise brings a certain sense of tranquillity anyhow. albert a little more tranquillity would produce a decision to avoid anything that might endanger an assured happiness. amadeus do you think anything is to be won by that kind of avoidance? don't you feel rather, that the worst and most dangerous of all falsehoods is to resist temptation with a soul full of longing for it? and that it is easier to go unscathed through adventures than through desires? albert adventures...! is it actually necessary, then, to live through them? a painter who has risen above pot-boiling, and who has left the follies of youth behind him, can be satisfied with a single model for all the figures that are created out of his dreams--and one who knows how to live may have all the adventures he could ever desire within the peaceful precincts of his own home. he can experience them just as fully as anybody else, but without waste of time, without unpleasantness, without danger. and if he only possess a little imagination, his wife may bear him nothing but illegitimate children without being at all aware of it. amadeus it's an open question whether you have the right to force such a part on anybody whom you respect. albert it is not wise to let people know what they mean to you. i have put this thought into an aphorism: if you grasp me, you rasp me; if i know you, i own you. marie (_entering from the garden with little peter_) peter wants me absolutely to come in. i wanted to wait for cecilia in the garden. amadeus how are you, marie? marie i'm not disturbing you, i hope? governess (_comes from the garden with the intention of taking the boy away_) peter! peter no, i want to stay with the grown-ups. amadeus yes, let him be with us for a while. governess (_returns to the veranda, where she remains visible_) marie well, have you been working a lot? amadeus oh, we have just been talking. albert do you know why she asks? because she is in love with mr. von rabagas. amadeus with whom? albert don't you remember him? he's that interesting young chap who appears in the first act as one of the king's attendants. she used, at least, to fall in love only with the heroes of my plays, but nowadays she can't even resist the subordinate characters. amadeus that should make you proud. albert proud, you say? but at times you can't help regretting that you must put all the beauties and virtues of the world into the figures you create, so that you have nothing but your wee bit of talent left to get along with personally. cecilia (_enters from the right_) peter there's mamma! cecilia good afternoon. (_she shakes hands with everybody_) how are you, marie? this is awfully nice. if i had only known.... i went for a short walk. it's such a wonderful day.--well, peter (_kissing him_), have you had your meal yet? peter yes. governess (_entering from the veranda_) good afternoon, madame. peter hasn't had his nap yet. marie does he still have to sleep in the daytime? our two children have quit entirely. albert instead they play a most exciting game every afternoon--one invented by themselves. they call it "drums and bugles." marie you must come and see us soon, peter, so that you can learn to play that game. peter i've got a music-box, and i'll take it along so we can make more noise. cecilia now you have to go. but first you must say good-by nicely. peter i'll say "adieu." good-by is so common. [_everybody laughs. peter goes out with the governess. marie and cecilia move slowly toward the fireplace and sit down in front of it._ marie of course, i have come to ask for something. cecilia well, go on. marie there's to be a concert at which they want you to assist. cecilia this season? marie yes. but it will be in the country, not in the city ... for a charitable purpose, of course. the committee would be so happy if you would sing two or three songs. cecilia i think i can. marie and i shall feel very grateful, too. cecilia don't you find undertakings of that kind a lot of trouble? marie well, you must have something to do. if i had any gifts like the rest of you, i am sure i should never bother with "people's kitchens" or "charitable teas"--and then, i suppose, i should feel more indifferent about people, too. cecilia (_with a smile_) about _people_, too? marie oh, i didn't mean it that way. albert you see, marie, there is something like the charm of meadows and fields in your sweet prattle, and you should never desert it for the thickets of psychological speculations.--come on, child. these people want their dinner. cecilia no, we won't eat for an hour yet. amadeus we generally work a little before we eat. to-day we might run through the songs for that concert, for instance. cecilia that would suit me perfectly. marie oh, i feel _so_ thankful to you, cecilia! cecilia and when shall we see each other again? albert oh, that reminds me! we have just been talking about the summer. amadeus and i mean to go on a walking tour. how would it be if you two were to go somewhere with the children--some place in the tirol, say--and wait for us there? marie oh, that would be fine! cecilia did you hear that, amadeus? amadeus (_who has been standing a little way off_) certainly. it would be very nice.... you can wait for us in the tirol. cecilia could you come and see me to-morrow afternoon, marie? then we might settle the matter. marie yes, indeed. i am always glad when you can spare me a little of your time.--until to-morrow, then! albert good-by. (_he and marie go out_) amadeus (_is walking to and fro_) cecilia (_who is sitting on the couch, follows him with her eyes_) amadeus (_after a turn to the window and back, speaking in a peculiarly dry tone_) well, how did it go? have you got the finale into shape at last? cecilia oh, in a manner. amadeus the day before yesterday it had not yet been brought up to the proper level. i find, for one thing, that they don't let you assert yourself sufficiently. your voice should be floating above the rest, instead of being submerged in the crowd. cecilia won't you come to the rehearsal to-morrow--just once more--if you can spare the time? amadeus would it please you...? cecilia i always feel more certain of myself when you are within reach. you know that, don't you? amadeus yes--i'll come. i'll call off my appointments with neumann and the countess. cecilia if it isn't too great a sacrifice.... amadeus (_with assumed brusqueness_) oh, i can make her come in the afternoon. cecilia but then there will be no time left for your _own_ work. no, better let it be. amadeus what had we better let be? cecilia don't come to the rehearsal to-morrow. amadeus just as you say, cecilia. i won't intrude, of course. but a moment ago you said that you felt more certain of yourself when i was within reach. and as far as my work is concerned, i don't think--albert and i were just talking of it--nothing will come of it until the season is over. cecilia that's what i suspected. amadeus but during the summer i'll complete my fourth. i must have something new to conduct this year. and it's only a question of the final passages, for that matter. all the rest is as good as finished--in my mind at least. cecilia it's a long time since you let me hear anything of it. amadeus it hasn't quite reached the point where it can be played. but, of course, you know the principal themes ... the allegro ... and then the intermezzo.... (_he goes to the piano and strikes a few notes_) cecilia so you are going next november? amadeus yes, for three months. cecilia and during october i shall be in berlin. amadeus oh ... is there any news in that matter? cecilia yes, i have practically closed. reichenbach came to see me at the opera-house. i'm to appear in three parts. as carmen under all circumstances. the other two are left to my own choice. amadeus and what do you...? cecilia tatyana,[ ] i suppose. i have heard that they have such a splendid onyegin. [ ] tatyana and onyegin are characters in the opera "eugène onyegin," by tschaikovsky, which is founded on pushkin's famous poem of the same name. amadeus yes, wedius. i know him. he was in dresden when i was there.--carmen, then, and tatyana, and...? cecilia i am still considering.... perhaps we might talk it over? amadeus of course. (_pause_) cecilia it's going to be a busy winter. amadeus rather. we won't see much of each other. cecilia we'll have to correspond. amadeus as we have done before. cecilia we're used to it. amadeus yes. (_pause_) tell me by the way: do you actually want to assist at that charity concert? cecilia why not? i couldn't say no to marie. have you any objection? amadeus no--why should i? but we might use the half hour that's left to go over something. (_he goes to the music-stand_) what do you want to sing? cecilia oh, something of yours, for one thing ... amadeus oh, no, no. cecilia why not? amadeus there's nothing within yourself that prompts you to sing it anyhow. cecilia just as you say, amadeus.--i don't want to intrude either. amadeus (_bending forward and searching among the music_) how would schumann be--"the snow-drop?" or ... "old melodies" ... and "love betrayed".... cecilia yes. and perhaps von wolf's "concealment," and something by brahms. "no more to meet you, was my firm decision...." amadeus yes, i was just holding it in my hand. (_as if casually, and very dryly_) so you went for a walk with sigismund after all? cecilia yes. he sent his regards to you. amadeus (_smiling_) did he? (_as he brings the music sheets to the piano_) why doesn't he come here instead? cecilia one of the things i like about him is that he won't. amadeus is that so?--oh, well!--i'll send him my regards, too. but it's really too bad that he won't come here any more. it was very nice to hear him play his waltzes--those evenings were really very pleasant.... i just happened to mention them to the countess this afternoon. cecelia oh, you did?--and i have just seen her picture. amadeus her picture? cecilia i went with sigismund to the art gallery. amadeus oh.--they tell me it's a great success. cecilia it would be a wonder if it were not. the artist spent six months on it, they say.... amadeus is that too much for a good picture? cecelia no, but for the countess.--she will probably sing philine pretty well, by the way. amadeus you think so? i fear you are mistaken.... (_pause_) well, cecilia, what were you talking of to-day--you and sigismund? cecilia what were we talking of...? (_pause_) it's so hard to recall the words.... (_as she goes slowly to the fireplace_) and they have such a different sound when recalled in that way. amadeus true indeed. (_coming nearer to her_) and i don't suppose it's the words that matter.... well, cecilia, can it be possible that you have nothing more to tell me? cecilia nothing _more_...? (_hesitatingly_) don't you think, amadeus, that many things actually change character when you try to put them into words? amadeus not for people like us. cecilia that may have been true once. but ... you know as well as i do ... that things are no longer as they used to be. amadeus not quite, perhaps. i know. but this shouldn't be a reason for either one of us to refuse telling the other one. scruples of that kind would be unworthy of ourselves. this is _we_, cecilia--you and me! so you may tell me fearlessly what you have to tell. cecilia (_rising_) don't try to encourage me, amadeus. amadeus well...? cecilia (_remains silent_) amadeus do you love him? cecilia do i love him...? amadeus (_urgently_) cecilia...! cecilia am i to tell you _more_ than i think is true? wouldn't that be a lie, too--as good or as bad as any other one?... no, i don't think i love him. it is nothing like it was when i became acquainted with you, amadeus. amadeus _that_ time is long past.--and you have probably forgotten what it was like. on the whole, it must be the same thing, i suppose. only you have grown a little older since then, and you have been living with me for seven years.... no matter how far apart we may have been, you have been living _with me_--and we have a child.... cecilia well, perhaps that's what makes the difference--but there _is_ a difference. amadeus what really matters is nothing new, however. you feel attracted to him, don't you? cecilia (_speaking with genuine feeling and almost tenderly_) but perhaps there is still something that holds back--that could hold me back, if it only wanted. amadeus (_after a pause, brusquely_) but it doesn't want to ... it doesn't dare to want it. what sense could there be in it? perhaps i might prove the stronger to-day--and the next time, perhaps--but sooner or later the day must come nevertheless, when i should suffer defeat. cecilia why?... it ought not to be necessary! amadeus and then, even if i remained victorious every time--could that be called happiness for which i must fight repeatedly and tremble all the time? could that be called happiness in our case, who have known what is so much better?... no, cecilia, our love should not be permitted to end in mutual distrust. i don't hold you, cecilia, if you are attracted elsewhere--and you have known all the time that i would never hold you. cecilia maybe you are right, amadeus. but is it pride alone that makes you let me slip away so easily? amadeus is it love alone that brings you back when almost gone? (_pause; he goes to the window_) cecilia why should we spoil these hours with bitterness, amadeus? after all, we have nothing to reproach each other for. we have promised to be honest with each other, and _my_ word has been kept so far. amadeus and so has mine. if you want it, i can tell you exactly what i and the countess talked of to-day, as i have always done. and for _me_, cecilia, it will even be possible to recall the very words. cecilia (_looking long at him_) i know enough. (_pause_) amadeus (_walking to and fro until he stops some distance away from her_) and what next? cecilia what next...? perhaps it's just as well that our vacations are soon to begin. then we may consider in peace, each one by himself, what is to come next. amadeus it seems almost as if both of us should have expected this very thing. we have made no common plans for the summer, although we have always done so before. cecilia the best thing for me is probably to go with the boy to some quiet place in the tirol ... as you and albert suggested. amadeus yes. cecilia and you...? amadeus i...? i shall make that walking tour with albert. i want to be scrambling about in the mountains once more. cecilia and finally descend into some beautiful valley--is that what you mean? amadeus that--might happen. cecilia (_dryly_) but _first_--we should have to bid each other definite good-by, as there is no return from _that_ place. amadeus of course, there isn't! no more than from your place. cecilia from mine...? amadeus oh, it might happen that you felt inclined to ... change your plans ... and instead of staying with marie ... prefer the undisturbed ... cecilia i won't change my plans. and you had better not change yours. amadeus if that be your wish.... cecilia it is my wish. (_pause_) amadeus can it be possible that now, all at once, the moment should have come? cecilia what moment? amadeus well--the one we used to foresee in our happiest days even--the one we have expected as something almost inevitable. cecilia yes, it has come. we know now that everything is over. amadeus over...? cecilia that's what we have been talking of all the time, i suppose. amadeus yes, you are right. at bottom it is better that we put it into plain words at last. our moods have been rather too precarious lately. cecilia everything will be improved now. amadeus improved...? why?... oh, of course ... perhaps you are right. i feel almost as if things had already begun to improve. it's strange, but ... one ... seems to breathe more freely. cecilia yes, amadeus, now we are reaping the reward of always having been honest. think how exhausted most people would be in a moment like this--by all sorts of painful evasions, labored truces, and pitifully sentimental reconciliations. think of the hostile spirit in which they would be facing each other during their moment of belated candor. we two, amadeus--we shall at least be able to part as friends. (_pause_) amadeus and our boy? cecilia is he your sole worry? amadeus no, there are many things. how is it going to be arranged anyhow? cecilia that's what we shall have to discuss carefully during the next few days--before we go away. until then everything must remain as before. it can perfectly well remain as it has been during the last year. that involves no wrong to anybody. (_pause_) amadeus (_seats himself at the piano; the ensuing pause is laden with apprehension; then he begins to play the same theme--a capriccio--which was heard earlier during the scene_) cecilia (_who has been approaching the door to the veranda, turns about to listen_) amadeus (_stops abruptly_) cecilia why don't you go on? amadeus (_laughs quickly, nervously_) cecilia wasn't that the intermezzo? amadeus (_nods_) cecilia (_still at some distance from him_) have you made up your mind what you are going to call it? is it to be _capriccio_? amadeus perhaps _capriccio doloroso_. it is peculiar how one often fails to understand one's own ideas to begin with. the hidden sadness of that theme has been revealed to me by you. cecilia oh, you would have discovered it yourself, amadeus. amadeus maybe. (_pause_) and whom will you get for the studying of your parts next year? cecilia oh, i'll always find somebody. those numbers for the concert--you'll help me with those just the same, won't you? and i hope you'll be kind enough to give me the accompaniment at the concert too. amadeus that's a foregone conclusion.--but i should really like to know who is to assist you with your studies after this. cecilia do you regard that as the most important problem to be solved? amadeus no, of course not. the less so, as i don't quite see why i shouldn't go on helping you as before. cecilia (_with a smile_) oh, you think...? but then we should have to agree on hours and conditions. amadeus that was not meant as a joke, cecilia. seeing that we are parting in a spirit of perfect understanding, why shouldn't such an arrangement be considered tentatively at least? cecilia those things will probably settle themselves later on.... that we ... that you play my accompaniment at a concert ... or help me to study a part.... amadeus why later on?... (_he rises and stands leaning against the piano_) there can be no reasonable ground for changing our musical relationships. i think both of us would suffer equally from doing so. without overestimating myself, i don't think it likely that you can find a better coach than i am. and as for my compositions, i don't know of anybody who could understand them better--with whom i would rather discuss them than with you. cecilia and yet that's what you will have to come to. amadeus i can't see it. after all, we have nobody else to consider--at least, i have not. cecilia nor have i. i shall know how to preserve my freedom. amadeus well, then...?! cecilia nevertheless, amadeus.... that we must meet and talk is made necessary by our positions, of course.... but even in regard to our work things cannot possibly remain as hitherto. i'm sure you must realize that. amadeus i can't see it. and--leaving our artistic relations entirely aside--there is much else to be considered--things of more importance. our boy, cecilia. why should the youngster all at once be made fatherless, so to speak? cecilia that's entirely out of the question. we must come to an understanding, of course. amadeus an understanding, you say. but why make difficulties that could be avoided by a little good-will? the boy is mine as much as yours. why shouldn't we continue to bring him up together? cecilia you suggest things that simply can't be done. amadeus i don't feel like you about that.--on the contrary! the more i consider our situation calmly, the more irrational it seems to me that we should part ways like any ordinary divorced couple ... that we should give up the beautiful home we have in common.... cecilia now you are dreaming again, amadeus! amadeus we have been such good chums besides. and so we might remain, i think. cecilia oh, of course, we shall. amadeus well, then! the things that bind us together are so compelling, after all, that any new experiences brought by our freedom must seem absolutely unessential in comparison. don't you realize that as i do? and _we_ shouldn't have to consider what people may say. i think we have the right to place ourselves on a somewhat higher level. in the last instance, we must always belong together, even if a single tie should be severed among the hundreds that unite us. or are we all of a sudden to forget what we have been to each other--as well as what we may and should be to each other hereafter? one thing remains certain: that no one else will ever understand you as i do, and no one me as you do.... and that's what counts in the end! so why shouldn't we.... cecilia no, it's impossible! not because of the people. they concern me as little as they do you. but for our own sake. amadeus for our own sake...? cecilia you see, there is one thing you forget: that, beginning with to-day, we shall have _secrets_ to keep from each other. who knows how many--or how heavy they may prove?... but even the least of them must come between us like a veil. amadeus secrets...? cecilia yes, amadeus. amadeus no, cecilia. cecilia what do you mean? amadeus that's exactly what must not happen. cecilia but--amadeus! amadeus there must never be any secrets between us two. everything depends on that--you are right to that extent. but why should there be any secrets between us? remember that after to-day we shall no longer be man and wife, but chums--just chums, who can hide nothing from each other--who must not hide anything. or is that more than you dare? cecilia more than i dare...? of course not. amadeus all right. we'll discuss everything frankly, just as we have been doing--nay, we shall have more things than ever to discuss. truth becomes now the natural basis of our continued relationship--truth without any reservation whatsoever. and that should prove highly profitable, not only to our mutual relationship, but to each one of us individually. because ... you don't think, do you, that either one of us could find a better chum than the other one?... now we shall bring our joys and sorrows to each other. we shall be as good friends as ever, if not better still. and our hands shall be joined, even if chasms open between us. and thus we shall keep all that we have had in common hitherto: our work, our child, our home--all that we must continue to have in common if it is to retain its full value to both of us. and we shall gain many new things for which both of us have longed--things in which i could take no pleasure, by the way, if i had to lose you. cecilia (_drops him a curtsey_) amadeus that's how you feel, too, cecilia. i am sure of it. we simply cannot live without each other. i certainly cannot live without you.--and how about you? cecilia it's quite likely i should find it a little difficult. amadeus then we agree, cecilia! cecilia you think so...?! amadeus cecilia! (_he suddenly draws her closer to himself_) cecilia (_with new hope lighting her glance_) what are you doing? amadeus (_putting his arms about her_) i now bid good-by to my beloved. cecilia forever. amadeus forever. (_pressing her hand_) and now i am welcoming my friend. cecilia for all time to come--nothing but your friend. amadeus for all time...? of course! cecilia (_draws a deep breath_) amadeus yes, cecilia, don't you feel much easier all at once? cecilia the whole thing seems very strange to me--like a dream almost. amadeus there is nothing strange about it. nothing could possibly be simpler or more sensible. life goes right on ... and all is well.... come on, cecilia--let us run through those songs. cecilia what songs...? amadeus don't you care? cecilia oh, why not?--with pleasure.... amadeus (_seating himself at the piano_) really, i can't tell you how happy this makes me! there has practically been no change whatever. the uneasiness alone is gone ... that uneasiness of the last few weeks.... i have not had a very happy time lately. the sky has seemed so black above our house--and not only above _ours_. now the clouds are vanishing. the whole world has actually grown light again. and i am going to write a symphony--oh, a symphony...! cecilia everything in due time.... just now let us have one of those songs at least.... oh, that one...? amadeus don't you want it? cecilia oh, as it's there already.... amadeus now, then--i start. (_he strikes the first chord_) please don't put a lot of sentimentality into the opening words. they should be reserved and ponderous. cecilia (_singing_) "no more to meet you was my firm...." amadeus very fine. cecilia o amadeus! amadeus what is it? cecilia i am afraid you will become too lenient now. amadeus lenient...? you know perfectly well that, as artist considered, you have no rival in my eyes, and will never have one. cecilia really, amadeus, you shouldn't be flirting with all your pupils. amadeus i have the greatest respect for you.--now let's go in! cecilia "no more to meet...." amadeus what's the matter? cecilia nothing. i haven't tried to sing anything like this for a long time. go right on! amadeus (_begins playing again_) cecilia "no more to meet you was my firm and sworn decision, and yet when evening comes, i...." curtain the second act _the same room as in the previous act. it is an evening in october. the stage is dark. marie and the chambermaid enter together. the maid turns on the light._ marie thank you.--but if your mistress is tired, please tell her she mustn't let me disturb her. chambermaid she hasn't arrived yet. she's not expected until this evening. amadeus (_enters from the right, with hat and overcoat on_) who is it?... oh, is it you, marie! glad to see you. have you been here long? marie no, i just got here. i meant to call on cecilia, but i hear.... amadeus then you can keep me company waiting for her. (_handing overcoat and hat to the maid_) please take these. chambermaid (_goes out_) amadeus i have also just got home. i had to do a lot of errands. i start the day after to-morrow. marie so soon!--that'll be a short reunion. amadeus yes.--won't you sit down, please? (_looking at his watch_) cecilia should be here in an hour. marie she has had a tremendous success again. amadeus i should say so! look here--the telegram i got this morning. (_he takes it from the writing desk and hands it to marie_) it refers to her final appearance last night. marie oh.... twenty-seven curtain calls...! amadeus what?... naw! that flourish belongs to the preceding word. seven only! otherwise she wouldn't be coming to-day. marie (_reading again_) "have new offer on brilliant terms." amadeus on _brilliant_ terms! marie then i suppose she'll do it at last? amadeus do what? marie settle down in berlin for good. amadeus oh, it isn't certain. "have offer," she says, and not "have accepted offer." no, we'll have to talk it over first. marie really? amadeus of course. we consult each other about everything, my dear marie--just as we used to do. and in a much more impersonal spirit than before. as far as i am concerned, i shall be quite free next year, and have no more reason to live in vienna than in berlin or in america. marie but it will be dreadful for me if cecilia goes away. amadeus well, these successes abroad may possibly force the people here to understand what they have in cecilia, and to act accordingly. marie i hope so.--besides, i think really that cecilia has developed a great deal lately. to me her voice seems fuller and richer--with more soul to it, i might say. amadeus yes, don't you think so? that's my feeling, too. marie but how she _does_ work! it had never occurred to me that a finished artist might be so industrious. amadeus might, you say? must, you should say. marie last summer, when i came out mornings in the garden to play with my children, she would be practicing already--just like a young student. with absolute regularity, from nine until a quarter of ten. then again before lunch, from twelve to half past. and finally another half hour in the evening.... if the weather was good or bad; if she was in good spirits or.... amadeus or...? marie she was always in good spirits for that matter. i don't think anything in the world could have kept her from practicing those runs and trills. amadeus yes, that's her way. nothing in the world could keep her from.... but then, what could there be to keep her from it last summer? in that rustic retreat of yours, where you didn't see anybody ... or hardly anybody.... marie nobody at all. amadeus well, you received a call now and then--or cecilia did, at least. marie oh, i see. you mean--prince sigismund. he could hardly be said to call. amadeus (_smilingly, with an appearance of unconcern_) why not? marie he merely whisked by on his wheel. amadeus (_as before_) oh, he must at least have stopped to lean against a tree for a few moments. he must even have taken time enough--and i am mighty glad he did--to photograph the little house in which you were living. (_he takes from the desk a small framed photograph and hands it to marie, who is seated on the couch_) marie (_surprised_) and you have that standing on your writing desk? amadeus (_slightly puzzled_) why shouldn't i? marie (_studying the photograph_) just as it was--cecilia and i sitting on the bench there--yes. and there's the hazel by the garden fence.... how it does bring back the memory of that beautiful, warm summer day... amadeus (_bending over the desk to look at the picture_) i can make out you and cecilia, but those three boys puzzle me hopelessly. marie in what way...? that's little peter, who is doing like this ... (_she blinks_) amadeus oh, is that it? marie and that's max--and he with the hoop is mauritz. amadeus so that's a hoop?... i took it for one of those cabins used by the watchmen along the railroad. the background comes out much better. the landscape actually looks as if steeped in summer and stillness.... (_brief pause_) marie it was really nice. the deep shadows of the woods right back of the house, and that view of the mountain peaks--oh, marvelous! and then the seclusion.... it's too bad that you never had a look at that darling place. we thought ... cecilia did expect you after all.... amadeus (_has risen and is walking to and fro_) i don't believe it.... and it didn't prove feasible, for that matter. the pull of the south was still on me. marie (_smiling_) you call that the south? amadeus (_smiling also_) oh, marie! marie (_a little embarrassed_) i hope you're not offended? amadeus why should i be? i didn't make a secret of my whereabouts to anybody. marie (_confidentially_) albert told me about the villa, and the park, and the marble steps.... amadeus so he gave you all those details? and yet he wasn't there more than an hour. marie i think he intends to use the park for his last act. amadeus is that so? if he would only bring it to me... i mean the last act. i want to take it with me on my tour. marie do you think you'll find time to work? amadeus why not? i am always working. and i have never in my life been more eager about it. i, too, am having a brilliant period. for years i have not been doing better. and i am no less industrious than cecilia. with the difference that regular hours are not in my line--nine to nine-forty-five, twelve to twelve-thirty, and so on. but you ask albert! when he threw himself on the bed exhausted, in that inn at the fedaja pass, i sat down and finished the instrumentation for the _capriccio_ in my fourth. chambermaid (_enters with a couple of letters and goes out again_) amadeus you'll pardon me, my dear marie? marie please don't mind me. (_she rises_) amadeus a letter from cecilia, written yesterday, before the performance. i have had letters like this every day. marie go right on and read it, please. amadeus (_having opened the letter_) oh, there's plenty of time. in another hour cecilia will be telling me all that's in it.... (_he opens the other letter, runs through it, and flings it away_) how stupid people are ... _how_ stupid! ... ugh! and mean! (_he glances through cecilia's letter once more_) cecilia writes me about a reception at the house of the director.... sigismund was there, too. yes, you know, of course, that sigismund has been in berlin? marie (_embarrassed_) i ... i thought ... or rather, i knew ... amadeus (_with an air of superiority_) well, well--there is no cause for embarrassment in that. don't you consider the prince an uncommonly sympathetic person? marie yes, he's very pleasant. but i can assure you, amadeus, that he came only once to our place in the pustertal,[ ] and he didn't stay more than two hours. [ ] a valley along the river rienz, marking the northern limit of the dolomite ranges in the tirol. amadeus (_laughing_) and what if he had stayed a week...? really, marie, you're very funny! marie (_shyly_) may i tell you something? amadeus anything you want, marie. marie i'm convinced that you two will find each other again in spite of all. amadeus find each other...? who should? cecilia and i? (_he rises_) find each other? (_he walks to and fro, but stops finally near marie_) a sensible woman like you, marie--you ought to understand that cecilia and i have never lost each other in any way. i think it's very singular.... (_he strolls back and forth again_) oh, you must understand that the relationship between her and me is so beautiful--that now only it has become such that we couldn't imagine anything more satisfactory. we don't have to find each other again! look here now--here are her letters. she has been writing me from eight to twelve pages every day--frank, exhaustive letters, as you can only write them to a friend--or rather, only to your very best friend. it is simply impossible to imagine a finer relationship. albert (_entering from the right_) good evening. amadeus you're rather late in getting here. albert good evening, marie. (_he pats her patronizingly on the cheek_) amadeus there will hardly be time for work now. cecilia will be here very soon. albert oh, we can always put in half an hour. i have brought along some notes for the third act. marie i think i shall go home, as the boys will be expecting me soon. albert all right, child, you go on home. amadeus why don't you stay instead? i am sure cecilia will be glad to see you. and then albert can take you home. you might get peter to entertain you in the meantime.... or would you prefer to stay here and listen? albert no, child, you had better go in to peter. especially as mr. von rabagas doesn't appear in the third act--so you won't be losing much. marie i'll leave you alone. bye-bye! (_she goes out_) albert now let's fall to! (_he brings out some notes from one of his pockets and begins to read_) "the stage shows an open stretch of rolling ground that slopes gradually toward the footlights. in the background stands a villa, with marble steps leading up to it. still farther back, the sea can be felt rather than seen." (_bowing to amadeus_) "a tall plane tree in full leaf stands in the center of the stage." amadeus (_laughing_) so you have got it there? albert it's meant as a compliment to you. amadeus many thanks. albert (_after a pause_) tell me, amadeus, is it actually true that the count has become reconciled with the countess after his duel with the painter? amadeus i don't know. for a good long while i haven't seen the countess except at the opera. (_he rises and begins walking to and fro again_) albert (_shaking his head_) there's something uncanny about that affair. amadeus why? i think it's quite commonplace. a husband who has discovered his wife's (_sarcastically_) "disloyalty".... albert that wasn't the point. but that he discovers it only six months too late, when his wife is already deceiving him with another man.--there would have been nothing peculiar about the count having a fight with you. but the case is much more complicated. here we have a young man all but killed because of an affair that is long past. and in the meantime you are left perfectly unmolested--or have been so far, at least. amadeus (_walking as before_) albert do you know, what i almost regret--looking at it from a higher viewpoint? that the painter is not a man of genius ... and that the count hasn't _really_ killed him. that would have put something tremendously tragi-comical into the situation. and that's what would have happened, if ... _he up there_ had a little more wit.... amadeus how? what do you mean by that? albert i mean, if i had been writing the play.... amadeus (_makes a movement as if hearing some noise outside_) albert what is it? amadeus i thought i heard a carriage, but it was nothing. (_he looks at his watch_) and it wouldn't be possible yet.... you read on, please. (_once more he begins walking back and forth_) albert you're very preoccupied. i'll rather come back to-morrow morning. amadeus no, go on. i am not at all.... albert (_rising_) let me tell you something, amadeus. if it would please you--and it would be all one to me, you know--i could go with you. amadeus where?... what do you mean? albert on your tour. for a week, at least, or a fortnight, i should be very glad to stay by you ... (_affectionately_) until you have got over the worst. amadeus but...! good gracious, do you think it's because of the countess...? why, that story is over long ago. albert which i know. and i know, too, that you are now trying other means of making yourself insensible. but i see perfectly well that, under the circumstances, you can't succeed all at once. amadeus what circumstances are you talking of anyhow? albert my dear fellow, i should never have dreamt of forcing myself into your confidence, but as the matter has already got into the papers.... amadeus what has got into the papers? albert haven't you read that thing in the new journal to-night? amadeus what thing? albert that cecilia and prince sigismund.... but, of course, you are familiar with the main facts? amadeus i'm familiar with nothing. what is in the new journal? albert just a brief notice--without any names, but not to be mistaken.... it reads something like this: "one of our foremost artists, who has just been celebrating triumphs in the metropolis of an adjoining state ... until now the wife of a gifted musician" ... or perhaps it was "highly gifted" ... and so on ... and so on ... "and a well-known austrian gentleman, belonging to our oldest nobility, intend, we are told ..." and so on.... amadeus cecilia and the prince...?! albert yes ... and then a hint that, in such a case, it would not prove very difficult to obtain a dispensation from the pope.... amadeus has everybody gone crazy?... i can assure you that not a word of it is true!... you won't believe me?... i hope you don't think i would deny it, if.... or do you actually mean that cecilia might have ... from me.... oh, dear, and you are supposed to be a friend of ours, a student of the human soul, and a poet! albert i beg your pardon, but after what has happened it would not seem improbable.... amadeus not improbable...? it is simply impossible! cecilia has never thought of it! albert however, it ought not to surprise you that such a rumor has been started. amadeus nothing surprises me. but i feel as if the relationship between cecilia and myself were being profaned by tittle-tattle of that kind. albert pioneers like yourself must scorn the judgment of the world. else they are in danger of being proved mere braggarts. amadeus oh, i am no pioneer. the whole thing is a private arrangement between me and cecilia, which gives us both the greatest possible comfort. be kind enough, at least, to tell the people who ask you, that we are not going to be divorced--but that, on the other hand, we are not deceiving each other, as it is asserted in these scrawls with which i have been bombarded for some time. (_he indicates the letter which arrived at the same time as cecilia's_) albert (_picks up the letter, glances through it, and puts it away again_) an anonymous letter...? well, that's part of it.... amadeus explain to them, please, that there can be no talk of deceit where no lies have been told. tell them that cecilia's and my way of keeping faith with each other is probably a much better one than that practiced in so many other marriages, where both go their own ways all day long and have nothing in common but the night. you are a poet, are you not--and a student of the human soul? well, why don't you make all this clear to the people who refuse to understand? albert to convey all that would prove a rather complicated process. but if it means so much to you, i could make a play out of it. then they would have no trouble in comprehending this new kind of marriage--at least between the hours of eight-thirty and ten. amadeus are you so sure of that? albert absolutely. in a play i can make the case much clearer than it is presented by reality--without any of those superfluous, incidental side issues, which are so confusing in life. the main advantage is, however, that no spectators attend the entr'acts, so that i can do just what i please with you during those periods. and besides, i shall make you offer an analogy illuminating the whole case. amadeus an analogy, you say...? albert yes, analogies always have a very soothing effect. you will remark to a friend--or whoever may prove handy--something like this: "what do you want me to do anyhow? suppose that cecilia and i were living in a nice house, where we felt perfectly comfortable, and which had a splendid view that pleased us very much, and a wonderful garden where we liked to take walks together. and suppose that one of us should feel a desire sometime to pick strawberries in the woods beyond the fence. should that be a reason for the other one to raise a cry all at once about faithlessness, or disgrace, or betrayal? should that force us to sell the house and garden, or make us imagine that we could never more look out of the window together, or walk under our splendid trees? merely because our strawberries happened to be growing on the other side of the fence..." amadeus and you would make me say that? albert do you fear it's too brilliant for you?--oh, that wouldn't occur to anybody. trust me to fix it. in such a play i can do nothing whatever with your musical talent. you see, i can't let you conduct your symphony for the benefit of the public. and so i get both myself and you out of it by putting into your character a little more sense and energy and consistency.... amadeus than god has given me originally. albert well, it's not very hard to compete with him! amadeus i shall certainly be curious about one thing: how you mean to end that play. albert (_after a brief pause_) not very happily, my dear fellow. amadeus (_a little staggered_) why? albert it is characteristic of all transitional periods, that a conflict which might not exist to a later generation, must end tragically the moment a fairly decent person becomes involved in it. amadeus but there is no conflict. albert i shall not shirk the duty of inventing one. amadeus suppose you wait a little while yet...? perhaps life itself might.... albert my dear chap, i am not at all interested in what may be done with us by this ridiculous reality which has to get along without stage manager or prompter--this reality which frequently never gets to the fifth act, merely because the hero happens to be struck on the head by a brick in the second. i make the curtain rise when the plot takes a diverting turn, and i drop it the moment i have proved myself in the right. amadeus please, my dear fellow, don't forget when writing your play, to introduce a figure on which reality in this case has lavished much more care than on the hero--i mean, the fool. albert you can't insult me in that way. i have always regarded myself as closely akin to him. [_marie enters with little peter and the governess._ peter mamma is coming! marie the carriage has just stopped outside. governess it was impossible to make the boy stay in bed. albert and look at the fine flowers he has got! peter that's for mamma! amadeus (_takes a flower out of the bunch_) i hope you permit, sonny ... cecilia (_enters followed by the chambermaid_) good evening!--oh, are you here, too? that's awfully nice! peter mamma!--flowers! cecilia (_picks him up and kisses him_) my boy! my boy! (_then she shakes hands with the rest_) amadeus (_handing her the single flower_) peter let me have one, too. cecilia thanks. (_she shakes hands with him; then to the chambermaid_) get my things out of the carriage, please. the coachman will help you. he has been paid already. chambermaid (_goes out_) cecilia (_taking off her hat_) well, marie?... (_to the other two_) can it be possible that you have been working? albert we have tried. cecilia (_to the governess_) has he behaved like a little man? peter indeed i have! have you brought anything for me? cecilia of course. but you won't get it until to-morrow morning. peter why not? cecilia because i am too tired to unpack. to-morrow, when you wake up, you'll find it on your little table. peter what is it? cecilia you'll see by and by.... peter is my little table big enough for it? cecilia we'll hope so. amadeus (_who is leaning against the piano, keeps looking at her all the time_) cecilia (_pretends not to notice him_) albert you're looking splendid. cecilia i'm a little bit worn out. amadeus you must be hungry. cecilia not at all. we had something to eat in the dining car. almost everybody did. but i do want a cup of tea. (_to the governess_) will you see to it, please? amadeus let me have a cup, too, and please see that i get a few slices of cold meat. governess i have given orders for it already. (_she goes out_) cecilia have you really been waiting for me with the supper? amadeus no ... i haven't been waiting. i ... simply never thought of it. cecilia (_to albert and marie_) why don't you sit down? albert no, we are going, my dear cecilia. let me congratulate you with all my heart--that will be enough for to-day. marie you have celebrated regular triumphs, they say? cecilia well, it wasn't bad. (_to amadeus_) did you get my telegram? amadeus yes, it pleased me tremendously. cecilia think of it, children! after the performance i was commanded to appear in the box of his majesty! albert commanded...? invited, i hope you mean! neither emperor nor king has the right to command you. cecilia you old anarchist! but what does it matter? one goes to the box nevertheless. and you would have done that, too. albert why not? one must, if possible, study every form of existence at close quarters. amadeus and what did the emperor have to say? cecilia he was very complimentary. had never seen a better carmen. albert the very next thing he'll order an opera for you from some spaniard.[ ] [ ] this refers to a habit of emperor william's, from whom the italian composer, leoncavallo, among others, once received such an order. governess (_enters_) the tea will be here in a moment. amadeus now you must get back to bed, peter. it's late. governess (_wants to take the boy away_) peter no, mamma must take me to bed as when i was a little baby. cecilia come on then!--mercy me, how heavy you have grown. (_goes out with peter and the governess_) marie my, but she is pretty! amadeus haven't you discovered that before? albert well, good-by then! amadeus until to-morrow. i shall be expecting you early--between nine and ten. marie (_to amadeus as she is going out_) don't you regret having to leave her again at once? amadeus duty, my dear marie.... cecilia (_returning_) oh, are you really going?--good-by then--for a little while! [_albert and marie go out._ cecilia (_going to the fireplace_) home again! (_she sits down_) amadeus (_near the door and speaking rather shyly_) it's a question whether it can please you as much as it does me. cecilia (_holds out her hand to him_) amadeus (_takes her hand and kisses it; then he seats himself_) tell me all about it. cecilia what am i to tell? i haven't left anything untold--or hardly anything. amadeus well.... cecilia getting home every night--and it was quite late at times, as you know--i sat down and wrote to you. i wish you had been equally explicit. amadeus but i have written you every day, too. cecilia nevertheless, my dear, it seems to me you must have lots to add. (_with a laugh_) to many things you have referred in a strikingly casual fashion. amadeus i might say the same to you. cecilia no, you can't. my letters have practically been diaries. and that's more than could be said of yours.--well, amadeus...? without frankness the whole situation becomes meaningless, i should say. amadeus what is there to be cleared up? cecilia is it really all over with philine? amadeus that was all over--(_rising_) before you left. and you know it. i really don't think it's necessary to discuss bygone matters. cecilia will she be able to stay in the company, by the way--after this scandal in connection with your--pardon me!--predecessor? amadeus everything has been arranged, i hear. and she has even made up with her husband again. cecilia is that so?--that's rather unpleasant, don't you think? at bottom, it matters very little then to have the story all over. in the case of a man who has the disconcerting habit of not finding out certain things until months afterward.... amadeus it is better not to think of such things. cecilia has she any letters of yours? amadeus (_having thought for a moment_) only the one in which i bade her farewell. cecilia that might be enough. why haven't you demanded it back? amadeus how could i? cecilia how frivolous you are! yes, frivolous is just the word. (_putting her hand on his shoulder_) now it's possible to talk of a thing like this, amadeus. formerly you might have misunderstood such a remark--taking it for jealousy, or something like that.... but, really, i do hope you don't get mixed up in any more affairs of that kind. i don't like to be scared to death all the time on behalf of my best friend. there is nothing in the world i begrudge you--of that you may be sure. but getting killed for the sake of somebody else--that's carrying the joke a little too far! amadeus i promise you, that you'll no longer have to be scared to death on my behalf. cecilia i hope so. otherwise i must leave you to take care of yourself.--and seriously speaking, amadeus, i hope you don't forget that your life has been preserved for more sensible and more important things--that you have a lot more to do in this world. amadeus yes, that's what i feel. i don't think i have ever felt it so strongly in all my life. (_radiantly_) my symphony ... cecilia (_eagerly_) ... is done? amadeus it is, cecilia. and ... i didn't mean to tell you about it to-day, but it leaves me no peace.... cecilia well, what is it? amadeus the chorus in the final passage--you know the principal theme of it already--it is led and dominated by a soprano solo. and that solo has been written for you. cecilia my revered master! how proud your trust in me makes me! amadeus don't make fun of it, cecilia, i beg you. there is nobody in the world who can sing that solo like you.... that solo is yours--and only yours. while writing it, the ring of your voice was in my mind. next february, as soon as i get back, i shall have the symphony put on, and then you must sing that solo. cecilia next feb...? with pleasure, my dear amadeus--provided i am still here. amadeus why? cecilia oh, you haven't heard everything yet. after the performance last night the director had a talk with me. amadeus (_disturbed_) well?!--there was a hint in the telegram about brilliant conditions.... but, of course, they could only refer to the next season? cecilia if i can break away from here, they want me in berlin from the beginning of the year. amadeus but you can't break away! cecilia oh, if i really want to. the director does not care to enforce the contract. amadeus but you don't want to, cecilia! cecilia that's a matter for careful consideration. i shall be doing a great deal better there. amadeus beginning next fall, i shall--probably be free. you might wait that long, i should think. then we could make the move together. but.... cecilia it doesn't have to be settled to-day, amadeus. to-morrow we shall have time to discuss the whole matter thoroughly. really, i am not in a condition to do so to-night. amadeus you are tired...? cecilia of course, you must understand that. in fact, i should very much prefer.... (_she looks in direction of the door leading to her own room_) chambermaid (_brings in the tea tray and puts it on a small table_) cecilia oh, that's right!--may i pour you a cup, too? amadeus if you please. cecilia (_pours the tea; to the chambermaid_) open one of the windows a little, will you. there's such a lot of cigarette smoke in here. chambermaid (_opens the window at the right_) amadeus won't it be too cold for you? cecilia cold? it has turned very warm again. amadeus and how did last night's performance go otherwise? cecilia very well. wedius in particular proved himself inimitable again. amadeus you have mentioned him several times in your letters. cecilia you know him since your dresden period, don't you? amadeus yes. he has great gifts. cecilia he thinks a great deal of you, too. amadeus i'm pleased to hear it. chambermaid (_goes out_) amadeus (_helping himself to the cold meat_) can i help you to some? cecilia no, thanks. i have had all i want. amadeus yes, you have had your supper already--all of you, or "everybody," as you put it a while ago. cecilia (_ingenuously_) i had my supper with sigismund. amadeus was he in berlin all the time? cecilia he got there two days after me, as i told you in my letters. amadeus of course--you have told me everything. once he accompanied you to the national gallery. cecilia he also took me to see the pergamene marbles.[ ] [ ] a large collection of art works and other antiquities, recovered by excavations on the site of the ancient city of pergamon in asia minor, are kept in the pergamene museum, berlin. amadeus (_facetiously_) you're doing a lot for his general education, i must say.--but i should like to know by what fraud sigismund got himself into that reception of the director's. cecilia by what fraud? amadeus well, you wrote me that he created a regular sensation with those waltzes of his. cecilia so he did. but he didn't have to use fraud to get in. being a nephew of the baroness, there was no reason why he should resort to such methods. amadeus oh, yes, i didn't remember that. cecilia and by the way, the director asked very eagerly about you. amadeus he thinks a great deal of me.... cecilia (_with a smile_) yes, he really does. the moment your new opera is ready.... amadeus and so on! (_he goes on eating_) it surprises me, however, that he should ask you about me. cecilia why does that surprise you? amadeus (_as if meaning no offense_) well, it rather surprises me that he should connect our respective personalities to that extent. hasn't berlin heard yet that we are going to be divorced? cecilia why ... what does that mean? amadeus (_laughing_) rumors to that effect are afloat. cecilia what? well, i declare! amadeus yes, it's incredible what the popular gossip can invent. it's even in the newspapers. his highness the prince sigismund maradas-lohsenstein is going to lead you to the altar. the necessary dispensation will be furnished by the pope. idiotic--isn't it? cecilia yes.--but, my dear, you say nothing about what is still more idiotic. amadeus and what can that be? cecilia that you are on the verge of believing this piece of idiocy. amadeus i...? how can you.... oh, no! cecilia you haven't considered, for instance, that i am three years older than he. amadeus (_startled_) well, if it's nothing but those three years of difference in.... cecilia no, it isn't that. no, indeed! even if i were younger than he, i should never think of it. amadeus but if his devotion should prove more deeply rooted than you have supposed so far? cecilia not even then. amadeus why? cecilia why...? i know that it couldn't last forever anyhow. amadeus have you the end in mind already? cecilia i am not saying that i have it in mind.... but i don't doubt it must come, as it always comes. amadeus and then...? cecilia (_shrugs her shoulders_) amadeus and then? cecilia how could i know, amadeus? there are prospects of so many kinds. amadeus (_cowering a moment before those words_) yes, that's true. life is full of prospects. everywhere, wherever you turn, there are temptations and promises--when you have determined to be free, and to take life lightly, as we have done.... that's what you meant, was it not? cecilia yes, precisely. amadeus tell me, cecilia.... (_he draws closer to her_) there is one thing i should like to know--whether sigismund has any idea that your mind is harboring such thoughts--which, after all, would appear rather weird to the other party concerned. cecilia sigismund...? how can you imagine?! such things you admit only to your friends. (_she gives her hand to him_) amadeus (_in the same friendly manner_) but if he should notice anything ... although i think it very improbable that he is the kind of man who would.... but let us suppose that he concluded from various signs that some such thoughts were passing through your head--would you deny them, if he asked you? cecilia i believe myself capable of it. amadeus (_with a shrinking_) oh.... let me tell you, cecilia.... you are having something definite in mind.... yes, i am sure of it.... it's a question of some definite prospect. cecilia (_smiling_) that might be possible. amadeus what has happened, cecilia? cecilia nothing. amadeus then there is danger in the air. cecilia danger...? what could that mean to us? to him who has no obligations there can be no cause for fear. amadeus (_taking her lightly by the arm_) stop playing with words! i can see through the whole thing just the same.--i know! it has been brought home to me by a number of passages in your letters--although they ceased long ago to have the frankness due to our friendship. that new prospect is wedius! cecilia in what respect did my letters fail to be frank? didn't i write you immediately after the "onyegin" performance, that there was something fascinating about his personality? amadeus so you have said before, of many people. but there was never any such prospect implied in it. cecilia everything begins to take on new meanings when you are free. amadeus you are not telling me everything.... what has happened? cecilia nothing has happened, but (_with sudden decision_) if i had stayed ... who knows.... amadeus (_seems to shrink back again; then he walks to and fro; finally he remains standing in the background, near one of the windows_) poor sigismund! cecilia why pity him? he knows nothing about it. amadeus (_resuming his superior tone_) is that what draws you to berlin? cecilia no!... indeed, no! the spell has been broken ... it seems.... amadeus and yet you talk of going about new year.... cecilia (_rising_) my dear amadeus, i am really too tired to discuss that matter to-day. now i shall say good-night to you. it is quite late. (_she holds out her hand to him_) amadeus (_faltering_) good-night, cecilia!... (_he clings to her hand_) you have been gone three weeks. i shall leave early the day after to-morrow--and when _i_ return, you will be gone, i suppose.... there can't be so very much to your friendship, if you won't stay and talk a while with me under such circumstances. cecilia what's the use of being sentimental? leave-takings are familiar things to us. amadeus that's true. but nevertheless this will be a new kind of leave-taking, and a new kind of home-coming also. cecilia well, seeing that it had to turn out this way.... amadeus but neither of us ever imagined that it would turn out this way. cecilia oh? amadeus no, cecilia, we did _not_ imagine it. the remarkable thing has been that we retained our faith in each other in the midst of all doubts, and that, even when away from each other, we used to feel calm and confident far beyond what was safe, i suppose. but it was splendid. separation itself used to have a sort of charm of its own--_formerly_. cecilia naturally. it isn't possible to love in that undisturbed fashion except when you are miles apart. amadeus you may be able to make fun of it to-day, cecilia, but there will never again be anything like it--neither for you nor for me. you can be sure of that. cecilia i know that as well as you do.--but why should you all at once begin to talk as if, somehow, everything would be over between us two, and as if the best part of our life had been irretrievably lost? that's not the case, after all. it cannot possibly be the case. both of us know that we remain the same as before--don't we--and that everything else that has happened to us, or may happen to us, can be of no particular importance.... and even if it should become important, we shall always be able to join hands, no matter what chasms open between us. amadeus you speak very sensibly, as usual. cecilia if you seduce ladies by the dozen, and if gentlemen shoot each other dead for my sake--as they do for the sake of countess philine--what has that to do with our friendship? amadeus that's beyond contradiction. nevertheless, i hadn't expected--in fact, i think it nothing less than admirable--your ability to adjust yourself to everything--your way of remaining perfectly calm in the midst of any new experiences or expectations. cecilia calm...? here i am ... by our fireplace ... taking tea in your company. here i can and shall always be calm. that's the significance of our whole life in common. whatever may be my destiny in the world at large will slip off me when i enter here. all the storms are on the outside. amadeus that's more than you can be sure of, cecilia. things might happen that would weigh more heavily on you than you can imagine at this moment. cecilia i shall always have the strength to throw off things according to my will before i come to you. and if that strength should ever fail me, i shall come to the door and no farther. amadeus oh, no, you mustn't! that would not be in keeping with our agreement. it is just when life grows heavy that i'll be here to help you bear it. cecilia who knows whether you will always be ready to do so? amadeus always--on my oath! no matter what befall you, whether it be sad or wretched, you can always find refuge and sympathy with me. but with all my heart i wish you may be spared most of those things. cecilia that i be spared...? no, amadeus, a wish like that i can't accept. hitherto--i have lived so little hitherto. and i am longing for it. i long for all that's sad and sweet in life, for all that's beautiful and all that's pitiful. i long for storms, for perils--for worse than that, perhaps. amadeus no, cecilia, that's nothing but imagination! cecilia oh, no! amadeus certainly, cecilia. you don't know very much as yet, and you imagine many things simpler and cleaner than they are. but there are things you couldn't stand, and others of which you are not capable.--i know you, cecilia. cecilia you know me?--you know only what i have been to you--what i have been as your beloved and your wife. and as you used to mean the whole world to me--as all my longing, all my tenderness, was bounded by you--we could never guess in those days what might prove my destiny when the real world was thrown open to me.--even to-day, amadeus, i am no longer the same as before.... or perhaps i have always been the same as i am now, but didn't know it merely. and something has fallen away, that used to cover me up in the past.... yes, that's it: for now i can feel all those desires that used to pass me by as if deflected by a cuirass of insensibility.... now i can feel how they touch my body and my soul, filling me with qualms and passions. the earth seems full of adventure. the sky seems radiant with flames. and it is as if i could see myself stand waiting with wide-open arms. amadeus (_as if calling to somebody in flight_) cecilia! cecilia what is the matter? amadeus nothing.... the words you speak cannot estrange me after all that i have learned already. but there is a new ring in your voice that i have never heard until to-day. nor have i ever seen that light in your eyes until to-day. cecilia that's what you imagine, amadeus. if that were really the case, then i should feel the same in regard to you. but i can see no difference in you at all. and i can't imagine how you possibly could come to seem different. to other women you may appear a mischiefmaker--or a silly youth--which has probably happened many times: but to me you will always remain the same as ever. and i have a feeling that, in the last instance, nothing can ever happen to the amadeus i am thinking of. amadeus if i could only feel the same--in regard to you! but such assurance is not mine. the recklessness and greed with which you make your way into an unknown world are filling me with outright fear on your behalf. the idea that there are people who know as little of you as you of them at this moment, and to whom you are going to belong... cecilia i shall belong to nobody ... now, that i am free ... amadeus ... who are part of your destiny already, as you of theirs ... it seems to me uncanny. and you are no more the cecilia i used to love--no! you resemble closely one who was very dear to me, and yet you are not at all the same as she. no, you are not the woman that was my wife for years. i could feel it the moment you entered the place.... the connection between the young girl who sank into my arms one evening seven years ago and the woman who has just returned from abroad to dwell for a brief while in this house seems quite mysterious. for seven years i have been living with another woman--with a quiet, kindly woman--with a sort of angel perhaps, who has now disappeared. she who came to-day has a voice that i have never heard, a look that i am foreign to, a beauty that is strange to me--a beauty not surpassing what the other had, except in being more cruel possibly--and yet a beauty that should confer much greater happiness, i think. cecilia don't look at me like that!... don't talk to me like that!... that's not the way to talk to a friend! don't forget i am no more the one i used to be. when you talk to me like that, amadeus, it is as if here, too, i should be fanned by those cajoling breaths that nowadays so often touch me like caresses--breaths that make life seem incredibly light, and that make you feel ready for so much that formerly would have appeared incomprehensible. amadeus if you could guess, cecilia, how your words hurt me and excite me at the same time! cecilia (_brusquely_) you must not talk like that, amadeus. i don't want it. be sensible, for my sake as well as your own. good-night. amadeus are you going, cecilia? cecilia yes. and bear in mind that we are friends and want to remain such. amadeus bear in mind that we have always wanted to be _honest_. and it is not honest--either for you or me--to say that we stand face to face as friends in this moment.... cecilia--the _one_ thing i can feel at this moment is that you are beautiful ... beautiful as you have never been before! cecilia amadeus, amadeus, are you forgetting all that has happened? amadeus i could forget it--and so could you. cecilia oh, i remember--i remember! (_she wants to leave_) amadeus stay, cecilia, stay! the day after to-morrow i shall be gone--stay! cecilia please don't speak to me like that! i am no longer what i used to be--no longer proud, or calm, or good. who knows how little might be needed to make me the victim of a certain unscrupulous seducer! amadeus cecilia! cecilia have you so many friends to lose? one is all i have.--good-night. (_she tries to get away_) amadeus (_seizing her by the hand_) cecilia, we have long ago bidden each other good-by as man and wife--but we have also made up our minds to take life lightly, to be free, and to lay hold of every happiness that comes within our reach. should we be mad enough, or cowardly enough, to shrink from the highest happiness ever offered us...? cecilia and what would it lead to ... my friend? amadeus don't call me that! i love you and i hate you, but in this moment i am not your friend. what you have been to me--wife, comrade ... what do i care! to-day i want to be--your lover! cecilia you mustn't...! you can't ... no.... amadeus not your lover then ... but what is both worse and better ... the man who takes you away from another one--the one with whom you are betraying someone else--the one who means to you both bliss and sin at once! cecilia let me loose, amadeus. amadeus no more beautiful adventure will ever blossom by the wayside for either one of us, cecilia, as long as we may live! cecilia and none more dangerous, amadeus! amadeus wasn't that what you were longing for...? cecilia good-night, amadeus. amadeus cecilia! (_he holds her fast and draws her closer to himself_) curtain the third act _the same room. it is the morning of the following day. the stage is empty at first. then amadeus enters from his room at the left. he wears a dressing-gown, but is otherwise fully dressed. he passes slowly and pensively across the room to the writing desk, from which he picks up the waiting pile of letters. then he puts the letters down again. he feels chilly, looks around, notices that a window is open, and goes to close it. then he stands listening for a while at the door to cecilia's room. finally he returns to the writing desk and begins to pull out manuscripts from its drawers._ amadeus let's get things in order.... i wonder how this is going to turn out?--i'll write her from some place along my route. i shall never come back here any more.... i couldn't stand it ... no, i couldn't! (_holding a manuscript in his hand_) the solo--her solo! well, i shall not be present to hear her sing it. chambermaid (_entering_) the men are here to take away the trunk. here's the check from the expressman. amadeus all right. tell them to use the back stairs in taking out the things. chambermaid (_goes out_) amadeus ... when i say good-by to-morrow, she won't guess it is forever.... and the boy ... the boy...? (_he walks back and forth_) ... but it has to be. (_abruptly_) i'll leave this very evening--not to-morrow. yes, this very evening. (_he begins to pile up sheet music_) i'll have a talk with the director. if he says no, i'll simply break away. i won't come back here. (_he goes to cecilia's door again_) i suppose she's still asleep. (_he comes forward and sits down on the couch, leaning his head in his hands_) we have to take lunch together, and she won't guess that it is for the last time.... she won't guess.... and why not? let her find out ... right now ... i am going to have it out with her. yes, indeed. (_rising_) one can't write a thing of that kind. i'll tell her everything. i'll tell her that i can't bear it--that it drives me crazy to think of the other fellow. and she'll understand. and even if she should plead with me to forgive her ... even if she ... oh! (_he goes to her door_) i must tell her at once.... oh, i feel like choking her!... cecilia! (_he knocks at her door, but gets no answer_) what does that mean? (_he goes into her room_) she's gone! (_he stays away for about half a minute and comes back by way of the door leading to the garden; then he rings_) where can she.... chambermaid (_enters_) amadeus (_with pretended unconcern_) has my wife gone out? chambermaid yes, sir--quite a while ago. amadeus oh...? chambermaid it must be nearly two hours now. she said she would be back about one o'clock. amadeus all right. thank you. chambermaid can i bring in your breakfast now, sir? amadeus oh, yes--i had almost forgotten. and a cup of tea, please. chambermaid (_goes out_) amadeus (_alone_) gone!... well, there is nothing peculiar in that.... probably to the opera.... but why didn't she tell me...? (_he cowers suddenly_) to him...? no, that couldn't be possible! oh, no!... and why not?... a woman like her.... there is nothing to keep her from going to him.... (_with a threatening gesture_) if i only had him here!... (_with sudden inspiration_) but that's what i might ... that would be.... to confront him--that's it! to stand face to face with him!... thus more than one thing might be straightened out.... no, she is not with him.... where did i get that idea?... that's all over!... but that's what i'll do!... either i or he!... many things might then ... everything might then be set right.... he or i!... but to live on like this, while he ... i'll go to albert. it must be done this very day! (_he disappears into his own room_) albert (_enters_) chambermaid (_follows him, carrying the breakfast tray_) i'll tell the master at once, sir. (_she puts the tray on a small table and goes out to the left_) albert (_picks up a moon-shaped roll from the tray and begins to nibble at one of its tips_) amadeus (_enters, having changed his dressing-gown for a coat_) chambermaid (_follows him, passes quickly across the room and goes out_) amadeus oh, there you are! albert yes. i'm not too early, i hope? are you ready? i want to read you the third act. (_he takes some papers from his overcoat pocket_) you know the setting, of course--the park, the villa, the plane tree. but first of all i must tell you something. do you remember mr. von rabagas, with whom my wife fell in love? i have retouched him slightly. he's going to be cross-eyed. and now i am curious to see what marie's attitude will be toward him. amadeus (_nervously_) all right--later. for the moment there are more important things. albert more important...? amadeus yes, i want you to do me a great service ... a service that will brook no delay. you have to act as my second. albert (_rising_) your...? twaddle! you'll simply refuse the challenge! you're not going to let yourself be killed for the sake of madame philine--oh, no! amadeus it is not a question of philine. and i have not been challenged. i shall issue the challenge. and for that reason i want you to look up our friend winter at once, and then i must trouble both of you to call on prince sigismund, and tell him.... albert (_interrupting him and breaking into laughter_) oh, prince sigismund!--thank you ever so much! amadeus (_surprised_) what's the matter with you? albert how obliging! you mean to present me with an ending for the play we concocted yesterday. thanks. but it's too banal for me--nobody would take any stock in it. i have thought of something much better. you are to be poisoned--yes, sir. and can you guess by whom?--by a brand-new character--one of the secret lovers of your wife. amadeus (_furiously_) it doesn't interest me in the least. stop it, please! i'm not making up endings for your fool comedies! this is real life ... we are right in the midst of it! albert you don't mean...?! well, if i have to stand this unseemly and ridiculous interruption ... what do you want of me anyhow? amadeus haven't you understood? the two of you are to challenge prince sigismund on my behalf. albert prince sigismund ... on your behalf.... (_he bursts into laughter_) amadeus you seem to think it very funny, but i assure you.... albert the point is not that you seem funny to _me_. it's probably balanced by the fact that a lot of people who have thought you funny until now, will all of a sudden think you very sensible ... though they ought to ask themselves, if they had a little logic: why should mr. amadeus adams become jealous on this particular day?... up to the twenty-third of october he was not, and all at once, on the twenty-third, he is.... amadeus a lot of things have changed since yesterday. albert have changed...? since yesterday...? well, i declare! amadeus (_after a pause_) so that you didn't believe it either? albert to confess the truth--no. amadeus which means that i am living among a lot of people who.... albert will be in the right ultimately. why should that arouse your indignation? if we were to live long enough, every lie that's floating about would probably become true. listen to those who belie you, and you will know the truth about yourself. gossip knows very rarely what we are doing, but almost always whither we are drifting. amadeus _we_ didn't know we were drifting this way--that much you will admit, i hope. albert and yet it had to come. friendship between two people of different sexes is always dangerous--even when they are married. if there is too much mutual understanding between our souls, many things are swept along that we would rather keep back; and when our senses are attracted mutually, the suction affects much more of our souls than we would care to have involved. that's a universal law, my dear chap, for which the profound uncertainty of all earthly relations between man and woman must be held responsible. and only he who doesn't know it, will trust himself or anybody else.--if you don't mind? (_he begins to butter one of the rolls_) amadeus so you think you understand...? albert of course! that's my specialty, don't you know? amadeus well, if you understand what has happened, and understand it must have happened--then you will also understand that i must face the logical consequences. albert logical consequences...? here i am talking wisdom, and you clamor for nonsense. and that's what you call logical consequences?... my opinion is rather, that you are about to behave like a perfect fool. anybody else might do what you now propose: you are the only one who mustn't. for when you propose such a thing, it becomes illogical, ungenerous, not to say dishonest. you want to call a man to account for something which, as he sees it, has been declared explicitly permissible.... in his place i should laugh in your face. if anybody has the right to be indignant here, and to demand an account, it is the prince himself, and nobody else--as he has not deceived you, but you him. amadeus well, that's all one, as he undoubtedly will demand an account. albert to do so, he must know. amadeus i'll see to that. albert you mean to tell him? amadeus if you hold it the shortest road to what i have in mind...? albert there's a man of honor for you! and is that the discretion you owe the woman you love, do you think? amadeus call me illogical, ungenerous, indiscreet--anything you please! i can't help myself! i love cecilia--do you hear? and i want to go on living with her. but i can't do so until some sort of amends have been made for the past--in my own eyes, in hers, and--i confess it--in the eyes of the world. sigismund and i must meet, man to man--nothing else can end my trouble. albert and how can it make the slightest difference that you two shoot off your guns in the air? amadeus one of us must out of the way, albert!... won't you understand at last? albert now, my dear chap, that's carrying it a little too far! all the time i have thought you were talking of a duel--and now i find that you are after his life! amadeus later on you may feel sorry that you could not refrain from inept jesting in a moment like this even. the case is urgent, albert. please make up your mind. albert and suppose he should refuse? amadeus he is a nobleman. albert he is religious. his father is one of the leaders of the clerical party in the upper house and a vice-president of the society for the prevention of dueling. amadeus well, such things are not inherited. and if he won't, i shall know how to make him. there's no other way out of it. there can be no other alternative, if i am to go on living--with or without her. that will set everything right, but nothing else will. it's the one thing that can clear the air about us. until it is over, we dare not belong to each other again or--be happy. albert i hope cecilia won't insist on killing off philine and a few others. that would be just as sensible, but would complicate the situation a great deal. amadeus won't you go, please! albert yes, i am going.... and how about our opera? amadeus oh, we'll have plenty of time to talk of that. however, just to reassure you--all that is finished lies here in the second drawer, everything properly arranged. albert and who is to compose the third act? amadeus it can be given as a fragment, with some kind of ballet as a filler. albert right you are! something like "harlequin as electrician," or "forget-me-not." (_he goes out_) amadeus (_remains alone for a while; at first he seems to ponder on something; then he returns to the writing desk and falls to work on his papers; a knock is heard at the door leading to the garden_) what is it? peter (_outside_) it's me, papa. can i come in? amadeus certainly, peter. come on. governess (_entering with peter_) good morning. amadeus good morning. (_he kisses peter_) is it not a little too cold for him out there? governess he's very warmly dressed, and besides the sun is shining beautifully. peter papa, have you seen what mamma brought me? amadeus what is it? peter a theater--a big theater! amadeus is that so? and you have got it already? peter of course. it's over there in the summer-house. would you care to look at it? amadeus (_glances inquiringly at the governess_) governess madame brought it to our room quite early, while peter was still asleep. amadeus i see. peter i can play theater already. there is a king, and a peasant, and a bride, and a devil--one that's all red--almost as red as the king himself. and in the back there is a mill, and a sky, and a forest, and a hunter.... won't you come and look at it, papa? amadeus (_seated on the couch, with the boy standing between his knees; speaking absentmindedly_) of course i must come and look at it. chambermaid (_entering_) sir.... amadeus what is it? chambermaid his highness asks if you'll see him. amadeus what highness? chambermaid his highness, the prince lohsenstein. amadeus (_rising_) what? governess come, peter--we'll go back and play in the summer-house. (_she goes out with peter_) amadeus (_with dignity_) tell the prince.... (_turning away from her_) one moment, please. (_to himself_) what can that mean...? (_abruptly_) ask him to come in. chambermaid (_goes out_) amadeus (_walks quickly to and fro, but stops at some distance from the door when sigismund enters_) sigismund (_is slender, blonde, twenty-six, elegantly dressed, but appears in no respect foppish; he bows to amadeus_) good-morning. amadeus (_takes a few steps forward to meet him and nods politely_) sigismund (_looks around a little shyly, but wholly free from any ridiculous embarrassment; his manner is in every respect dignified; there is a slight smile on his face_) we have not seen each other for some time, and you'll probably assume that my visit to-day has a special reason. amadeus naturally. (_pointing to a chair_) please. sigismund thank you. (_he comes nearer, but remains standing_) i have decided to take this step--which has not come easy to me, i can assure you--because i find the situation in which we ... in which all of us have been placed, untenable and, in a certain sense, ridiculous ... and because i think that, in one way or another, it should be brought to an end. the sole object of my visit is to put before you a proposition. amadeus i'm listening. sigismund i don't want to waste any words. my proposition is that you get a divorce from your wife. amadeus (_shrinks back for a moment, staring at sigismund; then, after a pause he says calmly_) you wish to marry cecilia? sigismund there is nothing i wish more eagerly. amadeus and what is the attitude of cecilia toward your intentions? sigismund not encouraging so far. amadeus (_puzzled_) cecilia is absolutely in a position to decide for herself. and of course, she would also have the right to leave me--whenever and howsoever it might please her to do so. for that reason you must pardon me if i find the object of your visit incomprehensible, to say the least. sigismund you'll soon find it comprehensible, i think. the discouraging attitude of mrs. adams-ortenburg proves nothing at all in this connection, i must say. as long as mrs. adams-ortenburg has not been set free by you--even if that be done against her own will--she is, in a sense, bound to you. to get this matter fully cleared up, it seems to me necessary that you yourself, my dear master, insist on a divorce. mrs. adams-ortenburg will not be in a position to choose freely until she has been divorced from you. until then the struggle between us two will not be on equal terms--as, i trust, you would like to have it. amadeus there can be no talk of any struggle here. you misunderstand the actual state of affairs in a manner that seems to me incomprehensible. for i have no right to suppose that cecilia has made any secret of the more deep-lying reasons that have so far prevented us from considering a dissolution of our marriage. sigismund certainly, i am aware of those reasons, but to me they don't by any means seem sufficiently pressing--not even from your own viewpoint--to exclude all thought of a divorce. and i am anxious to assure you that, under all circumstances, i shall feel bound to treat those reasons with the most profound respect. amadeus what do you mean? sigismund you know, my dear master, that the reverence i have for your art, even if i am not always capable of grasping it, equals the admiration i feel for the singing of mrs. adams-ortenburg. i know how much you two mutually owe to each other, and how you--if i may say so--complement each other musically. and it would never occur to me to put any difficulties whatsoever in the way of your continued artistic relationship. i am equally aware of the tenderness with which you regard your child--for whom, by the way, as you probably know, i have a great deal of devotion--and i can give you my word that the doors leading to the quarters of little peter will always stand open to you. amadeus in other words, you would have no objection to seeing the former husband of your--of the wife--of the princess lohsenstein, admitted to your house as a friend? sigismund any such objection would be regarded by me as an insult to your--to my--to mrs. cecilia adams-ortenburg, as well as to you, my dear master. with those provisions made, the new arrangement, which i am taking the liberty to suggest, would be more sensible and--if you'll allow me a frank expression--more decent than the one to which all of us now have to submit. i am convinced, my dear master, that, when you have had chance to consider the matter calmly, you will not only agree with me, but you will be surprised that this simple solution of an unbearable situation has not occurred to yourself long ago. as for me, i want to add that, to me personally, this solution seems the only possible one. yes, i don't hesitate to say that i would leave the city, without hope of ever seeing mrs. cecilia again, rather than keep on compromising her in a manner that must be equally painful to all of us. amadeus oh, has it come to that all at once? well, if the matter doesn't trouble cecilia or me, i think _you_ might well regard it with indifference. i hope you know that we have arranged our life to suit ourselves, without the least regard for popular gossip, and that i don't care at all whether or no cecilia be compromised--as you call it. sigismund i know you don't. but i feel differently. a lady to whom i'm so devoted, and whom i respect so highly that i would lead her to the altar, must appear spotless to god and man alike. amadeus you might have kept that in mind before. your previous behavior has given no indication of such a view. you have been waiting for my wife in the immediate vicinity of the opera; you have been walking with her for hours at a time; you have visited her in the country; you have followed her to berlin and come back here in her company.... sigismund (_surprised_) but it was in your power to stop all those things, if they didn't suit you.... amadeus stop them ... because they didn't suit...? what has that to do with what i am talking of?--i am not the person who has found this situation unbearable and compromising. sigismund oh, i understand. considering, however, that you have placed such emphasis on your indifference to popular gossip, i must say that your tone sounds pretty excited. but permit me to assure you that this impresses me rather pleasantly. bear in mind that i am merely human. what young man in my place would have refrained from meeting the adored one, when everything was rendered so easy for him? and nevertheless i didn't visit the pustertal or make the tour to berlin without an inward struggle--in fact, i have often had to struggle with myself while waiting for her near the opera. and i cannot tell you how i have suffered under the searching glances directed at mrs. adams-ortenburg and myself when we were having supper together after one of the berlin performances, for instance, or when we went for an afternoon drive in the tiergarten.[ ] not to speak of the painful impression my aunt's remarks made on me when i called to bid her good-by! really, i can't find words to express it. [ ] a large park in the center of berlin, corresponding to the central park of new york or the hyde park of london. amadeus how much longer do you mean to keep up this remarkable comedy, my dear prince? sigismund (_drawing back_) do you mean.... amadeus what in the world makes you appear before me in a part which i don't know whether to call tasteless or foolhardy? sigismund sir!... oh...! you think.... i see now.... and you imagine that i would have crossed your threshold again under such circumstances? amadeus why should _that_ particular thing not be imagined? sigismund later on we shall get back to what you think of me. but a third person is concerned in this matter, and i am not going to stand.... amadeus may i ask whether you have been equally angry with everyone who has dared to question the virtue of mrs. adams-ortenburg? sigismund you are at least the first one who has dared to question it to my face, and the last one who may dare to do so unpunished. amadeus do you think the punishment threatening the impertinent one in your mind will be apt to restore the reputation of cecilia? do you think it would put an end to the gossip if you, of all people, tried to champion the honor of mrs. adams-ortenburg? sigismund who could, if not i? amadeus if it is _not_ a comedy you are now playing, then you haven't the right even! sigismund do you mean to say that cecilia is the only woman in the world who must stand unprotected against _any_ slander? amadeus if you are telling the truth, prince sigismund, then there is only one person in the world who has the right to protect cecilia, and that person am i. sigismund considering what has happened, i have excellent reason to think that you will neither avail yourself of that right nor fulfill that duty. amadeus you are mistaken. and if you will take the trouble of returning home, you will soon be convinced of your mistake. sigismund what do you mean? amadeus i mean simply that two of my friends are now on their way to your house on my behalf.... sigismund well...? amadeus to demand reparation for what ... (_looking sigismund straight in the eye_) i believed you guilty of. sigismund (_takes a step back; a pause ensues during which they stare hard at each other_) you have challenged.... (_reaching out his hand_) that's fine! amadeus (_does not accept the proffered hand_) sigismund but it's splendid! i can assure you that the whole matter now assumes quite a different aspect. and, of course, i shall be at your disposal just the same, if you insist. amadeus (_draws a deep breath, looks long at sigismund, and shakes his head at last_) no, i won't any longer. (_he shakes hands with him, and then begins walking to and fro, muttering to himself_) cecilia.... cecilia...! (_returning to sigismund and addressing him in a totally different tone_) won't you please be seated, sigismund? sigismund no, thank you. amadeus (_feeling repelled and suspicious again_) just as you please. sigismund don't misunderstand me, please. but i suppose this ends our conference, my dear master. (_looking around_) and yet i must admit that your rude treatment has made me feel a great deal more at ease. isn't that strange? and in spite of the fact that, after this unexpected turn, my hopes must be held practically--i beg your pardon!--completely disposed of.... in spite of this i feel actually in much better spirits than i have done for a long time. even if i am not to have the happiness of which i have foolishly dared to dream so long.... amadeus was it so very foolish? sigismund (_good-humoredly_) oh, yes. but this is at least an acceptable conclusion. (_shaking his head_) it seems queer! if i hadn't come here at this very moment, you might never have learned--you might never have believed--might have believed that cecilia.... and one of us might perhaps--must perhaps have.... (_he makes a gesture to complete the sentence_) amadeus it was indeed a strange coincidence that made you choose this particular moment.... sigismund coincidence, you say? oh, no, there are no coincidences--as you will discover sooner or later. (_pause_) well, good-by then, and give my regards to mrs. ... adams ... amadeus you can safely call her cecilia. sigismund ... and tell her, please, that she mustn't be angry with me for having taken such a step without her knowledge. of course, my going away won't surprise her. when leaving her yesterday, i told her that i couldn't continue this kind of existence. amadeus and she...? what did she say? sigismund (_hesitatingly_) she.... amadeus (_excited again_) she tried to keep you here...? sigismund yes. amadeus so that after all...! sigismund now she won't try any longer, my dear master. (_with a wistful smile_) i have served my purpose. amadeus what do you mean? sigismund oh, i can see now why she needed me--of course, you were not at all aware of it! amadeus why did she need you? sigismund simply and solely as a means of winning you back. amadeus what makes you think...? sigismund what...? that she has succeeded. amadeus no, sigismund--she hadn't lost me--in spite of all that had happened. in fact, i feel as if i had rather lost her than she--me. sigismund that's awfully kind of you. but now--god be with you! amadeus (_with something like emotion_) and when shall we see you again? sigismund i don't know. perhaps never.---please don't imagine that i might take my own life. i shall get over it, being still young.--oh, my dear master, if things could only become what they used to be, so that i could sit here at the fireplace while cecilia was singing--or hammer away at the piano after supper...! amadeus don't be quite so modest, please! the fame of your piano playing has reached berlin even, i hear. sigismund so she has told you that, too?!--but you see, dear master, all that can never come back--we could no longer feel at ease with each other.... so--never to meet again! amadeus never.... why? perhaps i shall see you very soon alone. i am also--going away. sigismund i know. we were talking of it yesterday, in the dining car. you are to conduct your--number-which-one is it now? amadeus the fourth. sigismund so you have got that far already?--and where are you going anyhow? amadeus to the rhine district first of all; then by way of munich to italy--venice, milan, rome. sigismund rome...? there we may possibly meet. but you'll have to pardon me for not coming to your concerts. so far i have not been able to understand your symphonies.... but i am sure i shall sometime! one does grow more and more clever, and sorrow and experiences in particular have a maturing influence.... "now he's making fun of it," i suppose you are thinking. but, really, i am not in a very humorous mood. farewell, my dear master--and my most respectful compliments to your wife. (_he goes out_) amadeus (_walks back and forth; takes a few deep breaths, as if relieved; goes out into the garden; returns; sits down at the piano and plays a few improvisations; gets up and goes to the writing desk, where he begins to look for something among the papers_) where's that solo? ... she's going to sing it, and i shall be present...! (_he seats himself at the piano again, apparently in a very happy mood_) cecilia!... cecilia! cecilia (_enters_) amadeus (_rising_) ah, there you are at last, cecilia! cecelia (_very calmly_) good-morning, amadeus. amadeus a little late. cecilia (_smiling_) yes. (_she takes off her hat and goes to the mirror to arrange her hair_) amadeus what made you get out so early? cecilia various things i had to attend to. amadeus and may one ask...? cecilia one may.--look here, what i have got for you. (_she takes a letter from a small bag_) amadeus what's that? (_he takes it_) what...? my letter to philine...! did you go to her, cecilia? cecilia well, i felt a little nervous about it. now i think it was rather silly of me. amadeus and how...? cecilia oh, the simplest thing in the world! i asked her for it, and she gave it to me. it was lying in an open drawer in her writing desk--with others. i think you can call yourself lucky. amadeus cecilia! (_he tears the letter to pieces and throws these into the fireplace_) cecilia well, you would never have made up your mind to demand it of her, and that would have kept me in a state of irritation. i can't have anything like that on my mind when i want to work.--and now that's settled. (_she turns away_) then i went to the opera, too. i have had a talk with the director. he's going to indorse my request to be set free. amadeus your request to be set free...? cecilia yes, i shall go to berlin on the first of january. amadeus but, cecilia, we haven't talked it over yet.... cecilia what's the use of postponing a thing that's already settled in my own mind?--you know i never like to do that. amadeus but it means a whole year of separation! cecilia to start with. but i think it might be just as well to prepare ourselves for a still longer period. amadeus do you mean to leave me, cecilia?! cecilia what else can i do, amadeus? that ought to be as clear to you as it is to me. amadeus so it would have been a little while ago, cecilia. but i have come to see our future in a different light.... cecilia ... sigismund has been here! cecilia sigismund?!... you have talked with him?... what did he want? amadeus what did he want...? your hand. cecilia and you refused...? amadeus he is sending you his farewell greetings through me, cecilia. cecilia so that's what has put you in such a good humor all at once! (_pause_) and if he hadn't come here? amadeus if he hadn't come here.... cecilia speak out, please! amadeus (_remains silent_) cecilia you didn't mean to ... to fight him? amadeus i did. albert was on his way to him at the time. cecilia what vanity, amadeus! amadeus no, not vanity, cecilia. i love you. cecilia (_remains wholly unresponsive_) amadeus you can't guess, of course, what took place within me while his words were gradually bringing home the truth to me! once more the doors of heaven have been thrown open to me! cecilia the only thing you forget is that they must remain closed to me forever. amadeus don't say that, cecilia. what has happened to me in the past seems so very insignificant, after all. cecilia insignificant, you say?--and if it had happened to me, it would have been so significant that people should have had to kill or be killed on that account? how can you think then, that i might get over it so easily? amadeus how can i...? because you have proved it already. you knew just what had happened, and yet you became mine again.... you knew that i had been faithless, while you had kept your faith, and yet.... cecilia you say that i have kept my faith?--no, i haven't! and even if i should seem faithful to you, i have long ago ceased to be so in my own mind. _i_ know the desires that have burned within me.... _i_ know how often my body has trembled and yearned in the presence of some man.... and what i told you last night--that i am waiting with wide-open arms, full of longings and expectations--that's true, amadeus--no less true than it is that i am standing face to face with you now. amadeus if that be true, what has kept you from satisfying all your longings--you, who have been as free as i have? cecilia i am a woman, amadeus. and we seem to be like that. something makes us hesitate even when we have already made up our minds. amadeus and because you seemed guilty in your own mind, you remained silent?... and for no other reason have you left me--me, whose sufferings you might have relieved by a single word--to believe you as guilty as myself? cecilia perhaps.... amadeus and how long did you mean to let me go on believing that? cecilia until it became true, amadeus. amadeus but there has been enough of it now, cecilia. it will never become true ... never after this. cecilia where do you get that idea, amadeus? it is going to be true. do you think, perhaps, that all this was meant as a kind of ordeal for you? do you think i was playing a childish comedy in order to punish you, and that now, when you have discovered the truth prematurely, i shall sink into your arms and declare everything right again? have you really imagined that everything could now be forgotten, and that we might resume our marriage relations at the exact point where they were interrupted? how can you possibly have wished that such might be the case--so that our marriage would be like thousands of others, where both deceive each other, and become reconciled, and deceive each other again--just as the moment's whim happens to move them? amadeus we have neither deceived each other, nor become reconciled--we have been free, and have merely found each other again. cecilia each other, you say?... as if that were possible! what is it then, that has made me seem so desirable to you all at once? not the fact that i am cecilia--oh, no! but the fact that i seem to have come back another woman. and have i really become yours again? not at all! not unless you have grown so modest all at once that you can be satisfied with a happiness that might have fallen to somebody else perhaps, if he had merely chanced to be on hand at that particular moment. amadeus (_shrinking back_) but even if last night be sacrificed to this fixed idea of yours, cecilia--it is daylight now--we are awake--and in this moment of clear light you must feel, no less than i, that we love each other, cecilia--love as we have never loved before. cecilia this moment might prove deceptive--and i am sure it would. no other moment would be more apt to prove such. do you think those many moments in which we felt our tenderness gradually ebbing away--those many moments when we felt the lure of other loves--do you think them less worthy of consideration than this one? the only thing urging us together now is our fear of the final leave-taking. and our feelings at this moment make a pretty poor sample upon which to base an eternity. i don't trust them. what has happened once, may ... nay, must repeat itself--to-morrow--or two years from now--or five ... in a more indiscreet manner, perhaps, or in a manner more tragical--but certainly in a manner to be much more regretted. amadeus oh, no--never again! now--after what i have felt and experienced lately, i can vouch for myself. cecilia i don't feel equally certain of myself, amadeus. amadeus that doesn't scare me, cecilia, for now i'm prepared to fight for you--now i'm worthy and capable of fighting for you. hereafter you shall never more be left unprotected as you were in the past--my tenderness will guard you. cecilia but i don't want to be guarded! i shall no longer permit you to guard me! and i can no more give you any promises than i care to accept yours. amadeus and if i should forgo them myself--if i should risk it on a mere uncertainty? cecilia that's more than i dare--whether the risk concern you or myself ... more than i would risk even with certainty in mind. (_she turns away from him_) amadeus then i cannot possibly understand you, cecilia. what is it you want to make us pay for so dearly--yes, both of us? is it our guilt or our happiness? cecilia why should either one of them be paid for? what's the use of such a word between us? neither one of us has done anything that requires atonement. neither one of us has any right to reproach the other one. both of us have been free, and each one has used his freedom in accordance with his own desire and ability. i think nothing has happened but what must happen. we have trusted each other too much--or too little. we were neither made to love each other faithfully forever nor to maintain a pure friendship. others have become resigned--i can't--and you mustn't allow yourself, amadeus. our experiment has failed. let us admit our disillusionment. that can be borne. but i have no curiosity to find how it tastes when everything comes to an end in sheer loathing. amadeus comes to an end, you say?--but that can't be possible, cecilia! it can't be possible that we should really leave each other--part from each other like strangers! we are still face to face--each of us can feel the closeness of the other one--and that's why you cannot yet realize what it would mean. consider all the things that might come into your life as well as into mine during a separation of that kind--so prolonged and so void of responsibility--things that now have no place in your imagination even, and for which there could be no reparation. cecilia could they be worse than what has already befallen me? faithfulness to each other in the ordinary sense matters least of all, i should think. and we could probably more easily find our way back to each other sometime from almost any other experience than that adventure of last night, or from a moment of self-deception like this one. amadeus find our way back, you say...? cecilia it's also possible that, after a couple of years, we won't care to do so--that everything may be over between us to such an extent that we cannot imagine it now. that's possible, i say. but if we stayed together now, everything would be over within the next few seconds. for then we should be no better than all those we have despised hitherto--the one difference being that we had arranged ourselves more comfortably than the rest. albert (_entering_) i beg your pardon for coming in unannounced like this, but.... cecilia (_withdraws toward the background_) amadeus (_going to meet albert_) yes, i know--you didn't find the prince--he has been here himself. albert what does that mean? amadeus that there was no reason why i should want to kill him. albert i see.--well, i'll be hanged if i haven't suspected something of the kind myself!--then i suppose everything is once more in perfect order in this house? amadeus yes, in perfect order. when i return, cecilia will be in berlin, and i shall not follow her. albert what? then you are going to ask for a separation after all? cecilia (_approaching them_) no, we are not going to ask for a separation. we'll just separate. albert what?... (_he looks from one to the other; pause_) really i like that. indeed, i do. i think both of you are splendid--but especially you, cecilia--and, of course, there is nothing else left for you to do now. peter (_enters, carrying some of his puppets_) papa! mamma! i can play theater beautifully. won't you come and look? oh, please come! cecilia (_strokes his hair_) amadeus (_remains standing at some distance from them_) albert well, isn't this just like life--the life you are always talking of! this should be the moment when you had to fall into each others' arms with absolute certainty, if you had had the luck to be imaginatively created--that is, not by me, of course. cecilia no, the boy means too much to both of us to make that possible--don't you think so, amadeus? amadeus (_losing control of himself after a glance at peter_) all at once to be alone in the world again--it's a thought i can hardly face! cecilia but we shall be somewhere in that world, you know--your child, and the mother of your child. we are not parting as enemies, after all.... (_with a smile_) i am even ready to come here and sing that solo of yours--although we shall not be able to study it together. amadeus it's more than i can bear...! cecilia it will have to be borne. we must work--both of us. albert (_to amadeus_) yes, and it remains to be seen what effect a real sorrow like this may have on you. it's just what you have lacked so far. i expect you'll get a lot out of it. in a sense, i might almost envy you. peter what's the matter?... look here, mamma, how they jump about! that's the king, and this is the devil. albert come on, sonny, and play your piece to _me_. but i insist that the hero must either marry in the end, or be carried off by the devil. in either case you can go home quite satisfied when the curtain drops. (_he goes out with peter_) cecilia (_after a glance at amadeus, starts to follow them_) amadeus cecilia! cecilia (_turns back_) amadeus (_passionately_) why didn't you show me the door, cecilia, when you knew...? cecilia well, _did_ i know?... i have loved you, amadeus. and all i wanted, perhaps, was that the inevitable end should be worthy of our love--that we should part after a final moment of bliss, and with a pang. amadeus with a pang, you say...? do you really feel anything like that? cecilia (_coming close to him and speaking very gently_) why don't you try to understand me, amadeus? i feel it just as keenly as you do. but there is another thing i feel more strongly than you, and it is well for us both that i do. it is this, amadeus, that we have been so much to each other that we must keep the memory of it pure. if that was nothing but an adventure last night, then we have never been worthy of our past happiness.... if it was a farewell, then we may expect new happiness in the future ... perhaps.... (_she starts toward the garden_) amadeus and that's our reward, then, for having always been honest to each other! cecilia (_turning toward him again_) honest, you call it...? have we always been that? amadeus cecilia! cecilia no, i can't think so any longer. let everything else have been honest--but that both of us should have resigned ourselves so promptly when you told me of your passion for the countess and i confessed my affection for sigismund--that was not honest. if each of us had then flung his scorn, his bitterness, his despair into the face of the other one, instead of trying to appear self-controlled and superior--then we should have been honest--which, as it was, we were not. (_she walks across the veranda outside and disappears into the garden_) amadeus (_to himself_) all right--then we were not honest. (_after a pause_) and suppose we had been?! (_for a moment he seems to consider; then he goes to the writing desk and puts the manuscript music lying there into the little handbag; after a glance into the garden, he goes into his own room, returning at once with his hat and overcoat; then he opens the handbag again and picks out a manuscript, which he places on the piano; then he goes out rapidly, taking hat, overcoat and handbag with him; a brief pause follows_) cecilia (_enters and notices that the handbag is gone; she goes quickly into amadeus' room, but returns immediately; she crosses the room to the main entrance and remains standing there, opening her arms widely at first, and then letting them sink down again; going to the piano, she catches sight of the manuscript lying there and picks it up; while looking at it, she sinks down on the piano stool_) peter (appears on the veranda with albert and calls from there) mother! cecilia (_does not hear him_) albert (_observing that cecilia is alone and sunk in grief, takes peter with him into the garden again_) cecilia (_begins to weep softly and lets her head sink down on the piano_) curtain countess mizzie or the family reunion (_komtesse mizzi oder der familientag_) a comedy in one act persons count arpad pazmandy mizzie } his daughter prince egon ravenstein lolo langhuber philip professor windhofer wasner the gardener the valet countess mizzie _the garden of count arpad. in the background, tall iron fence. near the middle of this, but a little more to the right, there is a gate. in the foreground, at the left, appears the façade of the two-storied villa, which used to be an imperial hunting lodge about years ago and was remodeled about thirty years ago. a narrow terrace runs along the main floor, which is raised above the ground. three wide stairs lead from the terrace down to the garden. french doors, which are standing open, lead from the terrace into the drawing-room. the windows of the upper floor are of ordinary design. above that floor appears a small balcony, to which access is had through a dormer window. this balcony holds a profusion of flowering plants. a garden seat, a small table and an armchair stand under a tree at the right, in the foreground._ count (_enters from the right; he is an elderly man with gray mustaches, but must still be counted decidedly good-looking; his bearing and manners indicate the retired officer; he wears a riding suit and carries a crop_) valet (_entering behind the count_) at what time does your grace desire to have dinner to-day? count (_who speaks with the laconism affected by his former colleagues, and who, at that particular moment, is engaged in lighting a huge cigar_) at two. valet and when is the carriage to be ready, your grace? mizzie[ ] (_appearing on the balcony with a palette and a bunch of brushes in one hand, calls down to her father_) good morning, papa. [ ] diminutive of maria. count morning, mizzie. mizzie you left me all alone for breakfast again, papa. where have you been anyhow? count most everywhere. rode out by way of mauer and rodaun.[ ] perfectly splendid day. and what are you doing? at work already? is there anything new to be seen soon? [ ] small towns south of vienna. the subsequent reference to the tiergarten shows that the pazmandy residence must be in the little suburb of lainz, at the extreme southwestern corner of vienna. near the tiergarten there is actually an imperial hunting lodge, which the playwright seems to have appropriated for his purpose. mizzie yes, indeed, papa. nothing but flowers though, as usual. count isn't the professor coming to see you to-day? mizzie yes, but not until one. count well, don't let me interrupt you. mizzie (_throws a kiss to him and disappears from the balcony_) count (_to the valet_) what are you waiting for? oh, the carriage. i'm not going out again to-day. joseph can take a holiday. or wait a moment. (_he calls up to the balcony_) say, mizzie.... mizzie (_reappears on the balcony_) count sorry to disturb you again. do you think you'll want the carriage to-day? mizzie no, thank you, papa. i can think of nothing.... no, thanks. (_she disappears again_) count so joseph can do what he pleases this afternoon. that's--oh, see that franz gives the nag a good rubbing down. we got a little excited this morning--both of us. valet (_goes out_) count (_sits down on the garden seat, picks up a newspaper from the table and begins to read_) gardener (_enters_) good morning, your grace. count morning, peter. what's up? gardener with your grace's permission, i have just cut the tea roses. count why all that lot? gardener the bush is full up. it ain't wise, your grace, to leave 'em on the stem much longer. if maybe your grace could find some use.... count haven't got any. why do you stand there looking at me? i'm not going to the city. i won't need any flowers. why don't you put them in some of those vases and things that are standing about in there? quite the fashion nowadays, isn't it? (_he takes the bunch of flowers from the gardener and inhales their fragrance while he seems to be pondering something_) wasn't that a carriage that stopped here? gardener that's his highness' pair of blacks. i know 'em by their step. count thanks very much then. (_he hands back the roses_) prince (_comes in by the gate_) count (_goes to meet him_) gardener good morning, your highness. prince hello, peter. gardener (_goes out toward the right_) prince (_wears a light-colored summer suit; is fifty-five, but doesn't look it; tall and slender; his manner of speech suggests the diplomat, who is as much at home in french as in his native tongue_) count delighted, old chap. how goes it? prince thanks. splendid day. count (_offers him one of his gigantic cigars_) prince no, thank you, not before lunch. only one of my own cigarettes, if you permit. (_he takes a cigarette from his case and lights it_) count so you've found time to drop in at last. do you know how long you haven't been here? three weeks. prince (_glancing toward the balcony_) really that long? count what is it that makes you so scarce? prince you mustn't mind. but you are right, of course. and even to-day i come only to say good-by. count what--good-by? prince i shall be off to-morrow. count you're going away? where? prince the sea shore. and you--have you made any plans yet? count i haven't given a thought to it yet--this year. prince well, of course, it's wonderful right here--with your enormous park. but you have to go somewhere later in the summer? count don't know yet. but it's all one. prince what's wrong now? count oh, my dear old friend, it's going downhill. prince how? that's a funny way of talking, arpad. what do you mean by downhill? count one grows old, egon. prince yes, and gets accustomed to it. count what do you know about it--you who are five years younger? prince six almost. but at fifty-five the springtime of life is pretty well over. well--one gets resigned to it. count you have always been something of a philosopher, old chap. prince anyhow, i can't see what's the matter with you. you look fine. (_seats himself; frequently during this scene he glances up at the balcony; pause_) count (_with sudden decision_) have you heard the latest? she's going to marry. prince who's going to marry? count do you have to ask? can't you guess? prince oh, i see. thought it might be mizzie. and that would also.... so lolo is going to marry. count she is. prince but that's hardly the "latest." count why not? prince it's what she has promised, or threatened, or whatever you choose to call it, these last three years. count three, you say? may just as well say ten. or eighteen. yes, indeed. in fact, since the very start of this affair between her and me. it has always been a fixed idea with her. "if ever a decent man asks me to marry him, i'll get off the stage _stante pede_." it was almost the first thing she told me. you have heard it yourself a couple of times. and now he's come--the one she has been waiting for--and she's to get married. prince hope he's decent at least. count yes, you're very witty! but is that your only way of showing sympathy in a serious moment like this? prince now! (_he puts his hand on the count's arm_) count well, i assure you, it's a serious moment. it's no small matter when you have lived twenty years with somebody--in a _near_-marital state; when you have been spending your best years with her, and really shared her joys and sorrows--until you have come to think at last, that it's never going to end--and then she comes to you one fine day and says: "god bless you, dear, but i'm going to get wedded on the sixteenth...." oh, damn the whole story! (_he gets up and begins to walk about_) and i can't blame her even. because i understand perfectly. so what can you do about it? prince you've always been much too kind, arpad. count nothing kind about it. why shouldn't i understand? the clock has struck thirty-eight for her. and she has said adieu to her profession. so that anybody can sympathize with her feeling that there is no fun to go on as a ballet dancer retired on half pay and mistress on active service to count pazmandy, who'll be nothing but an old fool either, as time runs along. of course, i have been prepared for it. and i haven't blamed her a bit--'pon my soul! prince so you have parted as perfect friends? count certainly. in fact, our leave-taking was quite jolly. 'pon my soul, i never suspected at first how tough it would prove. it's only by degrees it has come home to me. and that's quite a remarkable story, i must say.... prince what's remarkable about it? count i suppose i had better tell you all about it. on my way home that last time--one night last week--i had a feeling all of a sudden--i don't know how to express it ... tremendously relieved, that's what i felt. now you are a free man, i said to myself. don't have to drive to mayerhof street[ ] every night god grants you, merely to dine and chatter with lolo, or just sit there listening to her. had come to be pretty boresome at times, you know. and then the drive home in the middle of the night, and, on top of it, to be called to account when you happened to be dining with a friend in the casino or taking your daughter to the opera or a theater. to cut it short--i was in high feather going home that night. my head was full of plans already.... no, nothing of the kind you have in mind! but plans for traveling, as i have long wanted to do--to africa, or india, like a free man.... that is, i should have brought my little girl along, of course.... yes, you may well laugh at my calling her a little girl still. [ ] a street in the district of wieden, near one of the principal shopping districts and leading to the great theresian riding academy. prince nothing of the kind. mizzie looks exactly like a young girl. like quite a young one. especially in that florentine straw hat she was wearing a while ago. count like a young girl, you say! and yet she's exactly of an age with lolo. you know, of course! yes, we're growing old, egon. every one of us. oh, yes.... and lonely. but really, i didn't notice it to begin with. it was only by degrees it got hold of me. the first days after that farewell feast were not so very bad. but the day before yesterday, and yesterday, as the time approached when i used to start for mayerhof street.... and when peter brought in those roses a moment ago--for lolo, of course--why, then it seemed pretty plain to me that i had become a widower for the second time in my life. yes, my dear fellow. and this time forever. now comes the loneliness. it has come already. prince but that's nonsense--loneliness! count pardon me, but you can't understand. your way of living has been so different from mine. you have not let yourself be dragged into anything new since your poor wife died ten years ago. into nothing of a serious nature, i mean. and besides, you have a profession, in a sense. prince have i? count well, as a member of the upper house. prince oh, i see. count and twice you have almost been put into the cabinet. prince yes, almost.... count who knows? perhaps you will break in some time. and i'm all done. had myself retired three years ago in the bargain--like a fool. prince (_with a smile_) that's why you are a free man now. perfectly free. with the world open before you. count and no desire to do a thing, old man. that's the whole story. since that time i haven't gone to the casino even. do you know what i have been doing the last few nights? i have sat under that tree with mizzie--playing domino. prince well, don't you see? that's not to be lonely. when you have a daughter, and particularly such a sensible one, with whom you have always got on so well.... what does she say about your staying at home nights anyhow? count nothing. besides, it has happened before, quite frequently. she says nothing at all. and what could she say? it seems to me she has never noticed anything. do you think she can have known about lolo? prince (_laughing_) man alive! count of course. yes, i know. of course, she must have known. but then, i was still almost a young man when her mother died. i hope it hasn't hurt her feelings. prince no, _that_ wouldn't. (_casually_) but being left so much alone may have troubled her at times, i should think. count has she complained of me? there's no reason why you shouldn't tell me. prince i am not in her confidence. she has never complained to me. and, heavens, it may never have troubled her at all. she has so long been accustomed to this quiet, retired life. count yes, and she seems to have a taste for it, too. and then she used to go out a good deal until a few years ago. between you and me, egon, as late as three years ago--no, two years ago--i still thought she might make the plunge after all. prince what plunge? oh, i see.... count if you could only guess what kind of men have been paying attention to her quite recently.... prince that's only natural. count but she won't. she absolutely won't. what i mean is, that she can't be feeling so very lonely ... otherwise she would ... as she has had plenty of opportunity.... prince certainly. it's her own choice. and then mizzie has an additional resource in her painting. it's a case like that of my blessed aunt, the late fanny hohenstein, who went on writing books to a venerable old age and never wanted to hear a word about marriage. count it may have some connection with her artistic aspirations. at times i'm inclined to look for some psychological connection between all these morbid tendencies. prince morbid, you say? but you can't possibly call mizzie morbid. count oh, it's all over now. but there was a time.... prince i have always found mizzie very sensible and very well balanced. after all, painting roses and violets doesn't prove a person morbid by any means. count you don't think me such a fool that her violets and roses could make me believe.... but if you remember when she was still a young girl.... prince what then? count oh, that story at the time fedor wangenheim wanted to marry her. prince o lord, are you still thinking of that? besides, there was no truth in it. and that was eighteen or twenty years ago almost. count her wanting to join the ursuline sisters rather than marry that nice young fellow, to whom she was as good as engaged already--and then up and away from home all at once--you might call that morbid, don't you think? prince what has put you in mind of that ancient story to-day? count ancient, you say? i feel as if it happened last year only. it was at the very time when my own affair with lolo had just begun. ah, harking back like that...! and if anybody had foretold me at the time...! you know, it really began like any ordinary adventure. in the same reckless, crazy way. yes, crazy--that's it. not that i want to make myself out worse than i am, but it was lucky for all of us that my poor wife had already been dead a couple of years. lolo seemed ... my fate. mistress and wife at the same time. because she's such a wonderful cook, you know. and the way she makes you comfortable. and always in good humor--never a cross word.... well, it's all over. don't let us talk of it.... (_pause_) tell me, won't you stay for lunch? and i must call mizzie. prince (_checking him_) wait--i have something to tell you. (_casually, almost facetiously_) i want you to be prepared. count why? for what? prince there is a young man coming here to be introduced. count (_astonished_) what? a young man? prince if you have no objection. count why should i object? but who is he? prince dear arpad--he's my son. count (_greatly surprised_) what? prince yes, my son. you see, i didn't want--as i'm going away.... count your son? you've got a son? prince i have. count well, did you ever...! you have got a young man who is your son--or rather, you have got a son who is a young man. how old? prince seventeen. count seventeen! and you haven't told me before! no, egon ... egon! and tell me ... seventeen...? my dear chap, then your wife was still alive.... prince yes, my wife was still alive at the time. you see, arpad, one gets mixed up in all sorts of strange affairs. count 'pon my soul, so it seems! prince and thus, one fine day, you find yourself having a son of seventeen with whom you go traveling. count so it's with him you are going away? prince i am taking that liberty. count no, i couldn't possibly tell you.... why, he has got a son of seventeen!... (_suddenly he grasps the hand of the prince, and then puts his arms about him_) and if i may ask ... the mother of that young gentleman, your son ... how it happens ... as you have started telling me.... prince she's dead long ago. died a couple of weeks after he was born. a mere slip of a girl. count of the common people? prince oh, of course. but a charming creature. i may as well tell you everything about it. that is, as far as i can recall it myself. the whole story seems like a dream. and if it were not for the boy.... count and all that you tell me only now! to-day only--just before the boy is coming here! prince you never can tell how a thing like that may be received. count tut, tut! received, you say...? did you believe perhaps ... i'm something of a philosopher myself, after all.... and you call yourself a friend of mine! prince not a soul has known it--not a single soul in the whole world. count but you might have told me. really, i don't see how you could.... come now, it wasn't quite nice. prince i wanted to wait and see how the boy developed. you never can tell.... count of course, with a mixed pedigree like that.... but you seem reassured now? prince oh, yes, he's a fine fellow. count (_embracing him again_) and where has he been living until now? prince his earliest years were spent a good way from vienna--in the tirol. count with peasants? prince no, with a small landowner. then he went to school for some time at innsbruck. and during the last few years i have been sending him to the preparatory school at krems.[ ] [ ] innsbruck is the capital of the province of tirol. krems is a small city on the donau, not so very far from vienna, having a fine high school or "gymnasium." the idea is, of course, that as the boy grew up, his father became more and more interested and wanted to have him within easier reach. count and you have seen him frequently? prince of course. count and what's _his_ idea of it anyhow? prince up to a few days ago he thought that he had lost both his parents--his father as well--and that i was a friend of his dead father. mizzie (_appearing on the balcony_) good morning, prince egon. prince good morning, mizzie. count well, won't you come down a while? mizzie oh, if i am not in the way.... (_she disappears_) count and what are we going to say to mizzie? prince i prefer to leave that to you, of course. but as i am adopting the boy anyhow, and as a special decree by his majesty will probably enable him to assume my name in a few days ... count (_surprised_) what? prince ... i think it would be wiser to tell mizzie the truth at once. count certainly, certainly--and why shouldn't we? seeing that you are adopting him.... it's really funny--but, you see, a daughter, even when she gets to be an old maid, is nothing but a little girl to her father. mizzie (_appears; she is thirty-seven, but still very attractive; wears a florentine straw hat and a white dress; she gives the count a kiss before holding out her hand to the prince_) well, how do you do, prince egon? we don't see much of you these days. prince thank you.--have you been very industrious? mizzie painting a few flowers. count why so modest, mizzie? (_to the prince_) professor windhofer told her recently that she could safely exhibit. won't have to fear comparison with mrs. wisinger-florian herself.[ ] [ ] "neben der wiesinger-florian." the name is slightly misspelt in the german text. it is that of mrs. olga wisinger-florian, a well-known viennese painter of floral pieces, whose work is represented in many of the big galleries in europe. she was born in , made her name in the early eighties, and is still living. mizzie that's so, perhaps. but i have no ambition of that kind. prince i'm rather against exhibiting, too. it puts you at the mercy of any newspaper scribbler. mizzie well, how about the members of the upper house--at least when they make speeches? count and how about all of us? is there anything into which they don't poke their noses? prince yes, thanks to prevailing tendencies, there are people who would blackguard your pictures merely because you happen to be a countess, mizzie. count yes, you're right indeed. valet (_entering_) your grace is wanted on the telephone. count who is it? what is it about? valet there is somebody who wishes to speak to your grace personally. count you'll have to excuse me a moment. (_to the prince, in a lowered voice_) tell her now--while i am away. i prefer it. (_he goes out followed by the valet_) mizzie somebody on the telephone--do you think papa can have fallen into new bondage already? (_she seats herself_) prince into _new_ bondage, you say? mizzie lolo used always to telephone about this time. but it's all over with her now. you know it, don't you? prince i just heard it. mizzie and what do you think of it, prince egon. i am rather sorry, to tell the truth. if he tries anything new now, i'm sure he'll burn his fingers. and i do fear there is something in the air. you see, he's still too young for his years. prince yes, that's so. mizzie (_turning so that she faces the prince_) and by the way, you haven't been here for ever so long. prince you haven't missed me very much ... i fear.... your art ... and heaven knows what else.... mizzie (_without affectation_) nevertheless.... prince awfully kind of you.... (_pause_) mizzie what makes you speechless to-day? tell me something. isn't there anything new in the world at all? prince (_as if he had thought of it only that moment_) our son has just passed his examinations for the university. mizzie (_slightly perturbed_) i hope you have more interesting news to relate. prince more interesting.... mizzie or news, at least, that concerns me more closely than the career of a strange young man. prince i have felt obliged, however, to keep you informed about the more important stages in the career of this young man. when he was about to be confirmed, i took the liberty to report the fact to you. but, of course, we don't have to talk any more about it. mizzie he pulled through, i hope? prince with honors. mizzie the stock seems to be improving. prince let us hope so. mizzie and now the great moment is approaching, i suppose. prince what moment? mizzie have you forgotten already? as soon as he had passed his examinations, you meant to reveal yourself as his father. prince so i have done already. mizzie you--have told him already? prince i have. mizzie (_after a pause, without looking at him_) and his mother--is dead...? prince she is--so far. mizzie and forever. (_rising_) prince as you please. [_the count enters, followed by the valet._ valet but it was your grace who said that joseph could be free. count yes, yes, it's all right. valet (_goes out_) mizzie what's the matter, papa? count nothing, my girl, nothing. i wanted to get somewhere quick--and that infernal joseph.... if you don't mind, mizzie, i want to have a few words with egon.... (_to the prince_) do you know, she has been trying to get me before. i mean lolo. but she couldn't get the number. and now laura telephones--oh, well, that's her maid, you know--that she has just started on her way here. prince here? to see you? count yes. prince but why? count oh, i think i can guess. you see, she has never put her foot in this place, of course, and i have been promising her all the time that she could come here once to have a look at the house and the park before she married. her standing grievance has always been that i couldn't receive her here. on account of mizzie, you know. which she has understood perfectly well. and to sneak her in here some time when mizzie was not at home--well, for that kind of thing i have never had any taste. and so she sends me a telephone message, that the marriage is set for the day after to-morrow, and that she is on her way here now. prince well, what of it? she is not coming here as your mistress, and so i can't see that you have any reason for embarrassment. count but to-day of all days--and with your son due at any moment. prince you can leave him to me. count but i don't want it. i'm going to meet the carriage and see if i can stop her. it makes me nervous. you'll have to ask your son to excuse me for a little while. good-by, mizzie. i'll be back right away. (_he goes out_) prince miss lolo has sent word that she's coming to call, and your papa doesn't like it. mizzie what's that? has lolo sent word? is she coming here? prince your father has been promising her a chance to look over the place before she was married. and now he has gone to meet the carriage in order to steer her off. mizzie how childish! and how pathetic, when you come to think of it! i should really like to make her acquaintance. don't you think it's too silly? there is my father, spending half his lifetime with a person who is probably very attractive--and i don't get a chance--don't have the right--to shake hands with her even. why does he object to it anyhow? he ought to understand that i know all about it. prince oh, heavens, that's the way he is made. and perhaps he might not have minded so much, if he were not expecting another visit at this very moment.... mizzie another visit, you say? prince for which i took the liberty to prepare him. mizzie who is it? prince our son. mizzie are you ... bringing your son here? prince he'll be here in half an hour at the most. mizzie i say, prince ... this is not a joke you're trying to spring on me? prince by no means. on a departed ... what an idea! mizzie is it really true? he's coming here? prince yes. mizzie apparently you still think that nothing but a whim keeps me from having anything to do with the boy? prince a whim...? no. seeing how consistent you have been in this matter, it would hardly be safe for me to call it that. and when i bear in mind how you have had the strength all these years not even to ask any questions about him.... mizzie there has been nothing admirable about that. i have had the strength to do what was worse ... when i had to let him be taken away ... a week after he was born.... prince yes, what else could you--could we have done at the time? the arrangements made by me at the time, and approved by you in the end, represented absolutely the most expedient thing we could do under the circumstances. mizzie i have never questioned their expediency. prince it was more than expedient, mizzie. more than our own fate was at stake. others might have come to grief if the truth had been revealed at the time. my wife, with her weak heart, had probably never survived. mizzie oh, that weak heart.... prince and your father, mizzie.... think of your father! mizzie you may be sure he would have accepted the inevitable. that was the very time when he began his affair with lolo. otherwise everything might not have come off so smoothly. otherwise he might have been more concerned about me. i could never have stayed away several months if he hadn't found it very convenient at that particular moment. and there was only one danger connected with the whole story--that you might be shot dead by fedor wangenheim, my dear prince. prince why i by him? it might have taken another turn. you are not a believer in judgment by ordeal, are you? and the outcome might have proved questionable from such a point of view even. you see, we poor mortals can never be sure how things of that kind are regarded up above. mizzie you would never talk like that in the upper house--supposing you ever opened your mouth during one of its sessions. prince possibly not. but the fundamental thing remains, that no amount of honesty or daring could have availed in the least at the time. it would have been nothing but useless cruelty toward those nearest to us. it's doubtful whether a dispensation could have been obtained--and besides, the princess would never have agreed to a divorce--which you know as well as i do. mizzie just as if i had cared in the least for the ceremony...! prince oh.... mizzie not in the least. is that new to you? didn't i tell you so at the time? oh, you'll never guess what might ... (_her words emphasized by her glance_) what i ... of what i might have been capable at that time. i would have followed you anywhere--everywhere--even as your mistress. i and the child. to switzerland, to america. after all, we could have lived wherever it happened to suit us. and perhaps, if you had gone away, they might never even have noticed your absence in the upper house. prince yes, of course, we might have run away and settled down somewhere abroad.... but do you still believe that a situation like that would have proved agreeable in the long run, or even bearable? mizzie no, i don't nowadays. because, you see, i know you now. but at that time i was in love with you. and it is possible that i--might have gone on loving you for a long time, had you not proved too _cowardly_ to assume the responsibility for what had happened.... yes, too much of a coward, prince egon. prince whether that be the proper word.... mizzie well, i don't know of any other. there was no hesitation on my part. i was ready to face everything--with joy and pride. i was ready to be a mother, and to confess myself the mother of our child. and you knew it, egon. i told you so seventeen years ago, in that little house in the woods where you kept me hidden. but half-measures have never appealed to me. i wanted to be a mother in every respect or not at all. the day i had to let the boy be taken away from me, i made up my mind never more to trouble myself about him. and for that reason i find it ridiculous of you to bring him here all of a sudden. if you'll allow me to give you a piece of good advice, you'll go and meet him, as papa has gone to meet lolo--and take him back home again. prince i wouldn't dream of doing so. after what i have just had to hear from you again, it seems settled that his mother must remain dead. and that means that i must take still better care of him. he is my son in the eyes of the world too. i have adopted him. mizzie have you...? prince to-morrow he will probably be able to assume my name. i shall introduce him wherever it suits me. and of course, first of all to my old friend--your father. if you should find the sight of him disagreeable, there will be nothing left for you but to stay in your room while he is here. mizzie if you believe that i think your tone very appropriate.... prince oh, just as appropriate as your bad temper. mizzie my bad temper...? do i look it? really, if you please ... i have simply permitted myself to find this fancy of yours in rather poor taste. otherwise my temper is just as good as ever. prince i have no doubt of your good humor under ordinary circumstances.... i am perfectly aware, for that matter, that you have managed to become reconciled to your fate. i, too, have managed to submit to a fate which, in its own way, has been no less painful than yours. mizzie in what way? to what fate have you had to submit...? everybody can't become a cabinet minister. oh, i see ... that remark must refer to the fact that his highness did me the honor ten years ago, after the blissful departure of his noble spouse, to apply for my hand. prince and again seven years ago, if you'll be kind enough to remember. mizzie oh, yes, i do remember. nor have i ever given you any cause to question my good memory. prince and i hope you have never ascribed my proposals to anything like a desire to expiate some kind of guilt. i asked you to become my wife simply because of my conviction that true happiness was to be found only by your side. mizzie true happiness!... oh, what a mistake! prince yes, i do believe that it was a mistake at that moment. ten years ago it was probably still too early. and so it was, perhaps, seven years ago. but not to-day. mizzie yes, to-day too, my dear prince. your fate has been never to know me, never to understand me at all--no more when i loved you than when i hated you, and not even during the long time when i have been completely indifferent toward you. prince i have always known you, mizzie. i know more about you than you seem able to guess. thus, for instance, i am not unfamiliar with the fact that you have spent the last seventeen years in more profitable pursuits than weeping over a man who, in all likelihood, was not worthy of you at the time in question. i am even aware that you have chosen to expose yourself to several disillusionments subsequent to the one suffered at my hands. mizzie disillusionments, you say? well, for your consolation, my dear prince, i can assure you that some of them proved very enjoyable. prince i know that, too. otherwise i should hardly have dared to call myself familiar with the history of your life. mizzie and do you think that i am not familiar with yours? do you want me to present you with a list of your mistresses? from the wife of the bulgarian attaché in down to mademoiselle therese grédun--if that be her real name--who retained the honors of her office up to last spring at least. it seems likely that i know more than you even, for i can give you a practically complete list of those with whom she has deceived you. prince oh, don't, if you please. there is no real pleasure in knowledge of that kind when you don't uncover it yourself. [_a carriage is heard stopping in front of the house._ prince that's he. do you want to disappear before he comes out here? i can detain him that long. mizzie don't trouble yourself, please. i prefer to stay. but don't imagine that there is anything astir within me.... this is nothing but a young man coming to call on my father. there he is now.... as to blood being thicker than water--i think it's nothing but a fairy tale. i can't feel anything at all, my dear prince. philip (_comes quickly through the main entrance; he is seventeen, slender, handsome, elegant, but not foppish; shows a charming, though somewhat boyish, forwardness, not quite free from embarrassment_) good morning. (_he bows to mizzie_) prince good morning, philip.--countess, will you permit me to introduce my son? this is countess mizzie, daughter of the old friend of mine in whose house you are now. philip (_kisses the hand offered him by mizzie; brief pause_) mizzie won't you be seated, please? philip thank you. countess. (_all remain standing_) prince you came in the carriage? might just as well send it back, as mine is here already. philip won't you come back with me instead, papa? you see, i think wasner does a great deal better than your franz with his team of ancients. mizzie so wasner has been driving you? philip yes. mizzie the old man himself? do you know that's a great honor? wasner won't take the box for everybody. up to about two years ago he used to drive my father. philip oh.... prince you're a little late, by the way, philip. philip yes, i have to beg your pardon. overslept, you know. (_to mizzie_) i was out with some of my colleagues last night. you may have heard that i passed my examinations a couple of weeks ago, countess. that's why we rather made a night of it.[ ] [ ] "... ein bissel gedraht." the term is specifically viennese and implies not only "making a night of it," but also making the contents of that night as varied as the resources of the locality will permit. mizzie you seem to have caught on to our viennese ways pretty quickly, mister.... prince oh, dear mizzie, call him philip, please. mizzie but i think we must sit down first of all, philip. (_with a glance at the prince_) papa should be here any moment now. (_she and the prince sit down_) philip (_still standing_) if you permit me to say so--i think the park is magnificent. it is much finer than ours. mizzie you are familiar with the ravenstein park? philip certainly, countess. i have been living at ravenstein house three days already. mizzie is that so? prince of course, gardens cannot do as well in the city as out here. ours was probably a great deal more beautiful a hundred years ago. but then our place was still practically outside the city. philip it's a pity that all sorts of people have been allowed to run up houses around our place like that. mizzie we are better off in that respect. and we shall hardly live to see the town overtake us. philip (_affably_) but why not, countess? mizzie a hundred years ago these grounds were still used for hunting. the place adjoins the tiergarten, you know. look over that wall there, philip. and our villa was a hunting lodge once, belonging to the empress maria theresa. the stone figure over there goes back to that period. philip and how old is our place, papa? prince (_smiling_) our place, sonny, dates back to the seventeenth century. didn't i show you the room in which emperor leopold spent a night? philip emperor leopold, to . mizzie (_laughs_) philip oh, that's an echo of the examinations. when i get old enough.... (_he interrupts himself_) i beg your pardon! what i meant to say was simply--all that stuff will be out of my head in a year. and, of course, when i learned those dates, i didn't know emperor leopold had been such a good friend of my own people. mizzie you seem to think your discovery enormously funny, philip? philip discovery, you say.... well, frankly speaking, it could hardly be called that. (_he looks at the prince_) prince go on, go on! philip well, you see, countess, i have always had the feeling that i was no philip radeiner by birth. mizzie radeiner? (_to the prince_) oh, that was the name...? prince yes. philip and, of course, it was very pleasant to find my suspicions confirmed--but i have really known it all the time. i can put two and two together. and some of the other boys had also figured out--that i.... really, countess, that story about prince ravenstein coming to krems merely to see how the son of his late friend was getting along--don't you think it smacked a little too much of story book ... home and family library, and that sort of thing? all the clever ones felt pretty sure that i was of noble blood, and as i was one of the cleverest.... mizzie so it seems.... and what are your plans for the future, philip? philip next october i shall begin my year as volunteer with the sixth dragoons, which is the regiment in which we ravensteins always serve. and what's going to happen after that--whether i stay in the army or become an archbishop--in due time, of course.... mizzie that would probably be the best thing. the ravensteins have always been strong in the faith. philip yes, it's mentioned in the universal history even. they were catholic at first; then they turned protestant in the thirty years war; and finally they became catholic again--but they always remained strong in their faith. it was only the faith that changed. prince philip, philip! mizzie that's the spirit of the time, prince egon. prince and an inheritance from his mother. mizzie you have been working hard, your father tells me, and have passed your examinations with honors. philip well, that wasn't difficult, countess. i seem to get hold of things quickly. that's probably another result of the common blood in me. and i had time to spare for things not in the school curriculum--such as horseback riding and ... mizzie and what? philip playing the clarinet. mizzie (_laughing_) why did you hesitate to tell about that? philip because.... well, because everybody laughs when i say that i play the clarinet. and so did you, too, countess. isn't that queer? did anybody ever laugh because you told him that you were painting for a diversion? mizzie so you have already heard about that? philip yes, indeed, countess--papa told me. and besides, there is a floral piece in my bedroom--a chinese vase, you know, with a laburnum branch and something purplish in color. mizzie that purplish stuff must be lilacs. philip oh, lilacs, of course. i saw that at once. but i couldn't recall the name just now. valet (_entering_) there is a lady who wishes to see the count. i have showed her into the drawing-room. mizzie a lady...? you'll have to excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. (_she goes out_) philip that's all right, papa--if it's up to me, i have no objection. prince to what? of what are you talking? philip i have no objection to your choice. prince have you lost your senses, boy? philip but really, papa, do you think you can hide anything from me? that common blood in me, you know.... prince what put such an idea into your head? philip now look here, papa! you have been telling me how anxious you were to introduce me to your old friend, the count. and then the count has a daughter--which i have known all the time, by the way.... the one thing i feared a little was that she might be too young. prince (_offended, and yet unable to keep serious_) too young, you say.... philip it was perfectly plain that you had a certain weakness for that daughter.... why, you used to be quite embarrassed when talking of her. and then you have been telling me all sorts of things about her that you would never have cared to tell otherwise. what interest could i have in the pictures of a countess x-divided-by-anything, for instance--supposing even that you _could_ tell her lilacs from her laburnums by their color? and, as i said, my one fear was that she might be too young--as my mother, that is, and not as your wife. of course, there is not yet anybody too young or beautiful for you. but now i can tell you, papa, that she suits me absolutely as she is. prince well, if you are not the most impudent rogue i ever came across...! do you really think i would ask you, if i should ever.... philip not exactly ask, papa ... but a happy family life requires that all the members affect each other sympathetically ... don't you think so? [_mizzie and lolo langhuber enter._ mizzie you must look around, please. i am sure my father would be very sorry to miss you. (_she starts to make the usual introductions_) permit me to.... lolo oh, your highness. prince well, miss pallestri.... lolo langhuber, if you please. i have come to thank the count for the magnificent flowers he sent me at my farewell performance. prince (_introducing_) my son philip. and this is miss ... lolo charlotta langhuber. prince (_to philip_) better known as miss pallestri. philip oh, miss pallestri! then i have already had the pleasure.... prince what? philip you see, i have miss pallestri in my collection. prince what ... what sort of collection is that? lolo there must be some kind of mistake here, your highness. i can not recall.... philip of course, you can't, for i don't suppose you could feel that i was cutting out your picture from a newspaper at krems? lolo no, thank heaven! philip it was one of our amusements at school, you know. there was one who cut out all the crimes and disasters he could get hold of. lolo what a dreadful fellow that must have been! philip and there was one who went in for historical personalities, like north pole explorers and composers and that kind of people. and i used to collect theatrical ladies. ever so much more pleasant to look at, you know. i have got two hundred and thirteen--which i'll show you sometime, papa. quite interesting, you know. with a musical comedy star from australia among the rest. lolo i didn't know your highness had a son--and such a big one at that. philip yes, i have been hiding my light under a bushel so far. prince and now you are trying to make up for it, i should say. lolo oh, please let him, your highness. i prefer young people like him to be a little _vif_. philip so you are going to retire to private life, miss pallestri? that's too bad. just when i might have the pleasure at last of seeing you on those boards that signify the world.... lolo that's awfully kind of your highness, but unfortunately one hasn't time to wait for the youth that's still growing. and the more mature ones are beginning to find my vintage a little out of date, i fear. prince they say that you are about to be married. lolo yes, i am about to enter the holy state of matrimony. philip and who is the happy man, if i may ask? lolo who is he? why, he is waiting outside now--with that carriage. mizzie why--a coachman? lolo but, countess--a coachman, you say?! only in the same manner as when your papa himself--beg your pardon!--happens to be taking the bay out for a spin at times. cab owner, that's what my fiancé is--and house owner, and a burgess of vienna, who gets on the box himself only when it pleases him and when there is somebody of whom he thinks a whole lot. now he is driving for a certain baron radeiner--whom he has just brought out here to see your father, countess. and i am having my doubts about that baron radeiner. philip permit me to introduce myself--baron radeiner. lolo so that's you, your highness? philip i have let nobody but wasner drive me since i came here. lolo and under an assumed name at that, your highness? well, we are finding out a lot of nice things about you! count (_appears, very hot_) well, here i am. (_taking in the situation_) ah! lolo your humble servant, count! i have taken the liberty--i wanted to thank you for the magnificent flowers. count oh, please--it was a great pleasure.... prince and here, old friend, is my son philip. philip i regard myself as greatly honored, count. count (_giving his hand to philip_) i bid you welcome to my house. please consider yourself at home here.--i don't think any further introductions are required. mizzie no, papa. count (_slightly embarrassed_) it's very charming of you, my dear lady. of course, you know better than anybody that i have always been one of your admirers.... but tell me, please, how in the world did you get out here? i have just been taking a walk along the main road, where every carriage has to pass, and i didn't see you. lolo what do you take me for, count? my cab days are past now. i came by the train, which is the proper thing for me. count i see.... but i hear that your fiancé himself.... lolo oh, he has more pretentious customers to look after. philip yes, i have just had the pleasure of being conducted here by the fiancé of miss pallestri. count is wasner driving for you? well, that settles it--of course--clear psychological connection! (_offers his cigar case_) want a smoke? philip (_accepting_) thank you. prince but, philip...! a monster like that before lunch! count excellent. nothing better for the health. and i like you. suppose we sit down. [_the count, the prince and philip seat themselves, while mizzie and lolo remain standing close to them._ count so you'll be off with your father to-morrow? philip yes, count. and i'm tremendously pleased to think of it. count will you be gone long? prince that depends on several circumstances. philip i have to report myself at the regiment on the first of october. prince and it's possible that i may go farther south after that. count well, that's news. where? prince (_with a glance at mizzie_) egypt, and the sudan maybe--for a little hunting. mizzie (_to lolo_) let me show you the park. lolo it's a marvel. ours isn't a patch on it, of course. (_she and mizzie come forward_) mizzie have you a garden at your place, too? lolo certainly. as well as an ancestral palace--at ottakring.[ ] the great-grandfather of wasner was in the cab business in his days already.--my, but that's beautiful! the way those flowers are hanging down. i must have something just like it. [ ] one of the factory districts of vienna, known chiefly because of the big insane asylum located there. count (_disturbed_) why are the ladies leaving us? mizzie never mind, papa, i'm merely explaining the architecture of our façade. philip do you often get visits of theatrical ladies, count? count no, this is merely an accident. [_the men stroll off toward those parts of the garden that are not visible._ mizzie it seems strange that i have never before had a chance of meeting you. i am very glad to see you. lolo (_with a grateful glance_) and so i am. of course, i have known you by sight these many years. often and often have i looked up at your box. mizzie but not at me. lolo oh, that's all over now. mizzie do you know, i really feel a little offended--on _his_ behalf. lolo offended, you say...? mizzie it will be a hard blow for him. nobody knows better than i how deeply he has been attached to you. although he has never said a word to me about it. lolo do you think it's so very easy for me either, countess? but tell me. countess, what else could i do? i am no longer a spring chicken, you know. and one can't help hankering for something more settled. as long as i had a profession of my own, i could allow myself--what do they call it now?--to entertain liberal ideas. it goes in a way with the position i have held. but how would that look now, when i am retiring to private life? mizzie oh, i can see that perfectly. but what is _he_ going to do now? lolo why shouldn't he marry, too? i assure you, countess, that there are many who would give all their five fingers.... don't you realize, countess, that i, too, have found it a hard step to take? mizzie do you know what i have been wondering often? whether he never thought of making _you_ his wife? lolo oh, yes, that's just what he wanted. mizzie why...?! lolo do you know when he asked me the last time, countess? less than a month ago. mizzie and you said no? lolo i did. it would have done no good. me a countess! can you imagine it? i being your stepmother, countess...! then we could not have been chatting nicely as we are doing now. mizzie if you only knew how sympathetically you affect me.... lolo but i don't want to appear better than i am. and who knows what i might.... mizzie what might you? lolo well, this is the truth of it. i have gone clear off my head about wasner. which i hope won't make you think the worse of me. in all these eighteen years i have had nothing to blame myself with, as far as your dear papa is concerned. but you can't wonder if my feelings began to cool off a little as the years passed along. and rather than to make your dear papa--oh, no, no, countess ... i owe him too much gratitude for that.... lord! mizzie what is it? lolo there he is now, looking right at me. mizzie (_looks in the direction indicated_) wasner (_who has appeared at the entrance, raises his tall hat in salute_) lolo don't you think me an awful fool, countess? every time i catch sight of him suddenly, my heart starts beating like everything. yes, there's no fool like an old one. mizzie old...? do you call yourself old? why, there can't be much difference between us. lolo oh, mercy.... (_with a glance at mizzie_) mizzie i am thirty-seven.--no, don't look at me with any pity. there is no cause for that. none whatever. lolo (_apparently relieved_) i have heard some whispers. countess--of course, i didn't believe anything. but i thank heaven it was true. (_they shake hands_) mizzie i should like to congratulate your fiancé right now, if you'll permit me. lolo that's too sweet of you--but what about the count--perhaps he wouldn't like...? mizzie my dear, i have always been accustomed to do as i pleased. (_they go together toward the entrance_) wasner you're too kind, countess.... [_the count, the prince and philip have reappeared in the meantime._ count look at that, will you! wasner good morning, count. good morning, highness. prince i say, wasner, you may just as well take your bride home in that trap of yours. my son is coming with me. wasner your son...? philip why haven't you told me that you were engaged, wasner? wasner well, there are things you haven't told either ... mr. von radeiner! count (_to lolo_) thank you very much for your friendly visit, and please accept my very best wishes. lolo the same to you, count. and i must say, that when one has such a daughter.... mizzie it's too bad i haven't come to know you before. lolo oh, really, countess.... mizzie once more, my dear miss lolo, good luck to you! (_mizzie embraces lolo_) count (_looks on with surprise and some genuine emotion_) lolo i thank you for the kind reception, count--and good-by! count good-by, miss langhuber. i trust you'll be happy ... indeed i do, lolo. lolo (_gets into the carriage which has driven up to the gate in the meantime_) wasner (_is on the box, hat in hand; they drive off_) mizzie (_waves her hand at them as they disappear_) philip (_who has been standing in the foreground with the prince_) oh, my dear papa, i can see through the whole story. prince you can? philip this miss lolo must be the natural daughter of the count, and a sister of the countess--her foster-sister, as they say. prince no, you would call that a step-sister. but go on, mr. diplomat. philip and of course, both are in love with you--both the countess and the ballet dancer. and this marriage between the dancer and wasner is your work. prince go on. philip you know--there's something i never thought of until just now! prince what? philip i don't know if i dare? prince why so timid all at once? philip supposing my mother was not dead.... prince h'm.... philip and, through a remarkable combination of circumstances, she should now be going back to the city in the very carriage that brought me out here...? and suppose it should be my own mother, whose picture i cut out of that newspaper...? prince my lad, you'll certainly end as a cabinet minister--secretary of agriculture, if nothing better.--but now it's time for us to say good-by. [_the count and mizzie are coming forward again._ prince well, my dear friend, this must be our farewell call, i am sorry to say. count but why don't you stay.... that would be delightful ... if you could take lunch with us.... prince unfortunately, it isn't possible. we have an appointment at sacher's.[ ] [ ] a fashionable restaurant near the imperial palace in the inner city. count that's really too bad. and shall i not see you at all during the summer? prince oh, we shall not be entirely out of touch. count and are you starting to-morrow already? prince yes. count where are you going? prince to the sea shore--ostend. count oh, you are bound for ostend. i have long wanted to go there. prince but that would be fine.... count what do you think, mizzie? let's be fashionable. let's go to ostend, too. mizzie i can't answer yet. but there's no reason why you shouldn't go, papa. philip that would be delightful, countess. it would please me awfully. mizzie (_smiling_) that's very kind of you, philip. (_she holds out her hand to him_) philip (_kisses her hand_) count (_to the prince_) the children seem to get along beautifully. prince yes, that's what i have been thinking. good-by then. good-by, my dear mizzie. and good-by to you, my dear old fellow. i hope at least to see _you_ again at ostend. count oh, she'll come along. won't you, mizzie? after all, you can get studios by the sea shore, too. or how about it, mizzie? mizzie (_remains silent_) prince well, until we meet again! (_he shakes hands with the count and mizzie_) philip (_kisses the hand of mizzie once more_) count (_giving his hand to philip_) it has been a great pleasure. [_the prince and philip go out through the gate and step into the carriage which has been driving up in the meantime, and which now carries them off. the count and mizzie come forward again and seat themselves at the table under the tree. pause._ count hasn't this been a queer day? mizzie all life is queer--only we forget it most of the time. count i suppose you're right. (_pause_) mizzie you know, papa, you might just as well have brought us together a little earlier. count who? oh, you and.... mizzie me and miss lolo. she's a dear. count so you like her? well, if it were only possible to know in advance.... but what's the use? now it's all over. mizzie (_takes hold of his hand_) count (_rises and kisses her on the forehead; strolls about aimlessly for a few seconds_) tell me, mizzie, what you think.... how do you like the boy? mizzie philip? oh, rather fresh. count fresh, perhaps, but smart. i hope he'll stay in the army. that's a much more sensible career than the diplomatic service. slow, but sure. all you need is to live long enough in order to become a general. but a political career.... now look at egon ... three times he has almost become a minister.... and suppose he had succeeded? (_walking back and forth_) yes, yes ... we shall be rather lonely this summer. mizzie but why shouldn't you go to ostend, papa? count yes, why not...? really, won't you come along? it would be rather ... without you, you know.... it's no use looking at me like that. i know! i haven't paid as much attention to you in the past as i should have.... mizzie (_taking his hand again_) oh, papa, you're not going to apologize, are you? i understand perfectly. count oh, well. but, you see, i shall not get much joy out of that trip without you. and what would you be doing here, all by yourself? you can't paint all day long. mizzie the only trouble is ... the prince has asked me to marry him. count what? is it possible? no, you don't mean.... and ... and you said no? mizzie practically. count you did...? oh, well.... after all, i have never tried to persuade you. it must be as you.... but i can't understand why. i have noticed for a long time, that he.... as far as age is concerned, you wouldn't be badly matched. and as for the rest ... sixty millions are not to be despised exactly. but just as you say. mizzie (_remains silent_) count or could it possibly be on account of the boy? that would be to exaggerate the matter, i assure you. things of that kind occur in the very best families. and particularly when you consider that his heart always remained with his wife.... all of a sudden you get dragged into an affair of that kind without exactly knowing how. mizzie and some poor girl of the people is thrown aside and allowed to go to the dogs. count oh, please, that's only in the books. and how could he help it? that kind of women seem always to die off early. and who knows what he might have done, if she hadn't died.... i really think that his action in regard to the boy has been pretty decent. that took courage, you know. i could tell you more than one case.... but don't let us talk of it. if that should be the only thing against him, however.... and besides, our being together at ostend wouldn't commit you in any way. mizzie no, that's true. count well, then ... i tell you what. you make the trip with me. and if the place suits you, you can stay. if not, you can go on to london for a visit with aunt lora. i mean simply, that there is no sense in your letting me go away alone. mizzie all right. count what do you mean? mizzie i'll go with you. but without any obligation--absolutely free. count you'll come with me, you say? mizzie i will, papa. count oh, i'm so glad. thank you, mizzie. mizzie why should you thank me? it's a pleasure to me. count you can't imagine, of course ... without you, mizzie.... there would be so much to remember--this time in particular.... you know, of course, that i took lolo to normandy last year? mizzie of course, i know.... count and as far as egon is concerned ... not that i want to persuade you by any means ... but in a strange place like that you often get more acquainted with a person in a couple of days than during many years at home. mizzie it's settled now that i go with you, papa. and as for the rest, don't let us talk of it--for the time being. count then, you know, i'm going to telephone to the ticket office at once and reserve sleeping car compartments for the day after to-morrow--or for to-morrow. mizzie are you in such a hurry? count what's the use of sitting about here, once we have made up our minds? so i'll telephone.... does that suit you? mizzie yes. count (_puts his arms about her_) professor windhofer (_appears at the garden gate_) count why, there's the professor. have you a lesson to-day? mizzie i had forgotten it, too. professor (_handsome; about thirty-five; his beard is blond and trimmed to a point; he is very carefully dressed, and wears a gray overcoat; he takes off his hat as he enters the garden and comes forward_) good morning, countess. how do you do, count? count good morning, my dear professor, and how are you? you have to pardon me. i was just about to go to the telephone--we are going away, you know. professor oh, are you going away? please, don't let me detain you. count i suppose i shall see you later, professor. (_he goes into the house_) professor so you are going away, countess? mizzie yes, to ostend. professor that's rather a sudden decision. mizzie yes, rather. but that's my way. professor that means an end to the lessons for the present, i suppose? too bad. mizzie i don't think i shall be able to-day even ... i am feeling a little upset. professor do you?--well, you look rather pale, maria. mizzie oh, you think so? professor and how long will you be gone? mizzie until the fall probably--perhaps until very late in the fall even. professor then we can resume our lessons next november at the earliest, i suppose? mizzie (_smiling_) i don't think we shall.... professor oh, you don't think so? (_they look hard at each other_) mizzie no, i don't. professor which means, maria--that i am discharged. mizzie how can you put it that way, rudolph? that is not quite fair. professor pardon me. but it really came a little more suddenly than i had expected. mizzie better that than have it come too slow. don't you think so? professor well, girl, i have no intention whatever to make any reproaches. mizzie well, you have no reason. and it wouldn't be nice either. (_she holds out her hand to him_) professor (_takes her hand and kisses it_) will you please excuse me to the count? mizzie are you going already...? professor (_unconcernedly_) isn't that better? mizzie (_after a pause, during which she looks straight into his eyes_) yes, i think so. (_they shake hands_) professor good luck, maria. mizzie same to you.... and remember me to your wife and the children. professor i won't forget, countess. (_he goes out_) mizzie (_remains on the same spot for a little while, following him with her eyes_) count (_on the terrace_) everything is ready. we'll leave at nine-thirty to-morrow night.--but what has become of the professor? mizzie i sent him away. count oh, you did?--and can you guess who has the compartment between yours and mine?... egon and his young gentleman. won't they be surprised though? mizzie yes ... won't they? (_she goes into the house_) [transcriber's note: google: http://books.google.com/books?pg=pa &dq=editions:oxfordn &id= g mhaaaaqaaj#v=onepage&q=&f=false] the lawyers, a drama, _in five acts,_ translated from the german of _augustus william iffland._ * * * * * * * * * by c. ludger. * * * * * * * * * london: printed bv j. w. myers, for w. west, no. , paternoster-row, . [_price two shillings and sixpence._] advertisement. the author of the following drama is universally allowed to be the garrick of the german stage, and the dramatic rival of kotzebue in the closet.--the great object of mr. iffland, in all his dramatic productions, is to render the theatre what it was in the palmy days of terence--a school of morality, by exhibiting virtue in all her native charms, and vice in all her deformity; or, in the language of pope, "to wake the soul by gentle strokes of art, to raise the genius, and to mend the heart; in conscious innocence to make men bold, live o'er each scene, and be what you behold!" dramatis personÆ. deputy clarenbach. clarenbach, master carpenter. frederica, his daughter. reissman, aulic counsellor. sophia, his daughter. selling, counsellor. gernau, ranger. wellenberg, lawyer. grobman, iron merchant. lewis, deputy clarenbach's servant. a servant of the aulic counsellor. the lawyers, a drama. * * * * * act i. scene i. a plain tradesman's room, with old fashioned furniture. _master_ clarenbach. (busied with a design.) _clar._ so!--there is my design, and i think it is a pretty good one. it will make a substantial building.--when i am gone, people will say, when they look at the pile, "master clarenbach was a man that knew what he was about." scene ii. enter lewis. _lew._ deputy clarenbach presents his compliments to master clarenbach, and sends him something. _clar._ what? _lew._ deputy clarenbach presents his compliments, and sends something. _clar._ (takes off his spectacles.) so my son sends me his compliments? so! well,--return him a good morrow from me. what is it he sends?--money! (opens the paper;) for what? he has written nothing in it, a mere blank. _lew._ i do not know; i am to have a receipt for it. _clar._ take the money back. _lew._ what the deuce! _clar._ (rises.) no deuce here! and--take off your hat when you stand in my presence, monsieur lewis. _lew._ (takes off his hat reluctantly.) i am-- _clar._ the deputy's footman, and i am the deputy's father. _lew._ aye, aye; master clarenbach, the-- _clar._ the carpenter, citizen and master, trustee of the hospital, _ad sanctum mauritium_ in this town, master in my own house and in my own room; here is the money. i am busy, good bye. (sits down to his design.) _lew._ very odd. [exit. _clar._ odd? hem! aye, aye. odd you are, both the master and the servant. scene iii. enter fredericka, (with a glass of wine, and a crust of bread on a plate.) _fred._ father, the weather is very rough this morning. _clar._ do you think so, my dear? _fred._ i cannot let you go out of the house so; you must take a glass of wine. _clar._ you are right, i think; (takes it.) moreover, i shall be out a good while to day; (drinks;) perhaps i may not come home to dinner; (drinks;) bring my dinner then to the timber-yard. _fred._ with all my heart. _clar._ (looking at her.) i do not think you will do it with reluctance. _fred._ by no means. i will do it with pleasure. but my brother does not altogether relish it; and, in those little matters, i think we might please him. _clar._ (rises displeased.) i say, no! god bless him in the high station he fills! but that cannot be, if ever he should forget what he has been. and as his memory, in that respect, is daily impaired, it is necessary therefore to put him the oftener in mind of it. _fred._ yet i think-- _clar._ he is a deputy,--let him thank god for it! i am a carpenter, thank heaven! you are my good dutiful daughter, that takes care of me, nurses me, and gives me great satisfaction; and for that, i return heaven threefold thanks from the bottom of my heart. (fred. embraces him.) yes, you are very good! i only find fault with two things; in every other respect you are a nice girl, quite the girl after my own heart. first, you read too much, and then-- _fred._ dear father, do not i tell you a number of entertaining and instructive things out of the books i read? has my reading formed me otherwise than you would have me? _clar._ not as yet, if the evil do not come limping at the end! good god!--books indeed impart information; that i must own. but since those deep learned works have carried thy brother so high, and, at the same time, so far from us; i think, when i behold the large heap of books in his study, i think i see a finger-post that directs from the heart. _fred._ your pursuits and his are different, father. _clar._ in our respective lines, i grant it. if his heart were not a stranger to us from other motives, he would, when his work is done, come and say,--father! you build houses, and i build laws, that the people may live secure in those houses. i have been successful to day in my work, if god should prosper it; and how have you succeeded? then i would talk to him of my good old timber, and complain of the young green wood; he might then tell me, how pleased he is with the old colleagues that share his toils, or complain of the young green ones.--thus we might exchange toil and pleasure, complaint and consolation; spend a comfortable hour together, and derive mutual advantage from each other. but he does not choose to do that; and, if his conscience now and then happen to twitch him a little, he sends me money. money! what is money to me? when have i ever wished for more than to live? (with vivacity.) his money is the only thing i dislike about him. _fred._ why so, father? _clar._ because he has not that great quantity of it--hem! there--there, may be enough of it for this time. the second thing: i do not like in you is to see you converse with that counsellor selling. what is the meaning of it? _fred._ my brother entertains a high esteem for him. _clar._ not i. _fred._ he is pleased to see him visit here. _clar._ not i. and then have you not gernau, the ranger, whom you like, and i too? _fred._ well, are you content if i manage so, that i may keep upon good terms with both? _clar._ i have no objection. but mind, all fair! none of your book stories! (looks at his watch,) half past eleven; you will bring my dinner to the yard. _fred._ undoubtedly. [exit. scene iv. enter reissman. _reiss._ aye, good morrow, miss! good morrow, mr. clarenbach! well, how are you? _clar._ at work, sir! _reiss._ so you have, _ex officio_, been appointed guardian of the poor orphans of brunnig? _clar._ yes, sir, these four days. _reiss._ aye, aye; it will prove a troublesome piece of business. poor children! i pity them. _clar._ so do i.--and, to tell you the truth, the valuable bequest of the old aunt ought to go to the children, and not to you; to whom, contrary to all right and equity, she has bequeathed her all. _reiss._ aye! good heaven!--but then it is so in her will. _clar._ true enough. but the law should not permit it. _reiss._ a last will!--o lord! that is a sacred thing. i pity the children, but-- _clar._ i intend to try the validity of it. _reiss._ aye, aye? i have been told so. _clar._ you ought to decline the bequest, mr. reissman. _reiss._ but, what heaven has sent me-- _clar._ the property of orphans! _reiss._ you would not have me rob my child of the divine blessings which, without the least solicitation on my part, have devolved upon me from a strange person? _clar._ your daughter, is not poor. the children of brunnig are all beggars. _reiss._ aye, good man, we will manage that, we will manage it! _clar._ how so? _reiss._ o heaven! yes, we will send the children to the hospital to receive a christian education, and to be instructed, and i will-- _clar._ to what hospital? _reiss._ to ours, of which i am the director, and you a trustee. _clar._ that will not do. _reiss._ if it be our will--- _clar._ it must not be our will. _reiss._ who is to oppose us? _clar._ the rules of the foundation itself; right and equity. the hospital, _ad sanctum mauritium_, is destined for the old and the sick; we must not displace them. no, i will carry on the suit against you as an unlawful heir.-- _reiss._ aye, thou good lord in heaven! the will is so plain-- _clar._ if i am cast, i will take brunnig's children into my house, and then i will immediately engage in more business, employ more hands, and work hard to accomplish my design, with the aid of heaven. _reiss._ but your son, the deputy, approves of the children being sent to the hospital. _clar._ i do not approve of it. _reiss._ your son is a sensible learned man, who most certainly knows-- _clar._ and i have spent a good deal on him too. _reiss._ and a just man too he is. _clar._ that is his duty. _reiss._ and as these children may be taken care of in another manner, why would you, at your time of life, burthen yourself with more trouble? you have now toiled long enough, and to your credit too: now you should rest, and leave off business. _clar._ god forbid! _reiss._ your son will not give up that point, i tell you: as a good son, he will lead his father to honour. _clar._ to honour? and what honour do i want, pray? i am a good workman, have sufficient to live on, employ fifteen people daily; share my earnings with many a poor man, and have a good conscience. what honour can he add to what i have? _reiss._ this very moment it is in agitation, to elect you mayor of our town. that is as good as settled, only-- _clar._ no, sir! i will not listen to that. i am quite well, when governed; and might not be so, if i were to govern others. _reiss._ but consider, how happy many a man would feel, if he-- _clar._ oh yes! i know well enough: many a man would wish to govern now-a-days; but not i. i intend to remain reigning master-carpenter in my own house and timber-yard. _reiss._ but perhaps your son might form connections-- _clar._ a fig for every connection; cannot he form connections unless his father be mayor? _reiss._ the world has its prejudices-- _clar._ not i. _reiss._ to whom it is often prudent to yield. _clar._ no, sir, no! _reiss._ but, suppose your son should wish to rise still higher? _clar._ then god grant it do him good! that is my cordial wish. but i shall remain where i am, and i shall not climb after him. _reiss._ well then, i must speak plain to you; your son pays his addresses to my daughter. _clar._ does he? that is well done. your daughter is an amiable young lady. _reiss._ well, well;--but then i have some conditions to propose. i only desire that you may change your situation in life. _clar._ does your daughter likewise insist on it? _reiss._ suppose she did? _clar._ then i would, were i in my son's place, decline the hand of a lady that would be ashamed of my father. _reiss._ but, if i should only ask that you shall leave off business-- _clar._ leave off business? i might as well leave off living. i am proud of my business, for, upon my word, i am a good carpenter. _reiss._ well then, you may say you have been a carpenter. when you are mayor, i will, with pleasure, call you brother. only accept the office, and we will see the business taken care of. _clar._ no. i would be what i was called. i had better keep away from your council-board. _reiss._ i have now done my duty. consider, that when the children come out of the hospital, i intend to make them a present. and that, if an action is brought against me, i shall not think myself under any obligation whatever. _clar._ do not take it amiss;--i am rather positive, for i am arrived at the age in which people know which way the world turns, because they have often been forced to turn along with it. should the poor children lose their suit, you are not the man neither of whom i should wish them take alms. _reiss._ oh! if matters stand so, then i will do nothing at all, for my conscience is free, thank god. _clar._ i wish you joy. _reiss._ as for the rest, it is now all in your option, whether you will promote your son's happiness through that marriage, or not. i wish you good business, master clarenbach. _clar._ (alone.) hem, hem!--i do not wish it, i know well enough;--but i should be sorry for jack, if he were to lose the girl on that account. scene v. enter grobman. _grob._ your humble servant, mr. clarenbach. _clar._ servant, sir! what is your pleasure? _grob._ my name is grobman. i deal in iron wholesale. _clar._ well; and-- _grob._ and mean to settle here. _clar._ i wish you success. _grob._ but there is an other, who wishes to do the same,--one benninger. _clar._ success to him likewise! _grob._ he is for having the monopoly of the article here. _clar._ if so, i look upon him in a bad point of view. _grob._ but it is very profitable. i have the same object in view. your son, the deputy, patronizes mr. benninger. but, if you would speak in my favour to your son, i know i should succeed. _clar._ i am a carpenter. _grob._ very right. but then you are the deputy's father. benninger, as i am well informed, has secretly offered your son two thousand dollars by way of present. _clar._ what? _grob._ they have agreed. _clar._ infamous calumny! _grob._ i will give you two hundred dollars beside, if you-- _clar._ set off!--for, upon my word, i will do you some mischief. _grob._ do you want more than two hundred? _clar._ justice i want, justice! my son shall send you to prison, unless he be as great a good for nothing as yourself. _grob._ (laughs.) for what? _clar._ sell! sell a monopoly! take money,--a bribe! my son, jack clarenbach, the sovereign's deputy, take money! _grob._ (laughs.) aye, sure, for the trouble that he-- _clar._ i will bring an action against you. _grob._ are you in your senses? _clar._ i will inform-- _grob._ so you may. _clar._ all you have said. _grob._ do so. _clar._ my son shall have ample satisfaction. where is your conscience, fellow? defame a man in office and dignity? now, go out by that door, or i will lay both my hands on you. _grob._ the man must be tipsy. (laughs, and exit.) _clar._ aye, you may laugh, you cursed thief. all my limbs tremble!--some envious man, some fiend has sent him hither.--jack would not betray his native town. scene vi. enter frederica. _clar._ it is not possible. _fred._ only think, dear father-- _clar._ curse the money! _fred._ brother jack is--- _clar._ he has too much. yes, yes, yes! i know, he has too much, and it is impossible that he acquired it all in a fair way; but not so neither. it may have been scraped together somewhat unfairly; but not so neither, not so neither. _fred._ what ails you, pray? what do you talk about jack and his money? _clar._ i cannot bear it, cannot bear his money. _fred._ only think; ranger gernau sends me word, that yesterday the news arrived, that my brother has been made a privy counsellor. _clar._ privy counsellor?--hem!--curse that iron merchant, that-- _fred._ he is now the first man in this town. _clar._ take money! sell privileges! (walks up and down.) it is impossible! father and mother are honest people; he has been sent to church and school, never saw any thing amiss in us; no, nothing amiss in all his life-time. we have worked hard day after day; never indulged ourselves with breakfast or bagging,[ ] that he might have every requisite, that we might spend on him as much as ever we could afford. and now, he is got up so high, and is one of those that rule the country, that now he should be worse than i would suffer a 'prentice boy to be, that i employ in my yard! oh! if that be so, lord take him or me, for i cannot bear it, either in this world or in the next! [exit. [footnote : _bagging_, in the north of england, is the common expression for a meal taken between dinner and supper. and, as it perfectly expresses the meaning of the german _vesperbrod_, i thought myself authorized to adopt it here; particularly as _tea_, in the mouth of a character, like carpenter clarenbach, would appear preposterous. the antiquaries of yorkshire and lancashire derive the word _bagging_ from the old custom of carrying bread and cheese in a bag, in the afternoon, to the labourers in the fields; and this derivation is not altogether improbable. _translator._] _fred._ i do not understand a word of all this. what does he mean? scene vii. enter gernau. _gern._ good morrow, frederica! _fred._ why so ruffled? is that your welcome, after having kept out of the way for two days together? _gern._ things grow worse and worse, between your brother and me, every day. _fred._ why so? _gern._ he would have me do things which i neither can, must, nor will do. scene viii. enter clarenbach. _clar._ jack a privy counsellor, you say? _fred._ gernau says so. _gern._ his diploma arrived yesterday. _clar._ he has not mentioned it to me. _fred._ he will most certainly come to day. _clar._ but could he wait till to day? _fred._ who knows but he wishes to surprise us? _clar._ he is going to be married too. _fred._ my brother? _clar._ i am told all this by strangers. can he turn out so, because he is a greater man than i? or, perhaps, he is altogether bad.--god knows! _fred._ he is so full of business. _clar._ so am i. _fred._ those that work with the head are apt to be more absent than those that work with the hand. _clar._ but is it not a real relaxation to act according to the dictates of the heart? or have the hearts of those people nothing to do with their concerns? if so, they are wretched beings indeed, and i am very sorry for my son, that he must first lose the treasures of his heart to hoard up gold. [exit. scene ix. frederica, gernau. _fred._ tell me immediately, dear gernau, what is the matter between you and my brother? _gern._ he is not a good man, frederica. _fred._ shall i go to him, gernau? _gern._ do not embitter my life, good soul; i have trouble enough besides. your brother will drive me away. _fred._ what? _gern._ he will throw me out of my office. _fred._ why? _gern._ to put a more accommodating man in my place. _fred._ he does not wish to do that certainly, nor could he even effect it. _gern._ he is all-powerful here; his abilities, his connections at court, his office, render every thing possible that he wishes to atchieve. _fred._ and what does he want of you? what displeases him? _gern._ under the pretence of promoting agriculture, he wants the best part of the forest for himself, which is of no great use to the community. and this pretended plea is a garden, he means to lay out in the english style for his own pleasure. _fred._ and should not an industrious man be indulged with some pleasure? _gern._ should he wish to have it at the expence of the public? i must oppose it. _fred._ does he know it? _gern._ yes, he behaved so haughtily to me. _fred._ and you-- _gern._ i thought on his sister,--and held my tongue. _fred._ (reaches him her hand.) gernau! _gern._ he threatened me! _fred._ and you? _gern._ i curbed my passion. he bid me be gone,--and i shall not trouble him again. _fred._ and what do you intend to do as to the forest? _gern._ my duty. _fred._ (draws back her hand.) oh! _gern._ yes, yes! it will cost me your hand, i foresee. _fred._ never!--my affection is fixed, and can never be diverted from the dear object.--your complaisance-- _gern._ i have been complaisant, as far as laid in my power. i cannot be so at the expence of my duty. _fred._ i do not insist on that either. but,--but-- _gern._ what would you wish that your own sentiments of equity forbids you to utter? _fred._ i only wish--i demand nothing--i only wish you to soften your rigid idea of duty, if you can. _gern._ i know nothing but justice, that will not admit of any by-road. and if i were capable of such a sacrifice, whither would it lead me? it would lead me to see you, selling's wife, and to laugh at me. _fred._ must i break with all the world, because our hearts beat in unison? am i criminal to listen to selling's nonsense, because he is the only man through whom i can act upon my brother? _gern._ then i may rely upon you? _fred._ undoubtedly. _gern._ pledge me your hand! _fred._ with all my heart! _gern._ thus love will not forsake me, when i shall fall a victim to my duty. _fred._ i know no deceit, and follow the dictates of my heart. _gern._ in the name of heaven then i go to discharge my duty; it rewards and strengthens. good bye, frederica!--one more word, you are good; but are you resolute? _fred._ i am indeed! _gern._ your brother has plans about you, in which i am most certainly set down for nought.--frederica, frederica, let him drive me hence, but not from you! _fred._ he shall not, he cannot. and no man can render me inconstant to you, but yourself. _gern._ then you are mine, and i am easy. _fred._ and owe no grudge to my brother? _gern._ frederica, i am an honest man. _fred._ whom the purest love shall reward, as far as love can reward! _gern._ adieu, dear frederica! _fred._ adieu, gernau! [exeunt by opposite doors. act ii. scene i. a room in the privy counsellor's, furnished in the modern stile. reissman, lewis. _lew._ i shall have the honour to let the privy counsellor know, that the aulic counsellor reissman waits. (steps into a closet, out of which the privy counsellor immediately comes, and lewis sometime after.) _reiss._ i fly to congratulate you on your well-merited elevation. _p. coun._ i thank you with all my heart. i shall never forget that i am indebted to you for it. _reiss._ i beg,--nay, i entreat-- _p. coun._ your advice. _reiss._ too much modesty. _p. coun._ your self-denial. for you yourself had the justest claims to all the honours, with which you permitted me to be invested. _reiss._ _audaces fortuna._--i am too old. now you should enjoy life, my friend. the merchant will endeavour to get a hundred per cent. if he can; why should the statesman sell his labour to the state at three? away with the silly prejudice, and the retail-trade of your conscientious precepts; carry on your business wholesale, on the sacred principle of self-preservation. _p. coun._ i partly do so, but my father-- _reiss._ i have paid the old honest man a visit. _p. coun._ very kind of you! very kind of you indeed! _reiss._ he persists in his determination of setting the will aside. _p. coun._ ridiculous! _reiss._ he will not suffer the children to go to the hospital, because the institution is intended for old and decayed people. _p. coun._ mere formalities, attached to old age! _reiss._ as for the rest, he appeared pleased with your proposed union with my daughter. _p. coun._ was he! _reiss._ he said many handsome things of the girl. _p. coun._ too much cannot be said in her praise. she is an angel. _reiss._ i humbly thank you.--but he will not accept the office of mayor on any account. _p. coun._ i thought so;--but he must. _reiss._ oh, yes! i must request you to carry that point, for-- _p. coun._ without doubt. _reiss._ for, however pleased i may be with your connection, i could not possibly think of giving my daughter to a man whose father earned his bread as a mechanic. _p. coun._ leave me alone for that. his whole mode of life will be changed. nay, this change has in some measure taken place already. _reiss._ bravo, bravo! _p. coun._ his mansion-- _reiss._ right, right! _p. coun._ his dress-- _reiss._ very necessary. _p. coun._ those pitiful caps of my sister-- _reiss._ oh, nice! oh! there you remove a heavy weight from my mind. and then the chief object, that law-suit-- _p. coun._ you cannot lose it. the will--? _reiss._ i will stick to that, as if rivetted to it with iron. _p. coun._ it speaks in your favour in all its forms. _reiss._ but he is so obstinate in pursuit of the cause, and will-- _p. coun._ he cannot gain it. _reiss._ i think so. but then he has engaged that old foolish lawyer wellenberg, that-- _p. coun._ a fool, and a pedant. _reiss._ true! but then he is such a conscientious fellow; and, besides, you know he is called the champion of the poor and the guardian of orphans. _p. coun._ i have his opinion in my study. mere declamation! nothing else. your answer is sound, legal, and argumentative, and then the testamentary disposition is so plain that it cannot be set aside. if you were inclined to make the plaintiff a present-- _reiss._ o yes, o yes! notwithstanding i am very economical; for all that i acquire is solely intended for my child, and when it shall please heaven to call me, it will devolve to you, my dear sir. _p. coun._ very kind;--but-- enter lewis. _lew._ the widow rieder-- _p. coun._ some other time. _lew._ and counsellor wellenberg-- _p. coun._ the day after to-morrow, at two o'clock. _lew._ then there is old schwartz-- _p. coun._ i cannot be troubled with him now. [exit lewis. _reiss._ always plagued, always tormented.-- _p. coun._ oh! there is no end of it! _reiss._ why! but wealth and honours are very welcome things too. but chiefly mind wealth; wealth is the word. high stations are exposed to storms, like lofty trees in a forest. but, if you have wealth, then come what will. a trunk filled with good bonds is soon packed up. the rest of your moveables may be left to the commissaries, just as you would throw a few bones to the dogs; then retire and go. i am your servant. (going.) [privy counsellor attends him to the door. _reiss._ no ceremony; the morning-hour yields a hundred per cent. [exit. scene ii. privy counsellor, lewis, master clarenbach. _lew._ i will first see. _clar._ why, i heard my son's voice!-- _p. coun._ ah! is it my father?-- _clar._ yes! (reaches him his hand.) god bless you, jack! _p. coun._ (to lewis.) leave us to ourselves. [lewis exit. _clar._ halloo!--i say, monsieur, stop a little, stay a little!--i mean to speak ill of you. _lew._ so? _p. coun._ how so? _clar._ only think, dear jack, all the people you have refused to see, this fellow has been snarling at. (to lewis.) you must know those people in the hall are all as good as myself, and my son has been what i am, and in short we are all--men. whilst the people know that my son has not forgot that his rank and titles are pure gold, they will pass at the highest course of exchange; but, as soon as they discover he has forgot what he has been, then his rank and titles will appear counterfeit. (to the privy counsellor.) they are all in the hall yet, except the old lawyer, who has business elsewhere; i have told them monsieur lewis had behaved very unmannerly, that i would let you know, and that you would come out to them. _p. coun._ but-- _clar._ and that you may remain in currency and value, be so good, jack, and go to them. [privy coun. after a pause, leaves the room. scene iii. master clarenbach, lewis. _lew._ i do not understand master clarenbach's behaviour to me. _clar._ i dare say you do not. but, do you see, i think you ought to mend, or my son ought to send you about your business. to hear people, to say either yes or no, is the least my son can do. if you should attempt to hinder him from doing so, you are a rogue. _lew._ there is such constant intrusion. _clar._ hem! and a great deal of distress too, and-- [exit lewis. scene iv. enter privy counsellor. _p. coun._ well, what should it be? petitions, memorials, poverty, and faint hopes of relief. _clar._ why, if you cannot relieve, mercy on us! _p. coun._ they are repeated so often, and i have so much business-- _clar._ now that you have been made a privy counsellor, i fear it will still be worse! well, heaven grant you health, and may you act as you ought, and all may be well yet. _p. coun._ why, father, did you return the money i sent?-- _clar._ because, thank god! i do not want it. what is the use of having more than is necessary, to supply the wants of life?--i think you have more. _p. coun._ there is no great harm in that. _clar._ but i think there is! people will have strange ideas, and do strange things, when they have too much. if i must tell you my mind, son, i am not altogether pleased to see you raised so high of a sudden, our plain citizens are not altogether satisfied with you and your elevation. they think the other gentlemen shove you near the fire to get the roasted chesnuts out of the coals for themselves, and that you are a good cat's paw. such, for instance, is that bequest to old counsellor reissman. _p. coun._ pray, tell me, father, what induces you to oppose that will, which is legal, though i must own it bears hard on the children. _clar._ jack, you know your father long, though for some time since you have made a stranger of yourself.--what would you think of me, if i had not commenced the suit? _p. coun._ the claim rests on a will. _clar._ which has been obtained, by the old counsellor, by undue influence; is not that your opinion? _p. coun._ can that be proved?-- _clar._ we must see-- _p. coun._ if you cannot prove it, the counsellor will recover. _clar._ he certainly will, and therefore you must assist me to combat him. _p. coun._ who, i? how came you to think so? well, we will leave the cause to take its due course, and so should you.-- _clar._ ay, ay, jack. _p. coun._ besides, i must tell you, reissman proposes to give me his daughter. _clar._ so i hear. the lady has all my best wishes. heaven prosper your union! but sure you would not begin it by an act of injustice! _p. coun._ no, certainly not! but why would you, suppose even though reissman were wrong,--why would you, for the sake of strangers, destroy my happiness? _clar._ can poor, injured, unhappy children, in any situation, be _strangers_ to me? and have wards, intrusted to my care, fewer titles to my assistance than my own children? and have not you, in the name of the magistrates, appointed me one of their guardians? _p. coun._ that, as they are unfortunate, i might see them in good hands. _clar._ why, they are in good hands. i am come to request you to see the business speedily executed. of the verdict itself i will make no mention. you will act as an honest man, or else i must despise you, and look for redress elsewhere. meanwhile, i tell you, the children shall not go to the hospital, because that is impracticable. _p. coun._ father, i have given my word. _clar._ you must recall it. _p. coun._ how can i? _clar._ say you did not understand the matter. it is upon my word better than to expose your name to shame or ridicule, and to fill your mind with inquietude. _p. coun._ father, i love you dearly, but pray do not interfere with my business. _clar._ very well; then you act as privy counsellor, as you think proper; and i, as trustee of the hospital and guardian of the children, will do the same. _p. coun._ cannot we talk of more agreeable things, and drop that question. i wish you so well, but you reject all i propose. _clar._ you make me presents in money, and, i am told, you want to make me mayor of the town. jack, make me no presents! do good to town and country; and, if you can, come after your business is done. i do not care if it be but once or twice every three months; come to me in my timber-yard. then we will close the doors, seat ourselves in the little bower, where, when a boy, you used to sit so industriously about your tasks; there we will spend an hour in happy converse, and drink a glass of old wine that you shall send me; then i will thank god for my dear boy, who has continued to be a good son, and, when you leave me again to repair to your desk, i will give you my blessing, and look after you, till you are quite out of sight! do you see, jack, i ask no more;--i have no occasion for more; but this i earnestly request of you. give me your hand, that you will do it. that is the way i wish you to honour and to please me. _p. coun._ i shall do more, father. pray accept it, and-- _clar._ all your other honours are of little estimation in my sight; these grey hairs, blanched with care and toil, shall never be covered with a long bushy wig; look at these hands, rough with labour; look on your father, as you know his ways; you also know that he is neither to be drawn nor driven out of them; master clarenbach, even in the office of mayor, would not suit your fine apartments and your fine company. what, to remain at home, as motionless as an old statue, scarce permitted to speak to an old friend, lest it should lessen his dignity, or break in on his gravity! what, to remain in such a situation, and see people work and move before his window! jack, that will not do. pray, as i never found fault with you for being too high, do not find fault with me for being too low; it is best suited to my age and inclinations. _p. coun._ certainly not; but mr. reissman insists on it, as a principal condition. _clar._ i hope you know that there is a wide difference betwixt your father and mr. reissman. my axe, since i could raise it, has been employed in raising houses for the industrious, and his pen, since he could handle it, in pulling them down again. _p. coun._ this is the only service you can render me now father; is it not unkind to refuse me then? _clar._ the only service i can render you now? what, if the cares and inquietudes of rank and office should lay you on a sick bed, who would attend you with so much tenderness and affection as your old father? what if your house should take fire, i would be the first to ascend through the flames; but i will not climb into office and rank, i tell you that. _p. coun._ you must give way, father.-- _clar._ you now stand on high; may you so stand respected by your fellow citizens and approved by your own conscience is the sincerest wish of your old father! therefore, i prefer my complaints to you against a man; his name is grobman, an ironmonger. this wretch wanted to persuade me, that you had taken two thousand dollars from another, to let him have the monopoly. he offered me two hundred dollars, if i would gain you over to his interest. arrest the vile slanderer. _p. coun._ that fellow is an ideot. _clar._ god forbid! he is much worse. i have told him i would inform against him, and so i have to a few of my acquaintances. _p. coun._ why so? _clar._ that you should make an example of him. _p. coun._ what is all this fuss? why do you interfere with my concerns? _clar._ concerns? i am as anxious for your honour as i am for your life! do not you bear my name, which has always been as good as the best bond, in this place, time out of mind? are not you my son? are not you the representative of our sovereign? is not the least stain visible on your ermine? is it, or is it not true, jack?--no, no, i say; it is impossible, it cannot be true! _p. coun._ it is possible; it is so, but done in a manner which cannot-- _clar._ do not speak, i will not know it. i---i--cannot (going from him) look on you. is that your wisdom! your honour! your integrity! have i, therefore,--well,--if matters are so with you, then do as you like; enquire no more after me, come no more to see me; you ought to be ashamed of yourself, in the presence of your honest father. farewell, jack; repent and amend. i will visit you no more, till you have altered your ways, and divided your cursed mammon among the poor. live on your honest earnings; then come to me, tender me a clean hand, and i will bless you. (exit.) scene v. privy counsellor, (alone.) _p. coun._ whimsical, honest man!--whoever is forced up to the giddy summit, must hold as fast as he can, and by what he can. scene iv. enter counsellor selling. _p. coun._ what part of the world have you come from selling? _sell._ from miss frederica. _p. coun._ from my sister? how is she? has the new furniture been carried home? _sell._ beautiful, splendid! thanks to your care! old papa will open all his eyes when he comes home. all the old furniture has been carried off, and the room looks very elegant with all the new things you have sent. _p. coun._ and frederica?-- _sell._ she was so uneasy, she did not know what to do with herself. she fixed her eyes on every article as it was carried off, as if she took leave of an old friend. but the large easy chair still remains; she grasped it with both hands, and would not suffer it to be removed. _p. coun._ these people must be metamorphosed; we must see how they reconcile themselves to it. _sell._ but, what a man you are! what a noble heart, to be thus attached to your family! _p. coun._ very natural. i am indebted to my father for so many things;--and frederica is a good-natured creature. _sell._ more than that. i know none of her sex that strives so anxiously to cultivate her understanding, and to exalt her faculties to an extraordinary height. _p. coun._ (gives him his hand.) i am glad you find her so. _sell._ with your permission, frederica will now assume a different dress, better suited to the furniture you have sent. _p. coun._ i have to thank you for this attention. _sell._ by your direction i do all that lies in my power to fan the girl's ambition. if that mr. gernau only-- _p. coun._ that fool! he shall be removed. all has been prepared, and is now determined on; he goes to friethal. his patent is in hand. _sell._ it is too lenient for his stubborn opposition. this indulgence on your side will gain you every heart. _p. coun._ do you think i am rather popular? _sell._ popular? people venerate you with enthusiasm! and what have you not done to acquire this popularity? the formation of the new roads, under your wise regulation, without any burthen to the individual! the increase of commerce-- _p. coun._ i have done a great deal; i think i may claim some merit. _sell._ the abolition of beggary; the institution for the support of the indigent-- _p. coun._ oh! there are so many things to be done yet! _sell._ and you have so much power in your hand. what do you say to my last performance? _p. coun._ i have perused it. to be candid, you must apply yourself more to solid knowledge. there are glaring faults in it.-- _sell._ under your inspection-- _p. coun._ with all my heart. but you must do more, and then the faults in orthography are too numerous. call in the assistance of a good grammarian. _sell._ i will endeavour-- _p. coun._ your motion in the court-house of yesterday, that the foot-passenger should be prohibited to walk in the middle of the street, has provoked some laughter. _sell._ i wanted to propose something in my turn too. _p. coun._ it is too trifling. wait for the motions of the senior barristers, and-- _sell._ i wanted to give myself a little air of consequence by a motion of my own, hence-- _p. coun._ no, no. if you have nothing of greater consequence to propose, you had better walk like the rest in the middle of the street. (they retire to the closet.) scene vii. master clarenbach's house. instead of the furniture which appeared in the first act, a modern writing-desk and handsome chairs. enter frederica, followed by a servant with a large band-box. _fred._ my name is frederica; what do you want with me? _serv._ to take these things, madam. _fred._ i will take nothing. _serv._ and i will take back nothing. _fred._ who has sent you to me? _serv._ somebody that has a right, i suppose. (puts down the band-box, and retires.) _fred._ (alone.) it may remain there, i will not touch it; i will not look at it. (going from the band-box.) sure, there are some articles of dress for me in it. it is odd that they will not leave us as we wish, to our own wishes. (draws a step nearer.) it may not be for me perhaps. (reads the direction at a distance.) to miss frederica clarenbach; but it is addressed to me, i see! if any person,--if gernau should happen to come in, i must remove the box. (takes hold of it.) quite light! as light as a feather! what does it contain? what is that to me? (takes it up, and walks a few paces.) if gernau should now meet me, it would look as if i wanted to conceal something. dear me! (places it at some distance on the floor,) my brother must have sent it! somebody that has a right to do so, the fellow said; that must be my brother, and so i may look at it. besides, my father will certainly send back the furniture, and then this may bear the rest company. now, if i should not even look at it, it would seem as if i despised my brother. no, i will open and look at the things; but certainly i will keep none. (kneels down, cuts the strings, opens the lid, and starts up in surprise.) ay dear! how pretty! (kneels down again.) a cloak! o what beautiful lace! hem! why, a cloak is not too gay for tradesfolks; i think it is part of their dress; i may keep it. (puts it on.) as if it had been made for me! (kneels down again.) a hat! a very pretty one indeed!--but a feather,--no, god forbid! (pause.) all but that feather,--i might wear it without a feather. a new hat, i wonder how i look in it! (puts it on, and then steps up to the glass.) pretty well;--and the cap under the hat,--that looks like the picture of the handsome english lady at my brother's. (returns to the box.) what is that red stuff? (takes out a gown.) rose-colour! (astonished, calls out aloud.) satin! (the gown drops on the floor?) satin! god forbid i should wear satin! that is too gaudy, too glossy, too shewy; it would draw all the neighbours to their windows. (takes up the gown.) i hope i have spoiled nothing. (hangs it over a chair, kneels down, and continues to examine the box.) scene viii. enter sophia reissman. sophia knocks. frederica screams, and covers her face with her hands. _soph._ (comes in.) any good people in this house? (fred. rises and curtesies, her eyes cast down.) they must be all dead, as no one is to be found. _fred._ i am quite alone in the house, madam. _soph._ do you know me, sweet girl? _fred._ you are, miss--yes--but-- _soph._ reissman. the aulic counsellor reissman's daughter. _fred._ so; i am glad; i know it well enough; but pray do me the favour to be seated. _soph._ my visit will be but short. i am come to form an acquaintance with the sister of a gentleman who is not indifferent to me, as you may know perhaps. _fred._ we have been told, that he is to have the honour-- _soph._ and then i wish to put a question to you, in whose praise i have heard so much, and for whom i entertain great esteem. i expect you will answer it candidly. _fred._ you do me an honour. _soph._ nothing of that. we are going to be nearer,--nay, very nearly connected with one another. my happiness is concerned in that question; and so i had rather hear you say, that the confidence i repose in you gives you pleasure, if it really does so. _fred._ pardon my surprise. i am not myself in this moment. i am masqued in a dress that is not suited to my condition in life. my brother has sent it to me. i mean to return the whole. now i have told you so, i am more easy; and i am now ready to answer every question you may ask with candour. _soph._ well then, i will candidly own, that i love and esteem your brother for what he is, for what he yet may become, and for what, i hope, he will yet be willing to become. in one respect only i am quite a stranger to him, and in this respect i must remain so, if--and therefore i have applied to you. upon what footing, pray, are you with him, you and your father? _fred._ we? upon a good footing! (after a pause with affected vivacity.) oh, upon a very good footing! _soph._ i say no. _fred._ we are, indeed. _soph._ and again i say no. his silence made me suspect him. and you, my good girl, if you were quite satisfied with his conduct, quite so, as a sister would be with a good brother, you would, in answer to my question, have told me all that love, gratitude, and benevolence, can inspire in one continued strain. you, therefore, are not, at least not particularly so, upon good terms. whose fault can that be? i am sure not your good father's: report contradicts that; and, i think, i have partly convinced myself of it. consequently, it is your brother's fault; and that i do not like. _fred._ your suppositions crowd so upon me-- _soph._ not my suppositions, but truth. had you satisfactory truth to return, you would not hesitate so much. _fred._ it may be easily conceived, that the difference of rank between him and us will occasion many trifling differences, for which we blame my brother more than we ought perhaps. _soph._ it may be so partly;--but then it should be no more than trifling, and as such ought always to be removed by him who has the advantage. scene ix. enter gernau. gernau, startled at frederica's dress, discovers the satin gown;--steps forward; once more looks at frederica, bows politely to sophia, and is going to withdraw. _fred._ stay, if you please.-- _gern._ i do not wish to intrude. _soph._ no ceremonies; our conversation is at an end. it is not the last we shall have, i hope. in that case it has been of use, if not to us all, most certainly to me. frederica is greatly embarrassed, while gernau, unable to conceal his chagrin, and to keep his countenance, examines the satin. _soph._ (observing both.) if i mistake not, sir, you have a particular interest that every dress should become this amiable girl;--you certainly are of my opinion, that all the pretty things her brother has just now sent her cannot add to her charms. (curtesies to him and to frederica.) good bye. (goes.) (fred. attends her.) _soph._ (turns quick round.) if my visit has proved agreeable, i beg you will not attend me; and you, sir, may meanwhile confirm, that i am right in my opinion of my young friend. (exit quickly.) scene x. frederica, gernau. _fred._ i shall stay then, dear friend. what do you think of me? (takes off her cloak and hat.) _gern._ i think i find you quite in the modern stile. _fred._ all sent by my brother. _gern._ very gallant! and then the furniture, all is strange to me. _fred._ all from my brother. _gern._ what is meant? perhaps in honour of my departure? _fred._ departure!-- _gern._ i am going to be removed from this place. _fred._ where to? _gern._ to freethal. _fred._ gernau! _gern._ yes, yes! your brother, i see, has great views concerning this house. o frederica, i came in such a melancholy mood!--your gaudy dress, and all this superb furniture, cast such a gloom over my mind. _fred._ you removed? and, when he robs my heart of all that is dear to it, he sends me satin and tinsel, and hopes by that to bribe me. what a mean opinion he must entertain of me! and how i dislike him! _gern._ frederica, what is to become of me! when we shall be at so great a distance from each other; when, in obedience to my official duties, i must fly over hill and valley, your picture in my mind, and my heart beating only for you, the image of the poor huntsman will soon be effaced by the splendid objects with which you are going to be dazzled. _fred._ no! and away with the first temptation they have prepared for me; help me to pack up these things; they shall be returned this minute. (takes the satin, gernau helps her to fold it up, and they carry it to the box; she kneels down to put the gown in, whilst he holds the other end; he stoops and looks in the box, and then says,) _gern._ what is that? _fred._ (holding up the gown?) what? _gern._ a pocket-book! _fred._ put it down. all shall go. i will keep nothing. _gern._ what paper is that, that sticks out there? _fred._ take it. _gern._ (pulls out a note.) that is not your brother's hand. _fred._ i have not yet seen that pocket-book. _gern._ oh, very likely! (reads.) "these dresses are destined to envelope the angel i adore; accept them as a small token of my sincere affections. _selling._"--take, for my last adieu, contempt, thou faithless perfidious girl! (throws the pocket-book at her feet, and flies off.) _fred._ gernau! scene xi. enter master clarenbach. _clar._ what is the matter here? _fred._ stop him! _gern._ leave me!-- _clar._ (lays hold of him.) well, stop a moment! what is it? what, (looks round,) good heaven, what is all this! _fred._ my brother!-- _gern._ (shoving the box towards him.) counsellor selling! _clar._ where is my furniture? who had the impudence? who has permitted it? girl, daughter, frederica! where was you when all this was done? where is my furniture, my furniture? what are your intentions, people? (looking at the box.) what is that, what is it? _gern._ counsellor selling's livery. _fred._ an incomprehensible present for me. _clar._ pack up; lay hold; each of you a piece; carry it into the passage! ere night all shall be packed up, and packed off too. (all take a piece of furniture, gernau takes the band-box.) stop, stop! each two pieces! take up--(whilst they are each taking two pieces, he discovers the easy chair, and shoves it into the middle of the room.) so thou art here yet, old friend! that is right! (lifts up both his arms.) you are the capital of my rank in life; (giving a knock against the chair,) and thou art the land-mark to point out how far i should extend the use of that capital. away with the rest! away, i say! (they carry off the furniture.) act iii. scene i. the aulic counsellor reissman's house. enter reissman, with hat and cane. _reiss._ not here neither? (rings the bell.) where then can she be,--my young lady, my daughter? enter servant. _reiss._ where is my daughter? _serv._ in the garden. _reiss._ run and tell her to come directly. _serv._ (exit.) now it is done, (walking up and down pleased.) now it is right, and--(stops suddenly,) but that perverse old-fashioned fellow, with his pious lamentations--pshaw! my intended son-in-law must manage him, and that quickly too, or he shall not have the girl. he is in love with her and the money,--a twofold inducement! he is in my hand, because his conscience is not altogether free,--a triple security! scene ii. enter sophia. _soph._ you have ordered-- _reiss._ i congratulate you, my dear daughter, on your approaching nuptials with the privy counsellor. the suit is won; the bequest is confirmed; the money is mine; _victoria_! _soph._ (coldly.) so? _reiss._ yes, truly! well, what does my dear child say? _soph._ you have carried off the prize. _reiss._ yes! that is what i have just said. _soph._ then you have attained your wish. _reiss._ attained your wish! is that a reply, when , pounds have fallen to my lot? is that the behaviour of a daughter to her father on so happy an occasion. _soph._ dear father, will not you permit me to reflect a little on those that have lost that immense sum. _reiss._ they are entire strangers to us both, no way related to us. _soph._ the legacy was left by a stranger too. _reiss._ and now it is mine; and if thou wilt not rejoice with me-- _soph._ excuse me, i cannot. _reiss._ then i will call in persons from the street, that they may share my pleasure. (pauses.) speak, unnatural child, and rejoice! _soph._ i am silent, i do not wish to offend you, i love you with all the tenderness of a dutiful child. _reiss._ would i had a son that knew how to place a due value on this, to enjoy it, to double it, then it would be worth while! but now, when i wish to enjoy the result of all my plans, and the successes i have met with in all my life, i have your sentimental feelings to encounter; and then i would rather relate my happiness to one of the ever-green pyramids in the garden than to you. _soph._ o heaven! _reiss._ and who is to reap the benefit but you, and you only? when i am gone, you may settle annuities upon all the beggars of the country, travel through the rugged mountains, waste my dear wealth in cottages, and scatter hard dollars like pebbles. _soph._ give me but a sufficient allowance, restore the remainder to brunnig's children, and i will thank you on my knees. _reiss._ indeed! aye, if i were to give you the money and the bond, to divide among those brats, it would make a nice anecdote in the newspapers. zounds! i am apt to think, that, when you come to the possession of all my property, you will scarce do so much as to erect a small monument to the memory of your father. _soph._ alas! brunnig's children would form the fittest groupe of weeping orphans around such a monument. _reiss._ ungrateful wretch! is this the return for my parental affection? was it not through the view of gaining this legacy that i raised a deputy to the rank of a privy counsellor? who is my wealth to devolve to but you and him? scene iii. enter privy counsellor clarenbach. _reiss._ there he is! thanks, my hearty thanks for the dispatch! that is what i call business. that is what i call a specimen of a useful son-in-law.--now miss may fix the happy day. she will tell us more about it at dinner, i will step down to the cellar, and take care that we shall have the best it can afford. we will pour liquid gold down our throats to solemnize the acquisition of solid gold. [exit. scene iv. sophia, privy counsellor clarenbach. sophia wipes her eyes. _p. coun._ (after a pause.) why does my dear sophia weep? _soph._ my father is pleased with you. _p. coun._ i see i am the cause of your grief. _soph._ does your conscience tell you so? _p. coun._ your tears do. _soph._ (after a pause.) well, then, answer my tears. p, coun. (shrugs up his shoulders.) the dead letter has decided in this business, as it does in many more, where our feelings would decide in a different manner, but dare not. _soph._ and dare not!--further-- _p. coun._ further it fills me with the deepest distress to see my sophia thus distressed. i am not to blame. i would give any thing to alter the circumstance. _soph._ any thing?--do not be offended at this question. it conveys no doubt. it contains my firmest confidence in the heart of the man to whom i am going to tender mine,--to whom i have tendered it already. yes, clarenbach, i do not conceal it from you; i could not leave you without giving myself up to those tears. _p. coun._ sophia, my angel! the promised companion of my life, my guardian angel, the most precious gift of providence! how dare i presume to merit your partiality? no! i shall never be able to merit you. such purity and goodness of mind! how can i convince you of the sincerity of my esteem? _soph._ clarenbach! _p. coun._ (takes her by the hand.) sophia! _soph._ a wife has many duties to discharge. and i must tell you before hand, i shall never content myself merely to be your wife, unless i am able to influence you and your actions. _p. coun._ to bless those for whom i am to act. _soph._ but what will be my powers over you? i know the first generous impulse of your heart is always good; but then ambition,--let me speak truth to you,--avarice, the offspring of ambition, leads you astray, and contaminates the source of your first feelings. _p. coun._ (looks aside?) it is so! (after a pause?) love will buoy me up. _soph._ i shall crave little for myself; but in a just cause i shall at all times insist upon having every thing entire. i shall not relent; the man of my heart must act in full; his actions and motives must appear as clear before the eye of the world as they do in the eye of heaven.--now the question is, will you, on these conditions, give me your hand? answer me? _p. coun._ (drops at his feet.) sophia! _soph._ rise! i expect no answer from love, but from your conviction. try your own self. the answer, which you are to give me now, is more than that which you are to give at the foot of the altar; there we are to exchange vows, and all will be settled; but here,--by ourselves,--no witnesses but ourselves,--here, where nothing influences us but the sentiment of future happiness or sorrow, which we create to ourselves, and our eternal responsibility, which, at every motion of the pulse, admonishes us with increased force:--to speak truth,--here we are to unite our hearts for ever,--or separate. once more then i repeat, on different conditions i will not accept your hand; am i your choice on these conditions! _p. coun._ yes, yes, yes! do not you read in my eyes that i understand you, that i look up to you as the source of future bliss; that i repent the past; that with candour and faith, from the bottom of my heart, in this delightful solemn moment, i crave your hand, and feel myself quite happy. _soph._ well my friend, my dear, my beloved friend! i give credit to all you say, and feel unspeakably happy; even your failings lie on the road to rare perfections, and i vow to heaven that i hope those failings will soon vanish. _p. coun._ you open to me the prospect of paridisic futurity. i shall be active in the promoting the benefit of my country, and rise superior to dirty, narrow, selfish views! recompensed by your approbation, your joys, and sometimes by your tears. your gentle hand shall reach me the petitions of the wretched, the widow, and the orphan,--and my abilities shall be called forth in their behalf. o sophia! our wedding day shall long be remembered by the cottagers; every face shall beam with smiles. _soph._ may it be so! may we, hand in hand, conduct our vows pure to the altar, that we may become securities to each other for our future happiness. in virtue of your solemn promise, and as your bride, i lay down two conditions previous to our union; if you assent, i will be your wife, not otherwise. _p. coun._ speak, that i may have an opportunity to thank you; to promise and perform. _soph._ the first is, that my father, convinced by you, shall instantly? resign the legacy into the hands that ought to receive it.--o clarenbach! here the daughter must remain silent, and your conviction must finish what would rend my heart! (privy counsellor claps his hand together.--sophia continues after a pause.) the second condition is, that, as i feel i demand much, though convinced i could demand no less,--you shall shorten that state of uncertainty, and by three o'clock this afternoon bring me an answer on that subject. you are not to bring it here; but to the place which this paper (taking out of her pocket a sealed paper) points out. you must not open it till five minutes before three. pledge me your hand. _p. coun._ (pressing her hand.) my word of honour! _soph._ (after a pause, during which she has been gazing on him with tenderness, utters in a steady tone,) adieu, (going,) my friend! _p. coun._ (without parting with her hand.) o sophia, sophia! what have you demanded! _soph._ (having gently disengaged her hand.) the chief judge of my country cannot wish to give me the hand which signed the deed that robs orphans of their right! and, if he thinks he has performed his duty as a judge, let him blush as a man, if he means to conduct me and the spoil at one and the same time to his house. if the man, whom i and the people honour, cannot feel so, the sentiment of my own worth will teach me how to forget him. [exit. _p. coun._ sophia,--girl,--soul, to which i know no equal! thou hast raised and again precipitated me to the deepest abyss. you shewed me a glimpse of heaven, and then veiled the bright view from my enraptured sight. noble, kind, cruel girl! oh, i could weep as i did in the first impression of love! (throws himself in a chair.) i could weep virtuous tears! oh! what now am i, what do i now feel! o the power of pure love!--without thee i cannot exist. (starts up.) sophia! better being! forget the past, build thy requests upon the future; they commit murder on thy father and me! (going, meets counsellor wellenberg at the door.) scene v. privy counsellor clarenbach, counsellor wellenberg. _well._ most honoured sir. _p. coun._ what is your pleasure, sir? _well._ i am forced, by necessity, to go in quest of you, sir; the suit of the poor orphans-- _p. coun._ is determined; the will is confirmed. _well._ i know. (pulls out a paper.) this is the decree. the oftener i peruse it, and the longer i consider it, the more it resembles a poor chest forced open, beat to pieces, and in the end carried off. _p. coun._ you grow impertinent, sir. _well._ no, most honoured sir! but i am filled with spirit and courage, like an old trusty servant, armed with perseverance and justice in the cause of the orphan, which calls aloud to heaven for redress. that i am, and that you will find me. _p. coun._ do you intend to appeal? _well._ yes, i do, indeed. _p. coun._ well, do so, and leave me. _well._ no, no; i will not leave you. i appeal to you, most honoured sir, not _qua judex_, but _qua homo_, _qua homo_, who believes in the day of judgment, and, at the sound of the last trump, would wish to be called to the right; not to be left among the damned, where many an aulic counsellor will be found, i am afraid. _p. coun._ i honour the feelings that animate you, sir; but they are foreign to the affair. appeal in form, at-- _well._ to avoid all _replicas_, _duplicas_, _et fatalia_, that may delay and put off the cause, i will put you an _argumentum_, that, _eo ipso_, shall invalidate your sentence, and re-instate the poor children in their right, assigned to them by god and justice. _p. coun._ (pauses.) are you possessed of such an argument? (with surprise.) it will be welcome. _well._ indeed! what you should call truly welcome?-- _p. coun._ by heaven, very welcome! _well._ then give me the embrace of a good man, (privy counsellor goes to embrace him,) without touching my hands, which at this present time labour under the _chiragra_. (embraces him.) so our town has doubted your humanity, and been of opinion that it is detained as a prisoner in a gold purse.--you blush;--well, that for a privy counsellor is a good sign; i will circulate it among the multitude. now my _argumentum_ is, that-- scene vi. enter aulic counsellor reissman. _reiss._ ay, see there our old honest friend wellenberg. (shakes him by the hand.) _well._ oh!--oh dear, oh dear! that god-- _reiss._ what is the matter? _well._ (puts one hand in his bosom.) _quoad_, old and honest? yes, _quoad_, friend?--the _status amicitiæ_ case cannot exist; for, if that were the case, you ought to have known that i am afflicted with the _chiragra_, and not to have squeezed my hands so as to make me cry out in such harsh tones, for which i ought to crave, and do crave, pardon of my most honoured sir. _p. coun._ a particular circumstance has taken place. the gentleman thinks he has found an argument that will invalidate the sentence pronounced in the cause of the disputed legatees, and re-instate the heirs of brunnig in that property. _reiss._ what? _well._ yes, it is so. doctor kannenfeld, namely, has been visited by heaven with a severe fit of illness, and brought near the gates of death. moved by the exhortations of his spiritual director, he sent for me to attend, and, amidst tears and groans, confessed that he has deprived the children of their lawful property-- _p. coun._ what is that? _reiss._ (frightened.) how? _well._ being, by a certain _quidam_, whom the finger of heaven, whilst we are here speaking about the matter, has severely touched, persuaded, and bribed, partly to conceal, and even partly to deny the insanity of the testatrix, at the time when the will was made, which robs the true heirs of their due. _p. coun._ (in a low voice.) my god! (pauses.) _well._ it is so. _reiss._ (embarrassed) is doctor kannenfeld ill? ay, ay? _well._ he is very ill. he has stated and deposed all the particulars concerning the certain _quidam_. _reiss._ well,--and,-- _well._ ay, if i were in your stead, i would say to myself, "true, i have won the cause, but i will not keep what is not mine;" your conscience then would applaud you, and your fellow-citizens would esteem you; you would find consolation under every affliction, and when the cold hand of death had arrested almost every faculty, and benumbed almost every sense, your soul would look up with trembling confidence to heaven. the poor orphans would gather round your dying bed, and weep for their second father. thus speaks old wallenberg, gentlemen, whose life has been spent in settling the disputes of this world according to the mild precepts of christianity, a religion that at once consults our happiness here and hereafter. [exit. _p. coun._ (to reissman.) for heaven's sake! _reiss._ poh! no matter, (calls after wellenberg.) mr. wellenberg! _well._ (turns round, without however coming back.) well? _p[oe]nitet me?_ _reiss._ what ails dr. kannenfeld? _well._ a burning fever. _reiss._ so? ho ho! a burning fever!--ha, ha, ha! old gentleman!--and his intellects? when a man lies in a raging fever, and denounces honest people, what credit ought to be attached to it? _well._ _in lucidis intervallis?_ _reiss._ burning fever is only another word for madness; the denunciations of a madman is valid only with madmen. _well._ shall i take them in the presence of witnesses? shall the faculty make an affidavit of the state of his mind? _reiss._ do as you please. _well._ and should he die and leave such a deposition? _reiss._ then it is the deposition of a madman. _well._ hem! (musing.) and if, aided by all the courts, i were to put you to an oath concerning the foul means you employed to get that will made in your favour-- _reiss._ what then? _well._ then you will-- _p. coun._ it is a disagreeable affair i see; and mr. reissman has already declared that at all events he was disposed, through mere benevolence, to give up part of the legacy. _reiss._ what? _well._ what he means to do, let him do in full, and not by halves. _reiss._ nothing; not a single penny! as you want to compel me, not a single penny! your sick madman is a calumniator, and so-- _well._ _vera laus est laudari a viro laudato._ _reiss._ now, do not rouze my passion, but get you gone. in writing, do as you think proper; i shall know what to do on my side. _well._ _fiat!_--then i will set to work, that the judgment of god may be made manifest on the unjust. [exit. scene vii. privy counsellor clarenbach, aulic counsellor reissman. _p. coun._ (confused.) sir, you see me go perplexed-- _reiss._ do not you talk, you have spoiled all. _p. coun._ i will run after him. _reiss._ you shall not, sir. _p. coun._ you are undone. _reiss._ who says so? _p. coun._ god forbid you should take the oath. _reiss._ instead of standing there by the side of that insect of the law, like a scholar that has received a wrap over his knuckles, you ought to have thundered him down with the voice of a judge, with influence and authority. _p. coun._ but i knew nothing of those shocking circumstances before. _reiss._ hem! as if there was any difference between persuading a foolish woman to make a will, or getting a fellow that is half mad to draw it up. the former, however, you have supposed to be the case, and yet your morality sustained no shock. _p. coun._ but the oath?-- _reiss._ your pretended delicacy of conscience revolts at it; the mere cowardice of a boy. who are you, that now takes the part of conscience against me? are you a better man than i? _p. coun._ whose work is it? _reiss._ you are a greater coward, but not the better man. do not presume to raise yourself an inch above me. you have sold both right and bread. _p. coun._ sir, the pupil may yet recede. _reiss._ if the master will let him; but the master holds him in his hand. if he recedes, mind that he must shrink into his original insignificance. he must hide from this world, for i--i shall not fall alone. if i fall, the ground around shall tremble! do you take me? _p. coun._ horrid and abominable! _reiss._ perhaps you imagine, that i have transformed the carpenter's son into a privy counsellor, merely for the sake of having him for a son-in-law? or because you are master of a tolerable good stile? no, you shall serve me, because you are both good enough and bad enough for the purpose. _p. coun._ but i will not, i will not! i say, with all the resolution, with all the exertion of every one of those good feelings which you would sear and benumb. _reiss._ too late. you are so entangled, that you can neither advance nor recede. you are fixed where i have placed you.--thus much for the present. now leave me in my native good humour. as to the old lawyer, i can soon manage him, never fear--get the better of your squeamish conscience, and come to dinner. _p. coun._ i cannot. _reiss._ i desire it,--i insist upon it. scene viii. enter counsellor selling. _sell._ miss has sent me up;--dinner is on the table. _reiss._ come, gentlemen. _sell._ you have won the day. _reiss._ undoubtedly. _sell._ i wish you joy. _reiss._ now here is the privy counsellor, who puzzles his head about some talk concerning the will. _sell._ ah, that should not puzzle me. _reiss._ _beati possidentes!_ either, or-- _p. coun._ or!---there is the rub. scene iv. enter master clarenbach. _clar._ with your permission, gentlemen, i want to speak with my son. _reiss._ by yourselves? _clar._ hem!--i should think so! _reiss._ well, then do not let us wait long. (to the privy counsellor, half audible.) you have understood, me sufficiently, i think.--servant, master clarenbach. come along, counsellor. [exeunt. scene x. privy counsellor, master clarenbach. _clar._ i must come to you once more;--have you seen old wellenberg? _p. coun._ yes. _clar._ well, what do you say about it? _p. coun._ i am shocked. _clar._ thank god! what do you mean to do? _p. coun._ alas! what can i do? _clar._ jack, your honour is already in great arrears with our town, and your conscience does not altogether keep a fair day-book. i ask you, in the name of god, what do you mean to do? _p. coun._ all i can, father! _clar._ if you are in earnest, come along with me; let us go from hence. _p. coun._ why so soon,--and whither? _clar._ fly, fly from the brink of destruction. you must not dine here, you must not remain here any longer. you must not marry into this family. _p. coun._ the girl is my good genius. i cannot leave her. _clar._ then her father, that bad genius, will not leave you! do not struggle between the two. come along with me; do as you ought; be afraid of no man, confide in god, and hope! you will have the girl at last. come along with me. _p. coun._ i wish i could! were i not at once rivetted down here by the demon of evil, and irresistibly bid to stay by the power of virtue! _clar._ jack, dear jack, my son, do not send me away without you; come along with me. _p. coun._ i cannot; you see i cannot. _clar._ god have mercy on thee! thou art undone! _p. coun._ it may be. i am undone whether i stay or go. and so i will stay and strive, and see what i can yet retrieve of my honour. _clar._ how can you save the honour of your situation in life, if the honour of your heart be lost, and that must be lost among these people?--you have removed honest gernau, because he acts up to his duty.--your sister weeps bitterly,--the town despises you;--i have not yet frowned on you. and will not do so now, because i pity you. but i will leave this town, and take shelter with honest gernau, who is to be my son-in-law. _p. coun._ you will leave this town? _clar._ i do not wish it. i shall, with tears, leave my timber-yard and the work which hitherto i have carried on with pleasure and success. but as there is no remedy to save you from destruction, i must go. i cannot witness it. _p. coun._ is it my fault, if-- _clar._ your faults are many and great; your native town knows them, and despises you. i cannot see you lowered thus, jack. it has not been in my power to make a great man of you, but i have educated you to be an honest man. i have taken care of the tree, while young, and now it is grown up, one branch decays after the other. and if it must be so, that no green sprig shall henceforth flourish, then i will turn my eyes from it, visit it no more, nor live on the spot where the withered stem, that i am so fond of, shall fall. _p. coun._ father! _clar._ i cannot weep; but i feel myself very ill on your account. enter a servant. _serv._ the company is waiting for the privy counsellor. _p. coun._ i am coming. [exit servant. _clar._ dear son, do not let me go without you. behold! you may still go with me as half a good man; we will all strive to mend the other bad half.--have pity on yourself and me; you stand, upon my word, on the spot where the road divides,--the bad people in there, and here your old father. they hold out to you good and high life; i offer you peace and happiness.--for god's sake, jack, follow me! _p. coun._ (embraces him.) i cannot do that; but i vow to you i will yet do much. _clar._ that is a good word, and no more. farewell, i will set off.--i shall not see you again. once more give me your hand. _p. coun._ no, i shall not do that. i will not part with you in this manner. _clar._ it is best so;--it shakes my whole frame,--and my daughter has likewise a claim on my life! come then once more to this heart, that once delighted in you.--(embraces him.) _p. coun._ father!-- _clar._ you weep over yourself! god! that it should come to this!--now farewell; i forgive thee, and so does thy sister. may god take thy wealth from thee, that thou mayest amend, and sometime leave this world in peace!--farewell! (attempts to go.) scene xi. enter aulic counsellor reissman. _reiss._ well, we are waiting. _clar._ (pulling his son towards him.) you would take him away from me,--tear him out of my arms,--drag him away!--he is my son, and no father will tamely suffer his son to precipitate himself into perdition. jack, i will not leave thee, i will not yield thee up!--thou art mine, nature and thy heart have closely interwoven us together; wilt thou, of thy own accord, leave me? _p. coun._ (throws his arms round him.) no, i cannot;--i will follow you hence! _clar._ god be praised, my son is saved! [exeunt arm in arm.--reissman follows them a few steps, sets his arms a-kembow, and looks after them. act iv. scene i. aulic counsellor reissman's, the same room as in the preceding act. aulic counsellor reissman enters in a passion; sophia follows. _reiss._ not a word, not a word more, not a single syllable of that silly fool! what, to leave me and you, as if we were infected with the plague and breathed contagion? i cannot bear the affront, it shall not go unavenged. i had rather die a thousand deaths. _soph._ was it not his father that desired him to go with him? and you know he ought to obey him. _reiss._ who am i, and what is his father? do not name him any more in my hearing; you must not see him any more, nor even think of him. that petty privy counsellor is now dead and buried to me. _soph._ by your advice i listened to his addresses. _reiss._ forget him then by my command. scene ii. enter servant. _serv._ grobman, the ironmonger. _reiss._ very well, very well; shew him in. [exit servant. _reiss._ (to sophia.) you may retire, go! _soph._ your commands [exit. _reiss._ fie upon him! a creature that i raised from obscurity!--a fellow, who eight years ago was a petty fogger, whom i have raised to the rank of a privy counseller!--i was a fool when i did so;--such a fellow soar over my head! (stamps with his foot.) i would sooner see the whole frame of nature dissolve. i will not lose sight of my object; i will proceed with spirit and caution. i have raised the useless pile, i will pull it down again. scene iii. enter grobman. _reiss._ (calm and friendly.) what is your pleasure, dear mr.----? _grob._ benniger has obtained the monopoly. _reiss._ you do not say so, do you? grab. the privy counsellor is to procure it for dollars, which sum is to be paid this afternoon. _reiss._ impossible! _grob._ it is but too true. the money is to be paid to counsellor selling. _reiss._ (confidentially.) i must tell you that selling has already mentioned something to me about it. the young man's conscience is alarmed. he does not like to lend a hand in those sort of things. but i would not believe it. _grob._ it is but too certain. _reiss._ o lord! who could think any thing like it of such a man? that is mean, that is--that must not be permitted. ay, ay! and the minister prefers such a man, reposes confidence in him, because men, like me, take him by the hand. they think, because such a man is of a low extraction, he must have the interest of the lower class at heart. and then he will betray and sell the state! _grob._ as an inhabitant, i ought to have the preference to a stranger. _reiss._ most undoubtedly. _grob._ i am very willing to go to some expence too, only-- _reiss._ not a single penny; god forbid i should be guilty of such a sin! that contract with benniger must be annulled. _grob._ if that were possible, i would with all my heart-- _reiss._ ay, it must be so. i am very intimate with the privy counsellor. he was to have my daughter; but i will never give her to a man like him. you must furnish me immediately with a plea, in which you must develope the whole transaction. _grob._ good god! the privy counsellor! _reiss._ i give you my word and hand, as an honest man, i will run all the consequences. in such a case one is in conscience bound; only let me have the declaration immediately. i will manage in such a manner that the privy counsellor shall come off with tolerable good credit. _grob._ if you will do that-- _reiss._ yes, yes, yes! _grob._ but counsellor selling-- _reiss._ is a young man;--out of fear of displeasing the privy counsellor, he has lent his aid. such a young man may yet be taught in time. that is my principal object. _grob._ well, the declaration shall be drawn up without delay. heaven bless you, dear sir, for thus taking the part of a poor fellow-townsman! [exit. _reiss._ my duty, my duty!--bravo, little selling, that is prettily managed! scene iv. enter counsellor selling. _sell._ old wellenberg wishes to call on you. _reiss._ has he taken any steps yet with the doctor, concerning the mad patient? _sell._ no, the doctor is breathing his last. _reiss._ if god should call him off, the calumniator will escape a very serious action in this world. now my claims and the will have been confirmed, i will, of my own accord, make the children a handsome present. _sell._ very laudable! _reiss._ when is benniger to bring you the present for the privy counsellor? _sell._ very soon, i expect. _reiss._ take it, that we may have a proof; then tell benniger your mind, and open the business to me. _sell._ but; then i fear the privy counsellor will take it in dudgeon. _reiss._ the privy counsellor! i will silence him with a single look; ask me within a fortnight what the privy counsellor says,--ask me then what he is. god! could i ever have dreamt of any such thing, when i was raising and supporting that upstart! _sell._ everyone is astonished at your condescension and kindness. _reiss._ all disinterestedness! all good-nature! was i not going to give him my child? but god forbid!--he does not deserve her. _sell._ every one knows that you are in the highest favour with the ministry-- _reiss._ these many years.-- _sell._ that, properly speaking, you govern both the privy councilor and the whole country. _reiss._ i know the country and the people. _sell._ to please you, i attached myself to the privy counsellor; but his vanity is such that i cannot hold out with him any longer. he has this very day told me that i learned nothing. _reiss._ there we have it.-- _sell._ that i did not know my own language; that i made a motion in court so ridiculous the other day, that every one laughed at me; nay, he told me to my face that i attempted to assume an air of importance that i was not entitled to. _reiss._ i am shocked at it, do you know? your dear father, who is now no more, was a man who-- _sell._ was privy counsellor! but that is nothing in his eyes. such an upstart will press forward, and people of our consequence must render homage not only to him, but even to the carpenter's family. _reiss._ pray, were not you to marry his sister? _sell._ no, no! yet, in the state of subjection he kept me, he might at last have brought me to it. he would, as he calls it, correct my writings, and then he would, by way of making it up, sometimes nod his head by way of approbation. _reiss._ as i see that the fellow does not deserve what i have done for him, all shall be altered in future: attach yourself to me. _sell._ good god! i will with both my hands. _reiss._ i will make out the draft for the declaration, in which you are to charge him with having taken a bribe, and also for having constantly forced you to vote as he pleased in the court. i will carry my point; the prime minister shall be informed of the whole. go hence, and i will send you every thing. _sell._ i shall be very glad to get rid of him; but you will assist me occasionally to propose a law too? will you not? _reiss._ by way of practising? oh yes! _sell._ no, a real law, according to which the people are to act, be it ever so trifling,--only that the world may know, that i can frame a law as well as another. i only want it for the sake of the world, and the consequence it will give me. [exit. _reiss._ a shallow, shallow, ignorant boy!--but then he may be of use to me. scene v. enter privy counsellor clarenbach. _p. coun._ i have to explain to you, sir. _reiss._ just as you like, sir. _p. coun._ i cannot remain the man, that, god knows how,--i have gradually-- _reiss._ i think so myself. _p. coun._ i can be dependent on you no longer; but i do not choose to be ungrateful. without enquiring into the motives which induced you to raise me, i owe you my grateful thanks for having done so. _reiss._ i am hourly more and more convinced that i ought to have done so. _p. coun._ this sarcastic remark shall not prevent me, as your intended son-in-law, to render you my services from the purest motives and filial zeal, and to endeavour to compromise that disagreeable affair respecting the will. _reiss._ ay! would you indeed? _p. coun._ if we only consider it as politically pernicious, it-- _reiss._ there is nothing pernicious in the whole affair, my affectionate mr. privy counsellor, and your services are quite useless. _p. coun._ i wish they may prove so. meanwhile you will not misinterpret my intentions. _reiss._ your intentions go to the future inheritance of my property, my son-in-law that would be.-- _p. coun._ your daughter,--without any inheritance whatever-- _reiss._ with or without inheritance, that is all over; you shall not have her. _p. coun._ you may disinherit her, if you please, should i receive her hand against your will; but your daughter is mine according to your promise, and you can shew no cause for breaking it. _reiss._ (coldly.) oh yes! _p. coun._ what? which? _reiss._ some other time. _p. coun._ when? i desire to know it. i desire it, i tell you. _reiss._ you shall soon know it if you are in such a hurry.--i am now busy. _p. coun._ sir, if sophia were not your daughter-- _reiss._ ah, that is the thing. go, your papa is waiting for you:--if you stay, he will come and take you away. _p. coun._ sir! _reiss._ and come to save you too. has not he saved you once already this very day?-- _p. coun._ yes, he has that, honest man! may heaven reward him for it! _reiss._ he may perhaps save you once more yet, and perhaps not.--meanwhile, give yourself no farther trouble to call here. your servant, sir. _p. coun._ (looks at his watch.) you distress me more than you know. if that can give you pleasure, enjoy it. [exit. _reiss._ (looking after him.) hem! i ought to have discovered at first sight that the fellow is not fit for my purpose; he is simple enough to be in love in right earnest.--my foolish daughter loves him too; she fans his hopes, so of course he will not injure me, when cashiered. the doctor is falling asleep, and the lawyer,---hem!--must likewise be sent to rest,--else i shall have no rest myself! [exit. scene vi. master clarenbach's house. master clarenbach, frederica, and gernau, busy with bringing in the furniture seen in the first act. _clar._ courage, my dear children! about it! thank god, we have got rid of that fashionable trumpery. set the table again there in its place.-- so!---how glad i am to behold my old friends again! _fred._ we shall have a comfortable repast on that table to night. _clar._ as jack is to be one of the party, o yes! _gern._ i hope his change is right earnest; but i can scarcely believe it. _clar._ no reflections, dear gernau! what is past ought to be forgotten. _gern._ but i must remove hence for all that. _clar._ why, perhaps not. jack will now employ his power to some good purpose. _fred._ i wonder where he stays so long. _clar._ he is dissolving the partnership of sin with reissman. _gern._ i wish it may be done in writing. _clar._ i have insisted on his having a conversation with him. scene vii. enter sophia. _clar._ whom have i the honour to--(bows, and all the rest rise.) _soph._ without ceremony, my friends, _fred._ it is miss reissman, father! _soph._ give me leave to wait for your son, sir, who is to introduce me to your acquaintance, (to frederica.) we have seen one another already. _clar._ miss reissman? so--(with a smile.) the daughter of mr.----; do not take it amiss. _soph._ what? _fred._ father, let it rest there. _clar._ yes, yes! we do not like to mention any thing about it. you, you are welcome wherever you go; and so you are to me, god knows! sit down here near an old man, if you have no objection. (gern. reaches her a chair.) _soph._ i know how to value the honour of this seat. _clar._ you have a good opinion of my son. _soph._ yes, good sir. _clar._ he is rather in an odd predicament to day; but i hope things will take a better turn. _soph._ i sincerely hope so, good father. scene viii. enter privy counsellor clarenbach. _p. coun._ i am happy to find you, sophia, by the side of my good father, hand in hand. what an enchanting picture in my eye! love, worth, and affection, hand in hand! my sophia beneath the same roof under which i was born! _soph._ yes; and i read in your eyes that you were pleased to see me here. _p. coun._ (kissing her hand.) god is my witness, this moment is the happiest of my life; happiness has been a stranger to my heart this long time. _soph._ (rises.) let peace and happiness dwell in this house henceforward; the good intelligence which i intended to bring about between father and son, between brother and sister, and friend, has taken place without any interference;--so much the better! _clar._ ay, i see that your good intentions were in my favour. they were good i see,--i thank you for them. give me your hand, sweet creature! (shaking her good naturedly by the hand.) blessed is the man who is doomed to have you for his wife. _soph._ happy is that son who has such a father! (she leads the son up to the father, and they embrace.) _p. coun._ behold the father of us both, sophia! _soph._ o heaven! _p. coun._ how! _soph._ that is the grand question that must give us pause! (clarenbach makes a sign to frederica and gernau, and they retire with him.) scene ix. sophia, privy counsellor clarenbach. _p. conn._ i have fulfilled one of your conditions. the other-- _soph._ you have lost all your influence over my father. _p. coun._ yes! _soph._ then my condition is too hard,--i cancel it. _p. coun._ heaven bless you! _soph._ i will substitute an other in its place, which depends entirely on yourself. _p. coun._ then it is already accomplished. _soph._ am i your choice even without any inheritance? _p. coun._ without any inheritance whatever! _soph._ your hand and heart are all i crave. to be candid, i expected nothing less from you. now for the arduous question; hear me! the disposition in which i find you to day is charming, but not meritorious. you have not been moulded to it by virtue, but frightened into it by vice. you are irritable, you are weak, you are ambitious. a time may come, when neither your father, nor the woman you love will be able to influence you, as they luckily do at present. _p. coun._ you wrong me. _soph._ no, my friend. give me time to proceed. you are irritable, weak, and ambitious! do you think, that, on the summit which you now stand, you can render yourself useful to your fellow subjects with these three--i had almost called them vices. _p. coun._ not if i remain as i am. _soph._ you have hitherto been the instrument of strangers, and, in proportion as you rose in extrinsic pomp, you sunk in intrinsic merit. _p. coun._ true, it is too true. _soph._ you are not possessed of sufficient resolution to stand at the helm of a government; but you have genius, a good heart, and learning enough, sufficient to secure a tranquil passage through life. let my love supply the whole of my father's considerable fortune; i cannot muster the requisite resolution. can your esteem for me induce you to renounce the gilded splendor of state and office, and to spend the remainder of your days in the calm retirement of obscurity? (eagerly.) have you the resolution, clarenbach, to resign the privy counsellorship?--i do not want an immediate answer. _p. coun._ love shakes my resolution! but to resign, would it not lower me in the public eye? _soph._ would it lower you in your own mind? _p. coun._ no. but-- _soph._ contentment must dwell here. (pointing to his heart.) if ever you have felt content, i need say no more. _p. coun._ no! oh no! _soph._ who can refuse his esteem to the man who has tasted the cup of luxury, and, in the flower of youth and in the height of his career, can dash it from his lips, and say, "i will not drink it; i prefer the charms of a tranquil life to all the noise and well-bred hate of a court? i am too irritable to rule my fellow-citizens, notwithstanding i wish to serve them." _p. coun._ sophia! _soph._ numbers are anxious to aspire to places, for which they are neither qualified by nature nor education, and, when they have once tasted the sweets of office, how difficult to resign!--i know it. _p. coun._ you shake my resolution. _soph._ but if i have not convinced you, then i will not proceed. _p. coun._ yes, you convince me; but-- _soph._ but you do not see what road to pursue after you shall have resigned your bewitching offer? o my friend! whatever may be the choice of your future pursuits, whatever may be the burthen, my heart, my hands, will bear a part in it; i will joyfully, nay with rapture, assist you in rearing the fabric of your happiness, of your tranquil and real grandeur. here or elsewhere, merchant, tutor, lawyer, or farmer, whatever you pitch upon, that may afford maintenance and peace of mind, choose that for you and me. i do not wish to have any other share in your determination but the silent satisfaction of having, by inward peace of mind, preserved the life of a good man, whom exterior shew was rapidly conducting to a state of splendid misery. _p. coun._ you have gained your point!--i shall resign my gown. peace, toil, in future, provided i can call thee my guardian angel! _soph._ (embraces him.) i hope you will find me such. _p. coun._ father, father!--sophia, thou hast restored me to myself!--but what is to be thy reward? scene x. enter master clarenbach. _clar._ what is the matter, my son? _p. coun._ can you conceive it, father? i shall not be a privy counsellor much longer. _clar._ how so? _p. coun._ i will lay down my gown, and, with heart and soul, work as i did, before i was raised to that office. _clar._ in earnest? can i rely on it? _p. coun._ sophia has resigned her fortune on my account, and i shall resign it on hers;--i do not wish for any high office! i am going to re-enter the tranquil class of the industrious citizens. she consents to be my wife. it is her wish, and i see peace and happiness spring from out of it. _soph._ does it meet with your approbation, father? _clar._ ay! you ought to read it in my countenance; i would fain open the window, and call out, jack is no more a privy counsellor,--_vivat_! and then there is a pretty, amiable, discreet young lady, that is not possessed with the demon of pride,--_vivat_! and she will be master clarenbach's daughter in law,--_vivat_! huzza, i say, gernau! girl, come, give me a kiss! (they kiss.) scene xi. enter gernau and frederica. _clar._ jack is my son once more,--_vivat_! huzza! husband and wife! (steps between them,) son and daughter! (embraces him.) _fred._ what? _gern._ how? _clar._ more of it another time. _p. coun._ i will resign. _clar._ look you here, my sweet girl! he was not calculated for it, no more than a true genuine christian privy counsellor is calculated for a carpenter. he has had some learning indeed; but then all that solid by-work, such as is requisite for a privy counsellor, of that he never was possessed; and so sit down to work. i must work too; we will scrape plenty of money together, without wronging any one. daughter-in-law, frederica, and i, will nurse him as the best soul we know. now pray give the girl a kiss, that i may believe in the relationship.--(sophia kisses her.)--and jack too, that i may be quite happy!--(sophia gives him a kiss.)--and so god bless you in your pursuits! _soph._ (to the privy counsellor.) my father will be your father; and, if ever he could forget it, spare him, and treat him with filial affection. _p. coun._ i promise it. i shall apply once more for his consent, which i once obtained. _fred._ before you resign? _clar._ no, that were a cheat.--but, dear jack, all,--how shall i call it? (half audible,) all the earnings of unjust privy counsellors,--return them to whom they may belong, then you can work with heart-felt satisfaction. scene xii. enter aulic counsellor reissman. _reiss._ so, i must look for my young lady here? _clar._ where she has been doing a deal of good. come, sir, come this way; partake in the joys of good men, and think you are one of them. _soph._ be moved by what you see; sanctify it by your blessing, and you will make us all happy. _p. coun._ yes, sir. _clar._ recollect yourself, and act in a good and fair manner; for, upon my soul! you cannot go from hence but altogether good or bad; i tell you that before hand. _reiss._ (to the privy counsellor.) you have sold a monopoly to benniger, mr. privy counsellor. _clar._ there now. curse that money! _reiss._ one of our citizens has lodged a complaint about it against you. _clar._ jack, return the wages of sin! _p. coun._ immediately, and-- _reiss._ of course, and-- _clar._ and then it is all over; for i must tell you, he will not fill the office of a privy counsellor any longer. _p. coun._ yes, sir, i intend to give in my resignation this very day. _reiss._ well, well; but your responsibility for the performance of your duty hitherto, and the unconscientious-- _soph._ dear father! _p. coun._ mr. reissman! _clar._ i hope, you will not make that an object of minute enquiry? _reiss._ that depends on the nature of the remaining charges. a resignation cannot undo what is done. come along, daughter, let us go. _soph._ dear father! _p. coun._ in virtue of your promise, you are my father-in-law; if you wish to be my enemy in earnest, you may abide by the consequence. whatever i could do and urge against you, sophia has my word for it, i will do nothing. sophia is my lawful bride. _reiss._ by no means, never! _soph._ i am his bride, father; you gave your word. _reiss._ before he was impeached. _fred._ sir-- _gern._ (passionately.) that is too much! _clar._ hush, sir! or i will run and fetch all the children of brunnig, that have been robbed by you; their words, their tears, and their curses, shall impeach you before god and man. you accuse others, who are angels of light compared with you. _reiss._ (in a passion.) do you intend to marry him? _soph._ yes! _reiss._ without office, without bread, without honour? _soph._ without office, without bread, but who says without honour? _reiss._ i, i, i! _clar._ thunder and lightning! _p. coun._ patience, father!--withdraw; your daughter stays with my father. _reiss._ if she chooses to be disinherited. _soph._ be it, in the name of god! _reiss._ i will shew her who is the man for whom she sacrifices her inheritance. _p. coun._ then i will inform the world who has made such a man of me; whose contrivance it is, if ever i acted contrary to those principles of honesty this worthy citizen had taught me. _reiss._ what! _soph._ clarenbach, he is my father!--clarenbach, where do i stand now? _p. coun._ would you forsake me, helpless, on the brink of the precipice from which you were just about to snatch me? do you value my soul less than my honour? _soph._ no, no! i will stay and support you. you have my word; i will not break it. _reiss._ his disgrace shall break it, and distress punish it; you shall never see my face again. [exit. _soph._ father!-- _clar._ here is one that has a heart for the distressed children! come, my daughter. _p. coun._ my resignation was to be spontaneous; it is now forced and attended with disgrace. _soph._ my heart is clarenbach's, whether he be fortunate or unfortunate. _p. coun._ he will ruin me, and endeavour to dissolve our mutual tie. _clar._ but i and old wellenberg say, he shall not; between us two old boys we will sing him such a song, as will make him wish he were under earth or water. let me alone; your happiness is at stake. _soph._ he is my father,--he is old; for his daughter's sake do not disgrace him. _clar._ but disgrace myself, ay? no; honour to him who honour deserves! i will ring the bell of disgrace over him, so as to make the whole country resound. (disengages himself, and exit.) _soph._ on that condition i cannot be your wife. (going.) _p. coun._ (stops her,) sophia! _soph._ in this case, the voice of nature should over-rule that of love! if he is to be ruined, were it to break my heart and cost me my life, it is my duty to perish by his side. (disengages herself, and exit.) _fred._ sister, dear sister! (follows.) _p. coun._ (to gernau.) man! you, that, though poor and low, have remained faithful to your duty; i apply to that heart which my power has tortured, and seek for consolation. (clings round his neck.) _gern._ i sympathize in your sufferings; let me go and get information, and act for you. _p. coun._ no! if i should fall, i ought to rise by myself, and if i cannot bring that about, i ought to perish in the dark, unpitied by man. [exit. act v. scene i. enter aulic counsellor reissman, bringing in two bottles of wine, which he puts on the table. _reiss._ the doctor is dead,--good night to him! the lawyer will soon follow; he is an old man! old people are subject to many accidents; death has them constantly at his nod, such is the course of nature! scene ii. enter counsellor selling. _sell._ oh, dear sir, what shall we do now? i have read that benniger such a lecture, and taken the money _ad depositum_. but, good heaven! that fellow is a wild ferocious beast. he says, it is a bargain; that the receiver is the thief, and not the bidder. he insists on having the patent for the monopoly dispatched; if not, he swears he will play the deuce. _reiss._ so much the better; let him do his best. _sell._ ah, but, dear sir, he does not say a word against the privy counsellor; you and i are the scape-goats; every nerve trembles. _reiss._ so you are quite alarmed? _sell._ truly. _reiss._ the rogue intended to bribe, and of course is liable to a heavy punishment. _sell._ but then he is a stranger. _reiss._ have him arrested, then he can do no harm. _sell._ but he can talk a good deal for all that. _reiss._ that is my business. have him arrested. _sell._ but the prime minister-- _reiss._ is at a great distance, and do not you know, though i do not publicly affect it, that i am the prime minister of this country. arrest him, i say. _sell._ very well. but then i have-- _reiss._ what else? to the point! _sell._ a concern, that lies very near my heart. i am told the privy counsellor is to resign,--and perhaps to leave this town. i could not help making his sister considerable presents this morning, which cost a great deal of money; and, if his power should be at an end, all would be thrown away; he ought to reimburse me. _reiss._ but those presents have been returned, i understand. _sell._ without the least injury! but my expence was heavy. i must lose by those things, if i were to dispose of them. could not you manage so by your authority, that he should take them at prime cost? _reiss._ no, i employ my authority to better purposes. _sell._ good heaven! the gown of rose satin alone cost me-- _reiss._ (displeased.) let it be converted into a morning-gown for yourself. _sell._ a morning-gown!--ay, that will do. rose colour becomes my complexion. i thank you, it shall. i will have it lined with lawn. i will have it made up directly. (going.) _reiss._ and have the fellow secured. _sell._ directly! the morning-gown made up, and the fellow arrested! i thank you for extricating me out of this embarrassment. [exit. _reiss._ blockhead!--my whole existence is at stake;--once won, won for ever! scene iii. enter sophia. _soph._ father, i beg-- _reiss._ yes, you will soon beg.--begone, be gone! _soph._ your situation is dreadful, as dreadful as mine. be kind and just. lend your helping hand. _reiss._ be gone to the carpenter. out of my sight, be gone, i say! _soph._ i am come,--i cannot leave you till your mind is at ease. _reiss._ i shall be at ease as soon as you depart, the spy of my actions. be gone, i tell you! _soph._ father! _reiss._ begone, i tell you; begone, or i will have thee driven out of my house! out of my sight, snake, serpent, traitor, spy, begone! _soph._ i have ever obeyed you, and i will even obey this cruel command. [exit. scene iv. enter lawyer wellenberg. _well._ you have sent for me;--here i am. _reiss._ i thank you;--sit down. _well._ what is your pleasure? _reiss._ i want to have a little conversation in a fair way. _well._ propose fair things, and our conversation shall be fair. i will listen. _reiss._ well, doctor kannenfeld is no more. _well._ it has pleased the disposer of all events to call him. _reiss._ very fortunately for him! that slanderer, i would-- _well._ not so. slanderer, not so,--a true penitent, a sinner, and of course one that has found mercy in the divine presence. he is dead as to his earthly frame, but the tears of repentance which he so often shed on my breast, i trust, will raise up fruits of joy and consolation in it: with respect to you, he is not dead as long as i live. to the point then;--in the name of heaven, what do you want? _reiss._ to offer a few propositions. _well._ let us hear them. _reiss._ sit down here, if you please.--(wellenberg sits down at the table.)--our good ancient german ancestors used always to drink a glass when they sat down on some good purpose, or when they had a mind to lay down some good rules for their descendents. (fills a glass.) _well._ ay, if there were any such good purposes in the present case, i would have no objection. _reiss._ drink to a good intention, (raising the glass,) dear mr. wellenberg. _well._ when the good shall be atchieved, we will take a little wine; a very little, as an offering to gratitude. _reiss._ wine cheers the heart of man. _well._ good actions will cheer it much better. come, _ad rem_. _reiss._ i am now possessed of the legacy,--you see. (drinks.) your health. _well._ to your amendment. _reiss._ very well, i thank you. (reaches him a glass.) _well._ (takes a sip.) in the name of goodness.-- _reiss._ i have resolved to do something for all that for the children, for whom i am very sorry. _well._ something handsome. you must do every thing for the sake of the children and your own soul. _reiss._ what do you mean by that? _well._ you must give up the whole. _reiss._ you are not in earnest? _well._ do you never expect to be called to an account for your actions in this world? _reiss._ the doctor's insanity has infected you. _well._ but the solemn oath, which i mean to have administered to you in a public court of justice, will open doors that you little expect. _reiss._ i can take it! the--(wellenberg rises.)--where are you going? _well._ away! for--for--i am seized with a tremor at the mere idea that an oath does not shake your frame to its centre. what, will you stretch out your hand against the judgments of god? methinks i see the very sparks of hell before my eyes; methinks i see an infernal fiend between you and me, writhing, hissing, and sneering; methinks i see him anxious to seize on your poor soul, as his prey for ever. i am ill; do good for once, and permit me to go home and throw myself on my bed. (going.) _reiss._ stay. _well._ i cannot. _reiss._ but, as the advocate of the children, you ought to hear my proposition. _well._ then propose, briefly and fairly. _reiss._ sit down. _well._ i must sit down; for the idea of your perjury has enfeebled me so, that i cannot move. (sits down.) propose to the honour of your creator and the salvation of your soul, that i may recover my strength. _reiss._ not as an obligation, but, through mere motives of pity and christian charity, i will give the children half of the legacy. what do you say to that? _well._ half a virtue is no virtue at all; yet it is better than vice. _reiss._ well? _well._ the fiend may yet lose his hold. _reiss._ drink a glass. _well._ i almost stand in want of it, for i do not feel well on your account. (drinks off the glass of wine.) _reiss._ what am i about! i have, in the warmth of conversation, left the bottle uncorked, and the spirit of the liquor, intended to honour you, will evaporate. no matter; (takes the bottle to himself, and substitutes the other, out of which he immediately fills him a glass,) here is fresh wine. _well._ (puts down the glass.) i will drink no more. _reiss._ but, when we have done and agreed, in token of reconciliation-- _well._ my first and last words are, give up the whole of the bequest, or take the oath! _reiss._ ay! what is all that!--(fills a glass for himself out of the bottle which he had removed from wellenberg's side.) a glass of wine will warm you. come, touch here! (offers to touch glasses with him.) _well._ no! the inclinations which wine inspires are false. good inclinations ought to come from the heart instead of the bottle. _reiss._ shall i tell you what carries me so far? it is your honest character, and my respect for you; and, as my daughter is a good-for-nothing hussy, i will, in the name of god, provided they let me alone while i live, i will, after my death, bequeath the remainder of the bequest to the children by a formal testament, which i wish you to draw up immediately. that is, upon my word, more than fair! come, touch glasses upon that, and then we have done. (touches glasses with him, and drinks it off.) _well._ (touches glasses, but does not drink.) that is something. _reiss._ is it not! (fills his own glass.) well, then, on with it! _well._ (holds up his glass, but does not drink.) the good spirit begins to move you; and i begin to feel better in your company. _reiss._ (wipes his forehead.) i am glad of it. _well._ you wipe your forehead? _reiss._ hem! you have put me in such a heat. _well._ thank god! i wish you would examine your conscience fully, and then wipe your eyes too; then i would, in the joy of my heart, empty my glass at once. _reiss._ i thank you. now to a prosperous futurity! (holds up the glass.) _well._ in heaven,--yes! (going to drink;) but (puts the glass down) then every thing ought to be in a good state upon earth. drink no more, it will heat you; and, to do good, the soul ought to be sober. _reiss._ well then-- _well._ in your proposition there may still be an acceptable compromise for the children. but-- _reiss._ i should think so. then accept it, give me your hand, and empty your glass. _well._ ay, if it concerned only the children, i would accept it. but it concerns your soul, which cannot go out of this world in peace, if your conscience is not at peace. therefore i do not accede to the proposition. _reiss._ what? _well._ i cannot accept it for the sake of your immortal soul, till you quite clear yourself, and give up the whole. _reiss._ is that your last determination? _well._ it is. _reiss._ then i will give up nothing at all. _well._ then god have mercy upon you! i have done my duty. _reiss._ does not the will itself secure me against every claim? _well._ not quite so. _reiss._ i beg your pardon; does not article v. say-- _well._ if you avail yourself of that plea, and the good spirit has forsaken you, what must be the awful result! think in time; what, to barter everlasting happiness for a few pieces of yellow dirt! now i have done. (rises.) _reiss._ the fifth article says, "that if ever"--stop a little; i have the will at hand. (goes into the closet.) _well._ i see there is nothing to be done here. god have mercy upon this obstinate man!--has he not even tried to tempt me with his wine, that i might do what is evil? but heaven be praised, he did not succeed; and how easily might he have succeeded, though my nerves are worn out with age and infirmities! besides, it is a very strong wine; (takes the glass, and smells to it.) very strong! (looks at it;) rather feculent. (puts the glass down, walks a few steps, and seems to muse.) hem! (examines reissman's glass.) this one is fine; (looks again at his own glass;) this is not so. (puts it down.) this glass came out of the second bottle. he has not drank of that, i think. no, he has not, i now recollect. perhaps,--but that is very wicked,-- perhaps not content with intoxication, he thought to get me to do the evil that is in his soul? such men are not to be trusted; their notions are abominable. perhaps he mixed some intoxicating ingredient in this wine? he is capable of such an action; for, otherwise, why should he press me to drink? then my soul would have perished at the same time with my philosophy!--i must know that; i will have it examined; and, if so, i will thank god for my deliverance, and withdraw my hand for ever from the obdurate sinner. (takes both bottles, and goes away with them. when he has left the room, reissman comes out of the closet with the will.) _reiss._ look you here; here it expressly says.--where is he? (looks out of the door, comes back, claps his hands together; pours the wine that is in the two glasses out of the window; puts them in his pocket; goes once more to the door, at which the lawyer went out. he is in a violent agitation; wipes the table very carefully with his handkerchief; carries it into the closet, out of which he returns with his hat and cane, and is going out by the door towards the street. when he is at the door he returns, carefully examines the chair on which the lawyer has been seated, passes his handkerchief over it, carries both chairs into the closet, examines the floor where the chairs stood, and precipitately exit.) scene v. master clarenbach's house. master clarenbach, sophia. _clar._ step in here, child! here you are, if not rich, at least safe. you have now done your duty as a daughter. now recommend the perverse man to heaven, and let things take their course. _soph._ can i be easy with that? it is lamentable, that i have no other means left. _clar._ my son has acted as a man of honour ought. he would not leave me till i had given him my word, neither to act nor to speak against your father. _soph._ you have given it. _clar._ and will keep it. _soph._ i will acknowledge it with filial affection, with the same care and attention as if i were your own daughter. _clar._ jack has obtained you by noble means, dear daughter; that is a good and laudable commencement of the marriage-state. scene vi. enter gernau. _gern._ dear old man, i have forgotten all the wrongs the privy counsellor ever did me. they now vanish like a dream. he has more than compensated for all. _soph._ with respect to you? _gern._ that is out of his power now. but he has acted with such discretion, with such abundance of good nature, and rendered so much justice to every body else, that i must be devoid of all feeling, if i could consider my accounts with him as unsettled. _clar._ pray speak more of that. i have been unwilling this long while to enquire into the actions of my son; but to-day i am so pleased with him, that i could talk of him for ever without interruption. _gern._ he desired me to go home with him. away with every penny, said he, which i have not acquired fairly, or of which the least doubt remains. then he counted money, sealed it up, and called out to me repair to the next trading town. i will give you the directions into whose hands this cash is to go. i will wrong no man, assist me to discharge my duty, name not who sent it! i will set off this very day.--he is this moment gone to pay two people, that had been overcharged in their contributions towards the construction of the bridge. he intends to discharge that debt personally, because they are good people on whom he can rely, who will not take advantage of his frankness. _clar._ your work, dear daughter! a clear conscience, joy, and honour! what a valuable portion you bring into my family! when at evenings we shall meet, and every one of us shall sum up the honest earnings of the day, with what affection and gratitude shall we then calculate and pay you the interest of your capital! scene vii. enter frederica. _fred._ your father has been here this minute to enquire after lawyer wellenberg. _soph._ (quick.) is he gone yet? _fred._ he seemed in doubt some time, whether to go or stay, but then he went without saying any thing. _clar._ ah, the legacy,--his conscience--dr. kannenfeld,--it begins to operate. _gern._ yes, yes. _soph._ oh, i wish that was settled! _clar._ do not be uneasy; old wellenberg has him entirely in his power, and he knows what he is about. scene viii. enter privy counsellor clarenbach. _p. coun._ sophia, i have kept my word. _clar._ (reaches him his hand.) we have been told so. _soph._ i know it. _p. coun._ my accounts are now settled, and my mind is at ease. i can now call a furnished house and four thousand dollars my own honest property. i have thrown off the burden, i have got rid of a connection that imposed upon me. _gern._ dear brother! how is it possible that any connection should warp your generous principles. _p. coun._ man does not warp all at once, but by degrees. providence lent me a hand. (lays sophia's hand on his breast.) you even look kinder than you used to do. _fred._ i should never have forgiven you, if you had compelled me to give my hand to selling. _p. coun._ dear frederica! _clar._ well, well! that was done while he was intoxicated with foreign wine. the cup of pride produces that,--a good and useful beverage for those that quaff it in moderation. whoever cannot do that, had better drink home-made wine. _soph._ but what do you intend to do with regard to your office, and the charge brought against you concerning the monopoly? _p. coun._ i mean to set off for the capital, and candidly lay the whole before the minister; he is a good man; i will tell him i assumed a burthen too heavy for my shoulders, and entreat him to lay it on some person better suited to bear it. _clar._ that is right, jack! when i was desired to sketch a design for the prince's palace in our neighbourhood, i also said, "please your highness, i am a carpenter; the undertaking is beyond my sphere; send for an architect, and what he plans i will endeavour to execute. my head may conceive the plan for a common dwelling-house well enough, but not for a palace; and so i do not wish to step out of my line." the old prince has since repeatedly thanked me for it, and said, with a significant nod, "you were right, master, clarenbach! i wish some of my counsellors would do the same, and, when called on, say, i am not fit to fill that office. but they take the hatchet in hand, and slash away without any art or judgment."--my dear son, throw it down, and let some good political carpenter take it up. god be with you! scene ix. enter lawyer wellenberg. _well._ are you all here?--thank god! _clar._ you are welcome, mr. wellenberg. _well._ a chair, a chair. (p. counsellor reaches a chair.) _clar._ what is the matter with you, pray? _well._ o heaven! oh! _fred._ what ails you, sir? _gern._ you make me uneasy. _soph._ have you spoken with my father? _well._ yes, yes, yes. _p. coun._ dear wellenberg, pray speak plain. _well._ _est necesse, ut remotis testibus loquar._ _p. coun._ _dicam ergo aliis ut abeant._ _well._ _imo, jubeas, quæso! sunt enim res summi momenti._ _p. coun._ _nunquid sane de sponsæ meæ parente?_ _well._ _quin ita! agitur enim vitæ et animæ salus._ _p. coun._ good folks, leave me a minute alone with this good gentleman. _clar._ good god! _soph._ it concerns my father.--o clarenbach! _p. coun._ we will manage all for the best. _soph._ to your compassion, to your filial compassion,--to your duty as a son, to your heart, to every thing i appeal, clarenbach! you must bring him back to the path of virtue, even against his will. you must, and my gratitude shall be eternal. scene x. enter aulic counsellor reissman. _reiss._ mr. wellenberg!-- _well._ oh, that god--(rises.) _reiss._ i want to speak with you. _well._ no, no! i will not.--keep off, keep at six yards distance from me at least. _reiss._ i must have a private conversation with you. _well._ god forbid! _soph._ dear mr. wellenberg grant it; i entreat you. _well._ can i?--ask him. _p. coun._ i beg, i entreat you. _well._ (after a pause?) well, yes. yes then, i will run the risk. _soph._ i thank you. _well._ but--(beckons the privy counsellor to come near him, and whispers to him.) _p. coun._ yes, i will. come along. _reiss._ (alarmed.) what,--what, will you? _p. coun._ nothing that can give you any uneasiness. _reiss._ where do you intend to go? _p. coun._ to win this hand and your esteem. come along. (all exeunt, except reissman and wellenberg.) scene xi. aulic counsellor reissman, lawyer wellenberg. _reiss._ ay, dear mr. wallenberg, you are--it is--why are you--i cannot conceive for what reason you left my house in that abrupt manner. _well._ the warning came from above to the unworthy. (takes the bottle out of his pocket.) what is this? (putting it on the chair.) answer me that! _reiss._ how!--(snatching at it.) _well._ keep off!--it is poison! _reiss._ ay, good god! _well._ there is poison in the wine you pressed me to drink. _reiss._ should you by some unfortunate mistake-- _well._ it is poison! it was intended to close my lips for ever! lulled to sleep by your artful proposals, i might have passed into the other world according to the old proverb, "dead men tell no tales;" but you forgot that i should rise against you at the last day. _reiss._ (assuming courage.) mr. lawyer, dare you-- _well._ i dare call you an assassin, _reiss._ who knows what you have been doing with this bottle in the mean while? _well._ so you think to escape by your cunning? this moment i see, and you feel, the mark which the almighty has impressed on your brow. your mind is callous, and yet you are so struck with terror, that your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth, and cannot perform its office. _reiss._ but, you, you-- _well._ silence! is your soul insensible to the trepidation of your body, or what i have not in my power to do? here stands the evidence of the crime, there the delinquent, and here i stand, either as judge or a merciful man, if you deliver yourself up vanquished into my hands; and, if not, as your accuser before the tribunal of the public. kneel down this moment, the sword of justice hangs over your head! _reiss._ (shaking.) my god! _well._ you are at the end of your career! the judgment of heaven is committed to my hands, but mercy reigns in my heart: act in such a manner, that my heart may preponderate; for i am a man whom you have driven to extremes. _reiss._ (with terror.) what, what must i?-- _well._ to the extreme, i say. i can hardly refrain from demanding justice. _reiss._ what is your demand then? _well._ for myself i demand nothing. but what does your conscience demand, wicked man? is it silent? (with warmth;) then, then i must do what i ought to do. _reiss._ well, then, i will give up the legacy at once. _well._ further-- _reiss._ what can i do more? _well._ resign your office, that the corroding canker may be removed from the breast of my country. _reiss._ but-- _well._ god and man demand that i should utter this language. _reiss._ i will, i will. _well._ consent to the privy counsellor's marriage, and do not disinherit your virtuous daughter. all these points must be reduced to writing, and signed by you this very day; then i will remain silent, and spare you, that mercy in turn may be shewn to me. _reiss._ i will. let the seal of silence be placed for ever on your lips. _well._ forever! _reiss._ give me your word and hand. _well._ my word is sufficient. (puts the bottle in his pocket.) if you accomplish the conditions, this affair shall be buried in eternal oblivion. _reiss._ all shall be done this very day. _well._ now go, and inform the people of all the blessings you intend to shower on them. _reiss._ i will grant them every thing, but i cannot tell them the happy effects of our conversation. _well._ it must be so to save appearances. _reiss._ you are right! (takes a ring from his finger.) accept this, it is of the first water, worth two hundred louis d'ors. _well._ the tears of joy that your virtuous daughter will shed are the purest christian water, and sparkle better. those i will accept, and thank god for the tribulations, for by this he has enabled me to purchase what is good. now go. i wish you to die well and soon. thus i discharge the sinner from his terrors and my hands, and recommend him to the hand of the father of all.--(reissman slaps his forehead, and exit.)--i think i have done well; at least, i do not know how i could have done better. he has stood before the executioner; if that do not shake and convert him, his good angel will veil his face and fly from him, and then he will soon be hurled whither i would not wish. scene xii. enter master clarenbach. _clar._ old friend, you have performed wonders! _well._ not i, not i, (looking up to heaven,) but another. _clar._ he restores the legacy to the poor orphans; he consents to my son's marriage. _well._ even so, he has done no more than the duty of a christian. _clar._ he does not disinherit his daughter; he gives the children their inheritance. scene xiii. enter privy counsellor clarenbach, sophia, frederica, and gernau. _p. coun._ matchless man! _soph._ eternal, eternal gratitude! _well._ (puts his hands in his pockets.) spare my weak hands; my heart is sound!-- _p. coun._ how was it possible, how did it happen? _gern._ tell us. _fred._ i cannot conceive it. _well._ that-- _p. coun._ he uttered all these benefactions in such a hurry-- _fred._ and at the same time looked nobody in the face-- _gern._ and then he ran away. _clar._ i never saw a man do so much good in so ungracious a manner. _soph._ good god! but he has done it after all, and-- _clar._ well, well; but how did it come about? _well._ never ask that question again!--never! do you understand me? _clar._ we thank god it is so; why should we enquire how it came to be so? _well._ that is right, friend clarenbach! (to the privy counsellor.) and you resign the privy counsellorship? _p. coun._ my abilities are not adequate to it. _well._ have i not told you a hundred times, when he was what they call a lawyer, and when he wrote with such humane feelings, with such fire, with such indefatigability, in the cause of justice,--master clarenbach, said i, jack stands very high on level ground; do not suffer him to rise higher, for he will tumble down. _clar._ it is true upon my word. _well._ so you came down of your accord? that is well done! _p. coun._ henceforth i hope to prove useful to mankind. under your guidance, i will be a lawyer once more. _well._ (with a smile.) lawyer! i cannot bear that name; it conveys the idea of an entangled net, or of a deceitful guide, that will lead you out of the way into the pathless desert. we should not be called lawyers, but the friends of justice. _clar._ yes, yes; friends of justice, the foes of chicanery! _well._ who will not plead in an unjust cause! do you promise that? have you the resolution to be an honest lawyer? _p. coun._ with the greatest pleasure. _well._ write little; act a good deal; take little money; have a good stock of honesty and kind intentions; apply but seldom for advice to the _corpus juris_, but often to the heart; and to the hour of death i shall esteem you. i shall lead the way by the course of nature, but it will yet be a consolation to me in my last moments to think i have left an honest man behind me,--a man that will wipe away the tears of the widow and the orphan. _clar._ jack, listen to the words of this good old man; let them sink deep into your heart; let them be your model! he possesses little worldly wealth; but, at the last day, what myriads that now roll in wealth would wish that they had possessed as little and done half as much good with it; but it is not for me to judge; i only say, make him your model. _p. coun._ dear father, i will. enter aulic counsellor reissman. _reiss._ i am come to tell you what i know will please you. how sweet are the tears of repentance! how refreshing to the drooping soul! i have at last settled my accounts with my conscience; i owe much, but i will endeavour to pay all. now i feel in earnest that i am a father, and this is my dear daughter! (embraces sophia.) _soph._ o my dear father, the serenity of your brow, like a mild evening-sun, sooths the perturbation of my mind. i see that all is peace within. this single moment of joy would repay an age of sorrow. _reiss._ o my child! (embraces her again;) and this is my son! (embraces privy counsellor; clarenbach takes him by the hand.) i am now completely happy, my mind tells me so; my feeble sight was dazzled with the false lustre of gold; but honest wellenberg took me by the hand and conducted me into the path in which i ought to walk in the evening of life. _clar._ i have not wept for some time; but nature, on the present occasion, has indulged me with a few tears, and they shall be paid on sight. (takes reissman by the hand.) we are both in the evening of life; let us descend with even step to the grave; our dear friend wellenberg will be our guide. let us leave our children behind us, and, if any evil should tempt them in an unguarded moment, may our example interpose like a guardian angel! splendor and ambition are gaudy signs, painted by the hand of delusion, to lead the bewildered traveller still farther astray. (gernau kisses sophia's hand, and gazes on frederica with fond attention.) _soph._ (embraces frederica, and drops a tear.) excuse me, i have a tear for joy as well as sorrow. _clar._ come, let us not delay the nuptial rites. [exeunt omnes. the end. list of books just published by w. west, no. , paternoster-row. the beauties of the late right honorable edmund burke, selected from his writings, &c. alphabetically arranged, including several celebrated political characters, drawn by himself, and his own character by different hands. to which is prefixed a sketch of the life, with many original anecdotes of mr. burke. in two volumes, vo. price s. boards. "this work contains many original anecdotes which escaped the notice of mr. m'cormick and dr. bisset, and which, relating to mr. burke's private life, are peculiarly interesting. "with regard to the specific merits of the compilement, as a selection, we may observe, that the extracts from the multifarious writings of mr. burke, appear to be judiciously selected, and the general mass seems to be very properly reduced to order."--_monthly review for december_, . st. pierre's celebrated studies of nature, carefully abridged, with a copious index, by l. t. rede, in one handsome volume, vo. price s. boards. this work is peculiarly adapted to inspire, in the breast of youth, the highest reverence and profound adoration for the wisdom and benevolence of god in the works of the creation, which the author has displayed in such fine language, that it cannot fail to form the taste for composition, at the same time that it improves the head and expands the understanding. the balnea, or a history of all the popular watering places in england, in mo. by george saville carey. the second edition, price s. d. in coloured paper. "carey, at whose eccentric entertainment we have laughed many an hour, has here produced a most pleasant and lively _mélange_, the result of much whim and observation, blended with a vast fund of genuine anecdotes, and a very particular account of the various amusements, customs, manners, and inhabitants of the places of fashionable resort in this kingdom."--_monthly mirror for january_, . anecdotes and biography, including many modern characters in the circles of fashionable and official life, by l. t. rede, vo. price s. boards. "this is almost without exception the best collection of anecdotes ever perused. the editor discovers good taste, both in his choice of materials, and the various occasions in which he presents himself to his readers, and speaks in person. we acknowledge ourselves indebted to his industry, for a fund of very agreeable entertainment," &c. &c.--_new london review for january_, . the elements of chemistry, translated from the german of joseph francis jacquin. price s. d. boards. peter pindar's tales of the hoy, interspersed with song, ode, and dialogue, to. price s. the natural and political history of the state of vermont, one of the united states of america; wherein is discovered the primary cause of the late american war, &c. &c. by ira allen, esq. major-general of the militia of the state of vermont, with a coloured map, vo. price s. boards. _a list of plays, just published by_ w. west, no. , paternoster-row. the bachelors, a comedy in five acts, translated from the german of w. a. iffland.--price s. the noble lie, a comedy in one act, translated from the german of augustus von kotzebue, being the conclusion of his much-admired comedy of the stranger, or mysantropy and repentance.--price s. poverty and wealth, a comedy, in five acts, as performed seventy-five successive nights at the theatre royal, copenhagen. translated from the danish of p. a. heiberg, a. c. by c. h. wilson,esq. vo. d edition. price s.--this is the first translation of the danish drama that ever appeared in the english language. of whom may be had, just published, city biography, containing anecdotes and memoirs of the rise, progress, character, and situation of the aldermen, and other conspicuous personages of the corporation and city of london, the second edition, considerable enlarged, in vo. price s. d. the elements of military tactics, conformable to the system established by his majesty's order, part i. by james workman, esq. the second edition. price s. sewed. a pronouncing dictionary of the english language; the accentuation adjusted according to sheridan and walker; the orthography chiefly taken from johnson. pocket-volume, price s. d. bound. the confessions of the celebrated countess of lichtenau, late mrs. rietz; now confined in the fortress of gloglau as a state prisoner. drawn from original papers; translated from the german, with an engraved portrait of the countess after an original painting, in the possession of the countess matuska.--price s. [ transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation; changes (corrections of spelling and punctuation) made to the original text are listed at the end of this text. text that was _italic_ in the original is marked with _. text that was =spaced= in the original is marked with =.] erdgeist lulu by frank wedekind erdgeist (earth-spirit) $ . pandora's box (in preparation) erdgeist (earth-spirit) a tragedy in four acts by frank wedekind translated by samuel a. eliot, jr. new york albert and charles boni copyright, by albert and charles boni "i was created out of ranker stuff by nature, and to the earth by lust am drawn. unto the spirit of evil, not of good, the earth belongs. what deities send to us from heaven are only universal goods; their light gives gladness, but makes no man rich; and in their state possession not obtains. therefore, the stone of price, all-treasured gold, must from the powers of falsehood be enticed, the evil race that dwells beneath the day. not without sacrifice their favor is gained, and no man liveth who from serving them hath extricated undefiled his soul." characters dr. schÖn, newspaper owner and editor. alva, his son, a writer. dr. goll, m.d. schwarz, an artist. prince escerny, an african explorer. escherich, a reporter. schigolch, a beggar. rodrigo, an acrobat. hugenberg, a schoolboy (played by a girl.) ferdinand, a coachman. lulu. countess geschwitz. henriette, a servant. prologue (at rise, is seen the entrance to a tent, out of which steps an animal-tamer, with long, black curls, dressed in a white cravat, a vermilion dress-coat, white trowsers and white top-boots. he carries in his left hand a dog-whip and in his right a loaded revolver, and enters to the sound of cymbals and kettle-drums.) walk in! walk in to the menagery, proud gentlemen and ladies lively and merry! with avid lust or cold disgust, the very beast without soul bound and made secondary to human genius, to stay and see! walk in, the show'll begin!--as customary, one child to each two persons comes in free. here battle man and brute in narrow cages where one in haught disdain his long whip lashes and one, with growls as when the thunder rages, against the man's throat murderously dashes,-- where now the crafty conquers, now the strong, now man, now beast, lies cowed the floor along; the animal rears,--the human on all fours! one ice-cold look of dominance-- the beast submissive bows before that glance, and the proud heel upon his neck adores. bad are the times! ladies and gentlemen who once before my cage in thronging crescents crowded, now honor operas, and then ibsen, with their so highly valued presence. my boarders here are so in want of fodder that they reciprocally devour each other. how well off at the theater is a player, sure of the meat upon his ribs, albeit his frightful hunger may tear him and he it and colleagues' inner cupboards be quite bare!-- greatness in art we struggle to inherit, although the salary never match the merit. what see you, whether in light or sombre plays? =house-animals=, whose morals all must praise, who wreak pale spites in vegetarian ways, and revel in an easy cry or fret, just like those others--down in the parquet. this hero has a head by one dram swirled; that is in doubt whether his love be right; a third you hear despairing of the world,-- full five acts long you hear him wail his plight, and no man ends him with a merciful sleight! but the =real= beast, the =beautiful=, =wild= beast, your eyes on =that=, _i_, ladies, only feast! you see the tiger, that habitually devours whatever falls before his bound; the bear, so ravenous originally, who at a late night-meal sinks dead to ground; you see the monkey, little and amusing, from sheer ennui his petty powers abusing,-- he has some talent, of all greatness scant, so, impudently, coquettes with his own want! upon my soul, within my tent's a mammal, see, right behind the curtain, here,--a camel! and all my creatures fawn about my feet when my revolver cracks-- (he shoots into the audience.) behold! brutes tremble all around me. i am cold: the =man= stays cold,--you, with respect, to greet. walk in!--you hardly trust yourselves in here?-- then very well, judge for yourselves! each sphere has sent its crawling creatures to your telling: chameleons and serpents, crocodiles, dragons, and salamanders chasm-dwelling,-- i know, of course, you're full of quiet smiles and don't believe a syllable i say.-- (he lifts the entrance-flap and calls into the tent.) hi, charlie!--bring our =serpent= just this way! (a stage-hand with a big paunch carries out the actress of =lulu= in her pierrot costume, and sets her down before the animal-tamer.) she was created to incite to sin, to lure, seduce, poison--yea, murder, in a manner no man knows.--my pretty beast, (tickling lulu's chin.) only be =unaffected=, and not pieced out with distorted, artificial folly, even if the critics praise thee for 't less wholly. thou hast no right to spoil the shape most fitting, most =true=, of =woman=, with meows and spitting! and mind, all foolery and making faces the =childish simpleness= of =vice= disgraces. thou shouldst--to-day i speak emphatically-- speak =naturally= and not unnaturally, for the first principle in every art, since earliest times, was =true= and =plain=, not =smart=! (to the public.) there's nothing special now to see in her, but wait and watch what later will occur! her strength about the tiger she coils stricter: he roars and groans!--who'll be the final victor?-- hop, charlie, march! carry her to her place, (the stage-hand carries lulu in his arms; the animal-tamer pats her on the hips.) sweet innocence--my dearest treasure-case! (the stage-hand carries lulu back into the tent.) and now i'll tell the best thing in the day: my poll between the teeth of a beast of prey! walk in! tho to be sure the show's not new, yet everyone takes pleasure in its view! wrench open this wild animal's jaws i dare, and he to bite dares not! my pate's so =fair=, so =wild=, so =gaily decked=, it wins respect! i offer it him with confidence unchecked. one =joke=, and my two temples crack!--but, lo, the lightning of my eyes i will forego, staking my =life= against a =joke=! and throw my whip, my weapons, down. i am in my skin! i yield me to this beast!--his name do ye know? --the honored public! that has just walked in! (the animal-tamer steps back into the tent, accompanied by cymbals and kettledrums.) act i _a roomy studio. entrance door at the rear, left. another door at lower left to the bed-room. at centre, a platform for the model, with a spanish screen behind it and a smyrna rug in front. two easels at lower right. on the upper one is the picture of a young girl's head and shoulders. against the other leans a reversed canvas. below these, toward centre, an ottoman, with a tiger-skin on it. two chairs along the left wall. in the back-ground, right, a step-ladder._ _schön sits on the foot of the ottoman, inspecting critically the picture on the further easel. schwarz stands behind the ottoman, his palette and brushes in his hands._ schÖn. do you know, i'm getting acquainted with a brand new side of the lady. schwarz. i have never painted anyone whose expression changed so continuously. i could hardly keep a single feature the same two days running. schÖn. (pointing to the picture and observing him.) do you find that in it? schwarz. i have done everything imaginable to call forth some sort of quiet in her mood by my conversation during the sittings. schÖn. then i understand the difference. (schwarz dips his brush in the oil and draws it over the features of the face.) do you think that makes it look more like her? schwarz. we can only work with art as scientifically as possible. schÖn. tell me-- schwarz. (stepping back.) the color had sunk in pretty well, too. schÖn. (looking at him.) have you ever loved a woman in your life? schwarz. (goes to the easel, puts a color on it, and steps back on the other side.) the dress isn't made to stand out enough yet. we don't see the living body under it. schÖn. i make no doubt that the workmanship is good. schwarz. if you'll step this way.... schÖn. (rising.) you must have told her regular ghost-stories. schwarz. as far back as you can. schÖn. (stepping back, knocks down the canvas that was leaning against the lower easel.) excuse me-- schwarz. (picking it up.) that's all right. schÖn. (surprised.) what is that? schwarz. do you know her? schÖn. no. (schwarz sets the picture on the easel. it is of a lady dressed as pierrot with a long shepherd's crook in her hand.) schwarz. a costume-picture. schÖn. but, really, you've succeeded with =her=. schwarz. you know her? schÖn. no. and in that costume--? schwarz. it isn't nearly finished yet. (schön nods.) what would you have? while she is posing for me i have the pleasure of entertaining her husband. schÖn. what? schwarz. we talk about art, of course,--to complete my good fortune! schÖn. but how did you make such a charming acquaintance? schwarz. as they're generally made. an ancient, tottering little man drops in on me here to know if i can paint his wife. why, of course, were she as wrinkled as mother earth! next day at ten prompt the doors fly open, and the fat-belly drives this little beauty in before him. i can feel even now how my knees shook. then comes a sap-green lackey, stiff as a ramrod, with a package under his arm. where is the dressing-room? imagine my plight. i open the door there (pointing left). just luck that everything was in order. the sweet thing vanishes into it, and the old fellow posts himself outside as a bastion. two minutes later out she steps in this pierrot. (shaking his head.) i never saw anything like it. (he goes left and stares in at the bedroom.) schÖn. (who has followed him with his eyes.) and the fat-belly stands guard? schwarz. (turning round.) the whole body in harmony with that impossible costume as if it had come into the world in it! her way of burying her elbows in her pockets, of lifting her little feet from the rug,--the blood often shoots to my head.... schÖn. one can see that in the picture. schwarz. (shaking his head.) people like us, you know-- schÖn. here the model is mistress of the conversation. schwarz. she has never yet opened her mouth. schÖn. is it possible? schwarz. allow me to show the costume to you. (goes out left.) schÖn. (before the pierrot.) a devilish beauty. (before the other picture.) there's more depth here. (coming down stage.) he is still rather young for his age. (schwarz comes back with a white satin costume.) schwarz. what sort of material is that? schÖn. (feeling it.) satin. schwarz. and all in one piece. schÖn. how does one get into it then? schwarz. that i can't tell you. schÖn. (taking the costume by the legs.) what enormous trowser-legs! schwarz. the left one she pulls up. schÖn. (looking at the picture.) above the knee! schwarz. she does that entrancingly! schÖn. and transparent stockings? schwarz. those have got to be painted, specially. schÖn. oh, you can do that. schwarz. and with it all a coquetry! schÖn. what brought you to that horrible suspicion? schwarz. there are things that our school-philosophy lets itself never dream of. (he takes the costume back into his bedroom.) schÖn. (alone.) when we sleep.... schwarz. (comes back; looks at his watch.) if you wish to make her acquaintance too-- schÖn. no. schwarz. they must be here in a moment. schÖn. how much longer will the lady have to sit? schwarz. i shall probably have to bear the pains of tantalus three months longer. schÖn. i mean the other one. schwarz. i beg your pardon. three times more at most. (going to the door with him.) if the lady will just leave me the upper part of the dress then.... schÖn. with pleasure. let us see you at my house again soon. for heaven's sake! (as he collides in the door-way with dr. goll and lulu.) schwarz. may i introduce ... dr. goll. (to schön.) what are you doing here? lulu. (as schön kisses her hand in greeting.) you're not going already? dr. goll. but what wind blows you here? schÖn. i've been looking at the picture of my bride. lulu. (coming forward.) your bride is here? dr. goll. so you're having work done here, too? lulu. (before the upper picture.) look at it! enchanting! entrancing! dr. goll. (looking round him.) have you got her hidden somewhere round here? lulu. so that is the sweet young prodigy who's made a new person out of you.... schÖn. she sits in the afternoon mostly. dr. goll. and you don't tell anyone about it? lulu. (turning round.) is she really so solemn? schÖn. probably the after-effects of the seminary still, dear lady. dr. goll. (before the picture.) one can see that you have been transformed profoundly. lulu. but now you mustn't let her wait any longer. schÖn. in a fortnight i think the engagement will come out. dr. goll. (to lulu.) let's lose no time. hop! lulu. (to schön.) just think, we came at a trot over the new bridge. i was driving, myself. dr. goll. (as schön prepares to leave.) no, no. we two will talk some more later. get along, nellie. hop! lulu. now you're going to talk about me! dr. goll. our apelles is already wiping his brushes. lulu. i had imagined it would be much more amusing. schÖn. but you have always the satisfaction of preparing for us the greatest and rarest pleasure. lulu. (going left.) oh, just wait! schwarz. (before the bedroom door.) if madame will be so kind.... (shuts the door after her and stands in front of it.) dr. goll. i christened her nellie, you know, in our marriage-contract. schÖn. did you?--yes. dr. goll. what do you think of it? schÖn. why not call her rather mignon? dr. goll. that would have been good, too. i didn't think of that. schÖn. do you consider the name so important? dr. goll. hm.... you know, i have no children. schÖn. but you've only been married a couple of months. dr. goll. thanks, i don't want any. schÖn. (having taken out his cigarette-case.) have a cigarette? dr. goll. (helps himself.) i've plenty to do with this one. (to schwarz.) say, what's your little danseuse doing now? schÖn. (turning round on schwarz.) you and a danseuse? schwarz. the lady was sitting for me at that time only as a favor. i made her acquaintance on a flying trip of the cecilia society. dr. goll. (to schön.) hm.... i think we're getting a change of weather. schÖn. the toilet isn't going so quickly, is it? dr. goll. it's going like lightning! woman has got to be a virtuoso in her job. so must we all, each in his job, if life isn't to turn to beggary. (calls.) hop, nellie! lulu. (inside.) just a second! dr. goll. (to schön.) i can't get onto these blockheads. (referring to schwarz.) schÖn. i can't help envying them. these blockheads know nothing holier than an altar-cloth, and feel richer than you and me with , -mark incomes. besides, you can't be judge of a man who from childhood has lived from palette to mouth. try to get at his finances: it's an arithmetic example! i haven't the moral courage, and one can easily burn one's fingers at it, too. lulu. (as pierrot, steps out of the bed-room.) here i am! schÖn. (turns; after a pause.) superb! lulu. (nearer.) well? schÖn. you put shame on the boldest fancy. lulu. how do you like me? schÖn. a picture before which art must despair. dr. goll. don't you think so, too? schÖn. (to lulu.) have you any notion what you do? lulu. i'm perfectly possessed of myself! schÖn. then you might be a little more discreet. lulu. but i'm only doing what's my duty. schÖn. you are powdered? lulu. what do you take me for! dr. goll. i've never seen such a white skin as she's got. i've told our raphael here, too, to do just as little with the flesh tints as possible. for once, i can't get enthusiastic about the modern art-nonsense. schwarz. (by the easels, preparing his paints.) at any rate, it's thanks to impressionism that present-day art can stand up beside the old masters without blushing. dr. goll. oh, it can do quite well for a bit of butcher's work. schÖn. for heaven's sake don't get excited! (lulu falls on goll's neck and kisses him.) dr. goll. they can see your undershirt. you must pull it lower. lulu. i would soonest have left it off. it only bothers me. dr. goll. he should be able to paint it out. lulu. (taking the shepherd's crook that leans against the spanish screen, and mounting the platform, to schön.) what would you say now, if you had to stand at attention for two hours? schÖn. i'd sell my soul to the devil for the chance to exchange with you. dr. goll. (sitting, left.) come over here. here is my post of observation. lulu. (plucking her left trowser-leg up to the knee, to schwarz.) so? schwarz. yes.... lulu. (plucking it a thought higher.) so? schwarz. yes, yes.... dr. goll. (to schön who has seated himself on the chair next him, with a gesture.) from this place i find her still more attractive. lulu. (without stirring.) i beg pardon! i am equally attractive on all sides. schwarz. (to lulu.) the right knee further forward, please. schÖn. (with a gesture.) the body does show finer lines perhaps. schwarz. the light to-day can be borne at least half way. dr. goll. oh, you must throw on lots of it! hold your brush a bit longer. schwarz. certainly, dr. goll. dr. goll. treat her as a piece of still-life. schwarz. certainly, doctor. (to lulu.) you used to hold your head a wee mite higher, mrs. goll. lulu. (raising her head.) paint my lips a little open. schÖn. paint snow on ice. if you get warm doing that, then instantly your art gets inartistic! schwarz. certainly, doctor. dr. goll. art, you know, must so reproduce nature that one can find at least some =spiritual= enjoyment in it! lulu. (opening her mouth a little, to schwarz.) so--look. i'll hold it half opened, so. schwarz. as soon as the sun comes, the wall opposite throws warm reflections in here. dr. goll. (to lulu.) you must keep your position just as if our velasquez here didn't exist at all. lulu. well, a painter =isn't= a man at all, anyway. schÖn. i don't think you ought to judge the whole profession by just one famous exception. schwarz. (stepping back from the easel.) i should have liked to have had to hire a different studio last fall. schÖn. (to goll.) what i wanted to ask you--have you seen the little murphy girl yet as a peruvian pearl-fisher? dr. goll. i see her to-morrow for the fourth time. prince polossov took me. his hair has already got dark yellow again with delight. schÖn. so you find her quite fabulous too. dr. goll. who ever wants to judge of that beforehand? lulu. i think someone knocked. schwarz. pardon me a moment. (goes and opens the door.) dr. goll. (to lulu.) you can safely smile at him with less bashfulness! schÖn. he makes nothing of it. dr. goll. and if he did!--what are we two sitting here for? alva schÖn. (entering, still behind the spanish screen.) may one come in? schÖn. my son! lulu. oh! it's mr. alva! dr. goll. don't mind. just come along in. alva. (stepping forward, shakes hands with schön and goll.) glad to see you. (turning toward lulu.) do i see a-right? oh, if only i could engage you for my title part! lulu. i don't think i could dance nearly well enough for your show! alva. but you do have a dancing-master such as cannot be found on any stage in europe. schÖn. but what brings you here? dr. goll. maybe you're having somebody or other painted here, too, in secret! alva. (to schön.) i wanted to take you to the dress rehearsal. dr. goll. (as schön rises.) do you have 'em dance to-day in full costume? alva. of course. come along, too. in five minutes i must be on the stage. (to lulu.) unhappy! dr. goll. i've forgotten--what's the name of your ballet? alva. dalailama. dr. goll. i thought =he= was in a madhouse. schÖn. you're thinking of nietzsche, doctor. dr. goll. you're right; i got 'em mixed up. alva. i have helped buddhism to its legs. dr. goll. by his legs is the stage-poet known. alva. corticelli dances the youthful buddha as tho she had seen the light of the world by the ganges. schÖn. so long as her mother lived, she danced with her legs. alva. then when she got free she danced with her intelligence. dr. goll. now she dances with her heart. alva. if you'd like to see her--? dr. goll. thank you. alva. come along with us! dr. goll. impossible. schÖn. anyway, we have no time to lose. alva. come with us, doctor. in the third act you see dalailama in his cloister, with his monks-- dr. goll. the only thing i care about is the young buddha. alva. well, what's hindering you? dr. goll. i can't. i can't do it. alva. we're going to peter's, after it. there you can express your admiration. dr. goll. don't press it on me, please. alva. you'll see the tame monkey, the two brahmans, the little girls.... dr. goll. for heaven's sake, just keep away from me with your little girls! lulu. reserve one of the proscenium boxes for us on monday, mr. alva. alva. how could you doubt that i would, dear lady! dr. goll. when i come back the whole picture will be spoilt on me. alva. well, it could be painted over. dr. goll. if i don't explain to this caravacci every stroke of his brush-- schÖn. your fears are unfounded, i think.... dr. goll. next time, gentlemen! alva. the brahmans are getting impatient. the daughters of nirvana are shivering in their tights. dr. goll. damned enchantment! schÖn. they'll quarrel with us, if we don't bring you with us. dr. goll. in five minutes i'll be back. (stands down right, behind schwarz and compares the picture with lulu.) alva. (to lulu.) duty calls me, gracious lady! dr. goll. (to schwarz.) you must model it a bit more here. the hair is bad. you aren't paying enough attention to your business! alva. come on. dr. goll. now, just hop it! ten horses will not drag me to peter's. schÖn. (following alva and goll.) we'll take my carriage. it's waiting downstairs. (exeunt.) schwarz. (leans over to the right, and spits.) pack! if only that were life's end! the bread-basket!--paunch and mug! now rears my artist's pride. (after a look at lulu.) this company!-- (gets up, goes up left, observes lulu from all sides, and sits again at his easel.) the choice would be a hard one to make. if i may request mrs. goll to raise the right hand a little higher. lulu. (grasps the crook as high as she can reach; to herself.) who would have thought that was possible! schwarz. i am quite ridiculous, you think? lulu. he's coming right back. schwarz. i can do nothing but paint. lulu. there he is! schwarz. (rising.) well? lulu. don't you hear? schwarz. someone is coming.... lulu. i knew it. schwarz. it's the janitor. he's sweeping the stairs. lulu. thank heaven! schwarz. do you perhaps accompany the doctor to his patients? lulu. everything =but= that. schwarz. because, you are not accustomed to being alone. lulu. we have a housekeeper at home. schwarz. she keeps you company? lulu. she has a lot of taste. schwarz. what for? lulu. she dresses me. schwarz. do you go much to balls? lulu. never. schwarz. then what do you need the dresses for? lulu. for dancing. schwarz. you really dance? lulu. czardas ... samaqueca ... skirt-dance. schwarz. doesn't--that--disgust you, then? lulu. you find me ugly? schwarz. you don't understand me. but who gives you lessons then? lulu. him. schwarz. who? lulu. him. schwarz. he? lulu. he plays the violin-- schwarz. every day one learns something new of the world! lulu. i learned in paris. i took lessons from eugenie fougère. she let me copy her costumes, too. schwarz. what are =they= like? lulu. a little green lace skirt to the knee, all in ruffles, low-necked, of course, very low-necked and awfully tight-laced. bright green petticoat, then brighter and brighter. snow-white underclothes with a hand's-breadth of lace.... schwarz. i can no longer-- lulu. then paint! schwarz. (scraping the canvas.) aren't you cold at all? lulu. god forbid! no. what made you ask? are you so cold? schwarz. not to-day. no. lulu. praise god, one can breathe! schwarz. how so?... (lulu takes a deep breath.) don't do that, please! (springs up, throws away his palette and brushes, walks up and down.) the boot-black only attends to her feet! his color doesn't eat into his money, either. if i go without supper to-morrow, no little society lady will ask me if i know anything about oyster-patties! lulu. is he going out of his head? schwarz. (takes up his work again.) what ever drove the fellow to this test! lulu. i'd like it better, too, if he had stayed here. schwarz. we are truly the martyrs of our calling! lulu. i didn't wish to cause you pain. schwarz. (hesitating, to lulu.) if you--the left trowser-leg--a little higher-- lulu. here? schwarz. (steps to the platform.) permit me.... lulu. what do you want? schwarz. i'll show you. lulu. you mustn't. schwarz. you are nervous ... (tries to seize her hand.) lulu. (throws the crook in his face.) let me alone! (hurries to the entrance door.) you don't get me for a long time yet. schwarz. you can't understand a joke. lulu. oh, yes i can. i understand everything. just you leave me be. you'll get nothing at all from me by force. go to your work. you have no right to molest me. (flees behind the ottoman.) sit down behind your easel! schwarz. (trying to get around the ottoman.) as soon as i've punished you--you wayward, capricious-- lulu. but you must have me, first! go away. you can't catch me. in long clothes i'd have fallen into your clutches long ago--but in the pierrot! schwarz. (throwing himself across the ottoman.) i've got you! lulu. (hurls the tiger-skin over his head.) good-night! (jumps over the platform and climbs up the step-ladder.) i can see away over all the cities of the earth. schwarz. (unrolling himself from the rug.) this old skin!! lulu. i reach up into heaven, and stick the stars in my hair. schwarz. (clambering after her.) i'll shake it till you fall off! lulu. if you don't stop, i'll throw the ladder down. (climbing higher.) will you let go of my legs? god save the poles! (makes the ladder fall over, jumps onto the platform, and as schwarz picks himself up from the floor, throws the spanish screen down on his head. hastening down-stage, by the easels.) i told you that you weren't going to get me. schwarz. (coming forward.) let us make peace. (tries to embrace her.) lulu. keep away from me, or-- (she throws the easel with the finished picture at him, so that both fall crashing to the floor.) schwarz. (screams.) merciful heaven! lulu. (upstage, right.) you knocked the hole in it yourself! schwarz. i am ruined! ten weeks' work, my journey, my exhibition! now there is nothing more to lose! (plunges after her.) lulu. (springs over the ottoman, over the fallen step-ladder, and over the platform, down-stage.) a grave! don't fall into it! (she stamps thru the picture on the floor.) she made a new man out of him! (falls forward.) schwarz. (stumbling over the spanish screen.) i am merciless now! lulu. (up-stage.) leave me in peace now. i'm getting dizzy. o gott! o gott!... (comes forward and sinks down on the ottoman. schwarz locks the door; then seats himself next her, grasps her hand, and covers it with kisses--then pauses, struggling with himself. lulu opens her eyes wide.) lulu. he may come back. schwarz. how d' you feel? lulu. as if i had fallen into the water.... schwarz. i love you. lulu. one time, i loved a student. schwarz. nellie-- lulu. with four-and-twenty scars-- schwarz. i love you, nellie. lulu. my name isn't nellie. (schwarz kisses her.) it's lulu. schwarz. i would call you eve. lulu. do you know what time it is? schwarz. (looking at his watch.) half past ten. (lulu takes the watch and opens the case.) you don't love me. lulu. yes i do.... it's five minutes after half past ten. schwarz. give me a kiss, eve! lulu. (takes him by the chin and kisses him. throws the watch in the air and catches it.) you smell of tobacco. schwarz. why so distant? lulu. it would be uncomfortable to-- schwarz. you're just making believe! lulu. you're making believe yourself, it seems to me. _i_ make believe? what makes you think that? =i never needed to do that.= schwarz. (rises, disconcerted, passing his hand over his forehead.) god in heaven! the world is strange to me--! lulu. (screams.) only don't kill me! schwarz. (instantly whirling round.) =thou hast never yet loved!= lulu. (half raising herself.) =you have never yet loved ...!= dr. goll. (outside.) open the door! lulu. (already sprung to her feet.) hide me! o god, hide me! dr. goll. (pounding on the door.) open the door! lulu. (holding back schwarz as he goes toward the door.) he will strike me dead! dr. goll. (hammering.) open the door! lulu. (sunk down before schwarz, gripping his knees.) he'll beat me to death! he'll beat me to death! schwarz. stand up.... (the door falls crashing into the studio. dr. goll with blood-shot eyes rushes upon schwarz and lulu, brandishing his stick.) dr. goll. you dogs! you ...! (pants, struggles for breath a few seconds, and falls headlong to the ground. schwarz's knees tremble. lulu has fled to the door. pause.) schwarz. mister--doctor--doc--doctor goll-- lulu. (in the door.) please, though, first put the studio in order. schwarz. dr. goll! (leans over.) doc-- (steps back.) he's cut his forehead. help me to lay him on the ottoman. lulu. (shudders backward in terror.) no. no... schwarz. (trying to turn him over.) dr. goll. lulu. he doesn't hear. schwarz. but you, help me, please. lulu. the two of us together couldn't lift him. schwarz. (straightening up.) we must send for a doctor. lulu. he is fearfully heavy. schwarz. (getting his hat.) please, though, be so good as to put the place a little to rights while i'm away. (he goes out.) lulu. he'll spring up all at once. (intensely.) bussi! he just won't notice anything. (comes down-stage in a wide circle.) he sees my feet, and watches every step i take. he has his eye on me everywhere. (touches him with her toe.) bussi! (flinching, backward.) it's serious with him. the dance is over. he'll send me to prison. what shall i do? (leans over, to the floor.) a strange, wild face! (getting up.) and no one to do him the last services--isn't that sad! (schwarz returns.) schwarz. still not come to himself? lulu. (down right.) what shall i do? schwarz. (bending over goll.) doctor goll. lulu. i almost think it's serious. schwarz. talk decently! lulu. =he= wouldn't say that to me. he makes me dance for him when he doesn't feel well. schwarz. the doctor will be here in a moment. lulu. doctoring won't help =him=. schwarz. but people do what they can, in such cases! lulu. =he= doesn't think so. schwarz. then won't you at least--get dressed? lulu. yes,--right off. schwarz. what are you waiting for? lulu. please ... schwarz. what is it? lulu. shut =his= eyes. schwarz. you make me shiver. lulu. not nearly so much as you make =me=! schwarz. i? lulu. you're a born criminal. schwarz. doesn't this moment touch you at all, then? lulu. it hits me, too, some. schwarz. please, just you keep still now! lulu. it hits you some, too. schwarz. you really didn't need to say that to a man, in such a moment. lulu. =please ...!= schwarz. do what you think necessary. i don't know how. lulu. (left of goll.) he's looking at me. schwarz. (right of goll.) and at me, too. lulu. you're a coward! schwarz. (shuts goll's eyes with his handkerchief.) it's the first time in my life that anyone has called me that. lulu. didn't you do it to your mother? schwarz. (nervously.) no. lulu. you were away, perhaps. schwarz. no! lulu. or else you were afraid? schwarz. (violently.) no! lulu. (shivering, backward.) i didn't mean to insult you. schwarz. she's still alive. lulu. then you still have somebody. schwarz. she's as poor as a beggar. lulu. i know what that is. schwarz. don't laugh at me! lulu. now i am rich-- schwarz. it gives me cold shudders-- (goes right.) she can't help it! lulu. (to herself.) what'll i do? schwarz. (to himself.) absolutely depraved! (they look at each other mistrustfully. schwarz goes over to her and grips her hand.) look me in the eyes! lulu. (apprehensively.) what do you want? schwarz. (takes her to the ottoman and makes her sit next to him.) look me in the eyes. lulu. i see myself in them as pierrot. schwarz. (shoves her from him.) confounded dancer-ing! lulu. i must change my clothes-- schwarz. (holds her back.) one question-- lulu. i can't answer it. schwarz. can you speak the truth? lulu. i don't know. schwarz. do you believe in a creator? lulu. i don't know. schwarz. can you swear on anything? lulu. i don't know. leave me alone. you're mad. schwarz. what do you believe in, then? lulu. i don't know. schwarz. have you no soul, then? lulu. i don't know. schwarz. have you ever once loved--? lulu. i don't know. schwarz. (gets up, goes right, to himself.) she doesn't know! lulu. (without moving.) i don't know. schwarz. (glancing at goll.) he knows. lulu. (nearer him.) what do you want to know? schwarz. (angrily.) go, get dressed! (lulu goes into the bed-room. to goll.) would i could change with you, you dead man! i give her back to you. i give my youth to you, too. i lack the courage and the faith. i've had to wait patiently too long. it's too late for me. i haven't grown up big enough for happiness. i have a hellish fear of it. wake up! i didn't touch her. he opens his mouth. mouth open and eyes shut, like the children. with me it's the other way round. wake up, wake up! (kneels down and binds his handkerchief round the dead man's head.) here i beseech heaven to make me =able= to be happy--to give me the strength and the freedom of soul to be just a weeny mite happy! for =her sake, only for her sake=. (lulu comes out of the bed-room, completely dressed, her hat on, and her right hand under her left arm.) lulu. (raising her left arm, to schwarz.) would you hook me up here? my hand trembles. curtain act ii _a very ornamental parlor. entrance-door rear, left. curtained entrances right and left, steps leading up to the right one. on the back wall over the fire-place, lulu's picture as pierrot in a magnificent frame. right, a tall mirror; a couch in front of it. left, an ebony writing-table. centre, a few chairs around a little chinese table._ _lulu stands motionless before the mirror, in a green silk morning-dress. she frowns, passes a hand over her forehead, feels her cheeks, and draws back from the mirror with a discouraged, almost angry, look. frequently turning round, she goes left, opens a casket on the writing-table, lights herself a cigarette, looks for a book among those that are lying on the table, takes one, and lies down on the couch opposite the mirror. after reading a moment, she lets the book sink, and nods seriously to herself in the glass; then resumes reading. schwarz enters, left, palette and brushes in hand, and bends over lulu, kisses her on the forehead, and goes up the steps, right._ schwarz. (turning in the door-way.) eve! lulu. (smiling.) at your orders? schwarz. seems to me you look extra charming to-day. lulu. (with a glance at the mirror.) depends on what you expect. schwarz. your hair breathes out a morning freshness.... lulu. i've just come out of the water. schwarz. (approaching her.) i've an awful lot to do to-day. lulu. that's what you say to yourself. schwarz. (lays his palette and brushes down on the carpet, and sits on the edge of the couch.) what are you reading? lulu. (reads.) "suddenly she heard an anchor of refuge come nodding up the stairs." schwarz. who under the sun writes so absorbingly? lulu. (reading.) "it was the postman with a money-order." (henriette, the servant, comes in, upper left, with a hat-box on her arm and a little tray of letters which she puts on the table.) henriette. the mail. i'm going to take your hat to the milliner, madam. anything else? lulu. no. (schwarz signs to her to go out, which she does, slyly smiling.) schwarz. what was it you dreamt all last night? lulu. you've asked me that twice already, to-day. schwarz. (rises, takes up the letters.) i tremble for news. every day i fear the world may go to pieces. (giving lulu a letter.) for you. lulu. (sniffs at the paper.) madame corticelli. (hides it in her bosom.) schwarz. (skimming a letter.) my samaqueca-dancer sold--for fifty thousand marks! lulu. who says that? schwarz. sedelmeier in paris. that's the third picture since our marriage. i hardly know how to save myself from my luck! lulu. (pointing to the letters.) there are more there. schwarz. (opening an engagement announcement.) see. (gives it to lulu.) lulu. (reads.) sir henry von zarnikow has the honor to announce the engagement of his daughter, charlotte marie adelaide, to doctor ludwig schön. schwarz. (as he opens another letter.) at last! he's been an eternal while evading a public engagement. i can't understand it--a man of his standing and influence. what can be in the way of his marriage? lulu. what is that that you're reading? schwarz. an invitation to take part in the international exhibition at st. petersburg. i have no idea what to paint for it. lulu. some entrancing girl or other, of course. schwarz. will you be willing to pose for it? lulu. god knows there are other pretty girls enough in existence! schwarz. but with any other model--tho she be as racy as hell--i can't get such a full display of my powers. lulu. then i must, i suppose. wouldn't it go as well lying down? schwarz. really, i'd liefest have your taste arrange it for me. (folding up the letters.) don't let's forget to congratulate schön to-day, anyway. (goes left and shuts the letters in the writing-table.) lulu. but we did that a long time ago. schwarz. for his bride's sake. lulu. you can write to him again if you want. schwarz. and now to work! (takes up his brushes and palette, kisses lulu, goes up the steps, right, and turns around in the door-way.) eve! lulu. (lets her book sink, smiling.) your pleasure? schwarz. (approaching her.) i feel every day as if i were seeing you for the very first time. lulu. you're a terror. schwarz. the fault is yours. (he sinks on his knees by the couch and caresses her hand.) lulu. (stroking his hair.) you're =wasting= me. schwarz. you =are mine=. but you are never more ensnaring than when you ought for god's sake to be, just once, real ugly for a couple of hours! since i've had you, i have had nothing more. i'm entirely lost to myself. lulu. not so excited! (bell rings in the corridor.) schwarz. (pulling himself together.) confound it! lulu. no one at home! schwarz. perhaps it's the art-dealer-- lulu. and if it's the chinese emperor! schwarz. one moment. (exit.) lulu. (visionary.) thou? thou? (closes her eyes.) schwarz. (coming back.) a beggar, who says he was in the war. i have no small change on me. (taking up his palette and brushes.) it's high time, too, that i should finally go to work. (goes out, right.) (lulu touches herself up before the glass, strokes back her hair, and goes out, returning leading in schigolch.) schigolch. i'd thought he was more of a swell--a little more glory to him. he's sort of embarrassed. he quaked a little in the knees when he saw =me= in front of him. lulu. (shoving a chair round for him.) how can you beg from him, too? schigolch. that's why i've dragged my seventy-seven summers just here. you told me he kept at his painting in the mornings. lulu. he hadn't got quite awake yet. how much do you need? schigolch. two hundred, if you have that much handy. personally, i'd like three hundred. some of my clients have evaporated. lulu. (goes to the writing-table and rummages in the drawer.) whew, i'm tired! schigolch. (looking round him.) that's just what brought me, too. i've been wanting a long time to see how things were looking now with you. lulu. well? schigolch. it just sweeps over you. (looking up.) like with me fifty years ago. instead of the loafing chairs we still had rusty old sabres then. devil, but you've brought it pretty far! (scuffing.) carpets.... lulu. (giving him two bills.) i like best to walk on them bare-footed. schigolch. (scanning lulu's portrait.) is that you? lulu. (winking.) pretty fine? schigolch. if all that's genuine. lulu. have something sweet? schigolch. what? lulu. (getting up.) elixir de spaa. schigolch. that doesn't help me--does he drink? lulu. (taking a decanter and glasses from a cupboard near the fireplace.) not yet. (coming down stage.) the cordial has such various effects! schigolch. he comes to blows? lulu. he goes to sleep. (she fills the two glasses.) schigolch. when he's drunk, you can see right into his insides. lulu. i'd rather =not=. (sits opposite schigolch.) tell me about it. schigolch. the streets keep on getting longer, and my legs shorter. lulu. and your harmonica? schigolch. has bad air, like me with my asthma. i just keep a-thinking it isn't worth the trouble to make it better. (they clink glasses.) lulu. (emptying her glass.) i thought you'd come to an end a long time ago-- schigolch. to an end--already up and away? i thought so, too. but no matter how early the sun goes down, still we aren't let lie quiet. i'm hoping for winter. perhaps then my (coughing) --my--my asthma will invent some opportunity to carry me off. lulu. (filling the glasses.) do you think they could have forgotten you on the other side? schigolch. would be possible, for it certainly isn't going like it usually does. (stroking her knee.) now you tell--not seen you a long time--my little lulu. lulu. (jerking back, smiling.) life is beyond me! schigolch. what do you know about it? you're still so young! lulu. that you call me lulu. schigolch. lulu, isn't it? have i ever called you anything else? lulu. in the memory of man my name has no longer been lulu. schigolch. another way of naming? lulu. lulu sounds to me quite ante-diluvian. schigolch. children! children! lulu. my name now is-- schigolch. as if the principle wasn't always the same! lulu. you mean--? schigolch. what is it now? lulu. =eve.= schigolch. lept, hopped, skipped, jumped.... lulu. i'm listening. schigolch. (gazing round.) this is the way i dreamt of it for you. you've aimed straight for it. (seeing lulu sprinkling herself with perfume.) what's that? lulu. heliotrope. schigolch. does that smell better than you? lulu. (sprinkling him.) that needn't bother you any more. schigolch. who would have dreamt of this royal luxury before! lulu. when i think back--ugh! schigolch. (stroking her knee.) how's it going with you, then? you still keep at the french? lulu. i lie and sleep. schigolch. that's genteel. that always looks like something. and afterwards? lulu. i stretch--till it cracks. schigolch. and when it has cracked? lulu. what do you mind about that? schigolch. what do i mind about that? what do i mind? i'd rather live till the last trump and renounce all heavenly joys than leave my lulu deprived of anything down here behind me. what do i mind about that? it's my sympathy. to be sure, my better self =is= already transfigured--but i still have some sense for this world. lulu. i haven't. schigolch. you're too well off. lulu. (shuddering.) idiot.... schigolch. better than with the old dancing-bear? lulu. (sadly.) i don't dance any more. schigolch. for him it was time, too. lulu. now i am-- (stops.) schigolch. speak how it is with you, child! i believed in you when there was no more to be seen in you than your two big eyes. what are you now? lulu. a beast.... schigolch. that you--! and what kind of a beast? a fine beast! an elegant beast! a glorified beast! then i'll let them bury me. we're through with prejudices--even with the one against the corpse-washer. lulu. you needn't be afraid that you will be washed once more. schigolch. doesn't matter, either. one gets dirty again. lulu. (sprinkling him.) it would call you back to life again! schigolch. we are mud. lulu. i beg your pardon! i rub grease into myself every day and then powder on top of it. schigolch. probably worth while, too, on the dressed-up mucker's account. lulu. it makes the skin like satin. schigolch. as if it weren't just dirt all the same! lulu. thank you. i wish to be worth biting at! schigolch. we are. give a big dinner down below there pretty soon. keep open house. lulu. your guests will hardly over-eat themselves at it. schigolch. patience, girl! your worshippers won't put you in alcohol, either. it's "schöne melusine" as long as it keeps buoyant. afterwards? they don't take it at the zoölogical garden. (rising.) the gentle beasties might get stomach-cramps. lulu. (getting up.) have you enough? schigolch. there's still enough left over to plant a juniper on my grave. i'll find my own way out. (exit. lulu follows him, and presently returns with dr. schön.) schÖn. what's your father doing here? lulu. what's the matter? schÖn. if i were your husband that man would never come over my threshold. lulu. you can speak intimately. he's not here. (referring to schwarz.) schÖn. thank you, i'd rather not. lulu. i don't understand. schÖn. i know that. (offering her a seat.) i should like to speak with you just on that subject. lulu. (sitting down uncertainly.) why didn't you tell me so yesterday, then? schÖn. please, nothing now about yesterday. i did tell you two years ago. lulu. (nervously.) oh, yes,--hm! schÖn. please be kind enough to cease your visits to my house. lulu. may i offer you an elixir-- schÖn. thanks. no elixir. have you understood me? (lulu shakes her head.) good. you have the choice. you force me to the most extreme measures:--either act in accordance with your station-- lulu. or? schÖn. or--you compel me--i should have to turn to that person who is responsible for your behavior. lulu. what makes you imagine that? schÖn. i shall request your husband, himself to watch over your ways. (lulu rises, goes up the steps, right.) where are you going? lulu. (calls thru the curtains.) walter! schÖn. (springing up.) are you mad? lulu. (turning round.) aha! schÖn. i have made the most superhuman efforts to raise you in society. you can be ten times as proud of your name as of your intimacy with me. lulu. (comes down the steps and puts her arm around schön's neck.) why are you still afraid, now that you're at the zenith of your hopes? schÖn. no comedy! the zenith of my hopes? i am at last engaged: i have now the hope of bringing my bride into a clean house. lulu. (sitting.) she has developed delightfully in the two years! schÖn. she no longer looks thru one so earnestly. lulu. she is now, for the first time, a woman. we can meet each other wherever it seems suitable to you. schÖn. we shall meet each other nowhere but in the presence of your husband! lulu. you don't believe yourself what you say. schÖn. then =he= must believe it. go on and call him! thru his marriage to you, thru all that i've done for him, he has become my friend. lulu. (rising.) mine, too. schÖn. then i'll cut down the sword over my head. lulu. you have, indeed, chained me up. but i owe my happiness to you. you will get friends by the crowd as soon as you have a pretty young wife again. schÖn. you judge women by yourself! he's got the sense of a child or he would have tracked out your doublings and windings long ago. lulu. i only wish he would! then, at last he'd get out of his swaddling-clothes. he puts his trust in the marriage contract he has in his pocket. trouble is past and gone. one can now give oneself and let oneself go as if one were at home. that isn't the sense of a =child=! it's banal! he has no education; he sees nothing; he sees neither me nor himself; he is blind, blind, blind.... schÖn. (half to himself.) when =his= eyes open!! lulu. open his eyes for him! i'm going to ruin. i'm neglecting myself. he doesn't know me at all. what am i to him? he calls me darling and little devil. he would say the same to any piano-teacher. he makes no pretensions. everything is alright, to him. that comes from his never in his life having felt the need of intercourse with women. schÖn. if that's true! lulu. he admits it perfectly openly. schÖn. a man who has painted them, rags and tags and velvet gowns, since he was fourteen. lulu. women make him anxious. he trembles for his health and comfort. but he isn't afraid of =me=! schÖn. how many girls would deem themselves god knows how blessed in your situation. lulu. (softly pleading.) seduce him. corrupt him. you know how. take him into bad company--you know the people. i am nothing to him but a woman, just woman. he makes me feel so ridiculous. he will be prouder of me. he doesn't know any differences. i'm thinking my head off, day and night, how to shake him up. in my despair i dance the can-can. he yawns; and drivels something about obscenity. schÖn. nonsense. he is an artist, though. lulu. at least he believes he is. schÖn. that's the chief thing! lulu. when _i_ pose for him.... he believes, too, that he's a famous man. schÖn. we =have= made him one. lulu. he believes everything. he's as mistrustful as a thief, and lets himself be lied to, till one loses all respect! when we first knew each other i informed him i had never yet loved-- (schön falls into an easy-chair.) otherwise he would really have taken me for a fallen woman! schÖn. you make god knows what exorbitant demands on =legitimate= relations! lulu. i make no exorbitant demands. often i even dream still of goll. schÖn. he was, at any rate, not banal! lulu. he is there, as if he had never been away. only he walks as tho in his socks. he isn't angry with me; he's awfully sad. and then he is fearful, as tho he were there without the permission of the police. otherwise, he feels at ease with us. only he can't quite get over my having thrown away so much money since-- schÖn. you yearn for the whip once more? lulu. maybe. i don't dance any more. schÖn. teach him to do it. lulu. a waste of trouble. schÖn. out of a hundred women, ninety educate their husbands to suit themselves. lulu. he loves me. schÖn. that's fatal, of course. lulu. he loves me-- schÖn. that is an unbridgeable abyss. lulu. he doesn't know me, but he loves me! if he had anything like a correct idea of me, he'd tie a stone around my neck and sink me in the sea where it's deepest. schÖn. let's finish this? (he gets up.) lulu. as you say. schÖn. i've married you off. twice i have married you off. you live in luxury. i've created a position for your husband. if that doesn't satisfy you, and he laughs in his sleeve at it, i don't pretend to meet ideal claims; but--leave me out of the game, out of it! lulu. (resolutely.) if i belong to any person on this earth, i belong to you. without you i'd be--i won't say where. you took me by the hand, gave me food to eat, had me dressed,--when i was going to steal your watch. do you think that can be forgotten? anybody else would have called the police. you sent me to school, and had me learn manners. who but you in the whole world has ever thought anything of me? i've danced and posed, and was glad to be able to earn my living that way. but =love= at command, i can't! schÖn. (raising his voice.) leave =me= out! do what you will. i'm not coming to make scandal; i'm coming to shake the scandal from my neck. my engagement is costing me sacrifices enough! i had imagined that with a healthy young man, than whom a woman of your years can wish herself no better, you would, at last, have been contented. if you are under obligations to me, don't throw yourself a third time in my way! am i to wait yet longer before putting my pile in security? am i to risk the whole success of my patents falling into the water again after two years? what good is it to me to be your married-man, when =you= can be seen going in and out of my house at every hour of the day? why the devil didn't dr. goll stay alive just one year more! with him you were in safe keeping. then i'd have had my wife long since under my roof! lulu. and what would you have had then? the kid gets on your nerves. the child is too uncorrupted for you. she's been much too carefully brought up. what should i have against your marriage? but you are deceived about yourself if you think that on account of your impending marriage you may express your contempt to me. schÖn. contempt? i shall soon give the child the right idea. if anything is contemptible, it's your intrigues! lulu. (laughing.) am i jealous of the child? that never once entered my head. schÖn. then why talk about the child? the child is not even a whole year younger than you are. leave me my freedom to live what life i still have. no matter how the child's been brought up, she's got her five senses just like you.... (schwarz appears, right, brush in hand.) schwarz. what's the matter here? lulu. (to schön.) well? go on. talk. schwarz. what's the matter with you two? lulu. nothing that touches you-- schÖn. (sharply.) quiet! lulu. he's had enough of me. (schwarz leads her off, to the right.) schÖn. (turning over the leaves in one of the books on the table.) it had to come out--i must have my hands free at last! schwarz. (coming back.) is that a way to jest? schÖn. (pointing to a chair.) please. schwarz. what is it? schÖn. please. schwarz. (seating himself.) well? schÖn. (seating himself.) you have married half a million.... schwarz. is it gone? schÖn. not a penny. schwarz. explain to me the peculiar scene.... schÖn. you have married half a million-- schwarz. no one can make a crime of that. schÖn. you have created a name for yourself. you can work unmolested. you need to deny yourself no wish-- schwarz. what have you two got against me? schÖn. for six months you've been revelling in all the heavens. you have a wife whom the world envies you, and she deserves a man whom she can respect-- schwarz. doesn't she respect me? schÖn. no. schwarz. (depressed.) i come from the dark depths of society. she is above me. i cherish no more ardent wish than to become her equal. (offers schön his hand.) thank you. schÖn. (pressing it, half embarrassed.) don't mention it. schwarz. (with determination.) speak! schÖn. keep a little more watch on her. schwarz. i--on her? schÖn. we are not children! we don't trifle! she demands that she be taken seriously. her value gives her a perfect right to be. schwarz. what does she do, then? schÖn. you have married half a million! schwarz. (rises; beside himself.) she--? schÖn. (takes him by the shoulder.) no, that's not the way! (forces him to sit.) we must speak with each other very seriously here. schwarz. what does she do? schÖn. first count on your fingers what you have to thank her for, and then-- schwarz. what does she do--man!! schÖn. and then make yourself responsible for your faults, and no one else. schwarz. with whom? with whom? schÖn. if we should shoot each other-- schwarz. since when, then? schÖn. (evasive.) --i don't come here to make scandal, i come to save you from the scandal. schwarz. you have misunderstood her. schÖn. (embarrassed.) that will not do for me. i can't see you go on living in blindness. the girl deserves to be a respectable woman. since i have known her she has improved as she developed. schwarz. since you have known her? since when have you known her then? schÖn. since about her twelfth year. schwarz. (bewildered.) she told me nothing about that. schÖn. she sold flowers in front of the alhambra café. every evening between twelve and two she pressed in among the guests, bare-footed. schwarz. she told me nothing of that. schÖn. she did right there. i'm telling you, so you may see that you have not to do with moral degeneracy. the girl is, on the contrary, of extraordinarily good disposition. schwarz. she said she had grown up with an aunt. schÖn. that was the woman i gave her to. she was her best pupil. the mothers used to make her an example to their children. she has the feeling for duty. it is simply and solely your mistake if you have till now neglected to take her on her best sides. schwarz. (sobbing.) o god!-- schÖn. (with emphasis.) no o god!! nothing of the happiness you have cost can be changed. done is done. you over-rate yourself against your better knowledge if you persuade yourself you will lose. you stand to gain. but with "o god" nothing is gained. a greater friendliness i have not yet shown you: i speak plainly and offer you my help. don't show yourself unworthy of it! schwarz. (from now on more and more broken up.) when i first knew her, she told me she had never loved. schÖn. when a widow says that--! it does her credit that she chose you for a husband. make the same claims on yourself and your happiness is without a blot. schwarz. she says he made her wear short dresses. schÖn. but he married her! that was her master-stroke. how she brought the man to it is beyond me. you really must know it now: you are enjoying the fruits of her diplomacy. schwarz. how did she get to know dr. goll then? schÖn. through me! it was after my wife's death, when i was making the first advances to my present fiancée. she stuck herself in between. she had fixed her mind on becoming my wife. schwarz. (as if seized with a horrible suspicion.) and then when her husband died? schÖn. you married half a million!! schwarz. (wailing.) o, to have stayed where i was! to have died of hunger! schÖn. (superior.) do you think, then, that _i_ make no compromises? who is there that does not compromise? you have married half a million. you are to-day one of the foremost artists. that can't be done without money. you are not the man to sit in judgment on her. you can't possibly treat an origin like mignon's according to the notions of bourgeois society. schwarz. (quite distraught.) who are you speaking of? schÖn. of her father! you're an artist, i say: your ideals are on a different plane from those of a wage-worker. schwarz. i don't understand a word of all that. schÖn. i am speaking of the inhuman conditions out of which, thanks to her good management, the girl has developed into what she is! schwarz. who? schÖn. who? your wife. schwarz. =eve?= schÖn. i called her mignon. schwarz. i thought her name was nellie? schÖn. dr. goll called her so. schwarz. i called her eve-- schÖn. what her real name is i don't know. schwarz. (absently.) perhaps she knows. schÖn. with a father like hers, she is, with all her faults, a miracle. i don't understand you-- schwarz. he died in a madhouse--? schÖn. he was here just now! schwarz. who was here? schÖn. her father. schwarz. here--in my house? schÖn. he squeezed by me as i came in. and there are the two glasses still. schwarz. she says he died in the madhouse. schÖn. let her feel she's in authority--! she craves nothing but the compulsion to unconditional obedience. with dr. goll she was in heaven, and with him there was no joking. schwarz. (shaking his head.) she said she had never loved-- schÖn. but you, make a beginning with yourself. pull yourself together! schwarz. she has sworn--! schÖn. you can't demand a sense of duty in her before you know your own task. schwarz. by her mother's grave! schÖn. she never knew her mother, let alone the grave. her mother hasn't got a grave. schwarz. i don't fit in society. (he is in desperation.) schÖn. what's the matter? schwarz. pain--horrible pain! schÖn. (gets up, steps back; after a pause.) guard her for yourself: she's yours. the moment is decisive. to-morrow she may be lost to you. schwarz. (pointing to his breast.) here, here. schÖn. you have married half-- (reflecting.) she is lost to you if you let this moment slip! schwarz. if i could weep! oh, if i could cry out! schÖn. (with a hand on his shoulder.) you're suffering-- schwarz. (getting up, apparently quiet.) you are right, quite right. schÖn. (gripping his hand.) where are you going? schwarz. to speak with her. schÖn. right! (accompanies him to the door, left. coming back.) that was tough work. (after a pause, looking right.) he had taken her into the studio before though? (a fearful groan, left. he hurries to the door and finds it locked.) open! open the door! lulu. (stepping thru the hangings, right.) what's-- schÖn. open it! lulu. (comes down the steps.) that is horrible. schÖn. have you an ax in the kitchen? lulu. he'll open it right off-- schÖn. i can't kick it down. lulu. when he's had his cry out. schÖn. (kicking the door.) open! (to lulu.) bring me an ax. lulu. send for the doctor-- schÖn. you are not yourself. lulu. it serves you right. (bell rings in the corridor. schön and lulu stare at each other. then schön slips up-stage and stands in the doorway.) schÖn. i mustn't let myself be seen here. lulu. perhaps it's the art-dealer. (the bell rings again.) schÖn. but if we don't answer it-- lulu. (steals toward the door; but schön holds her.) -- schÖn. stop. it sometimes happens that one is not just at hand-- (he goes out on tip-toes. lulu turns back to the locked door and listens. schön returns with alva.) please be quiet. alva. (very excited.) a revolution has broken out in paris! schÖn. be quiet. alva. (to lulu.) you're as pale as death. schÖn. (rattling at the door.) walter! walter! (a death-rattle heard behind the door.) lulu. god pity you. schÖn. haven't you brought an ax? lulu. if there's one there-- (goes slowly out, upper left.) alva. he's just keeping us in suspense. schÖn. a revolution has broken out in paris? alva. in the editors' room they're beating their heads against the wall. no one knows what he ought to write. (the bell rings in the corridor.) schÖn. (kicking against the door.) walter! alva. shall i force it in? schÖn. i can do that. who is it coming now? (standing up.) to enjoy life and let others be responsible for it-- lulu. (coming back with a kitchen ax.) henriette has come home. schÖn. shut the door behind you. alva. give it here. (takes the ax and pounds with it between the jamb and the lock.) schÖn. you must hold it nearer the end. alva. it's cracking-- (the lock gives; alva lets the ax fall and staggers back.) (pause.) lulu. (to schön, pointing to the door.) after you. (schön flinches, drops back.) are you getting--dizzy? (schön wipes the sweat from his forehead and goes in.) alva. (from the couch.) ghastly! lulu. (stopping in the door-way, finger on lips, cries out sharply.) oh! oh! (hurries to alva.) i can't stay here. alva. horrible! lulu. (taking his hand.) come. alva. where to? lulu. i can't be alone. (goes out with alva, right.) (schön comes back, a bunch of keys in his hand, which shows blood. he pulls the door to, behind him, goes to the writing-table, opens it, and writes two notes.) alva. (coming back, right.) she's changing her clothes. schÖn. she has gone? alva. to her room. she's changing her clothes. (schön rings. henriette comes in.) schÖn. you know where dr. bernstein lives? henriette. of course, doctor. right next door. schÖn. (giving her one note.) take that over to him, please. henriette. in case the doctor is not at home? schÖn. he is at home. (giving her the other note.) and take this to police headquarters. take a cab. (henriette goes out.) i am judged! alva. my blood is cold. schÖn. (toward the left.) the fool! alva. he waked up to something, perhaps? schÖn. he has been too absorbed with himself. (lulu appears on the steps, right, in dust-coat and hat.) alva. where are you going now? lulu. out. i see it on all the walls. schÖn. where are his papers? lulu. in the desk. schÖn. (at the desk.) where? lulu. lower right-hand drawer. (she kneels and opens the drawer, emptying the papers on the floor.) here. there is nothing to fear. he had no secrets. schÖn. now i can just withdraw from the world. lulu. (still kneeling.) write a pamphlet about him. call him michelangelo. schÖn. what good'll that do? (pointing left.) there lies my engagement. alva. that's the curse of your game! schÖn. shout it thru the streets!! alva. (pointing to lulu.) if you had treated that girl fairly and justly when my mother died-- schÖn. my engagement is bleeding to death there! lulu. (getting up.) i sha'n't stay here any longer. schÖn. in an hour they'll be selling extras. i dare not go across the street! lulu. why, what can you do to help it? schÖn. that's just it! they'll stone me for it! alva. you must get away--travel. schÖn. to leave the scandal a free field! lulu. (by the couch.) ten minutes ago he was lying here. schÖn. this is the reward for all i've done for him! in one second he wrecks my whole life for me! alva. control yourself, please! lulu. (on the couch.) there's no one but ourselves here. alva. but =our= position? schÖn. (to lulu.) what will you say to the police? lulu. nothing. alva. he didn't want to remain a debtor to his destiny. lulu. he always thought of death immediately. schÖn. he thought what a human being can only dream of. lulu. he has paid dearly for it. alva. he had what =we= don't have! schÖn. (suddenly violent.) i know your reasons! i have no cause to consider you! if you try every means to prevent having any brothers and sisters, that's all the more reason why i should get more children. alva. you've a poor knowledge of men. lulu. you get out an extra yourself! schÖn. (with passionate indignation.) he had no moral sense! (suddenly controlling himself again.) paris in revolution--? alva. our editors act as though they'd been struck. everything has stopped dead. schÖn. that's got to help me over this! now if only the police would come. the minutes are worth more than gold. (the bell rings in the corridor.) alva. there they are-- (schön starts to the door. lulu jumps up.) lulu. wait, you've got blood-- schÖn. where? lulu. wait, i'll wipe it. (sprinkles her handkerchief with heliotrope and wipes the blood from schön's hand.) schÖn. it's your husband's blood. lulu. it leaves no trace. schÖn. monster! lulu. you will marry me, though. (the bell rings in the corridor.) only have patience, children. (schön goes out and returns with escherich, a reporter.) escherich. (breathless.) allow me to--to introduce myself-- schÖn. you've run? escherich. (giving him his card.) from police headquarters. a suicide, i understand. schÖn. (reads.) fritz escherich, correspondent of the "news and novelties." come along. escherich. one moment. (takes out his note-book and pencil, looks around the parlor, writes a few words, bows to lulu, writes, turns to the broken door, writes.) a kitchen-ax. (starts to lift it.) schÖn. (holding him back.) excuse me. escherich. (writing.) door broken open with a kitchen-ax. (examines the lock.) schÖn. (his hand on the door.) look before you, my dear sir. escherich. now if you will have the kindness to open the door-- (schön opens it. escherich lets book and pencil fall, clutches at his hair.) merciful heaven! god!! schÖn. look it all over carefully. escherich. i can't look at it! schÖn. (snorting scornfully.) then what did you come here for? escherich. to--to cut up--to cut up his throat with a razor! schÖn. have you seen it all? escherich. that must feel-- schÖn. (draws the door to, steps to the writing-table.) sit down. here is paper and pen. write. escherich. (mechanically taking his seat.) i can't write-- schÖn. (behind his chair.) write! persecution--mania.... escherich. (writes.) per-secu-tion--mania. (the bell rings in the corridor.) curtain act iii _a theatrical dressing-room, hung with red. door upper right. across upper left corner, a spanish screen. centre, a table set endwise, on which dance costumes lie. chair on each side of this table. lower right, a smaller table with a chair. lower left, a high, very wide, old-fashioned arm-chair. above it, a tall mirror, with a make-up stand before it holding puff, rouge, etc., etc._ _alva is at lower right, filling two glasses with red wine and champagne._ alva. never since i began to work for the stage have i seen a public so uncontrolled in enthusiasm. lulu. (voice from behind the screen.) don't give me too much red wine. will he see me to-day? alva. father? lulu. yes. alva. i don't know if he's in the theater. lulu. doesn't he want to see me at all? alva. he has so little time. lulu. his =bride= occupies him. alva. speculations. he gives himself no rest. (schön enters.) you? we're just speaking of you. lulu. is he there? schÖn. you're changing? lulu. (peeping over the spanish screen, to schön.) you write in all the papers that i'm the most gifted danseuse who ever trod the stage, a second taglioni and i don't know what else--and you haven't once found me gifted enough to convince yourself of the fact. schÖn. i have so much to write. you see, i was right: there were hardly any seats left. you must keep rather more in the proscenium. lulu. i must first accustom myself to the light. alva. she has kept herself strictly to her part. schÖn. (to alva.) you must get more out of your performers! you don't know enough yet about the technique. (to lulu.) what do you come as now? lulu. as a flower-girl. schÖn. (to alva.) in tights? alva. no. in a skirt to the ankles. schÖn. it would have been better if you hadn't ventured on symbolism. alva. i look at a dancer's feet. schÖn. the point is, what the public looks at. an apparition like =her= has no need, thank heaven, of your symbolic mummery. alva. the public doesn't look as if it was bored! schÖn. of course not; because i have been working for her success in the press for six months. has the prince been here? alva. nobody's been here. schÖn. who lets a dancer come on thru two acts in raincoats? alva. who is the prince? schÖn. shall we see each other afterwards? alva. are you alone? schÖn. with acquaintances. at peter's? alva. at twelve? schÖn. at twelve. (exit.) lulu. i'd given up hoping he'd ever come. alva. don't let yourself be misled by his grumpy growls. if you'll only be careful not to spend your strength before the last number begins-- (lulu steps out in a classical, sleeveless dress, white with a red border, a bright wreath in her hair and a basket of flowers in her hands.) lulu. he doesn't seem to have noticed at all how cleverly you have used your performers. alva. i won't blow in sun, moon and stars in the first act! lulu. (sipping.) you disclose me by degrees. alva. i knew, though, that you knew all about changing costumes. lulu. if i'd wanted to sell my flowers this way before the alhambra café, they'd have had me behind lock and key right off the very first night. alva. why? you were a child! lulu. do you remember me when i entered your room the first time? alva. you wore a dark blue dress with black velvet. lulu. they had to stick me somewhere and didn't know where. alva. my mother had been lying sick two years then. lulu. you were playing theater, and asked me if i wanted to play too. alva. to be sure! we played theater! lulu. i see you still--the way you shoved the figures back and forth. alva. for a long time my most terrible memory was when all at once i saw clearly into your relations-- lulu. you got icy curt towards me then. alva. oh, god--i saw in you something so infinitely far above me. i had perhaps a higher devotion to you than to my mother. think--when my mother died--i was seventeen--i went and stood before my father and demanded that he make you his wife on the spot or we'd have to fight a duel. lulu. he told me that at the time. alva. since i've grown older, i can only pity him. he will never comprehend me. there he is making up a story for himself about a little diplomatic game that puts me in the rôle of laboring against his marriage with the countess. lulu. does she still look as innocently as ever at the world? alva. she loves him. i'm convinced of that. her family has tried everything to make her turn back. i don't think any sacrifice in the world would be too great for her for his sake. lulu. (holds out her glass to him.) a little more, please. alva. (giving it to her.) you're drinking too much. lulu. he shall learn to believe in my success! he doesn't believe in any art. he believes only in papers. alva. he believes in nothing. lulu. he brought me into the theater in order that someone might eventually be found rich enough to marry me. alva. well, alright. why need that trouble us? lulu. i am to be glad if i can dance myself into a millionaire's heart. alva. god defend that anyone should take you from us! lulu. you've composed the music for it, though. alva. you know that it was always my wish to write a piece for you. lulu. i am not at all made for the stage, however. alva. you came into the world a dancer! lulu. why don't you write your things at least as interesting as life is? alva. because if we did no man would believe us. lulu. if i didn't know more about acting than the people on the stage do, what might not have happened to me? alva. i've provided your part with all the impossibilities imaginable, though. lulu. with hocus-pocus like that no dog is lured from the stove in the real world. alva. it's enough for me that the public finds itself most tremendously stirred up. lulu. but _i_'d like to find myself most tremendously stirred up. (drinks.) alva. you don't seem to be in need of much more for that. lulu. no one of them realizes anything about the others. each thinks that he alone is the unhappy victim. alva. but how can you feel that? lulu. there runs up one's body such an icy shudder. alva. you are incredible. (an electric bell rings over the door.) lulu. my cape.... i shall keep in the proscenium! alva. (putting a wide shawl round her shoulders.) here is your cape. lulu. he shall have nothing more to fear for his shameless boosting. alva. keep yourself under control! lulu. god grant that i dance the last sparks of intelligence out of their heads. (exit.) alva. yes, a more interesting piece could be written about her. (sits, right, and takes out his note-book. writes. looks up.) first act: dr. goll. rotten already! i can call up dr. goll from purgatory or wherever else he's doing penance for his orgies, but i'll be made responsible for his sins. (long-continued but much deadened applause and bravos outside.) they rage there as in a menagery when the meat appears at the cage. second act: walter schwarz. still more impossible! how our souls do strip off their last coverings in the light of such lightning-strokes! third act? is it really to go on this way? (the attendant opens the door from outside and lets escerny enter. he acts as though he were at home, and without greeting alva takes the chair near the mirror. alva continues, not heeding him.) it can not go on this way in the third act! escerny. up to the middle of the third act it didn't seem to go so well to-day as usual. alva. i was not on the stage. escerny. now she's in full career again. alva. she's lengthening each number. escerny. i once had the pleasure of meeting the artiste at schön's. alva. my father has brought her before the public by some critiques in his paper. escerny. (bowing slightly.) i was conferring with dr. schön about the publication of my discoveries at lake tanganika. alva. (bowing slightly.) his remarks leave no doubt that he takes the liveliest interest in your work. escerny. it's a very good thing in the artiste that the =public= does not exist for her at all. alva. as a child she learned the quick changing of clothes; but i was surprised to discover such an expressive dancer in her. escerny. when she dances her solo she is intoxicated with her own beauty, with which she herself seems to be mortally in love. alva. here she comes. (gets up and opens the door. enter lulu.) lulu. (without wreath or basket, to alva.) you're called for. i was three times before the curtain. (to escerny.) dr. schön is not in your box? escerny. not in mine. alva. (to lulu.) didn't you see him? lulu. he is probably away again. escerny. he has the last parquet-box on the left. lulu. it seems he is ashamed of me! alva. there wasn't a good seat left for him. lulu. (to alva.) ask him, though, if he likes me better now. alva. i'll send him up. escerny. he applauded. lulu. did he really? alva. give yourself some rest. (exit.) lulu. i've got to change again now. escerny. but your maid isn't here? lulu. i can do it quicker alone. where did you say dr. schön was sitting? escerny. i saw him in the left parquet-box farthest back. lulu. i've still five costumes before me now; dancing-girl, ballerina, queen of the night, ariel, and lascaris.... (she goes behind the spanish screen.) escerny. would you think it possible that at our first meeting i expected nothing more than to make the acquaintance of a young lady of the literary world?... (he sits at the left of the centre table, and remains there to the end of the scene.) have i perhaps erred in my judgment of your nature, or did i rightly interpret the smile which the thundering storms of applause called forth on your lips? that you are secretly pained at the necessity of profaning your art before people of doubtful disinterestedness? (lulu makes no answer.) that you would gladly exchange at any moment the shimmer of publicity for a quiet, sunny happiness in distinguished seclusion? (lulu makes no answer.) that you feel in yourself enough dignity and high rank to fetter a man to your feet--in order to enjoy his utter helplessness?... (lulu makes no answer.) that in a comfortable, richly furnished villa you would feel in a more fitting place than here,--with unlimited means, to live completely as your =own mistress=? (lulu steps forth in a short, bright, pleated petticoat and white satin bodice, black shoes and stockings, and spurs with bells at her heels.) lulu. (busy with the lacing of her bodice.) if there's just one evening i don't go on, i dream the whole night that i'm dancing and feel the next day as if i'd been racked. escerny. but what difference could it make to you to see before you instead of this mob =one= spectator, specially elect? lulu. that would make no difference. i don't see anybody anyway. escerny. a lighted summer-house--the splashing of the water near at hand.... i am forced in my exploring-trips to the practise of a quite inhuman tyranny-- lulu. (putting on a pearl necklace before the mirror.) a good school! escerny. and if i now long to deliver myself unreservedly into the power of a woman, that is a natural need for relaxation.... can you imagine a greater life-happiness for a woman than to have a man entirely in her power? lulu. (jingling her heels.) oh yes! escerny. (disconcerted.) among cultured men you will find not one who doesn't lose his head over you. lulu. your wishes, however, no one will fulfill without deceiving you. escerny. to be deceived by a girl like you must be ten times more enrapturing than to be uprightly loved by anybody else. lulu. you have never in your life been uprightly loved by a girl! (turning her back to him and pointing.) would you undo this knot for me? i've laced myself too tight. i am always so excited getting dressed. escerny. (after repeated efforts.) i'm sorry; i can't. lulu. then leave it. perhaps i can. (goes left.) escerny. i confess that i am lacking in deftness. maybe i was not docile enough with women. lulu. and probably you don't have much opportunity to be so in africa, either? escerny. (seriously.) let me openly admit to you that my loneliness in the world embitters many hours. lulu. the knot is almost done.... escerny. what draws me to you is not your dancing. it's your physical and mental refinement, as it is revealed in every one of your movements. anyone who is so much interested in art as i am could not be deceived in that. for ten evenings i've been studying your spiritual life in your dance, until to-day when you entered as the flower-girl i became perfectly clear. yours is a grand nature--unselfish; you can see no one suffer; you embody the joy of life. as a wife you will make a man happy above all things.... you are all open-heartedness. you would be a poor actor. (the bell rings again.) lulu. (having somewhat loosened her laces, takes a deep breath and jingles her spurs.) now i can breathe again. the curtain is going up. (she takes from the centre table a skirt-dance costume--of bright yellow silk, without a waist, closed at the neck, reaching to the ankles, with wide, loose sleeves--and throws it over her.) i must dance. escerny. (rises and kisses her hand.) allow me to remain here a little while longer. lulu. please, stay. escerny. i need some solitude. (lulu goes out.) what is to be aristocratic? to be eccentric, like me? or to be perfect in body and mind, like this girl? (applause and bravos outside.) he who gives me back my faith in men, gives me back my life. should not the children of this woman be more princely, body and soul, than the children whose mother has no more vitality in her than i have felt in me until to-day? (sitting, right; ecstatically.) the dance has ennobled her body.... (alva enters.) alva. one is never sure a moment that some miserable chance may not throw the whole performance out for good. (he throws himself into the big chair, left, so that the two men are in exactly reversed positions from their former ones. both converse somewhat boredly and apathetically.) escerny. but the public has never yet shown itself so grateful. alva. she's finished the skirt-dance. escerny. i hear her coming.... alva. she isn't coming. she has no time. she changes her costume in the wings. escerny. she has two ballet-costumes, if i'm not mistaken? alva. i find the white one more becoming to her than the rose. escerny. do you? alva. don't you? escerny. i find she looks too body-less in the white tulle. alva. i find she looks too animal in the rose-tulle. escerny. i don't find that. alva. the white tulle expresses more the child-like in her nature. escerny. the rose tulle expresses more the female in her nature. (the electric bell rings over the door. alva jumps up.) alva. for heaven's sake, what is wrong? escerny. (getting up too.) what's the matter? (the electric bell goes on ringing to the close of the dialogue.) alva. something's gone wrong there-- escerny. how can you get so suddenly frightened? alva. that must be a hellish confusion! (he runs out. escerny follows him. the door remains open. faint dance-music heard. pause. lulu enters in a long cloak, and shuts the door to behind her. she wears a rose-colored ballet costume with flower garlands. she walks across the stage and sits down in the big arm-chair near the mirror. after a pause alva returns.) alva. you had a faint? lulu. please lock the door. alva. at least come down to the stage. lulu. did you see him? alva. see whom? lulu. with his bride? alva. with his-- (to schön, who enters.) you might have spared yourself that jest! schÖn. what's the matter with her? (to lulu.) how can you play the scene straight at me! lulu. i feel as if i'd been whipped. schÖn. (after bolting the door.) you will dance--as sure as i've taken the responsibility for you! lulu. before your bride? schÖn. have you a right to trouble yourself before whom? you've been engaged here. you receive your salary ... lulu. is that your affair? schÖn. you dance for anyone who buys a ticket. whom i sit with in my box has nothing to do with your business! alva. i wish you'd stayed sitting in your box! (to lulu.) tell me, please, what i am to do. (a knock at the door.) there is the manager. (calls.) yes, in a moment! (to lulu.) you won't compel us to break off the performance? schÖn. (to lulu.) onto the stage with you! lulu. let me have just a moment! i can't now. i'm utterly miserable. alva. the devil take the whole theater crowd! lulu. put in the next number. no one will notice if i dance now or in five minutes. there's no strength in my feet. alva. but you will dance then? lulu. as well as i can. alva. as badly as you like. (a knock at the door again.) i'm coming. lulu. (when alva is gone.) you are right to show me where my place is. you couldn't do it better than by letting me dance the skirt-dance before your fiancée.... you do me the greatest service when you point out where i belong. schÖn. (sardonically.) for you with your origin it's incomparable luck to still have the chance of entering before respectable people! lulu. even when my shamelessness makes them not know where to look. schÖn. nonsense!--shamelessness?--don't make a necessity of virtue! your shamelessness is balanced with gold for you at every step. one cries "bravo," another "fie"--it's all the same to you! can you wish for a more brilliant triumph than when a respectable girl can hardly be kept in the box? has your life any other aim? as long as you still have a spark of self-respect, you are no perfect dancer. the more terribly you make people shudder, the higher you stand in your profession! lulu. but it is absolutely indifferent to me what they think of me. i don't, in the least, want to be any better than i am. i'm content with myself. schÖn. (in moral indignation.) that is your true nature. i call that straightforward! a corruption!! lulu. i wouldn't have known that i had a spark of self-respect-- schÖn. (suddenly distrustful.) no harlequinading-- lulu. o lord--i know very well what i'd have become if you hadn't saved me from it. schÖn. are you then, perhaps, something different to-day? lulu. god be thanked, no! schÖn. that is right! lulu. (laughs.) and how awfully glad i am about it. schÖn. (spits.) will you dance now? lulu. in anything, before anyone! schÖn. then down to the stage! lulu. (begging like a child.) just a minute more! please! i can't stand up straight yet. they'll ring. schÖn. you have become what you are in spite of everything i sacrificed for your education and your welfare. lulu. had you overrated your ennobling influence? schÖn. spare me your witticisms. lulu. the prince was here. schÖn. well? lulu. he takes me with him to africa. schÖn. africa? lulu. why not? didn't you make me a dancer just so that someone might come and take me away with him? schÖn. but not to africa, though! lulu. then why didn't you let me fall quietly in a faint, and silently thank heaven for it? schÖn. because, more's the pity, i had no reason for believing in your faint! lulu. (making fun of him.) you couldn't bear it any longer out there? schÖn. because i had to bring home to you what you are and to whom you are not to look up. lulu. you were afraid, though, that my legs might have been seriously injured? schÖn. i know too well you are indestructible. lulu. so you know that? schÖn. (bursting out.) don't look at me so impudently! lulu. no one is keeping you here. schÖn. i'm going as soon as the bell rings. lulu. as soon as you have the energy! where is your energy? you have been engaged three years. why don't you marry? you recognize no obstacles. why do you want to put the blame on me? you ordered me to marry dr. goll: i forced dr. goll to marry me. you ordered me to marry the painter: i made the best of a bad bargain. artists are your creatures, princes your protegés. why don't you marry? schÖn. (raging.) do you imagine =you= stand in the way? lulu. (from here to the end of the act triumphant.) if you knew how happy your rage is making me! how proud i am that you should humble me by every means in your power! you debase me as deep--as deep as a woman can be debased, for you hope you can then jump over me easier. but you have suffered unspeakably yourself from everything you just said to me. i see it in you. already you are near the end of your self-command. go! for your innocent fiancée's sake, leave me alone! one minute more, your mood will change around and you'll make a scene with me of another kind, that you can't answer for now. schÖn. i fear you no longer. lulu. me? fear yourself! i do not need you. i beg you to go! don't give me the blame. you know i don't need to faint to destroy your future. you have unlimited confidence in my honorableness. you believe not only that i'm an ensnaring daughter of eve; you believe, too, that i'm a very good-natured creature. i am neither the one nor the other. your misfortune is only that you think i am. schÖn. (desperate.) leave my thoughts alone! you have two men under the sod. take the prince, dance him into the earth! i am thru with you. i know when the angel in you stops off and the devil begins. if i take the world as it's made, the creator must be responsible, not i! to me life is not an amusement! lulu. and, therefore, you make claims on life greater than anyone can make. tell me, who of us two is more full of claims and demands, you or i? schÖn. be silent! i don't know how or what i think. when i hear you, i don't think any more. in a week i'll be married. i conjure you, by the angel that is in you, during that time come no more to my sight! lulu. i will lock my doors. schÖn. go on and boast! god knows since i've been wrestling with the world and with life i have cursed no one like you! lulu. that comes from my lowly origin. schÖn. from your depravity! lulu. with a thousand pleasures i take the blame on myself! you must feel clean now; you must think yourself a model of austerity now, a paragon of unflinching principle! otherwise you could never marry the child in her boundless inexperience-- schÖn. do you want me to grab you and-- lulu. yes! what must i say to make you? not for the world would i change with the innocent kid now! tho the girl loves you as no woman has ever loved you yet! schÖn. silence, beast! silence! lulu. marry her--and then she'll dance in her childish wretchedness before =my= eyes, instead of i before hers! schÖn. (raising his fists.) god forgive me-- lulu. strike me! where is your riding-whip? strike me on the legs-- schÖn. (grasping his temples.) away, away! (rushes to the door, recollects himself, turns around.) can i go before the girl now, this way? home! lulu. be a man! look yourself in the face once:--you have no trace of a conscience; you are frightened at no wickedness; in the most cold-blooded way you mean to make the girl that loves you unhappy; you conquer half the world; you do what you please;--and you know as well as i that-- schÖn. (sunk in the chair, right centre, utterly exhausted.) stop! lulu. that you are too weak--to tear yourself away from me. schÖn. (groaning.) oh! oh! you make me weep. lulu. this moment makes =me= i cannot tell you how glad. schÖn. my age! my position! lulu. he cries like a child--the terrible man of might! now go so to your bride and tell her what kind of a girl i am at heart--not a bit jealous! schÖn. (sobbing.) the child! the innocent child! lulu. how can the incarnate devil get so weak all of a sudden! but now go, please. you are nothing more now to me. schÖn. i cannot go to her. lulu. out with you. come back to me when you have regained your strength again. schÖn. tell me in god's name what i must do. lulu. (gets up; her cloak remains on the chair. shoving aside the costumes on the centre table.) here is writing-paper-- schÖn. i can't write.... lulu. (upright behind him, her arm on the back of his chair.) write! "my dear young lady...." schÖn. (hesitating.) i call her adelheid ... lulu. (with emphasis.) "my dear young lady ..." schÖn. my sentence of death! (he writes.) lulu. "take back your promise. i cannot reconcile it with my conscience--" (schön drops the pen and glances up at her entreatingly.) write conscience!--"to fasten you to my unhappy lot...." schÖn. (writing.) you are right. you are right. lulu. "i give you my word that i am unworthy of your love--" (schön turns round again.) write love! "these lines are the proof of it. for three years i have tried to tear myself loose; i have not the strength. i am writing you by the side of the woman that commands me. forget me. dr. ludwig schön." schÖn. (groaning.) o god! lulu. (half startled.) no, no o god! (with emphasis.) "dr. ludwig schön." postscript: "do not attempt to save me." schÖn. (having written to the end, quite collapses.) now--comes the--execution. curtain act iv _a splendid hall in german renaissance style, with a thick floor of oak-blocks. the lower half of the walls of dark carved wood; the upper half on both sides hung with faded gobelins. at rear, a curtained gallery from which a monumental stair-case leads, right, half-way down the stage. at centre, under the gallery, the entrance-door, with twisted posts and pediment. at left, a high and spacious fire-place with a chinese folding screen before it. further down, left, a french window onto a balcony, with heavy curtains, closed. down right, door hung with genoese velvet. near it, a broad ottoman, with a chair on its left. behind, near the foot of the stairs, lulu's pierrot-picture on a decorative stand and in a gold frame made to look antique. in the centre of the hall, a heavy square table, with three high-backed upholstered chairs round it and a vase of white flowers on it._ _countess geschwitz sits on the ottoman, in a soldier-like, fur-trimmed waist, high, upright collar, enormous cuff-links, a veil over her face and her hands clasped convulsively in her muff. schön stands down right. lulu, in a big-flowered morning-dress, her hair in a simple knot in a golden circlet, sits in the arm-chair left of the ottoman._ geschwitz. you can't think how glad i shall be to see you at our artists' ball. (to lulu.) schÖn. is there no sort of possibility of a person like me smuggling in? geschwitz. it would be high treason if any of us lent herself to such an intrigue. schÖn. (crossing to the centre table, behind the ottoman.) the glorious flowers! lulu. fräulein von geschwitz brought me those. geschwitz. don't mention it. oh, you'll be in man's costume, won't you? lulu. do you think that becomes me? geschwitz. you're a dream here. (signifying the picture.) lulu. my husband doesn't like it. geschwitz. is it by a local man? lulu. you will hardly have known him. geschwitz. no longer living? schÖn. (down left, with a deep voice.) he had enough. lulu. you're in bad temper. (schön controls himself.) geschwitz. (getting up.) i must go, mrs. schön. i can't stay any longer. this evening we have life-class, and i have still so much to get ready for the ball. good-bye, dr. schön. (exit, up-stage. lulu accompanies her. schön looks around him.) schÖn. pure augean stable. that, the end of my life. they ought to show me a corner that's still clean. the pest in the house. the poorest day-laborer has his tidy nest. thirty years' work, and this my family circle, the circle of my people-- (glancing round.) god knows who is overhearing me again now! (draws a revolver from his breast pocket.) man is, indeed, uncertain of his life! (the cocked revolver in his right hand, he goes left and speaks at the closed window curtains.) that, my family circle! the fellow still has courage! shall i not rather shoot =myself= in the head? against deadly enemies one fights, but the-- (throws up the curtains, but finds no one hidden behind them.) the dirt--the dirt.... (shakes his head and crosses right.) insanity has already conquered my reason, or else--exceptions prove the rule! (hearing lulu coming he puts the revolver back in his pocket. lulu comes down right.) lulu. couldn't you get away for this afternoon? schÖn. just what did that countess want? lulu. i don't know. she wants to paint me. schÖn. misfortune in human guise, that waits upon one. lulu. couldn't you get away, then? i would so like to drive thru the grounds with you. schÖn. just the day when i must be at the exchange. you know that i'm not free to-day. all my property is drifting on the waves. lulu. i'd sooner be dead and buried than let my life be embittered so by my property. schÖn. who takes life lightly does not take death hard. lulu. as a child i always had the most horrible fear of death. schÖn. that is just why i married you. lulu. (with her arms round his neck.) you're in bad humor. you give yourself too much work. for weeks and months i've seen nothing of you. schÖn. (stroking her hair.) your light-heartedness should cheer up my old days. lulu. indeed, you didn't marry me at all. schÖn. who else did i marry then? lulu. i married you! schÖn. how does that alter anything? lulu. i was always afraid it would alter a great deal. schÖn. it has, indeed, crushed a great deal underfoot. lulu. but not one thing, praise god! schÖn. of that i should be covetous. lulu. your love for me. (schön's face twitches, he signs to her to go out in front of him. both exeunt lower right. countess geschwitz cautiously opens the rear door, ventures forth, and listens. hearing voices approaching in the gallery above her, she starts suddenly.) geschwitz. oh dear, there's somebody-- (hides behind the fire-screen.) schigolch. (steps out from the curtains onto the stairs, turns back.) has the youngster left his heart behind him in the "nightlight" café? rodrigo. (between the curtains.) he is still too small for the great world, and can't walk so far on foot yet. (he disappears.) schigolch. (coming down the stairs.) god be thanked we're home again at last! what damned skunk has waxed the stairs again? if i have to have my joints set in plaster again before being called home, she can just present me between the palms here to her relations as the venus de' medici. nothing but steep rocks and stumbling blocks! rodrigo. (comes down the stairs, carrying hugenberg in his arms.) this thing has a royal police-captain for a father and not as much courage in his body as the raggedest hobo! hugenberg. if there was nothing more to it than life and death, then you'd soon learn to know me! rodrigo. even with his lover's woe, little brother don't weigh more than sixty kilos. i'll let myself be hung on that statement any time. schigolch. throw him up to the ceiling and catch him by the feet. that'll whip his young blood into the proper rhythm right from the start. hugenberg. (kicking his legs.) hooray, hooray, i shall be expelled from school! rodrigo. (setting him down at the foot of the stairs.) you've never been to any sensible school at all yet. schigolch. here many a man has already won his spurs. only, no timidity! first, i'll set before you a drop of what can't be had anywhere for money. (opens a cupboard under the stairs.) hugenberg. now if she doesn't come dancing in on the instant, i'll wallop you two so you'll still rub your tails in the hereafter. rodrigo. (seated left of the table.) the strongest man in the world little brother will wallop! let mamma put long trowsers on you first. (hugenberg sits opposite him.) hugenberg. i'd rather you lent me your mustache. rodrigo. maybe you want her to throw you out of the door straight off? hugenberg. if i only knew now what the devil i was going to say to her! rodrigo. that she knows best herself. schigolch. (putting two bottles and three glasses on the table.) i started in on one of them yesterday. (fills the glasses.) rodrigo. (guarding hugenberg's.) don't give him too much, or we'll both have to pay for it. schigolch. (supporting himself with both hands on the table-top.) will the gentlemen smoke? hugenberg. (opening his cigarette case.) havana-imported! rodrigo. (helping himself.) from papa police-captain? schigolch. (sitting.) everything in the house is mine. you only need to ask. hugenberg. i made a poem to her yesterday. rodrigo. what did you make to her? schigolch. what did he make to her? hugenberg. a poem. rodrigo. (to schigolch.) a poem. schigolch. he's promised me a dollar if i can spy out where he can meet her alone. hugenberg. just who does live here? rodrigo. here =we= live! schigolch. jour fix--every stock-market day! our health. (they clink.) hugenberg. should i read it to her first, maybe? schigolch. (to rodrigo.) what's he mean? rodrigo. his poem. he'd like to stretch her out and torture her a little first. schigolch. (staring at hugenberg.) his eyes! his eyes! rodrigo. his eyes, yes. they've robbed her of sleep for a week. schigolch. (to rodrigo.) you can have yourself pickled. rodrigo. we can both have ourselves pickled! our health, gossip death! schigolch. (clinking with him.) health, jack-in-the-box! if it's still better later on, i'm ready for departure at any moment; but--but-- (lulu enters right, in an elegant parisian ball-dress, much décolleté, with flowers in breast and hair.) lulu. but children, children, i expect company! schigolch. but i can tell you what, those things must cost something over there! (hugenberg has risen. lulu sits on the arm of his chair.) lulu. you've fallen into pretty company! i expect visitors, children! schigolch. i guess i've got to stick something in there, too. (he searches among the flowers on the table.) lulu. do i look well? schigolch. what are those you've got there? lulu. orchids. (bending over hugenberg.) smell. rodrigo. do you expect prince escerny? lulu. (shaking her head.) god forbid! rodrigo. so somebody else again--! lulu. the prince has gone traveling. rodrigo. to put his kingdom up for auction? lulu. he's spying out a fresh tribe in the neighborhood of africa. (rises, hurries up the stairs, and steps into the gallery.) rodrigo. (to schigolch.) he wanted to marry her originally. schigolch. (sticking a lily in his button-hole.) i, too, wanted to marry her originally. rodrigo. you wanted to marry her originally? schigolch. didn't you, too, want to marry her originally? rodrigo. you bet i wanted to marry her originally! schigolch. who has not wanted to marry her originally!! rodrigo. i would never have got a better! schigolch. she has let no one regret that he didn't marry her. rodrigo. then she's not your child? schigolch. never occurs to her. hugenberg. what is her father's name then? schigolch. she has boasted of me! hugenberg. what is her father's name then? schigolch. what's he say? rodrigo. what her father's name is. schigolch. she never had one. lulu. (comes down from the gallery and sits again on hugenberg's chair-arm.) what have i never had? all three. a father. lulu. yes, sure--i'm a wonder-child. (to hugenberg.) how are you getting along with your father? rodrigo. he smokes a respectable cigar, anyway, the police-captain. schigolch. have you locked up upstairs? lulu. there is the key. schigolch. better have left it in the lock. lulu. why? schigolch. so no one can unlock it from outside. rodrigo. isn't he at the stock-exchange? lulu. oh, yes, but he suffers from persecution-mania. rodrigo. i take him by the feet, and yup!--there he stays sticking to the roof. lulu. he hunts you into a mouse-hole with the corner of his eye. rodrigo. what does he hunt? who does he hunt? (baring his arm.) just look at this biceps! lulu. show me. (goes left.) rodrigo. (hitting himself on the muscle.) granite. wrought-iron! lulu. (feeling by turns rodrigo's arm and her own.) if you only didn't have such long ears-- ferdinand. (entering, rear-centre.) doctor schön! rodrigo. the rogue! (jumps up, starts behind the fire-screen, recoils.) god preserve me! (hides, lower left, behind the curtains.) schigolch. give me the key! (takes it and drags himself up the stairs.) lulu. (hugenberg having slid under the table.) show him in! hugenberg. (under the front edge of the table-cloth, listening; to himself.) if he doesn't stay--we'll be alone. lulu. (poking him with her toe.) sh! (hugenberg disappears. alva is shown in by ferdinand.) alva. (in evening dress.) methinks the matinee will take place with burning lamps. i've-- (notices schigolch painfully climbing the stairs.) what the ---- is that? lulu. an old friend of your father's. alva. wholly unknown to me. lulu. they were in the campaign together. he's awfully badly-- alva. is my father here then? lulu. he drank a glass with him. he had to go to the stock market. we'll have lunch before we go, won't we? alva. when does it begin? lulu. after two. (alva still follows schigolch with his eyes.) how do you like me? (schigolch disappears thru the gallery.) alva. had i not better be silent to you on that point? lulu. i only mean my appearance. alva. your dressmaker manifestly knows you better than i may permit myself to know you. lulu. when i saw myself in the glass i could have wished to be a man--my man!-- alva. you seem to envy your man the joy you offer to him. (lulu is at the right, alva at the left, of the centre table. he regards her with shy satisfaction. ferdinand enters, rear, covers the table and lays two plates, etc., a bottle of pommery, and hors d' oeuvres.) have you a toothache? lulu. (across to alva.) don't. ferdinand. doctor schön ...? alva. he seems so puckered-up and tearful to-day. ferdinand. (thru his teeth.) one is only a man after all. (exit.) lulu. (when both are seated.) what i always think most highly of in you is your firmness of character. you're so perfectly sure of yourself. even when you must have been afraid of quarreling with your father about it, you always stood up for me like a brother just the same. alva. let's drop that. it's just my fate-- (moves to lift up the table-cloth in front.) lulu. (quickly.) that was me. alva. impossible! it's just my fate, with the most frivolous ideas always to seize on the best. lulu. you deceive yourself if you make yourself out worse than you are. alva. why do you flatter me so? it is true that perhaps there is no man living, so bad as i--who has brought about so much good. lulu. in any case you're the only man in the world who's protected me without lowering me in my own eyes! alva. do you think that so easy? (schön appears in the gallery cautiously parting the hangings between the middle pillars. he starts, and whispers, "my own son!") with gifts from god like yours, one turns those around one to criminals without ever dreaming of it. i, too, am only flesh and blood, and if we hadn't grown up with each other like brother and sister-- lulu. that's why, too, i give myself to you alone quite without reserve. from you i have nothing to fear. alva. i assure you there are moments when one expects to see one's whole inner self cave in. the more self-restraint a man loads onto himself, the easier he breaks down. nothing will save him from that except-- (stops to look under the table.) lulu. (quickly.) what are you looking for? alva. i conjure you, let me keep my confession of faith to myself! as an inviolable sanctity you were more to me than with all your gifts you could be to anyone else in your life! lulu. how do you come to think on that so entirely differently from your father? (ferdinand enters, rear, changes the plates and serves broiled chicken with salad.) alva. (to him.) are you sick? lulu. (to alva.) let him be! alva. he's trembling as if he had fever. ferdinand. i am not yet so used to waiting ... alva. you must have something prescribed for you. ferdinand. (thru his teeth.) i'm a coachman usually-- (exit.) schÖn. (whispering from the gallery.) so, he too. (seats himself behind the rail, able to cover himself with the hangings.) lulu. what sort of moments are those of which you spoke, where one expects to see his whole inner self tumble in? alva. i =didn't want= to speak of them. i should not like to lose, in joking over a glass of champagne, what has been my highest happiness for ten years. lulu. i have hurt you. i won't begin on that again. alva. do you promise me that for always? lulu. my hand on it. (gives him her hand across the table. alva takes it hesitatingly, grips it in his, and presses it long and ardently to his lips.) what are you doing. (rodrigo sticks his head out from the curtains, left. lulu darts an angry look at him across alva, and he draws back.) schÖn. (whispering from the gallery.) and there is still another! alva. (holding the hand.) a soul--that in the hereafter rubs the sleep out of its eyes.... oh, this hand.... lulu. (innocently.) what do you find in it?... alva. an arm.... lulu. what do you find in it?... alva. a body..... lulu. (guilelessly.) what do you find in it?... alva. (stirred up.) mignon! lulu. (wholly ingenuously.) what do you find in it?... alva. (passionately.) mignon! mignon! lulu. (throws herself on the ottoman.) don't look at me so--for god's sake! let us go before it is too late. you're an infamous wretch! alva. i told you, didn't i, i was the basest villain. lulu. i see that! alva. i have no sense of honor, no pride.... lulu. you think i am your equal! alva. you?--you are as heavenly high above me as--as the sun is over the abyss! (kneeling.) destroy me! i beg you, put an end to me! put an end to me! lulu. do you =love= me then? alva. i will pay you with everything that was mine! lulu. do you love me? alva. do you love me--mignon? lulu. i? not a soul. alva. i love you. (hides his face in her lap.) lulu. (both hands in his hair.) i poisoned your mother-- (rodrigo sticks his head out from the curtains, left, sees schön sitting in the gallery and signs to him to watch lulu and alva. schön points his revolver at rodrigo; rodrigo signs to him to point it at alva. schön cocks the revolver and takes aim. rodrigo draws back behind the curtains. lulu sees him draw back, sees schön sitting in the gallery, and gets up.) his father! (schön rises, lets the hangings fall before him. alva remains motionless on his knees. pause.) schÖn. (holding a paper in his hand, takes alva by the shoulder.) alva! (alva gets up as though drunk with sleep.) a revolution has broken out in paris. alva. to paris ... let me go to paris-- schÖn. in the editors' room they're beating their heads against the wall. no one knows what he ought to write. (he unfolds the paper and accompanies alva out, rear. rodrigo rushes out from the curtains toward the stairs.) lulu. (barring his way.) you can't get out here. rodrigo. let me through! lulu. you'll run into his arms. rodrigo. he'll shoot me thru the head! lulu. he's coming. rodrigo. (stumbling back.) devil, death and demons! (lifts the table-cloth.) hugenberg. no room! rodrigo. damned and done for! (looks around and hides in the door-way, right.) schÖn. (comes in, centre; locks the door; and goes, revolver in hand, to the window down left, of which he throws up the curtains.) where is =he= gone? lulu. (on the lowest step.) out. schÖn. down over the balcony? lulu. he's an acrobat. schÖn. that could not be foreseen. (turning against lulu.) you who drag me thru the muck of the streets to a tortured death! lulu. why did you not bring me up better? schÖn. you destroying angel! you inexorable fate! to be a murderer without drowning in filth; to take me on board like a released convict, or hang me up over the morass! you joy of my old age! you hangman's noose! lulu. (in cold blood.) oh, shut up, and kill me! schÖn. everything i possess i have made over to you, and asked nothing but the respect that every servant pays to my house. your credit is exhausted! lulu. i can answer for my reckoning still for years. (coming forward from the stairs.) how do you like my new gown? schÖn. away with you, or my brains will give way to-morrow and my son swim in his own blood! you infect me like an incurable pest in which i shall groan away the rest of my life. i =will= cure myself! do you understand? (pressing the revolver on her.) this is your physic. don't break down; don't kneel! you yourself shall apply it. you or i--which is the weaker? (lulu, her strength threatening to desert her, has sunk down on the couch. turning the revolver this way and that.) lulu. it doesn't go off. schÖn. do you still remember how i tore you out of the clutches of the police? lulu. you have much confidence-- schÖn. because i'm not afraid of a street-girl? shall i guide your hand for you? have you no mercy towards yourself? (lulu points the revolver at him.) no false alarms! (lulu fires a shot into the ceiling. rodrigo springs out of the portières, up the stairs and away thru the gallery.) what was that? lulu. (innocently.) nothing. schÖn. (lifting the portières.) what flew out of here? lulu. you're suffering from persecution-mania. schÖn. have you got still more men hidden here? (tearing the revolver from her.) is yet another man calling on you? (going left.) i'll regale your men! (throws up the window curtains, flings the fire-screen back, grabs countess geschwitz by the collar and drags her forward.) did you come down the chimney? geschwitz. (in deadly terror, to lulu.) save me from him! schÖn. (shaking her.) or are you, too, an acrobat? geschwitz. (whimpering.) you hurt me. schÖn. (shaking her.) now you will =have= to stay to dinner. (drags her right, shoves her into the next room and locks the door after her.) we want no town-criers. (sits next lulu and makes her take the revolver again.) there's still enough for you in it. look at me! i cannot assist the coachman in my house to decorate my forehead for me. look at me! i pay my coachman. look at me! am i doing the coachman a favor when i can't stand the stable-stench? lulu. have the carriage got ready! please! we're going to the opera. schÖn. we're going to the devil! now i am coachman. (turning the revolver in her hand from himself to lulu's breast.) think you we let ourselves be mistreated as you mistreat me, and hesitate between a galley-slave's shame at the end of life and the merit of freeing the world of =you=? (holds her down by the arm.) come, get through. it will be the gladdest remembrance of my life. pull the trigger! lulu. you can get a divorce. schÖn. only that was left! in order that to-morrow the next man may find his pastime where i have shuddered from cleft to chasm, suicide upon me and =thou= before me! you dare suggest that? that part of my life i have poured into you i am to see thrown before wild beasts? do you see your bed with the sacrifice--the victim--on it? the boy is homesick for you. did you let yourself be divorced? you trod him under your feet, knocked out his brains, caught up his blood in gold-pieces. i let myself be divorced? =can= one be divorced when two people have grown into each other and half the man must go, too? (reaching for the revolver.) give it here! lulu. don't! schÖn. i'll spare you the trouble. lulu. (tears herself loose, holding the revolver down; in a determined, self-possessed tone.) if men have killed themselves for my sake, that doesn't lower my value. you know as well why you made me your wife as i knew why i took you for husband. you had deceived your best friends with me; you could not well go on deceiving yourself with me. if you bring me the close of your life as a sacrifice, still you have had my whole youth for it. you understand ten times better than i do which is the more valuable. i have never in the world wished to seem to be anything different from what i am taken for, and i have never in the world been taken for anything different from what i am. you want to force me to fire a bullet into my heart. i'm not sixteen any more, but to fire a bullet in my heart i am still much too young! schÖn. (pursuing her.) down, murderess! down with you! to your knees, murderess! (crowding her to the foot of the stairs.) down, and never dare to stand again! (raising his hand. lulu has sunk to her knees.) pray to god, murderess, that he give you strength. sue to heaven that strength for it may be lent you! (hugenberg jumps up from under the table, knocking a chair aside, and screams "help!" schön whirls toward him, turning his back to lulu who instantly fires five shots into him and continues to pull the trigger. schön, tottering over, is caught by hugenberg and let down in the chair.) schÖn. and--there--is--one--more-- lulu. (rushing to schön.) all merciful--! schÖn. out of my sight! alva! lulu. (kneeling.) the one man i loved! schÖn. harlot! murderess! alva! alva! water! lulu. water; he's thirsty. (fills a glass with champagne and sets it to schön's lips. alva comes thru the gallery, down the stairs.) alva. father! o god, my father! lulu. i shot him. hugenberg. she is innocent! schÖn. (to alva.) you! it miscarried. alva. (tries to lift him.) you must go to bed; come. schÖn. don't take me so! i'm drying up. (lulu comes with the champagne-cup; to her.) you are still like yourself. (after drinking.) don't let her escape. (to alva.) you are the next. alva. (to hugenberg.) help me carry him to bed. schÖn. no, no, please, no. wine, murderess-- alva. (to hugenberg.) take him up that side. (pointing right.) into the bed-room. (they lift schön upright and lead him right. lulu stays near the table, the glass in her hand.) schÖn. (groaning.) o god! o god! o god! (alva finds the door locked, turns the key and opens it. countess geschwitz steps out. schön at the sight of her straighten up, stiffly.) the devil. (he falls backward onto the carpet. lulu throws herself down, takes his head in her lap, and kisses him.) lulu. he has got over it. (gets up and starts toward the stairs.) alva. don't stir! geschwitz. i thought it was you. lulu. (throwing herself before alva.) you can't give me up to the law! it is =my= head that is struck off. i shot him because he was about to shoot me. i have loved nobody in the world but him! alva, demand what you will, only don't let me fall into the hands of justice. take pity on me. i am still young. i will be true to you as long as i live. i will belong only to you. look at me, alva. man, look at me! look at me!! (knocking on the door outside.) alva. the police. (goes to open it.) hugenberg. i shall be expelled from school. curtain [ transcriber's note: the following is a list of corrections made to the original. the first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. forhead.) god in heaven! the world is strange to me--! forehead.) god in heaven! the world is strange to me--! schigolch. that doesn't help me-- does he drink? schigolch. that doesn't help me--does he drink? hoping for winter. perhaps then my (coughing)--my--my asthma will hoping for winter. perhaps then my (coughing) --my--my asthma will lulu. (steals toward the door; but schön holds her.)-- lulu. (steals toward the door; but schön holds her.) -- alva. oh, god-- i saw in you something so infinitely far above me. i had alva. oh, god--i saw in you something so infinitely far above me. i had escerny. (getting up too). what's the matter? (the electric bell goes escerny. (getting up too.) what's the matter? (the electric bell goes "my dear young lady.. .." "my dear young lady...." ] transcriber's note: page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/johnbaptistplay suderich john the baptist john the baptist a play by hermann sudermann translated by beatrice marshall london john lane the bodley head vigo street w. new york john lane company mcmix william brendon and son, ltd., printers, plymouth persons in the play herod antipas. _tetrarch of galilee_. herodias. salome. _her daughter_. vitellius. _legate of syria_. marcellus. _his companion_. merokles, _the rhetorician_. \ gabalos, _the syrian_. > _at the court of herod_. jabad, _the levite_. / john. _called "the baptist."_ josaphat. \ matthias. } > _his disciples_. amarja. | manassa. / jael. _josaphat's wife_. their two children. hadidja. _maid in the palace_. miriam. \ abi. > _playfellows of salome_. maecha. / mesulemeth. _a beggar-woman_. amasai. \ > _pharisees_. jorab. / eliakim. \ pasur. > _citizens of jerusalem_. hachmoni. / simon. _the galilean_. first galilean. second galilean. a paralytic. first priest. second priest. a citizen of jerusalem. the commander of the roman soldiers. first \ second > roman soldier. third / the captain of the palace guard. the gaoler. men and women from jerusalem, pilgrims, roman legionaries, men and maidservants in the palace. time of action. _the year after christ_. scene of action. _during the prelude a rocky wilderness near jerusalem_. in the first, second, and third acts. _jerusalem_. in the fourth and fifth acts. _a town of galilee_. prelude prelude _wild, rocky scenery in the neighbourhood of jerusalem.... night--the moon shining dimly through jagged clouds.... in the distance is seen the fire of the great sacrificial altar, burning on the horizon._ scene i _dark shadows flit in groups across the background from right to left._ miriam hadidja, i am afraid! hadidja come! miriam i am afraid. seest thou not those gliding shadows? their feet scarce touch the stones, and their flesh is like the shadow of the night-wind. hadidja fool that thou art! thou art afraid of thy companions in misery and suffering. the same need as thine brings them hither; the same hope leads them on to the heights. miriam do they also wish to go to him? hadidja every one wishes to go to him. is there a light in israel which doth not irradiate from his hand? is there water for the thirsty which doth not flow from him? streams of sweet water gush forth from these dead stones, and his voice is born out of silence. miriam but i am afraid of him. why dwelleth he among the terrors of the desert? why flieth he from the paths of the joyous, and shunneth the suffering? hadidja the joyous need him not. the suffering will find their way to him. miriam look, hadidja! there is the glow of fire yonder above jerusalem. the romans are burning down our houses, and yet we tarry here! hadidja what! dost thou not know that is the great altar on which, day and night, the priests offer up a tenth part of the sweat of our brows? miriam [_in horrified amazement._] and would he let the great altar fall too? hadidja i know not. but what he willeth is best. see--who is coming? scene ii _the same; two men, half carrying, half dragging a paralytic who moans._ first man women, say, have ye met the great rabbi whom men call the baptist? hadidja we also are seeking the baptist. [_the paralytic, moaning._] put me down; let me die! first man we have carried this palsied man here in our arms, and they are weary, and he whom we hoped to find is not here. the paralytic [_with a groan._] i shall die! manassa's voice [_crying aloud from the right._] john! john! manassa [_rushing on the scene._] john, where art thou, john? i cry unto thee in my distress. have mercy; let me behold thee, john! miriam [_pointing to the left._] look! a crowd of people are drawing near. they go before him. hadidja kneel; for it is he. scene iii _the same. john, behind him a number of men and women, among them amarja._ john whose wretchedness is so great that he wails aloud, and forgets that grief should be silent? manassa [_kneeling before him._] rabbi, mighty rabbi. if thou art he of whom men are talking in the streets of jerusalem, help me, save me! john stand up and speak. manassa i am manassa, the son of jeruel, and my father was sick and blind; and i lived with him on the road to gibeon, close by the well which is never dry. and men came unto me who said, "it is the will of the lord our god that ye refuse to pay tribute to the romans," and i refused to pay the romans tribute. then have the soldiers fallen on me and burned my house, and my young wife hath perished in the flames, and my father, who was blind. and i am now left alone and desolate. help me, rabbi! help! john am i lord over life and death that i can make thy father, wife, and child alive again? can i build up thy house once more out of its ashes? what dost thou ask of me? manassa then cursed be those who---- john stop! cursings enough hang over us. israel is loaded with them, like the autumn boughs with ripe grapes. wherefore dost thou lament? look before, instead of behind. if thou canst not withhold thy lamentations, put a gag between thy teeth; for prayer should be silent, and longing and patience without sound. manassa how shall that help me, rabbi, in my loneliness and desolation? john thou speakest sinfully. is he not with thee? manassa rabbi! who? amarja hearken! he hath not heard the news of him who cometh! john know'st thou not that soon there will be rejoicing in israel? bridal garments and music of cymbals! know'st thou not that there will be no more sorrow in israel? therefore wipe the foam from thy lips and sanctify thyself. all sanctify thyself! manassa no more sorrow. no more suffering! rabbi, say that i may stay with thee? john mix with thy fellows over there and learn silence. manassa [_stammering._] rabbi! [_he withdraws._] john i see not josaphat among ye. neither is matthias here. who hath tidings of them? amarja rabbi, none hath seen them. john who is that lying on the ground groaning? the paralytic master, i am a poor man, sick of a palsy and in great agony. if thou canst not cure me, i must die! john die _now_! now, when one is at hand who bringeth relief for thy tumours and balm for thy sores? i say unto thee thou wilt thank the lord thy god with shouts of joy for every hour of thy pain, for every inch of the road thou hast crawled along on inflamed knees, when thou beholdest him for whom our soul longeth and hopeth, for whose coming we wait and watch by the roadside, looking towards the east. therefore endure sevenfold suffering and groan no more. the paralytic rabbi, thou hast done wonders for me. i feel no longer--i----[_he makes an effort to rise, but sinks back. his companions lead him away. he breathes more easily, laughing as he goes._] murmur of people see! a miracle. he works miracles! one of the people truly the word is fulfilled--elias is risen. the great prophet is risen from the dead! another no, not elias, not the prophet! see ye not, ye blind? it is he himself! he is the promised one. worship him! worship him! all [_falling on their knees._] worship him! john a man sick of a fever crawled along the road looking for the physician, and when a beggar or a slave came by, carrying water, he fell on his knees before him and cried, "hail to thee, great physician! thank god, thou art come!" and so he went on till evening, and the children mocked him. [_the people rise slowly._] what have i, the beggar, to give you? the water i carry is to baptize you in; it is the pure water of repentance. but he who cometh after me will baptize with fire and the spirit, and i am not worthy to unlatch his shoes, ... so little am i compared with him. several rabbi, tell us, when will he come of whom thou speakest? others who is it, rabbi? be merciful and strengthen our souls. speak to us of him. john then sit ye down in a circle and hear the oft-told tidings, ye insatiable ones. [_the people crouch on the ground._] miriam hadidja, what is he going to tell us? hadidja be silent. miriam let me take thy hand, hadidja. john it was on the banks of jordan that i baptized all, according to the command of the lord. many people were gathered round me and hearkened to what i preached, but my soul was consumed with doubt and misgiving. then, lo, a youth came down from the cliffs above, and he was alone, and all the people drew back. and as i raised my eyes to his face, i knew that this was he, for the glory of eternity shone round about him. and when he spake with me, and prayed me to baptize him as if he were a sinner, i trembled and refused, saying, "i would be baptized by thee, but _thou_ comest to me?" and he made answer, "so be it, for thus shall the law be fulfilled." then i yielded, and let it be as he desired. and when he had received baptism from my trembling hand, he rose from the water, and behold, the heavens opened above him and i saw the holy ghost descending like a white dove, and he was bathed in the heavenly light. and a voice out of heaven spake, "behold, this is my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased." then i fell on my face and prayed. and i was no longer afraid. one of the crowd [_after a pause._] and whence came he, he who was thus illumined by the radiance of the lord? all yes, whence came he, and whither did he go? didst thou not hold him? john plague me not with questions. he cometh and goeth, and no man holdeth him. at this very hour he may be sitting in our midst. all [_turn on each other a scared and inquiring gaze._] amarja rabbi, we are all poor workpeople from jerusalem, and every one knoweth his fellow. one of the crowd [_pointing to miriam._] yes, we men! but here is a woman whom i never saw before. hadidja her name is miriam, and she serves as maid in the palace, as i do. john leave her in peace. another but if he of whom thou speakest dwells among the living, he must bear a name, and his father's name. all yea; tell us his name. his name? john ye would hear his name? listen to the wind whispering among the rocks, mark well what it saith ere it vanisheth. so his name, heard first here and then there, passed by my ear. i am waiting with prayer and anxiety to hear it again. therefore i say unto you, question me not further, lest it melt away like a dream when the cock croweth. amarja yet give us withal some guidance. whence came he to thee--he---- john the wind which wafted him to me blew from galilee. all from galilee! one is then the messiah the galileans', the fisheaters'? another he shall come to us judæans! up, and let us seek him! all aye, let us seek him! john think ye that he will permit himself to be found by you? ye miserable creatures full of mutiny and revolt! who are ye that ye should alter the course of the world's history by a hair's breadth? when the time for his harvest is ripe, then he shall appear to you of his own free will in glory as the lord of hosts. the four cherubim shall ride before him on caparisoned horses, with flaming sickles in their hands.... whatsoever hath been planted in sin and hath grown up rankly, that shall be mown down, root and branch; whatsoever hath reared itself against him shall be trampled upon. therefore, ye men of israel, root up the weeds that flourish and encumber your bodies, so that ye do not rot, and in your corruption are not swept away with your polluters when _he_ draweth near with the seven-coloured rainbow about his head. he who shall come must come [_reflectively_], must come! one of the crowd rabbi, we have repented of our sins. we pray day and night, and our bodies are emaciated from fasting. say, what more can we do? scene iv _the same. josaphat. matthias._ john josaphat, so thou art here. and thou, matthias. josaphat master, chide us not for having lingered. we paused by herod's palace, which, as a rule, is dark and deserted. we saw rosy lights kindled, and the pillars garlanded with flowers. fresh ignominy shall befall israel, more deadly sin weigh upon her, if thou, rabbi, comest not to the rescue. john speak out! josaphat herod hath not come out of galilee, as every year before, for the passover. he is not expected till to-morrow. another guest hath arrived. the wife of philip, herod's brother, hath deserted him, and taken with her salome, philip's daughter. the guest at the palace is called herodias, and to-morrow the marriage feast is to be celebrated. john between herod and the wife of his own brother? josaphat thou sayest right, rabbi. john no! no! whoever hath told thee this informed thee falsely. his lips were shameless, and his soul lied. amarja pardon, rabbi; there are maids here belonging to the palace.... question them. john hadidja, i know thee. speak! hadidja rabbi, my place is menial. i only hear what the idle gossips say. but here is miriam. she has been chosen as the playmate of the young maiden salome since she came yesterday. she waits on her at the bath. question her! john miriam, why art thou silent? hadidja rabbi, she hath never yet conversed with strangers. miriam [_in a low, stuttering tone._] master, it is true what that man saith. and----[_emotion._] john continue! miriam and after the wedding, on the first day of the passover, herodias is to enter the temple, as far as the women's outer court, her new consort leading her by the hand. they will show themselves to the people. john that the people may stone them? but what am i saying? they dare not! those priests, lustful as they are, cowards cringing in the dust at the feet of the romans, dare not permit this! the iron gates will close upon the scandal, and the high priest will stretch forth his arm to curse them! hadidja speak, miriam! john what else hast thou to say, miriam? miriam master, at this very hour, messengers are passing to and fro between herodias and the temple. the princess desireth that the high priest shall meet them at the second gate, where the men and women separate, to bless her---- john enough! go home, all of you. i wish to be alone. to-morrow ye will see me at jerusalem. [_horror amongst the people._] one of the crowd rabbi, wilt thou be responsible for thy enemies? others reflect, rabbi! the pharisees will trap thee. the priests will condemn thee. john i am the son of a priest. i will speak priestly words to those who countenance this infamous crime. i will speak to them in the name of him who cometh, for whom i prepare the way. go! [_as they appear unwilling and hesitate._] go! [_the curtain falls._] first act first act _square in front of the palace of herod--the guardroom of the roman soldiers is to the right of the palace in the foreground, with benches before the door--to the right of centre is the chief entrance--steps in background, which lead to the top of a hill--behind, separated by an invisible valley, is a view of rising masses of house-tops belonging to another part of the town--a narrow street to the left of centre, and another street in foreground, which may be taken as a continuation of the one that runs to right of guard-room--in it is the shop of the woollen merchant_ eliakim--_at its right corner the shop of the fruit-seller_ pasur, _with wares exhibited--a fountain with seats round it, near the middle of the stage._ scene i _eliakim, pasur. first, second, third common soldiers._ pasur [_as he comes forward glances anxiously at the soldiers, who sit in front of guard-room._] neighbour, neighbour, dost thou not hear me? eliakim [_sitting outside his shop reading a parchment_] it is written that whosover disturbeth a man when he is reading the law shall forfeit his life. pasur thou readest the law? eliakim knowest thou not that i read the law day and night? pasur forgive me, neighbour; accuse me not. i sinned out of ignorance.... i was in fear of the soldiers who are quartered yonder ... but i am going in. [_slinks back to his shop._] first soldier [_to the second who sharpens his sword._] marcus, wherefore handiest thou thy blade with such terrific zeal? there is naught to hew down in there. these damned judeans have had enough. they'll rebel no more. second soldier who can tell? since that woman entered there yesterday, my nostrils have scented bloodshed. everything is upside down in herod's house, and your so-called princes are ticklish subjects. first soldier here in judea they have none; so we are masters. second soldier we are masters everywhere, with or without a herod. first soldier what brings the tetrarch of galilee to jerusalem? second soldier yes, well mayest thou ask! yet he cometh twice or thrice in the year to rub his nose on the fleeces of the temple, and then away he goes again. god requires it of him, so they say. a crazy people! first soldier and we must stand by as guard of honour. a nice business for a roman citizen! scene ii _the same, hadidja and two other maids_ (_with jugs on their heads, come out of the palace and go to the well, where they draw water_). second soldier idiot! we are bound to do it, so that we may appear to honour him. in reality we guard him. he will soon be here now. third soldier [_who has been squatting on a brick, without taking any part in conversation, sings._] sweet smiling lalage, thee will i love for ever. thee, sweet smiling lalage---- second soldier [_irritably._] have done howling after thy lalage! before thou goest back to rome again, she will be a grandmother. third soldier [_stretching out his arms._] alack! yes. second soldier [_pointing to the maids._] are not there women enough here? third soldier ah! but they are jew girls. they mean well enough, but the punishment of death hangs over them. second soldier a crazy people. third soldier if only there were no foreigners! i, for my part, take not kindly to these asiatics. they wash all day long, and yet stink in spite of it.... ha! yesterday a syrian sweetheart made me a present of a necklace. there it is. shall we dice for it? second soldier show it to me. i say fifty denarii. third soldier rogue! a hundred and fifty! second soldier very well. first soldier i will join. third soldier come along. [_all three disappear into the guard-room._] scene iii _eliakim, pasur, hadidja, and the two other maids. two priests_ [_descending the central steps_]. first priest damsels, you belong to the palace? hadidja yes, ye priests. first priest announce us to your mistress. hadidja our mistress, priests, is gone forth to meet the tetrarch herod, to receive him at the gates. first priest when will she return? hadidja that we cannot say, priests; it depends on the coming of the prince. first priest do you desire our blessing? hadidja no! [_she vanishes with the other maids into the interior of the palace._] both priests [_look discomposed._] first priest [_observing eliakim and pasur sitting in front of their doors, raises his hands unctuously._] blessed be ye who---- eliakim no one asked thy blessing! both priests [_regard each other in dismay._] second priest [_furiously._] these again are of the school of the pharisees! first priest we hold the temple. they shall yet be our servants. come! [_exeunt both priests._] scene iv pasur [_drawing near humbly._] forgive me, neighbour, but now thou no longer readest in the law? eliakim no. pasur this will be a sorry passover for us tradesmen. see all this fine stock which i have laid in. there is the sacred pomegranate wood, whereon to roast the lamb. here are the sweet herbs, with which to prepare the holy broth, and here are the bitter roots, the garlic, cresses, and bay leaves, all according to the precept. in six, or at latest seven hours the feast begins, and i shall be left stranded with my whole stock on hand. oh, woe is me! woe is me! eliakim well, have i not also superior and holy wares for sale? there are stuffs of the very finest quality. beautiful tassels of white and hyacinth-blue wool. and are not my tephillims the most beautiful ever worn by a son of abraham at morning prayer? nay, abraham himself never wore a finer tephillim. i believe i have eighteen dozen or more. but one should take no thought of bodily raiment, but read the scriptures. so it is written. pasur but, neighbour, the man who deals in vegetables does not find it so easy to be righteous in the sight of the lord. thy woollen goods will keep till herod is gone again with his new wife. eliakim [_shakes his fist at the palace._] it's a shame, a crying shame! pasur yes; once this was always a good spot for business, but now grass groweth in front of the palace. eliakim only _priests_ go in and out. scene v _the same. a citizen of jerusalem_ [_who comes to fill his pitcher at the fountain_]. citizen [_distressfully._] neighbour, dear neighbour! eliakim what is thy trouble? citizen thou art a righteous man and knowest the law. give me advice, and thou shalt have my thanks. my poor wife has hurt her foot while working in the fields. it is burning and swollen, and i bathe it with cold water from the fountain, which does it good. but in a short time beginneth the feast. may i continue with the bathing then? eliakim sabbath breaking. thou wilt be guilty, and deserve death. the citizen oh, lord eternal! eliakim yes. if it were her throat that ailed, then thou mightest pour the remedy into her mouth. but foot! no! citizen but suppose that it mortifies! eliakim yea, if it mortifies and is a danger to life, the law alloweth it. the citizen [_crying out in despair._] but then it is too late! [_meanwhile a man wrapt in a cloak has come down the street, and looks up calmly at the windows of herod's palace._] eliakim [_points to him, looking shocked._] hush, if thou lovest thy life! the man thou seest yonder is one david, belonging to the zealots who dwell in the desert. they come down to the towns with daggers hidden in the folds of their cloaks. and when they find people committing a breach of the law by word or deed, they strike at them from behind. [_rising, as the stranger approaches._] greeting; thou holy man! behold i know thee well. wilt thou not bless thy servant? [_the stranger passes, and disappears in the street to the left._] pasur i feel a shiver run through me. one can err and not know it. the citizen how many hours are there yet, ere the feast begins? eliakim [_regarding the sun._] six. the citizen so long, then, i may use the cooling remedy, but i know not what to do afterwards. [_drags his pitcher away dejectedly._] pasur of a truth, we hebrews are hunted like vermin. if the romans leave us alone, the law strikes at us. scene vi _the same. the stage has become half-filled with people, who gesticulate in excitement, looking up at herod's palace. among them hachmoni; later, the soldiers._ eliakim what is going on there? hachmoni, thou shalt speak. what ails the people? hachmoni hast thou not heard? john is in the town! eliakim there are many johns. hachmoni the baptist, man! eliakim the baptist; enemy of the priests and of the pharisees; to whom every rechabite hath sworn death. is he caught at last? hachmoni thou speakest like one in his sleep! if there is a man in jerusalem safe and untouched by the curse of the romans, it is he. he standeth in the market-place and preacheth; he standeth at the gates and preacheth.--did i say _preach_? firebrands issue from his lips; scorpions leap out of his mouth. eliakim against whom doth he preach, then? hachmoni against herod, naturally. and his paramour, and his paramour's whelp. all down with herod! death to herod! [_the first and second roman soldiers step out of the guard-room._] first soldier what are the blear-eyed scum crying? second soldier death to herod! did not i say it would be so? i can trust my nose. [_draws his sword._] pasur protect yourselves! the soldiers! [_the people fall back._] first soldier [_laughing._] the dogs are affrighted already. curs! [_they go in, laughing._] scene vii _the same. amasai and jorab_ [_from left centre, remain in the street_]. amasai look at them! must this not appear a mad mockery in the sight of the lord? who that follows the straight path laid down by the law, after the manner of god-fearing men, can have anything in common with these sinners? jorab they are infatuated with the baptist's preaching, and yet too weak to kick against the pricks. speak to them, so that they come to themselves. amasai after the baptist? rather would i grasp a mad bull by the horns. they would go up to the temple to make an offering of sow's blood, if he bade them do it. jorab cannot we trap him? amasai and so stand before the people as the friends of herod? leave that kind of fame to the priests and the sadducees. the disaffection which we quelled, at a signal from him, screams aloud in the gutter. so what good have we done? that is why the people flock to him. we have missed our opportunity. but still; i know a way to entangle him. i will strike at him through his folly about the messiah. [_shouts of applause arise from the people._] listen! so they once hailed us. [_they withdraw further into the street to the left._] scene vii _the same, without amasai and jorab. john, accompanied by josaphat, matthias, and manassa and afresh crowd. people appear behind left._ john [_throwing himself down on the edge of the fountain._] josaphat see, rabbi, what power hath been given thee. they wag their tails like pleased hounds. jerusalem the blessed lies at thy feet. john give me to drink! manassa [_draws him water._] hachmoni behold! the great prophet drinks as if he were one of us---- pasur that is goat's hair wherewith he is clothed. it must prick his skin. it shows what a holy man he is. eliakim but he doth not favour the woollen trade. if all were so holy, we should be beggared. hachmoni and his food, people say, is nought but locusts and wild honey. matthias get back. see ye not that ye plague him? [_they retire._] josaphat rabbi, forgive. the people wait. what is thy command to them? john is this herod's house? josaphat yes, rabbi [_silence_]. rabbi, say, what shall they do? john am i the keeper of these people? the shepherd may drive his flock through thorns or flowers. i pine for the wilderness, for my rocky fastnesses. josaphat [_dismayed._] rabbi! john i have awakened the slumbering conscience, scourged and roused the idle, shown the erring the right road. one great burst of indignation against herod now flames towards heaven. so now they may let me go my way, or send their spies after me. but no priest has yet dared to stand in my path. it is well. my work in jerusalem is at an end. matthias not so, rabbi. thy work only beginneth. we have to face the prince's entry. the people want a leader. john whither will they be led? matthias that we know not, rabbi. john and do i know? am i one to subject my will to the fetters of a plan, or to spin a web of calculations for others? i am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. that is my destiny. come! [_he stands up._] the people hail to thee, john! hail! [_as he is going, amasai and jorab step in his way._] scene viii _the same. amasai, jorab._ amasai pardon us, great prophet, that we have not yet been present at thy baptisms. john who are ye? josaphat [_whispering._] be on your guard, rabbi. they wear the wide hem of the pharisees. their brethren are high in the council. amasai we are diligent scribes, simple men, to whom the study of the law hath brought more honour than we deserve. john may be. but what do ye want with me? amasai many reports of miracles worked by thee have come to our ears. some say thou art elias; and others, even greater than he. we are willing to believe this, even if thou performest not his miracles. naturally thou mayest have reasons in thy heart for keeping thy power of miracle-working a secret from us. pasur hath he worked miracles? eliakim not for me. pasur ah! amasai we have heard, too, much of thy godliness; that thou fastest and prayest as one to whom meat and drink and earthly intercourse are of no account. we fast and pray also, and our desire for doing good cannot be satisfied. but the law is harder and more zealous than we. therefore we beg thee to be so gracious as to bestow on us the benefit of thy teaching, rabbi, and to tell us how we can keep the law. john so? ye lay traps for me under the cloak of your glib words. ye generation of vipers! who hath told you that ye shall escape the wrath to come? woe unto you, when he cometh who is stronger than i! he hath his sickle already in his hand. he will gather the grain into his barn, but the chaff he will burn with everlasting fire. pasur of whom doth he speak? hachmoni hush! he speaks of the messiah. eliakim what messiah? jorab come, amasai. i am afraid of this man. amasai [_shielding himself with his hand._] we approached thee as petitioners, and thou hast abused us. we will let that pass, presuming that thou hast a right thereto. the one of whom thou speakest as coming after thee has given thee the right. is it not so? [_silence._] behold, ye people of israel, your prophet is silent. if it be not the messiah, the messiah of whom he preaches in the wilderness, and even in the market-place, who hath given him the right to chide us? where else hath he obtained his authority? ye know what we are, god-fearing, upright men, that strive to obey the law in everything. one of the people who is this? eliakim amasai, the wise and learned scribe. people [_murmuring._] listen, it is amasai. another rabbi, wilt thou not bless us? amasai yea, we, in short, who are a piece of the law ourselves. and we have never done this man any harm. if he is an enemy to us, it must be because he is an enemy to the law. john thou liest. amasai good. if i lie, so teach me, great prophet, how thou keepest the law. josaphat [_in a low voice._] yes, rabbi, explain! the people expect it. john i have nothing to do with the law, of which ye and your like set up to be guardians and students. [_sensation among the people._] josaphat [_sotto voce._] rabbi, think what thou art saying. injure not thyself. john nay, it is not your law, but ye yourselves that i hate. for your hand lieth heavily on this people, and your well-being is its affliction. amasai that thou hast yet to prove, great prophet. john who are ye, ye men of worldly wisdom, that ye should look on the law as your special inheritance and possession? here is an enslaved people crawling patiently on its belly beneath a scourge, oppressed by a heavy burden, and ye desire to tell it _how_ it shall crawl. amasai yea, because it must crawl somehow, great prophet. john ye think so. i say that it shall rise out of the dust. amasai thus have rebels ever spoken, and the end hath always been the cross and the gallows. thou, whom men call the great prophet, listen to me! when the lord redeemed his people the first time, how did he do it? through the law. and when he redeemed them a second time, knowest thou how he did it? through the law. so if we guard and watch this law, and let it expand by itself, swelling like an ear of corn, a thousand times into a thousandfold blessings, what is our object? redemption, the hope which lives in all of us. only we do not noise it abroad in the gutter and on the housetops. people [_murmuring._] there he is right. aye, he is right! scene ix _the same. a troop of pilgrims have come up by degrees and slake their thirst at the fountain. among them simon the galilean._ amasai see! look around thee. behold these pilgrims! they come with their knapsacks from far distant lands: from egypt, from euphrates, and syria, and from the accursed city of rome itself. they are indifferent to hunger and thirst, the heat of the sun, and the dust of the road. and wherefore have they come? because of this very law, which i and my brethren guard and study. and if thou sayest thou hast nothing to do with this law, and hatest it, tell us, then, what law thou lovest? where do the commandments leave off which the lord made for his people, and where begin the vain works of men? enlighten us, great prophet, and scold us not. john [_is silent, and uncertain what to say._] josaphat i warned thee, rabbi! amasai [_with a laugh of scorn._] now see, all of you. see! methinks the great---- [_breaks off as a woman, sickly and heavily loaded, comes accidentally near to him. he turns round in anger._] touch me not, lest i become unclean! i am a rechabite! simon the galilean [_to the woman._] no; touch _him_ not, lest _thou_ becomest unclean. amasai what? simon the galilean for the pharisees who call themselves rechabites are unclean from within. come! [_leads her to the fountain._] amasai he denies god! the people [_murmuring._] he denies god! amasai a rechabite unclean? a man who doth nothing day and night but fulfil the law; who performeth his sacred ablutions three times more than necessary; who sitteth, on the sabbath, like a monument; who speaketh a blessing at meat twice, and over salt, bread er----er--[_half choking._] a rechabite unclean? john if i could not answer thy questions with their double meaning, thou thyself hast now answered them! amasai and may seven swine possess thee, thou great prophet, so that compared with them thou appearest to me a saint. [_to the galilean._] and what evil spirit hath taken possession of thee, man? art thou a jew? where dost thou come from? what is thy name? matthias [_in a low voice._] tell him not thy name. he will ruin thee. simon the galilean [_calmly._] i am a jew. my name is simon, and i come from galilee. amasai and as one that there knoweth law and sacrifice---- simon the galilean [_interrupting._] greater than law, greater than sacrifice, is love! [_sensation and dismay among people_] amasai see ye not now that he is guilty against the law? [_he continues speaking earnestly to the people_] john [_approaching the galilean in great excitement._] who taught thee that? [_as simon is silent, more urgently._] who taught thee that? matthias [_in a quick, low tone to the galilean._] before they capture thee, fly! simon the galilean [_shakes his head._] john this knowledge, that comes straight from thy simple and timid heart, awes me, for it cannot be thine own. [_the people, hounded on by amasai, jostle the galilean_] back! in the name of him who cometh, keep back. leave him alone! [_people retreat._] pasur thou playest with us and our great longing as if we were toys. amasai ah, now i have caught thee! thou who poisonest a thirsty people with foul water! where is he who shall come? where is thy messiah? where is the king of the jews? aye, show him to us! the people [_fiercely._] yea, woe to thee if thou canst not show him to us! john [_firmly._] here cometh the king of the jews whom ye acclaim! scene x _the same. herod, herodias, salome and their train appear above in the background. the company of soldiers, with their officers, have posted themselves at the palace gates. in silence the procession descends._ one of the train hail to herod! [_still silence._] now, ye dogs! cry, hail! herod at what are the people gaping? [_to the commander of the guard._] ye, who in obedience to rome's command are here to protect me, cannot you clear them out of my way? the soldiers [_at a sign from their captain begin to charge the people with lowered spears._] amasai [_who is standing in the foremost row. turns with a shrill cry._] woe! woe! [_takes fight._] [_jorab follows him. the people retreat with a subdued exclamation of fear. john alone stands his ground, his head held high, and measures herod with his glance._] salome [_raising her veil._] mother, look at that man. it is the same who stood in the market-place and at the gates and everywhere where we have passed. herod and everywhere caused dissension. salome look! his eyes flash fire! mother, look! herod come along, ye women. and if the pious citizens of jerusalem have unlearnt the way to welcome with rejoicing the representative of the great race of herod [_with a glance at the captain of the guard_], rome, i hope, will teach it to them again. [_the captain shrugs his shoulders with a slight smile._] herod come, i pray. [_herod, herodias, salome, go with their train into the palace; the common soldiers into the guard-room._] scene xii _johannes, josaphat, matthias, manassa, hachmoni, pasur, the people._ hachmoni [_at the head of a group, pressing forward_] pardon us, great prophet. the pharisees have fled like cowards. but, see, we cling to thee. so now help us. the people help us! john [_as if in a dream._] tell me, whither hath the man from galilee gone? manassa rabbi, we know not. john then seek him. bring him to me. manassa yes, rabbi. all the people tarry with us, great prophet. help us! we flee to thee. john [_pondering in uncertainty._] matthias, josaphat, did he not say love? [_the curtain falls_]. second act second act _hall in roman style of architecture in herod 's palace--on the right side, a balcony upheld by pillars, which extends the whole depth of the stage, and to which a fight of steps leads--off the balcony a door opens into salome's room--underneath, on the ground floor, another door--in the centre of the background is the chief entrance--on the left, a window--near it a couch and other furniture--to the right, between the pillars of the balcony, is a divan--carpets and tiger-skins on the floor--a mixture of roman and oriental luxury._ scene i _maecha, miriam, abi_ [_on the balcony_]. _after them, salome._ the damsels [_stepping cautiously and listening._] salome [_through the door._] is it safe? no one there? maecha not a sound of anyone. salome then, come! [_they skip down the stairs._] salome ah, here it is light, and one can see oneself reflected in the walls. do you know why we have been suddenly mewed up in the apartments above? yesterday we were allowed to wander as we listed through all the passages, to dance unveiled in the gardens, and peep through the railings and mock the passers-by. but to-day, since my uncle came, we have had to sit moping in sackcloth and ashes. why? do none of you know why? maecha mistress, the house is now filled with strangers who were not here yesterday. and, it is said that the men who are in the tetrarch's following run after young maidens. salome let them! i am not afraid of any men.... i take them as i find them.... i love them. abi thou knowest men, mistress? salome i mean not the men of our own people! they wear beards on their chins like forests, and before one can look round, they stand there barefooted, and then people say---- no; i mislike that. but once, when i was with my father in antioch, i met pale youths with golden brown hair, and they wore red shoes and smelt of perfumes.... they were greeks, my father said, real greeks from hellas.... they smiled, and it made me thrill.... why dost thou stand there sulking, miriam, and listenest not to my converse? it doth not please thee? laugh, or i'll beat thee. if thou laughest not, i'll have thee whipped! miriam let me be whipped, mistress. salome where wert thou last night? the palace guards said thou wouldst visit thy sweetheart.... thou hast a lover? [_roguishly._] whisper his name in my ear and i'll give thee a gold pin. miriam i have no one that loveth me, mistress. salome the language of you judeans hath an insipid flavour, and your eyes dissemble. yet, i love jerusalem. a purple haze hangs over its gables. and it seemeth to me ever as if the sun in jerusalem kissed one secretly. but ye could not understand how that is ... ye have not the blood of the great herod in your veins. my mother hath it, and i have it from her.... and whatever they may say in jerusalem, my mother was wise to run away from that other husband, for the one here is of more account than he. and because she was so wise, and at the same time so sadly foolish, i love her, and will share the consequences of her folly. [_she flings herself on the couch._] i am not displeasing to my uncle herod.... i have remarked that he casts stolen glances at me.... now when my mother scolds me i shall know how to tease her! [_trills forth._] i am the rose of sharon, a flower of the valley. cometh not my friend into his garden to eat of---- miriam, where does that window look out? miriam i do not know, mistress. i have never been in this hall before. salome go and see. miriam [_looks out of the window and starts._] salome why dost thou start? miriam did i, mistress? salome tell me what thou seest? miriam there are many people standing round a fountain, and---- salome and? miriam i cannot---- salome [_stands up and goes to window._] ah! [_looking out for a moment in silence._] miriam, who is that? miriam [_confused._] whom dost thou mean, mistress? salome is there anyone else but him?... miriam, thou gentle, brown miriam [_half threateningly_], deny him not! miriam it is--john--the baptist. abi, maecha [_hurrying up, all curiosity._] the baptist? salome let him be who he be. see how the people surge round him! have ye ever in your valley seen a rock bend? he doth not bend. ha! ha! not he! only if--perhaps---- [_she stretches out her arms._] scene ii _the same. herodias_. [_enters from centre._] maecha mistress, thy mother! the three maidens [_withdraw quickly from the window._] herodias what are ye doing here, damsels? salome thou! shall we let it be said that we have brought evil manners into jerusalem? salome [_intending to wound, but outwardly meek._] methinks it is said already. herodias [_enraged._] go! salome yes, mother. [_she crosses over, and lingers between the pillars of the balcony._] herodias ye damsels, stay! ye are judeans? maecha yes, mistress. herodias intelligence hath reached me of one they call the baptist stirring up rebellion in the streets. which of you know the man? maecha she does. abi she hath this moment confessed it. herodias what dost thou know of him? miriam that last night i sat at his feet praying. salome [_coming forward_] thou? thou? maecha pardon! a moment ago he was standing close to the palace. herodias show him to me. maecha [_from the window_] now is he gone. herodias [_to miriam_] so speed after him, and when thou hast found him, bring him privately through yonder gate. [_points below to the right_] salome she shall not.... i will not ... _not_ her! herodias why not? salome [_throwing her arms round miriam_] she is dearest to me. i will not let her go out of my sight. [_comes over and supplicates herodias_] mother! herodias art thou still such a child? [_to miriam._] go! salome [_angrily._] miriam! [_exit miriam._ herodias such a child, and already hast the tooth of a serpent in thy mouth! salome [_kneels on the couch before her mother and encircles her knees with her arms._] forgive me, mother. we, thou and i, are not like others. we sting those we love. herodias [_sotto voce._] and those we hate? salome [_sotto voce._] we kiss! herodias [_laughing._] child! [_she kisses her._] salome [_laughing._] thou kissest me! scene iii _the same. the palace captain._ palace captain my master, the tetrarch herod, would see thee, mistress. herodias [_in growing anxiety covers salomes' face with her veil._] go, make haste; go! salome mother, i am dull in the upstair chambers. may i not stay near thee? herodias [_looking towards the door._] go, instantly! salome [_slowly climbs the stairs with her companions._] herodias thou art captain in the palace? the palace captain [_bows._] herodias go, set watches at every door. who entereth goeth not out again.... and keep silent. the palace captain one has but to see thee to know that thou art the mistress.... how should i not be silent? [_goes to the door._] scene iv _the same. herod, gabalos, merokles, jabad. the palace captain_ [_exit when the others enter_]. herod princess, after waiting even the space of a moment, a man will enjoy his favours to the full.... therefore ... [_kisses her on brow and mouth._] pardon! herodias thou hast rested; art refreshed? herod that question thou oughtst not to ask me. my father was one of those men who never knew what weariness was. so his son, likewise, parts company with his pillow betimes, and---- [_he observes salome who, with her veil slightly lifted, looks down from the balcony, and after she sees that he has noticed her, vanishes._] herodias thou art silent. herod thy daughter is not with thee? herodias [_dryly._] no. herod [_bows his head, smiling._] allow me, princess ... to present these friends.... i will not call them servants, for such they are not. merokles oh, mistress, they are servants whom thou mayest safely make thy friends. jabad and they are friends in order that they may serve thee. gabalos and are amply rewarded for both, great mistress. herod [_smiling._] this rascal, whose syrian dialect thou art now acquainted with for the first time, is gabalos from antioch. thou seest, i tolerate his jesting. gabalos for herod the great also kept a fool. herodias and people say that he acquired a second fool before he let the first drown. gabalos [_bows, smiling, then turns aside with a grimace._] herod this is merokles, the rhetorician. his voice carries far. it is heard in rome, when folks there would overhear my own. merokles but i shall take no satisfaction in that voice till it may greet thee, mistress, with the cry "hail to thee, o queen!" herodias [_winces, then smiles and exchanges a glance with herod._] merokles [_sotto voce, joining gabalos._] thou madest a good hit; i a better. herod and in contrast to this cool flatterer, here is jabad the levite, my guide and my conscience ever since i set foot on jewish soil. for, by bacchus, he knows exactly what i have to do, every moment, in order to be pious, after the manner of my pious people. gabalos [_sotto voce._] he acts as if he had forgotten the way. merokles [_sotto voce._] for by so doing he thinks he will the more resemble his father. herod as an example, what ought i to be doing at this sacred moment? jabad the sun is sinking, oh master. thy passover lamb, one year old and flawless, hath been slaughtered in the temple. it is now in the yard to be blessed. thou, as the lord and master of this house---- herod must do it myself? jabad thine illustrious father did not, and there was, on that account, grumbling amongst the people. herod blessing is cleaner work than slaughter. i will do it. see, ye wise greeks, that we must serve the gods in order to rule over men! and in the end we serve to no purpose. [_he motions them away. to jabad._] go and make ready, and i will follow thee. [_exeunt gabalos, merokles, and jabad._] scene v _herod, herodias_ [_later salome with maecha, on the balcony. herod and herodias stand together a few moments in silence._] herodias art thou content? herod thy kindness oppresses me. whether thou art content seemeth to me of more importance. herodias [_feeling his tone of contempt._] i have had no roof over my head for three nights. like a tramp i have wandered in the dust of the roads. my serving-women one by one deserted me. only salome hath not forsaken me. i have robbed her of her father; the father i have robbed of his child. and what i have robbed my husband of thou canst estimate better than it beseemeth me. see, all this i have done for thee! herod i have abandoned my wife, who also said she loved me. she flew to her father. he now maketh ready for war to avenge his child's wrong. only a trifle is lacking: i have no army. in rome i am threatened with disgrace; my brother curses me; judea points the finger of scorn at me.... so little have i done for thee---- herodias and thou repentest this little already? herod no! only forgive me if i blame thy coming too soon. herodias too soon! was warmer welcome ever heard than this "too soon"? herod take not my words amiss, i entreat thee! herodias i dare not say that longing drove me here. herod [_with an embarrassed smile._] say it ... by all means! herodias then thou hast not forgotten the days--of eloquent looks and silent vows--when every breath was a longing desire and every word a feast? herod how should i forget? love, how should i----? herodias and thou rememberest no more the nights when wandering footsteps stole their way to the fragrant gardens, where, in the feverish blossoming around them, two sleepless ones mingled their sighs? herod how could i not remember; love, how could i not? herodias i have clothed myself in indian draperies; i have put pomegranate blossoms in my bosom, and gold dust in my hair ... but thou seest nothing!... my converse is bridal, but thou hearest it not. [_salome has appeared on the balcony with maecha. herod notices her._] salome wait; let me see whether he has already come. [_she looks over, and after her eyes have met herod's she vanishes._] herodias [_observing his absence of mind, with an exclamation._] no! thou hearest nothing. herod [_quickly recovering himself?_] well; what if it is so? the language of our soul, which thou art kind enough to call bridal, was fitting to the delight of those fragrant gardens. to-day, methinks, we have another task before us! herodias thinkest thou that i have been idle? am i a woman who cometh to beg of you a nightly dole of caresses? look at me.... not thy beloved.... she exists no longer.... see in me thy ruling mistress! herod i am looking, and i see a woman who raves. herodias as real as the ambition of thy mistress, as real as the secret resentment which gnaws beneath thy own; despite thy ever-ready smiles. herod [_horrified._] who told thee ... whence ...? herodias so real and positive is my hold over thee. just now, when thou didst say i raved, thou wast reflecting how thou couldst best get rid of me.... thou fool; then get rid of thy wakeful nights and all that which thou thinkest great in thyself, the inheritance of that greater than thou, whom thou wilt never equal.... herod woman ... what ... [_his words choke in his throat._] herodias [_laughing._] speak out what thou hast to say. if thou no longer needest me for love, thou mayest still require me as a listener and adviser. herod [_after he has walked up and down several times in great excitement._] never resemble.... what is the man who smiles amiably in wrath? a coward?... what is the man, who has two faces? insincere?... who fawns on those in power. servile? no; because the great herod also did these things. but sometimes, when the blood throbbed to bursting in his veins, he snatched his sword from the sheath and slashed at friend and enemy alike who stood in his way ... till the blood of his victim washed him calm and cool again ... till the mighty at rome experienced a thrill at such a display of strength.... i, too, feel the blood hammering in my veins.... i, too, would ... but i have no sword ... and so i must continue to smile amiably ... continue showing two faces, and licking the sandals of the priests.... i, the son of herod; i, his ape! herodias and suppose that the priests of the temple adopted the attitude of shield and barrier betwixt thee and the fury of the people, wouldst thou doubt thyself less? herod i doubt myself not. and what thou sayest can never happen. herodias [_goes to the middle door and opens it._] [_a porteress enters._] herodias what tidings hast thou? the porteress the two messengers to the temple, mistress, have come back with word from the high priest. herodias show them into the outer hall.... they shall wait there. [_exit the porteress._] herod [_with a laugh of rage and fear._] are their trumpets already sounding on the road? hath the great curse already reached the door? herodias thou art wrong, my friend. only a little blessing scratches at the door.... if it pleaseth thee, let it come in. herod thou dreamest. herodias listen to me! why did i come before thee in haste to inhabit this empty house?... because every hour since i came i have been negotiating with the priests---- herod thou? herodias what if instead of hiding the sinning woman from the people, thou, with head held aloft, repairest with her to the temple? would it not be an ironical event if the high priest, with the same air of patriarchal servility with which he greeted the virtuous mariamne, also smiled a welcome to thy brother's runaway wife? herod with what sum hast thou purchased this? herodias when it is given, it will be a present, not a purchase. herod only one who knows not these butchers of the high altar could believe you. herodias well, these are the terms [_in a low voice_]. if we were to promise never again to aspire in rome to the sceptre of judea [_scoffingly_], then they might consider---- herod and what answer didst thou make to such drastic, such---- herodias i promised.... what else should i do?... for thee, as well as myself. herod [_pointing to himself._] even before this booty was thine, thou hast betrayed it? herodias i fancied that i heard thee crying out just now for a sword. [_smiling._] when thou art king, thou wilt, of course, kill all whom thou hast promised not to be king! that is the same thing as if thou hadst never promised it. herod [_staring at her._] woman! herodias believest thou still that i hurried here only for the sake of a kiss? herod i shudder at thee. but even if the priests be won over, there remains the people, the hydra-headed; thou knowest not the people. they once, it is said, hurled sacrificial victims at the head of their king, they slew barachia's son between the temple and the altar. and besides, dost thou not know that john the baptist is in the town? herodias the baptist! leave the baptist to me. herod i warn thee, approach him only with a weapon in thy hand! herodias [_laughs._] scene vi _the same. jabad and several servants._ jabad pardon, oh master, the lamb is ready. herod first, we will hear what the priests have to say if your mistress, _our_ mistress, so pleaseth. herodias [_assents, smiling._] [_exeunt all._ scene vii _john, miriam_ [_come through the lower door to right_]. miriam await her here, rabbi.... what are thy commands to thy handmaiden? john [_shakes his head._] miriam [_kisses the hem of his garment._] [_exit._ scene viii _john_ [_left alone for a brief space_], _then salome, and two of her damsels._ salome [_steps softly to the balustrade and gazes down on john, seeks in her breast for a flower, and not finding one turns back to maecha._] give me those thou wearest in thy girdle. [_she takes the roses which maecha hands to her and throws them down._] he doth not see them. bring more flowers, and thy harp. stay, maecha, or i shall be afraid. [_exeunt the maids, except maecha._] thou fair savage, out of the wilderness of judah! the fire of hate that flashes from thy eye shall not devour me! i will kindle another fire in it, lovely and languid like my dreams, when at night the perfume of the narcissi is wafted to my pillow. [_the maids come back._] give them here.... roses ... two arms' full. [_hides her face in the flowers._] now if i had narcissi, too! nay, but tarry and sing the song which i taught you yesterday, the song which the dancers sang at antioch. but sing softly, so that he be not shy of us. where is miriam? abi she refuseth to come. salome [_between her teeth._] she refuseth! he saw the rose. he is picking it up ... as if he had never----there are more ... and more ... and more. [_she scatters the roses down on him._] song of the maidens [_the following is accompanied by the harp, which, after playing a finale alone, dies away._] i have entertained thee with myrrh and honey. i bound sweet sandals on my feet. from my waist i have loosened the girdle, i have sung with the harp, thee to greet. now come, let us quench the fire that consumes me ... come! or thou from fear shalt blench. for my soul will hate thee ... come! john [_has looked up astonished. the hail of flowers strikes him in the face. he shrinks back._] who playeth with me? salome [_who has slowly descended the steps._] master, i---- john who art thou? salome [_coyly trifling._] i am a rose of sharon and a flower of the valley. john then play with thy mates ... leave me in peace ... or go and call her who summoned me. salome my mother? john thou art salome the---- salome yes; i am she. john let me look into thy eyes, maiden. salome look, master ... no, but not like that.... if you compellest me to put my hands before my face, i shall spread my fingers apart and laugh between them; yes, i shall laugh. john maiden, knowst thou not how abhorred this house is? keepest thou thy soul innocent among the guilty? salome look at me again, master.... am i not young among the daughters of israel? and i have heard say that youth knoweth nothing of the guilty and of guilt. see, they keep me confined to the upper chambers. i drew back the bolts and crept out here, because i knew thou wert here, master. john how can i say to the storm wind: "pass by," and to the floods, "swallow her not"? salome speak on, master, even if i understand nothing thou sayest. and knowest thou that we are now sinning according to the jewish "law"? both of us--yea, it is true. my companions are gone; and is it not forbidden for a jewish man to be alone with a virgin? john i am not alone with thee. behind us standeth the shadow of those who have dragged thee with them through the foul refuse of their pleasures. salome i have my own pleasures, master. how shall the pleasures of others concern me? i read once a saying that stolen fruits are sweet, and my nurse used to tell me that undiscovered treasure was only found by those who did not seek for it.... is it not true thou hast not sought me? john thy converse is confused. salome no matter. chide me not. think, are not our _dreams_ confused too? when i flew hither with my mother, we came at night to a field of poppies. and the dew shone on their petals.... they looked grey, and were all closed up because it was night.... but now they are wide open, and i think my cheeks must glow red in their reflection. john thou art lovely among the daughters of jerusalem. they will weep for thee. salome why will they weep? am i to be sacrificed? not i, master. protect me! i have heard of a king, master, who made a compact with the sun. hast thou heard of him? [_john bows his head._] salome well, i will make a compact with thee. shall i be the sun, and thou my king? or wilt thou be the sun, and i thy queen? john maiden, i cannot be either sun or king. salome why not? it is only a game. john a king cometh after me, but i wander in the wilderness and seek a path among thorns. salome and hast not found it? john not for myself. salome but for others? john [_in torture, half to himself._] who knoweth? salome master, what harm shall wrath do one, who is a jubilation and a feast day? and if thou camest to me in flames of fire, i would not mourn my youth for the length of two moons.... i would stretch out my arms and cry, "destroy me, flame; take me up!" john [_after a pause._] go! salome i am going. [_she rushes into the arms of herodias, who enters._] mother! scene ix _the same. herodias and her women._ salome forgive me, mother, and let me stay with thee. herodias thou who lookest at me so imperiously, art thou the man who stirreth up the people against me? john i am he whom thou hast summoned. herodias [_seating herself._] come hither to me! john send thy women away, and this child, so that she be not corrupted ere she is ripe. herodias but this child, companion of my fate, shall hear what thou hast to say to me. john she should be guarded from what i have to say to thee. herodias take care, prophet! at that door stand armed men, two deep. consider thy danger, so that thou courtest not death! john i am a servant of life, and danger never standeth in my way. herodias i respect thy faith, prophet, and so would speak to thee in a friendly spirit.... people have told me of a man who keeps far away from human dwellings, and only descends now and then to the banks of fresh waters to bless, so it is said. that pleased me well.... the great willingly bow to greatness ... and so i bow to thee. salome [_after cowering at her feet, springs up, and throws herself on her neck._] herodias i will not reproach thee for denouncing me in the market-place of jerusalem, for thou dost not know me.... yet i was _not_ well pleased that thou didst chew the cud of wormwood, which hath embittered these judean cattle against me. i should have thought thou wast too proud, thy solitary nature too noble! john i have not come here for thy praise or thy blame. i have but a simple question to ask. art thou going on the first day of the passover to the temple, at the tetrarch's side? herodias [_mastering her scorn with difficulty._] i perceive, thou great prophet, that thy wrath strains on its chain.... before thou lettest it loose, permit me also to ask a question; for see, i am endeavouring to approach thee, and would gladly win thee. wert thou not a riddle to me, i should not ask it. yet truly no man is so curiously fashioned as not to cherish secret wishes in his heart. every one hath said to himself: "this were my delight, and that my desire." john i understand thee not. herodias look round thee. doth not the gleaming snow of marble attract thy eyes, nor the yellow glitter of gold? john [_is silent._] herodias or ... hast thou never dreamed of the power and splendour and riches of this world? john [_still silent._] or [_pointing to salome, who again cowers at her feet._] has thy heart not trembled at the sight of this sweet, unveiled youth? john [_after further silence._] thou wouldst sell thyself to me! dost thou know thy own price? a grain of barley would be too dear ... for thy name is courtezan, and adulteress is written on thy brow. herodias [_infuriated._] thou--thou---- salome [_falling into her arms._] mother! herodias [_controlling herself haughtily and contemptuously._] i should have thee seized on the instant, only thou makest sport for me. and if not quite intoxicated with thy own superiority, listen to me once more. he who thinketh himself designed to be a judge over men should take part in the life of men, should be human among human beings. john [_impressed._] what ... didst thou say? herodias but thou seemest to me so isolated from thy fellow-men that the throb of a human heart itself is nothing to thee.... thou hast avoided, cowardlike, all contact with sin and guilt in thy waste places, and now creepest forth to condemn others as guilty. the scorching winds of thy desert may perhaps have taught thee hate ... but what knowest thou of love? of those who live and die for the sake of their love? john thou too speakest of love ... thou too? herodias see! i am laughing at thee, great prophet. [_she laughs._] salome mother, look at him ... be silent! john thy poisoned arrows are well aimed, and hit their mark! but ... [_pointing to the window_] see there, the lord's people ... they gnash their teeth against thee, for thou hast taken their bitter bread out of their mouths and dissipated their miserable joys.... thou sayest that i know them not.... yet i know their heart's desire ... for i have created it; i have put my life at the service of that desire, and i cry to thee, "woe! thou that hast contaminated it for them.... thou enervatest the strength of their young men, and exposest the shame of their young women. thou sowest scoffings where i thought to reap faith.... and if thou bendest the high and mighty to be the footstool of thy lusts, i will fling the poor and humble in thy path, that they may trample thee beneath their feet.... woe to thee, and woe to him who shareth thy adulterous couch!... woe, too, to this youthful body that cringes under the scourge of thy blood! woe! woe!" herodias [_springing up and going to the door on right._] the guards shall seize him.... guards!... [_she wrenches the door open._] scene x _the same. two guards._ herodias lead this man ... . [_she hesitates as she meets john's eyes._] john [_smiling._] now, look to it, what thou dost with me! herodias lead this man ... out ... into the street.... [_she staggers to the divan._] salome thou camest in flames of fire!... john [_walks to the door._] [_the curtain falls._] third act third act _a room in josaphat's house. in the background a door, which leads into the street. near it a barred window. on the left side is a door to another living room. a door also on the right. in the foreground to left a cobbler's tools. towards centre, a table and two or three benches. to the right, a couch, a small table, and chair beside it. the room is poor, but not bare; lighted by two clay lamps._ scene i jael [_with a child at her breast._] [_two other children and several women standing near door on left listening to a psalm sung by men's voices, which is heard in subdued strains coming through the door._] the boy what are they singing now, mother? jael [_pale and troubled._] they sing the great hallelujah, my child. the boy is the prophet singing with them, mother? jael that i cannot hear, my child. [_two more women come through middle door._] first woman jael, we have heard that the great prophet eateth the passover in thy house. wilt thou permit us to see him? jael come in! one of the other women that is he, the last there on the left. first woman he that sitteth there looking so heavy of spirit? the second woman i should be frightened of him. [_the singing has meanwhile ceased._] first woman they say that he hath come into the town to judge herodias. is that so, jael? jael i know not. the boy mother, see, they are now drinking the fourth goblet. they will be here directly. first woman hath he spoken a blessing over the fourth goblet? second woman no; josaphat spake it. first woman see, they are standing up! another are they coming hither, jael? jael that is the couch on which he will rest. several then farewell, jael. jael farewell! [_they hurry out._] scene ii _jael with her children. john, josaphat, amarja._ josaphat here thou wilt be alone, rabbi. the others remain outside. john accept my thanks, josaphat. amarja mine, too, josaphat. josaphat thank him, amarja, for eating with us. [_while john seats himself, he says, sotto voce, to amarja_] come! [_observes jael, who has been standing at the door unnoticed._] jael, thou here, and the children? john is that thy wife, josaphat? josaphat yes, rabbi. john and thy children? josaphat yes, rabbi. john thou hast never told me of these.... is thy name jael? he called thee so. jael yes, rabbi. john why comest thou not nearer? the boy we are afraid of thee, rabbi. john [_smiling._] why are you afraid? the boy i do not know. josaphat forgive him, rabbi ... he ... john josaphat, wilt thou entrust them to me for a few minutes? josaphat [_bows his head, signs to amarja, and goes away with him to the right._] scene iii _john, jael, the children._ john thy eyes have a sad look, jael. is thy heart troubled? jael kneel down, baruch, my son. kneel down, both. the boy [_half crying._] mother! john what is it, jael? jael [_to the children._] say: prithee, rabbi? the children prithee, rabbi. jael and this little one prayeth, too, though not old enough to pray.... john for what? jael that thou wouldest give them back their father; for see, they have no bread. john [_lifting the children from their knees._] just now we ate of the lamb in thy house, and thou sayest "we have no bread"? jael i do not speak of to-day; to-day the poorest have something to eat. thou art truly a great prophet, rabbi, and thou givest much to the people; but from us--from me and these little children--thou takest away all that we have. john how could i do that, jael? jael see; for a long time my husband goeth out every night to thee in the wilderness, and then the tools lie there idle, and we starve. but willingly would we starve and die of hunger for him, if thou hadst not estranged his heart from us, and stolen his love for thyself. john art thou, too, one of those who say, greater than the law and sacrifice is love? jael [_anxiously._] i did not say that, rabbi.... thou wouldst not get me into trouble with the priests? john but thou thinkst so in thy heart! jael rabbi! john hadst thou come to me in my wilderness, i would have shown thee the way to one who shall bring food to the hungry. here, i am powerless. go; i have nothing to do with thee! jael [_goes with the children to the door,_] john [_makes a movement as if he would call her back._] jael rabbi! john [_shakes his head._] [_exit jael, with the children._] scene iv _john, josaphat, amarja._ john josaphat, how long have i known thee? josaphat it is two years since i came to thy baptism. john and since, thou hast been often? josaphat have i not always been with thee, rabbi? john i never knew that thou wast a cobbler ... and that thy children cried for bread! it seems to me that i do not know thee even yet, josaphat. josaphat thou knowest what is best in me, for thou hast given it to me! john so, then, i know myself alone. and of thee, too, amarja, i know no more.... only this i know. [_gazing into vacancy._] i am sent---- [_breaks off._] josaphat rabbi! john some one hath said to me that i knew ye not; one of those who have the word "love" on their tongues.... and i am inclined to believe her.... but even if i have known you, i have not desired to love you, but rather to judge you in the name of---- in whose name? know ye the rest? josaphat in the name of him who shall come. so thou hast taught us, master. john sooner would i talk to these black walls, that they might perhaps fall; sooner to thy hungry children, that my words might fill them. but the belief that looketh up to me, transfigured because it believeth.... that hurts me. amarja [_low to josaphat._] it is now the second hour. wilt thou not mention herod to him? john [_as josaphat comes nearer to him._] i sent the youngest of you to search for the galilean. where is he? josaphat he has not yet come back, master. john may be he has lost the way. josaphat i told him where to come to, master. john i want the galilean.... ye shall procure me the galilean.... see ye not that my strength rests in my king ... even if i serve him like an unworthy vessel ... i serve him according to my measure.... i have borne witness to him.... is that not true? josaphat thou hast borne witness, indeed, rabbi. john but the testimony hath grown up in my soul. when he comes, will he bear it out? josaphat he will, master; for god sendeth him. john else my soul hath not known him, even as it hath not known you. have ye no news of manassa? go and keep watch outside, that he doth not miss the house. josaphat that will be he! [_goes to open the door._] scene v _the same. matthias._ josaphat thou, matthias? hast thou not seen manassa? matthias no. rabbi, i come to thee in the night because of herod. john because of herod? [_seats himself with head turned away._] matthias i sent spies to the palace up till the time of the passover feast. the priests were coming to and fro. what their business was no one knows. and if he cometh now to the morning sacrifice at eight of the clock, as is his custom on high festivals ... and comes with that woman ... flaunting his sin in the face of the people.... rabbi, speak! what then? john [_does not answer,_] amarja he hears thee not. josaphat. he is thinking of the galilean. john i heard some one here speak of sin. know ye in what raiment sin clothes itself gorgeously when it goeth abroad among the people? say courtliness, say hate, say what ye will, and i shall laugh at you. hear, and mark well. they call it love. everything that is small, and stoops because it is small, that throws crumbs from its table in order not to throw bread; that covers up graves that they may stink secretly; that hews off the thumb of the left hand that it may have nothing to say to the thumb of the right; take care; all that is called love. and they call it love when in spring the ass brays and the dogs whine; when a woman herself gathers together the stones whereon to rest with her lover in the evening, stones which in the morning the people will hurl at her, and the woman speaketh: "see beloved, how sweet is our couch." ... they call this love. matthias [_after exchanging a look with josaphat._] rabbi, forgive us, but the people are waiting for thee. the many who desert their beds, expectant of the morrow, think only of one thing--judgment! the judgment of herod. john judgment of herod--well. josaphat and thou shalt judge him. no one else but thou? john i shall judge him. matthias. him and the woman? john him and the woman. did ye doubt? matthias if we did, forgive. amarja but suppose he comes without the woman. what would happen then? john ye ask so much. ye and your questions become wearisome. hark! there is manassa. [_josaphat opens._] scene vi _the former. miriam._ john miriam, thou? what desirest thou of me? miriam [_breathless._] i flew from the palace.... the guards have chased me.... perhaps what i know ... may be of use to thee. josaphat speak, miriam! miriam if the master will hear. with ye others i have nothing to do. john i will listen, miriam. miriam a rumour has reached the tetrarch that the people are plotting evil against him. he would on that account hide the woman, but she will not be hid. she will defy the master, because he hath offended her. an order is just gone forth for all the servants of the house to arm themselves and line the road. even during the night, so that the procession shall pass to the temple ere the great crowd assembleth. thus they think to escape the people's wrath and thine, master. the disciples that shall not come to pass; verily it shall not. josaphat hast thou learned, miriam, by which of the outer gates they go to the temple? miriam by the susan gate. i heard the servants say, as i crept by. josaphat and will the roman soldiers be amongst them? miriam that i did not hear. josaphat for if the romans accompany them, we must wait behind the second gate; there where no heathen may penetrate at the cost of his head. matthias on the other hand, they can there be saved by the priests. josaphat certainly, there the priests---- master, what is thy counsel? john i counsel you to go forth into the streets, and to seek right and left. i would learn from that galilean what counsel i ought to give you. matthias canst thou understand him? josaphat i would liefer not understand him. [_exeunt josaphat, matthias, and amarja._] scene vii _john, miriam._ miriam [_shrinks against the wall near the door and looks shyly across at john, who broods with his back turned to her._] john [_suddenly noticing her._] thou, miriam, art still here? miriam forgive me, master. i am a little afraid; for if i go homewards the guards at the gate will seize me. john but thou camest to me in the wilderness at night? miriam then no one knew with whom i associated, master. john who art thou? tell me about thyself. who is thy father? miriam i have no father--and no mother. the country is full of orphans like me. there are far too many. i have never asked anyone why. john and why didst thou go to the palace as serving maid? miriam they say that i once sat and played with pebbles on the threshold. and when evening came, they took me in. since then i have belonged to the palace, and know no better. john thou servest me with zeal, miriam. why dost thou serve me? miriam i know not why. john and thou servest me to no purpose--knowest thou that? miriam [_bows her head._] john will they not punish thee? miriam [_with a shudder._] they will ... i.... john speak! miriam master, what does it matter? john miriam, is it also he who shall come that thou servest? miriam i cannot tell, master. when i see thee, i feel a longing for him.... but if thou speakest to me of him, i see only thee. john ye children of men ... there is a rushing as of many waters in your souls.... clear and muddy ... i shall gather all together in one great river, and i feel as if i should drown therein. miriam master, now i must go. whether or no i served thee to no purpose, be gracious. praise me, master. john i see thee sitting on the threshold again ... playing with thy life, and thou excitest my pity. ... go, maid! go, child! and [_he listens._] miriam master! scene viii _the former. josaphat, matthias, amarja, manassa._ john [_going forward to him._] where is the galilean? manassa i have sought him, master, from the hour thou sentest me till past midnight. i have not rested nor tasted a crumb. john the galilean? hast thou found him? manassa i found him. he lay stretched out on the stones in charge of the soldiers, and near him, in chains, was his murderer. amarja who, on the holy eve of the passover----? manassa they called him david the zealot. the galileans blaspheme god, he hath said, and therefore must this one die. josaphat it is true; he did blaspheme god. matthias he blasphemed god! john but i say unto you ... to him it was not blasphemy. to him it was worship. methinks more such men will come out of galilee. for there is an uprising there.... tell me, josaphat, do not many pilgrims sleep on the stones at night, nigh the doors of the temple? josaphat yes, rabbi. on starry nights, like these, many a one wraps himself in his blanket and tarries by the house of the lord. john [_in sudden decision._] it is well. [_exit._ matthias rabbi! amarja hath he deserted us? josaphat be not troubled! thou, amarja, wake our friends. thou, manassa, bring us tidings from the palace. we two will follow the master. meet us at the susan gate, at the place where the old beggar-woman sits. come! [_exeunt the men._] miriam [_who has stood unheeded, goes out with bowed head._] change of scene _a stone square before the open gate of the temple called the susan gate. the front of the stage is enclosed by the circuit of the outer wall. in the centre more than half the breadth of the stage is taken up by the massive doors of the gate, to which steps lead. it is night. the fire of the great sacrificial altar is reflected from the background on the walls, and fills the foreground with red, uncertain flickering glow._ scene x _pilgrims_ (_men and women_) _lie in their blankets, scattered about the steps and on the stones which fill the space on left side. among them the first galilean and second galilean. to the right of the path which leads outside the wall of the temple, across the stage, lies mesulemeth_. (_in a little while enter john from left._) john [_looks round searchingly, and pauses before a pilgrim who is sleeping on the steps._] pilgrim, awake! pilgrim it is not yet day. why dost thou wake me? john whence comest thou? art thou a galilean? pilgrim i come from gaza on the south-east coast. let me sleep. second galilean [_to first._] didst hear? some one there is talking of galileans. first galilean sleep, and let them talk. john [_walks on, and then pauses in front of mesulemeth._] thou who liest here by the way, be thou man or woman, wake up! mesulemeth why dost thou not step over me, as every one does in jerusalem? john dost thou lie here always in the road? mesulemeth i lie here always. for i must be at the temple. day and night i must be at the temple. john art thou not greedy for alms? mesulemeth [_shaking her head._] the little i want, the pilgrims give me. but hast thou never heard of hannah, the prophetess? john i have heard speak of her, when i was a child. mesulemeth well, this is her place. here she sat and waited for the messiah, forty years long. when she died she left the place to me ... and now i sit and wait till he comes again. john comes again? hath he then been already? mesulemeth certainly he hath. john [_in deep emotion._] he came? came even to thee? mesulemeth to me? no. if he had come to me, i should have been at rest long ago. but hannah ... she saw him when he came. john woman! i implore thee ... speak, tell me, how did he come? mesulemeth then sit down here beside me, so that i may speak low.... once a little lad was brought to the temple by his mother, to be circumcised. and there was one called simeon who, when he saw this boy-babe, was filled with the holy ghost, and said, "lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for his eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared for all nations." ... and hannah heard this, and she came up to them and recognised him? john how did she recognise him? mesulemeth did i not tell thee that she was a prophetess? otherwise she might not have recognised him. but as it was, she praised the lord, and laid herself down and died. so now i sit where she sat, and wait for him to come again. john verily, he must come again; and dost thou know, woman, how he will come? as the lord of hosts, arrayed in golden armour, with his sword drawn above his head, so he will come to save his people israel. he will trample his enemies under his horse's hoofs, but the youth of israel shall greet him with hosannas and jubilation. see, woman, that is how he will come! mesulemeth [_anxiously._] who art thou, stranger? dost thou imagine thyself to be the prophet of anyone? john it matters not who i am, if thou art prepared for my message. mesulemeth thou canst take thy message further. i will not have it. john what! thou wilt not have the messiah? mesulemeth not that one. i will not have that one. for many have come in golden armour, and have drawn their sword, and then israel hath bled after, like a sacrificial ox. _he_ shall be no king! no! when kings come, they come to kings! no one hath come, as yet to us, the poor---- go away, stranger, lest thou snatch from me my crumb of hope. begone, thou art a false prophet!... go, let me lie on the road! [_she sinks back._] john [_to himself._] false prophet! scene xi _the same. josaphat, matthias_. [_from the left._] matthias see, he is there! josaphat rabbi, forgive us for following thee hither---- john it is not yet dawn.... at this hour ye have nothing to claim from me---- matthias but, remember herod---- john why stir ye up so much dust? this puny herod, who runs after women, is not my business. josaphat and matthias [_exchange dismayed glances._] john go, find me galileans! wake those who sleep on the steps, ransack the houses if necessary. only bring me galileans, that i may question them. second galilean hearest thou? some one standeth there, clamouring for galileans! first galilean i thought i dreamt it. thou, who wilt not let us sleep, what dost thou want with us galileans? john stand up and come to me! second galilean goest thou? first galilean he must be great in israel, otherwise he would not command. second galilean yes, yes; thou art right. [_they both stand up._] josaphat rabbi----[_john signs to him with his hand to be silent._] first galilean now, here we are. john who are ye? whence do ye come? first galilean we are fishermen from the sea of galilee. my name is ram, and that is my brother-in-law, and he is called abia. and we both fish with the same net. is it not so? second galilean yes; we both fish with the same net. john and tell me, ye two men, have ye ever heard of a prophet that teacheth in galilee? first galilean a prophet! hast thou heard of a prophet, abia? second galilean i have heard of no prophet. john not ... of one who saith ... he is the son of god? first galilean ah, thou meanest jesus of nazareth? john [_in great agitation, scarcely audible._] jesus of nazareth! josaphat and matthias. [_awed._] jesus of nazareth! john thou spakest his name first. fear sealed my lips. but now thou hast said it. yes, i mean him. first galilean yes ... i know his father well. he is an honest carpenter, and very pious too. he well deserves that his son should be a joy to him. john tell me more of him. first galilean he put up a bedstead for a friend of mine. john tell me of the son. first galilean ah, the son. well, abia, what shall we say of the son? second galilean aye, what shall we say of the son? john hast thou ever seen him? first galilean oh, yes. john thou hast seen him? first galilean many a time ... from my ship. for he carries on his work on the shore. and there is always a great gathering along the banks, is there not, abia? second galilean yes, the banks are always quite black with people. and the fish take notice of it. that is not good for our trade. first galilean they say that he works miracles. i once met a man myself who had been blind till his--i forget what year--and he maintained that he was made to see again by spittle from his mouth ... it may be possible--but----[_laughs stupidly._] john [_to josaphat._] have not many said of me, that i work miracles? josaphat many say it, but we know it, rabbi. john indeed? i have seen no miracle but the power ... and no one to whom it hath happened, save the weak. but speak on, man. first galilean it may be all very well for him to heal the sick, but the worst of it is he doeth it on the sabbath. that is bad, bad! and then, his friends are not well chosen. circumspect people, naturally, are not disposed to mix with him. for how can one trust a man who sitteth at meat with publicans and sinners? and, then, he is always at weddings and feasts. ah! no, no. john at feasts? josaphat master, these are little people. they understand not the wisdom of cunning speech. john the great should carry the little with them, the wise should master these simple intellects. that he hath not done.... and what is it he teacheth? first galilean ah, what does he teach? all sorts of folly. for instance, that we should love our enemies. john love our enemies? first galilean and bless them that curse us ... and pray for them that persecute us. john pray for them that persecute us? first galilean yes; and more nonsense of the kind. also that---- call [_from the roof of the temple._] it groweth light towards hebron. john [_eagerly._] why dost thou not proceed? first galilean [_rising._] it is now time for morning prayer. call [_more distant._] it groweth light towards hebron. [_all stand up and begin to pray, their faces turned towards the temple._] call [_quite distant._] it groweth light towards hebron. john [_baffled and tormented._] towards hebron it groweth light. scene xii [_the great gates are slowly opened, displaying marble walls, mounting in terraces, behind which are two more gates. the temple-building itself is almost completely hidden by smoke from the great lighted sacrificial altar, which bounds the perspective. from the mountains behind the temple are heard the long-drawn notes of the silver trumpets. people begin to stream up._] matthias [_has gone to josaphat's side and speaks to him privately, then turns to john, who stands alone on the left._] master, the people are flocking to the temple.... in a few moments the tetrarch will certainly be there too, with the woman. wilt thou not step among them, that they may know their leader? john the image of my king shining in the radiance of the cherubim. where is it? where is the rainbow of seven colours that was round his head? seven torches burned by his throne. i see them no more! scene xiii _the same. manassa._ manassa [_hurrying up from left._] matthias, josaphat, where is the master? josaphat herod has come forth from his door? manassa [_assents._] josaphat with the woman? manassa with the woman. josaphat master [_as he heeds not_], master---- john what is it? josaphat herod is on the way. john who is herod? josaphat [_buries his face in his hands._] matthias [_to manassa._] had he the roman soldiers with him? manassa only his servants are with him. matthias hearest thou, master? he is delivered into our hands. scene xiv _the same. amarja; with a fresh crowd of people._ amarja [_calling._] john, where is john? josaphat [_with resolution._] here is john. the people [_hear and murmur, joyously._] see, there is john! josaphat hear all of you! go not past; and thou over there mayest speak. the master will listen unto thee. amarja herod is coming to the temple, wearing princely robes. at his side, sparkling with precious stones, walks the courtezan. the people [_break out into cries of anger._] josaphat master, thy hour is come; mount the steps and speak to them! the people [_pressing round._] john, speak--rabbi, speak--what shall we do? josaphat keep back! he will speak to you. [_sotto voce._] mount the steps! john [_walks as if in a dream towards the steps._] the people [_murmuring._] see! he sways. what aileth him? josaphat make haste. speak! call here is herod. here cometh herod! the people stone him! stone the courtezan! others look at john! do what john does, else are ye lost. scene xv _the same. herod, herodias, with train from right._ john [_john has mounted the steps and stands in the middle of the threshold._] herod [_pale, but smiling._] hearest thou what they cry? herodias have him seized, else it means death to you and to me. the people [_are silent and tense in expectation. most of them have picked up stones._] josaphat [_who stands to the left of john on a lower step, hands him a stone, and says in a low voice._] take this stone! [_more urgently._] take this stone! john [_takes the stone._] herod thou on the steps. knowest thou me not? josaphat [_whispers._] hurl the stone! john [_firmly._] in the name of him [_he is about to throw the stone, then pauses, half-questioning, half-swooning._] ... who ... commands me ... to love thee----[_a low moaning runs through the people._] two servants [_have approached john. they seize him and push him down from the temple steps._] herod and herodias [_walk up._] the people woe to us! he too hath forsaken us. woe, woe! josaphat [_to john, who is pinioned by the servants._] master, what hast thou done to us? the people woe! woe! [_the curtain falls._] fourth act fourth act _a town in galilee.... the stage represents a grass-grown prison-yard which, on the right side, is adjacent to the gardens of a herodian palace, divided from them by a low wall, which continues in a right-hand direction to the centre of background. on the left side of background a higher wall, and entrance with heavy doors. to the left, the clumsy pile of the prison buildings and a door. in the garden wall is a gate, over which hangs the green foliage of the garden beyond, which bounds the right side of background. on the right is a semi-circular shaped marble seat with back; on left, stones covered with moss._ scene i _gaoler, abi._ abi [_with head thrust over the garden wall._] master gaoler, dost thou not hear? gaoler what wilt thou? abi a ball went over the wall. hast thou seen it? gaoler no. abi please look for it, and throw it back. gaoler look for it thyself. abi how can i, unless thou openest the gate. gaoler i may not open it. let me be. abi listen, gaoler. the ball belongs to salome, our young princess. if thou art not obliging, beware! gaoler oh, if it belongs to the young princess----[_opens the gate._] scene ii _the gaoler, abi, maecha, and later, salome._ abi [_calls back, laughing._] mistress, the door is open. gaoler is that the young princess, who is daughter of his new wife? abi [_nods._] salome [_appears in the gateway._] gaoler princess, if ever thou comest through again, be sure to laugh, as to-day. for this gate is full of danger for herod's children. salome what does it do to herod's children, thy gate? gaoler the two sons of herod the great came through this gate before they were sentenced, and through this gate---- maecha stop!... salome let him alone, maecha! his wisdom has taken a holiday. hast thou no livelier stories, old man? gaoler what sort dost thou mean, young princess? salome stories of yesterday. stories that have not yet come to an end--stories that are as young [_stretches herself_] as we are. gaoler ah, i knew; but---- salome but? tell me, hast thou a new prisoner? gaoler yes. salome what has he done? gaoler [_maliciously._] he stole hens, young princess. salome see to it that thou dost not steal my time! abi [_softly to him._] with her there is no jesting. gaoler princess, forgive.... i did not know.... thou meanest, perhaps, john? salome which john? gaoler the one they call the baptist--the prophet from judea, who---- salome so he is here? gaoler yes; he has been here the last three days, princess. they brought him at the end of the same cavalcade which brought thee. he lieth now safe with the salamanders and scorpions. they say he stirred up rebellion in jerusalem, and therefore---- salome i wish to see john. bring him here! gaoler [_horrified._] princess, that cannot be. salome i wish it! hast thou not heard? i wish it! gaoler princess, i opened this gate for thee because thou hadst lost a plaything. shall i now, instead of thy plaything, lose this old head? maecha mistress, the tetrarch is coming. salome [_veiling herself._] hide yourselves! [_she stoops behind the seat; the maidens slip into the bushes._] [_in the gateway herod and his attendants._] scene iii _the same. herod, merokles, jabad, gabalos._ herod gaoler! gaoler sire. herod who are the three men who linger about the door? they look morose, and did not salute me. gaoler sire, those are the remnant of the crew which followed john, they say, from jerusalem. for eight days and eight nights they followed him. herod the remnant, sayest thou? where are the rest? gaoler they lie somewhere by the wayside, sire, and die of thirst, unless the ravens give them to drink. herod drive them away! gaoler sire, we have hunted them off several times; but they always come back. herod so, let them be. merokles see, how mild is our ruler! he doth not order them to be cut in pieces. jabad hail to our ruler! [_the two others join in._] herod to speak candidly, friends, i do not lay hands on sages and fools willingly; for one can never know whether the executioner holds up the head of a sage or a fool. gabalos thou canst do no wrong, sire; for thou art wise, all-wise! herod when i order thee to be beheaded, i shall not be wrong; for thou art a fool, a complete fool. [_nearing the seat._] bring me----[_observes salome, who, listening, has raised her head a little above the edge of the seat, then quickly dives down again._] i beg you to retire, and await me without the gate. [_exeunt gabalos, merokles, jabad._] scene iv _herod, salome. also abi and maecha, hidden._ herod tell me, thou veiled one, art thou not salome, my wife's daughter? salome sire, so true as 'tis that thou art my protector i am salome. herod how camest thou into this prison-yard? salome ask me not, sire. my soul else will blush before thee. it was curiosity, because i heard thee coming. herod and where are thy playmates? salome they are afraid of thee, so they have crept away. abi, maecha, come forth; our master commands it. [_abi and maecha come out hesitatingly, and curtsey profoundly._] herod thy eyes plead for them, therefore they shall not be scolded. salome and my lips thank thee on their behalf. herod they thank like conquerors. there is music in them. how is it, salome, that i have never heard thy voice? salome thou shouldst ask my mother, sire. herod [_fiercely._] thy mother! still, i know that thou art well disposed towards me. thou didst deliver into my hand that maid who carried on treason at night outside the palace. salome could i do less, sire? and him to whom she betrayed thy secrets, wilt thou not punish him too? herod i do not know. but how? salome sire, it seemeth to me that he hath a great following among the people. if thou sparest him, the people will like thee. herod words of wisdom fall from thy lips, salome. salome see how his disciples tarry at the entrance. if thou treatest him well, they will carry praises of thee to jerusalem. herodias how unlike thou art to thy mother, salome! salome and how like, too! herod i would rather think that thou wert unlike. my sweet, unveil thyself. salome sire, if thou wert my father! but thou art not. directly thou comest near, my mother herself draweth my veil down deep over my breast. herod unveil to me. salome sire, not when i am alone with thee. herod then if i was with others, thou wouldst? salome perhaps. ask my mother. herod a little now. just a finger's length. salome no, really ... it is not seemly, sire. herod but if i were sitting with other men ... at meat ... or over wine ... and thou camest and unveiled, that would be more seemly? salome may be!... i can dance, sire. herod wouldst thou do that for me also? salome and what wouldst thou do for me? herod salome! salome [_rising._] no, but thou must indeed ask my mother, sire. i am still far too ignorant; i know not what a maiden ought to do. only what i would like to do. i know that well enough. herod what wouldst thou _like_ to do? salome thy pleasure, sire. nothing else, nothing. seest thou, if thou treatest this prisoner humanely, they will sing thy praises, and i shall be so proud, i shall say in my heart, he acted on my advice. herod [_to the gaoler._] bring the baptist here.... i will consider it, salome. [_exit gaoler._ salome [_from the gate, with a slight fluttering of her veil._] and i will thank thee, sire! herod salome! salome [_vanishes, with a burst of laughter. abi and maecha have preceded her._] herod [_looks after her, and then sits down on the seat._] scene v _herod, john. the gaoler. a guard._ herod tell me, how should one address thee when one would show thee respect? thou thinkest that i mock thee? but knowest thou that in reality i am indebted to thee? the people's meditated attack was not hidden from me, and yet i came without the escort of warriors which rome sent for my protection. thou heldest me in the hollow of thy hand, as thou heldest the stone. say, why didst thou let it fall? why hast thou spared me? john sire, even if i spoke thou wouldst not understand me. herod that is defiance, which i cannot praise. in chains it is easy to be defiant. take off his chains and go. [_the gaoler obeys. exit with the guard._] now, as a free man, revile me. art thou a preacher of repentance? if so, preach to me! john sire, thou wouldst not understand me. herod so thou saidst before. think of something new. here in galilee i am inclined to be mild and tolerant of goodness. i am told that thou hatest the pharisees. i hate them too. i am told that thou hatest the priests. i love them not. i am told that thou hatest the romans. i---- say, why didst thou spare me? john sire, my heart failed me. herod failed thee! before me, whom thou callest "the little"! art thou flattering me because i have loosened thee from thy chains? john thou hast not laid me in chains, and canst not loosen me from them. herod what ... and yet i made thee falter? john it was another who threw thee in my way.... and so my heart failed me. herod tell me, baptist--i call thee by the name i have heard people speak of thee by, and i hope thou wilt not be angry--tell me, who is that king of the jews whose image thou danglest before the people?... see, the guards are gone, and thy confidence shall be rewarded. tell me, who is it? john sire, i know not. herod and so thou deniest thy own creature? john what is my own i deny. herod ha, ha, ha! i have half a mind to summon my little greek that he may go to school under thee. listen [_in a low voice_], i too have heard of a king of the jews who will come with a sword drawn above his head, and he will spare no one who doth not serve him at the right moment. john [_eagerly._] who is it, of whom thou speakest? herod master, i do not know. thou seest thus that i too have a burden of secret anxiety oppressing me, and await the sunrise.... but let me speak with thee seriously, baptist. thou hurlest thy arrows of reproach at me on account of the woman i stole.... i could almost pity thee for that. thou, a great man, mightst have chosen a greater subject than a woman. and knowest thou every day she sharpens those arrows herself for me?... but enough of that. the smiths say that good metal rings true even when it is cracked, and thou ringest true. how dost thou manage it?... i pray thee teach me the way.... what, silent again? john methinks i know you now, ye smiling scoffers. ye grow fat on the wit of the market-places; but hunger seizes you, and ye then lift your eyes to the earnest ones, walking on the mountain-tops. herod by bacchus, there lurks some truth in that. but it's not good walking on the mountain-tops. we wait to see you fall; then we shall not smile, but laugh. john but i say unto thee, sire, thou wilt not laugh. he who cometh requireth me not. that is why he cast me down.... gaze into his eyes when he comes, and thou wilt not laugh, even at me. herod it seems to me thy reasoning is poor, and revolves in a circle.... and yet there is something that attracts me to thee. baptist, thou hast so long been my enemy, couldst thou not possibly be my friend? john sire, meseemeth that to be nobody's enemy and nobody's friend is the right of the lonely. it is their all. let me keep it. herod yet i do not give thee up as lost. if thou wert so minded we might pursue the same paths for a spell. john whither, sire? herod whither? upwards! john for thee there is no upwards. thou bearest the times that are and were before thee, like an ulcerous evil, on thy body. burnest thou not from all their poisonous lusts? art thou not weighted by their unholy desires? and thou wouldst mount to the heights. stay in the market-place and smile. herod baptist, take care. thy chains lie not far off. john let me be chained, sire; i ask for nothing better. herod [_gnashing his teeth._] truly thou art ruled by a broken spirit. [_after a little reflection._] yet tell me, baptist, when that other cometh, that other----say, was it in his name that thou didst not throw the stone at me? john [_confused._] sire, what dost thou ask? herod was it in his name? for if so, thy jewish king shall not rob my nights of sleep. ha! ha! here, gaoler! [_the gaoler comes._] the prisoner shall go in and out as he pleaseth, for he is not dangerous. gaoler [_dumfounded, then in a low voice._] sire, how shall my life be safe, if---- herod and his disciples, who loiter about the gates. let them in and out as often as he wishes.... now, did this god's people ever know a more clement master than i? [_laughing, walks away._] scene vi _john and the gaoler. later, maecha, salome._ gaoler well, thou art now thy own master. what are thy commands? john the tetrarch spoke of my disciples---- maecha [_appearing in the gateway to left._] he is alone. salome [_signs to the gaoler. exeunt maecha and gaoler._] john what wilt thou? salome master, seest thou the sun sinking yonder between the pomegranate boughs? john i see it. salome knowest thou whose doing it is that thou art able to see it ere it goeth down, and ere thou goest down? mine! john may be. what dost thou want? salome thou shalt not go down. not thou. for my soul is thirsty. teach me, master. john what shall i teach thee? salome see, i am pious by nature, and i have a longing for salvation.... what thou givest to the humblest by the highway, give also to me. let me sit at thy feet. i will be pious. yea, i will. and if i touch thy hairy shirt, then be not frightened. i mean thee no harm. john why shouldst thou mean me harm, young virgin? salome who can say ... if thou shouldst reject me! no one knows how powerful i am to-day. when i stretch my limbs [_she spreads out her arms_] it seems to me as if i carried the whole world like this ... only to hug it to my heart. john maiden, thou hast a playmate. salome [_attentively._] which playmate? john her name is miriam. salome i _had_ her. now she is dead. john [_bows his head. his suspicions realized._] salome i had her slain because she went to thee. no one shall go to thee except me. seest thou now how pious i am? seest thou? my soul feels thy strength, and feels it with joy; for i have never seen anyone so strong as thou art. i have made thankofferings and secret vows like those the psalms sing of. then i have been forth in the gloaming to seek thy countenance and the light of thy eyes. and i have decked my bed with beautiful, many-coloured rugs from egypt, and i have sprinkled my pillows with myrtle, aloes, and cinnamon. i will give thee my fair young body, thou barbarian among the sons of israel! come, let us make love till morning. and my playmates shall keep watch on the threshold, and greet the dawn with their harps. john verily, thou art powerful; thou carriest the world in thy arms ... for thou art sin itself. salome yes. sweet as sin.... that am i. john go! salome thou spurnest me! spurnest me? [_she rushes through the gate._] scene vii _john, josaphat, manassa, amarja._ john [_goes to the door, where the gaoler is waiting._] gaoler wouldst thou see thy disciples now? john bring them to me. [_manassa, amarja hasten to him and kiss his garment. josaphat hangs back._] john matthias is not with you? josaphat no. john what, josaphat, thou who wast ever the nearest to me, hast thou no greeting to give? josaphat [_turns away._] john well, then, what is it? josaphat rabbi, it is written ... one knife sharpens another, and one man another ... but thou hast made us blunt. john and thou hast come this long way to tell me that? josaphat rabbi, thou shouldst be the way that all the erring follow. thou shouldst strengthen weak knees and mould trembling hands to the sword's hilt. thy work was wrath, rabbi, but thou hast made of it a sophistry and a weakness. john thou art not to know what my work was. had i known myself, i should not be here. truly the time of my fall is come, when enemies sing my praises and friends speak ill of me. what would ye have me do? my end must be in solitude and silence. josaphat thy end, rabbi, is no concern of ours. it is for israel's end that i fear. thou tookest the law from us. what hast thou given us instead? john who art thou, that like a kennelled hound, thou bitest at my shanks? _i_ took the law from you? my soul hath wrestled with the law till it is weary; my forehead beat against its walls till it bled! but now ye have opened your mouths wide that salvation should slip down them like sweet crumbs. ye gazed up at me so long as i stood erect, and now shrink away like cowards from my fall. i have not fallen for myself, i fell for you. to you it was a compulsion and a matter of watching. to me it was voluntary, and a combat at the sword's point.... look at me! twice to-day i have been face to face with the world's sin. but it seemed to me almost fair, for i have yet to meet the worst. thou art a renegade! thou hast ever been a renegade, and renegades will ye be to all eternity, ye men of universal utility, who manure your acres with the blood of those who have died for you! go! i am weary of you! josaphat i am going, rabbi, whither matthias hath gone before me, to jesus of nazareth. john [_startled and moved._] to jesus of nazareth? josaphat [_turns silently to go out._] [_exit._ scene viii _manassa, amarja, john._ john how amarja, and how manassa? those whom i trusted the most have forsaken me, and ye are still here! amarja rabbi, i was at all times the least among thy disciples. what should i be worth if i were not faithful? manassa and to me, rabbi, thou hast given a hope. john yet he is gone to jesus of nazareth. be ye not fools. go with him. manassa let us be fools, rabbi. john [_sitting down on a stone._] so seat yourselves with me. night draweth nigh, and i am weary. hearken! it was even as if i heard a beating of wings above me. did ye hear nothing? amarja nothing, rabbi. john the womb of my soul is opened. i am ready for the blessing from on high. is there not a whispering, roundabout? heard ye nothing? manassa nothing, rabbi. john there is a light shining over yonder mountains. lovely is that light, and within me dawns the meaning of a contradiction. who alone can deliver the world? to obtain it as a gift is to stretch forth your hands for the unobtainable.... we are in galilee, know ye, where he now teacheth, this jesus of nazareth! amarja we heard in the streets that he was not far off. he tarries on the sea-coast. manassa and they say he may perhaps come into the town. john mayhap. yet only mayhap! and my time is over. i must make haste, lest i die. will ye do me a service? amarja, manassa rabbi, command us! john get ye up and go unto him. amarja, manassa to him? john [_nods._] and wheresoever ye find him, speak to him. ask: "art thou he who cometh, or shall we wait for another?" so ask him, and when he hath answered, come back--quickly--for my longing for him is very great. i believe i could not die ere ye returned. amarja master, we will not pause or rest. john and ye will not forget my darkness in his radiance? manassa master, why makest thou us ashamed? john then, farewell. manassa, amarja farewell, rabbi. [_they turn to go._] john go not thus; not yet. let me clasp your hands, then ye are the least among my disciples, and [_in great emotion_] methinks i--i--love you. [_the curtain falls._] fifth act fifth act _hall in herod's palace. a row of pillars, raised by two steps, in the background, which lead to an open balcony with balustrade. this can be shut off by curtains, which at first are thrown back. a street is supposed to run at the foot of the next storey. in the middle of the stage, raised on a dais, is a table, with couches ranged round it; flowers and ornaments. doors to right and left._ scene i _servants moving about arranging pictures and flowers, gabalos superintending them; afterwards, herod._ a servant [_announces from door on left._] our governor! herod [_following him._] now, gabalos, thou who hast washed in many waters, what has thy art provided? thou knowest our guests are spoiled children. gabalos sire, thou needest have no anxiety about food and drink. something customary is best for jaded palates. therefore i chartered the cook of vitellius. but for the other part of the entertainment the prospect is bad. herod [_smiling._] is that thy opinion? gabalos noble merokles will declaim a new ode, i warrant. our libyan flute-players will have washed their brown legs in honour of the occasion. sire, mistrust those legs even when washed. as i tell thee every day, we are sick of judean morality. judean morality is devouring us like the plague. herod say, gabalos, dost thou think that our legate from syria, before whom all the gaiety and colour of life doth shimmer, hath ever seen a young daughter of princes dance at table? gabalos that would be grand, because it is something new. scene ii _the same. herodias_ [_from right_]. herod [_noticing her._] get thee gone! [_gabalos and the servants withdraw to the background, where they let down the curtains which now shut in the hall._] herod what hast thou decided? will it come to pass? herodias thy countenance beams. thy eyes betray a badly concealed desire. herod [_bewildered_] of what desire dost thou speak? herodias do not prevaricate. i know thee, my friend. the poisonous weed which thou cultivatest with little sighs, and coverest up with thy crooked smiles, i know it! herod i vow, love, that i ask this only for the sake of the roman. and how should i ever have conceived the idea had it not been for thy half-promises and suggestion of its possibilities? thou knowest as well as i that we must offer the roman something immense, something that may not have faded from his tired memory when he enters cæsar's presence. herodias that is it. and thou thyself gainest thereby a dainty tit-bit for thy lonely night-dreams! it will be nothing more than that. i'll see to it. herod i am simple of understanding. i cannot follow thee. herodias oh, yes; very simple is thy understanding. i know. herod then it seems thou refusest? herodias how could i refuse, when youth smiled and consented? herod ah! and what reward wilt thou claim? herodias nothing. herod thou art like those priests, dearest. what didst thou ever do for nothing? hasten then, i pray, to name thy price! herodias farewell! herod [_looks after her, shaking his head._] herodias [_turning round._] before i forget it, just tell me, my friend, what art thou going to do with that baptist? herod my baptist is nothing to thee. herodias the maids tell me he wanders about loose in the gardens. herod let him; he will not hurt thee. herodias i only asked, because i wish to know how i am to avoid him. herod i'll take care, love, that he doth not meet thee. but enough of the baptist. once more thy price, herodias? herodias look at me! here is a woman that no longer adorns her own body because thou now scornest it; she therefore adorns instead the body that came from hers. here is a woman whose breasts have withered because her eyes have shed tears of blood. therefore she will let the budding bosom, from which the veil has never yet fallen, be exposed to thine and thy guests' lustful gaze. and for this sacrifice of unspeakable bitterness i ask nothing, for i am without wishes. one who can still hope shall ask. salome shall ask. herod salome ... i would rather it were so. herodias and thou wilt grant what she asks? herod i know not. i will see. i will let myself be driven. for in combat with the strong that is the last resource of the weak. but take care whither thou drivest me.... mistress! [_exit._ scene iii _herodias, salome._ salome [_putting her head through the door._] mother, am i to dance here? herodias come, softly. art thou trembling, my dove? art thou afraid of thy own will? salome take my hand, mother. i am not trembling, because i know that thou art my will. herodias not i! thou must will. salome for only the one who willeth exerciseth power. [_as herodias regards her suspiciously, she adds quickly._] i read that in the scriptures, mother. i did not understand what it meant. herodias listen to me, thou sharpwits. a carpet of indian wool will be spread here, there the prince will sit with the foreign guests.... let not thy foot touch the stone, raise not thy eyes.... dance thy dance modestly, and when thou hast finished, wipe signs of shame from thy face; hearken narrowly to what the tetrarch saith to thee. and if he should say, "now ask of me, and----" salome what then, mother? herodias ask nothing.... then look at him for the first time a long, smiling look, and ... ask nothing. after that thou mayest demand. salome [_attentive._] what shall i demand, mother? a gold hair-ornament, or shoes of velvet? no; i know what i'll demand--a mirror. herodias [_passing her hand through salome's hair._] verily thou hast never felt hate to boil in thy breast, like love on a night in may? salome [_feigning innocence._] no, mother. how should i? herodias thou hast never felt an insult coursing through thee, like burning, liquid fire? salome [_in the same tone._] no, mother; really i have not. herodias thou shalt demand no mirror, no hair-ornament, and no velvet shoes. but that the head of him they call john the baptist shall be brought to thee on a dish. salome [_setting her teeth, and controlling herself with difficulty._] on a golden dish? herodias what dost thou say? understandest thou me not or--who---- salome there's something else. one thing more i want to be sure of! will _he_ know--that ... that baptist, from whom the request cometh? herodias [_breaking out_] certainly, he shall know! i will stand behind thy bloody trophy as thy will. salome [_half to herself._] as the will of my will? herodias i will grow over him, as the sword groweth forth from the sleeve of the executioner ... [_trumpets sound._] come! salome and i will grow over him like a sweet grapevine. [_exeunt both, to right._] scene iv _herod. vitellius. marcellus_ (_and other romans of the legate and suite_), _merokles, gabalos, jabad._ herod welcome to my table, exalted vitellius, who bringest on the soles of thy feet the sacred soil of rome into my poor dwelling. welcome to you also, ye who follow him, according to rome's command. she, our august mother, but ordereth what my soul desireth. vitellius thou hast my thanks, excellent prince. herod repose now at thy pleasure, exalted one. [_they lie on the couches._] gabalos [_low._] say, my brave marcellus, how dost thou like this jewish ear-wig? marcellus it doth not find its way to our ears. herod and if thou wilt consent to crown thy brow with this wreath, as our lord and master, i shall be able to persuade myself that i am thy guest, instead of thou being mine. vitellius thou art _rome's_ guest, highness. thus i will accept what befitteth me. [_puts on the wreath which a servant hands to him._] gabalos there was a sting in that speech. herod [_quickly collecting himself._] my good merokles, begin. merokles [_stands up and reads from a roll of parchment._] "cooled by hebron's far-gleaming snow, the fiery soul, concealed in ice, favours with its flickering smile us the worshippers. "so thou sendest forth twofold beams of silent light, so flames for us shoot forth from thy coldness, so we prize as sacred thy flickering smile, mighty vitellius-- till we----" vitellius my dear friend, what is this man talking about? herod doth it displease thee, exalted one? vitellius it seemed to me that he called my name. in the case of his desiring a favour, it shall be immediately granted if he promises to keep silent for the future! gabalos oh, friends, what a success! vitellius nevertheless, thy peacock's liver is good, very good, my dear herod. herod thou rejoicest me, exalted highness. wilt thou not now command thy libyan flute-players to come and charm thy ear? vitellius my ear is obedient. let them come. scene v [_the same. salome_ (_thickly veiled_) _led in by herodias while the harps are tuned. a murmur of astonishment runs round the table._] vitellius are these thy libyan---- herod [_who has risen._] this is my wife, exalted highness. vitellius [_also rising._] mistress, if thou wouldst grace this feast with thy smiles, i bid thee welcome. herodias pardon, noble vitellius. the custom of the east, over which thou reignest so gloriously, doth not permit of my sitting beside thee at table. yet we know how to entertain even when we are not merry. my lord and consort, zealous to please thee, hath commanded me to adorn myself and my little daughter to enter thy presence, therewith she may delight thy eyes with her maidenly art, trembling in maidenly modesty. vitellius hail to thee, prince, and to thy noble wife! rome will not be grudging where thou art so lavish. hearest thou not? herod [_with his eyes fixed on salome._] exalted, look! vitellius truly, he is right; let us look, romans. open your eyes wide, for what is coming is the art of all arts. and if thou tremblest, maiden, remember that thou rulest because thou tremblest. marcellus one is obliged to say that, gabalos, to encourage her. gabalos ah, my brave marcellus, see to it, is it fast on its neck? marcellus who? what? gabalos the head! the head! look at herodias. that will cost some one his head! only _whose_ has not yet transpired. marcellus [_pointing to salome._] silence!... see!... salome [_has extricated herself from the arms of herodias and, accompanied by exclamations of admiration and delight, has begun to dance. her dance becomes wilder and more abandoned; she gradually loosens her veil, then covers herself with it again in voluptuous playfulness, till at last, quite unveiled, she stands with the upper part of her body apparently unclothed. she sinks on her knees half exhausted, half in homage, before herod, who stands on the right side of the table._] [_all break into ecstasies of applause._] herod [_rushes forward to raise her._] herodias [_who has retreated as far as the proscenium on right, and has watched everything intently with a harassed expression playing on her face, now intervenes to prevent him. she and herod exchange hostile glances._] herod [_hoarsely._] salome! salome sire! herod stand up and speak. salome [_slowly rising._] what shall i say, sire? herod i am a poor man. rome--who gave herod's son, as if in mockery, the name of herod--rome has not left him much of his father's heritage. yet enough is still his wherewith to thank thee. speak, what wilt thou have? and by that god and lord before whom we kneel in the dust, barefoot, at jerusalem, i swear it shall be thine. salome i beg and desire that thou wilt give me, on a dish, the head of john the baptist. herod herodias--thou! vitellius dear friend, whose head doth she want? herod the head of a man, great legate, who lies in my prison, whom i have there learnt to respect, i had almost said, to love. vitellius oh, oh!... and is he on view, this man for whose head daughters of princes dance before thee? herod fetch him. [_exit servant._] damsel, thy mother led thee into this. thou knowest not what thou askest.... take back thy request. salome i beg and desire that thou wilt give me the head of john the baptist on a golden dish. [_silence._] herod and if i refuse? herodias [_drawing herself erect._] thou hast sworn, sire. vitellius [_laughing._] of course, my friend, thou hast sworn. we are all witnesses of that. ah! what a wood-god they are bringing in over there. scene vi _the same. john_ [_led in by two armed men_]. herod i have summoned thee, baptist. i am sorry for thee. prepare thyself, for the evening of thy days is come. john i am ready, sire. herod understand me. i am truly sorry. but thou must meet death. now, on the spot. john [_after looking searchingly towards the door._] sire, grant me a respite. vitellius thy hero doth not appear to be all too ready. a little more and he would whimper. herod baptist, wherefore dost thou want this respite? john i have sent out messengers and await their return. herod to whom hast thou sent these messengers?... thou art silent.... as i said before. i am from my heart sorry. so much might have been made of thee.... still ... [_he shrugs his shoulders._] john [_holding out his arms distressed._] i beseech thee, sire! vitellius did not i tell you? all kinds of people struggle to live, only the roman understands how to die. herod thou must ask the maiden, baptist. know that in her hands rests what chance thou hast of the thing called life. salome master, now see'st thou how powerful i am? now ask me! ask me! herodias [_prompting her, behind._] if he does ask, laugh at him. salome perhaps, but who knoweth what my heart desireth?... now, master, why dost thou not beg? john maiden ... i ... salome there is the stone floor, see! the stone longs for the touch of thy knees. [_pause._] scene vii _the same. the gaoler._ herod what brings thee here? gaoler forgive, sire. had i not known that thou wast friendly towards the prisoner ... herod what dost thou want with him? gaoler two of his friends who were with him yesterday, the same thou sawest outside the gate, have come back, and learning that his life is now in jeopardy--thy servant hath told me, and i have got everything ready--they became like creatures possessed, and implored me to lead them to him wheresoever he might be. herod dost thou approve, mighty legate? vitellius dear friend, this is the most enjoyable entertainment that has ever been provided for me at meat. let them come! let them come! herod [_signs._] gaoler [_retires behind curtain of door and beckons._] scene viii _the same. manassa. amarja._ [_they seem at first as if they would rush to john, but overcome by shyness stand still._] john what have ye to tell me? manassa master! herod speak louder, my good men! unless ye let us participate in the news, i will have you carried off through separate doors. manassa may we, master? john speak freely, for methinks we are alone together. manassa we took the road in all haste to bethesda, and at break of day we found him there. john ye found him there? manassa and many people were gathered about him resting in the olive gardens, and praised the lord for the miracle which had been done to them at that hour. and behold there was a light in every eye, and in every mouth the music of thanksgiving. john and he? how looked his countenance? what were his gestures? manassa master, i know not. john but ye saw him? amarja rabbi, thou mightest as well ask, what is the face of the sun, and what the gestures of light?... as we beheld his smile we sank to the ground, and in our souls was a great peace. john and when ye had questioned him, and he began to speak, tell me what was his manner of speech? say; i stand here awaiting his wrath. amarja rabbi.... he spoke to us like a brother. his speech was simple. manassa and it was beautiful ... like the voice of the wind which blows from the sea towards evening. amarja and this is what he spake. "go and tell john what ye have seen and heard. the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead rise, and the poor have the gospel preached to them." john the poor--he said the poor? manassa and when he prepared to come hither to this town with the people who were gathered about him, we accompanied him as far as the gate, and then hurried on before, according to thy wish. john and said he nothing else to you? reflect well. amarja yes; yet one more thing. he said, "blessed be he who hath not been offended at me." but this we could not understand. john but i understand it well and to whom he spoke. i have been offended, for i have not recognized him. and my anger filled the world, for i knew him not. ye yourselves are my witnesses that i have said, "i am not the christ, but one sent to prepare the way for him that cometh." a man can take nothing to himself that is not given him by heaven. and unto me nothing was given. the key of death ... i held it not ... the scales of sin were not confided to me. for out of no man's mouth may the name of sin sound, save out of the mouth of the one that loveth. but i would have scourged you with iron rods. therefore is my kingdom come to shame, and my lips are sealed. i hear roundabout a rushing noise, as of many waters, and the divine radiance is near me.... a throne hath descended out of heaven amidst darts of fire. the king of peace sitteth thereon in white robes. and his sword is called love, and his watchword is mercy.... behold he hath the bride, he is the bridegroom. but the friend of the bridegroom standeth and listeneth, and rejoiceth over the voice that is coming. the same is my joy. now is it fulfilled. [_he stands with his arms outspread and his eyes turned towards heaven. manassa and amarja sink at his feet._] vitellius dear friend, it seems to me that we have had enough of this maniac. herod [_between emotion and scorn._] john, i am truly grieved on thy account. and when he cometh of whom thou dreamest, i will greet him as i have greeted thee. ha! ha! ha! lead him to execution. salome now, ask me! [_as john smilingly looks beyond her._] mother, will he not ask? scene ix _vitellius, his suite, herod, herodias, salome, merokles, gabalos, jabad._ vitellius my friend, thy banquet has been somewhat disturbed. [_as herod stares at the door through which john has disappeared._] no matter what i say, he does not hear me. herod exalted highness, pardon! salome [_has crossed over the stage and goes stealthily to the door on left. in great curiosity she draws back the curtain, and after gazing eagerly through it, reels backwards into the arms of herodias. outside, behind the middle curtain, an ever-increasing tumult and murmur of many voices has arisen._] vitellius bid the women to sit down. thou hast an ill-conducted people. they brawl in the street while we dine. herod are they already muttering about the baptist? gabalos, look to it, and tell them to be quiet. gabalos it shall be done, sire. [_exit._ salome [_pointing to the door, the curtains of which are open._] mother, see what they are bringing. see! [_she rushes out._] herod [_descending the steps of the dais._] what does she want there? herodias sire, thou art of simple understanding. i advise thee to look the other way. herod what is she doing? herodias she is dancing! she holds the charger with the prophet's head high in her arms, and dances. jabad see, she dances! herod so thou hast corrupted thy own flesh and blood. so thou wilt corrupt us all. herodias [_smiling, shrugs her shoulders._] merokles she sways. she will fall! herodias [_goes out composedly._] merokles the head is rolling on the floor! marcellus oh, horror! herodias [_comes back supporting salome in her arms._] salome mother, where is the dish? where is the head? herodias make obeisance. speak thy thanks. salome [_before herod._] sire, i am a rose of sharon. a flower of the valley ... who would thank me should pluck me ... oh, look at the head! herod take the women away! herodias [_curtseys, and leads, smiling; the half-swooning salome off to right._] scene x _the same_. [_without herodias and salome._] _gabalos_ [_has re-entered from left_]. herod well, what is the matter? gabalos sire, the people will not be restrained. men and women in holiday raiment fill the streets and crowd on the roofs. they carry palms in their hands, and sing and shout for joy. herod what are they singing? gabalos thou knowest, sire, i am not servile, but i scarcely like to say. herod speak! gabalos hosannah! to him who shall come. hosannah to the king of the jews! so they sing. herod [_grinding his teeth._] i have had john beheaded. who may this one be? gabalos if thou wouldst see him, sire, they say he is coming this way. herod i will see him. i will greet him as i promised. ha! ha! ha! open! scene xi [_the curtains are drawn aside. one sees the roofs crowded with women waving palms. others, with palms in their hands, climb the hilly street below. the shouting swells in volume and becomes an orderly, harmonious song._] vitellius [_who has continued sitting, turns round indignantly._] what is going on there again? herod [_has grasped a goblet, and springs on the topmost step._] greeting to thee, my king ---- of the ---- [_he looks, stops short ... the goblet slips from his hand, he turns away and hides his face in his mantle._] the others [_also stand, looking down in silent amazement. the hosannahs rise from the street._] [_the curtain falls._] finis moral by ludwig thoma introduction dr. ludwig thoma, perhaps better known to his bavarian countrymen as peter schlemiehl, was born in oberammergau on january , . after graduating from a gymnasium in munich, he studied at the school of forestry at aschauffenburg. he did not finish his course there, but entered the university at munich and received his degree as doctor juris in . a year later dr. thoma began to practice law; but he abandoned that pursuit in to follow a career for which his inclinations and talents so happily fitted him. he had been writing humorous verses for simplicissimus for several years under the pen name of pete schlemiehl, with such success that the paper almost became identified by that name. these poems were later published in book form under the title--grobheiten. his prose writings in bavarian dialect as well as his boyhood experiences entitled, lausbubengeschichten, won a large and warm audience. in he became the editor of simplicissimus. from then on his renown grew. the foremost critics of german letters began to take notice of this "bavarian aristophanes" and to compare him to heine and the classics. when moral and lottchen's birthday appeared, while the reviewers shook their heads and stated that dr. thoma was shocking (so in original) they concluded that their author was "casting a long shadow." to-day dr. thoma is a recognized figure in germany. prof. robert f. arnold in "das moderne drama" (strassburg, ) ranks him next to hauptmann. his writings are numerous. a vein, satirical and humorous, with a conception of the pathetic, makes him more than an equal to mark twain. in addition he is possessed of a message, which he delivers in the moral. first produced in the play soon became a part and parcel of the repertoire of the leading theatres in germany. it was put on for the first time in new york, in german, at the irving place theatre in the spring of , through the efforts of the late heinrich matthias and the writer. mr. matthias then played the part of beermann. mr. christians, the director, repeated the performance a number of times that season, each performance meeting with a warm response. the late percival pollard was the first american critic to emphasize the importance of dr. thoma's work in his excellent resume of contemporary german literature: masks and minstrels of modern germany. he pointed out "that no country where hypocrisy or puritanism prevail as factors in the social and municipal conduct should be spared the corrective acid of this play." h. l. mencken and george jean nathan for many years have sung praises of the moral in the smart set. but its production on the english speaking stage still remains an event eagerly to be awaited. briefly, the play is a polemic against the "men higher up," churchmen, reformers, and social hypocrites. the translation follows the text implicitly. four different versions were made all varying in a degree from the original, and although dr. thoma wrote to the writer "bin auch damit einverstanden dass sie in der ubersetzung meines schauspieles 'moral' etwaige aenderungen oder adaptiereungen, die durch die englisch-amerikanischen verhaltnisse und den geschmack des amerikanischen theatrepublikums geboten erscheinen, in entsprechender weise vornehmen ..." it was deemed best for purposes of publication to try to preserve the original atmosphere without an attempt to even transpose such phrases as gnadige frau, or herr kommerzienrat. charles recht. new york, october, . persons of the play fritz beermann, a wealthy landowner and banker. lena beermann, his wife. effie beermann, their daughter. kommerzienrat adolph bolland, capitalist and manufacturer clara bolland, his wife. dr. hauser, an ex-judge. frau lund, an old lady. hans jacob dobler, a poet. fraulein koch-pinneberg, an artiste. privatdozent dr. wasner, a gymnasium professor. freiherr von simbach, the police commissioner of the duchy. assessor oscar stroebel, a police official. madame ninon de hauteville, a lady of leisure. freiherr general botho von schmettau, also known as zurnberg, a gentleman-in-waiting and adjutant to his highness, the duke. joseph reisacher, a clerk of the police department. betty, a maid at beersmann's. two man-servants and a policeman. the presumption the esteemed, sensitive public will assume that the action takes place in emilsburg, the capital of the duchy of gerlestein. the first and third acts occur in the house of herr fritz beermann; the second act, in the police headquarters. it all happens between sunday afternoon and monday evening. to be free from blame, the producers will please note that: beermann is in the fifties; jovial; lively; with gray side-whiskers and chin carefully shaved. frau beermann is in the late forties, though youthful looking for her age. frau lund. sixty-eight; a woman of impressive appearance; her manner is energetic; her mass of white hair is carefully coiffured. frau bolland. about forty-five; stout; talkative. dr. wasner. a tall german professor with full blond beard; deep voiced; wears pince-nez with black tortoise shell rim and broad black cord. hans jacob dobler. is a poet; he is dressed in a poor fitting cut-away coat; unkempt mustache and van dyke beard. fraulein pinneberg, a feminist, wears a loose fitting gown. dr. hauser. fifty; smooth shaven; wears gold rimmed spectacles, von schmettau, sixty; remains stately looking with effort; military bearing. madame de hauteville--indefinitely twenty; her ultra-fashionable parisian gowns invite the cloak and suit patrons. "moral" act i further apology (card room in beermann's house. in the background a swinging door opens into the dining room. to the right a smaller door leads to the music room. on the left side another door opens into the entrance hall. to left upstage in a corner a small card table with chairs. to right upstage a large sofa and comfortable chairs. parallel to background down stage, tea table with coffee service thereon; near it to right, smaller table, on it a humidor. a butler is engaged at the tea table, another man servant is holding swinging door open. [business of getting up from table.] many voices and rattle of chairs are heard from dining room. through swinging doors enters bolland and frau beermann, beermann with frau bolland, dr. hauser with effie, dr. wasner with fraulein koch-pinneberg, dobler alone.) general greeting of "mahlzeit." dr. wasner is vigorously shaking hands--going to frau beermann says, "ich wunsche gesegnete mahlzeit." the servants pass around coffee--beermann conversing with bolland comes down stage ... bolland. you will receive two thousand votes more than the socialists. that's certain. beermann [skeptical]. no,--no. bolland. if all the liberals combine with the conservatives, the result cannot be in doubt. beermann [taking coffee from the servant]. if ... bolland. fusion is here. it's the logical development. i am an old politician. the time for discussion is over. now it's a straight fight to a finish. dr. wasner [coming nearer]. the german fatherland is rallying to the support of the national flag. beermann. but there are controversies everywhere. i know best. i always am told by campaign managers: don't say this and don't say that. bolland. in what way? beermann. for instance, i'm to speak at the liberal club the day after to-morrow. you would not expect me to say the same things i told the conservatives last night ...? bolland. your details, of course, must differ. but fundamentally it amounts to the same thing. beermann. the same thing? believe me, all this masking confuses me. [drinks.] effie [calling across the tea table where she has been standing with others]. papa! listen to frau bolland. she also says that the indian dancer is so interesting. frau bolland. positively won--derful, herr bolland! you can conceive the entire spirit of the orient. effie. why haven't we gone to see her? frau bolland. you surely ought to go. professor stohr--you know him--told me he never in his life saw anything so gorgeous. fraulein koch-pinneberg. she's so picturesque in her greenish gowns. frau bolland. i did not know that the hindoos could be so charming. beermann. we'll have a look at her some night. effie. but to-morrow night is her last appearance. beermann [going to the humidor]. very well darling. will you remind me of it to-morrow? [taking a box of cigars offers one to dobler who is standing near him.] smoke? dobler [taking one]. thanks. but i am not accustomed to the imported ones. beermann [patronizingly]. you'll get used to high living soon enough. bolland [to dobler]. how long have you been in the city now? dobler. two years. bolland. and before that you were in ... eh? frau bolland. you must excuse him herr dobler. why in unterschlettenbach, dear ... you know that! bolland [correcting himself]. certainly. bit of literary history. mighty interesting place that unterschlettenbach ... eh? dobler. hardly, herr kommerzienrat. poor and unsanitary. most of its inhabitants are miners. bolland. fancy that! and i never knew it. full of miners! tell me though, what do you think of our set here ...? how do you like this well-to-do circle ... the big city ... wealthy surroundings? dobler [lighting a cigar]. i like it well enough. but i think i will always feel out of place here. bolland. can't get used to it? dobler. everything is so different. it seems to me at times as though i had suddenly entered a beautiful house while outdoors my old comrade was awaiting me patiently--the open road. frau bolland. isn't that won--derful? so very re-a-lis-tic-ally put! i can just picture it. oh herr dobler ... i must tell you: your novel--my husband and i talk about it all day long. bolland. tell me though--did you yourself experience the life of that young man you describe? dobler. it's the story of my youth. bolland. but it's somewhat colored by poetic imagination? dobler. n---o. bolland. for instance, you have never actually starved? dobler. oh, yes. there's no imagination in that. bolland. just the way you describe it--so that everything turned red? dobler. everything had a pink color. on one occasion i did not eat anything for four and one-half days. frau beermann [compassionately]. you poor thing! frau bolland. that's exceedingly interesting! bolland. do tell us all about it! then you saw dancing fires? dobler. yes. everything danced before my eyes, and i saw it all through a hazy veil, and towards the end my hearing was affected. bolland. you don't say so? your hearing also? dobler. when any one spoke to me it sounded as if he stood a great distance off--a great distance. frau bolland. our set never dreams of such things. beermann. how did it all turn out? dobler. what do you mean? beermann. well, in the end you got something to eat again? dobler. finally i fainted; i was found lying in a meadow, and was taken to the hospital. frau beermann [sighing]. are such things still possible in our day? frau bolland. what can you expect--of these idealists! dr. hauser. they deserve nothing better. beermann. and after you were in the hospital--how did you get out? dobler. as soon as i got stronger. later on i became a printer--found a position--studied and published my book. beermann. that's all in your novel, i know. but the part where you describe how you were a tramp--that's not true? dobler. yes, i "hoboed" almost a whole year. frau bolland. "hoboed!" fancy that! how unique! fraulein koch-pinneberg. i can just picture it. tramping along the railroad tracks. dobler. yes. you folks think you can picture it with four square meals a day. but it's quite different, i assure you. there were three of us at that time. we worked our way from basel upwards--sometimes on the left--sometimes on the right bank of the rhine. in worms we spent the last of our money and we had to peddle for hand-outs. frau bolland [not understanding him]. "handouts?" what is that? dobler [with pathos]. to beg for something to eat, gnadige frau, for our daily bread. [they all remain silent. only the voice of the butler who is serving liqueur can be heard.] "cognac monsieur! chartreuse! champagne?" beermann [taking a glass]. to a man of refinement, such an existence must have been quite unbearable. dobler [taking a glass of cognac from the butler]. unpleasant. [drinking.] but you lose your sensitiveness. at first it is hard--but one learns. in one hot day on the road ... when you get fagged out--and with every stone hurting your feet--you'll learn. the dust blinds you--but you've got to go on just the same. in the evening you come to a small hamlet with smoke curling above the house-tops and the houses themselves look cozy--then you have to hold your hat in your hand and beg for a plate of warm soup. [a short pause.] dr. wasner [deep bass voice]. home sweet home! bolland. the story reminds me exactly of my late father. frau bolland. but, adolph! bolland. indeed, i say it does! frau bolland. how can you draw such a comparison? herr dobler has become a celebrated poet. bolland. my father also achieved something in life. at his funeral four hundred employees followed the coffin. frau bolland [impatiently]. we've heard that before ... herr dobler, did you write poetry in those days? dobler. no, frau bolland. much later. frau bolland. i'll have to read your novel all over again, now that i know it is all autobiographical. frau beermann [to dr. wasner]. you were going to sing, herr professor? dr. wasner. i promised ... frau beermann. yes, do, effie will accompany you. dr. wasner. if fraulein will be so kind ... but i don't know how my voice is to-day ... frau bolland. you sing so beauti-ful-ly. dr. wasner. so much campaign work. politics corrupts even the voice. fraulein koch-pinneberg. do oblige us. [frau bolland, frau beermann, dr. wasner, fraulein koch, effie go out into the music room.] beermann. it's a pity that the professor is going to sing. we could have started a game of skat. have some more cognac? dr. hauser. no, thanks. dobler. thanks. no more for me. [bolland seats himself on sofa; dr. hauser and dobler sit in chairs; beermann lights a fresh cigar. the butler goes into the music room and as he opens the door, the sound of the piano is heard.] bolland. as i said before herr dobler, your story reminded me very much of my late father. dr. hauser. of the well known kommerzienrat bolland? bolland [sinks deep into chair; crosses legs]. never mind he was not always a wealthy kommerzienrat. [turning to dobler.] picture to yourself a winter landscape--it's bitter cold--a gray sky--it is snowing and everything is wrapped in snow. through all this we see a youth walking--rather staggering--along the forest road from perleberg. a half starved young man. [he pauses and brushes ashes from his cigar. the butler enters from the music room to get a glass of water; then he goes out again. while the door is open, the trembling bass baritone voice of prof. wasner is heard.] "in deinen augen hab ich einst gelesen von lieb' und--gluck--von lieb' und gluck den schein...." [footnote: (translated):--"in thy dear eyes i once read the story of love and joy--of love, and joy agleam...."] [the door closes and the sound is shut off.] bolland [now continues his speech]. and now the snow falls faster and faster. this poor young man had par tout nothing to eat since the morning. he becomes very weak; sits down on a bundle of twigs and falls asleep. just by sheer chance it happens that a man from perleberg passing by sees this dejected, snowed-in figure and takes the young fellow home with him. [he pauses.] and this young man later became my father ... hauser. and herr kommerzienrat bolland. bolland. yes. herr kommerzienrat bolland. [to dobler.] now don't you consider it quite remarkable? wouldn't that make a fine novel? dobler. yes ... yes. bolland. that could be worked up very nicely, couldn't it? a poor young man--the snow covered landscape ... hauser. and that bundle of twigs. dobler. fortune has her unique whims and likes to turn the tables. bolland. that's it exactly. fortune delights in turning the tables. hauser. unique whims? no. that sort of thing happens every day. bolland. what happens every day? hauser. the story of a poor young man who becomes a millionaire. every large factory boasts of a like progenitor. bolland. do you think so? hauser. and the poor young man grows poorer with each telling. your son, herr bolland, in his description will have his grandfather freeze to death on the bundle of twigs. bolland. upon my word the story is gospel. [to dobler.] i'd make use of that plot ... how he founded his business and how it grew and grew ... [as frau beermann enters from the music room, the tremulous voice of prof. wasner is heard.] "behuet dich gott, es hat nicht sollen sein." [footnote: god guard thee well, it was but a dream.] [the closing of the door shuts off the sound.] dobler. in one respect you are right. the character of the self made man [footnote: so in original.] has hardly been treated in contemporary german literature. bolland [with enthusiasm]. that's just what i claim. always about the poor people only. but take a man who has a large income--one who makes a success of his business, that also is poetry. hauser. i'd have my ledger novelized, if i were you, holland. [a maid opens door, admitting frau lund.] frau beermann [welcoming frau lund]. mama lund, how good of you. frau lund [vivaciously]. always glad to come here. good afternoon, gentlemen. where is my little effie? frau beermann. in the music room. [to the maid.] please tell my daughter ... frau lund. no, no, don't disturb her. beermann. permit me. [introducing.] ... herr hans jacob dobler, our famous poet ... frau lund [taking his hand]. a famous poet? delighted. bolland. author of "life story of hans." ... frau lund [pleasantly to dobler]. if i were younger, herr dobler, i would certainly make believe that i read your book. but at my age i find that sort of thing too tiresome. what is the "life story of hans"? dobler. it is a novel, gnadige frau. bolland. a masterpiece. frau lund. then my ignorance is unpardonable. i'll soon make reparation. [frau bolland followed by effie, dr. wasner and fraulein koch hurry out of the music room.] frau bolland. i am off for the arts club. i'll be late, i fear. [to frau lund.] oh, how do you do, frau lund? effie [hurries over to frau lund and kisses her hand]. mama lund! frau lund. how is my little mischief maker? when are you coming to see me? effie. i would glady come ... but, i am so busy with music lessons and professor stohr's lectures ... frau lund. and this and that and your eighteen years. you are quite right, my dear. frau bolland [to frau beermann]. may effie come along? they say there are very won-der-ful paintings at the arts club. frau beermann [turning to frau lund], i don't know if ... frau lund. of course, let her go along. she has such a pretty little dress. why should she be here with us old people? the gentlemen will entertain us ... frau bolland. but then we'll have to hurry. it is quite late. goodbye, frau beermann. i enjoyed myself so much. goodbye, my dear frau lund. so glad to have seen you again. goodbye, goodbye ... adolph! bolland. yes, mother. frau bolland. you won't forget the theatre tonight? at eight. the viennese actor is so fine. [off to left. followed by effie and fraulein koch. frau bolland in the doorway.] frau bolland. will you come with us, herr dobler? you can explain so many things. dobler. i'll be glad to. [shaking hands with frau beermann and bowing.] beermann. come soon again, herr poet. bolland. and think over the story i told you. [dobler goes out left, following frau bolland, effie, and fraulein koch.] frau lund [to frau beermann]. i'll just have a cup of coffee. frau beermann. i'll tell them to make a fresh cup for you. a fresh cup of coffee. [to the butler who is clearing the table.] tell the chef--[butler goes out through the middle door. in the meantime frau holland again appears through left.] frau bolland. adolph! bolland. yes--wifey? frau bolland. thursday the circus comes to town, don't forget to reserve seats. bolland. all right! frau bolland [while going out]. i'm still a child when the circus comes. [frau lund seats herself on sofa. next to her on the right frau beermann; beermann and bolland sit opposite in large leather chairs. hauser is standing behind the sofa leaning against it.] frau lund [to hauser]. tell me judge, where have you been keeping yourself all this time? hauser. in my office, frau lund, only in my office. but i hear that you were on the riviera. frau lund. four weeks in monte carlo. children, i gambled like an old viveur. beermann. what luck? frau lund. i lost, of course--i'm too old to set the world on fire. but, beermann, i hear all sorts of surprises about you. you are a candidate for the reichstag? beermann. yes, they nominated me. frau lund. who are "they"? beermann. the combined liberals and conservatives ... hauser. and the conservatives and liberals combined. frau lund. formerly these were distinct parties. hauser. formerly,--formerly. beermann. now there is fusion. frau lund [to frau beermann]. you never told me that your husband was in politics. frau beermann. he never was--up to two weeks ago. frau lund. how quickly things change! and of all the people ... you! beermann. what's so startling in that? frau lund. you told me that you never even read the newspapers. bolland. we all are cordially grateful to beermann that in an hour of need he made this sacrifice. frau lund. the way you talk about the "hour of need" and "sacrifice" herr kommerzienrat, it seems to me that you would have been the better candidate. bolland. oh, i am too pronouncedly liberal. hauser. and that's an incurable disease! bolland. at any rate it makes my nomination impossible. a man was needed who was not known as a party-man. frau lund. it would seem then that our friend beermann has become a politician because he ... is no politician? hauser. that's what is known as "fusion." beermann. allow me to ask a question. why should i not become a reichstag deputy? hauser. quite right! frau lund--tell him--why shouldn't he? beermann. because i am a novice in politics? we all have to make a start. hauser. it's the only calling where one can start any day, frau lund, without being called upon to produce qualifications. bolland. there you can tell the lawyer. you'd like to establish a civil service examination for members of the reichstag? hauser. you are not afraid that it might hurt them? beermann [with importance]. let me tell you, judge. what a person achieves in real life is far greater than all your book wisdom. we have too many lawyers anyway. it's one of our national misfortunes. frau lund [merrily to frau beermann]. look! he's beginning to debate already. bolland [careless pose]. as you know, i run a soap factory where i employ four hundred and sixty-two workmen ... let me repeat it, four hundred and sixty-two workmen. their livelihood and welfare lies in the palm of my hand; don't you think that requires brains? hauser. but ... bolland [interrupting]. do you realize what the amount of detail and the management of the whole factory means? hauser. but friend beermann never even worked in a soap factory. how can that apply to him? beermann. oh, what's the use of discussing things if you're joking. hauser. really, i can't see the connection. beermann. at any rate, i'm a better candidate than the book-binder whom the socialists have put up against me. bolland. beermann has had greater experience and has a broader point of view. frau lund. then there's something else i heard about herr beermann, that i don't like at all. beermann. about me? frau lund. yes, i bear that you are the president of the new society for the suppression of vice. what makes you do such things? that isn't nice. frau beermann. i fully agree with you. beermann. you do? for what reasons? when honest men select me as their president, is that mere flattery? frau lund. it is not becoming to you, and you are insincere in it. frau beermann. it's as false as anything can be, and you speak about problems which you have never understood. beermann. pardon me! i ought to know best what is becoming for me. frau lund. there's no one in the world i dislike as much as a preacher. but if a person wants to be one ... then, according to the gospel he ought to live on bread and water. it doesn't go well with champagne and lobster. beermann. do the scriptures command that we must be poor to be honorable? frau lund. no, beermann, but if i still remember, they speak of a camel and a needle. bolland. the ladies evidently are not acquainted with the purposes of our new society. i am sure they would subscribe to every one of the principles which are incorporated in our by-laws. frau lund. i certainly would not. bolland [feeling in his side pocket]. at least read our "appeal to the public." frau lund [refusing]. no, thank you. bolland. every woman will rejoice when she reads it. frau lund. do you think so? how exceedingly amusing your societies are! so, cards and bowling no longer offer sufficient entertainment. you have to moralize. hauser. i can't help thinking of the notorious starvation freak at the circus who gets his meals on the sly everyday. dr. wasner. of course, every conviction can be made ridiculous once it's regarded as insincere. you shouldn't accuse without proof. hauser. herr professor, politeness requires that each individual be regarded as the exception--but not an entire club. bolland. it is a pity, indeed, that a great movement like ours is disposed of by a few trifling remarks. that embitters our task of curing the nation of social diseases. frau lund. where did you get your doctor's license to cure? dr. wasner. it's sad enough that the cure is left to only a few of us. hauser. well, i'll remain a patient. you'll need a few anyway to keep up your business. beermann. i consider all this a very cheap kind of humor. i used to joke about these matters myself, but if you will only look upon this problem from a serious point of view, when your eyes are opened to the ... frau beermann.... your newly acquired ways of talking are quite unbearable. beermann. please, don't make a scene. frau beermann. we have been married for twenty-six years; have been very fortunate with our own children. why worry about other people? beermann. you are not logical, my love. the mere fact that i brought up my children properly is all the more reason for my joining this movement.... frau beermann. you didn't lose much sleep about their education. beermann. evidently i didn't neglect anything. frau lund. i'm afraid you pride yourselves on a degree of willpower you never exercised. beermann. never exercised? my dear frau lund, what do you know about the temptations which confront us men. what does a woman know about them? frau lund. the only thing we women don't know about is the manner in which these temptations terminate. beermann. our movement intends to do away with these very deceptions. we want to protect the traditions of the home which women treasure. frau lund. no. we, women also treasure modesty. we dislike to see men pretend to have better morals than they actually have. beermann. seriously, frau lund. public immorality must hurt you more. frau lund. you are mistaken. it requires a genuine manly feeling to sympathize with misery. dr. wasner. misery and vice are different problems. frau lund. they're not. and that is why we will never agree. frau beermann. all the more reason why my husband should not set himself up as an example. he knows nothing of worry or care. beermann. we can never subscribe to frau lund's principles. frau lund. no principles, please! bolland. out of sheer opposition you will say that you hold different ones from us. frau lund. no. i will say that i hold none at all. bolland. and wasner [together]. but, gnadige frau! frau lund. i can't help it. i lost them some place on my journey through life. i have learned that all your principles have loop holes through which people can conveniently slip out and take their friends along with them. so i had my choice of either surrendering them or dishonestly preaching them to others. dr. wasner. real principles of life are never given up. hauser [with sarcasm]. cheers from the gallery! bolland. principles of morality are the laws of nature--they are her dictates. frau lund. is that the reason you have started your society for the suppression of vice? do you imagine your by-laws are stronger than the laws of nature? dr. wasner. may i make just one remark? beermann. what is it? dr. wasner [stroking his beard]. in summing up the matter we can come to this decision: women have a beautiful privilege. certain facts in life remain a closed book to them. we, men, unfortunately have to come into contact with them. hauser. did you say unfortunately? dr. wasner. please don't interrupt. i maintain "unfortunately"! for the last four years, i have been persistently following obscene literature, and to-day i have gotten together a collection of it, which i dare say is pretty complete. so i am speaking of matters about which i am thoroughly informed. [with importance.] the degree of vulgarity our people have reached is incredible. frau lund. and you have been the "persistent collector" of this vulgarity? dr. wasner. let me assure you that i took upon myself this task with loathing. hauser. herr professor, in all my life i have never met a man who for four years voluntarily did something which was loathsome to him. dr. wasner. you have no business to make such a remark. hauser. have you derived no satisfaction from it at all? dr. wasner. satisfaction--if you mean the satisfaction of participating in the uplift of our people. frau lund. uplift? our reformers capitalize our national lack of good taste. good proof of that are the moral works of art which you patronize. dr. wasner. the matter we are discussing is more serious than reforming bad taste. frau lund. there is nothing more serious. dr. wasner [knowingly]. if you but knew, frau lund! frau lund. i don't have to call and see your collection. frankly, to me, the most obscene picture in your gallery could not be more disgusting than the talk you carry on in your meetings. beermann. oh! oh! frau lund. the nudity of the human body is not disgusting. it is the nudity of your mind. no vice is as repulsive as that virtue of yours which loudly uncovers itself in public--in market places. vice has at least the shame to hide itself. beermann [to bolland]. can you understand her? bolland. i must admit, i can't. dr. wasner. gnadige frau stated that vice hides itself. but in spite of that it exists. bolland. yes, she admitted that it exists. dr. wasner. shall we tolerate it merely because it crawls into dark nooks and corners? frau lund. you reformers! let more sunshine into this world and vice will not find so many dark corners and nooks to hide in. bolland. you would not be as opposed to us if you had a son who would be exposed to the temptations of our great cities. frau lund. i would be ashamed of myself if for personal reasons i became narrow-minded. beermann. but just stop to think! picture a healthy young man in his prime falling into the hands of one of these abominable creatures! frau lund. i could picture something worse than that. beermann. still worse? frau lund. for instance, if he should, with all the credulity of youth, enter into the work of your society. bolland. well! well! beermann. you don't seem to take anything seriously to-day. frau lund. very seriously; this young man perhaps does reach the stage where he sincerely pities your so-called abominable creature. then he has really advanced in his morality. let the pity impress itself deeply upon him and your abominable creature has preached better to him than all your high-sounding phrases. bolland. i am simply dumbfounded. dr. wasner. then you even believe that our society exerts a bad influence? frau lund [very positively]. yes. bolland [with irony]. fancy! university professors, philanthropists and a general who are with us in this work--they are, of course, the ones who are likely to corrupt the morals of the younger generation. frau lund, no doubt, would like to send our young men to the good ladies of the pavement. dr. wasner. in what way is our influence bad? frau lund [with warmth]. the young man who joins your society does it only to ape you and to advance his own ends and vainglory. he forever deprives himself of understanding the meaning of life and of becoming helpful to those who suffer. bolland. well what do you think of such statements? frau beermann. they are splendid. i would be very thankful if my boy would embody the ideals of frau lund. beermann. lena, i simply forbid you to say such things. frau beermann. really? beermann. everybody knows that frau lund is a radical, but i don't want you to fall into that habit. frau beermann. i don't acquire new habits as rapidly as you. hauser [to beermann]. don't get excited. a politician must give everyone an opportunity to express his views. dr. wasner. i teach young people and i heartily wish they'd continue to seek their ideals among high minded men and not in the dark city streets. bolland. right! and not in the dark city streets. frau lund. nor there, herr kommerzienrat, where the veil of shame is rudely torn from inborn sensitiveness and it is shorn of every secret charm. dr. wasner. correct! we do want to deprive it of its charm. frau lund. you succeed in doing that; no tenderness can survive the brutal frankness of your meetings. dr. wasner. it is not a national german trait to sugar-coat sin. frau lund. why do you confound all lack of refinement with the national character? dr. wasner. because it is good german to call a spade a spade. beermann [getting up]. why argue to no purpose? let's start our game of skat. bolland. because it appears to be a conflict of two different philosophies. beermann [rises, goes to card table, opens a drawer, takes out a deck of cards and opens them]. it's always the same old story. never start anything with women! they must have the last word. [sits down at card table. bolland gets up and sits beside him.] frau lund [laughing]. spoken again like a typical reformer. dr. wasner [rising]. i don't want to continue this argument, but if by any chance you have gained the impression that i regard this matter from a prejudiced view point, i will cheerfully admit it. i do. beermann [calling]. oh, do come on, herr professor. dr. wasner [turning to card table]. i'm coming. [to others.] i admit with pride that i am prejudiced. for me there exists only one question: how can i best serve my fatherland? bolland. herr professor! dr. wasner [turning to table]. just a moment.... [to others.] let the sturdy qualities of our people be conserved. that stand is unassailable. then i will be sure that my efforts have at least ... beermann [loudly]. but, my dear wasner! wasner [not dismayed, continuing].... at least a national scope. hauser. wouldn't you rather play skat, professor? wasner [going over to card table]. there remains only one thing for me to say. if i have used sharp words, i want to apologize. [takes a seat.] beermann. you deal, professor. dr. wasner [shuffling the cards and talking at the same time]. for me there exists but one ideal. that which tacitus described as it once prevailed among the old teutons. quamquam severa illic matrimonia nec ullam morum partem magis laudaveris. [he lets bolland cut and then deals.] the most praiseworthy trait of the teutons was the strictness of their marriage customs. nam prope soli barbarorum singulis uxoribus contenti sunt. they were almost the only barbarians to content themselves with a single wife. beermann [loudly]. tournee! bolland. i'll go you! beermann. twenty! bolland. i'll better that! beermann. take it! gras-solo! [they play.] [hauser, frau lund, frau beermann remain sitting at right.] frau lund. at last the fatherland is saved. frau beermann. it's the only occupation for which nature intended them. they should not tinker with national problems. hauser. have patience. political ambition dies out after the first defeat. frau beermann.... which i hope will happen. hauser. that's as certain as fate. else he never would have been nominated. beermann [calling from the card table]. i have pretty sharp hearing! hauser. a very fine acquisition, beermann, when you grow old. bolland [throwing a card on the table]. fifty-nine and four make sixty-three! the rest you can take. (they throw down their cards; bolland collects them and shuffles.) wasner [half turning to hauser], and then there is the celebrated passage, "ergo septa pudicitia agunt, nullis ... spectaculorum illecebris corruptae." beermann. i have six cards. bolland. the bottom one belongs to the professor. wasner [as before, continuing]. so the wife lived surrounded by tenderness and care ... and so forth, "literarum secreta...." secret communications were not tolerated by either husband or wife. beermann. please drop that tacitus. it's your chance to lead.... wasner. i pass.... holland. so do i. bolland [loudly and enthusiastically]. that's the way to get at them! trumps! and trumps again. wasner [murmuring]. "paucissima adulteria in tam numerosa gente...." [gradually lapses into silence and then continues to play with energy.] frau lund [with a glance towards the card table]. why do we take our principles so seriously.... it's really ridiculous how our every opinion soon turns into religious beliefs. wasner. the matter is dead serious. frau lund. who will think of it to-morrow? hauser [nodding towards card table]. not they, of course. but there are cleverer people. the so-called thinking public in germany must have some national problem to solve. it finds some such, readily enough in order to play with it. meanwhile they take no notice that the party in power [footnote: men with the brass buttons.] are lining their pockets. frau lund. haven't they always been doing that? hauser. yes, but not with such ease. here and there they were rapped over the knuckles. but nowadays they could cart away the entire capitol. frau lund. there's not so much left to-day. hauser. a couple of pieces anyhow to take along as keepsakes. frau lund. in my days i saw one reform after another on the bargain counter; but we women remain mere spectators while ideals come and go; we can not realize how much they mean to men. hauser. my dear frau lund, if a real reform should effectively rise among us some day, then you women will have to lend a helping hand. with those [nodding towards card-table] kindergarten heroes nothing can be accomplished. frau beermann. what influence can we exert so long as men organize their societies for the protection of women's virtue! hauser. these henpecked gentlemen always nominate themselves chastity's guardians. frau beermann. they are of importance only when they can get some one to listen. i'd like to go to their meetings and tell them that. hauser. their meetings--bosh! their sort only couple their nonsense with a few self-evident generalities which no one would really oppose. no, first of all they must be educated and that you women alone can accomplish. frau lund. you say that as if we had any influence on public opinion. hauser. you do all the applauding. the whole game is played for you. if you withdraw your applause not a single one of the peacocks of virtue will open up his gospel feathers for exhibition. it is indeed of great importance to you that they do not banish all refinement from our social life. frau lund [citing]. [footnote: in original "frau lund [zitierend]. "ja, da eur wonnedienst noch glanzte, wie ganz anders, anders war es da! da man deine tempel noch bekranzte.... dr. wasner [hat beim zitieren der schillerischer verse heruber gehorcht und fallt nun mit tiefen basse ein].... venus amathusia."] "yes, while still thy sanctuaries of pleasure crowned this earth like in arcadia joy had no penalty nor trader's measure...." dr. wasner [when the citation began listened over his cards, now falls in with deep bass]. "... venus amathusia." bolland [angrily breaking in]. man alive, why didn't you play your ace of spades? if you had brought out that ace you'd have a trump--then you'd beat this with a trump ... and then another trum.... beermann. now, beloved friends and countrymen, no post-mortem speeches. [while dealing cards.] you cut, bolland. bolland [cutting cards]. make use of your trumps, herr professor. i am trying to play into your hands. dr. wasner. i thought ... bolland. you didn't. if you had you'd play differently. beermann [speaking to frau lund, while dealing]. how far have you gotten with your moralizing? have we agreed yet--[laughing.] yes; yes; these women folks! wasner [arranging cards in his hand]. they were citing schiller a moment ago. we must not forget, ladies, that it was schiller himself who awakened the national spirit of our race. hauser. your national spirit unfortunately found its way into the strangest kinds of containers. dr. wasner. i decidedly protest against such a poor opinion. if the sincere religious sentiment of the german element ... bolland [interrupting him]. we are waiting for you, herr professor. are you finally going to announce your cards? dr. wasner [continuing his pathetic tone]. i pass. hauser. the steady contact with school children keeps our educators refreshingly naive. that man still believes in the superiority of the teutonic element. frau lund. and in the stability of our special german moral standard. hauser. until some little scandal crops up again. by the way, we shall soon have one right in our city. frau beermann [with interest]. here? hauser. to-morrow you'll read all about it in the newspapers. the police have made a discovery which may prove more than they bargained for. frau beermann. here? [beerman, head sideways, listens over his cards.] hauser. last night the police arrested a woman who kept a very open house. she colored it by going under a fancy french name, and they say only entertained the best of society. she kept a diary which fell into the hands of the police. beermann [he leaves his seat, comes forward, right]. a diary? bolland [drops his cards and rises]. what sort of a diary? hauser. oh! just a naughty little inventory of all of her visitors. beermann. what is the name of the lady? hauser. some french name which sounds to me like rouge. beermann. i can't understand how you could forget her name. bolland. i can't either as long as you seem to know all about it. frau beermann [to beermann]. but, fritz, why should you worry about it? beermann. well ... am i the president of the vice suppression society or, am i not ...? curtain act ii (an office at police headquarters. to rear on the left stands the assessor's desk. to the right against the wall, the desk of reisacher, the police clerk. left front is a sofa with two chairs. on the right wall is a telephone. side entrance left. another entrance in the middle. stroebel and reisacher are seated with their backs to one another. stroebel is reading a newspaper; reisacher is writing. short pause.) stroebel [half turning]. reisacher! reisacher [also turning]. yes, herr assessor.[footnote: an assessor is a petty police official.] stroebel. are you familiar with the expression "those higher up"? reisacher. yes, herr assessor. stroebel. what do you understand by it? reisacher. those are the folks who are something and have money somewhere. stroebel. is it used to express contempt or class hatred? reisacher [eagerly]. well ... well! "the higher ups" are respected. stroebel. are you certain? reisacher. absolutely. [they both turn around to their former positions; stroebel continues to read, and reisacher to write. short pause.] stroebel [half turning]. reisacher! reisacher [does likewise]. yes, herr assessor. stroebel. after all, it means class hatred. reisacher. no, no. stroebel. pay attention. here it says [he reads]: "of course, for those higher up there are no laws." that means, i take it, that the rich are beyond the control of the law. by "control of the law," i wish you to understand i am attacking the humiliating and anarchistic notion that the law does not apply equally to rich and poor. also i want to besmirch the rich, by designating them by a slang expression. reisacher. yes, herr assessor. stroebel. then how can you say it does not express class hatred and contempt? reisacher. because, then again, you see, people who have money are respected anyway. stroebel. you will never learn to think precisely, reisacher. reisacher. yes, herr assessor. [both resume their former positions. short pause. police commissioner, freiherr van simbach, enters left. stroebel lays aside his paper, rises and salutes. reisacher writes hurriedly.] commissioner [footnote: president of police, in original.] 'morning, herr assessor. [to reisacher.] take your work outside, reisacher, until i have finished. [reisacher exit through middle door.] i want to ask you a few questions, herr stroebel. [stroebel bows. the commissioner during the conversation takes center of stage and speaks nonchalantly and somewhat drawingly.] i read your report. day before yesterday, that was on saturday, you ordered the arrest of a certain woman. stroebel. yes, commissioner. commissioner. well, what about her? stroebel. according to the report of lieutenant schmuttermaier, we have in our hands a very dangerous person. commissioner. is that so! stroebel. within a short time she has almost demoralized our city. commissioner. she has been in the city about three or four years.... stroebel. she has, according to the report. commissioner. in what way has she been dangerous? did bald headed gentlemen loosen up a bit in her house or are there special charges against her? stroebel. no special ones, but her whole behavior. she had a beautiful apartment in the best residential district. according to the report, the neighbors began to talk about her. she dressed in a rather fast and fashionable manner.... commissioner. then because she did not cater to the common people, you consider her so terrible? stroebel. no, commissioner. commissioner. i thought not. remember, please, i don't want you to get any of the popular ideas about the corruption of our best society. slit skirts cause as much harm. [stroebel bows.] what is her name? stroebel. ninon de hauteville. but her real name is therese hochstetter. commissioner. h-a-u-t-e v-i-l-l-e? stroebel. she comes of a good family. her father was a peruvian consul. when he lost his money, she married a consular secretary. he divorced her four years ago. commissioner. indeed. so she is a person of refinement. stroebel. but she has ... commissioner.... a demoralizing influence. i know all about that. tell me, what made you arrest her? stroebel [with importance]. eight days ago, i received a letter severely rebuking the police because her place was tolerated.... commissioner. who was the letter from? stroebel [hesitatingly']. it was ... really ... anonymous. commissioner. i hope that you are very careful about anonymous communications. stroebel. generally, i pay little attention to them. but this letter was so full of details, i simply had to consider it. of course, only as a hint and i intended to get proof. i gave it to schmuttermaier and told him to keep the hochstetter woman under strict surveillance. saturday at noon we obtained positive evidence, commissioner. then? stroebel. then i ordered schmuttermaier to raid the place ... commissioner.... during which you found a diary in her apartments? stroebel. yes, commissioner; a diary with the names of her visitors. the dates and their social standing. everything. commissioner. have you finished reading it? stroebel. no, sir. i just glanced at it. i only got it from schmuttermaier an hour ago. i was not in the office yesterday. commissioner [thoughtfully]. it's too late to do anything to-day. [consulting his watch.] let me see. bring me an exact report of all important names contained in the diary ... at ten to-morrow morning. stroebel. yes, commissioner, at ten o'clock. commissioner. and remember, it's very important that you make this report personally. don't let the clerk see the diary. it has not yet been in his hands? stroebel [going to his desk]. no. it's locked up in my desk. commissioner. time enough to bring it to me tomorrow morning when you make your report. stroebel. how do you want me to get my data, commissioner? shall i summon the important people involved? commissioner [with emphasis]. only ... the important ... names ... that's all. by the way, how far have you gone in the case? have you taken any further steps? stroebel. no. i will examine the hochstetter woman in a little while.... commissioner. and schmuttermaier? has he orders to make any further raids? stroebel. not yet. i want to read the diary first. commissioner. above all, i do not want him to act without instructions. people of no importance like to do important things. stroebel. yes, commissioner. your orders will be carried out. commissioner. orders? i never give orders. you have your duties to perform. i don't care to tell you what to do.... but there must be no further raids until i have seen the diary. stroebel. certainly, commissioner. commissioner. at the same time, don't neglect your duty. stroebel. i will do everything necessary for the promotion of public decency. commissioner [who has been pacing the room, turns suddenly.] public decency? very well, very well.... [short pause.] we occupy a most peculiar position do we not, herr stroebel? [stroebel bows.] we know fully the existing difference between official ... and let me say ... personal sensitiveness, do we not? [stroebel bows in accord.] i mention this merely because you spoke of public decency. there is a decency about which you and i privately might have most interesting discussions. as far as i am concerned, such decency can be without limits. but there is another--the public decency--which it is our business to police. this has its very precise limits. for example, a scandal. scandal of any description. am i right, herr assessor? stroebel [clicks his heels together]. certainly, commissioner. commissioner. that brings me to another matter. for the past few weeks, there has been in the city, a so-called society for the suppression of vice. have you any sympathy with these people? stroebel. i know of their aims ... commissioner. their aims do not interest me a bit. i mean, do you personally cooperate with them? stroebel. not ... yet. commissioner. not yet? ... hem! ... this society is likely to interest itself in this case. if someone comes to see me, herr stroebel, i will refer him to you. [stroebel bows.] kindly bear this one thing in mind. these men have political ambition, and are playing to the press. on the whole the thing shows conservative tendencies. stroebel. certainly, commissioner. commissioner. welcome them with open arms. agree gratefully to every suggestion for the betterment of the people, et cetera. listen with respectful appreciation but do nothing further. stroebel [uncertain]. nothing further? ... commissioner. no ... nothing further. stroebel. yes, commissioner. commissioner. these people must remain assured that they wield a great influence. as a matter of fact, they have none at all and it's a good thing they haven't. stroebel. so, i may ... commissioner.... do everything you can be responsible for. as a matter of principle, i do not like to give orders. you will submit that report then [consulting his watch] at ten to-morrow? good morning! [goes toward the door left, remains standing a moment, then turns around.] you have been rather zealous in your work, i must say. [stroebel bows slightly.] to arrest a woman on the strength of an anonymous letter shows excessive zeal. [stroebel bows slightly.] i like to see my men energetic but [clears his throat] bear in mind what i just said. careful of a scandal! good morning! [exit.] (stroebel sits down and stares at ceiling. he swings his chair around, then whistles. reisacher comes in through middle door and seats himself at his desk. he coughs.) stroebel [half turning]. reisacher. reisacher [does likewise]. yes, herr assessor. stroebel. how long have you been in the police department? reisacher. it will be eighteen years this fall. stroebel. you have seen many a change, no doubt? reisacher. surely. stroebel. tell me, how long has our commissioner been in office? reisacher. the commissioner? oh ... it's seven. no, let me see, it's eight years.... stroebel. hem ... do you really suppose he wants us to keep our eyes wide open all the time? reisacher [eagerly]. certainly. that's what he wants. stroebel. does he? ... [short pause.] i had an idea he didn't want us to be too strict for fear of notoriety. reisacher [eagerly]. no, no. he certainly would not like that. stroebel [turns around completely]. listen, reisacher, you contradict yourself all the time. reisacher [turns around likewise]. i beg your pardon, herr stroebel. may i suggest ... stroebel. but you are always contradicting yourself. first you say yes, and then you say no. reisacher. i beg your pardon, herr assessor stroebel. i wanted to say that in the police department it is like this: everything you do is all right, if it turns out all right. stroebel [turns back to his desk]. you will never learn to formulate a thought precisely. reisacher [also turns]. all right, herr stroebel. (short pause. stroebel reads. reisacher writes. a commotion is heard through the middle door, which, is thrown open and ninon de hauteville enters. behind her a policeman, who holds her tightly by the arm. she tries to free herself.) hauteville. [she wears a large picture hat, and is highly perfumed]. keep your hands off me. i haven't killed anyone. please, let me go. stroebel [he has risen]. what's the matter? police officer. [releasing her, stands at attention]. have the honor sir, to report this disreputable woman--the hochstetter person. hauteville. please, help me, sir. i am being handled like the commonest criminal. stroebel. why do you keep that hat on? you are not paying us a visit? hauteville. indeed not! i am not paying a visit. if i lived to be a hundred, it would never occur to me to pay you a visit. stroebel. don't talk so much. do you understand? [to reisacher.] get your report book ready. hauteville. is this the complaint office? i demand to know at least why i was arrested. stroebel. oh, here you'll find that out soon enough. [to the officer.] you can go now. [officer exit through middle door.] hauteville. oh, monsieur, what shameful treatment. i was locked up in a cell with two ordinary street walkers. you will help me, won't you? stroebel [who has crossed over to reisacher]. please don't be so familiar. hauteville. i am so helpless. no one will listen to me. no one answers me. an awful looking woman brought me a cup of yellow broth and a rusty spoon--[indicating with her hand] so big. "eat!" she said, and threw it down and left. you will see to it, sir, that my friends are notified, won't you? stroebel [glancing over reisacher's shoulder]. your friends cannot help you here. [to reisacher.] don't make the margin so wide. you are wasting good paper. [to hauteville.] your friends can do nothing at all for you. hauteville. you think so, do you? one single word and i'll be set free. stroebel [contemptuously]. indeed! hauteville. before the day is over everyone of you will have to apologize to me. yes, before this day is over. stroebel. certainly. [to reisacher.] the word "assessor" has two "s" in all cases. hauteville. if you people had the least idea whom you disturbed. if you knew whom you compelled to hide in the wardrobe. stroebel [turning quickly to hauteville]. in the wardrobe? so! [to reisacher.] make a note of that, reisacher. [with emphasis.] so someone escaped us by hiding in the wardrobe. hauteville. yes, someone escaped you by hiding in the wardrobe. stroebel [suddenly very friendly.] upon my word, madame, i believe that we understand each other fully. you are a clever woman. you will not try to deny the facts. hauteville. not one solitary thing. i am most anxious that you should try to find out all. stroebel. bravo! i came near saying that i respect you for that. [benevolently.] you know, hochstetter, every man is liable to make a fool of himself now and then. hauteville. indeed they are! i know best what fools men do make of themselves. stroebel. now and then people violate the law. but they ought not to deny it afterwards. that's the sad part of it, because we always find out the truth in the end. hauteville. i wish you had it now. stroebel. we have a clue. but you are a woman of character, i admit. i take off my hat to you. hauteville. indeed! stroebel. i certainly do. hauteville. i was afraid i had lost all refinement after spending the last two nights in such company. stroebel [benevolently]. no doubt, it was a trifle hard. hauteville. it was terrible. they really do make me pay for discreetness. stroebel. your patrons are the very men who make it so hard for you. they get you into trouble and then expect you to protect them. isn't it so? hauteville. what an experience for me! to have my apartment raided at night and be simply dragged away myself. stroebel. that is too much. hauteville. i was not even allowed to take along a change of underwear. then i am locked up with women who have every known variety of vermin. stroebel. and with all that they expect you to remain silent! hauteville. when i want to comb my hair, the matron gives me a comb which these women have been using a whole week. stroebel. that simply can't go on, hauteville. and the air! i never knew that such odors existed on this earth. stroebel. still you are to shield the others! after all, you know, i think that discreetness is just talk. hauteville. talk? stroebel. i mean if anybody ever had a moral right to give things away, fully and freely, you are that person; ... after all you have suffered. hauteville. that's right. i am that person. stroebel. well then; did somebody escape into that wardrobe? hauteville. yes, somebody did escape into that wardrobe. stroebel [eagerly]. who? [short pause.] hauteville. [laughs curtly]. who? stroebel [more sharply]. who on saturday night at o'clock escaped the search of the police by hiding in the wardrobe? hauteville. [laughs curtly]. it is quite unnecessary for me to tell you that. stroebel [sharply]. why? hauteville. you are certain to find it out ultimately. stroebel. ultimately? hauteville. even if i wanted to i could not tell! lord, when a person gets strictly accustomed to never mentioning any name, it is almost impossible to do it. i, believe that i would have to learn how first. stroebel [shouting]. and you will learn it; i promise you that. you ... hauteville. mais monsieure! stroebel [shouting]. no "monsieur" about it. here you'll talk good plain english. hauteville. but why are you getting so excited? stroebel [to reisacher]. i am nice to this person. i reason with her, and she says that she will first have to learn how to expose her crowd. [shouts.] decency is what you'll have to learn and i'll teach it to you. hauteville. oh, not this very minute. stroebel. i know you. i know your sort! you want to gain time so that you can concoct the blackest lies. hauteville. [calmly]. that would be entirely superfluous. the cleverest lie could not help me half as much as the simple truth. stroebel. out with it! hauteville. it's better if you find it out through someone else. stroebel. that's your opinion. hauteville. you would only be embarrassed and i would be guilty of a breach of confidence. stroebel [with contempt]. as though people confided in such as you. hauteville. i think that they rely upon the fact that our loyalty is not "just talk." stroebel [again calm]. listen to me. i do not think that you entirely understand your position. [hauteville shrugs her shoulders.] no, i don't think that you know at all what is involved. hauteville. on the contrary it is far worse that you don't seem to realize who is involved. stroebel [quickly]. in what? hauteville. in the wardrobe. stroebel. have you lost your senses? you are a prisoner here. do you want to poke fun at us? hauteville. no. stroebel. then don't consider yourself so important with those meaning insinuations. hauteville. if i did, i'd soon lose my importance after eating that yellow broth from those rusty tin plates. stroebel. and that will continue for some time. hauteville. [energetically]. no, it will not. i tell you right now that i will not spend another night in that dirty hole. i will not be mistreated any longer. stroebel [with sarcasm]. of course we are going to ask you for your kind permission. hauteville. i will not remain here. if they think i will let them ruin me, they're very much mistaken. this is an outrage and here fair play stops. stroebel. the likes of you and fair play! hauteville. [bitterly]. yes, the likes of me. every day we hear the confessions of those very people who publicly show contempt for us. we know how false are all virtuous words with which they condemn us, but we remain silent. stroebel. of course, you do all this out of pure sense of fair play? [he imitates the motion of counting money.] hauteville. money? ... my dear fellow, with money our patrons pay well for that very thing which they later on call indecent. you get as much decency from us for money as you get from other people, but believe me, we could shatter many illusions. stroebel. well, make a beginning right here. hauteville. it ought to be impossible here. the police have as few illusions as we. that is, provided they are properly instructed. stroebel. that's right now, put us in the same class with yourself. hauteville, why not? we and the police could easily ruin the credit of virtue, but neither of us do it. you--you because you regard that credit as a good substitute for the principal, and we,--lord, because we need this credit as well. stroebel. both of us? hauteville. the very moment that public virtue loses its credit, the secret vices will drop in market value. stroebel. what are you talking about anyway? hauteville. i'm telling you why both of us must hush things up. stroebel. then you are not convinced that there is a real public morality? hauteville. you mean that morality which you put on with your street clothes? i know it well. gentlemen take it off in my apartment and hang it up in my wardrobe, and there i can inspect it very thoroughly. it is truly remarkable how our respected gentlemen still make formal social visits in costumes which have so often been patched. reisacher [who up to this point apparently--without paying any attention, has been sitting with his back toward them, turns half way round]. pardon me, herr assessor. stroebel [impatiently]. now what do you want? reisacher. pardon me, herr assessor, shall i put all this talk into the minutes? stroebel. no, i will dictate to you later. [to hauteville.] you know that you are not here to amuse yourself. hauteville. i know that. stroebel. listen to me quietly. you hinted before that if we kept you here another night you would confess everything. well i tell you here and now that we will not keep you here one, but a number of nights. you can ease your conscience at once. hauteville. i would only make yours the heavier for it. stroebel. my conscience? hauteville. yes, if i tell you here, there will be no possibility of a mistake, but everything must remain a mistake. stroebel. i have patience with you, but i will not let you fool me. now get yourself together and consider every word. what must remain a mistake? hauteville. everything that has happened since saturday night. stroebel. all that must remain a mistake? hauteville. it simply must not have happened. no one broke into my apartment. no one arrested me. no one compelled anyone to hide in the wardrobe. stroebel [shouts.] and no one ever saw such an insolent female. hauteville. this browbeating. stroebel. it is meant for such as you. hauteville. [indignantly stopping her ears]. it reminds one so much of the tin plates and the comb. stroebel [angrily pacing the room]. i never heard anything like it. picture it! she makes insinuations as though we had something to be afraid of. [he stops pacing and faces her.] you evidently imagine that the whole government would run away from you. hauteville. no, but it ran away from your lieutenant. stroebel. where? hauteville. into the wardrobe. stroebel [pacing up and down]. i will bring that fellow out of your wardrobe. i will bring him to light. into bright daylight! [remains standing in front of hauteville.] what did you say? hautevile. non. stroebel [resuming his pacing']. one of those fine fellows who wallow in the mire and then expect us to make exceptions. [stops pacing, facing hauteville.] what were you saying? hauteville. nothing. stroebel. sad enough that now and again a halfway decent person strays into your place. hauteville. he can only regret that he was disturbed. stroebel [goes quickly to desk and unlocks a drawer]. besides, do not deceive yourself. we do not need your disclosures. [he takes out a rather bulky paper, a school composition book, and holds it triumphantly in the air.] there; do you recognize this? hauteville. [quietly, without a single trace of surprise]. it looks like my diary. stroebel. it is your book. it was found in your desk. hauteville. [very calm]. the desk was locked, stroebel. it was broken open. well? what about your loyalty now? hauteville. [shrugs her shoulders]. i kept it. i haven't a fire-proof safe. stroebel [contemptuously]. would you by chance like to show me the name? hauteville. what name? stroebel. of the gentleman in the wardrobe. hauteville. [laughs]. his name really is not in it. stroebel. do not evade but show me. hauteville. oh, there are parties whose names are not in the hotel register. they travel incognito. stroebel [persuadingly]. hochstetter, i have an impression that you are not such a stupid girl, and i believe that you would like to [pointing to the diary] take good care of your--patrons. if you do not immediately reveal the name of that man, i will summon the whole bunch. hauteville. [shrugs her shoulders]. that's something i cannot stop you from doing. stroebel. what then is your belief in fair play? hauteville. i never submitted that diary to you. you could not have gotten it from me voluntarily, but it quite suits me that the officer found it in my desk. stroebel. why? hauteville. because he might have searched for it in the wardrobe. stroebel. now my patience is at an end. [presses the button on his desk.] i will have no consideration for anyone. hauteville. after all, perhaps you will. for yourself. [police officer enters.] stroebel. take this woman downstairs, [the officer leaves with hauteville. stroebel sits down, pushes the chair angrily to the desk, then gets up and throws the diary and several other books on the desk, saying to himself:] never heard anything like it! such impudence! [reisacher looks at him with amusement. a knock at the door.] stroebel [formally]. come in! beermann [enters hastily from the left. he breathes heavily. he has a handkerchief in his hand, with which he frequently mops his brow]. is this the proper department at last? i am being sent all around the building. [breathing heavily.] i hope i am finally in the proper bureau. stroebel. what do you want? beermann. pardon me for a moment while i catch my breath. i climbed twice to the third floor and again down to the ground floor. the commissioner sent me to room and there they told me to go to room . stroebel. who sent you? beermann [taking a deep breath]. the commissioner. i really wanted to speak to him personally, but he told me i should go to the gentleman who has "morality." are you the gentleman who has all the morality? stroebel. certainly. beermann. at last. [mopping his braze.] good god? when a matter is so urgent and so much depends on it they ought not to chase one all over the building. i must rest a bit. all this excitement and running up and down stairs.... so you are the gentleman who has the matter in hand. stroebel. what matter? beermann. on saturday night a lady was arrested. a madam de hauteville, and certain papers were taken from her. have you those papers here? stroebel. what business is that of yours? beermann. my name is beermann; fritz beermann, the banker. i am the chairman of the society for the suppression of vice. stroebel [very politely]. oh, indeed! pardon me! i didn't recall your name immediately, but i was expecting you. beermann [startled]. you--were expecting--me? stroebel. the commissioner said that you would undoubtedly call on us. beermann. he said that i undoubtedly would call? but he never mentioned a word to me about that, and i saw him just a moment ago. perhaps after all it will be better if i go down to see him again? stroebel. that is not necessary. i have full charge of the matter. beermann. oh, yes, quite right; you have charge of the matter. and you have those writings here too? stroebel. the diary? [he indicates the desk.] here it is. beermann [peeps anxiously over]. then it is a regular diary? stroebel. quite correctly kept. gives date and names. even little jesting remarks about the people concerned. beermann [shouts]. but that is an unheard of insolence! stroebel. yes. beermann. why does she write such things? to what purpose? can't she herself realize how dangerous it is? fancy, a woman whose whole stock in trade is secrecy, keeping an address hook of her patrons. confound her! stroebel. but to us as evidence it is priceless. beermann. i ask you--why does she record such things? stroebel. we can only be glad of it, herr beermann. beermann. we? stroebel. she'd lie. i tell you she'd deny everything, and that puts an end to the case. [holding the diary in the air.] but here we have the whole bunch. beermann. as though she wanted to turn state's evidence ... stroebel. let her just come to court with her confounded fine talk. [imitating hauteville's manners.] "it simply must not have happened." i will drive her to the wall with what happened. we will simply bring up those fellows, one after the other. beermann [dismayed]. to court! stroebel. certainly, and that means; hand on the bible and swear. then we shall see if "no one compelled anyone to hide in the wardrobe." beermann. how? stroebel. they will not commit perjury. beermann. that's utterly impossible! stroebel. i will make it quite warm for that man, in any event. beermann. but, counselor! stroebel [clinking heels]. assessor stroebel. beermann. but, assessor, that is simply impossible. you do not want to ruin the family life of the entire city, do you? stroebel. in what way? beermann. do you expect a respectable gentleman to appear in court and in the presence of all people to say, yes; it is true that i ... and so forth? stroebel. why not? beermann [shouting]. but they are all respectable fathers of families! stroebel. but, my dear herr beermann, what difference does that make to me? beermann. it must make a difference. it makes a difference to everybody at all times. stroebel. i assure you that i am not a bit sentimental. beermann [glancing over to reisacher]. could we have a few words together, alone? stroebel. if you wish it. reisacher, finish your police report in the outer office. reisacher. certainly, herr assessor. (takes several sheets of paper and goes out through the middle door.) stroebel. do have a seat, herr beermann. (beermann sits down on the sofa. stroebel does likewise.) beermann [mopping his brow]. a personal question, herr assessor, are you married? stroebel. no. beermann. i thought not. if you had a family you would not speak in that fashion of sentimentality. stroebel. if i had a family, i would not, to begin with, be involved in this. beermann. but ... stroebel. my name would not appear in the diary of hauteville. beermann. you never can tell. stroebel. excuse me. what is there left of family life when such things happen? beermann. what do you mean? if nobody finds it out? stroebel. but such a man must live constantly under a deception. beermann. my dear assessor. if the white lie ceases in married life, the couple drifts apart. stroebel. i cannot believe that! beermann [persuadingly]. take my word for it. in every happy marriage the parties lie to each other to keep their affection from cooling. stroebel. but both of them remain faithful. beermann. not in the least. stroebel. don't say that! beermann. not in the least; anyhow not to the very letter. a husband is true to his wife even if he ... and so forth. stroebel. your views surprise me. beermann. this is what i mean. he is true in his own fashion. he remains kind to his wife, takes a good care of his family, and that is the principal thing. that other which you have in mind is only an ideal. stroebel. ideals are lived up to. beermann. well, yes. but if we don't live up to them, we at least respect them. stroebel. herr beermann, i am astounded. you are the president of the society for the suppression of vice? beermann. can i help it that i was elected? stroebel. but at least you represent the views of your society. i thought you came here for that reason. beermann. for what reason? stroebel. to express your satisfaction at our discovery of the business of this person. beermann. you thought i came here on that account? stroebel. didn't you? beermann [mopping his brow with his handkerchief]. you'll have to pardon me, herr assessor; i am still affected by that running up and down stairs. stroebel. perhaps our conversation tires you? beermann. don't mention it. i simply cannot follow you so quickly, a moment ago you mentioned a diary, didn't you? stroebel. of this hauteville woman.--yes. beermann. have you been through this diary? stroebel. no. i have not had time yet. beermann. but you just spoke about some jesting comments in it. stroebel. only those i noticed in glancing through it. beermann [relieved]. ah! stroebel. besides, i must tell you, herr beermann, that the contents of this book must remain a secret to you. my orders are not to show it to anyone. beermann. no, no. i don't want to know anything about it. stroebel. you will find out everything later when the matter comes up in court. beermann [dismayed]. will it be read there? stroebel. certainly. to-day i can only tell you that we will proceed vigorously. you can satisfy your society on that point. beermann [rising]. but that doesn't satisfy me at all. think of the consequences. stroebel [rising also]. what do you care about the consequences. your society has its very high aims. your propaganda states that you will prosecute the outcast of society with iron energy and now you see your ideals realized. beermann. our propaganda states that we will intervene from national, moral and social viewpoints, to protect the marriage vows. if this scandal becomes public the marriage relationship will be undermined. stroebel. what sort of moral viewpoint do you call that? beermann. it is the society's. don't you understand that the influential class of society will be involved! stroebel. then that class will have only itself to blame. beermann. that's out of the question. we must find a loop-hole. stroebel. within the scope of the law there are no loop-holes. beermann. don't tell me that. well then, go around the law. stroebel [surprised]. herr beermann! beermann. of course! i have lived long enough to know that. stroebel. i shall do my duty. beermann. am i interfering with your duty? i belong to that class of people who respect the police only because the police respect our social position. stroebel. i appreciate that. beermann. i also take part in political life. i am a candidate for the reichstag and as such i have a decided opinion about these matters. stroebel. without doubt, herr beermann. beermann. well then, there are, in extreme cases, ways around the law, and there must be. stroebel. i am of a different opinion. beermann. god knows, it is not the business of the police to provoke this enormous scandal. all authority will be destroyed. it will shatter the respect of the masses for the people higher up. stroebel. but this scandal was provoked--[knocking on the diary with his finger]--by these very people. beermann. if a man once in a while goes into a certain room--that is no scandal. it only becomes a scandal when the story is made known to every tom, dick and harry. that's what must be prevented! stroebel. i value the humane motive which evidently is prompting you, herr beermann. but you must admit that we are acting entirely in accord with the views of the classes you mention. beermann. you are not! stroebel. yes, we are. two weeks ago the good people here founded a society because they felt it was necessary to proceed more severely against public immorality ... beermann.... against immorality in the lower strata where it easily degenerates into licentiousness. as the president of this society, i, at least ought to know what was intended. stroebel. even frau hochstetter belongs to the lower strata. if we are now stepping on anybody's corns, i am very sorry.... beermann. the police have no business to do anything they will be sorry for later on. good lord, had the commissioner only listened to me. an affair like this should not be treated in such a purely business-like way. stroebel. the commissioner can only tell you the same thing. he cannot change the law. beermann. anything can be done. stroebel. not at this stage. we could probably have prevented it had we known that this case would have such far-reaching consequences, but now here are the proofs. [pointing to the diary.] no one in the world can destroy them, not even the commissioner. beermann. then what do you propose to do with them? stroebel. they are going down to the district attorney's office. the avalanche is on its way. beermann. and we have simply to wait and watch what it hits? (telephone bell rings.) stroebel. pardon me a moment. (goes to the right to the telephone. while stroebel is answering the telephone, and has his back to beermann the latter crosses to the desk and tries to look into the diary. timidly he opens it several times but shuts it again quickly, when he fears that stroebel will turn around.) stroebel [answering the telephone]. police department.... assessor stroebel speaking. who is this please ... yes, this is assessor stroebel.... yes, commissioner ... [pause] i understand you, i will remain in the office ... yes, i examined the hochstetter woman.... yes, this madame hauteville [pause] i will remain in the office until you call.... yes, commissioner. good-bye. [he hangs up the receiver.] beermann [energetically closes the book and tries to appear indifferent.] stroebel. now you can convince yourself, herr beermann, the commissioner himself is following up this matter. he wants to have another conference with me about it to-day. beermann. am i to wait helplessly until the catastrophe happens? stroebel. you must be consistent.... beermann. it is possible that my best friends, acquaintances or relatives are involved ... stroebel. you must remain consistent. doesn't this splendidly justify the founding of your society? beermann [in a rage]. oh, leave me alone with your stupid vice society. are we not all human, after all! stroebel. i do not understand you. beermann. do you realize what severe pangs of conscience i suffer? last night as i pictured to myself all that is about to happen, all these family misfortunes, i asked myself this question: what really is morality? and ... i could not find the answer. stroebel. although you are ... beermann. although i am chairman of the society for the suppression of vice, yes, sir. then i asked myself this: which is the more important: that we are moral, or that we seem moral? stroebel. have you found the answer? beermann. i have. i have become fully convinced that it is far more important for the people to believe in our morality. stroebel. but you didn't need a society for that. beermann. yes, we did. just to be moral is something that i can accomplish in my room by myself, but that has no educational value. the important thing is to ally one's self publicly with moral issues. this has a beneficial effect on the family and state. stroebel. i daresay that this side of the question has not occurred to me. beermann. just consider. morality holds exactly the same position as religion. we must always create the impression that there is such a thing and we must make each other believe that each of us have it. do you suppose for one moment that religion would last if the church dealt publicly with our sins? but she forgives them quietly. the state ought to be just as shrewd. stroebel. many a thing you say seems quite true. beermann. it is true, you can depend upon it. stroebel. theoretically perhaps. but that does not change it one bit. as long as the law prescribes it, these offenses [pointing to the diary] must be dealt with publicly. beermann. although you know that thus public decency will be undermined. [stroebel shrugs his shoulders.] although the state will suffer by it? stroebel [again shrugs his shoulders]. well ... beermann. the administration knows very well the sort of conservative element there is in the society for the suppression of vice. stroebel. yes, and values it highly. beermann. let us suppose--i do not know if it be so--but let us just suppose that only one member of the society once had a weak little moment and his name were in this book ... stroebel [energetically]. then he would be summoned to court without regard or mercy. beermann. and the whole society would be made ridiculous and would go up in the air. stroebel [shrugs his shoulders]. well ... beermann [shouts]. that is the height of folly, i tell you! stroebel [instructively]. it is the fulfilment of our duty. you are a layman. with you sentiments play an important part. we, the police, on the other hand are compelled to sacrifice our feelings to our duty. beermann [holding his hands to his ears]. oh, stop that! stroebel. official duty blocks our way. beermann [angrily]. but even a jackass can jump over blocks. stroebel [offended]. her? beermann, i did not hear that remark. beermann. let me tell you something! do you know what we have been doing for the past three weeks? ... talking ourselves hoarse in order to bring about an election friendly to the present administration. for the past three weeks it has been nothing but fatherland, and the state and religion! and this is your gratitude! in the devil's own name--just picture it to yourself--a man who has been fighting the opposition in thirty different political meetings might be involved in this. stroebel [shrugs his shoulders]. what can i do? beermann. is the administration going to deliver him over to his opponents? stroebel. we would be very sorry for him, but we would have to summon him to court. beermann. without regard or mercy--? [telephone bell rings loudly.] stroebel. pardon me for a moment. [stroebel goes to the telephone and this time he turns completely around so that his back is toward beermann.] police department ... yes ... commissioner; this is stroebel at the telephone.... [short pause.] when she was arrested? ... when she was arrested there was lieutenant schmuttermaier and an officer.... [short pause.] just one policeman ... [pause.] ... yes, commissioner [short pause] i should tell that lieutenant [short interruption] jackass schmuttermaier to come over to the office immediately.... [short pause.] i shall wait for you until you come.... yes, commissioner. (during this telephone conversation beermann steps near to the desk. with a shaking hand he takes up the diary but quickly puts it down again. then he picks it up again and with a rapid and energetic movement puts it into his breast pocket. stroebel with a rebuked demeanor goes from the telephone to the desk. beermann turns around so that stroebel cannot see his face. he is disturbed and coughs in order to hide his embarrassment. stroebel presses a button on reisacher's desk.) beermann [while coughing]. i realize now that nothing more can be done. i shan't take up your time. stroebel [anxiously]. no, no, please remain. the commissioner himself will be here in a moment. then you may talk to him. beermann. but you just told me that there was no use waiting.... [reisacher enters through center door.] stroebel [urgently to reisacher]. reisacher, go and look for lieutenant schmuttermaier immediately. if he is not in the building, send to his home or telephone for him. leave word that he must come over immediately. reisacher. yes, herr assessor. [goes out quickly through center door.] beermann. you said yourself that there would be no use. i guess i'd better go. stroebel [perturbed]. but do wait for the commissioner. beermann. there is no use in my waiting. i ... i did all i could ... there seems to be no use ... well then.... good-bye! [about to go through door on left but the door is quickly opened and the commissioner appears with baron schmettau. the former holds the door open for the baron. after they have come in, he shuts the door.] commissioner [to the baron]. if you please, herr baron.... [to beermann]. ah ... here is our president of the society for the suppression of vice. [beermann bows slightly--commissioner continuing contemptuously.] well, have you accomplished your mission? [beermann nods.] are you satisfied with this arrest or would you like to have us do more? [angrily.] once for all, sir, i forbid you to meddle with the affairs of this office. you can preach your principles wherever else you like, but here i will stand for no interference. [beermann timidly creeps along the wall, and bows himself out.] [commissioner to baron schmettau.] whenever the police bungle anything, look for reformers. schmettau. [with a glance at stroebel]. will you introduce me? commissioner. assessor stroebel,--freiherr von schmettau, adjutant to his highness, prince emil. [stroebel clicks his heels together and bows deeply. schmettau thanks him curtly.] commissioner [sharply]. herr assessor, i have asked herr baron schmettau to come with me in order that in his presence i might correct a pitiable lack of tact, which to my regret, and contrary to all my intentions, was perpetrated by lieutenant schmuttermaier. schmettau. it was abominable. commissioner. what orders did that man have? stroebel [nervously]. do you mean in the case of hochstetter, commissioner? commissioner. yes, sir, madame de hauteville, who made the raid on her apartment? stroebel. the raid? commissioner. i hope before you arrested her you informed yourself exactly with whom you were dealing. stroebel. certainly ... commissioner.... and the result? stroebel. i ascertained that this woman was violating public decency. commissioner. i am going to ask you, assessor, as my inferior in office, to confine yourself to more direct answers, please. what did the investigation disclose? stroebel. that she received questionable visits from gentlemen. commissioner. questionable? then does schmuttermaier know who these gentlemen were? stroebel. he does not ... commissioner. no? didn't he investigate a matter which seemed so questionable to him? stroebel. he just wanted to ascertain that these visits were meant for hauteville. commissioner. so--? i have some truly competent officials. and who and what it was did not bother the man at all? stroebel. i myself thought that that would be found out later. commissioner. there are certain things in the world you would not be likely to look for and less likely to find. you have been treating this thing as though you were dealing with a common ordinary pickpocket. [to baron sckmettau.] you see it is just as i told you ... the man did not have the slightest idea.... [to stroebel.] did this fellow, schmuttermaier, see anyone in the flat or did he hear if anyone was there? stroebel. no, commissioner. commissioner [to baron schmettau]. it is just as i told you.... stroebel. furthermore, i have heard since that there was somebody in the apartment. commissioner [quickly]. who? stroebel. that, i have been unable to find out yet, but hauteville made several insinuations as though someone had been hidden in a wardrobe. commissioner.[to baron schmettau]. to be sure--someone--was--to my profoundest regret, his highness, our beloved hereditary prince emil. stroebel [crushed]. i ... didn't have the slightest idea ... commissioner. you people ought to have an idea once in a while. if this schmuttermaier had any ability, it would not have happened. but it is the old story, not a trace of independent ability and tact. stroebel. i don't know what apology i can offer. commissioner. neither do i. besides herr baron schmettau himself was obliged to go through this very unpleasant incident. schmettau. [schmettau speaks very precisely but puts a slight emphasis on his s.] i was completely dumfounded. i cannot understand how it could happen. just picture it ... lord knows ... i was and am of the opinion that our young highness must learn to know life. faith, it is not my business to act as his pastor.... commissioner. if you please, herr baron, that goes without saying.... schmettau. that of course is merely my opinion. i am a man of the world and of affairs. i consider it fitting that his highness should learn to know life.... commissioner. but i entirely share your opinion. schmettau. a moment ago the word "decency" was used. in my position i can listen to such words from the pulpit, but outside of the church i deem them entirely out of place. commissioner [to assessor]. you used that expression. schmettau. if anyone wants to claim that my bearing is not a proper one, he will have to prove it with a revolver in his hand. stroebel. i did not think that the word would offend you. schmettau. it did offend me. such expressions are fitting in an asylum for feeble-minded people. they should never be used to characterize the recreation of cavaliers. commissioner. may i put in a good word for my assessor? it certainly was not his intention to offend you. schmettau. it was not his intention. [to the assessor.] then i will assume that it was never said. [the assessor clicks his heels.] i am somewhat nettled but you cannot be surprised at that. you can imagine with what care i undertook this task. this madame de hauteville was recommended to me by reliable parties. she has good manners and does not talk. commissioner. in her way, she certainly seems a very decent person. schmettau. absolutely. since it was my belief that his highness must learn to know life, i could not find a better place. [to the commissioner.] we understand each other? commissioner. certainly. schmettau. every guarantee against vulgarity; everything tip-top. now picture it to yourself. i do all a man possibly can and this inconceivably awful scandal happens. commissioner. it is the old story. these people have no tact. schmettau. that doesn't help me any. i am not trying to mix in your business. that never occurred to me. but this does not help me one bit. the whole blame attaches to me. i simply will be told that such things should not have happened. that is an unheard of business. commissioner [to assessor]. for which you are to blame. schmettau. had i a suspicion that this was contemplated, i would have informed you. commissioner. if you only had! schmettau. who would think of such things? we all take it for granted that the police first of all respect protection! stroebel. on my word of honor herr baron. not even in my dreams did i think of an occurrence like this. schmettau. [squares his shoulders]. is it so difficult for you to think? commissioner. that's just what i say. if a man knows his work thoroughly these things come to him. but people who are interested in the uplift movements are always in the clouds. schmettau. this lieutenant or whatever that fellow was, behaved as though he was collecting material for a socialist newspaper. his highness was hardly in the house five minutes when there was a loud ringing. then, someone in heavy shoes ran up against the door like a drunken sailor. madame de hauteville breaks into the room and cries, "your highness, how unfortunate i am. the police are here," she says. "leave them alone," i say, "they will go away presently." "impossible," she says, "i can never permit his highness to be found by the police in my place. i will take the blame upon myself entirely." fancy the tact of that woman! "impossible," she says, "that his highness should be caught in my place." commissioner. really, very decent! schmettau. indeed it is. immediately it dawns on me that she is right. the situation is getting terrible. that policeman is likely to demand his highness' identification. what shall we do? madame says, "for heaven's sake hide in the wardrobe!" outside, that fool is making quite a rumpus. he knocks, rings, shouts and barks. the neighborhood is getting aroused and heads are popping out from right and left and in the midst of this terrible commotion, there we stand--highness and i. what shall we do? a few moments later, his highness is cramped beside me in the wardrobe, in between different pieces of woman's apparel. with great difficulty we are able to draw our breath. stroebel. if i had only had an inkling about it. commissioner [angrily]. the police are expected to grasp conditions. schmettau. then what followed? in heavy-nailed shoes the men go from room to room. doors are opened and slammed. the fellows use loud and coarse language, and three or four times they stand in front of the wardrobe. upon my word, i actually feel how his highness is perspiring. just picture to yourself the situation if that brute had opened the closet! just picture that and you can realize how much courage i had! commissioner. you must have suffered terribly. schmettau. what i suffered does not matter. in such moments one does not think of anything else but highness. what an outrage! finally the steps disappear. madame hauteville, who throughout behaved most decently and whose conduct was above reproach, is led away and highness and i can leave the wardrobe where we spent an entire twenty minutes. and now i ask again, "how can such mistakes happen?" commissioner [to assessor]. you shall find the answer to this. schmettau. upstairs the woman is still in her cell. the newspapers are full of the scandal, and highness suffers agonies when he realizes the possibilities which can develop at any moment. commissioner. herr baron, you need not worry any longer. now i am taking the matter entirely into my hands. [consulting his watch, he speaks with affected calmness.] it is now a quarter to one. this evening at eight o'clock madame de hauteville will be set free and everything will be so arranged that her discharge will arouse no suspicion. stroebel. but how are you going to do it ...? commissioner. the details of this arrangement are your affair. curtain act iii (beermann's library. elegantly furnished. a desk is backed up against a large bay-window on the right. opposite is a large book-case, and next to this a sofa. a long double door with small french panes somewhat to the left. on the left of stage a small table and a few comfortable leather chairs. on the right a simple door. beermann enters through the middle door. he goes to the desk, unlocks a drawer and takes out the diary of hauteville. he looks carefully about him, then picks out a volume of an encyclopedia from the book-case, opens it quickly and places the diary inside. he seats himself and begins to read. at this moment the center door is opened slowly, and frau beermann stands on the threshold.) frau beermann. are you alone, fritz? beermann [frightened, slams the book so that the diary is concealed in it]. goodness, you did frighten me! frau beermann. i did not know how nervous you were until yesterday. beermann. oh, what, nervous? i am over-worked and irritable. every single day, i have to prepare a new speech. frau beermann. is it in that work that i disturbed you? pardon me. beermann. do you want anything? frau beermann. i just wanted to have a few serious words with you. beermann. but not necessarily at this moment. to-morrow or ... effie. [opening the glass door, calls in]. oh, papa, did you forget? beermann [uneasily]. forget what? effie. [entering]. weren't we to see the indian dancer to-day? beermann. well, it can't be done to-day. effie. that's a shame; i wanted so much to see her and to-night is her last appearance. beermann. then we will wait until the next one comes along. effie. i don't see why just we have to have this bad luck. beermann [with emphasis]. because i have more important things to do than to watch your hop, skip and jump. effie. [jolly]. oh, aren't you cranky? beermann. i am not at all disposed for such nonsense. effie. [going over to the desk, picks up the volume of the encyclopedia.] all this comes from your politics; now i will simply confiscate your ammunition. beermann [excited]. give me that book. effie. [jumping away]. no, no, papa, you will only get sick. beermann [shouts]. i forbid these stupid jokes. put that book down. frau beermann. what is the matter? beermann. i never could tolerate disobedient children, that's all. effie. [placing the book on the desk]. oh, pardon me, papa. beermann [grasps the volume tightly and places it in the book-case]. all fooling has its limits; don't forget that. effie. now i suppose as a punishment, we can't see the dancer. beermann. really i would rather go with you than--sit here, but it is absolutely impossible. frau beermann. go now, darling; i must talk to papa alone. beermann. but i haven't the time. frau beermann [positively]. that much of it you have. effie. good-bye, papa dear. [goes out.] frau beermann [seats herself on the sofa next to the book-case. beermann stands leaning with his back against the desk. through the large window the evening sun can be seen so that beermann's face is in its light, while frau beermann sits in the half-dusk.] beermann. lena dear, do we really have ...? frau beermann. we do. beermann. can't it be postponed? frau beermann. i have postponed it many a year, but now it is high time. beermann. [disturbed]. many a year? what are you referring to? frau beermann. i have a request to make to you. beermann. with pleasure.... frau beermann. don't make a laughing-stock of your family. beermann. in what way? frau beermann. don't make a laughing stock of your family, i beg you. beermann. please don't talk in riddles. frau beermann. these are not very great riddles to you. beermann. speak plainly, won't you? frau beermann. no. i am not going to speak more plainly. beermann. as your husband, i demand it. frau beermann. n-no. beermann. that is very sad. there should be no secrets at all between husband and wife. frau beermann. is this a principle again? fancy all these great secrets! [beermann shrugs his shoulders.] no. now take it for granted that i know a thing or two about you. beermann [with anxiety]. you? frau beermann. several things. some which you must know only too well. after all, that principle of yours has not been violated. there remain no secrets whatever between us. beermann. i assure you i shall not rack my brains about it. frau beermann. nor would i want you to regard me as sitting in judgment on your acts. beermann [with a false pathos]. instead of telling me freely and frankly of the gossip you have heard about me; then i could defend myself. frau beermann. that is just what i want to avoid. to me it appears somewhat childish when a man tries to justify ... beermann [just as before]. in this manner, the lowest gossip can destroy the happiness of any family. frau beermann [seriously]. fritz, really, there is no one listening to us just now. beermann. you are not taking me in earnest. frau beermann. no, and it is our good fortune that i am not. at least, my good fortune. beermann. you call that good fortune? i might have expected something different from you. frau beermann. no, sir, you did not. if you will be honest with me, you will admit that. this many a year, we have been playing a common farce. you acted the true christian head of the family and i the all-believing audience. beermann. how nice! frau beermann. not nice but it's true. perhaps the fault is not entirely ours, for we learned it from our parents. you men are supposed to impress us with your greatness and we women are to stand by and admire. beermann. do you find that impossible? frau beermann. even the best christian family principles must have some foundation. what was i supposed to admire? beermann. you ask that now? frau beermann. perhaps i gave it up sooner than others. but that is due to our relationship. we were always together. where is a man to get pose and character enough to last him for twenty-four hours every day? beermann. so that is about your conception of our married life? frau beermann. that is it exactly. beermann. and after all the years ... frau beermann. i acquired it rather early. beermann. now, after twenty-six years you declare that you are unhappy. frau beermann. no, fritz, it has not led us to unhappiness. there has been no sudden shattering of an ideal. our marriage was not an ideal and ... don't feel offended ... your personality was never so immaculate, that one stain more or less would spoil the effect. beermann [excited]. but there must be some sort of reason back of all these reproaches? frau beermann. if you think them reproaches, then we do not understand each other. beermann. what else are they? frau beermann. i meant it merely as a request. do not bring your family into ridicule. beermann. you are playing hide and seek all the time. in what way am i likely to do that? frau beermann. with your moral priesthood to which you have absolutely no right. beermann. no right? frau beermann. not the slightest one. but you are creating enemies who will make a laughing-stock of us all, if they find out certain things. those things can be found out whether we like it or not. beermann [forced laughter]. lena dear, i believe you are jealous. frau beermann [quietly]. jealous, of what? [short pause.] i hope that you credit me with at least good taste enough not to be jealous of my so-called right, and ... otherwise what can i lose? no, fritz, i am not jealous. [short pause, it is getting darker.] i had to get accustomed to it; that's true. this secrecy, the petty lies and the false gravity irritated me a little bit too much at first, but i made an effort so that i could still retain a feeling of comradeship. i overcame it daily, because--well because i never really took you seriously. [pause.] beermann [with, a false pathos]. lena, dear, do you realize what things you are saying? frau beermann. yes, fully. beermann [as above]. that is dreadful. every word is a ... catastrophe! i have until today, i have until this hour, believed in our established quiet happiness. now shall all this pass away? frau beermann. nothing but your confidence in my blindness shall pass away. beermann. think it over. there can be no real family life after people lose faith in each other. frau beermann. oh, a person gets used even to that. beermann. no. lena, listen. someone has been telling you tales and i cannot defend myself, because i don't know what i am accused of. you must tell me everything right now. i demand it of you. frau beermann. if i wanted to do that, i would have to begin "many, many years ago ..." beermann. well, why didn't you do it then? frau beermann. you can well understand, i had my reasons. beermann. for such silence there can be no reasons. frau beermann. i could shut my eyes and remain silent. that was my privilege. but if i had spoken out and permitted you to appease me ... no, that was something beyond me. to do that i would have been obliged to lie and for that i, for one, have not the ability. [beermann makes a motion.] no, do not interrupt me. these things will have no consequences as long as i do not wish them to, but if i should name them, then they would have. beermann. then shall i let this suspicion rest upon me? frau beermann. yes. beermann. how coldly you speak. if what you suspect were true, you could not be so indifferent about it. frau beermann. do the by-laws of your society prescribe that in cases like these the wife shall be unhappy? beermann. imagine! the many years that you and i have lived together and you had these suspicions right along and never said a word about them. why do you speak today? frau beermann. because you have reached the point where our friendship for one another may break. everything i see and hear from you now hurts me. you speak in a tone of strictness, which must be unpleasant even to you. for weeks past there has been nothing around me but lies. what you say to me, all that you say to the children, and what you preached here publicly last night. every word hurts my ears and urges me to contradict you; i am silent and by doing that i endorse your lies. beermann. but, lena ... frau beermann. finally when your every glance is artificial, each motion of yours is a pose. then it is unbearable. add to that my anxiety for our children. how shall they still retain faith in us, if through an accident their eyes are opened? i had remained silent all this time for their sake and now you are inviting the whole world to speak. i cannot continue to live this life of worry and hypocrisy. all that i have already overcome awakens again and appears to me more ugly than ever before. i do not know if i can still believe in your good fellowship and remain your friend. [she rises and goes slowly to the door.] beermann. i do not seem to know you any more. during our entire married life, you have not spoken as seriously as in the last fifteen minutes. frau beermann. that perhaps was my great mistake. but i have paid for it. [she opens the door.] beermann. lena dear, have you nothing further to tell me? frau beermann. i just beg of you; do not bring your family into ridicule. [exit.] beermann [for a while remains standing; lost in thought; then he turns on the electric light, sighing, goes over to the bookcase, takes out the volume of the encyclopedia wherein the diary of madams de hauteville is hidden, opens it and reads standing. a knock on the door. frightened, he quickly hides the diary in his side pocket.] beermann. come in. [justizrat hauser enters on the left.] hauser. lord; good evening. beermann [hurrying toward him]. lord; how glad i am that you have come. hauser. has anything happened? beermann. n ... no. hauser. i received your message that you must see me tonight without fail. beermann. yes, i was at your house twice. hauser. unfortunately, i was not there. [he has taken off his overcoat and is laying it on a chair.] tell me, you seem to me all upset. beermann. i am upset. hauser. i suppose that is why you sent for me. well, then, what is it? beermann. have a seat, please. [they sit down to the left on the sofa.] i must begin a little way back.... have a cigar? [he goes over to the humidor, takes out a box of cigars and offers it to hauser, who takes one.] i must begin a little way back ... can you remember the subject we discussed last night? hauser. the genuinely righteous moral life? [he lights his cigar.] of course, i remember it. such sermons are not easily forgotten. beermann. do you know i got the impression that you have a rather liberal viewpoint. hauser. liberal? beermann. i mean that you are not a prude. hauser. i am an old lawyer, you know, and just out of sheer habit contradict people. i made myself blacker than i actually am. so, if you have scruples on my account ... beermann. i merely mentioned it because you understand life and i must speak to someone who judges more liberally than our narrow minded bourgeois. hauser. more liberally than you judged last night? beermann. i was overzealous, but don't let us talk about it. i want to ask you for advice. [short pause.] you lawyers are bound to respect professional secrets? hauser. we must respect them. beermann. what i am about to tell you, you will probably find most astounding, but it is to be considered absolutely confidential. even though your client confesses a crime, you are not permitted to divulge the information? hauser. what a careful criminal you are! beermann. it is possible that you will find this information most unpleasant. hauser [bends and talks in a low voice]. now don't worry about me, beermann. i will know how to protect your interests. the law gives me the right to remain silent in any event. beermann. well then ... [nervously runs his fingers through his hair] i really have to begin a little way back. the last few days i have been thinking a great deal about monogamy. i am surely the last person to doubt the high moral value of the marriage vow, but there is something to be said on the other side. it is indeed a very ticklish theme to discuss. hauser. suppose then that we skip the prologue and the few opening chapters and start at once with the affair of madame hauteville. beermann. how do you know ...? hauser. i suspected. you probably are not the first one who has come to confess to me. since last night many consciences have been jolted. so you, too, belong to that crowd? beermann. you ask yourself how such things are possible? hauser. no, sir, i never ask myself such stupid questions. beermann. you have always believed that an undisturbed happiness prevailed in my family. hauser [quickly]. beermann, i resent that! do not try to make yourself interesting. beermann. don't take it the wrong way. i am not blaming anybody. i just want to ... hauser. you even want to find moral justification for your immorality. beermann. i know well enough that it is unjustifiable. i have been saying that to myself a hundred thousand times. do not think that i overcame my principles so easily. hauser. all you had to overcome was your timidity. beermann [sighing deeply]. if you only knew. hauser. of course you did not land on the primrose path with both feet, but you climbed carefully over the fence--just as befits a man of your embonpoint. beermann. i expected something better from you than mere mocking. hauser. what do you want me to do? shall i weep because you have sinned? why? what good would it do you? that is the way of your kind. as long as no one has proofs against you, your virtue must always be under the spotlight, but the very minute you trip up, some peculiar background of justification ought to be invented for the smallest sin. no, my dear friend. the world's moral system will not go to pieces just because you slipped and broke your nose. beermann. you cannot realize what suffering you are inflicting upon me right now. hauser. now please don't make long speeches. you did not call me here to grant you absolution. you want me to help you to quash this affair. beermann [jumps up quickly from his chair]. yes, you must do that. good lord, i beg you. i am in a terrible position. you have not the slightest idea how nervous i am. hauser. will you please sit down and stop exaggerating? beermann [sits down]. no man living can have sufficient imagination to enlarge on this. imagine it! any moment the police are likely to come here and arrest me. hauser [seriously]. have you been carrying on so badly at hauteville's? beermann. no. not there. that is not worth while mentioning. hauser. why then do you fear the police? that's all nonsense. now just consider everything quietly and calmly. by the way, has your wife any suspicions ...? beermann. of this affair? i don't think so. she has just a general one ... but what's the use of bothering with trifles! you know that this stupid woman kept a diary, and that they found it in her apartment. hauser. assuredly i know it. without that diary we would not have so many penitents in the city. beermann. imagine my position. i know positively that my name is in that book. it means that i am simply done for by the cursed thing. hauser. is it so certain that your name is in the book? beermann [loudly]. yes, sir. hauser. it may be possible that ... beermann. it is not at all possible. my name is there. shall i quietly sit and wait until i am ruined? you know that i would be ruined if it became public. fancy, i, the candidate for the reichstag; i, the president of the society for the suppression of vice! all the papers would be full of it. hauser. oh, yes, it would be quite interesting. beermann. then think of the consequences here in the city! in the family! why, i would be killed outright! lord, how i tried to hammer it into the head of that stupid man in the police department so he could understand what terrible mischief this will make. hauser [frightened]. you went to police headquarters? beermann. of course, i was there. hauser. did you confess? beermann. how can you suppose that? [sits down again.] i spoke for the others. i explained to the official that he is showing up the influential element; that he is injuring the established order of society,--but [he touches his forehead with his palm] that fellow has nothing but police ordinances in his head. hauser. shouting will not help us a bit. remain cool and collected. one thing is important, at this moment. has the diary reached the district attorney's office? beermann. no, it has not. hauser. well, as long as it remains in the police department there are still possibilities. beermann. it is not in the police department either. hauser. of course it is there. where else should it be? beermann [indicating his side pocket]. here. hauser [amazed]. what? beermann [takes the diary out of his side pocket and places it on the table]. here it is. hauser. so, this is the celebrated diary of madame hauteville. [beermann nods.] who gave it to you? beermann. nobody. i just took it. hauser. you mean; you sto ... beermann.... stole it, yes, sir. hauser [pulls back his chair and breaks into a loud laugh]. you did that! [he laughs.] ... say, that's pretty good. now i am beginning to respect you. confound it, i would never have given you credit for a stunt like this. [he laughs and slaps his knee.] beermann. laugh, while i am dying of fright. hauser. don't spoil my good impression of you! i am on the point of admiring you. [he laughs again.] let me apologize. i always held you as a wishy-washy bourgeois and now you go and pull this thing off. beermann. you had better give me some advice. i have not had a quiet moment since i took the book. i want to destroy it but how can i? if i tear it up the pieces will be found. hauser. burn it. beermann. where? there is no fire in the house, except in the kitchen range. if i hide it, i shall always have to run to and fro to see if it is there, and i feel less safe if i have it on my person. then i have always a feeling as though that thing were bulging out my pocket; and the police must be missing it by this time. hauser. oh, tear out the page on which your name appears and send it back anonymously. beermann. impossible. my name appears on almost every second page. hauser. oh ... so. beermann. what shall i do when the police ask me for the book? hauser. there is only one way; you know nothing about it. beermann. but they will be dead certain that i have it. hauser. remain firm. for heaven's sake don't fall into the trap that by confessing you will improve this fine job. [a loud and prolonged ringing of the electric bell is heard.] beermann [frightened, exclaims]. there, do you hear that? hauser. some visitor, i suppose. beermann. this is no time to make visits. [anxiously picking up the diary.] what shall i do with the damned thing? [takes out a volume of the encyclopedia and wants to hide the diary in it but hesitates, and then puts the volume back on the shelf.] lord, where shall i put it? hauser. come, give it to me. beermann [gives him the book and hauser puts it in his side pocket.] hauser. no one will search me for it. beermann. stay here with me ... please. hauser. if it gives you any pleasure, yes; but man alive, pull yourself together. suppose it really were the police; you are trembling all over. [a knock on the door.] beermann [crouching]. quiet now. [another knock.] come in. [betty comes in from the left and hands beermann a visiting card.] betty. the gentleman says it is very urgent. beermann [with a trembling hand beermann takes up the visiting card and reads]. professor wasner. [he sighs audibly and then says with forced vigor.] show the gentleman up. [betty exit.] beermann. and this has been my state of mind for the past six hours. hauser [offering him his hand]. now be brave, my dear friend, and even if they should come to you, just deny it outright. you'll know how to lie. a man of such rare abilities.... good night. [goes out on the left. in the doorway, he almost collides with professor wasner. they greet each other.] wasner [wears a cape the left corner thrown picturesquely over his right shoulder, holds a large slouch hat in his hand. his hair is disheveled. his flaxen beard falls on his chest]. i am here in regard to the most remarkable matter a man ever came to consult another about. beermann [very nervous]. must it be today, herr professor? wasner. the situation permits of no delay. beermann. but it is getting so late. wasner. i admit that this is hardly the proper time to make visits. nevertheless, i entreat you to hear me. [beermann seats himself at the desk, takes out a large handkerchief and presses it against his forehead. wasner remains standing and continues.] for many years, as you well know, i undertook the task of collecting all publications which have been undermining public morals. i daresay today, that my collection is most complete and that i have unquestionably proven the harm of pornographic literature. what corrupting influence this temptation has through suggestion and imagination can today no longer be doubted, because--[an impressive pause; wasner lowers his voice]--i myself fell a victim to it. [beermann remains in his apathetic attitude. pause.] i can well understand that you lack words. i, too, became, on account of it, much disgusted with my character. i asked myself if i still have the right to participate in the moral salvation of our people and i have decided affirmatively only after a thorough examination. [pause.] beermann [absentmindedly]. yes ... yes ... herr professor. wasner. you are entitled to know everything. only spare me the details. briefly stated, one day i could not view my collection as objectively as usual and thru a friend i was induced to make a most damnable visit. i assure you that i simply loathe that fellow. beermann. but just why are you telling me all this? wasner. because together we have fought against immorality shoulder to shoulder. i ask you if you still deem me worthy to strive for our common ideal. beermann. for my part, go as far as you like, i won't stop you. wasner. then you will not deny me your assistance? beermann. suppose we discuss all this tomorrow, herr professor? wasner. tomorrow will be too late. [beermann falls back into his chair in an attitude of apathy.] after my false step i became convinced that it is my duty to protect others from this temptation. my feeling of duty became stronger until finally i wrote a letter to be exact--an anonymous letter--to the police, wherein i demanded emphatically that they put an end to the misconduct of this person. beermann [now attentive.] really that was not nice. wasner. i wanted to assure myself that within i still had the right to belong to the society for the suppression of vice. beermann. i consider that rather mean. you should always be grateful. wasner. this very feeling would have made me feel still more guilty. [beermann shrugs his shoulders nervously.] but now i come to the reason for my being here. my information had results ... this creature was arrested and today after dinner my false friend comes to tell me that he had not been careful, had mentioned to her my name, and i am certainly indexed in the book she kept. this book was found in her place by the police. beermann [jumping up]. what's her name? wasner. hauteville. beermann. so, it is you to whom we are indebted for this scandal. [angrily.] do you fully realize what you have accomplished? how many respectable fathers of families you have brought to the very verge of despair? wasner. i know it. beermann. you don't. wasner. i came here for that very reason. beermann [not understanding him]. what? wasner. i came here to request you on behalf of the others to call tonight, a meeting of the executive committee. the society must do everything in its power to keep this case out of court. beermann. why the devil did you write that anonymous letter? wasner. listen to me, i beg of you. someone is involved in this who is very dear to you. as soon as i received the information, i hastened to police headquarters immediately and wanted to intervene there as the representative of the society for the suppression of vice. but when i mentioned that name i was very formally thrown out. on the steps, whom do you think i met but our mutual friend, kommerzienrat bolland! he too had been in the commissioner's office and had the same bad luck. i told him my troubles and he admitted to me that he also had been lured into the den of this siren. beermann. kommerzienrat! wasner. unfortunately. but that is something i can't at all account for. he hardly could have been led into temptation through a collection of documentary exhibits. beermann. and what do you want of me now? wasner. our friend sends me to you. he would have come himself but the shock threw him into a sickbed. he entreats you urgently to call a meeting of the executive committee, immediately. we have very influential people in our midst who must bring pressure to bear on the department of the interior in order to hush up this affair. beermann. if only you had not written that anonymous letter. wasner. i felt a moral duty to do it. beermann. and now it is our moral duty to patch up this matter. [betty enters on the left.] betty [hands beermann a calling card]. the gentleman says it is very urgent. beermann [reads]. "assessor stroebel." [frightened; to betty.] tell him i am out of town. [betty about to leave.] no, tell him i am sick--or, betty, show the gentleman up. [betty goes out.] wasner. at what time shall the executive committee meet? beermann [excited]. oh, leave me alone with your executive committee. wasner. you must not desert us in our hour of peril. a leader's fate is bound up with his followers according to german tradition. beermann [as before]. it is all your fault anyway. wasner. shall i then tell our sick friend that we cannot count on your support? beermann. if i am so situated that i can, i will be over to see him in an hour. i can't promise you more now. [assessor stroebel enters on left and remains standing in the doorway.] stroebel [very seriously.] herr beermann, i must speak to you privately. beermann [confused]. you--with me? well, since you must, i suppose you must. wasner. well, i am going. [wasner exit left.] [stroebel enters. wasner remains standing on the threshold.] the executive committee will be called to the sick bed of our friend. we shall await our chairman. [he goes. stroebel and beermann remain standing, silent, facing each other.] stroebel. you are surprised, i presume, that i come here at this unusual hour. beermann. why should i be surprised? stroebel. you will have to pardon me. the matter which brings me here is unusual and urgent. beermann. oh, don't mention it. [a short pause. they both clear their throats.] stroebel. you were in my office this morning ... beermann. was i? stroebel. why, of course you were in my office this morning. beermann. oh, yes, yes. i remember we had a short conference. i must ask you to excuse me, herr assessor. i am suffering with an awful ringing in the ears. it makes me so forgetful. stroebel. but i hope you still remember what we spoke about. beermann. very dimly. if you would remind me of it perhaps it will not be so difficult. stroebel. you came on account of the hauteville case. beermann. so-o? stroebel. or the hochstetter ... beermann. well, since you say so, it must be so. stroebel. first i thought you came to express your satisfaction that we had caught this person ... beermann. no, that was not my purpose. stroebel. i am sure it wasn't. i was quite surprised that you were not satisfied with her arrest. beermann. why shouldn't i not be satisfied with her arrest? stroebel [nervously]. but, herr beermann, you will recollect how we discussed the diary. beermann [quickly]. a diary? i know nothing about it. stroebel. you even became quite excited about it. beermann. i know nothing whatever of any diary. you never showed me any book at all. of that i am very positive. stroebel [in despair]. it is just my confounded luck to find you in this predicament. you are evidently suffering. beermann. an awful ringing in my ears-- stroebel. i would leave you at once if the least delay were possible. but i simply must speak to you about it tonight. can't you get relief by taking medicine? beermann. no medicine can help me. i can only tell you that i do not know anything about any diary. stroebel. lord, lord, leave the diary out of it altogether. it is absolutely of no importance. beermann. it is of no importance? stroebel. of course, it is safely locked in my desk ... beermann. is that so? well, then i can't understand why you hurried to see me tonight. stroebel [very embarrassed]. but that is exactly what i wanted to explain to you. but how shall i do it? you scarcely remember any more than that you were in my office this morning. it is incredible how misfortune has been persecuting me since noon. beermann [greatly relieved]. well, calm yourself, herr assessor. it will come out right in the end. stroebel [downcast]. no, it can never come out right. beermann [soothingly]. sit down nicely in this chair--so! i'll sit next to you here--so! ... and now let us see about it. [they seat themselves on the left, upstage.] do you know, i am beginning to feel much better already. so the diary is in your desk. stroebel. for my part, let it be buried a thousand feet deep. for god's sake, don't talk of it any more. it takes us away from my subject. beermann. that's right. we shan't talk of it any more. now let me see, i called on you about the hauteville case.... stroebel. and on this occasion you demanded that the police suppress the matter. beermann. quite true, i did that. stroebel. there you are! and that's why i thought you were mostly interested in avoiding scandal. beermann. in what way? stroebel. not personally, but from a wholly humanitarian or civic standpoint. you even told me that just because of your position as president of the society for the suppression of vice, you regarded it as your duty to keep this matter out of the courts. beermann. only for the common welfare. stroebel. and out of consideration for public opinion. i had the impression that these considerations were of great importance to you. beermann. and still are. do you think i change my views? i repeat to you, that i would consider this court trial a misfortune because it would be contrary to the established order of society. stroebel. then we are agreed in our principles! beermann. you too? stroebel. absolutely. beermann. i thought that you had ... this forenoon ... stroebel. and i was also mistaken because you didn't seem to remember. but at any rate we agree in our principles. [they shake hands.] although that does not accomplish anything still it is a great relief to me that we understand each other. i am coming now to the real purpose of my visit. [he clears his throat.] herr beermann, i must demand your word of honor that not a syllable of what i tell you will ever pass your lips. beermann. my sacred word of honor. stroebel. these are official secrets, perhaps even state secrets, and a single careless word might have tremendous consequences. beermann. you can depend on me. stroebel. not even to your family. beermann. not a breath. stroebel. to tell you: since you were at my office this morning there were most remarkable developments, quite unique in their way. but i have your word of honor--have i not? beermann. my sacred word of honor. stroebel [bends low and protects his mouth with his hand and whispers]. that very night when madame hauteville's apartment was raided, without our knowledge a very distinguished person was hidden there. beermann. i can imagine. stroebel [loudly]. you can't imagine it at all. [whispering.] our young heir, prince emil, was there himself. beermann [surprised, slapping his thigh]. now what do you think of that! stroebel [loudly]. you can understand that i am not telling you this as a mere bit of gossip, but certain important reasons compel me to. that which you mentioned before about the reasons of state was fulfilled. fulfilled to the very letter. all possibilities of prosecuting this person at present have simply gone up in the air. beermann [starting from his seat]. then everything is all right. stroebel. there's nothing "all right" about it. keep your seat, herr beermann. of course our desire to prosecute has disappeared, but the lady in question is still at headquarters and we don't know how to get rid of her. beermann. madame hauteville? [stroebel nods.] just forget to lock the door and she'll vanish. stroebel [shaking his head]. no, ... for a great many reasons. do you think i did not try hard to find a solution? first, if we openly permit her to escape, the whole city will know it tomorrow; the press will take it up and there will be a far greater scandal than the court proceedings would cause. no, sir, at least the letter of the law must be carried out. madame hauteville must give a bond. she will be set free and then she must escape. that's the only way we can protect ourselves from criticism. do you understand me? beermann. you mean ... about the bail? stroebel. yes, sir, the bail first of all. but if it were only the bail! just think! she doesn't want to go at all. beermann. she does not want to ...? stroebel. no. i gave her another hearing this afternoon and told her that we don't care to bother with her any more. "listen," i said to her, "you are lucky. give bail of five thousand marks, and you will be free in ten minutes. there is a ten o'clock train for brussels tomorrow morning." [the bell in the hall rings.] what do you suppose she said? she laughed. she knows very well why we are so humane, but she will not give a bond of five marks, even if by luck she had it. she says that she has already prepared for a trial. i talked to her politely, then rudely. she will not budge. she laughs and laughs and that's all. [knock at the door. maid enters with a visiting card.] beermann [to the maid]. what does it all mean to-night, at this hour? this is not a hotel. [takes the card and reads.] freiherr bodo von schmettau, herr auf zirnberg? stroebel. do receive this gentleman, please. beermann. now, while we are conferring? stroebel. yes, now, if you please. beermann [to the maid]. ask the gentleman to come in. [betty exit.] stroebel. he is adjutant to the young prince. i told him i was going to see you, and you can realize how upset he is. beermann. if it affords you pleasure. stroebel. it does. the entire responsibility rests on me and i at least must show that i have left nothing undone. [knock on the door.] beermann. come in. [schmettau enters.] schmettau. good evening. stroebel [rising. beermann rises also]. may i introduce you gentlemen? herr beermann, the banker--herr baron schmettau. schmettau. we have already had a glimpse of each other today. beermann. yes, i remember. schmettau. you are the president of the local morality club. before we go further i must tell you that i do not at all agree with those views ... stroebel [interrupting with anxiety]. herr baron, may i call your attention to the fact that herr beermann, personally, is far above these narrow theories. schmettau. i am glad to hear it. besides as theories they're not so bad. beermann. as theories! that's what i say. schmettau. well, there you are! stroebel. herr beermann is also the candidate of the local conservative-liberal coalition. schmettau. then he is certainly no stickler for high-flown notions. i should be right glad if we understood each other. and how far are you, gentlemen? stroebel. in principles we are agreed. beermann. absolutely. schmettau. then we shall have no difficulty in finding the right solution. stroebel. i have taken herr beermann into our confidence. schmettau. that was a very disagreeable mishap, was it not? very bad. whoever has any patriotism can realize it. beermann. herr baron was also ... schmettau. locked in the closet. stroebel. permit me to revert to the facts. i was just telling herr beermann that this hauteville woman refuses to leave. she boasts that she has not the bail and even if she had it, she would not pay it. schmettau. confound her! she controls the situation. stroebel. now we come to the most difficult part of it. she says that if she is compelled to leave the city and is deprived of her livelihood, she wants proper damages for it. of course i told the woman that this, to say the least, was an extortionate demand. well then, she says, we will have a trial in court. beermann. the fox! she knows well that's out of the question. schmettau. i am very grateful to you for these sentiments. stroebel. i asked what she considered proper damages. "ten thousand marks," she says. i almost lost my senses. with the necessary bail that would make fifteen thousand marks. schmettau. in the end perhaps that is not so gigantic. stroebel. who is going to pay it? schmettau. not we, of course. our state is a poor paymaster. stroebel. here is a fine mess, which i cannot solve--at least not i. herr beermann, you said yourself that your society for the suppression of vice is vitally interested in the undisturbed maintenance of the popular belief in morality. for the members of your society, it ought to be quite easy to collect that sum. i know of no other way. beermann [with folded hands he stands in a pensive mood]. the executive committee is expecting its chairman. and i know of a professor who alone ought to pay an extra thousand for a letter he wrote. [to the others.] gentlemen, briefly speaking, i will do it. on behalf of the society, i pledge this sum. schmettau. herr von beermann, i can only say that you have acted honorably. the house of emil the benevolent knows on whom to confer an order. [he offers his hand.] beermann. but let me assure you, herr baron, i did not do it expecting a reward. curtain love and intrigue. a tragedy. by frederich schiller dramatis personae. president von walter, prime minister in the court of a german prince. ferdinand, his son; a major in the army; in love with louisa miller. baron von kalb, court marshal (or chamberlain). worm, private secretary to the president. miller, the town musician, and teacher of music. mrs. miller, his wife. louisa, the daughter of miller, in love with ferdinand. lady milford, the prince's mistress. sophy, attendant on lady milford. an old valet in the service of the prince. officers, attendants, etc. act i. scene i. miller--mrs. miller. miller (walking quickly up and down the room). once for all! the affair is becoming serious. my daughter and the baron will soon be the town-talk--my house lose its character--the president will get wind of it, and--the short and long of the matter is, i'll show the younker the door. mrs miller. you did not entice him to your house--did not thrust your daughter upon him! miller. didn't entice him to my house--didn't thrust the girl upon him! who'll believe me? i was master of my own house. i ought to have taken more care of my daughter. i should have bundled the major out at once, or have gone straight to his excellency, his papa, and disclosed all. the young baron will get off merely with a snubbing, i know that well enough, and all the blame will fall upon the fiddler. mrs miller (sipping her coffee). pooh! nonsense! how can it fall upon you? what have people to do with you? you follow your profession, and pick up pupils wherever you can find them. miller. all very fine, but please to tell me what will be the upshot of the whole affair? he can't marry the girl--marriage is out of the question, and to make her his--god help us! "good-by t'ye!" no, no--when such a sprig of nobility has been nibbling here and there and everywhere, and has glutted himself with the devil knows what all, of course it will be a relish to my young gentleman to get a mouthful of sweet water. take heed! take heed! if you were dotted with eyes, and could place a sentinel for every hair of your head, he'll bamboozle her under your very nose; add one to her reckoning, take himself off, and the girl's ruined for life, left in the lurch, or, having once tasted the trade, will carry it on. (striking his forehead.) oh, horrible thought! mrs miller. god in his mercy protect us! miller. we shall want his protection. you may well say that. what other object can such a scapegrace have? the girl is handsome--well made--can show a pretty foot. how the upper story is furnished matters little. that's blinked in you women if nature has not played the niggard in other respects. let this harum-scarum but turn over this chapter--ho! ho! his eyes will glisten like rodney's when he got scent of a french frigate; then up with all sail and at her, and i don't blame him for it-- flesh is flesh. i know that very well. mrs miller. you should only read the beautiful billy-doux which the baron writes to your daughter. gracious me! why it's as clear as the sun at noonday that he loves her purely for her virtuous soul. miller. that's the right strain! we beat the sack, but mean the ass's back. he who wishes to pay his respects to the flesh needs only a kind heart for a go-between. what did i myself? when we've once so far cleared the ground that the affections cry ready! slap! the bodies follow their example, the appetites are obedient, and the silver moon kindly plays the pimp. mrs miller. and then only think of the beautiful books that the major has sent us. your daughter always prays out of them. miller (whistles). prays! you've hit the mark. the plain, simple food of nature is much too raw and indigestible for this maccaroni gentleman's stomach. it must be cooked for him artificially in the infernal pestilential pitcher of your novel-writers. into the fire with the rubbish! i shall have the girl taking up with--god knows what all--about heavenly fooleries that will get into her blood, like spanish flies, and scatter to the winds the handful of christianity that cost her father so much trouble to keep together. into the fire with them i say! the girl will take the devil's own nonsense into her head; amidst the dreams of her fool's paradise she'll not know her own home, but forget and feel ashamed of her father, the music-master; and, lastly, i shall lose a worthy, honest son-in-law who might have nestled himself so snugly into my connections. no! damn it! (jumps up in a passion.) i'll break the neck of it at once, and the major--yes, yes, the major! shall be shown where the carpenter made the door. (going.) mrs miller. be civil, miller! how many a bright shilling have his presents---- miller (comes back, and goes up to her). the blood money of my daughter? to beelzebub with thee, thou infamous bawd! sooner will i vagabondize with my violin and fiddle for a bit of bread--sooner will i break to pieces my instrument and carry dung on the sounding-board than taste a mouthful earned by my only child at the price of her soul and future happiness. give up your cursed coffee and snuff-taking, and there will be no need to carry your daughter's face to market. i have always had my bellyful and a good shirt to my back before this confounded scamp put his nose into my crib. mrs miller. now don't be so ready to pitch the house out of window. how you flare up all of a sudden. i only meant to say that we shouldn't offend the major, because he is the son of the president. miller. there lies the root of the mischief. for that reason--for that very reason the thing must be put a stop to this very day! the president, if he is a just and upright father, will give me his thanks. you must brush up my red plush, and i will go straight to his excellency. i shall say to him,--"your excellency's son has an eye to my daughter; my daughter is not good enough to be your excellency's son's wife, but too good to be your excellency's son's strumpet, and there's an end of the matter. my name is miller." scene ii. enter secretary worm. mrs miller. ah! good morning, mr. seckertary! have we indeed the pleasure of seeing you again? worm. all on my side--on my side, cousin miller! where a high-born cavalier's visits are received mine can be of no account whatever. mrs miller. how can you think so, mr. seckertary? his lordship the baron, major ferdinand, certainly does us the honor to look in now and then; but, for all that, we don't undervalue others. miller (vexed). a chair, wife, for the gentleman! be seated, kinsman. worm (lays aside hat and stick, and seats himself). well, well--and how then is my future--or past--bride? i hope she'll not be--may i not have the honor of seeing--miss louisa? mrs miller. thanks for inquiries, mr. seckertary, but my daughter is not at all proud. miller (angry, jogs her with his elbow). woman! mrs miller. sorry she can't have that honor, mr. seckertary. my daughter is now at mass. worm. i am glad to hear it,--glad to hear it. i shall have in her a pious, christian wife! mrs miller (smiling in a stupidly affected manner). yes--but, mr. seckertary---- miller (greatly incensed, pulls her ears). woman! mrs miller. if our family can serve you in any other way--with the greatest pleasure, mr. seckertary---- worm (frowning angrily). in any other way? much obliged! much obliged!--hm! hm! hm! mrs miller. but, as you yourself must see, mr. seckertary---- miller (in a rage, shaking his fist at her). woman! mrs miller. good is good, and better is better, and one does not like to stand between fortune and one's only child (with vulgar pride). you understand me, mr. seckertary? worm. understand. not exac---. oh, yes. but what do you really mean? mrs miller. why--why--i only think--i mean--(coughs). since then providence has determined to make a great lady of my daughter---- worm (jumping from his chair). what's that you say? what? miller. keep your seat, keep your seat, mr. secretary! the woman's an out-and-out fool! where's the great lady to come from? how you show your donkey's ears by talking such stuff. mrs miller. scold as long as you will. i know what i know, and what the major said he said. miller (snatches up his fiddle in anger). will you hold your tongue? shall i throw my fiddle at your head? what can you know? what can he have said? take no notice of her clack, kinsman! away with you to your kitchen! you'll not think me first cousin of a fool, and that i'm looking out so high for the girl? you'll not think that of me, mr. secretary? worm. nor have i deserved it of you, mr. miller! you have always shown yourself a man of your word, and my contract to your daughter was as good as signed. i hold an office that will maintain a thrifty manager; the president befriends me; the door to advancement is open to me whenever i may choose to take advantage of it. you see that my intentions towards miss louisa are serious; if you have been won over by a fop of rank---- mrs miller. mr. seckertary! more respect, i beg---- miller. hold your tongue, i say. never mind her, kinsman. things remain as they were. the answer i gave you last harvest, i repeat to-day. i'll not force my daughter. if you suit her, well and good; then it's for her to see that she can be happy with you. if she shakes her head--still better--be it so, i should say--then you must be content to pocket the refusal, and part in good fellowship over a bottle with her father. 'tis the girl who is to live with you--not i. why should i, out of sheer caprice, fasten a husband upon the girl for whom she has no inclination? that the evil one may haunt me down like a wild beast in my old age--that in every drop i drink--in every bit of bread i bite, i might swallow the bitter reproach: thou art the villain who destroyed his child's happiness! mrs miller. the short and the long of it is--i refuse my consent downright; my daughter's intended for a lofty station, and i'll go to law if my husband is going to be talked over. miller. shall i break every bone in your body, you millclack? worm (to miller). paternal advice goes a great way with the daughter, and i hope you know me, mr. miller? miller. plague take you! 'tis the girl must know you. what an old crabstick like me can see in you is just the very last thing that a dainty young girl wants. i'll tell you to a hair if you're the man for an orchestra--but a woman's heart is far too deep for a music-master. and then, to be frank with you--you know that i'm a blunt, straightforward fellow--you'll not give thank'ye for my advice. i'll persuade my daughter to no one--but from you mr. sec--i would dissuade her! a lover who calls upon the father for help--with permission--is not worth a pinch of snuff. if he has anything in him, he'll be ashamed to take that old-fashioned way of making his deserts known to his sweetheart. if he hasn't the courage, why he's a milksop, and no louisas were born for the like of him. no! he must carry on his commerce with the daughter behind the father's back. he must manage so to win her heart, that she would rather wish both father and mother at old harry than give him up--or that she come herself, fall at her father's feet, and implore either for death on the rack, or the only one of her heart. that's the fellow for me! that i call love! and he who can't bring matters to that pitch with a petticoat may--stick the goose feather in his cap. worm (seizes hat and stick and hurries out of the room). much obliged, mr. miller! miller (going after him slowly). for what? for what? you haven't taken anything, mr. secretary! (comes back.) he won't hear, and off he's gone. the very sight of that quill-driver is like poison and brimstone to me. an ugly, contraband knave, smuggled into the world by some lewd prank of the devil--with his malicious little pig's eyes, foxy hair, and nut-cracker chin, just as if nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside. no! rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may--god forgive me! mrs miller. the wretch!--but you'll be made to keep a clean tongue in your head! miller. ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron--you, too, must put my bristles up. you're never more stupid than when you have the most occasion to show a little sense. what's the meaning of all that trash about your daughter being a great lady? if it's to be cried out about the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. he is one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people's houses, dispute upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with it straight to the prince, mistress, and minister, and then there's the devil to pay. scene iii. enter louisa with a book in her hand. louisa. good morning, dear father! miller (affectionately). bless thee, my louisa! i rejoice to see thy thoughts are turned so diligently to thy creator. continue so, and his arm will support thee. louisa. oh! i am a great sinner, father! was he not here, mother? mrs miller. who, my child? louisa. ah! i forgot that there are others in the world besides him--my head wanders so. was he not here? ferdinand? miller (with melancholy, serious voice). i thought my louisa had forgotten that name in her devotions? louisa (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). i understand you, father. i feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes too late. i can no longer pray, father. heaven and ferdinand divide my bleeding soul, and i fear--i fear--(after a pause). yet no, no, good father. the painter is best praised when we forget him in the contemplation of his picture. when in the contemplation of his masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the creator,--is not that, father, the true praise of god? miller (throws himself in displeasure on a chair). there we have it! those are the fruits of your ungodly reading. louisa (uneasy, goes to the window). where can he be now? ah! the high-born ladies who see him--listen to him----i am a poor forgotten maiden. (startles at that word, and rushes to her father.) but no, no! forgive me. i do not repine at my lot. i ask but little--to think on him--that can harm no one. ah! that i might breathe out this little spark of life in one soft fondling zephyr to cool his cheek! that this fragile floweret, youth, were a violet, on which he might tread, and i die modestly beneath his feet! i ask no more, father! can the proud, majestic day-star punish the gnat for basking in its rays? miller (deeply affected, leans on the arm of his chair, and covers his face). my child, my child, with joy would i sacrifice the remnant of my days hadst thou never seen the major. louisa (terrified.) how; how? what did you say? no, no! that could not be your meaning, good father. you know not that ferdinand is mine! you know not that god created him for me, and for my delight alone! (after a pause of recollection.) the first moment that i beheld him--and the blood rushed into my glowing cheeks--every pulse beat with joy; every throb told me, every breath whispered, "'tis he!" and my heart, recognizing the long-desired one, repeated "'tis he!" and the whole world was as one melodious echo of my delight! then--oh! then was the first dawning of my soul! a thousand new sentiments arose in my bosom, as flowers arise from the earth when spring approaches. i forgot there was a world, yet never had i felt that world so dear to me! i forgot there was a god, yet never had i so loved him! miller (runs to her and clasps her to his bosom). louisa! my beloved, my admirable child! do what thou wilt. take all--all--my life--the baron-- god is my witness--him i can never give thee! [exit. louisa. nor would i have him now, father! time on earth is but a stinted dewdrop in the ocean of eternity. 'twill swiftly glide in one delicious dream of ferdinand. i renounce him for this life! but then, mother--then when the bounds of separation are removed--when the hated distinctions of rank no longer part us--when men will be only men--i shall bring nothing with me save my innocence! yet often has my father told me that at the almighty's coming riches and titles will be worthless; and that hearts alone will be beyond all price. oh! then shall i be rich! there, tears will be reckoned for triumphs, and purity of soul be preferred to an illustrious ancestry. then, then, mother, shall i be noble! in what will he then be superior to the girl of his heart? mrs. miller (starts from her seat). louisa! the baron! he is jumping over the fence! where shall i hide myself? louisa (begins to tremble). oh! do not leave me, mother! mrs miller. mercy! what a figure i am. i am quite ashamed! i cannot let his lordship see me in this state! [exit. scene iv. louisa--ferdinand. (he flies towards her--she falls back into her chair, pale and trembling. he remains standing before her--they look at each other for some moments in silence. a pause.) ferdinand. so pale, louisa? louisa (rising, and embracing him). it is nothing--nothing now that you are here--it is over. ferdinand (takes her hand and raises it to his lips). and does my louisa still love me? my heart is yesterday's; is thine the same? i flew hither to see if thou wert happy, that i might return and be so too. but i find thee whelmed in sorrow! louisa. not so, my beloved, not so! ferdinand. confess, louisa! you are not happy. i see through your soul as clearly as through the transparent lustre of this brilliant. no spot can harbor here unmarked by me--no thought can cloud your brow that does not reach your lover's heart. whence comes this grief? tell me, i beseech you! ah! could i feel assured this mirror still remained unsullied, there'd seem to me no cloud in all the universe! tell me, dear louisa, what afflicts you? louisa (looking at him with anxiety for a few moments). ferdinand! couldst thou but know how such discourse exalts the tradesman's daughter---- ferdinand (surprised). what say'st thou? tell me, girl! how camest thou by that thought? thou art my louisa! who told thee thou couldst be aught else? see, false one, see, for what coldness i must chide thee! were indeed thy whole soul absorbed by love for me, never hadst thou found time to draw comparisons! when i am with thee, my prudence is lost in one look from thine eyes: when i am absent in a dream of thee! but thou --thou canst harbor prudence in the sane breast with love! fie on thee! every moment bestowed on this sorrow was a robbery from affection and from me! louisa (pressing his hand and shaking her head with a melancholy air). ferdinand, you would lull my apprehensions to sleep; you would divert my eyes from the precipice into which i am falling. i can see the future! the voice of honor--your prospects, your father's anger--my nothingness. (shuddering and suddenly drops his hands.) ferdinand! a sword hangs over us! they would separate us! ferdinand (jumps up). separate us! whence these apprehensions, louisa? who can rend the bonds that bind two hearts, or separate the tones of one accord? true, i am a nobleman--but show me that my patent of nobility is older than the eternal laws of the universe--or my escutcheon more valid than the handwriting of heaven in my louisa's eyes? "this woman is for this man?" i am son of the prime minister. for that very reason, what but love can soften the curses which my father's extortions from the country will entail upon me? louisa. oh! how i fear that father! ferdinand. i fear nothing--nothing but that your affection should know bounds. let obstacles rise between us, huge as mountains, i will look upon them as a ladder by which to fly into the arms of my louisa! the tempest of opposing fate shall but fan the flame of my affection dangers will only serve to make louisa yet more charming. then speak no more of terrors, my love! i myself--i will watch over thee carefully as the enchanter's dragon watches over buried gold. trust thyself to me! thou shalt need no other angel. i will throw myself between thee and fate-- for thee receive each wound. for thee will i catch each drop distilled from the cup of joy, and bring thee in the bowl of love. (embracing affectionately.) this arm shall support my louisa through life. fairer than it dismissed thee, shall heaven receive thee back, and confess with delight that love alone can give perfection to the soul. louisa (disengaging herself from him, greatly agitated). no more! i beseech thee, ferdinand! no more! couldst thou know. oh! leave me, leave me! little dost thou feel how these hopes rend my heart in pieces like fiends! (going.) ferdinand (detaining her). stay, louisa! stay! why this agitation? why those anxious looks? louisa. i had forgotten these dreams, and was happy. now--now--from this day is the tranquillity of my heart no more. wild impetuous wishes will torment my bosom! go! god forgive thee! thou hast hurled a firebrand into my young peaceful heart which nothing can extinguish! (she breaks from him, and rushes from the apartment, followed by ferdinand.) scene v.--a chamber in the president.'s house. the president, with the grand order of the cross about his neck, and a star at his breast--secretary worm. president. a serious attachment, say you? no, no, worm; that i never can believe. worm. if your excellency pleases, i will bring proofs of my assertions. president. that he has a fancy for the wench--flatters her--and, if you will, pretends to love her--all this is very possible--nay--excusable --but--and the daughter of a musician, you say? worm. of miller, the music-master. president. handsome? but that, of course. worm (with warmth). a most captivating and lovely blondine, who, without saying too much, might figure advantageously beside the greatest beauties of the court. president (laughs). it's very plain, worm, that you have an eye upon the jade yourself--i see that. but listen, worm. that my son has a passion for the fair sex gives me hope that he will find favor with the ladies. he may make his way at court. the girl is handsome, you say; i am glad to think my son has taste. can he deceive the silly wench by holding out honorable intentions--still better; it will show that he is shrewd enough to play the hypocrite when it serves his purpose. he may become prime minister--if he accomplishes his purpose! admirable! that will prove to me that fortune favors him. should the farce end with a chubby grandchild--incomparable! i will drink an extra bottle of malaga to the prospects of my pedigree, and cheerfully pay the wench's lying-in expenses. worm. all i wish is that your excellency may not have to drink that bottle to drown your sorrow. president (sternly). worm! remember that what i once believe, i believe obstinately--that i am furious when angered. i am willing to pass over as a joke this attempt to stir my blood. that you are desirous of getting rid of your rival, i can very well comprehend, and that, because you might have some difficulty in supplanting the son, you endeavor to make a cat's-paw of the father, i can also understand--i am even delighted to find that you are master of such excellent qualifications in the way of roguery. only, friend worm, pray don't make me, too, the butt of your knavery. understand me, have a care that your cunning trench not upon my plans! worm. pardon me, your excellency! if even--as you suspect--jealousy is concerned, it is only with the eye, and not with the tongue. president. it would be better to dispense with it altogether. what can it matter to you, simpleton, whether you get your coin fresh from the mint, or it comes through a banker? console yourself with the example of our nobility. whether known to the bridegroom or not, i can assure you that, amongst us of rank, scarcely a marriage takes place but what at least half a dozen of the guests--or the footmen--can state the geometrical area of the bridegroom's paradise. worm (bowing). my lord! upon this head i confess myself a plebeian. president. and, besides, you may soon have the satisfaction of turning the laugh most handsomely against your rival. at this very moment it is under consideration in the cabinet, that, upon the arrival of the new duchess, lady milford shall apparently be discarded, and, to complete the deception, form an alliance. you know, worm, how greatly my influence depends upon this lady--how my mightiest prospects hang upon the passions of the prince. the duke is now seeking a partner for lady milford. some one else may step in--conclude the bargain for her ladyship, win the confidence of the prince, and make himself indispensable, to my cost. now, to retain the prince in the meshes of my family, i have resolved that my ferdinand shall marry lady milford. is that clear to you? worm. quite dazzling! your excellency has at least convinced me that, compared with the president, the father is but a novice. should the major prove as obedient a son as you show yourself a tender father, your demand may chance to be returned with a protest. president. fortunately i have never yet had to fear opposition to my will when once i have pronounced, "it shall be so!" but now, worm, that brings us back to our former subject! i will propose lady milford to my son this very day. the face which he puts upon it shall either confirm your suspicions or entirely confute them. worm. pardon me, my lord! the sullen face which he most assuredly will put upon it may be placed equally to the account of the bride you offer to him as of her from whom you wish to separate him. i would beg of you a more positive test! propose to him some perfectly unexceptionable woman. then, if he consents, let secretary worm break stones on the highway for the next three years. president (biting his lips). the devil! worm. such is the case, you may rest assured! the mother--stupidity itself--has, in her simplicity, betrayed all to me. president (pacing the room, and trying to repress his rage). good! this very morning, then! worm. yet, let me entreat your excellency not to forget that the major-- is my master's son---- president. no harm shall come to him, worm. worm. and that my service in ridding you of an unwelcome daughter-in-law---- president. should be rewarded by me helping you to a wife? that too, worm! worm (bowing with delight). eternally your lordship's slave. (going.) president (threatening him). as to what i have confided to you, worm! if you dare but to whisper a syllable---- worm (laughs). then your excellency will no doubt expose my forgeries! [exit. president. yes, yes, you are safe enough! i hold you in the fetters of your own knavery, like a trout on the hook! enter servant. servant. marshal kalb---- president. the very man i wished to see. introduce him. [exit servant. scene vi. marshal kalb, in a rich but tasteless court-dress, with chamberlain's keys, two watches, sword, three-cornered hat, and hair dressed a la herisson. he bustles up to the president, and diffuses a strong scent of musk through the whole theatre--president. marshal. ah! good morning, my dear baron! quite delighted to see you again--pray forgive my not having paid my respects to you at an earlier hour--the most pressing business--the duke's bill of fare--invitation cards--arrangements for the sledge party to-day--ah!--besides it was necessary for me to be at the levee, to inform his highness of the state of the weather. president. true, marshal! such weighty concerns were not to be neglected! marshal. then a rascally tailor, too, kept me waiting for him! president. and yet ready to the moment? marshal. nor is that all! one misfortune follows at the heels of the other to-day! only hear me! president (absent). can it be possible? marshal. just listen! scarce had i quitted my carriage, when the horses became restive, and began to plunge and rear--only imagine!--splashed my breeches all over with mud! what was to be done? fancy, my dear baron, just fancy yourself for a moment in my predicament! there i stood! the hour was late! a day's journey to return--yet to appear before his highness in this--good heavens! what did i bethink me of? i pretended to faint! they bundle me into my carriage! i drive home like mad-- change my dress--hasten back--and only think!--in spite of all this i was the first person in the antechamber! what say you to that? president. a most admirable impromptu of mortal wit--but tell me, kalb, did you speak to the duke? marshal (importantly). full twenty minutes and a half. president. indeed? then doubtless you have important news to impart to me? marshal (seriously, after a pause of reflection). his highness wears a merde d'oye beaver to-day. president. god bless me!--and yet, marshal, i have even greater news to tell you. lady milford will soon become my daughter-in-law. that, i think will be new to you? marshal. is it possible! and is it already agreed upon? president. it is settled, marshal--and you would oblige me by forthwith waiting upon her ladyship, and preparing her to receive ferdinand's visit. you have full liberty, also, to circulate the news of my son's approaching nuptials. marshal. my dear friend! with consummate pleasure! what can i desire more? i fly to the baroness this moment. adieu! (embracing him.) in less than three-quarters of an hour it shall be known throughout the town. [skips off. president (smiling contemptuously). how can people say that such creatures are of no use in the world? now, then, master ferdinand must either consent or give the whole town the lie. (rings--worm enters.) send my son hither. (worm retires; the president walks up and down, full of thought.) scene vii. president--ferdinand. ferdinand. in obedience to your commands, sir---- president. ay, if i desire the presence of my son, i must command it-- ferdinand, i have observed you for some time past, and find no longer that open vivacity of youth which once so delighted me. an unusual sorrow broods upon your features; you shun your father; you shun society. for shame, ferdinand! at your age a thousand irregularities are easier forgiven than one instant of idle melancholy. leave this to me, my son! leave the care of your future happiness to my direction, and study only to co-operate with my designs--come, ferdinand, embrace me! ferdinand. you are most gracious to-day, father! president. "to-day," you rogue? and your "to-day" with such a vinegar look? (seriously.) ferdinand! for whose sake have i trod that dangerous path which leads to the affections of the prince? for whose sake have i forever destroyed my peace with heaven and my conscience? hear me, ferdinand--i am speaking to my son. for whom have i paved the way by the removal of my predecessor? a deed which the more deeply gores my inward feelings the more carefully i conceal the dagger from the world! tell me, ferdinand, for whose sake have i done all this? ferdinand (recoiling with horror). surely not for mine, father, not for mine? surely not on me can fall the bloody reflection of this murder? by my almighty maker, it were better never to have been born than to be the pretext for such a crime! president. what sayest thou? how? but i will attribute these strange notions to thy romantic brain, ferdinand; let me not lose my temper-- ungrateful boy! thus dost thou repay me for my sleepless nights? thus for my restless anxiety to promote thy good? thus for the never-dying scorpion of my conscience? upon me must fall the burden of responsibility; upon me the curse, the thunderbolt of the judge. thou receivest thy fortune from another's hand--the crime is not attached to the inheritance. ferdinand (extending his right hand towards heaven). here i solemnly abjure an inheritance which must ever remind me of a parent's guilt! president. hear me, sirrah! and do not incense me! were you left to your own direction you would crawl through life in the dust. ferdinand. oh! better, father, far, far better, than to crawl about a throne! president (repressing his anger). so! then compulsion must make you sensible of your good fortune! to that point, which, with the utmost striving a thousand others fail to reach, you have been exalted in your very sleep. at twelve you received a commission; at twenty a command. i have succeeded in obtaining for you the duke's patronage. he bids you lay aside your uniform, and share with me his favor and his confidence. he spoke of titles--embassies--of honors bestowed but upon few. a glorious prospect spreads itself before you! the direct path to the place next the throne lies open to you! nay, to the throne itself, if the actual power of ruling is equivalent to the mere symbol. does not that idea awaken your ambition? ferdinand. no! my ideas of greatness and happiness differ widely from yours. your happiness is but seldom known, except by the misery of others. envy, terror, hatred are the melancholy mirrors in which the smiles of princes are reflected. tears, curses, and the wailings of despair, the horrid banquet that feasts your supposed elect of fortune; intoxicated with these they rush headlong into eternity, staggering to the throne of judgment. my ideas of happiness teach me to look for its fountain in myself! all my wishes lie centered in my heart! president. masterly! inimitable! admirable! the first schooling i have received these thirty years! pity that the brain at fifty should be so dull at learning! but--that such talent may not rust, i will place one by your side on whom you can practise your harlequinade follies at pleasure. you will resolve--resolve this very day--to take a wife. ferdinand (starting back amazed). father! president. answer me not. i have made proposals, in your name, to lady milford. you will instantly determine upon going to her, and declaring yourself her bridegroom. ferdinand. lady milford! father? president. i presume she is not unknown to you! ferdinand (passionately). to what brothel is she unknown through the dukedom? but pardon me, dearest father! it is ridiculous to imagine that your proposal can be serious. would you call yourself father of that infamous son who married a licensed prostitute? president. nay, more. i would ask her hand myself, if she would take a man of fifty. would not you call yourself that infamous father's son? ferdinand. no! as god lives! that would i not! president. an audacity, by my honor! which i pardon for its excessive singularity. ferdinand. i entreat you, father, release me from a demand which would render it insupportable to call myself your son. president. are you distracted, boy? what reasonable man would not thirst after a distinction which makes him, as one of a trio, the equal and co-partner of his sovereign? ferdinand. you are quite an enigma to me, father! "a distinction," do you call it? a distinction to share that with a prince, wherein he places himself on a level with the meanest of his subjects? (the president bursts into a loud laugh.) you may scoff--i must submit to it in a father. with what countenance should i support the gaze of the meanest laborer, who at least receives an undivided person as the portion of his bride? with what countenance should i present myself before the world? before the prince? nay, before the harlot herself, who seeks to wash out in my shame the brandmarks of her honor? president. where in the world couldst thou collect such notions, boy? ferdinand. i implore you, father, by heaven and earth! by thus sacrificing your only son you can never become so happy as you will make him miserable! if my life can be a step to your advancement, dispose of it. my life you gave me; and i will never hesitate a moment to sacrifice it wholly to your welfare. but my honor, father! if you deprive me of this, the giving me life was a mere trick of wanton cruelty, and i must equally curse the parent and the pander. president (tapping him on the shoulder in a friendly manner). that's as it should be, my dear boy! now i see that you are a brave and noble fellow, and worthy of the first woman in the dukedom. you shall have her. this very day you shall be affianced to the countess of ostheim. ferdinand (in new disorder). is this, then, destined to be the hour of my destruction? president (regarding him with an eye of suspicion). in this union, i imagine, you can have no objection on the score of honor? ferdinand. none, father, none whatever. frederica of ostheim would make any other the happiest of men. (aside, in the greatest agitation.) his kindness rends in pieces that remnant of my heart which his cruelty left unwounded. president (his eye still fixed upon him). i expect your gratitude, ferdinand! ferdinand (rushes towards him and kisses his hands). father, your goodness awakens every spark of sentiment in my bosom. father! receive my warmest thanks for your kind intentions. your choice is unexceptionable! but i cannot--i dare not--pity me, father, i never can love the countess. president (draws back). ha! ha! now i've caught you, young gentleman! the cunning fox has tumbled into the trap. oh, you artful hypocrite! it was not then honor which made you refuse lady milford? it was not the woman, but the nuptials which alarmed you! (ferdinand stands petrified for a moment; then recovers himself and prepares to quit the chamber hastily.) whither now? stay, sir. is this the respect due to your father? (ferdinand returns slowly.) her ladyship expects you. the duke has my promise! both court and city believe all is settled. if thou makest me appear a liar, boy! if, before the duke--the lady--the court and city--thou shouldst make me appear a liar!--tremble, boy!--or when i have gained information of certain circumstances--how now? why does the color so suddenly forsake your cheeks? ferdinand (pale and trembling). how? what? nothing--it is nothing, my father! president (casting upon him a dreadful look). should there be cause. if i should discover the source whence this obstinacy proceeds! boy! boy! the very suspicion drives me distracted! leave me this moment. 'tis now the hour of parade. as soon as the word is given, go thou to her ladyship. at my nod a dukedom trembles; we shall see whether a disobedient son dare dispute my will! (going, returns.) remember, sir! fail not to wait on lady milford, or dread my anger! [exit. ferdinand (awakens, as if from a dream). is he gone? was that a father's voice? yes, i will go--i will see her--i will say such things to her--hold such a mirror before her eyes. then, base woman, shouldst thou still demand my hand--in the presence of the assembled nobles, the military, and the people--gird thyself with all the pride of thy native britain--i, a german youth, will spurn thee! [exit. act ii. scene i.--a room in lady milford's house. on the right of the stage stands a sofa, on the left a pianoforte. lady milford, in a loose but elegant negligee, is running her hand over the keys of the pianoforte as sophy advances from the window. sophy. the parade is over, and the officers are separating, but i see no signs of the major. lady milford (rises and walks up and down the room in visible agitation). i know not what ails me to-day, sophy! i never felt so before--you say you do not see him! it is evident enough that he is by no means impatient for this meeting--my heart feels oppressed as if by some heavy crime. go! sophy, order the most spirited horse in the stable to be saddled for me--i must away into the open air where i may look on the blue sky and hear the busy hum of man. i must dispel this gloominess by change and motion. sophy. if you feel out of spirits, my lady, why not invite company! let the prince give an entertainment here, or have the ombre table brought to you. if the prince and all his court were at my beck and call i would let no whim or fancy trouble me! lady milford (throwing herself on the couch). pray, spare me. i would gladly give a jewel in exchange for every hour's respite from the infliction of such company! i always have my rooms tapestried with these creatures! narrow-minded, miserable beings, who are quite shocked if by chance a candid and heartfelt word should escape one's lips! and stand aghast as though they saw an apparition; slaves, moved by a single puppet-wire, which i can govern as easily as the threads of my embroidery! what can i have in common with such insipid wretches, whose souls, like their watches, are regulated by machinery? what pleasure can i have in the society of people whose answers to my questions i know beforehand? how can i hold communion with men who dare not venture on an opinion of their own lest it should differ from mine! away with them--i care not to ride a horse that has not spirit enough to champ the bit! (goes to the window.) sophy. but surely, my lady, you except the prince, the handsomest, the wittiest, and the most gallant man in all his duchy. lady milford (returning). yes, in his duchy, that was well said--and it is only a royal duchy, sophy, that could in the least excuse my weakness. you say the world envies me! poor thing! it should rather pity me! believe me, of all who drink of the streams of royal bounty there is none more miserable than the sovereign's favorite, for he who is great and mighty in the eyes of others comes to her but as the humble suppliant! it is true that by the talisman of his greatness he can realize every wish of my heart as readily as the magician calls forth the fairy palace from the depths of the earth! he can place the luxuries of both indies upon my table, turn the barren wilderness to a paradise, can bid the broad rivers of his land play in triumphal arches over my path, or expend all the hard-earned gains of his subjects in a single feu-de-joie to my honor. but can he school his heart to respond to one great or ardent emotion? can he extort one noble thought from his weak and indigent brain? alas! my heart is thirsting amid all this ocean of splendor; what avail, then, a thousand virtuous sentiments when i am only permitted to indulge in the pleasures of the senses. sofhy (regarding her with surprise). dear lady, you amaze me! how long is it since i entered your service? lady milford. do you ask because this is the first day on which you have learnt to know me? i have sold my honor to the prince, it is true, but my heart is still my own--a heart, dear sophy, which even yet may be worth the acceptance of an honorable man--a heart over which the pestilential blast of courtly corruption has passed as the breath which for a moment dims the mirror's lustre. believe me my spirit would long since have revolted against this miserable thraldom could my ambition have submitted to see another advanced to my place. sophy. and could a heart like yours so readily surrender itself to mere ambition? lady milford (with energy). has it not already been avenged? nay, is it not even at this very moment making me pay a heavy atonement (with emphasis laying her hand on sophy's shoulder)? believe me, sophy, woman has but to choose between ruling and serving, but the utmost joy of power is a worthless possession if the mightier joy of being slave to the man we love be denied us. sophy. a truth, dear lady, which i could least of all have expected to hear from your lips! lady milford. and wherefore, sophy? does not woman show, by her childish mode of swaying the sceptre of power, that she is only fit to go in leading-strings! have not my fickle humors--my eager pursuit of wild dissipation--betrayed to you that i sought in these to stifle the still wilder throbbings of my heart? sophy (starting back with surprise). this from you, my lady? lady milford (continuing with increasing energy). appease these throbbings. give me the man in whom my thoughts are centered--the man i adore, without whom life were worse than death. let me but hear from his lips that the tears of love with which my eyes are bedewed outvie the gems that sparkle in my hair, and i will throw at the feet of the prince his heart and his dukedom, and flee to the uttermost parts of the earth with the man of my love! sophy (looking at her in alarm). heavens! my lady! control your emotion---- lady milford (in surprise). you change color! to what have i given utterance? yet, since i have said thus much, let me say still more--let my confidence be a pledge of your fidelity,--i will tell you all. sophy (looking anxiously around). i fear my lady--i dread it--i have heard enough! lady milford. this alliance with the major--you, like the rest of the world, believe to be the result of a court intrigue--sophy, blush not--be not ashamed of me--it is the work of--my love! sophy. heavens! as i suspected! lady milford. yes, sophy, they are all deceived. the weak prince--the diplomatic baron--the silly marshal--each and all of these are firmly convinced that this marriage is a most infallible means of preserving me to the prince, and of uniting us still more firmly! but this will prove the very means of separating us forever, and bursting asunder these execrable bonds. the cheater cheated--outwitted by a weak woman. ye yourselves are leading me to the man of my heart--this was all i sought. let him but once be mine--be but mine--then, oh, then, a long farewell to all this despicable pomp! scene ii.--an old valet of the duke's, with a casket of jewels. the former. valet. his serene highness begs your ladyship's acceptance of these jewels as a nuptial present. they have just arrived from venice. lady milford (opens the casket and starts back in astonishment). what did these jewels cost the duke? valet. nothing! lady milford. nothing! are you beside yourself? (retreating a step or two.) old man! you fix on me a look as though you would pierce me through. did you say these precious jewels cost nothing? valet. yesterday seven thousand children of the land left their homes to go to america--they pay for all. lady milford (sets the casket suddenly down, and paces up and down the room; after a pause, to the valet). what distresses you, old man? you are weeping! valet (wiping his eyes, and trembling violently). yes, for these jewels. my two sons are among the number. lady milford. but they went not by compulsion? valet (laughing bitterly). oh! dear no! they were all volunteers! there were certainly some few forward lads who pushed to the front of the ranks and inquired of the colonel at what price the prince sold his subjects per yoke, upon which our gracious ruler ordered the regiments to be marched to the parade, and the malcontents to be shot. we heard the report of the muskets, and saw brains and blood spurting about us, while the whole band shouted--"hurrah for america!" lady milford. and i heard nothing of all this! saw nothing! valet. no, most gracious lady, because you rode off to the bear-hunt with his highness just at the moment the drum was beating for the march. 'tis a pity your ladyship missed the pleasure of the sight--here, crying children might be seen following their wretched father--there, a mother distracted with grief was rushing forward to throw her tender infant among the bristling bayonets--here, a bride and bridegroom were separated with the sabre's stroke--and there, graybeards were seen to stand in despair, and fling their very crutches after their sons in the new world --and, in the midst of all this, the drums were beating loudly, that the prayers and lamentations might not reach the almighty ear. lady milford (rising in violent emotion). away with these jewels--their rays pierce my bosom like the flames of hell. moderate your grief, old man. your children shall be restored to you. you shall again clasp them to your bosom. valet (with warmth). yes, heaven knows! we shall meet again! as they passed the city gates they turned round and cried aloud: "god bless our wives and children--long life to our gracious sovereign. at the day of judgment we shall all meet again!" lady milford (walks up and down the room in great agitation). horrible! most horrible!--and they would persuade me that i had dried up all the tears in the land. now, indeed, my eyes are fearfully opened! go--tell the prince that i will thank him in person! (as the valet is going she drops the purse into his hat.) and take this as a recompense for the truth you have revealed to me. valet (throws the purse with contempt on the table). keep it, with your other treasures. [exit. lady milford (looking after him in astonishment). sophy, follow him, and inquire his name. his sons shall be restored to him. (sophy goes. lady milford becomes absorbed in thought. pause. then to sophy as she returns.) was there not a report that some town on the frontier had been destroyed by fire, and four hundred families reduced to beggary? (she rings.) sophy. what has made your ladyship just think of that? yes--such was certainly the fact, and most of these poor creatures are either compelled to serve their creditors as bondsmen, or are dragging out their miserable days in the depths of the royal silver mines. enter a servant. what are your ladyship's commands? lady milford (giving him the case of jewels). carry this to my treasurer without delay. let the jewels be sold and the money distributed among the four hundred families who were ruined by the fire. sophy. consider, my lady, the risk you run of displeasing his highness. lady milford (with dignity). should i encircle my brows with the curses of his subjects? (makes a sign to the servant, who goes away with the jewel case.) wouldst thou have me dragged to the earth by the dreadful weight of the tears of misery? nay! sophy, it is better far to wear false jewels on the brow, and to have the consciousness of a good deed within the breast! sophy. but diamonds of such value! why not rather give some that are less precious? truly, my lady, it is an unpardonable act. lady milford. foolish girl! for this deed more brilliants and pearls will flow for me in one moment than kings ever wore in their richest diadems! ay, and infinitely more beautiful! servant enters. major von walter! sophy (running hastily to the help of lady milford, who seems fainting). heavens, my lady, you change color! lady milford. the first man who ever made me tremble. (to the servant.) i am not well--but stay--what said the major?--how? o sophy! i look sadly ill, do i not? sophy. i entreat you, my lady, compose yourself. servant. is it your ladyship's wish that i should deny you to the major? lady milford (hesitating). tell him--i shall be happy to see him. (exit servant.) what shall i say to him, sophy? how shall i receive him? i will be silent--alas! i fear he will despise my weakness. he will--ah, me! what sad forebodings oppress my heart! you are going sophy! stay, yet--no, no--he comes--yes, stay, stay with me---- sophy. collect yourself, my lady, the major---- scene iii.--ferdinand von walter. the former. ferdinand (with a slight bow). i hope i do not interrupt your ladyship? lady milford (with visible emotion). not at all, baron--not in the least. ferdinand. i wait on your ladyship, at the command of my father. lady milford. therein i am his debtor. ferdinand. and i am charged to announce to you that our marriage is determined on. thus far i fulfil the commission of my father. lady milford (changing color and trembling). and not of your own heart? ferdinand. ministers and panders have no concern with hearts. lady milford (almost speechless with emotion). and you yourself--have you nothing to add? ferdinand (looking at sophy). much! my lady, much! lady milford (motions to sophy to withdraw). may i beg you to take a seat by my side? ferdinand. i will be brief, lady. lady milford. well! ferdinand. i am a man of honor! lady milford. whose worth i know how to appreciate. ferdinand. i am of noble birth! lady milford. noble as any in the land! ferdinand. a soldier! lady milford (in a soft, affectionate manner). thus far you have only enumerated advantages which you share in common with many others. why are you so silent regarding those noble qualities which are peculiarly your own? ferdinand (coldly). here they would be out of place. lady milford (with increasing agitation). in what light am i to understand this prelude? ferdinand (slowly, and with emphasis). as the protest of the voice of honor--should you think proper to enforce the possession of my hand! lady milford (starting with indignation). major von walter! what language is this? ferdinand (calmly). the language of my heart--of my unspotted name--and of this true sword. lady milford. your sword was given to you by the prince. ferdinand. 'twas the state which gave it, by the hands of the prince. god bestowed on me an honest heart. my nobility is derived from a line of ancestry extending through centuries. lady milford. but the authority of the prince---- ferdinand (with warmth). can he subvert the laws of humanity, or stamp glory on our actions as easily as he stamps value on the coin of his realm? he himself is not raised above the laws of honor, although he may stifle its whispers with gold--and shroud his infamy in robes of ermine! but enough of this, lady!--it is too late now to talk of blasted prospects--or of the desecration of ancestry--or of that nice sense of honor--girded on with my sword--or of the world's opinion. all these i am ready to trample under foot as soon as you have proved to me that the reward is not inferior to the sacrifice. lady milford (in extreme distress turning away). major! i have not deserved this! ferdinand (taking her hand). pardon me, lady--we are without witnesses. the circumstance which brings us together to-day--and only to-day-- justifies me, nay, compels me, to reveal to you my most secret feelings. i cannot comprehend, lady, how a being gifted with so much beauty and spirit--qualities which a man cannot fail to admire--could throw herself away on a prince incapable of valuing aught beyond her mere person--and yet not feel some visitings of shame, when she steps forth to offer her heart to a man of honor! lady milford (looking at him with an air of pride). say on, sir, without reserve. ferdinand. you call yourself an englishwoman--pardon me, lady, i can hardly believe you. the free-born daughter of the freest people under heaven--a people too proud to imitate even foreign virtues--would surely never have sold herself to foreign vices! it is not possible, lady, that you should be a native of britain, unless indeed your heart be as much below as the sons of britannia vaunt theirs to be above all others! lady milford. have you done, sir? ferdinand. womanly vanity--passions--temperament--a natural appetite for pleasure--all these might, perhaps, be pleaded in extenuation--for virtue often survives honor--and many who once trod the paths of infamy have subsequently reconciled themselves to society by the performance of noble deeds, and have thus thrown a halo of glory round their evil doings--but if this were so, whence comes the monstrous extortion that now oppresses the people with a weight never before known? this i would ask in the name of my fatherland--and now, lady, i have done! lady milford (with gentleness and dignity). this is the first time, baron von walter, that words such as these have been addressed to me--and you are the only man to whom i would in return have vouchsafed an answer. your rejection of my hand commands my esteem. your invectives against my heart have my full forgiveness, for i will not believe you sincere, since he who dares hold such language to a woman, that could ruin him in an instant--must either believe that she possesses a great and noble heart-- or must be the most desperate of madmen. that you ascribe the misery of this land to me may he forgive, before whose throne you, and i, and the prince shall one day meet! but, as in my person you have insulted the daughter of britain, so in vindication of my country's honor you must hear my exculpation. ferdinand (leaning on his sword). lady, i listen with interest. lady milford. hear, then, that which i have never yet breathed to mortal, and which none but yourself will ever learn from my lips. i am not the low adventurer you suppose me, sir! nay! did i listen to the voice of pride, i might even boast myself to be of royal birth; i am descended from the unhappy thomas norfolk, who paid the penalty of his adherence to the cause of mary, queen of scots, by a bloody death on the scaffold. my father, who, as royal chamberlain, had once enjoyed his sovereign's confidence, was accused of maintaining treasonable relations with france, and was condemned and executed by a decree of the parliament of great britain. our estates were confiscated, and our family banished from their native soil. my mother died on the day of my father's execution, and i--then a girl of fourteen--fled to germany with one faithful attendant. a casket of jewels, and this crucifix, placed in my bosom by my dying mother, were all my fortune! [ferdinand, absorbed in thought, surveys lady milford with looks of compassion and sympathy. lady milford (continuing with increased emotion). without a name-- without protection or property--a foreigner and an orphan, i reached hamburg. i had learnt nothing but a little french, and to run my fingers over the embroidery frame, or the keys of my harpsichord. but, though i was ignorant of all useful arts, i had learnt full well to feast off gold and silver, to sleep beneath silken hangings, to bid attendant pages obey my voice, and to listen to the honeyed words of flattery and adulation. six years passed away in sorrow and in sadness--the remnant of my scanty means was fast melting away--my old and faithful nurse was no more--and-- and then it was that fate brought your sovereign to hamburg. i was walking beside the shores of the elbe, wondering, as i gazed on its waters, whether they or my sorrows were the deeper, when the duke crossed my path. he followed me, traced me to my humble abode, and, casting himself at my feet, vowed that he loved me. (she pauses, and, after struggling with her emotion, continues in a voice choked by tears.) all the images of my happy childhood were revived in hues of delusive brightness--while the future lowered before me black as the grave. my heart panted for communion with another--and i sank into the arms opened to receive me! (turning away.) and now you condemn me! ferdinand (greatly agitated, follows her and leads her back). lady! heavens! what do i hear! what have i done? the guilt of my conduct is unveiled in all its deformity! it is impossible you should forgive me. lady milford (endeavoring to overcome her emotion). hear me on! the prince, it is true, overcame my unprotected youth, but the blood of the howards still glowed within my veins, and never ceased to reproach me; that i, the descendant of royal ancestors, should stoop to be a prince's paramour! pride and destiny still contended in my bosom, when the duke brought me hither, where scenes the most revolting burst upon my sight! the voluptuousness of the great is an insatiable hyena--the craving of whose appetite demands perpetual victims. fearfully had it laid this country waste separating bridegroom and bride--and tearing asunder even the holy bonds of marriage. here it had destroyed the tranquil happiness of a whole family--there the blighting pest had seized on a young and inexperienced heart, and expiring victims called down bitter imprecations on the heads of the undoers. it was then that i stepped forth between the lamb and the tiger, and, in a moment of dalliance, extorted from the duke his royal promise that this revolting licentiousness should cease. ferdinand (pacing the room in violent agitation). no more, lady! no more! lady milford. this gloomy period was succeeded by one still more gloomy. the court swarmed with french and italian adventurers--the royal sceptre became the plaything of parisian harlots, and the people writhed and bled beneath their capricious rule. each had her day. i saw them sink before me, one by one, for i was the most skilful coquette of all! it was then that i seized and wielded the tyrant's sceptre whilst he slumbered voluptuously in my embrace--then, walter, thy country, for the first time, felt the hand of humanity, and reposed in confidence on my bosom. (a pause, during which she gazes upon him with tenderness.) oh! 'that the man, by whom, of all others, i least wish to be misunderstood, should compel me to turn braggart and parade my unobtrusive virtues to the glare of admiration! walter, i have burst open the doors of prisons--i have cancelled death-warrants and shortened many a frightful eternity upon the galleys. into wounds beyond my power to heal i have at least poured soothing balsam. i have hurled mighty villains to the earth, and oft with the tears of a harlot saved the cause of innocence from impending ruin. ah! young man, how sweet were then my feelings! how proudly did these actions teach my heart to support the reproaches of my noble blood! and now comes the man who alone can repay me for all that i have suffered--the man, whom perhaps my relenting destiny created as a compensation for former sorrows--the man, whom with ardent affection, i already clasped in my dreams. ferdinand (interrupting her). hold, lady, hold! you exceed the bounds of our conference! you undertook to clear yourself from reproach, and you make me a criminal! spare me, i beseech you! spare a heart already overwhelmed by confusion and remorse! lady milford (grasping his hand). you must hear me, walter! hear me now or never. long enough has the heroine sustained me; now you must feel the whole weight of these tears! mark me, walter! should an unfortunate--impetuously, irresistibly attracted towards you--clasp you to her bosom full of unutterable, inextinguishable love--should this unfortunate--bowed down with the consciousness of shame--disgusted with vicious pleasures--heroically exalted by the inspiration of virtue--throw herself--thus into your arms (embracing him in an eager and supplicating manner); should she do this, and you still pronounce the freezing word "honor!" should she pray that through you she might be saved--that through you she might be restored to her hopes of heaven! (turning away her head, and speaking in a hollow, faltering voice.) or should she, her prayer refused, listen to the voice of despair, and to escape from your image plunge herself into yet more fearful depths of infamy and vice---- ferdinand (breaking from her in great emotion). no, by heaven! this is more than i can endure! lady, i am compelled--heaven and earth compels me--to make the honest avowal of my sentiments and situation. lady milford (hastening from him). oh! not now! by all that is holy i entreat you--spare me in this dreadful moment when my lacerated heart bleeds from a thousand wounds. be your decision life or death--i dare not--i will not hear it! ferdinand. i entreat you, lady! i insist! what i have to say will mitigate my offence, and warmly plead your forgiveness for the past. i have been deceived in you, lady. i expected--nay, i wished to find you deserving my contempt. i came determined to insult you, and to make myself the object of your hate. happy would it have been for us both had my purpose succeeded! (he pauses; then proceeds in a gentle and faltering voice.) lady, i love!--i love a maid of humble birth--louisa miller is her name, the daughter of a music-master. (lady milford turns away pale and greatly agitated.) i know into what an abyss i plunge myself; but, though prudence bids me conceal my passion, honor overpowers its precepts. i am the criminal--i first destroyed the golden calm of louisa's innocence--i lulled her heart with aspiring hopes, and surrendered it, like a betrayer, a prey to the wildest of passions. you will bid me remember my rank--my birth--my father--schemes of aggrandisement. but in vain--i love! my hopes become more fervent as the breach widens between nature and the mere conventions of society-- between my resolution and worldly prejudices! we shall see whether love or interest is victorious. (lady milford during this has retired to the extreme end of the apartment, and covers her face with both hands. ferdinand approaches her.) have you aught to answer, lady? lady milford (in a tone of intense suffering). nothing! nothing! but that you destroy yourself and me--and, with us yet a third. ferdinand. a third? lady milford. never can you marry louisa; never can you be happy with me. we shall all be the victims of your father's rashness. i can never hope to possess the heart of a husband who has been forced to give me his hand. ferdinand. forced, lady? forced? and yet given? will you enforce a hand without a heart? will you tear from a maiden a man who is the whole world to her? will you tear a maiden from a man who has centered all his hopes of happiness on her alone? will you do this, lady? you who but a moment before were the lofty, noble-minded daughter of britain? lady milford. i will because i must! (earnestly and firmly). my passions, walter, overcome my tenderness for you. my honor has no alternative. our union is the talk of the whole city. every eye, every shaft of ridicule is bent against me. 'twere a stain which time could never efface should a subject of the prince reject my hand! appease your father if you have the power! defend yourself as you best may! my resolution is taken. the mine is fired and i abide the issue. [exit. ferdinand remains in speechless astonishment for some moments; then rushes wildly out. scene iv.--miller's house. miller meeting louisa and mrs. miller. miller. ay! ay! i told you how it would be! louisa (hastening to him with anxiety). what, father? what? miller (running up and down the room). my cloak, there. quick, quick! i must be beforehand with him. my cloak, i say! yes, yes! this was just what i expected! louisa. for god's sake, father! tell me? mrs. miller. what is the matter, miller? what alarms you? miller (throwing down his wig). let that go to the friezer. what is the matter, indeed? and my beard, too, is nearly half an inch long. what's the matter? what do you think, you old carrion. the devil has broke loose, and you may look out for squalls. mrs. miller. there, now, that's just the way! when anything goes wrong it is always my fault. miller. your fault? yes, you brimstone fagot! and whose else should it be? this very morning when you were holding forth about that confounded major, did i not say then what would be the consequence? that knave, worm, has blabbed. mrs. miller. gracious heavens! but how do you know? miller. how do i know? look yonder! a messenger of the minister is already at the door inquiring for the fiddler. louisa (turning pale, and sitting down). oh! god! i am in agony! miller. and you, too, with that languishing air? (laughs bitterly). but, right! right! there is an old saying that where the devil keeps a breeding-cage he is sure to hatch a handsome daughter. mrs. miller. but how do you know that louisa is in question? you may have been recommended to the duke; he may want you in his orchestra. miller (jumping up, and seizing his fiddlestick). may the sulphurous rain of hell consume thee! orchestra, indeed! ay, where you, you old procuress, shall howl the treble whilst my smarting back groans the base (throwing himself upon a chair.) oh! god in heaven! louisa (sinks on the sofa, pale as death). father! mother! oh! my heart sinks within me. miller (starting up with anger). but let me only lay hands on that infernal quill-driver! i'll make him skip--be it in this world or the next; if i don't pound him to a jelly, body and soul; if i don't write all the ten commandments, the seven penitential psalms, the five books of moses, and the whole of the prophets upon his rascally hide so distinctly that the blue hieroglyphics shall be legible at the day of judgment--if i don't, may i---- mrs. miller. yes, yes, curse and swear your hardest! that's the way to frighten the devil! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, gracious heavens! what shall we do? who can advise us? speak, miller, speak; this silence distracts me! (she runs screaming up and down the room.) miller. i will instantly to the minister! i will open my mouth boldly, and tell him all from beginning to end. you knew it before me, and ought to have given me a hint of what was going on! the girl might yet have been advised. it might still have been time to save her! but, no! there was something for your meddling and making, and you must needs add fuel to the fire. now you have made your bed you may lie on it. as you have brewed so you may drink; i shall take my daughter under my arm and be off with her over the borders. scene v. miller, mrs. miller, louisa, ferdinnd. (all speaking together). ferdinand (rushes in, terrified, and out of breath). has my father been here? louisa (starts back in horror). his father? gracious heaven! mrs. miller (wringing her hands). the minister here? then it's all over with us! miller (laughs bitterly). thank god! thank god! now comes our benefit! ferdinand (rushing towards louisa, and clasping her in his arms). mine thou art, though heaven and hell were placed between us! louisa. i am doomed! speak, ferdinand! did you not utter that dreaded name? your father? ferdinand. be not alarmed! the danger has passed! i have thee again! again thou hast me! let me regain my breath on thy dear bosom. it was a dreadful hour! louisa. what was a dreadful hour? answer me, ferdinand! i die with apprehension! ferdinand (drawing back, gazing upon her earnestly, then in a solemn tone). an hour, louisa, when another's form stepped between my heart and thee--an hour in which my love grew pale before my conscience--when louisa ceased to be all in all to ferdinand! [louisa sinks back upon her chair, and conceals her face. (ferdinand stands before her in speechless agitation, then turns away from her suddenly and exclaims). never, never! baroness, 'tis impossible! you ask too much! never can i sacrifice this innocence at your shrine. no, by the eternal god! i cannot recall my oath, which speaks to me from thy soul--thrilling eyes louder than the thunders of heaven! behold, lady! inhuman father, look on this! would you have me destroy this angel? shall my perfidy kindle a hell in this heavenly bosom? (turning towards her with firmness). no! i will bear her to thy throne, almighty judge! thy voice shall declare if my affection be a crime. (he grasps her hand, and raises her from the sofa.) courage, my beloved!--thou hast conquered--and i come forth a victor from the terrible conflict! louisa. no, no, ferdinand, conceal nothing from me! declare boldly the dreadful decree! you named your father! you spoke of the baroness! the shivering of death seizes my heart! 'tis said she is about to be married! ferdinand (quite overcome, throws himself at her feet). yes, and to me, dear unfortunate. such is my father's will! louisa (after a deep pause, in a tremulous voice, but with assumed resignation). well! why am i thus affrighted? has not my dear father often told me that you never could be mine? but i was obstinate, and believed him not. (a second pause; she falls weeping into her father's arms.) father, thy daughter is thine own again! father, forgive me! 'twas not your child's fault that the dream was so heavenly--the waking so terrible! miller. louisa! louisa! o merciful heaven! she has lost her senses! my daughter! my poor child! curses upon thy seducer! curses upon the pandering mother who threw thee in his way! mrs. miller (weeping on louisa's neck). daughter, do i deserve this curse? god forgive you, major! what has this poor lamb done that you bring this misery upon her? ferdinand (with resolution). i will unravel the meshes of these intrigues. i will burst asunder these iron chains of prejudice. as a free-born man will i make my choice, and crush these insect souls with the colossal force of my love! [going. louisa (rises trembling from the sofa, and attempts to follow him). stay, oh, stay! whither are you going? father! mother! he deserts us in this fearful hour! mrs. miller (hastens towards him, and detains him). the president is coming hither? he will ill-use my child! he will ill-use us all,--and yet, major, you are going to leave us. miller (laughs hysterically). leave us. of course he is! what should hinder him? the girl has given him all she had. (grasping ferdinand with one hand, and louisa with the other.) listen to me, young gentleman. the only way out of my house is over my daughter's body. if you possess one single spark of honor await your father's coming; tell him, deceiver, how you stole her young and inexperienced heart; or, by the god who made me! (thrusting louisa towards him with violence and passion) you shall crush before my eyes this trembling worm whom love for you has brought to shame and infamy! ferdinand (returns, and walks to and fro in deep thought). 'tis true, the president's power is great--parental authority is a mighty word--even crimes claim respect when concealed within its folds. he may push that authority far--very far! but love goes beyond it. hear me, louisa; give me thy hand! (clasping it firmly). as surely as i hope for heaven's mercy in my dying hour, i swear that the moment which separates these hands shall also rend asunder the thread that binds me to existence! louisa. you terrify me! turn from me! your lips tremble! your eyes roll fearfully! ferdinand. nay, louisa! fear nothing! it is not madness which prompts my oath! 'tis the choicest gift of heaven, decision, sent to my aid at that critical moment, when an oppressed bosom can only find relief in some desperate remedy. i love thee, louisa! thou shalt be mine! 'tis resolved! and now for my father! [he rushes out, and is met by the president. scene vi. miller, mrs. miller, louisa, ferdinand, president, with servants. president (as he enters). so! here he is! (all start in terror.) ferdinand (retiring a few paces). in the house of innocence! president. where a son learns obedience to his father! ferdinand. permit me to---- president (interrupting him, turns to miller). the father, i presume? miller. i am miller, the musician. president (to mrs. miller). and you, the mother? mrs. miller. yes, alas! her unfortunate mother! ferdinand (to miller.) father, take louisa to her chamber--she is fainting. president. an unnecessary precaution! i will soon arouse her. (to louisa.) how long have you been acquainted with the president's son? louisa (with timidity). of the president's son i have never thought. ferdinand von walter has paid his addresses to me since november last. ferdinand. and he adores her! president (to louisa). has he given you any assurance of his love? ferdinand. but a few minutes since, the most solemn, and god was my witness. president (to his son angrily). silence! you shall have opportunity enough of confessing your folly. (to louisa.) i await your answer. louisa. he swore eternal love to me. ferdinand. and i will keep my oath. president (to ferdinand). must i command your silence? (to louisa). did you accept his rash vows? louisa (with tenderness). i did, and gave him mine in exchange. ferdinand (resolutely). the bond is irrevocable---- president (to ferdinand). if you dare to interrupt me again i'll teach you better manners. (to louisa, sneeringly.) and he paid handsomely every time, no doubt? louisa. i do not understand your question. president (with an insulting laugh). oh, indeed! well, i only meant to hint that--as everything has its price--i hope you have been more provident than to bestow your favors gratis--or perhaps you were satisfied with merely participating in the pleasure? eh? how was it? ferdinand (infuriated). hell and confusion! what does this mean? louisa (to ferdinand, with dignity and emotion). baron von walter, now you are free! ferdinand. father! virtue though clothed in a beggar's garb commands respect! president (laughing aloud). a most excellent joke! the father is commanded to honor his son's strumpet! louisa. oh! heaven and earth! (sinks down in a swoon.) ferdinand (drawing his sword). father, you gave me life, and, till now, i acknowledged your claim on it. that debt is cancelled. (replaces his sword in the scabbard, and points to louisa.) there lies the bond of filial duty torn to atoms! miller (who has stood apart trembling, now comes forward, by turns gnashing his teeth in rage, and shrinking back in terror). your excellency, the child is the father's second self. no offence, i hope! who strikes the child hits the father--blow for blow--that's our rule here. no offence, i hope! mrs. miller. god have mercy on us! now the old man has begun--we shall all catch it with a vengeance! president (who has not understood what miller said). what? is the old pander stirred up? we shall have something to settle together presently, mr. pander! miller. you mistake me, my lord. my name is miller, at your service for an adagio--but, as to ladybirds, i cannot serve you. as long as there is such an assortment at court, we poor citizens can't afford to lay in stock! no offence, i hope! mrs. miller. for heaven's sake, man, hold your tongue! would you ruin both wife and child? ferdinand (to his father). you play but a sorry part here, my lord, and might well have dispensed with these witnesses. miller (coming nearer, with increasing confidence). to be plain and above board--no offence, i hope--your excellency may have it all your own way in the cabinet--but this is my house. i'm your most obedient, very humble servant when i wait upon you with a petition, but the rude, unmannerly intruder i have the right to bundle out--no offence, i hope! president (pale with anger, and approaching miller). what? what's that you dare to utter? miller (retreating a few steps). only a little bit of my mind sir--no offence, i hope! president (furiously). insolent villain! your impertinence shall procure you a lodging in prison. (to his servants). call in the officers of justice! away! (some of the attendants go out. the president paces the stage with a furious air.) the father shall to prison; the mother and her strumpet daughter to the pillory! justice shall lend her sword to my rage! for this insult will i have ample amends. shall such contemptible creatures thwart my plans, and set father and son against each other with impunity? tremble, miscreants! i will glut my hate in your destruction--the whole brood of you--father, mother, and daughter shall be sacrificed to my vengeance! ferdinand (to miller, in a collected and firm manner). oh! not so! fear not, friends! i am your protector. (turning to the president, with deference). be not so rash, father! for your own sake let me beg of you no violence. there is a corner of my heart where the name of father has never yet been heard. oh! press not into that! president. silence, unworthy boy! rouse not my anger to greater fury! miller (recovering from a stupor). wife, look you to your daughter! i fly to the duke. his highness' tailor--god be praised for reminding me of it at this moment--learns the flute of me--i cannot fail of success. (is hastening off.) president. to the duke, will you? have you forgotten that i am the threshold over which you must pass, or failing, perish? to the duke, you fool? try to reach him with your lamentations, when, reduced to a living skeleton, you lie buried in a dungeon five fathoms deep, where light and sound never enter; where darkness goggles at hell with gloating eyes! there gnash thy teeth in anguish; there rattle thy chains in despair, and groan, "woe is me! this is beyond human endurance!" scene vii. officers of justice--the former. ferdinand (flies to louisa, who, overcome with fear, faints in his arms.) louisa!--help, for god's sake! terror overpowers her! [miller, catching up his cane and putting on his hat, prepares for defense. mrs. miller throws herself on her knees before the president. president (to the officers, showing his star). arrest these offenders in the duke's name. boy, let go that strumpet! fainting or not--when once her neck is fitted with the iron collar the mob will pelt her till she revives. mrs. miller. mercy, your excellency! mercy! mercy! miller (snatching her from the ground with violence). kneel to god, you howling fool, and not to villains--since i must to prison any way! president (biting his lips.) you may be out in your reckoning, scoundrel! there are still gallows to spare! (to the officers.) must i repeat my orders? [they approach louisa--ferdinand places himself before her. ferdinand (fiercely). touch her who dare! (he draws his sword and flourishes it.) let no one presume to lay a finger on her, whose life is not well insured. (to the president.) as you value your own safety, father, urge me no further! president (to the officers in a threatening voice). at your peril, cowards! (they again attempt to seize louisa.) ferdinand. hell and furies! back, i say! (driving them away.) once more, father, i warn you--have some thought for your own safety! drive me not to extremity! president (enraged to the officers). scoundrels! is this your obedience? (the officers renew their efforts.) ferdinand. well, if it must be so (attacking and wounding several of them), justice forgive me! president (exasperated to the utmost). let me see whether i, too, must feel your weapon! (he seizes louisa and delivers her to an officer.) ferdinand (laughing bitterly). father! father! your conduct is a galling satire upon providence, who has so ill understood her people as to make bad statesmen of excellent executioners! president (to the officers). away with her! ferdinand. father, if i cannot prevent it, she must stand in the pillory--but by her side will also stand the son of the president. do you still insist? president. the more entertaining will be the exhibition. away with her! ferdinand. i will pledge the honor of an officer's sword for her. do you still insist? president. your sword is already familiar with disgrace. away! away! you know my will. ferdinand (wrests louisa from the officer and holds her with one arm, with the other points his sword at her bosom.) father, rather than tamely see my wife branded with infamy i will plunge this sword into her bosom. do you still insist? president. do it, if the point be sharp enough! ferdinand (releases louisa, and looks wildly towards heaven). be thou witness, almighty god, that i have left no human means untried to save her! forgive me now if i have recourse to hellish means. while you are leading her to the pillory (speaking loudly in the president's ear), i will publish throughout the town a pleasant history of how a president's chair may be gained! [exit. president (as if thunder-struck). how? what said he? ferdinand! release her instantly! (rushes after his son.) act iii. scene i. room at the president's. enter president and worm. president. that was an infernal piece of business! worm. just what i feared, your excellency. opposition may inflame the enthusiast, but never converts him. president. i had placed my whole reliance upon the success of this attempt. i made no doubt but if the girl were once publicly disgraced, he would be obliged as an officer and a gentleman to resign her. worm. an admirable idea!--had you but succeeded in disgracing her. president. and yet--when i reflect on the matter coolly--i ought not to have suffered myself to be overawed. it was a threat which he never could have meant seriously. worm. be not too certain of that! there is no folly too gross for excited passion! you say that the baron has always looked upon government with an eye of disapprobation. i can readily believe it. the principles which he brought with him from college are ill-suited to our atmosphere. what have the fantastic visions of personal nobility and greatness of soul to do in court, where 'tis the perfection of wisdom to be great and little by turns, as occasion demands? the baron is too young and too fiery to take pleasure in the slow and crooked paths of intrigue. that alone can give impulse to his ambition which seems glorious and romantic! president (impatiently). but how will these sagacious remarks advance our affairs? worm. they will point out to your excellency where the wound lies, and so, perhaps, help you to find a remedy. such a character--pardon the observation--ought never to have been made a confidant, or should never have been roused to enmity. he detests the means by which you have risen to power! perhaps it is only the son that has hitherto sealed the lips of the betrayer! give him but a fair opportunity for throwing off the bonds imposed upon him by nature! only convince him, by unrelenting opposition to his passion, that you are no longer an affectionate father, and that moment the duties of a patriot will rush upon him with irresistible force! nay, the high-wrought idea of offering so unparalleled a sacrifice at the shrine of justice might of itself alone have charms sufficient to reconcile him to the ruin of a parent! president. worm! worm! to what a horrible abyss do you lead me! worm. never fear, my lord, i will lead you back in safety! may i speak without restraint? president (throwing himself into a seat). freely, as felon with felon. worm. forgive me, then. it seems to me that you have to ascribe all your influence as president to the courtly art of intrigue; why not resort to the same means for attaining your ends as a father? i well remember with what seeming frankness you invited your predecessor to a game at piquet, and caroused half the night with him over bumpers of burgundy; and yet it was the same night on which the great mine you had planned to annihilate him was to explode. why did you make a public exhibition of enmity to the major? you should by no means have let it appear that you knew anything of his love affair. you should have made the girl the object of your attacks and have preserved the affection of your son; like the prudent general who does not engage the prime of the enemy's force but creates disaffection among the ranks? president. how could this have been effected? worm. in the simplest manner--even now the game is not entirely lost! forget for a time that you are a father. do not contend against a passion which opposition only renders more formidable. leave me to hatch, from the heat of their own passions, the basilisk which shall destroy them. president. i am all attention. worm. either my knowledge of human character is very small, or the major is as impetuous in jealousy as in love. make him suspect the girl's constancy,--whether probable or not does not signify. one grain of leaven will be enough to ferment the whole mass. president. but where shall we find that grain? worm. now, then, i come to the point. but first explain to me how much depends upon the major's compliance. how far is it of consequence that the romance with the music-master's daughter should be brought to a conclusion and the marriage with lady milford effected? president. how can you ask me, worm? if the match with lady milford is broken off i stand a fair chance of losing my whole influence; on the other hand, if i force the major's consent, of losing my head. worm (with animation). now have the kindness to listen to me. the major must be entangled in a web. your whole power must be employed against his mistress. we must make her write a love-letter, address it to a third party, and contrive to drop it cleverly in the way of the major. president. absurd proposal! as if she would consent to sign her own death-warrant. worm. she must do so if you will but let me follow my own plan. i know her gentle heart thoroughly; she has but two vulnerable sides by which her conscience can be attacked; they are her father and the major. the latter is entirely out of the question; we must, therefore, make the most of the musician. president. in what way? worm. from the description your excellency gave me of what passed in his house nothing can be easier than to terrify the father with the threat of a criminal process. the person of his favorite, and of the keeper of the seals, is in some degree the representative of the duke himself, and he who offends the former is guilty of treason towards the latter. at any rate i will engage with these pretences to conjure up such a phantom as shall scare the poor devil out of his seven senses. president. but recollect, worm, the affair must not be carried so far as to become serious. worm. nor shall it. it shall be carried no further than is necessary to frighten the family into our toils. the musician, therefore, must be quietly arrested. to make the necessity yet more urgent, we may also take possession of the mother;--and then we begin to talk of criminal process, of the scaffold, and of imprisonment for life, and make the daughter's letter the sole condition of the parent's release. president. excellent! excellent! now i begin to understand you! worm. louisa loves her father--i might say even to adoration! the danger which threatens his life, or at least his freedom--the reproaches of her conscience for being the cause of his misfortunes--the impossibility of ever becoming the major's wife--the confusion of her brain, which i take upon myself to produce--all these considerations make our plan certain of success. she must be caught in the snare. president. but my son--will he not instantly get scent of it? will it not make him yet more desperate? worm. leave that to me, your excellency! the old folks shall not be set at liberty till they and their daughter have taken the most solemn oath to keep the whole transaction secret, and never to confess the deception. president. an oath! ridiculous! what restraint can an oath be? worm. none upon us, my lord, but the most binding upon people of their stamp. observe, how dexterously by this measure we shall both reach the goal of our desires. the girl loses at once the affection of her lover, and her good name; the parents will lower their tone, and, thoroughly humbled by misfortune, will esteem it an act of mercy, if, by giving her my hand, i re-establish their daughter's reputation. president (shaking his head and smiling). artful villain! i confess myself outdone--no devil could spin a finer snare! the scholar excels his master. the next question is, to whom must the letter be addressed-- with whom to accuse her of having an intrigue? worm. it must necessarily be some one who has all to gain or all to lose by your son's decision in this affair. president (after a moment's reflection). i can think of no one but the marshal. worm (shrugs his shoulders). the marshal! he would certainly not be my choice were i louisa miller. president. and why not? what a strange notion! a man who dresses in the height of fashion--who carries with him an atmosphere of eau de mille fleurs and musk--who can garnish every silly speech with a handful of ducats--could all this possibly fail to overcome the delicacy of a tradesman's daughter? no, no, my good friend, jealousy is not quite so hard of belief. i shall send for the marshal immediately. (rings.) worm. while your excellency takes care of him, and of the fiddler's arrest, i will go and indite the aforesaid letter. president (seats himself at his writing-table). do so; and, as soon as it is ready, bring it hither for my perusal. [exit worm. [the president, having written, rises and hands the paper to a servant who enters. see this arrest executed without a moment's delay, and let marshal von kalb be informed that i wish to see him immediately. servant. the marshal's carriage has just stopped at your lordship's door. president. so much the better--as for the arrest, let it be managed with such precaution that no disturbance arise. servant. i will take care, my lord. president. you understand me? the business must be kept quite secret. servant. your excellency shall be obeyed. [exit servant. scene ii. the president--marshall kalb. marshal (hastily). i have just looked in, en passant, my dear friend! how are you? how do you get on? we are to have the grand opera dido to-night! such a conflagration!--a whole town will be in flames!--you will come to the blaze of course--eh? president. i have conflagration enough in my own house, one that threatens the destruction of all i possess. be seated, my dear marshal. you arrive very opportunely to give me your advice and assistance in a certain business which will either advance our fortunes or utterly ruin us both! marshal. don't alarm me so, my dear friend! president. as i said before, it must exalt or ruin us entirely! you know my project respecting the major and lady milford--you are not ignorant how necessary this union is to secure both our fortunes! marshal, our plans threaten to come to naught. my son refuses to marry her! marshal. refuses! refuses to marry her? but, my goodness! i have published the news through the whole town. the union is the general topic of conversation. president. then you will be talked of by all the town as a spreader of false reports,--in short, ferdinand loves another. marshal. pooh! you are joking! as if that were an obstacle? president. with such an enthusiast a most insurmountable one! marshal. can he be mad enough to spurn his good-fortune? eh? president. ask him yourself and you'll hear what he will answer. marshal. but, mon dieu! what can he answer? president. that he will publish to the world the crime by which we rose to power--that he will denounce our forged letters and receipts--that he will send us both to the scaffold. that is what he can answer. marshal. are you out of your mind? president. nay, that is what he has already answered? he was actually on the point of putting these threats into execution; and it was only by the most abject submission that i could persuade him to abandon his design. what say you to this, marshal? marshal (with a look of bewildered stupidity). i am at my wits' end! president. that might have blown over. but my spies have just brought me notice that the grand cupbearer, von bock, is on the point of offering himself as a suitor to her ladyship. marshal. you drive me distracted! whom did you say? von bock? don't you know that we are mortal enemies? and don't you know why? president. the first word that i ever heard of it! marshal. my dear count! you shall hear--your hair will stand on end! you must remember the famous court ball--it is now just twenty years ago. it was the first time that english country-dances were introduced--you remember how the hot wax trickled from the great chandelier on count meerschaum's blue and silver domino. surely, you cannot have forgotten that affair! president. who could forget so remarkable a circumstance! marshal. well, then, in the heat of the dance princess amelia lost her garter. the whole ball, as you may imagine, was instantly thrown into confusion. von bock and myself--we were then fellow-pages--crept through the whole saloon in search of the garter. at length i discovered it. von bock perceives my good-fortune--rushes forward--tears it from my hands, and, just fancy--presents it to the princess, and so cheated me of the honor i had so fortunately earned. what do you think of that? president. 'twas most insolent! marshal. i thought i should have fainted upon the spot. a trick so malicious was beyond the powers of mortal endurance. at length i recovered myself; and, approaching the princess, said,--"von bock, 'tis true, was fortunate enough to present the garter to your highness; but he who first discovered that treasure finds his reward in silence, and is dumb!" president. bravo, marshal! admirably said! most admirable! marshal. and is dumb! but till the day of judgment will i remember his conduct--the mean, sneaking sycophant! and as if that were not aggravation enough, he actually, as we were struggling on the ground for the garter, rubbed all the powder from one side of my peruke with his sleeve, and ruined me for the rest of the evening. president. this is the man who will marry lady milford, and consequently soon take the lead at court. marshal. you plunge a dagger in my heart! but why must he? why should he marry her? why he? where is the necessity? president. because ferdinand refuses her, and there is no other candidate. marshal. but is there no possible method of obtaining your son's consent? let the measure be ever so extravagant or desperate--there is nothing to which i should not willingly consent in order to supplant the hated von bock. president. i know but one means of accomplishing this, and that rests entirely with you. marshal. with me? name it, my dear count, name it! president. you must set ferdinand and his mistress against each other. marshal. against each other? how do you mean?--and how would that be possible. president. everything is ours could we make him suspect the girl. marshal. ah, of theft, you mean? president. pshaw!--he would never believe that! no, no--i mean that she is carrying on an intrigue with another. marshal. and this other, who is he to be? president. yourself! marshal. how? must i be her lover? is she of noble birth? president. what signifies that? what an idea!--she is the daughter of a musician. marshal. a plebeian?--that will never do! president. what will never do? nonsense, man! who in the name of wonder would think of asking a pair of rosy cheeks for their owner's pedigree? marshal. but consider, my dear count, a married man! and my reputation at court! president. oh! that's quite another thing! i beg a thousand pardons, marshal; i was not aware that a man of unblemished morals held a higher place in your estimation than a man of power! let us break up our conference. marshal. be not so hasty, count. i did not mean to say that. president (coldly.) no--no! you are perfectly right. i, too, am weary of office. i shall throw up the game, tender my resignation to the duke, and congratulate von bock on his accession to the premiership. this duchy is not all the world. marshal. and what am i to do? it is very fine for you to talk thus! you are a man of learning! but i--mon dieu! what shall i be if his highness dismisses me? president. a stale jest!--a thing out of fashion! marshal. i implore you, my dearest, my most valued friend. abandon those thoughts. i will consent to everything! president. will you lend your name to an assignation to which this louisa miller shall invite you in writing? marshal. well, in god's name let it be so! president. and drop the letter where the major cannot fail to find it. marshal. for instance, on the parade, where i can let it fall as if accidentally in drawing out my handkerchief. president. and when the baron questions you will you assume the character of a favored rival? marshal. mort de ma vie! i'll teach him manners! i'll cure him of interfering in my amours! president. good! now you speak in the right key. the letter shall be written immediately! come in the evening to receive it, and we will talk over the part you are to play. marshal. i will be with you the instant i have paid sixteen visits of the very highest importance. permit me, therefore, to take my leave without delay. (going.) president (rings). i reckon upon your discretion, marshal. marshal (calls back). ah, mon dieu! you know me! [exit marshal. scene iii. the president and worm. worm. the music-master and his wife have been arrested without the least disturbance. will your excellency read this letter? president (having read it). excellent! excellent, my dear secretary! poison like this would convert health itself into jaundiced leprosy. the marshal, too, has taken the bait. now then away with my proposals to the father, and then lose no time--with the daughter. [exeunt on different sides. scene iv.--room in miller's house. louisa and ferdinand. louisa. cease, i implore you! i expect no more days of happiness. all my hopes are levelled with the dust. ferdinand. all mine are exalted to heaven! my father's passions are roused! he will direct his whole artillery against us! he will force me to become an unnatural son. i will not answer for my filial duty. rage and despair will wring from me the dark secret that my father is an assassin! the son will deliver the parent into the hands of the executioner. this is a moment of extreme danger, and extreme danger alone could prompt my love to take so daring a leap! hear me, louisa! a thought, vast and immeasurable as my love, has arisen in my soul--thou, louisa, and i, and love! lies not a whole heaven within this circle? or dost thou feel that there is still something wanting? louisa. oh! cease! no more! i tremble to think what you would say. ferdinand. if we have no longer a claim upon the world, why should we seek its approbation? why venture where nothing can be gained and all may be lost? will thine eyes sparkle less brightly reflected by the baltic waves than by the waters of the rhine or the elbe? where louise loves me there is my native land! thy footsteps will make the wild and sandy desert far more attractive than the marble halls of my ancestors. shall we miss the pomp of cities? be we where we may, louisa, a sun will rise and a sun will set--scenes before which the most glorious achievements of art grow pale and dim! though we serve god no more in his consecrated churches, yet the night shall spread her solemn shadows round us; the changing moon shall hear our confession, and a glorious congregation of stars join in our prayers! think you our talk of love can ever be exhausted! oh, no! one smile from louisa were a theme for centuries--the dream of life will be over ere i can exhaust the charms of a single tear. louisa. and hast thou no duty save that of love? ferdinand (embracing her). none so sacred as thy peace of mind! louisa (very seriously). cease, then, and leave me. i have a father who possesses no treasure save one only daughter. to-morrow he will be sixty years old--that he will fall a victim to the vengeance of the president is most certain! ferdinand (interrupting her). he shall accompany us. therefore no more objections, my beloved. i will go and convert my valuables into gold, and raise money on my father's credit! it is lawful to plunder a robber, and are not his treasures the price for which he has sold his country? this night, when the clock strikes one, a carriage will stop at your door--throw yourself into it, and we fly! louisa. pursued by your father's curse! a curse, unthinking one, which is never pronounced in vain even by murderers--which the avenging angel hears when uttered by a malefactor in his last agony--which, like a fury, will fearfully pursue the fugitives from shore to shore! no, my beloved! if naught but a crime can preserve you to me, i still have courage to resign you! ferdinand (mutters gloomily). indeed! louisa. resign you? oh! horrible beyond all measure is the thought. horrible enough to pierce the immortal spirit and pale the glowing cheeks of joy! ferdinand! to resign you! yet how can one resign what one never possessed? your heart is the property of your station. my claim was sacrilege, and, shuddering, i withdraw it! ferdinand (with convulsed features, and biting his underlip). you withdraw it! louisa. nay! look upon me, dearest ferdinand. gnash not your teeth so bitterly! come, let my example rouse your slumbering courage. let me be the heroine of this moment. let me restore to a father his lost son. i will renounce a union which would sever the bonds by which society is held together, and overthrow the landmarks of social order. i am the criminal. my bosom has nourished proud and foolish wishes, and my present misery is a just punishment. oh! leave me then the sweet, the consoling idea that mine is the sacrifice. canst thou deny me this last satisfaction? (ferdinand, stupefied with agitation and anger, seizes a violin and strikes a few notes upon it; and then tears away the strings, dashes the instrument upon the ground, and, stamping it to pieces, bursts into a loud laugh.) walter! god in heaven! what mean you? be not thus unmanned! this hour requires fortitude; it is the hour of separation! you have a heart, dear walter; i know that heart--warm as life is your love--boundless and immeasurable--bestow it on one more noble, more worthy--she need not envy the most fortunate of her sex! (striving to repress her tears.) you shall see me no more! leave the vain disappointed girl to bewail her sorrow in sad and lonely seclusion; where her tears will flow unheeded. dead and gone are all my hopes of happiness in this world; yet still shall i inhale ever and anon the perfumes of the faded wreath! (giving him her trembling hand, while her face is turned away.) baron walter, farewell! ferdinand (recovering from the stupor in which he was plunged). louisa, i fly! do you indeed refuse to follow me? louisa (who has retreated to the further end of the apartment, conceals her countenance with her hands). my duty bids me stay, and suffer. ferdinand. serpent! thou liest--some other motive chains thee here! louisa (in a tone of the most heartfelt sorrow). encourage that belief. haply it may make our parting more supportable. ferdinand. what? oppose freezing duty to fiery love! and dost thou think to cheat me with that delusion? some rival detains thee here, and woe be to thee and him should my suspicions be confirmed! [exit. scene v. louisa (she remains for some time motionless in the seat upon which she has thrown herself. at length she rises, comes forward, and looks timidly around). where can my parents be? my father promised to return in a few minutes; yet full five dreadful hours have passed since his departure. should any accident----good heavens! what is come over me? why does my heart palpitate so violently? (here worm enters, and remains standing unobserved in the background.) it can be nothing real. 'tis but the terrible delusion of my over-heated blood. when once the soul is wrapped in terror the eye behold spectres in every shadow. scene vi. louisa and worm. worm (approaches her). good evening, miss. louisa. heavens! who speaks! (perceives him, and starts back in terror.) ha! dreadful! dreadful! i fear some dire misfortune is even now realizing the forebodings of my soul! (to worm, with a look of disdain.) do you seek the president? he is no longer here. worm. 'tis you i seek, miss! louisa. i wonder, then, that you did not direct your steps towards the market-place. worm. what should i do there? louisa. release your betrothed from the pillory. worm. louisa, you cherish some false suspicion---- louisa (sharply interrupting him). what is your business with me? worm. i come with a message from your father. louisa (agitated). from my father? oh! where is my father? worm. where he would fain not be! louisa. quick, quick, for god's sake! oh! my foreboding heart! where is my father! worm. in prison, if you needs must know! louisa (with a look towards heaven). this, too! this, too! in prison, said you? and why in prison? worm. it is the duke's order. louisa. the duke's? worm. who thinking his own dignity offended by the insults offered to the person of his representative---- louisa. how? how? oh ye almighty powers! worm.----has resolved to inflict the most exemplary punishment. louisa. this was still wanting! this! yes, in truth. i now feel that my heart does love another besides ferdinand! that could not be allowed to escape! the prince's dignity offended? heavenly providence! save, oh! save my sinking faith! (after a moment's pause, she turns to worm.) and ferdinand? worm. must choose between lady milford's hand and his father's curse and disinheritance. louisa. terrible choice!--and yet--yet is he the happier of the two. he has no father to lose--and yet to have none is misery enough! my father imprisoned for treason--my ferdinand compelled to choose between lady milford's hand or a parent's curse and disinheritance! truly admirable! for even villany so perfect is perfection! perfection? no! something is still wanting to complete that. where is my mother? worm. in the house of correction. louisa (with a smile of despair). now the measure is full! it is full, and i am free--released from all duties--all sorrows--all joys! released even from providence! i have nothing more to do with it! (a dreadful pause.) have you aught else to communicate? speak freely--now i can hear anything with indifference. worm. all that has happened you already know. louisa. but not that which is yet to happen! (another pause, during which she surveys worm from head to foot.) unfortunate man! you have entered on a melancholy employment, which can never lead you to happiness. to cause misery to others is sad enough--but to be the messenger of evil is horrible indeed--to be the first to shriek the screech-owl's song, to stand by when the bleeding heart trembles upon the iron shaft of necessity, and the christian doubts the existence of a god--heaven protect me! wert thou paid a ton of gold for every tear of anguish which thou must witness, i would not be a wretch like thee! what is there yet to happen? worm. i know not. louisa. you pretend not to know? this light-shunning embassy trembles at the sound of words, but the spectre betrays itself in your ghastly visage. what is there yet to happen? you said the duke will inflict upon him a most exemplary punishment. what call you exemplary? worm. ask me no more. louisa. terrible man! some hangman must have schooled thee! else thou hast not so well learned to prolong the torture of thy victim before giving the finishing stroke to the agonized heart! speak! what fate awaits my father? death thou canst announce with a laughing sneer--what then must that be which thou dost hesitate to disclose? speak out! let me at once receive the overwhelming weight of thy tidings! what fate awaits my father? worm. a criminal process. louisa. but what is that? i am an ignorant, innocent girl, and understand but little of your fearful terms of law. what mean you by a criminal process? worm. judgment upon life or death. louisa (firmly). ah! i thank you. [exit hastily by a side door. worm (alarmed). what means this? should the simpleton perchance-- confusion! surely she will not--i must follow her. i am answerable for her life. (as he is going towards the door, louisa returns, wrapped in a cloak.) louisa. your pardon, mr. secretary, i must lock the door. worm. whither in such haste? louisa (passing him). to the duke. worm (alarmed, detains her). how? whither? louisa. to the duke. do you not hear? even to that very duke whose will is to decide upon my father's life or death. yet no?--'tis not his will that decides, but the will of wicked men who surround his throne. he lends naught to this process, save the shadow of his majesty, and his royal signature. worm (with a burst of laughter). to the duke! louisa. i know the meaning of that sneering laugh--you would tell me that i shall find no compassion there. but though i may meet (god preserve me!) with nothing but scorn--scorn at my sorrows--yet will i to the duke. i have been told that the great never know what misery is; that they fly from the knowledge of it. but i will teach the duke what misery is; i will paint to him, in all the writhing agonies of death, what misery is; i will cry aloud in wailings that shall creep through the very marrow of his bones, what misery is; and, while at my picture his hairs shall stand on end like quills upon the porcupine, will i shriek into his affrighted ear, that in the hour of death the sinews of these mighty gods of earth shall shrivel and shrink, and that at the day of judgment beggars and kings shall be weighed together in the same balance (going.) worm (ironically). by all means go to the duke! you can really do nothing more prudent; i advise you heartily to the step. only go, and i give you my word that the duke will grant your suit. louisa (stopping suddenly). what said you? do you yourself advise the step? (returns hastily). what am i about to do? something wicked surely, since this man approves it--how know you that the prince will grant my suit? worm. because he will not have to grant it unrewarded. louisa. not unrewarded? and what price does he set on his humanity? worm. the person of the fair suppliant will be payment enough! louisa (stopping for a moment in mute dismay--in a feeble voice). almighty god! worm. and i trust that you will not think your father's life over-valued when 'tis purchased at so gracious a price. louisa (with great indignation). true, oh! true! the great are entrenched from truth behind their own vices, safely as behind the swords of cherubim. the almighty protect thee, father! your child can die-- but not sin for thee. worm. this will be agreeable news for the poor disconsolate old man. "my louisa," says he, "has bowed me down to the earth; but my louisa will raise me up again." i hasten to him with your answer. (affects to be about to depart.) louisa (flies after him and holds him back). stay! stay! one moment's patience! how nimble this satan is, when his business is to drive humanity distracted! i have bowed him to the earth! i must raise him up again! speak to me! counsel me! what can i, what must i do? worm. there is but one means of saving him! louisa. what is that means? worm. and your father approves of it---- louisa. my father? oh! name that means. worm. it is easy for you to execute. louisa. i know of nothing harder than infamy! worm. suppose you were to release the major from his engagement? louisa. release him! do you mock me? do you call that a choice to which force compelled me? worm. you mistake me, dear girl! the major must resign you willingly, and be the first to retract his engagement. louisa. that he will never do. worm. so it appears. should we, do you think, have had recourse to you were it not that you alone are able to help us? louisa. i cannot compel him to hate me. worm. we will try! be seated. louisa (drawing back). man! what is brooding in thy artful brain? worm. be seated. here are paper, pens, and ink. write what i dictate. louisa (sitting down in the greatest uneasiness). what must i write? to whom must i write? worm. to your father's executioner. louisa. ah! how well thou knowest to torture souls to thy purpose. (takes a pen.) worm (dictating to her). "my dear sir (louisa writes with a trembling hand,) three days, three insupportable days, have already passed--already passed--since last we met." louisa (starts, and lays down her pen). to whom is the letter? worm. to your father's executioner. louisa. oh! my god! worm. "but for this you must blame the major--the major--who watches me all day with the vigilance of an argus." louisa (starting up). villany! villany beyond all precedent! to whom is the letter? worm. to your father's executioner. louisa (paces to and fro, wringing her hands). no, no, no! this is tyrannical! oh heaven! if mortals provoke thee, punish them like mortals; but wherefore must i be placed between two precipices? wherefore am i hurled by turns from death to infamy, from infamy to death? wherefore is my neck made the footstool of this blood-sucking fiend? no; do what thou wilt, i will never write that! worm (seizing his hat). as you please, miss! it rests entirely on your own pleasure! louisa. pleasure, say'st thou? on my own pleasure? go, barbarian! suspend some unfortunate over the pit of hell; then make your demands, and ask your victim if it be his pleasure to grant your request! oh! thou knowest but too well that the bonds of nature bind our hearts as firmly as chains! but all is now alike indifferent. dictate! i cease to think! artifices of hell, i yield to ye! (she resumes her seat at the table.) worm. "with the vigilance of an argus." have you written it? louisa. proceed, proceed! worm. "the president was here yesterday. it was amusing to see how warm the poor major was in defence of my honor." louisa. excellent! excellent! oh! admirable! quick! quick, go on! worm. "i had recourse to a swoon--a swoon--that i might not laugh aloud"---- louisa. oh, heavens! worm. "but the mask which i have worn so long is becoming insupportable --insupportable. oh! if i could but rid myself of him." louisa (rises, and walks a few turns with her head bent down, as if she sought something upon the floor: then returns to her place, and continues to write). "rid myself of him." worm. "he will be on duty to-morrow--observe when he leaves me, and hasten to the usual place." have you written "the usual place?" louisa. everything, everything! worm. "to the usual place, to meet your devotedly attached louisa." louisa. now then, the address? worm. "to marshal von kalb." louisa. eternal providence! a name as foreign to my ear as these scandalous lines are to my heart! (she rises, and for some moments surveys the writing with a vacant gaze. at length she hands it to worm, speaking in a voice trembling and exhausted.) take it, sir! what i now put into your hands is my good name. it is ferdinand--it is the whole joy of my life! you have it, and now i am a beggar---- worm. oh! not so! despair not, dear girl! you inspire me with the most heartfelt pity! perhaps--who knows? i might even now overlook certain parts of your conduct--yes! heaven is my witness, how deeply i compassionate your sorrows! louisa (giving him a piercing look). do not explain yourself! you are on the point of asking something more terrible than all. worm (attempting to kiss her hand). what if i asked this little hand? would that be terrible, louisa? louisa (with great indignation). yes! for i should strangle you on the bridal night: and for such a deed i would joyfully yield my body to be torn on the rack! (she is going, but comes hurriedly back.) is all settled between us, sir? may the dove be released? worm. a trifle yet remains, maiden! you must swear, by the holy sacrament, to acknowledge this letter for your free and voluntary act. louisa. oh god! oh god! and wilt thou grant thine own seal to confirm the works of hell? (worm leads her away.) act iv. scene i. saloon in the president's house. ferdinand von walter enters in great excitement with an open letter in his hand, and is met by a servant. ferdinand. is the marshal here? servant. my lord, his highness the president is inquiring for you. ferdinand. fire and fury! i ask is the marshal here? servant. his honor is engaged at the faro-table, above stairs. ferdinand. tell his honor, in the name of all the devils in hell, to make his appearance this instant! [exit servant. scene ii. ferdinand (hastily reading the letter, at one moment seeming petrified with astonishment, at the next pacing the room with fury). impossible! quite impossible! a form so heavenly cannot hide so devilish a heart. and yet!--and yet! though all the angels of heaven should descend on earth and proclaim her innocence--though heaven and earth, the creator and the created, should, with one accord, vouch for her innocence--it is her hand, her own hand! treachery, monstrous, infernal treachery, such as humanity never before witnessed! this, then, was the reason she so resolutely opposed our flight! this it was--oh, god! now i awake from my dream! now the veil is lifted! this, then, is why she surrendered with so much seeming heroism her claims on my affection, and all but cheated me with her saint-like demeanor! (he traverses the chamber rapidly, and then remains for some moments in deep thought.) to fathom my heart to its very core! to reciprocate every lofty sentiment, every gentle emotion, every fiery ebullition! to sympathize with every secret breathing of my soul! to study me even in her tears! to mount with me to the sublimest heights of passion--to brave with me, undaunted, each fearful precipice! god of heaven! and was all this deceit? mere grimace? oh, if falsehood can assume so lovely an appearance of truth why has no devil yet lied himself back into heaven? when i unfolded to her the dangers which threatened our affection, with what convincing artifice did the false one turn pale! with what overpowering dignity did she repulse my father's licentious scoffs! yet at that very moment the deceiver was conscious of her guilt! nay, did she not even undergo the fiery ordeal of truth? forsooth, the hypocrite fainted! what must now be thy language, sensibility, since coquettes faint? how wilt thou vindicate thyself, innocence?--for even strumpets faint? she knows her power over me--she has seen through my very heart! my soul shone conspicuous in my eyes at the blush of her first kiss. and that she should have felt nothing! or perhaps felt only the triumph of her art; whilst my happy delirium fancied that in her i embraced a whole heaven, my wildest wishes were hushed! no thought but of her and eternity was present to my mind. oh, god! and yet she felt nothing? nothing? but that her artifice had triumphed! that her charms were flattered! death and vengeance! nothing, but that i was betrayed! scene iii. ferdinand, the marshal. marshal (tripping into the room). i am told, my dear baron, that you have expressed a wish---- ferdinand (muttering to himself). to break your rascally neck. (aloud.) marshal, this letter must have dropped out of your pocket on parade. (with a malicious smile.) and i have been the fortunate finder. marshal. you? ferdinand. by a singular coincidence! now, balance thy account with heaven! marshal. you quite alarm me, baron! ferdinand. read it, sir, read it! (turning from him.) if i am not good enough for a lover perhaps i may do for a pimp. (while the marshal reads, ferdinand goes to the wall and takes down the pistols.) kalb (throws the letter upon the table, and rushes off). confusion! ferdinand (leads him back by the arm). wait a little, my dear marshal! the intelligence contained in that letter appears to be agreeable! the finder must have his reward. (showing him the pistols.) marshal (starts back in alarm). have you lost your senses, baron? ferdinand (in a terrible voice). i have more than enough left to rid the world of such a scoundrel as you! choose one of these instantly! (he forces a pistol into the marshal's hand, and then draws out his handkerchief.) and now take the other end of this handkerchief! it was given me by the strumpet herself! marshal. what, shoot over the handkerchief? baron, are you mad? what can you be thinking of? ferdinand. lay hold of it, i say! or you will be sure to miss your aim, coward! how the coward trembles! you should thank god, you pitiful coward, that you have a chance for once of getting something in your empty brain-box. (the marshal takes to his heels.) gently, gently! i'll take care of that. (overtakes him and bolts the door.) marshal. surely you will not fight in the chamber? ferdinand. as if you were worth the trouble of a walk beyond the boundaries! the report, my dear fellow, will be louder, and, for the first time, you will make some noise in the world. now, then, take hold! marshal (wiping his forehead). yet consider, i entreat. would you risk your precious life, young and promising as you are, in this desperate manner? ferdinand. take hold, i say! i have nothing more to do in this world! marshal. but i have much, my dearest, most excellent friend! ferdinand. thou, wretch--thou? what hast thou to do, but to play the stop-gap, where honest men keep aloof! to stretch or shrink seven times in an instant, like the butterfly on a pin? to be privy registrar in chief and clerk of the jordan? to be the cap-and-bell buffoon on which your master sharpens his wit? well, well, let it be so. i will carry you about with me, as i would a marmot of rare training. you shall skip and dance, like a tamed monkey, to the howling of the damned; fetch, carry, and serve; and with your courtly arts enliven the wailings of everlasting despair! marshal. anything you please, dear major! whatever you please! only take away the pistols! ferdinand. how he stands there, poor trembling wretch! there he stands, a blot on the sixth day of creation. he looks as if he were a piratical counterfeit of the almighty original. pity, eternal pity! that an atom of brains should lie wasting in so barren a skull! that single atom bestowed upon a baboon might have made him a perfect man, whereas it is now a mere useless fragment. and that she should share her heart with a thing like this! monstrous! incredible! a wretch more formed to wean from sin than to excite it! marshal. praised be heaven! he is getting witty. ferdinand. i will let him live! that toleration which spares the caterpillar shall be extended to him! men shall look on him in wonder, and, shrugging their shoulders, admire the wise dispensation of providence, which can feed its creatures with husks and scourings; which spreads the table for the raven on the gallows, and for the courtier in the slime of majesty. we wonder at the wisdom of providence, which even in the world of spirits maintains its staff of venomous reptiles for the dissemination of poison. (relapsing into rage.) but such vermin shall not pollute my rose; sooner will i crush it to atoms (seizing the marshal and shaking him roughly), thus--and thus--and thus---- marshal. oh! god, that i were away from here! hundreds of miles away in the asylum for maniacs at paris! anywhere but near this man! ferdinand. villain! if she be no longer pure! villain! if thou hast profaned where i worshipped! (with increased fury). if thou hast polluted, where i believed myself the god! (pausing suddenly; then in a solemn terrible voice.) it were better for thee, villain, to flee to hell, than to encounter my wrath in heaven! confess! to what extent has your unhallowed love proceeded? marshal. let me go! i will confess everything. ferdinand. oh! it must be more rapturous even to be her licentious paramour than to burn with the purest flame for any other! would she surrender her charms to unlicensed pleasure she might dissolve the soul itself to sin, and make voluptuousness pass for virtue (pressing his pistol against the marshal's breast). to what extremities have you proceeded? confess this instant or i fire! marshal. there is nothing at all in it, i assure you! there is not a syllable of truth in the whole business! have but a moment's patience! you are deceived, indeed you are! ferdinand (furiously). and dare you remind me of that, villain? to what extremities have you proceeded? confess, or you are a dead man! marshal. mon dieu! my god! you mistake my words! only listen for a moment. when a father---- ferdinand (still more enraged). no doubt! he threw his daughter into your arms? and how far have you proceeded? confess, or i will murder you! marshal. you rave! you will not listen! i never saw her! i don't know her! i know nothing at all about her! ferdinand (drawing back). you never saw her? you don't know her? know nothing at all about her? louisa is lost to me forever on thy account, and yet in one breath hast thou denied her thrice. go, wretch, go (he gives him a blow with the pistol, and thrusts him out of the chamber); powder were thrown away on such a miscreant. [exit marshal. scene iv. ferdinand (after a long silence, during which his countenance declares him to be agitated by some dreadful idea). forever lost? yes, false unfortunate, both are lost! ay, by the almighty god! if i am lost, thou art so too. judge of the world, ask her not from me! she is mine. for her sake i renounced the whole world--abandoned all thy glorious creation. leave me the maid, great judge of the world! millions of souls pour out their plaints to thee--turn on them thine eye of compassion, but leave me, almighty judge--leave me to myself. (clasping his hands in agony.) can the bountiful, the munificent creator be covetous of one miserable soul, and that soul the worst of his creation? the maiden is mine! once i was her god, but now i am her devil! (fixes his eyes with terrible expression.) an eternity passed with her upon the rack of everlasting perdition! her melting eye-balls riveted on mine! our blazing locks entwined together! our shrieks of agony dissolving into one! and then to renew to her my vows of love, and chant unceasingly her broken oaths! god! god! the union is dreadful--and eternal! (as he is about to rush off, the president meets him.) scene v. ferdinand, the president. ferdinand (starting back). ha! my father. president. i am glad to meet with you, ferdinand! i come to bring you some pleasant news--something that will certainly surprise you, my dear son. shall we be seated? ferdinand (after gazing upon him for some time with a vacant stare). my father! (going to him with emotion, and grasping his hand.) my father! (kissing it, and falling at his feet.) oh, father! president. what is the matter? rise, my son. your hand burns and trembles! ferdinand (wildly). forgive my ingratitude, father! i am a lost man! i have misinterpreted your kindness! your meaning was so truly--truly paternal! oh! you had a prophetic soul! now it is too late! pardon! pardon! your blessing, my dear father! president (feigning astonishment). arise, my son! recollect that your words to me are riddles! ferdinand. this louisa, dear father! oh! you understand mankind! your anger was so just, so noble, so truly the zeal of a father! had not its very earnestness led you to mistake the way. this louisa! president. spare me, dear boy! curses on my severity! come to entreat your forgiveness---- ferdinand. forgiveness from me! curse me rather. your disapproval was wisdom! your severity was heavenly mercy! this louisa, father---- president. is a noble, a lovely girl! i recall my too rash suspicions! she has won my entire esteem! ferdinand (starting up). what? you, too? father, even you? and is she not, father, the very personification of innocence? and is it not so natural to love this maiden? president. say, rather, 'twere a crime not to love her. ferdinand. incredible! wonderful! and you, too, who can so thoroughly see through the heart! and you, who saw her faults with the eyes of hatred! oh, unexampled hypocrisy! this louisa, father! president. is worthy to be my daughter! her virtues supply the want of ancestry, her beauty the want of fortune. my prudential maxims yield to the force of your attachment. louisa shall be yours! ferdinand. naught but this wanting! father, farewell! (rushes out of the apartment.) president (following him). stay, my son, stay! whither do you fly? scene vi.--a magnificent saloon in lady milford's house. enter lady milford and sophia. lady milford. you have seen her then? will she come? sophia. yes, in a moment! she was in dishabille, and only requested time to change her dress. lady milford. speak not of her. silence! i tremble like a criminal at the prospect of beholding that fortunate woman whose heart sympathizes thus cruelly with my own. and how did she receive my invitation? sophia. she seemed surprised, became thoughtful, fixed her eyes on me steadfastly, and for a while remained silent. i was already prepared for her excuses, when she returned me this answer with a look that quite astonished me; "tell your mistress that she commands what i myself intended to request to-morrow." lady milford. leave me, sophia! pity me! i must blush if she is but an ordinary woman--despair if she is more! sophia. but, my lady! it is not in this spirit that a rival should be received! remember who you are! summon to your aid your birth, your rank, your power! a prouder soul should heighten the gorgeous splendor of your appearance. lady milford (in a fit of absence). what is the simpleton babbling about? sophia (maliciously). or, is it, perhaps, by chance that to-day, in particular, you are adorned with your most costly brilliants? by chance that you are to-day arrayed in your most sumptuous robes? that your antechamber is crowded with guards and pages; and that the tradesman's daughter is to be received in the most stately apartment of the palace? lady milford (angry and nettled). this is outrageous! insupportable! oh that woman should have such argus-eyes for woman's weakness! how low, how irretrievably low must i have fallen when such a creature has power to fathom me! lady milford, sophia, a servant. servant (entering). ma'mselle miller waits. lady milford (to sophia). hence with you! leave the room instantly! (imperiously, as the latter hesitates.) must i repeat my orders? (sophia retires--lady milford takes a few turns hastily.) so; 'tis well that i have been excited! i am in the fitter mood for this meeting. (to the servant.) let her approach. [exit servant. lady milford throws herself upon the sofa, and assumes a negligent but studied attitude. scene vii. lady milford, louisa. louisa enters timidly, and remains standing at a great distance from lady milford, who has turned her back towards her, and for some time watches her attentively in the opposite looking-glass. after a pause----- louisa. noble lady, i await your commands. lady milford (turning towards louisa, and making a slight and distant motion with her head.) oh! are you there? i presume the young lady--a certain----. pray what is your name? louisa (somewhat sensitively). my father's name is miller. your ladyship expressed a wish to see his daughter. lady milford. true, true! i remember. the poor musician's daughter, of whom we were speaking the other day. (aside, after a pause.) very interesting, but no beauty! (to louisa.) come nearer, my child. (again aside.) eyes well practised in weeping. oh! how i love those eyes! (aloud.) nearer--come nearer! quite close! i really think, my good child, that you are afraid of me! louisa (with firmness and dignity). no, my lady--i despise the opinion of the multitude! lady milford (aside). well, to be sure! she has learnt this boldness from him. (to louisa.) you have been recommended to me, miss! i am told that you have been decently educated, and are well disposed. i can readily believe it; besides, i would not, for the world, doubt the word of so warm an advocate. louisa. and yet i remember no one, my lady, who would be at the trouble to seek your ladyship's patronage for me! lady milford (significantly). does that imply my unworthiness, or your humility? louisa. your words are beyond my comprehension, lady. lady milford. more cunning than i should have expected from that open countenance. (to louisa.) your name is louisa, i believe? may i inquire your age? louisa. sixteen, just turned. lady milford (starting up). ha! there it is! sixteen! the first pulsation of love! the first sweet vibration upon the yet unsounded harp! nothing is more fascinating. (to louisa.) be seated, lovely girl--i am anxious about you. (to herself.) and he, too, loves for the first time! what wonder, if the ruddy morning beams should meet and blend? (to louisa, taking her hand affectionately.) 'tis settled: i will make your fortune. (to herself.) oh! there is nothing in it: nothing, but the sweet transient vision of youth! (to louisa, patting her on the cheek.) my sophy is on the point of leaving me to be married: you shall have her place. but just sixteen? oh! it can never last. louisa (kissing her hand respectfully). receive my thanks, lady, for your intended favors, and believe me not the less grateful though i may decline to accept them. lady milford (relapsing into disdain and anger). only hear the great lady! girls of your station generally think themselves fortunate to obtain such promotion. what is your dependence, my dainty one? are these fingers too delicate for work?--or is it your pretty baby-face that makes you give yourself these airs? louisa. my face, lady, is as little of my own choice as my station! lady milford. perhaps you believe that your beauty will last forever? poor creature! whoever put that into your head--be he who he may--has deceived both you and himself! the colors of those cheeks are not burnt in with fire: what your mirror passes off upon you as solid and enduring is but a slight tinselling, which, sooner or later, will rub off in the hands of the purchaser. what then, will you do? louisa. pity the purchaser, lady, who bought a diamond because it appeared to be set in gold. lady milford (affecting not to hear her). a damsel of your age has ever two mirrors, the real one, and her admirer. the flattering complaisance of the latter counterbalances the rough honesty of the former. what the one proclaims frightful pock-marks, the other declares to be dimples that would adorn the graces. the credulous maid believes only so much of the former as is confirmed by the latter, and hies from one to the other till she confounds their testimonies, and concludes by fancying them to be both of one opinion. why do you stare at me so? louisa. pardon me, lady! i was just then pitying those gorgeous sparkling brilliants, which are unconscious that their possessor is so strenuous a foe to vanity. lady milford (reddening). no evasion, miss. were it not that you depend upon personal attractions, what in the world could induce you to reject a situation, the only one where you can acquire polish of manners and divest yourself of your plebeian prejudices? louisa. and with them, i presume, my plebeian innocence! lady milford. preposterous objection! the most dissolute libertine dares not to disrespect our sex, unless we ourselves encourage him by advances. prove what you are; make manifest your virtue and honor, and i will guarantee your innocence from danger. louisa. of that, lady, permit me to entertain a doubt! the palaces of certain ladies are but too often made a theatre for the most unbridled licentiousness. who will believe that a poor musician's daughter could have the heroism to plunge into the midst of contagion and yet preserve herself untainted? who will believe that lady milford would perpetually hold a scorpion to her breast, and lavish her wealth to purchase the advantage of every moment feeling her cheeks dyed with the crimson blush of shame? i will be frank, lady!--while i adorned you for some assignation, could you meet my eye unabashed? could you endure my glance when you returned? oh! better, far better, would it be that oceans should roll between us--that we should inhabit different climes! beware, my lady!--hours of temperance, moments of satiety might intrude; the gnawing worm of remorse might plant its sting in your bosom, and then what a torment would it be for you to read in the countenance of your handmaid that calm serenity with which virtue ever rewards an uncorrupted heart! (retiring a few steps.) once more, gracious lady, i entreat your pardon! lady milford (extremely agitated). insupportable, that she should tell me this! still more insupportable, that what she tells is true! (turning to louisa, and looking at her steadfastly.) girl! girl! this artifice does not blind me. mere opinions do not speak out so warmly. beneath the cloak of these sentiments lurks some far dearer interest. 'tis that which makes my service particularly distasteful--which gives such energy to your language. (in a threatening voice.) what it is i am determined to discover. louisa (with calm dignity). and what if you do discover it? suppose the contemptuous trampling of your foot should rouse the injured worm, which its creator has furnished with a sting to protect it against misusage. i fear not your vengeance, lady! the poor criminal extended on the rack can look unappalled even on the dissolution of the world. my misery is so exquisite that even sincerity cannot draw down upon me any further infliction! (after a pause.) you say that you would raise me from the obscurity of my station. i will not examine the motives of this suspicious favor. i will only ask, what could induce you to think me so foolish as to blush at my station? what could induce you to become the architect of my happiness, before you knew whether i was willing to receive that happiness at your hands? i had forever renounced all claims upon the pleasures of the world. i had forgiven fortune that she had dealt with me so niggardly. ah! why do you remind me of all this. if the almighty himself hides his glory from the eyes of his creatures, lest the highest seraph should be overwhelmed by a sense of his own insignificance, why should mortals be so cruelly compassionate? lady, lady! why is your vaunted happiness so anxious to excite the envy and wonder of the wretched? does your bliss stand in need of the exhibition of despair for entertainment? oh! rather grant me that blindness which alone can reconcile me to my barbarous lot! the insect feels itself as happy in a drop of water as though that drop was a paradise: so happy, and so contented! till some one tells it of a world of water, where navies ride and whales disport themselves! but you wish to make me happy, say you? (after a pause, she advances towards lady milford, and asks her suddenly.) are you happy, lady? (lady milford turns from her hastily, and overpowered. louisa follows her, and lays her hand upon her bosom.) does this heart wear the smile of its station? could we now exchange breast for breast, and fate for fate--were i, in childlike innocence, to ask you on your conscience--were i to ask you as a mother-- would you really counsel me to make the exchange? lady milford (greatly excited, throwing herself on the sofa). intolerable! incomprehensible! no, louisa, no! this greatness of thought is not your own, and your conceptions are too fiery, too full of youth, to be inspired by your father. deceive me not! i detect another teacher---- louisa (looking piercingly at her). i cannot but wonder, my lady, that you should have only just discovered that other teacher, and yet have previously shown so much anxiety to patronize me! lady milford (starting up). 'tis not to be borne! well, then, since i cannot escape you, i know him--know everything--know more than i wish to know! (suddenly restraining herself, then continuing with a violence which by degrees increases to frenzy.) but dare, unhappy one!--dare but still to love, or be beloved by him! what did i say? dare but to think of him, or to be one of his thoughts! i am powerful, unhappy one!-- dreadful in my vengeance! as sure as there is a god in heaven thou art lost forever! louisa (undaunted). past all redemption, my lady, the moment you succeed in compelling him to love you! lady milford. i understand you--but i care not for his love! i will conquer this disgraceful passion. i will torture my own heart; but thine will i crush to atoms! rocks and chasms will i hurl between you. i will rush, like a fury, into the heaven of your joys. my name shall affright your loves as a spectre scares an assassin. that young and blooming form in his embrace shall wither to a skeleton. i cannot be blest with him-- neither shalt thou. know, wretched girl; that to blast the happiness of others is in itself a happiness! louisa. a happiness, my lady, which is already beyond your reach! seek not to deceive your own heart! you are incapable of executing what you threaten! you are incapable of torturing a being who has done you no wrong--but whose misfortune it is that her feelings have been sensible to impressions like your own. but i love you for these transports, my lady! lady milford (recovering herself). where am i? what have i done? what sentiments have i betrayed? to whom have i betrayed them? oh, louisa, noble, great, divine soul, forgive the ravings of a maniac! fear not, my child! i will not injure a hair of thy head! name thy wishes! ask what thou wilt! i will serve thee with all my power; i will be thy friend-- thy sister! thou art poor; look (taking off her brilliants), i will sell these jewels--sell my wardrobe--my carriages and horses--all shall be thine--grant me but ferdinand! louisa (draws back indignantly). does she mock my despair?--or is she really innocent of participation in that cruel deed? ha! then i may yet assume the heroine, and make my surrender of him pass for a sacrifice! (remains for a while absorbed in thought, then approaches lady milford, seizes her hand, and gazes on her with a fixed and significant look.) take him, lady! i here voluntarily resign the man whom hellish arts have torn from my bleeding bosom! perchance you know it not, my lady! but you have destroyed the paradise of two lovers; you have torn asunder two hearts which god had linked together; you have crushed a creature not less dear to him than yourself, and no less created for happiness; one by whom he was worshipped as sincerely as by you; but who, henceforth, will worship him no more. but the almighty is ever open to receive the last groan of the trampled worm. he will not look on with indifference when creatures in his keeping are murdered. now ferdinand is yours. take him, lady, take him! rush into his arms! drag him with you to the altar! but forget not that the spectre of a suicide will rush between you and the bridal kiss. god be merciful! no choice is left me! (rushes out of the chamber.) scene viii. lady milford alone, in extreme agitation, gazing on the door by which louisa left. at length she recovers from her stupor. lady milford. what was that? what preys so on my heart? what said the unhappy one? still, o heaven, the dreadful, damning words ring in my ears! "take him! take him!" what should i take, unfortunate? the bequest of your dying groan--the fearful legacy of your despair? gracious heaven! am i then fallen so low? am i so suddenly hurled from the towering throne of my pride that i greedily await what a beggar's generosity may throw me in the last struggle of death? "take him! take him!" and with what a tone was it uttered!--with what a look! what! amelia! is it for this thou hast overleaped the bounds of thy sex? for this didst thou vaunt the glorious title of a free-born briton, that thy boasted edifice of honor might sink before the nobler soul of a despised and lowly maiden? no, proud unfortunate! no! amelia milford may blush for shame,--but shall never be despised. i, too, have courage to resign. (she walks a few paces with a majestic gait.) hide thyself, weak, suffering woman! hence, ye sweet and golden dreams of love! magnanimity alone be now my guide. these lovers are lost, or amelia must withdraw her claim, and renounce the prince's heart. (after a pause, with animation.) it is determined! the dreadful obstacle is removed--broken are the bonds which bound me to the duke--torn from my bosom this raging passion. virtue, into thy arms i throw myself. receive thy repentant daughter. ha! how happy do i feel! how suddenly relieved my heart, and how exalted! glorious as the setting sun, will i this day descend from the pinnacle of my greatness; my grandeur shall expire with my love, and my own heart be the only sharer of my proud exile! (going to her writing-table with a determined air.) it must be done at once--now, on the spot--before the recollection of ferdinand renews the cruel conflict in my bosom! (she seats herself, and begins to write). scene ix. lady milford, an attendant, sophia, afterwards the marshal, and then servants. servant. marshal von kalb is in the ante-chamber, and brings a message from his highness. lady milford (not hearing him in the eagerness of writing). how the illustrious puppet will stare! the idea is singular enough, i own, the presuming to astonish his serene numskull. in what confusion will his court be thrown! the whole country will be in a ferment. servant and sophia. marshal von kalb, my lady! lady milford (turning round). who? the marshal? so much the better! such creatures were designed by nature to carry the ass' panniers. [exit servant. sophia (approaching anxiously). if i were not fearful, my lady, that you would think it presumption. (lady milford continuing to write eagerly.) louisa miller rushed madly to the hall--you are agitated--you speak to yourself. (lady milford continues writing.) i am quite alarmed. what can have happened? (the marshal enters, making repeated bows at lady milford's back; as she takes no notice of him, he comes nearer, stands behind her chair, touches the hem of her dress, and imprints a kiss on it, saying in a tremulous voice.) his serene highness---- lady milford (while she peruses hastily what she has written). he will tax me with black ingratitude! "i was poor and forsaken! he raised me from misery! from misery." detestable exchange! annul my bond, seducer! the blush of my eternal shame repays my debt with interest. marshal (after endeavoring in vain to catch her eye). your ladyship seems somewhat absent. i take the liberty of permitting myself the boldness (very loud)--his serene highness, my lady, has sent me to inquire whether you mean to honor this evening's gala with your presence, or the theatre? lady milford (rising, with a laugh). one or the other, sweet sir. in the meantime take this paper to your duke for his dessert. (to sophia.) do you, sophia, give directions to have my carriage brought to the door without delay, and call my whole household together in this saloon. sophia (goes out in great astonishment). heavens! what do i forebode? what will this end in? marshal. you seem excited, my lady! lady milford. the greater the chance of my letting you into a little truth. rejoice, my lord marshal! there is a place vacant at court. a fine time for panders. (as the marshal throws a look of suspicion upon the paper.) read it, read it! 'tis my desire that the contents should be made public. (while he reads it, the domestics enter, and range themselves in the background.) marshal (reading). "your highness--an engagement, broken by you so lightly, can no longer be binding on me. the happiness of your subjects was the condition of my love. for three years the deception has lasted. the veil at length falls from my eyes! i look with disgust on favors which are stained with the tears of your subjects. bestow the love which i can no longer accept upon your weeping country, and learn from a british princess compassion to your german people. within an hour i shall have quitted your dominions. joanna norfolk" servants (exclaiming to each other in astonishment). quitted the dominions! marshal (replaces the letter upon the table in terror). god forbid, my dear and most excellent lady! the bearer of such a letter would be as mad as the writer! lady milford. that is your concern, you pink of a courtier! alas! i am sorry to know that you, and such as you, would choke even in the utterance of what others dare to do. my advice is that you bake the letter in a venison pasty, so that his most serene highness may find it on his plate! marshal. god preserve me! what presumption! ponder well, i entreat you. reflect on the disgrace which you will bring down upon yourself, my lady! lady milford (turning to the assembled domestics, and addressing them in the deepest emotion). you seem amazed, good people; and anxiously awaiting the solution of this riddle? draw nearer, my friends! you have served me truly and affectionately; have looked into my eyes rather than my purse. my pleasure was your study, my approbation your pride! woe is me, that the remembrance of your fidelity must be the record of my unworthiness! unhappy fate, that the darkest season of my life should have been the brightest of yours! (her eyes suffused with tears.) we must part, my children. lady milford has ceased to exist, and joanna of norfolk is too poor to repay your love. what little wealth i have my treasurer will share among you. this palace belongs to the duke. the poorest of you will quit it far richer than his mistress! farewell, my children! (she extends her hand, which they all in turn kiss, with marks of sorrow and affection.) i understand you, my good people! farewell! forever farewell! (struggling with her feelings.) i hear the carriage at the door. (she tears herself away, and is hurrying out when the marshal arrests her progress.) how, now? pitiful creature, art thou still there? marshal (who all this while has been gazing in vacant astonishment at the letter). and must i be the person to put this letter into the most august hands of his most serene highness? lady milford. pitiful creature, even thou! thou must deliver into his most august hands, and convey to his most august ears, that, as i cannot go barefoot to loretto, i will support myself by the labor of my hands, that i may be purified from the disgrace of having condescended to rule him. (she hurries off--the rest silently disperse.) act v. scene i.--twilight; a room in miller's house. louisa sits silent and motionless in a dark corner of the room, her head reclining upon her hand. after a long pause, miller enters with a lantern, the light of which he casts anxiously round the chamber, without observing louisa, he then puts his hat on the table, and sets down the lantern. louisa, miller. miller. she is not here either. no, she is not here! i have wandered through every street; i have sought her with every acquaintance; i have inquired at every door! no one has seen my child! (a silence of some moments.) patience, poor unhappy father! patience till morning; then perhaps the corpse of your only one may come floating to shore. oh, god in heaven! what though my heart has hung too idolatrously upon this daughter, yet surely the punishment is severe! heavenly father! surely it is severe! i will not murmur, heavenly father; but the punishment is indeed severe! (throws himself sorrowfully into a chair.) louisa (without moving from her seat). thou dost well, wretched old man! learn betimes to lose. miller (starts up eagerly). ah! art thou there, my child? art thou there? but wherefore thus alone, and without a light? louisa. yet am i not alone. when all things around me are dark and gloomy then have i the companionship which most i love. miller. god defend thee, my child! the worm of conscience alone wakes and watches with the owl; none shun the light but criminals and evil spirits. louisa. and eternity, father, which speaks to the soul in solitude! miller. louisa, my child! what words are these? louisa (rises, and comes forward). i have fought a hard fight--you know it, father! but god gave me the strength! the fight is over! father, our sex is called timid and weak; believe it no more! we tremble at a spider, but the black monster, corruption, we hug to our arms in sport! this for your edification, father. your louisa is merry. miller. i had rather you wept. it would, please me better. louisa. how i will outwit him, father! how i shall cheat the tyrant! love is more crafty than malice, and bolder--he knew not that, the man of the unlucky star! oh! they are cunning so long as they have but to do with the head; but when they have to grapple with the heart the villains are at fault. he thought to seal his treachery with an oath! oaths, father, may bind the living, but death dissolves even the iron bonds of the sacrament! ferdinand will learn to know his louisa. father, will you deliver this letter for me? will you do me the kindness? miller. to whom, my child? louisa. strange question! infinitude and my heart together had not space enough for a single thought but of him. to whom else should i write? miller (anxiously). hear me, louisa! i must read this letter! louisa. as you please, father! but you will not understand it. the characters lie there like inanimate corpses, and live but for the eye of love. miller (reading). "you are betrayed, ferdinand! an unparalleled piece of villany has dissolved the union of our hearts; but a dreadful vow binds my tongue, and your father has spies stationed upon every side. but, if thou hast courage, my beloved, i know a place where oaths no longer bind, and where spies cannot enter." (miller stops short, and gazes upon her steadfastly.) louisa. why that earnest look, father? read what follows. miller. "but thou must be fearless enough to wander through a gloomy path with no other guides than god and thy louisa. thou must have no companion but love; leave behind all thy hopes, all thy tumultuous wishes--thou wilt need nothing on this journey but thy heart. darest thou come; then set out as the bell tolls twelve from the carmelite tower. dost thou fear; then erase from the vocabulary of thy sex's virtues the word courage, for a maiden will have put thee to shame." (miller lays down the letter and fixes his eyes upon the ground in deep sorrow. at length he turns to louisa, and says, in a low, broken voice) daughter, where is that place? louisa. don't you know it, father? do you really not know it? 'tis strange! i have described it unmistakably! ferdinand will not fail to find it. miller. pray speak plainer! louisa. i can think of no pleasing name for it just now! you must not be alarmed, father, if the name i give it has a terrible sound. that place,----oh! why has no lover invented a name for it! he would have chosen the softest, the sweetest--that place, my dear father--but you must not interrupt me--that place is--the grave! miller (staggering to a seat). oh, god! louisa (hastens to him, and supports him). nay, father, be not alarmed! these are but terrors which hover round an empty word! take away the name and the grave will seem to be a bridal-bed over which aurora spreads her golden canopy and spring strews her fairest flowers. none but a groaning sinner pictures death as a skeleton; to others he is a gentle, smiling boy, blooming as the god of love, but not so false--a silent, ministering spirit who guides the exhausted pilgrim through the desert of eternity, unlocks for him the fairy palace of everlasting joy, invites him in with friendly smiles, and vanishes forever! miller. what meanest thou, my child? surely, thou wilt not lay guilty hands on thine own life? louisa. speak not thus, father! to quit a community from which i am already rejected, to fly voluntarily to a place from which i cannot much longer be absent, is that a sin? miller. suicide is the most horrible of sins, my child. 'tis the only one that can never he repented, since death arrives at the moment the crime is committed. louisa (stands motionless with horror). that is dreadful! but my death will not be so sudden, father. i will spring into the river, and while the waters are closing over me, cry to the almighty for mercy and forgiveness! miller. that is to say, you will repent the theft as soon as the treasure is secure! daughter! daughter! beware how you mock your god when you most need his help! oh! you have gone far, far astray! you have forgotten the worship of your creator, and he has withdrawn his protecting hand from you! louisa. is it, then, a crime to love, father? miller. so long as thou lovest god thou wilt never love man to idolatry. thou hast bowed me down low, my only one! low! very low! perhaps to the grave! yet will i not increase the sadness of thy heart. daughter! i gave vent to my feelings as i entered. i thought myself alone! thou hast overheard me! and why should i longer conceal the truth. thou wert my idol! hear me, louisa, if there is yet room in thy heart for a father's feelings. thou wert my all! of thine own thou hast nothing more to lose, but i have my all at stake! my life depends on thee! my hairs are turning gray, louisa; they show that the time is drawing nigh with me when fathers look for a return of the capital invested in the hearts of their children. wilt thou defraud me of this, louisa? wilt thou away and bear with thee all the wealth of thy father? louisa (kissing his hand in the deepest emotion). no, father, no! i go from this world deeply in your debt, and will repay you with usury in the world to come. miller. beware, my child, lest thy reckoning should be false! (very earnestly and solemnly). art thou certain that we shall meet in that world to come? lo! how the color fades from thy cheek! my child must feel that i can scarcely overtake her in that other world if she hurries there before me. (louisa throws herself shuddering into his arms, he clasps her warmly to his bosom, and continues in a tone of fervent adjuration.) oh! louisa! louisa! fallen, perhaps already lost, daughter! treasure in thy heart the solemn counsels of a father! i cannot eternally watch over thee! i may snatch the dagger from thy hands; but thou canst let out life with a bodkin. i may remove poison from thy reach; but thou canst strangle thyself with a necklace. louisa! louisa! i can only warn thee. wilt thou rush boldly forward till the perfidious phantom which lured thee on vanishes at the awful brink of eternity? wilt thou dare approach the throne of the omniscient with the lie on thy lips? "at thy call am i here, creator!" while thy guilty eyes are in search only of their mortal idol! and when thou shalt see this perishable god of thine own creation, a worm like thee, writhing at the almighty's feet; when thou shalt hear him in the awful moment give the lie to thy guilty daring, and blast thy delusive hopes of eternal mercy, which the wretch implores in vain for himself; what then! (louder and more fervently), what, then, unhappy one? (he clasps her still closer to his bosom, and gazes upon her with wild and piercing looks; then suddenly disengages himself.) i can do no more! (raising his right hand towards heaven.) immortal judge, i can do no more to save this soul from ruin! louisa, do what thou wilt. offer up a sacrifice at the altar of this idolized youth that shall make thy evil genius howl for transport and thy good angels forsake thee in despair. go on! heap sin upon sin,--add to them this, the last, the heaviest,--and, if the scale be still too light throw in my curse to complete the measure. here is a knife; pierce thy own heart, and (weeping aloud and rushing away), and with it, thy father's! louisa (following and detaining him). stay! stay! oh! father, father!-- to think that affection should wound more cruelly than a tyrant's rage! what shall i?--i cannot!--what must i do? miller. if thy lover's kisses burn hotter than thy father's tears--then die! louisa (after a violent internal struggle, firmly). father! here is my hand! i will--god! god! what am i doing! what would i?--father, i swear. woe is me! criminal that i am where'er i turn! father, be it so! ferdinand. god, look down upon the act! thus i destroy the last memorial of him. (tearing the letter.) miller (throwing himself in ecstasy upon her neck). there spoke my daughter! look up, my child! thou hast lost a lover, but thou hast made a father happy. (embracing her, and alternately laughing and crying.) my child! my child! i was not worthy to live so blest a moment! god knows how i, poor miserable sinner, became possessed of such an angel! my louisa! my paradise! oh! i know but little of love; but that to rend its bonds must be a bitter grief i can well believe! louisa. but let us hasten from this place, my father! let us fly from the city, where my companions scoff at me, and my good name is lost forever--let us away, far away, from a spot where every object tells of my ruined happiness,--let us fly if it be possible! miller. whither thou wilt, my daughter! the bread of the lord grows everywhere, and he will grant ears to listen to my music. yes! we will fly and leave all behind. i will set the story of your sorrows to the lute, and sing of the daughter who rent her own heart to preserve her father's. we will beg with the ballad from door to door, and sweet will be the alms bestowed by the hand of weeping sympathy! scene ii. the former; ferdinand. louisa (who perceives him first, throws herself shrieking into miller's arms). god! there he is! i am lost! miller. who? where? louisa (points, with averted face, to the major, and presses closer to her father). 'tis he! 'tis he! himself! look round, father, look round!--he comes to murder me! miller (perceives him and starts back). how, baron? you here? ferdinand (approaches slowly, stands opposite to louisa, and fixes a stern and piercing look upon her. after a pause, he says). stricken conscience, i thank thee! thy confession is dreadful, but swift and true, and spares me the torment of an explanation! good evening, miller! miller. for god's sake! baron, what seek you? what brings you hither? what means this surprise? ferdinand. i knew a time when the day was divided into seconds, when eagerness for my presence hung upon the weights of the tardy clock, and when every pulse-throb was counted until the moment of my coming. how is it that i now surprise? miller. oh, leave us, leave us, baron! if but one spark of humanity still linger in your bosom;--if you seek not utterly to destroy her whom you profess to love, fly from this house, stay not one moment longer. the blessing of god deserted us when your foot first crossed its threshold. you have brought misery under a roof where all before was joy and happiness. are you not yet content? do you seek to deepen the wound which your fatal passion has planted in the heart of my only child? ferdinand. strange father, i have come to bring joyful tidings to your daughter. miller. perchance fresh hopes, to add to her despair. away, away, thou messenger of ill! thy looks belie thy words. ferdinand. at length the goal of my hopes appears in view! lady milford, the most fearful obstacle to our love, has this moment fled the land. my father sanctions my choice. fate grows weary of persecuting us, and our propitious stars now blaze in the ascendant--i am come to fulfil my plighted troth, and to lead my bride to the altar. miller. dost thou hear him, my child? dost thou hear him mock at thy cheated hopes? oh, truly, baron! it is so worthy of the deceiver to make a jest of his own crime! ferdinand. you think i am jesting? by my honor i am not! my protestations are as true as the love of my louisa, and i will keep them as sacred as she has kept her oaths. nothing to me is more sacred. can you still doubt? still no joyful blush upon the cheek of my fair bride? 'tis strange! falsehood must needs be here the current coin, since truth finds so little credit. you mistrust my words, it seems? then read this written testimony. (he throws louisa her letter to the marshal. she opens it, and sinks upon the floor pale as death.) miller (not observing this). what can this mean, baron? i do not understand you. ferdinand. (leads him to louisa). but your daughter has understood me well. miller (throws himself on his knees beside her). oh, god! my child! ferdinand. pale as a corpse! 'tis thus your daughter pleases me the best. your demure and virtuous daughter was never half so lovely as with that deathlike paleness. the blast of the day of judgment, which strips the varnish from every lie, has wafted the painted colors from her cheek, or the juggler might have cheated even the angels of light. this is her fairest countenance. now for the first time do i see it in its truth. let me kiss it. (he approaches her.) miller. back! away, boy! trifle not with a father's feelings. i could not defend her from your caresses, but i can from your insults. ferdinand. what wouldst thou, old man? with thee i have naught to do. engage not in a game so irrevocably lost. or hast thou, too, been wiser than i thought? hast thou employed the wisdom of thy sixty years in pandering to thy daughter's amours, and disgraced those hoary locks with the office of a pimp? oh! if it be not so, wretched old man, then lay thyself down and die. there is still time. thou mayest breathe by last in the sweet delusion, "i was a happy father!" wait but a moment longer and thine own hand will dash to her infernal home this poisonous viper; thou wilt curse the gift, and him who gave it, and sink to the grave in blasphemy and despair. (to louisa.) speak, wretched one, speak! didst thou write this letter? miller (to louisa, impressively). for god's sake, daughter, forget not! forget not! louisa. oh, father--that letter! ferdinand. oh! that it should have fallen into the wrong hands. now blessed be the accident! it has effected more than the most consummate prudence, and will at the day of judgment avail more than the united wisdom of sages. accident, did i say? oh! providence directs, when a sparrow falls, why not when a devil is unmasked? but i will be answered! didst thou write that letter? miller (to louisa, in a tone of entreaty). be firm, my child, be firm! but a single "yes," and all will be over. ferdinand. excellent! excellent! the father, too, is deceived! all, all are deceived by her! look, how the perfidious one stands there; even her tongue refuses participation in her last lie. i adjure thee by that god so terrible and true--didst thou write that letter? louisa (after a painful struggle, with firmness and decision). i did! ferdinand (stands aghast). no! as my soul liveth, thou hast lied. even innocence itself, when extended on the rack, confesses crime which it never committed--i ask too passionately. is it not so, louisa? thou didst but confess, because i asked passionately? louisa. i confessed the truth! ferdinand. no, i tell thee! no! no! thou didst not write that letter! it is not like thy hand! and, even though it were, why should it be more difficult to counterfeit a writing than to undo a heart? tell me truly, louisa! yet no, no, do not! thou mightest say yes again, and then i were lost forever. a lie, louisa! a lie! oh! if thou didst but know one now--if thou wouldst utter it with that open angelic mien--if thou wouldst but persuade mine ear and eye, though it should deceive my heart ever so monstrously! oh, louisa! then might truth depart in the same breath--depart from our creation, and the sacred cause itself henceforth bow her stiff neck to the courtly arts of deception. louisa. by the almighty god! by him who is so terrible and true! i did! ferdinand (after a pause, with the expression of the most heartfelt sorrow). woman! woman! with what a face thou standest now before me! offer paradise with that look, and even in the regions of the damned thou wilt find no purchaser. didst thou know what thou wert to me, louisa? impossible! no! thou knewest not that thou wert my all--all! 'tis a poor insignificant word! but eternity itself can scarcely circumscribe it. within it systems of worlds can roll their mighty orbs. all! and to sport with it so wickedly. oh, 'tis horrible. louisa. baron von walter, you have heard my confession! i have pronounced my own condemnation! now go! fly from a house where you have been so unhappy. ferdinand. 'tis well! 'tis well! you see i am calm; calm, too, they say, is the shuddering land through which the plague has swept. i am calm. yet ere i go, louisa, one more request! it shall be my last. my brain burns with fever! i need refreshment! will you make me some lemonade? [exit louisa. scene iii. ferdinand and miller. they both pace up and down without speaking, on opposite sides of the room, for some minutes. miller (standing still at length, and regarding the major with a sorrowful air). dear baron, perhaps it may alleviate your distress to say that i feel for you most deeply. ferdinand. enough of this, miller. (silence again for some moments.) miller, i forget what first brought me to your house. what was the occasion of it? miller. how, baron? don't you remember? you came to take lessons on the flute. ferdinand (suddenly). and i beheld his daughter! (another pause.) you have not kept your faith with me, friend! you were to provide me with repose for my leisure hours; but you betrayed me and sold me scorpions. (observing miller's agitation.) tremble not, good old man! (falling deeply affected on his neck)--the fault was none of thine! miller (wiping his eyes). heaven knows, it was not! ferdinand (traversing the room, plunged in the most gloomy meditation). strange! oh! beyond conception strange, are the almighty's dealings with us! how often do terrific weights hang upon slender, almost invisible threads! did man but know that he should eat death in a particular apple! hem! could he but know that! (he walks a few more turns; then stops suddenly, and grasps miller's hand with strong emotion.) friend, i have paid dearly for thy lessons--and thou, too, hast been no gainer-- perhaps mayst even lose thy all. (quitting him dejectedly.) unhappy flute-playing, would that it never entered my brain! miller (striving to repress his feelings). the lemonade is long in coming. i will inquire after it, if you will excuse me. ferdinand. no hurry, dear miller! (muttering to himself.) at least to her father there is none. stay here a moment. what was i about to ask you? ay, i remember! is louisa your only daughter? have you no other child? miller (warmly). i have no other, baron, and i wish for no other. that child is my only solace in this world, and on her have i embarked my whole stock of affection. ferdinand (much agitated). ha! pray see for the drink, good miller! [exit miller. scene iv. ferdinand alone. ferdinand. his only child! dost thou feel that, murderer? his only one! murderer, didst thou hear, his only one? the man has nothing in god's wide world but his instrument and that only daughter! and wilt thou rob him of her? rob him? rob a beggar of his last pittance? break the lame man's crutch, and cast the fragments at his feet? how? have i the heart to do this? and when he hastens home, impatient to reckon in his daughter's smiles the whole sum of his happiness; and when he enters the chamber, and there lies the rose--withered--dead--crushed--his last, his only, his sustaining hope. ha! and when he stands before her, and all nature looks on in breathless horror, while his vacant eye wanders hopelessly through the gloom of futurity, and seeks god, but finds him nowhere, and then returns disappointed and despairing! great god! and has not my father, too, an only son? an only child, but not his only treasure. (after a pause.) yet stay! what will the old man lose? she who could wantonly jest with the most sacred feelings of love, will she make a father happy? she cannot! she will not! and i deserve thanks for crushing this viper ere the parent feels its sting. scene v. miller returning, and ferdinand. miller. you shall be served instantly, baron! the poor thing is sitting without, weeping as though her heart would break! your drink will be mingled with her tears. ferdinand. 'twere well for her were it only with tears! we were speaking of my lessons, miller. (taking out a purse.) i remember that i am still in your debt. miller. how? what? go along with you, baron! what do you take me for? there is time enough for payment. do not put such an affront on me; we are not together for the last time, please god. ferdinand. who can tell? take your money. it is for life or death. miller (laughing). oh! for the matter of that, baron! as regards that i don't think i should run much risk with you! ferdinand. you would run the greatest. have you never heard that youths have died. that damsels and youths have died, the children of hope, the airy castles of their disappointed parents? what is safe from age and worms has often perished by a thunderbolt. even your louisa is not immortal. miller. god gave her to me. ferdinand. hear me! i say to you your louisa is not immortal. that daughter is the apple of your eye; you hang upon her with your whole heart and soul. be prudent, miller! none but a desperate gamester stakes his all upon a single cast. the merchant would be called a madman who embarked his whole fortune in one ship. think upon this, and remember that i warned you. but why do you not take your money? miller. how, baron, how? all that enormous purse? what can you be thinking of? ferdinand. upon my debt! there! (throws a heavy purse on the table; some gold drops out.) i cannot hold the dross to eternity. miller (astonished). mercy on us! what is this? the sound was not of silver! (goes to the table and cries out in astonishment.) in heaven's name, baron, what means this? what are you about? you must be out of your mind! (clasping his hands.) there it lies! or i am bewitched. 'tis damnable! i feel it now; the beauteous, shining, glorious heap of gold! no, satan, thou shalt not catch my soul with this! ferdinand. have you drunk old wine, or new, miller? miller (violently). death and furies! look yourself, then. it is gold! ferdinand. and what of that? miller. let me implore you, baron! in the name of all the saints in heaven, i entreat you! it is gold! ferdinand. an extraordinary thing, it must be admitted. miller (after a pause; addressing him with emotion). noble sir, i am a plain, straightforward man--do you wish to tempt me to some piece of knavery?--for, heaven knows, that so much gold cannot be got honestly! ferdinand (moved). make yourself quite easy, dear miller! you have well earned the money. god forbid that i should use it to the corruption of your conscience! miller (jumping about like a madman). it is mine, then! mine indeed! mine with the knowledge and consent of god! (hastening to the door.) daughter, wife, hurrah, come hither! (returning.) but, for heaven's sake, how have i all at once deserved this awful treasure? how am i to earn it? how repay it, eh? ferdinand. not by your music lessons, miller! with this gold do i pay you for (stops suddenly, and shudders)--i pay you--(after a pause, with emotion)--for my three months' unhappy dream of your daughter! miller (taking his hand and pressing it affectionately). most gracious sir! were you some poor and low-born citizen, and my daughter refused your love, i would pierce her heart with my own hands. (returning to the gold in a sorrowful tone.) but then i shall have all, and you nothing-- and i should have to give up all this glorious heap again, eh? ferdinand. let not that thought distress you, friend. i am about to quit this country, and in that to which i am journeying such coin is not current. miller (still fixing his eyes in transport on the money). mine, then, it remains? mine? yet it grieves me that you are going to leave us. only just wait a little and you shall see how i'll come out! i'll hold up my head with the best of them. (puts on his hat with an air, and struts up and down the room.) i'll give my lessons in the great concert-room, and won't i smoke away at the best puyke varinas--and, when you catch me again fiddling at the penny-hop, may the devil take me! ferdinand. stay, miller! be silent, and gather up your gold. (mysteriously.) keep silence only for this one evening, and do me the favor henceforward to give no more music lessons. miller (still more vehemently grasping his hand, full of inward joy). and my daughter, baron! my daughter! (letting go.) no, no! money does not make the man--whether i feed on vegetables or on partridges, enough is enough, and this coat will do very well as long as the sunbeams don't peep in at the elbows. to me money is mere dross. but my girl shall benefit by the blessing; whatever wish i can read in her eyes shall be gratified. ferdinand (suddenly interrupting him). oh! silence! silence! miller (still more warmly). and she shall learn to speak french like a born native, and to dance minuets, and to sing, so that people shall read of her in the newspapers; and she shall wear a cap like the judge's daughter, and a kidebarri [meaning, no doubt, cul de paris, a bustle], as they call it; and the fiddler's daughter shall be talked of for twenty miles round. ferdinand. (seizing his hand in extreme agitation). no more! no more! for god's sake be silent! be silent but for this one night; 'tis the only favor i ask of you. scene vi. louisa with a glass of lemonade; the former. louisa (her eyes swelled with weeping, and trembling voice, while she presents the glass to ferdinand). tell me, if it be not to your taste. ferdinand (takes the glass, places it on the table, and turns to miller). oh! i had almost forgotten! good miller, i have a request to make. will you do me a little favor? miller. a thousand with pleasure! what are your commands? ferdinand. my father will expect me at table. unfortunately i am in very ill humor. 'twould be insupportable to me just now to mix in society. will you go to my father and excuse my absence? louisa (terrified, interrupts him hastily). oh, let me go! miller. am i to see the president himself? ferdinand. not himself. give your message to one of the servants in the ante-chamber. here is my watch as a credential that i sent you. i shall be here when you return. you will wait for an answer. louisa (very anxiously). cannot i be the bearer of your message? ferdinand (to miller, who is going). stay--one thing more! here is a letter to my father, which i received this evening enclosed in one to myself. perhaps on business of importance. you may as well deliver it at the same time. miller (going). very well, baron! louisa (stopping him, and speaking in a tone of the most exquisite terror). but, dear father, i could do all this very well! pray let me go! miller. it is night, my child! and you must not venture out alone! [exit. ferdinand. light your father down, louisa. (louisa takes a candle and follows miller. ferdinand in the meantime approaches the table and throws poison into the lemonade). yes! she must die! the higher powers look down, and nod their terrible assent. the vengeance of heaven subscribes to my decree. her good angels forsake her, and leave her to her fate! scene vii. ferdinand and louisa. louisa re-enters slowly with the light, places it on the table, and stops on the opposite side of the room, her eyes fixed on the ground, except when she raises them to him with timid, stolen glances. he stands opposite, looking steadfastly on the earth--a long and deep silence. louisa. if you will accompany me, baron von walter, i will try a piece on the harpsichord! (she opens the instrument. ferdinand makes no answer. a pause.) louisa. you owe me a revenge at chess. will you play a game with me, baron von walter? (another pause.) louisa. i have begun the pocketbook, baron, which i promised to embroider for you. will you look at the design? (still a pause.) louisa. oh! i am very wretched! ferdinand (without changing his attitude). that may well be! louisa. it is not my fault, baron von walter, that you are so badly entertained! ferdinand (with an insulting laugh). you are not to blame for my bashful modesty---- louisa. i am quite aware that we are no longer fit companions. i confess that i was terrified when you sent away my father. i believe, baron von walter, that this moment is equally insupportable to us both. permit me to ask some of my acquaintances to join us. ferdinand. yes, pray do so! and i too will go and invite some of mine. louisa (looking at him with surprise). baron von walter! ferdinand (very spitefully). by my honor, the most fortunate idea that in our situation could ever enter mortal brain? let us change this wearisome duet into sport and merriment, and by the aid of certain gallantries, revenge ourselves on the caprices of love. louisa. you are merry, baron von walter! ferdinand. oh! wonderfully so! the very street-boys would hunt me through the market-place for a merry-andrew! in fact, louisa, your example has inspired me--you shall be my teacher. they are fools who prate of endless affection--never-ending sameness grows flat and insipid --variety alone gives zest to pleasure. have with you, louisa, we are now of one mind. we will skip from amour to amour, whirl from vice to vice; you in one direction, i in another. perhaps i may recover my lost tranquillity in some brothel. perhaps, when our merry race is run, and we become two mouldering skeletons, chance again may bring us together with the most pleasing surprise, and we may, as in a melodrama, recognize each other by a common feature of disease--that mother whom her children can never disavow. then, perhaps, disgust and shame may create that union between us which could not be effected by the most tender love. louisa. oh, walter! walter! thou art already unhappy--wilt thou deserve to be so? ferdinand (muttering passionately through his teeth). unhappy? who told thee so? woman, thou art too vile to have any feelings of thine own; how, then, canst thou judge of the feelings of others? unhappy, did she say?--ha! that word would call my anger from the grave! she knew that i must become unhappy. death and damnation! she knew it, and yet betrayed me! look to it, serpent! that was thy only chance of forgiveness. this confession has condemned thee. till now i thought to palliate thy crime with thy simplicity, and in my contempt thou hadst well nigh escaped my vengeance (seizing the glass hastily). thou wert not thoughtless, then-- thou wert not simple--thou wert nor more nor less than a devil! (he drinks.) the drink is bad, like thy soul! taste it! louisa. oh, heavens! 'twas not without reason that i dreaded this meeting. ferdinand (imperiously). drink! i say. [louisa, offended, takes the glass and drinks. the moment she raises the cup to her lips, ferdinand turns away with a sudden paleness, and recedes to the further corner of the chamber.] louisa. the lemonade is good. ferdinand (his face averted and shuddering.) much good may it do thee! louisa (sets down the glass). oh! could you but know, walter, how cruelly you wrong me! ferdinand. indeed! louisa. a time will come, walter---- ferdinand (advancing). oh! we have done with time. louisa. when the remembrance of this evening will lie heavy on your heart! ferdinand (begins to walk to and fro more vehemently, and to become more agitated; he throws away his sash and sword.) farewell the prince's service! louisa. my god! what mean you! ferdinand. i am hot, and oppressed. i would be more at ease. louisa. drink! drink! it will cool you. ferdinand. that it will, most effectually. the strumpet, though, is kind-hearted! ay, ay, so are they all! louisa (rushing into his arms with the deepest expression of love). that to thy louisa, ferdinand? ferdinand (thrusting her from him). away! away! hence with those soft and melting eyes! they subdue me. come to me, snake, in all thy monstrous terrors! spring upon me, scorpion! display thy hideous folds, and rear thy proud coils to heaven! stand before my eyes, hateful as the abyss of hell e'er saw thee! but not in that angel form! take any shape but that! 'tis too late. i must crush thee like a viper, or despair! mercy on thy soul! louisa. oh! that it should come to this! ferdinand (gazing on her). so fair a work of the heavenly artist! who would believe it? who can believe it? (taking her hand and elevating it.) i will not arraign thy ordinations, oh! incomprehensible creator! yet wherefore didst thou pour thy poison into such beauteous vessels? can crime inhabit so fair a region? oh! 'tis strange! 'tis passing strange! louisa. to hear this, and yet be compelled to silence! ferdinand. and that soft, melodious voice! how can broken chords discourse such harmony? (gazing rapturously upon her figure.) all so lovely! so full of symmetry! so divinely perfect! throughout the whole such signs that 'twas the favorite work of god! by heaven, as though all mankind had been created but to practise the creator, ere he modelled this his masterpiece! and that the almighty should have failed in the soul alone? is it possible that this monstrous abortion of nature should have escaped as perfect? (quitting her hastily.) or did god see an angel's form rising beneath his chisel, and balance the error by giving her a heart wicked in proportion? louisa. alas for this criminal wilfulness! rather than confess his own rashness, he accuses the wisdom of heaven! ferdinand (falls upon her neck, weeping bitterly). yet once more, my louisa! yet once again, as on the day of our first kiss, when you faltered forth the name of ferdinand, and the first endearing "thou!" trembled on thy burning lips. oh! a harvest of endless and unutterable joys seemed to me at that moment to be budding forth. there lay eternity like a bright may-day before our eyes; thousands of golden years, fair as brides, danced around our souls. then was i so happy! oh! louisa! louisa! louisa! why hast thou used me thus? louisa. weep, walter, weep! your compassion will be more just towards me than your wrath. ferdinand. you deceive yourself. these are not nature's tears! not that warm delicious dew which flows like balsam on the wounded soul, and drives the chilled current of feeling swiftly along its course. they are solitary ice-cold drops! the awful, eternal farewell of my love! (with fearful solemnity, laying his hand on her head.) they are tears for thy soul, louisa! tears for the deity, whose inexhaustible beneficence has here missed its aim, and whose noblest work is cast away thus wantonly. oh methinks the whole universe should clothe itself in black, and weep at the fearful example now passing in its centre. 'tis but a common sorrow when mortals fall and paradise is lost; but, when the plague extends its ravages to angels, then should there be wailing throughout the whole creation! louisa. drive me not to extremities, walter. i have fortitude equal to most, but it must not be tried by a more than human test. walter! one word, and then--we part forever. a dreadful fatality has deranged the language of our hearts. dared i unclose these lips, walter, i could tell thee things! i could----but cruel fate has alike fettered my tongue and my heart, and i must endure in silence, even though you revile me as a common strumpet. ferdinand. dost thou feel well, louisa? louisa. why that question? ferdinand. it would grieve me shouldst thou be called hence with a lie upon thy lips. louisa. i implore you, walter---- ferdinand (in violent agitation). no! no! that revenge were too satanic! no! god forbid! i will not extend my anger beyond the grave! louisa, didst thou love the marshal? thou wilt leave this room no more! louisa (sitting down). ask what you will. i shall give no answer. ferdinand (in a solemn voice). take heed for thy immortal soul! louisa! didst thou love the marshal? thou wilt leave this room no more! louisa. i shall give no answer. ferdinand (throwing himself on his knees before her in the deepest emotion). louisa! didst thou love the marshal? before this light burns out--thou wilt stand--before the throne of god! louisa (starting from her seat in terror). merciful jesus! what was that? and i feel so ill! (she falls back into her chair.) ferdinand. already? oh, woman, thou eternal paradox! thy delicate nerves can sport with crimes at which manhood trembles; yet one poor grain of arsenic destroys them utterly! louisa. poison! poison! oh! almighty god! ferdinand. i fear it is so! thy lemonade was seasoned in hell! thou hast pledged death in the draught! louisa. to die! to die! all-merciful god! poison in my drink! and to die! oh! have mercy on my soul, thou father in heaven! ferdinand. ay, be that thy chief concern: i will join thee in that prayer. louisa. and my mother! my father, too! saviour of the world! my poor forlorn father! is there then no hope? and i so young, and yet no hope? and must i die so soon? ferdinand. there is no hope! none!--you are already doomed! but be calm. we shall journey together. louisa. thou too, ferdinand? poison, ferdinand! from thee! oh! god forgive him! god of mercy, lay not this crime on him! ferdinand. look to your own account. i fear it stands but ill. louisa. ferdinand! ferdinand! oh! i can be no longer silent. death-- death absolves all oaths. ferdinand! heaven and earth contain nothing more unfortunate than thou! i die innocent, ferdinand! ferdinand (terrified). ah! what do i hear? would she rush into the presence of her maker with a lie on her lips? louisa. i lie not! i do not lie! in my whole life i never lied but once! ugh! what an icy shivering creeps through my veins! when i wrote that letter to the marshal. ferdinand. ha! that letter! blessed be to god! now i am myself again! louisa (her voice every moment becomes more indistinct. her fingers tremble with a convulsive motion). that letter. prepare yourself for a terrible disclosure! my hand wrote what my heart abhorred. it was dictated by your father! (ferdinand stands like a statue petrified with horror. after a long silence, he falls upon the floor as if struck by lightning.) oh! that sorrowful act!----ferdinand--i was compelled-- forgive me--thy louisa would have preferred death--but my father--his life in danger! they were so crafty in their villany. ferdinand (starting furiously from the ground). god be thanked! the poison spares me yet! (he seizes his sword.) louisa (growing weaker by degrees). alas! what would you? he is thy father! ferdinand (in the most ungovernable fury). a murderer--the murderer of his son; he must along with us that the judge of the world may pour his wrath on the guilty alone. (hastening away). louisa. my dying redeemer pardoned his murderers,--may god pardon thee and thy father! (she dies.) ferdinand (turns quickly round, and perceives her in the convulsions of death, throws himself distractedly on the body). stay! stay! fly not from me, angel of light! (takes her hand, but lets it fall again instantly.) cold! cold and damp! her soul has flown! (starting up suddenly.) god of my louisa! mercy! mercy for the most accursed of murderers! such was her dying prayer! how fair, how lovely even in death! the pitying destroyer has touched gently on those heavenly features. that sweetness was no mask--the hand of death even has not removed it! (after a pause.) but how is this? why do i feel nothing. will the vigor of my youth save me? thankless care! that shall it not. (he seizes the glass.) scene viii. ferdinand, the president, worm, and servants, who all rush in alarm into the room. afterwards miller, with a crowd, and officers of justice, who assemble in the background. president (an open letter in his hand). my son! what means this? i never can believe---- ferdinand (throwing the glass at his feet). convince thyself, murderer! (the president staggers back. all stand speechless. a dreadful pause.) president. my son! why hast thou done this? ferdinand (without looking at him). why, to be sure i ought first to have asked the statesman whether the trick suited his cards. admirably fine and skilful, i confess, was the scheme of jealousy to break the bond of our hearts! the calculation shows a master-mind; 'twas pity only that indignant love would not move on wires like thy wooden puppets. president (looking round the circle with rolling eyes). is there no one here who weeps for a despairing father? miller (calling behind the scenes). let me in! for god's sake, let me in! ferdinand. she is now a saint in heaven! her cause is in the hands of another! (he opens the door for miller, who rushes in, followed by officers of justice and a crowd of people.) miller (in the most dreadful alarm). my child! my child! poison, they cry--poison has been here! my daughter! where art thou? ferdinand (leading him between the president and louisa's corpse). i am innocent. thank this man for the deed. miller (throwing himself on the body). oh, jesus! ferdinand. in few words, father!--they begin to be precious to me. i have been robbed of my life by villanous artifice--robbed of it by you! how i may stand with god i tremble to think, but a deliberate villain i have never been! be my final judgment what it will, may it not fall on thee! but i have committed murder! (in a loud and fearful voice.) a murder whose weight thou canst not hope that i should drag alone before the judgment-seat of god. here i solemnly bequeath to thee the heaviest, the bloodiest part; how thou mayst answer it be that thy care! (leading him to louisa.) here, barbarian! feast thine eyes on the terrible fruits of thy intrigues! upon this face thy name is inscribed in the convulsions of death, and will be registered by the destroying angel! may a form like this draw thy curtain when thou sleepest, and grasp thee with its clay-cold hand! may a form like this flit before thy soul when thou diest, and drive away thy expiring prayer for mercy! may a form like this stand by thy grave at the resurrection, and before the throne of god when he pronounces thy doom! (he faints, the servants receive him in their arms.) president (extending his arms convulsively towards heaven). not from me, judge of the world. ask not these souls from me, but from him! (pointing to worm.) worm (starting). from me? president. accursed villain, from thee! from thee, satan! thou gavest the serpent's counsel! thine be the responsibility; their blood be not on my head, but on thine! worm. on mine! on mine! (laughing hysterically.) oh! excellent! now i understand the gratitude of devils. on mine, thou senseless villain! was he my son? was i thy master? mine the responsibility? ha! by this sight which freezes the very marrow in my bones! mine it shall be! i will brave destruction, but thou shalt perish with me. away! away! cry murder in the streets! awaken justice! bind me, officers! lead me hence! i will discover secrets which shall make the hearer's blood run cold. (going.) president (detaining him). surely, madman, thou wilt not dare? worm (tapping him on the shoulder). i will, though,--comrade, i will! i am mad, 'tis true; but my madness is thy work, and now i will act like a madman! arm in arm with thee will i to the scaffold! arm in arm with thee to hell! oh! how it tickles my fancy, villain, to be damned with thee! (the officers carry him off.) miller (who has lain upon louisa's corpse in silent anguish, starts suddenly up, and throws the purse before the major's feet.) poisoner, take back thy accursed gold! didst thou think to purchase my child with it? (rushes distractedly out of the chamber.) ferdinand (in a voice scarcely audible). follow him! he is desperate. the gold must be taken care of for his use; 'tis the dreadful acknowlegment of my debt to him. louisa! i come! farewell! on this altar let me breathe my last. president (recovering from his stupor). ferdinand! my son! not one last look for a despairing father? (ferdinand is laid by the side of louisa.) ferdinand. my last must sue to god for mercy on myself. president (falling down before him in the most dreadful agony). the creator and the created abandon me! not one last look to cheer me in the hour of death! (ferdinand stretches out his trembling hand to him, and expires.) president (springing up). he forgave me! (to the officers.) now, lead on, sirs! i am your prisoner. [exit, followed by the officers; the curtain falls. minna von barnhelm or, the soldier's fortune by gotthold ephraim lessing translated by ernest bell introductory note gotthold ephraim lessing was born at kamenz, germany, january , , the son of a lutheran minister. he was educated at meissen and leipzic, and began writing for the stage before he was twenty. in he went to berlin, where he met voltaire and for a time was powerfully influenced by him. the most important product of this period was his tragedy of "miss sara samson," a modern version of the story of medea, which began the vogue of the sentimental middle-class play in germany. after a second sojourn in leipzic ( - ), during which he wrote criticism, lyrics, and fables, lessing returned to berlin and began to publish his "literary letters," making himself by the vigor and candor of his criticism a real force in contemporary literature. from berlin he went to breslau, where he made the first sketches of two of his greatest works, "laocoon" and "minna von barnhelm," both of which were issued after his return to the prussian capital. failing in his effort to be appointed director of the royal library by frederick the great, lessing went to hamburg in as critic of a new national theatre, and in connection with this enterprise he issued twice a week the "hamburgische dramaturgie," the two volumes of which are a rich mine of dramatic criticism and theory. his next residence was at wolfenbuttel, where he had charge of the ducal library from till his death in . here he wrote his tragedy of "emilia galotti," founded on the story of virginia, and engaged for a time in violent religious controversies, one important outcome of which was his "education of the human race." on being ordered by the brunswick authorities to give up controversial writing, he found expression for his views in his play "nathan the wise," his last great production. the importance of lessing's masterpiece in comedy, "minna von barnhelm," is difficult to exaggerate. it was the beginning of german national drama; and by the patriotic interest of its historical background, by its sympathetic treatment of the german soldier and the german woman, and by its happy blending of the amusing and the pathetic, it won a place in the national heart from which no succeeding comedy has been able to dislodge it. minna von barnhelm or, the soldier's fortune dramatis personae major von tellheim, a discharged officer. minna von barnhelm. count von bruchsal, her uncle. franziska, her lady's maid. just, servant to the major. paul werner, an old sergeant of the major's. the landlord of an inn. a lady. an orderly. riccaut de la marliniere. the scene alternates between the parlour of an inn, and a room adjoining it. act i. scene i. just just (sitting in a corner, and talking while asleep). rogue of a landlord! you treat us so? on, comrade! hit hard! (he strikes with his fist, and wakes through the exertion). ha! there he is again! i cannot shut an eye without fighting with him. i wish he got but half the blows. why, it is morning! i must just look for my poor master at once; if i can help it, he shall not set foot in the cursed house again. i wonder where he has passed the night? scene ii. landlord, just land. good-morning, herr just; good-morning! what, up so early! or shall i say--up so late? just. say which you please. land. i say only--good-morning! and that deserves, i suppose, that herr just should answer, "many thanks." just. many thanks. land. one is peevish, if one can't have one's proper rest. what will you bet the major has not returned home, and you have been keeping watch for him? just. how the man can guess everything! land. i surmise, i surmise. just. (turns round to go). your servant! land. (stops him). not so, herr just! just. very well, then, not your servant! land. what, herr just, i do hope you are not still angry about yesterday's affair! who would keep his anger over night? just. i; and over a good many nights. land. is that like a christian? just. as much so as to turn an honourable man who cannot pay to a day, out of doors, into the street. land. fie! who would be so wicked? just. a christian innkeeper.--my master! such a man! such an officer! land. i thrust him from the house into the streets? i have far too much respect for an officer to do that, and far too much pity for a discharged one! i was obliged to have another room prepared for him. think no more about it, herr just. (calls) --hullo! i will make it good in another way. (a lad comes.) bring a glass; herr just will have a drop; something good. just. do not trouble yourself, mr. landlord. may the drop turn to poison, which... but i will not swear; i have not yet breakfasted. land. (to the lad, who brings a bottle of spirits and a glass). give it here; go! now, herr just; something quite excellent; strong, delicious, and wholesome. (fills, and holds it out to him.) that can set an over-taxed stomach to rights again! just. i hardly ought!--and yet why should i let my health suffer on account of his incivility? (takes it, and drinks.) land. may it do you good, herr just! just. (giving the glass back). not bad! but, landlord, you are nevertheless an ill-mannered brute! land. not so, not so!... come, another glass; one cannot stand upon one leg. just. (after drinking). i must say so much--it is good, very good! made at home, landlord? land. at home, indeed! true dantzig, real double distilled! just. look ye, landlord; if i could play the hypocrite, i would do so for such stuff as that; but i cannot, so it must out.--you are an ill- mannered brute all the same. land. nobody in my life ever told me that before... but another glass, herr just; three is the lucky number! just. with all my heart!-- (drinks). good stuff indeed, capital! but truth is good also, and indeed, landlord, you are an ill-mannered brute all the same! land. if i was, do you think i should let you say so? just. oh! yes; a brute seldom has spirit. land. one more, herr just: a four-stranded rope is the strongest. just. no, enough is as good as a feast! and what good will it do you, landlord? i shall stick to my text till the last drop in the bottle. shame, landlord, to have such good dantzig, and such bad manners! to turn out of his room, in his absence--a man like my master, who has lodged at your house above a year; from whom you have had already so many shining thalers; who never owed a heller in his life--because he let payment run for a couple of months, and because he does not spend quite so much as he used. land. but suppose i really wanted the room and saw beforehand that the major would willingly have given it up if we could only have waited some time for his return! should i let strange gentlefolk like them drive away again from my door! should i wilfully send such a prize into the clutches of another innkeeper? besides, i don't believe they could have got a lodging elsewhere. the inns are all now quite full. could such a young, beautiful, amiable lady remain in the street? your master is much too gallant for that. and what does he lose by the change? have not i given him another room? just. by the pigeon-house at the back, with a view between a neighbour's chimneys. land. the view was uncommonly fine, before the confounded neighbour obstructed it. the room is otherwise very nice, and is papered!!!!! just. has been! land. no, one side is so still. and the little room adjoining, what is the matter with that? it has a chimney which, perhaps, smokes somewhat in the winter!!!!! just. but does very nicely in the summer. i believe, landlord, you are mocking us into the bargain! land. come, come; herr just, herr just!!!!! just. don't make herr just's head hot!!!!! land. i make his head hot? it is the dantzig does that. just. an officer, like my master! or do you think that a discharged officer, is not an officer who may break your neck for you? why were you all, you landlords, so civil during the war? why was every officer an honourable man then and every soldier a worthy, brave fellow? does this bit of a peace make you so bumptious? land. what makes you fly out so, herr just! just. i will fly out. scene iii. major von tellheim, landlord, just maj. t. (entering). just! just. (supposing the landlord is still speaking). just? are we so intimate? maj. t. just! just. i thought i was "herr just" with you. land. (seeing the major). hist! hist! herr just, herr just, look round; your master!!!!! maj. t. just, i think you are quarreling! what did i tell you? land. quarrel, your honour? god forbid! would your most humble servant dare to quarrel with one who has the honour of being in your service? just. if i could but give him a good whack on that cringing cat's back of his! land. it is true herr just speaks up for his master, and rather warmly; but in that he is right. i esteem him so much the more: i like him for it. just. i should like to knock his teeth out for him! land. it is only a pity that he puts himself in a passion for nothing. for i feel quite sure that your honour is not displeased with me in this matter, since--necessity--made it necessary!!!!! maj. t. more than enough, sir! i am in your debt; you turn out my room in my absence. you must be paid, i must seek a lodging elsewhere. very natural. land. elsewhere? you are going to quit, honoured sir? oh, unfortunate stricken man that i am. no, never! sooner shall the lady give up the apartments again. the major cannot and will not let her have his room. it is his; she must go; i cannot help it. i will go, honoured sir!!!!! maj. t. my friend, do not make two foolish strokes instead of one. the lady must retain possession of the room!!!!! land. and your honour could suppose that from distrust, from fear of not being paid, i... as if i did not know that your honour could pay me as soon as you pleased. the sealed purse... five hundred thalers in louis d'ors marked on it--which your honour had in your writing-desk ... is in good keeping. maj. t. i trust so; as the rest of my property. just shall take them into his keeping, when he has paid your bill!!!!! land. really, i was quite alarmed when i found the purse. i always considered your honour a methodical and prudent man, who never got quite out of money... but still, had i supposed there was ready money in the desk!!!!! maj. t. you would have treated me rather more civilly. i understand you. go, sir; leave me. i wish to speak with my servant. land. but, honoured sir!!!!! maj. t. come, just; he does not wish to permit me to give my orders to you in his house. land. i am going, honoured sir! my whole house is at your service. (exit.) scene iv. major von tellheim, just just. (stamping with his foot and spitting after the landlord). ugh! maj. t. what is the matter? just. i am choking with rage. maj. t. that is as bad as from plethora. just. and for you sir, i hardly know you any longer. may i die before your eyes, if you do not encourage this malicious, unfeeling wretch. in spite of gallows, axe, and torture i could... yes, i could have throttled him with these hands, and torn him to pieces with these teeth! maj. t. you wild beast! just. better a wild beast than such a man! maj. t. but what is it that you want? just. i want you to perceive how much he insults you. maj. t. and then!!!!! just. to take your revenge... no, the fellow is beneath your notice! maj. t. but to commission you to avenge me? that was my intention from the first. he should not have seen me again, but have received the amount of his bill from your hands. i know that you can throw down a handful of money with a tolerably contemptuous mien. just. oh! a pretty sort of revenge! maj. t. which, however, we must defer. i have not one heller of ready money, and i know not where to raise any. just. no money! what is that purse then with five hundred thalers' worth of louis d'ors, which the landlord found in your desk? maj. t. that is money given into my charge. just. not the hundred pistoles which your old sergeant brought you four or five weeks back? maj. t. the same. paul werner's; right. just. and you have not used them yet? yet, sir, you may do what you please with them. i will answer for it that!!!!! maj. t. indeed! just. werner heard from me, how they had treated your claims upon the war office. he heard!!!!! maj. t. that i should certainly be a beggar soon, if i was not one already. i am much obliged to you, just. and the news induced werner to offer to share his little all with me. i am very glad that i guessed this. listen, just; let me have your account, directly, too; we must part. just. how! what! maj. t. not a word. there is someone coming. scene v. lady _in mourning_, major von tellheim, just lady. i ask your pardon, sir. maj. t. whom do you seek, madam? lady. the worthy gentleman with whom i have the honour of speaking. you do not know me again. i am the widow of your late captain. maj. t. good heavens, madam, how you are changed! lady. i have just risen from a sick bed, to which grief on the loss of my husband brought me. i am troubling you at a very early hour, major von tellheim, but i am going into the country, where a kind, but also unfortunate friend, has for the present offered me an asylum. maj. t. (to just). leave us. scene vi. lady, major von tellheim maj. t. speak freely, madam! you must not be ashamed of your bad fortune before me. can i serve you in any way? lady. major!!!!! maj. t. i pity you, madam! how can i serve you? you know your husband was my friend; my friend, i say, and i have always been sparing of this title. lady. who knows better than i do how worthy you were of his friendship how worthy he was of yours? you would have been in his last thoughts, your name would have been the last sound on his dying lips, had not natural affection, stronger than friendship, demanded this sad prerogative for his unfortunate son, and his unhappy wife. maj. t. cease, madam! i could willingly weep with you; but i have no tears to-day. spare me! you come to me at a time when i might easily be misled to murmur against providence. oh! honest marloff! quick, madam, what have you to request? if it is in my power to assist you, if it is in my power!!!!! lady. i cannot depart without fulfilling his last wishes. he recollected, shortly before his death, that he was dying a debtor to you, and he conjured me to discharge his debt with the first ready money i should have. i have sold his carriage, and come to redeem his note. maj. t. what, madam! is that your object in coming? lady. it is. permit me to count out the money to you. maj. t. no, madam. marloff a debtor to me! that can hardly be. let us look, however. (takes out a pocketbook, and searches.) i find nothing of the kind. lady. you have doubtless mislaid his note; besides, it is nothing to the purpose. permit me!!!!! maj. t. no, madam; i am careful not to mislay such documents. if i have not got it, it is a proof that i never had it, or that it has been honoured and already returned by me. lady. major! maj. t. without doubt, madam; marloff does not owe me anything--nor can i remember that he ever did owe me anything. this is so, madam. he has much rather left me in his debt. i have never been able to do anything to repay a man who shared with me good and ill luck, honour and danger, for six years. i shall not forget that he has left a son. he shall be my son, as soon as i can be a father to him. the embarrassment in which i am at present!!!!! lady. generous man! but do not think so meanly of me. take the money, major, and then at least i shall be at ease. maj. t. what more do you require to tranquillize you, than my assurance that the money does not belong to me? or do you wish that i should rob the young orphan of my friend? rob, madam; for that it would be in the true meaning of the word. the money belongs to him; invest it for him. lady. i understand you; pardon me if i do not yet rightly know how to accept a kindness. where have you learnt that a mother will do more for her child than for the preservation of her own life? i am going!!!!! maj. t. go, madam, and may you have a prosperous journey! i do not ask you to let me hear from you. your news might come to me when it might be of little use to me. there is yet one thing, madam; i had nearly forgotten that which is of most consequence. marloff also had claims upon the chest of our old regiment. his claims are as good as mine. if my demands are paid, his must be paid also. i will be answerable for them. lady. oh! sir... but what can i say? thus to purpose future good deeds is, in the eyes of heaven, to have performed them already. may you receive its reward, as well as my tears. (exit.) scene vii. major von tellheim maj. t. poor, good woman! i must not forget to destroy the bill. (takes some papers from his pocketbook and destroys them.) who would guarantee that my own wants might not some day tempt me to make use of it? scene viii. just, major von tellheim maj. t. is that you, just? just. (wiping his eyes). yes. maj. t. you have been crying? just. i have been writing out my account in the kitchen, and the place is full of smoke. here it is, sir. maj. t. give it to me. just. be merciful with me, sir. i know well that they have not been so with you; still!!!!! maj. t. what do you want? just. i should sooner have expected my death, than my discharge. maj. t. i cannot keep you any longer: i must learn to manage without servants. (opens the paper, and reads.) "what my master, the major, owes me:--three months and a half wages, six thalers per month, is thalers. during the first part of this month, laid out in sundries-- thaler groschen pfennigs. total, thalers gr. pf." right; and it is just that i also pay your wages, for the whole of the current month. just. turn over, sir. maj. t. oh! more? (reads.) "what i owe my master, the major:--paid for me to the army-surgeon twenty-five thalers. attendance and nurse during my cure, paid for me, thirty-nine thalers. advanced, at my request, to my father--who was burnt out of his house and robbed--without reckoning the two horses of which he made him a present, fifty thalers. total thalers. deduct the above thalers, gr. pf.; i remain in debt to my master, the major, thalers, gr. pf." you are mad, my good fellow! just. i willingly grant that i owe you much more; but it would be wasting ink to write it down. i cannot pay you that: and if you take my livery from me too, which, by the way, i have not yet earned,--i would rather you had let me die in the workhouse. maj. t. for what do you take me? you owe me nothing; and i will recommend you to one of my friends, with whom you will fare better than with me. just. i do not owe you anything, and yet you turn me away! maj. t. because i do not wish to owe you anything. just. on that account? only on that account? as certain as i am in your debt, as certain as you can never be in mine, so certainly shall you not turn me away now. do what you will, major, i remain in your service; i must remain. maj. t. with your obstinacy, your insolence, your savage boisterous temper towards all who you think have no business to speak to you, your malicious pranks, your love of revenge,!!!!! just. make me as bad as you will, i shall not think worse of myself than of my dog. last winter i was walking one evening at dusk along the river, when i heard something whine. i stooped down, and reached in the direction whence the sound came, and when i thought i was saving a child, i pulled a dog out of the water. that is well, thought i. the dog followed me; but i am not fond of dogs, so i drove him away--in vain. i whipped him away--in vain. i shut him out of my room at night; he lay down before the door. if he came too near me, i kicked him; he yelped, looked up at me, and wagged his tail. i have never yet given him a bit of bread with my own hand; and yet i am the only person whom he will obey, or who dare touch him. he jumps about me, and shows off his tricks to me, without my asking for them. he is an ugly dog, but he is a good animal. if he carries it on much longer, i shall at last give over hating him. maj. t. (aside). as i do him. no, there is no one perfectly inhuman. just, we will not part. just. certainly not! and you wanted to manage without servants! you forget your wounds, and that you only have the use of one arm. why, you are not able to dress alone. i am indispensable to you; and i am--without boasting, major,--i am a servant who, if the worst comes to the worst, can beg and steal for his master. maj. t. just, we will part. just. all right, sir! scene ix. servant, major von tellheim, just ser. i say, comrade! just. what is the matter? ser. can you direct me to the officer who lodged yesterday in that room? (pointing to the one out of which he is coming). just. that i could easily do. what have you got for him? ser. what we always have, when we have nothing--compliments. my mistress hears that he has been turned out on her account. my mistress knows good manners, and i am therefore to beg his pardon. just. well then, beg his pardon; there he stands. ser. what is he? what is his name? maj. t. i have already heard your message, my friend. it is unnecessary politeness on the part of your mistress, which i beg to acknowledge duly. present my compliments to her. what is the name of your mistress? ser. her name! we call her my lady. maj. t. the name of her family? ser. i have not heard that yet, and it is not my business to ask. i manage so that i generally get a new master every six weeks. hang all their names! just. bravo, comrade! ser. i was engaged by my present mistress a few days ago, in dresden. i believe she has come here to look for her lover. maj. t. enough, friend. i wished to know the name of your mistress, not her secrets. go! ser. comrade, he would not do for my master. scene x. major von tellheim, just maj. t. just! see that we get out of this house directly! the politeness of this strange lady affects me more than the churlishness of the host. here, take this ring--the only thing of value which i have left--of which i never thought such a use. pawn it! get eighty louis d'ors for it: our host's bill can scarcely amount to thirty. pay him, and remove my things.... ah, where? where you will. the cheaper the inn, the better. you will find me in the neighbouring coffee-house. i am going; you will see to it all properly? just. have no fear, major! maj. t. (comes back). above all things, do not let my pistols be forgotten, which hang beside the bed. just. i will forget nothing. maj. t. (comes back again). another thing: bring your dog with you too. do you hear, just? scene xi. just just. the dog will not stay behind, he will take care of that. hem! my master still had this valuable ring and carried it in his pocket instead of on his finger! my good landlord, we are not yet so poor as we look. to him himself, i will pawn you, you beautiful little ring! i know he will be annoyed that you will not all be consumed in his house. ah! scene xii. paul werner, just just. hullo, werner! good-day to you, werner. welcome to the town. wer. the accursed village! i can't manage to get at home in it again. merry, my boys, merry; i have got some more money! where is the major? just. he must have met you; he just went down stairs. wer. i came up the back stairs. how is he? i should have been with you last week, but!!!!! just. well, what prevented you? wer. just, did you ever hear of prince heraclius? just. heraclius? not that i know of. wer. don't you know the great hero of the east? just. i know the wise men of the east well enough, who go about with the stars on new year's eve. wer. brother, i believe you read the newspapers as little as the bible. you do not know prince heraclius. not know the brave man who seized persia, and will break into the ottoman porte in a few days? thank god, there is still war somewhere in the world! i have long enough hoped it would break out here again. but there they sit and take care of their skins. no, a soldier i was, and a soldier i must be again! in short, (looking round carefully, to see if anyone is listening) between ourselves, just, i am going to persia, to have a few campaigns against the turks, under his royal highness prince heraclius. just. you? wer. i myself. our ancestors fought bravely against the turks; and so ought we too, if we would be honest men and good christians. i allow that a campaign against the turks cannot be half so pleasant as one against the french; but then it must be so much the more beneficial in this world and the next. the swords of the turks are all set with diamonds. just. i would not walk a mile to have my head split with one of their sabres. you will not be so mad as to leave your comfortable little farm! wer. oh! i take that with me. do you see? the property is sold. just. sold? wer. hist! here are a hundred ducats, which i received yesterday towards the payment: i am bringing them for the major. just. what is he to do with them? wer. what is he to do with them? spend them; play them, or drink them away, or whatever he pleases. he must have money, and it is bad enough that they have made his own so troublesome to him. but i know what i would do, were i in his place. i would say--"the deuce take you all here; i will go with paul werner to persia!" hang it! prince heraclius must have heard of major von tellheim, if he has not heard of paul werner, his late sergeant. our affair at katzenhauser!!!!! just. shall i give you an account of that? wer. you give me! i know well that a fine battle array is beyond your comprehension. i am not going to throw my pearls before swine. here, take the hundred ducats; give them to the major: tell him, he may keep these for me too. i am going to the market now. i have sent in a couple of loads of rye; what i get for them he can also have. just. werner, you mean it well; but we don't want your money. keep your ducats; and your hundred pistoles you can also have back safe, as soon as you please. wer. what, has the major money still? just. no. wer. has he borrowed any? just. no. wer. on what does he live, then? just. we have everything put down in the bill; and when they won't put anything more down, and turn us out of the house, we pledge anything we may happen to have, and go somewhere else. i say, paul, we must play this landlord here a trick. wer. if he has annoyed the major, i am ready. just. what if we watch for him in the evening, when he comes from his club, and give him a good thrashing? wer. in the dark! watch for him! two to one! no, that won't do. just. or if we burn his house over his head? wer. fire and burn! why, just, one hears that you have been baggage-boy and not soldier. shame! just. or if we ruin his daughter? but she is cursedly ugly. wer. she has probably been ruined long ago. at any rate you don't want any help there. but what is the matter with you? what has happened? just. just come with me, and you shall hear something to make you stare. wer. the devil must be loose here, then? just. just so; come along. wer. so much the better! to persia, then; to persia. act ii. scene i. minna's room. minna, franziska min. (in morning dress, looking at her watch). franziska, we have risen very early. the time will hang heavy on our hands. fran. who can sleep in these abominable large towns? the carriages, the watchmen, the drums, the cats, the soldiers, never cease to rattle, to call, to roll, to mew, and to swear; just as if the last thing the night is intended for was for sleep. have a cup of tea, my lady! min. i don't care for tea. fran. i will have some chocolate made. min. for yourself, if you like. fran. for myself! i would as soon talk to myself as drink by myself. then the time will indeed hang heavy. for very weariness we shall have to make our toilets, and try on the dress in which we intend to make the first attack! min. why do you talk of attacks, when i have only come to require that the capitulation be ratified? fran. but the officer whom we have dislodged, and to whom we have apologized, cannot be the best bred man in the world, or he might at least have begged the honour of being allowed to wait upon you. min. all officers are not tellheims. to tell you the truth, i only sent him the message in order to have an opportunity of inquiring from him about tellheim. franziska, my heart tells me my journey will be a successful one and that i shall find him. fran. the heart, my lady! one must not trust to that too much. the heart echoes to us the words of our tongues. if the tongue was as much inclined to speak the thoughts of the heart, the fashion of keeping mouths under lock and key would have come in long ago. min. ha! ha! mouths under lock and key. that fashion would just suit me. fran. rather not show the most beautiful set of teeth, than let the heart be seen through them every moment. min. what, are you so reserved? fran. no, my lady; but i would willingly be more so. people seldom talk of the virtue they possess, and all the more often of that which they do not possess. min. franziska, you made a very just remark there. fran. made! does one make it, if it occurs to one? min. and do you know why i consider it so good? it applies to my tellheim. fran. what would not, in your opinion, apply to him? min. friend and foe say he is the bravest man in the world. but who ever heard him talk of bravery? he has the most upright mind; but uprightness and nobleness of mind are words never on his tongue. fran. of what virtues does he talk then? min. he talks of none, for he is wanting in none. fran. that is just what i wished to hear. min. wait, franziska; i am wrong. he often talks of economy. between ourselves, i believe he is extravagant. fran. one thing more, my lady. i have often heard him mention truth and constancy toward you. what, if he be inconstant? min. miserable girl! but do you mean that seriously? fran. how long is it since he wrote to you? min. alas! he has only written to me once since the peace. fran. what!--a sigh on account of the peace? surprising? peace ought only to make good the ill which war causes; but it seems to disturb the good which the latter, its opposite, may have occasioned. peace should not be so capricious!... how long have we had peace? the time seems wonderfully long, when there is so little news. it is no use the post going regularly again; nobody writes, for nobody has anything to write about. min. "peace has been made," he wrote to me, "and i am approaching the fulfillment of my wishes." but since he only wrote that to me once, only once!!!!! fran. and since he compels us to run after this fulfillment of his wishes ourselves... if we can but find him, he shall pay for this! suppose, in the meantime, he may have accomplished his wishes, and we should learn here that!!!!! min. (anxiously). that he is dead? fran. to you, my lady; and married to another. min. you tease, you! wait, franziska, i will pay you out for this! but talk to me, or i shall fall asleep. his regiment was disbanded after the peace. who knows into what a confusion of bills and papers he may thereby have been brought? who knows into what other regiment, or to what distant station, he may have been sent? who knows what circumstances--there's a knock at the door. fran. come in! scene ii. landlord, minna, franziska land. (putting his head in at the door). am i permitted, your ladyship? fran. our landlord?--come in! land. (a pen behind his ear, a sheet of paper and an inkstand in his hand). i am come, your ladyship, to wish you a most humble good-morning; (to franziska) and the same to you, my pretty maid. fran. a polite man! min. we are obliged to you. fran. and wish you also a good-morning. land. may i venture to ask how your ladyship has passed the first night under my poor roof? fran. the roof is not so bad, sir; but the beds might have been better. land. what do i hear! not slept well! perhaps the over-fatigue of the journey!!!!! min. perhaps. land. certainly, certainly, for otherwise.... yet, should there be anything not perfectly comfortable, my lady, i hope you will not fail to command me. fran. very well, mr. landlord, very well! we are not bashful; and least of all should one be bashful at an inn. we shall not fail to say what we may wish. land. i next come to... (taking the pen from behind his ear). fran. well? land. without doubt, my lady, you are already acquainted with the wise regulations of our police. min. not in the least, sir. land. we landlords are instructed not to take in any stranger, of whatever rank or sex he may be, for four-and-twenty hours, without delivering, in writing, his name, place of abode, occupation, object of his journey, probable stay, and so on, to the proper authorities. min. very well. land. will your ladyship then be so good... (going to the table, and making ready to write). min. willingly. my name is!!!!! land. one minute! (he writes.) "date, nd august, a. d., &c.; arrived at the king of spain hotel." now your name, my lady. min. fraulein von barnhelm. land. (writes). "von barnhelm." coming from.... where, your ladyship? min. from my estate in saxony. land. (writes). "estate in saxony." saxony! indeed, indeed! in saxony, your ladyship? saxony? fran. well, why not? i hope it is no sin in this country to come from saxony! land. a sin? heaven forbid! that would be quite a new sin! from saxony then? yes, yes, from saxony, a delightful country, saxony! but if i am right, your ladyship, saxony is not small, and has several--how shall i call them? districts, provinces. our police are very particular, your ladyship. min. i understand. from my estate in thuringia, then. land. from thuringia! yes, that is better, your ladyship; that is more exact. (writes and reads.) "fraulein von barnhelm, coming from her estate in thuringia, together with her lady in waiting and two men servants." fran. lady in waiting! that means me, i suppose! land. yes, my pretty maid. fran. well, mr. landlord, instead of "lady in waiting," write "maid in waiting." you say, the police are very exact; it might cause a misunderstanding, which might give me trouble some day when my banns are read out. for i really am still unmarried, and my name is franziska, with the family name of willig: franziska willig. i also come from thuringia. my father was a miller, on one of my lady's estates. it is called little rammsdorf. my brother has the mill now. i was taken very early to the manor, and educated with my lady. we are of the same age--one-and-twenty next candlemas. i learnt everything my lady learnt. i should like the police to have a full account of me. land. quite right, my pretty maid; i will bear that in mind, in case of future inquiries. but now, your ladyship, your business here? min. my business here? land. have you any business with his majesty the king? min. oh! no. land. or at our courts of justice? min. no. land. or!!!!! min. no, no. i have come here solely on account of my own private affairs. land. quite right, your ladyship; but what are those private affairs? min. they are... franziska, i think we are undergoing an examination. fran. mr. landlord, the police surely do not ask to know a young lady's secrets! land. certainly, my pretty maid; the police wish to know everything, and especially secrets. fran. what is to be done, my lady?... well, listen, mr. landlord--but take care that it does not go beyond ourselves and the police. min. what is the simpleton going to tell him? fran. we come to carry off an officer from the king. land. how? what? my dear girl! fran. or to let ourselves be carried off by the officer. it is all one. min. franziska, are you mad? the saucy girl is laughing at you. land. i hope not! with your humble servant indeed she may jest as much as she pleases; but with the police!!!!! min. i tell you what; i do not understand how to act in this matter. suppose you postpone the whole affair till my uncle's arrival. i told you yesterday why he did not come with me. he had an accident with his carriage ten miles from here, and did not wish that i should remain a night longer on the road, so i had to come on. i am sure he will not be more than four-and-twenty hours after us. land. very well, madam, we will wait for him. min. he will be able to answer your questions better. he will know to whom, and to what extent, he must give an account of himself--what he must relate respecting his affairs, and what he may withhold. land. so much the better! indeed one cannot expect a young girl (looking at franziska in a marked manner) to treat a serious matter with serious people in a serious manner. min. and his rooms are in readiness, i hope? land. quite, your ladyship, quite; except the one!!!!! fran. out of which, i suppose, you will have to turn some other honourable gentleman! land. the waiting maids of saxony, your ladyship, seem to be very compassionate. min. in truth, sir, that was not well done. you ought rather to have refused us. land. why so, your ladyship, why so? min. i understand that the officer who was driven out on our account!!!!! land. is only a discharged officer, your ladyship. min. well, what then? land. who is almost done for. min. so much the worse! he is said to be a very deserving man. land. but i tell you he is discharged. min. the king cannot be acquainted with every deserving man. land. oh! doubtless he knows them; he knows them all. min. but he cannot reward them all. land. they would have been rewarded if they had lived so as to deserve it. but they lived during the war as if it would last for ever; as if the words "yours" and "mine" were done away with altogether. now all the hotels and inns are full of them, and a landlord has to be on his guard with them. i have come off pretty well with this one. if he had no more money, he had at any rate money's worth; and i might indeed have let him remain quiet two or three months longer. however, it is better as it is. by-the-by, your ladyship, you understand about jewels, i suppose? min. not particularly. land. of course your ladyship must. i must show you a ring, a valuable ring. i see you have a very beautiful one on your finger; and the more i look at it, the more i am astonished at the resemblance it bears to mine. there! just look, just look! (taking the ring from its case, and handing it to her.) what brilliancy! the diamond in the middle alone weighs more than five carats. min. (looking at it). good heavens! what do i see? this ring!!!!! land. is honestly worth fifteen hundred thalers. min. franziska! look! land. i did not hesitate for a moment to advance eighty pistoles on it. min. do not you recognize it, franziska? fran. the same! where did you get that ring, mr. landlord? land. come, my girl! you surely have no claim to it? fran. we have no claim to this ring! my mistress' monogram must be on it, on the inner side of the setting. look at it, my lady. min. it is! it is! how did you get this ring? land. i! in the most honourable way in the world. you do not wish to bring me into disgrace and trouble, your ladyship! how do i know where the ring properly belongs? during the war many a thing often changed masters, both with and without the knowledge of its owner. war was war. other rings will have crossed the borders of saxony. give it me again, your ladyship; give it me again! fran. when you have said from whom you got it. land. from a man whom i cannot think capable of such things; in other respects a good man. min. from the best man under the sun, if you have it from its owner. bring him here directly! it is himself, or at any rate he must know him. land. who? who, your ladyship? fran. are you deaf? our major! land. major! right! he is a major, who had this room before you, and from whom i received it. min. major von tellheim! land. yes, tellheim. do you know him? min. do i know him! he is here! tellheim here! he had this room! he! he pledged this ring with you! what has brought him into this embarrassment? where is he? does he owe you anything? franziska, my desk here! open it! (franziska puts it on the table and opens it.) what does he owe you? to whom else does he owe anything? bring me all his creditors! here is gold: here are notes. it is all his! land. what is this? min. where is he? where is he? land. an hour ago he was here. min. detested man! how could you act so rudely, so hardly, so cruelly towards him? land. your ladyship must pardon!!!!! min. quick! bring him to me. land. his servant is perhaps still here. does your ladyship wish that he should look for him? min. do i wish it? begone, run. for this service alone i will forget how badly you have behaved to him. fran. now then, quick, mr. landlord! be off! fly! fly! (pushes him out.) scene iii. minna, franziska min. now i have found him again, franziska! do you hear? now i have found him again! i scarcely know where i am for joy! rejoice with me, franziska. but why should you? and yet you shall; you must rejoice with me. come, i will make you a present, that you may be able to rejoice with me. say, franziska, what shall i give you? which of my things would please you? what would you like? take what you will; only rejoice with me. i see you will take nothing. stop! (thrusts her hand into the desk.) there, franziska, (gives her money) buy yourself what you like. ask for more, if it be not sufficient; but rejoice with me you must. it is so melancholy to be happy alone. there, take it, then. fran. it is stealing it from you, my lady. you are intoxicated, quite intoxicated with joy. min. girl, my intoxication is of a quarrelsome kind. take it, or (forcing money into her hand) ... and if you thank me... stay, it is well that i think of it. (takes more money from the desk.) put that aside, franziska, for the first poor wounded soldier who accosts us. scene iv. landlord, minna, and franziska min. well, is he coming? land. the cross, unmannered fellow! min. who? land. his servant. he refuses to go for him. fran. bring the rascal here, then. i know all the major's servants. which one of them was it? min. bring him here directly. when he sees us he will go fast enough. (exit landlord.) scene v. minna, franziska min. i cannot bear this delay. but, franziska, how cold you are still! why will you not share my joy with me? fran. i would from my heart, if only!!!!! min. if only what? fran. we have found him again. but how have we found him? from all we hear, it must go badly with him. he must be unfortunate. that distresses me. min. distresses you! let me embrace you for that, my dear playmate! i shall never forget this of you. i am only in love, you are good. scene vi. landlord, just, minna, franziska land. with great difficulty i have brought him. fran. a strange face! i do not know him. min. friend, do you live with major von tellheim? just. yes. min. where is your master? just. not here. min. but you could find him? just. yes. min. will you fetch him quickly? just. no. min. you will be doing me a favour. just. indeed! min. and your master a service. just. perhaps not. min. why do you suppose that? just. you are the strange lady who sent your compliments to him this morning, i think? min. yes. just. then i am right. min. does your master know my name? just. no; but he likes over-civil ladies as little as over-uncivil landlords. land. that is meant for me, i suppose? just. yes. land. well, do not let the lady suffer for it then; but bring him here directly. min. (to franziska). franziska, give him something fran. (trying to put some money into just's hand). we do not require your services for nothing. just. nor i your money without services. fran. one in return for the other. just. i cannot. my master has ordered me to pack up. that i am now about, and i beg you not to hinder me further. when i have finished, i will take care to tell him that he may come here. he is close by, at the coffee-house; and if he finds nothing better to do there, i suppose he will come. (going.) fran. wait a moment! my lady is the major's... sister. min. yes, yes, his sister. just. i know better; the major has not a sister. he has sent me twice in six months to his family in courland. it is true there are different sorts of sisters!!!!! fran. insolent! just. one must be so to get the people to let one alone. (exit.) fran. that is a rascal. land. so i said. but let him go! i know now where his master is. i will fetch him instantly myself. i only beg your ladyship, most humbly, that you will make an excuse for me to the major, that i have been so unfortunate as to offend a man of his merit against my will. min. pray go quickly. i will set all that right again. (exit the landlord.) franziska, run after him, and tell him not to mention my name! (exit franziska.) scene vii. minna, _and afterwards_ franziska min. i have found him again!--am i alone?--i will not be alone to no purpose.-- (clasping her hands.) yet i am not alone! (looking upwards.) one single grateful thought towards heaven, is the most perfect prayer! i have found him! i have found him! (with outstretched arms.) i am joyful and happy! what can please the creator more than a joyful creature! (franziska returns.) have you returned, franziska? you pity him! i do not pity him. misfortune too is useful. perhaps heaven deprived him of everything-- to give him all again, through me! fran. he may be here at any moment.--you are still in your morning dress, my lady. ought you not to dress yourself quickly? min. not at all. he will now see me more frequently so, than dressed out. fran. oh! you know, my lady, how you look best. min. (after a pause). truly, girl, you have hit it again. fran. i think women who are beautiful, are most so when unadorned. min. must we then be beautiful? perhaps it was necessary that we should think ourselves so. enough for me, if only i am beautiful in his eyes. franziska, if all women feel as i now feel, we are--strange things. tender hearted, yet proud; virtuous, yet vain; passionate, yet innocent. i dare say you do not understand me. i do not rightly understand myself. joy turns my head. fran. compose yourself, my lady, i hear footsteps. min. compose myself! what! receive him composedly? scene viii. major von tellheim, landlord, minna, and franziska maj. t. (walks in, and the moment he sees minna rushes towards her). ah! my minna! min. (springing towards him). ah! my tellheim! maj. t. (starts suddenly, and draws back). i beg your pardon, fraulein von barnhelm; but to meet you here!!!!! min. cannot surely be so unexpected! (approaching him, whilst he draws back still more.) am i to pardon you because i am still your minna? heaven pardon you, that i am still fraulein von barnhelm! maj. t. fraulein... (looks fixedly at the landlord, and shrugs his shoulders.) min. (sees the landlord, and makes a sign to franziska). sir!!!!! maj. t. if we are not both mistaken!!!!! fran. why, landlord, whom have you brought us here? come, quick! let us go and look for the right man. land. is he not the right one? surely! fran. surely not! come, quick! i have not yet wished your daughter good morning. land. oh! you are very good (still does not stir). fran. (takes hold of him). come, and we will make the bill of fare. let us see what we shall have. land. you shall have first of all!!!!! fran. stop, i say, stop! if my mistress knows now what she is to have for dinner, it will be all over with her appetite. come, we must talk that over in private. (drags him off.) scene ix. minna, major von tellheim min. well, are we still both mistaken? maj. t. would to heaven it were so--but there is only one minna, and you are that one. min. what ceremony! the world might hear what we have to say to one another. maj. t. you here? what do you want here, madam? min. nothing now (going to him with open arms). i have found all that i wanted. maj. t. (drawing back). you seek a prosperous man, and one worthy of your love; and you find-- a wretched one. min. then do you love me no longer? do you love another? maj. t. ah! he never loved you, who could love another afterwards. min. you draw but one dagger from my breast; for if i have lost your heart, what matters whether indifference or more powerful charms than mine have robbed me of it? you love me no longer; neither do you love another? wretched man indeed, if you love nothing! maj. t. right; the wretched must love nothing. he merits his misfortunes, if he cannot achieve this victory over himself--if he can allow the woman he loves to take part in his misfortune... oh! how difficult is this victory!... since reason and necessity have commanded me to forget minna von barnhelm, what pains have i taken! i was just beginning to hope that my trouble would not for ever be in vain--and you appear. min. do i understand you right? stop, sir; let us see what we mean before we make further mistakes. will you answer me one question? maj. t. any one. min. but will you answer me without shift or subterfuge? with nothing but a plain "yes," or "no?" maj. t. i will--if i can. min. you can. well, notwithstanding the pains which you have taken to forget me, do you love me still, tellheim? maj. t. madam, that question!!!!! min. you have promised to answer yes, or no. maj. t. and added, if i can. min. you can. you must know what passes in your heart. do you love me still, tellheim? yes, or no? maj. t. if my heart!!!!! min. yes, or no? maj. t. well, yes! min. yes? maj. t. yes, yes! yet!!!!! min. patience! you love me still; that is enough for me. into what a mood have we fallen! an unpleasant, melancholy, infectious mood! i assume my own again. now, my dear unfortunate, you love me still, and have your minna still, and are unhappy? hear what a conceited, foolish thing your minna was--is. she allowed--allows herself, to imagine that she makes your whole happiness. declare all your misery at once. she would like to try how far she can outweigh it.--well? maj. t. madam, i am not accustomed to complain. min. very well. i know nothing in a soldier, after boasting, that pleases me less than complaining. but there is a certain cold, careless way of speaking of bravery and misfortune!!!!! maj. t. which at the bottom is still boasting and complaining. min. you disputant! you should not have called yourself unhappy at all then. you should have told the whole, or kept quiet. reason and necessity commanded you to forget me? i am a great stickler for reason; i have a great respect for necessity. but let me hear how reasonable this reason, and how necessary this necessity may be. maj. t. listen then, madam. you call me tellheim; the name is correct. but suppose i am not that tellheim whom you knew at home; the prosperous man, full of just pretensions, with a thirst for glory; the master of all his faculties, both of body and mind; before whom the lists of honour and prosperity stood open; who, if he was not then worthy of your heart and your hand, dared to hope that he might daily become more nearly so. this tellheim i am now, as little as i am my own father. they both have been. now i am tellheim the discharged, the suspected, the cripple, the beggar. to the former, madam, you promised your hand; do you wish to keep your word? min. that sounds very tragic... yet, major tellheim, until i find the former one again--i am quite foolish about the tellheims--the latter will have to help me in my dilemma. your hand, dear beggar! (taking his hand). maj. t. (holding his hat before his face with the other hand, and turning away from her). this is too much!... what am i?... let me go, madam. your kindness tortures me! let me go. min. what is the matter? where would you go? maj. t. from you! min. from me (drawing his hand to her heart)? dreamer! maj. t. despair will lay me dead at your feet. min. from me? maj. t. from you. never, never to see you again. or at least determined, fully determined, never to be guilty of a mean action; never to cause you to commit an imprudent one. let me go, minna! (tears himself away, and exit.) min. (calling after him). let you go, minna? minna, let you go? tellheim! tellheim! act iii. scene i. the parlour. just (with a letter in his hand) just. must i come again into this cursed house! a note from my master to her ladyship that would be his sister. i hope nothing will come of this, or else there will be no end to letter carrying. i should like to be rid of it; but yet i don't wish to go into the room. the women ask so many questions, and i hate answering--ah! the door opens. just what i wanted, the waiting puss! scene ii franziska and just fran. (calling through the door by which she has just entered). fear not; i will watch. see! (observing just) i have met with something immediately. but nothing is to be done with that brute. just. your servant. fran. i should not like such a servant. just. well, well, pardon the expression! there is a note from my master to your mistress--her ladyship--his sister, wasn't it?--sister. fran. give it me! (snatches it from his hand.) just. you will be so good, my master begs, as to deliver it. afterwards you will be so good, my master begs, as not to think i ask for anything! fran. well? just. my master understands how to manage the affair. he knows that the way to the young lady is through her maid, methinks. the maid will therefore be so good, my master begs, as to let him know whether he may not have the pleasure of speaking with the maid for a quarter of an hour. fran. with me? just. pardon me, if i do not give you your right title. yes, with you. only for one quarter of an hour; but alone, quite alone, in private tete-a-tete. he has something very particular to say to you. fran. very well! i have also much to say to him. he may come; i shall be at his service. just. but when can he come? when is it most convenient for you, young woman? in the evening? fran. what do you mean? your master can come when he pleases; and now be off. just. most willingly! (going.) fran. i say! one word more! where are the rest of the major's servants? just. the rest? here, there, and everywhere. fran. where is william? just. the valet? he has let him go for a trip. fran. oh! and philip, where is he? just. the huntsman? master has found him a good place. fran. because he does not hunt now, of course. but martin? just. the coachman? he is off on a ride. fran. and fritz? just. the footman? he is promoted. fran. where were you then, when the major was quartered in thuringia with us that winter? you were not with him, i suppose! just. oh! yes, i was groom; but i was in the hospital. fran. groom! and now you are!!!!! just. all in all; valet and huntsman, footman and groom. fran. well, i never! to turn away so many good, excellent servants, and to keep the very worst of all! i should like to know what your master finds in you! just. perhaps he finds that i am an honest fellow. fran. oh! one is precious little if one is nothing more than honest. william was another sort of a man! so your master has let him go for a trip! just. yes, he... let him--because he could not prevent him. fran. how so? just. oh! william will do well on his travels. he took master's wardrobe with him. fran. what! he did not run away with it? just. i cannot say that exactly; but when we left nurnberg, he did not follow us with it. fran. oh! the rascal! just. he was the right sort! he could curl hair and shave--and chatter and flirt--couldn't he? fran. at any rate, i would not have turned away the huntsman, had i been in the major's place. if he did not want him any longer as huntsman, he was still a useful fellow. where has he found him a place? just. with the commandant of spandau. fran. the fortress! there cannot be much hunting within the walls either. just. oh! philip does not hunt there. fran. what does he do, then? just. he rides--on the treadmill. fran. the treadmill! just. but only for three years. he made a bit of a plot amongst master's company, to get six men through the outposts. fran. i am astonished; the knave! just. ah! he was a useful fellow; a huntsman who knew all the foot paths and by-ways for fifty miles round, through forests and bogs. and he could shoot! fran. it is lucky the major has still got the honest coachman. just. has he got him still? fran. i thought you said martin was off on a ride: of course he will come back! just. do you think so? fran. well, where has he ridden to? just. it is now going on for ten weeks since he rode master's last and only horse--to water. fran. and has not he come back yet? oh! the rascal! just. the water may have washed the honest coachman away. oh! he was a famous coachman! he had driven ten years in vienna. my master will never get such another again. when the horses were in full gallop, he only had to say "wo!" and there they stood, like a wall. moreover, he was a finished horse-doctor! fran. i begin now to be anxious about the footman's promotion. just. no, no; there is no occasion for that. he has become a drummer in a garrison regiment. fran. i thought as much! just. fritz chummed up with a scamp, never came home at night, made debts everywhere in master's name, and a thousand rascally tricks. in short, the major saw that he was determined to rise in the world (pantomimically imitating the act of hanging), so he put him in the right road. fran. oh! the stupid! just. yet a perfect footman, there is no doubt of that. in running, my master could not catch him on his best horse if he gave him fifty paces; but on the other hand, fritz could give the gallows a thousand paces, and, i bet my life, he would overhaul it. they were all great friends of yours, eh, young woman?... william and philip, martin and fritz! now, just wishes you good day. (exit.) scene iii. franziska, _and afterwards the_ landlord fran. (looking after him seriously). i deserve the hit! thank you, just. i undervalued honesty. i will not forget the lesson. ah! our unfortunate major! (turns round to enter her mistress' room, when the landlord comes.) land. wait a bit, my pretty maid. fran. i have not time now, mr. landlord. land. only half a moment! no further tidings of the major? that surely could not possibly be his leave-taking! fran. what could not? land. has not our ladyship told you? when i left you, my pretty maid, below in the kitchen, i returned accidentally into this room!!!!! fran. accidentally--with a view to listen a little. land. what, girl! how can you suspect me of that? there is nothing so bad in a landlord as curiosity. i had not been here long, when suddenly her ladyship's door burst open: the major dashed out; the lady after him; both in such a state of excitement; with looks--in attitudes--that must be seen to be understood. she seized hold of him; he tore himself away; she seized him again--"tellheim." "let me go, madam." "where?" thus he drew her as far as the staircase. i was really afraid he would drag her down; but he got away. the lady remained on the top step; looked after him; called after him; wrung her hands. suddenly she turned round; ran to the window; from the window to the staircase again; from the staircase into the room, backwards and forwards. there i stood; she passed me three times without seeing me. at length it seemed as if she saw me; but heaven defend us! i believe the lady took me for you. "franziska," she cried, with her eyes fixed upon me, "am i happy now?" then she looked straight up to the ceiling, and said again --"am i happy now?" then she wiped the tears from her eyes, and smiled, and asked me again--"franziska, am i happy now?" i really felt, i know not how. then she ran to the door of her room, and turned round again towards me, saying--"come, franziska, whom do you pity now?" and with that she went in. fran. oh! mr. landlord, you dreamt that. land. dreamt! no, my pretty maid; one does not dream so minutely. yes, what would not i give--i am not curious: but what would not i give--to have the key to it! fran. the key? of our door? mr. landlord, that is inside; we took it in at night; we are timid. land. not that sort of key; i mean, my dear girl, the key--the explanation, as it were; the precise connexion of all that i have seen. fran. indeed! well, good-bye, mr. landlord. shall we have dinner soon? land. my dear girl, not to forget what i came to say!!!!! fran. well? in as few words as possible. land. her ladyship has my ring still. i call it mine!!!!! fran. you shall not lose it. land. i have no fear on that account: i merely put you in mind. do you see, i do not wish to have it again at all. i can guess pretty well how she knew the ring, and why it was so like her own. it is best in her hands. i do not want it any more; and i can put them down--the hundred pistoles which i advanced for it, to the lady's bill. will not that do, my pretty maid? scene iv. paul werner, landlord, franziska wer. there he is! fran. a hundred pistoles? i thought it was only eighty. land. true, only ninety, only ninety. i will do so, my pretty maid, i will do so. fran. all that will come right, mr. landlord. wer. (coming from behind, and tapping franziska on the shoulder). little woman--little woman. fran. (frightened). oh! dear! wer. don't be alarmed! i see you are pretty, and a stranger, too. and strangers who are pretty must be warned. little woman! little woman! i advise you to beware of that fellow! (pointing to the landlord). land. ah! what an unexpected pleasure! herr werner! welcome, welcome! yes, you are just the same jovial, joking, honest werner! so you are to beware of me, my pretty maid. ha! ha! ha! wer. keep out of his way everywhere! land. my way? am i such a dangerous man? ha! ha! ha! hear him, my pretty maid! a good joke, isn't it? wer. people like him always call it a joke, if one tells them the truth. land. the truth. ha! ha! ha! better and better, my pretty maid, isn't it? he knows how to joke! i dangerous? i? twenty years ago there might have been something in it. yes, yes, my pretty maid, then i was a dangerous man: many a one knew it; but now!!!!! wer. oh! the old fool! land. there it is! when we get old, danger is at an end! it will be so with you too, herr werner! wer. you utter old fool!--little woman, you will give me credit for enough common sense not to speak of danger from him. that one devil has left him, but seven others have entered into him. land. oh! hear him! how cleverly he can turn things about. joke upon joke, and always something new! ah! he is an excellent man, paul werner is. (to franziska, as if whispering.) a well-to-do man, and a bachelor still. he has a nice little freehold three miles from here. he made prize-money in the war, and was a sergeant to the major. yes, he is a real friend of the major's; he is a friend who would give his life for him. wer. yes; and that is a friend of the major's--that is a friend... whose life the major ought to take (pointing to the landlord). land. how! what! no, herr werner, that is not a good joke. i no friend to the major! i don't understand that joke. wer. just has told me pretty things. land. just! ah! i thought just was speaking through you. just is a nasty, ill-natured man. but here on the spot stands a pretty maid--she can speak, she can say if i am no friend of the major's--if i have not done him good service. and why should not i be his friend? is not he a deserving man? it is true, he has had the misfortune to be discharged; but what of that? the king cannot be acquainted with all deserving officers; and if he knew them, he could not reward them all. wer. heaven put those words into your mouth. but just... certainly there is nothing remarkable about just, but still just is no liar; and if that what he has told me be true!!!!! land. i don't want to hear anything about just. as i said, this pretty maid here can speak. (whispering to her.) you know, my dear; the ring! tell herr werner about it. then he will learn better what i am. and that it may not appear as if she only said what i wish, i will not even be present. i will go; but you shall tell me after, herr werner, you shall tell me, whether just is not a foul slanderer. (exit.) scene v. werner, franziska wer. little woman, do you know my major? fran. major von tellheim? yes, indeed, i do know that good man. wer. is he not a good man? do you like him? fran. from the bottom of my heart. wer. indeed! i tell you what, little woman, you are twice as pretty now as you were before. but what are the services, which the landlord says he has rendered our major? fran. that is what i don't know; unless he wished to take credit to himself for the good result which fortunately has arisen from his knavish conduct. wer. then what just told me is true? (towards the side where the landlord went off.) a lucky thing for you that you are gone! he did really turn him out of his room?--to treat such a man so, because the donkey fancied that he had no more money! the major no money! fran. what! has the major any money? wer. by the load. he doesn't know how much he has. he doesn't know who is in his debt. i am his debtor, and have brought him some old arrears. look, little woman, in this purse (drawing it out of one pocket) are a hundred louis d'ors; and in this packet (drawing it out of another pocket) a hundred ducats. all his money! fran. really! why then does the major pawn his things? he pledged a ring, you know!!!!! wer. pledged! don't you believe it. perhaps he wanted to get rid of the rubbish. fran. it is no rubbish; it is a very valuable ring; which, moreover, i suspect, he received from a loving hand. wer. that will be the reason. from a loving hand! yes, yes; such a thing often puts one in mind of what one does not wish to remember, and therefore one gets rid of it. fran. what! wer. odd things happen to the soldier in winter quarters. he has nothing to do then, so he amuses himself, and to pass the time he makes acquaintances, which he only intends for the winter, but which the good soul with whom he makes them, looks upon for life. then, presto! a ring is suddenly conjured on to his finger; he hardly knows himself how it gets there; and very often he would willingly give the finger with it, if he could only get free from it again. fran. oh! and do you think this has happened to the major? wer. undoubtedly. especially in saxony. if he had had ten fingers on each hand, he might have had all twenty full of rings. fran. (aside). that sounds important, and deserves to be inquired into. mr. freeholder, or mr. sergeant!!!!! wer. little woman, if it makes no difference to you, i like "mr. sergeant" best. fran. well, mr. sergeant, i have a note from the major to my mistress. i will just carry it in, and be here again in a moment. will you be so good as to wait? i should like very much to have a little talk with you. wer. are you fond of talking, little woman? well, with all my heart. go quickly. i am fond of talking too: i will wait. fran. yes, please wait. (exit.) scene vi. paul werner wer. that is not at all a bad little woman. but i ought not to have promised her that i would wait, for it would be most to the purpose, i suppose, to find the major. he will not have my money, but rather pawns his property. that is just his way. a little trick occurs to me. when i was in the town, a fortnight back, i paid a visit to captain marloff's widow. the poor woman was ill, and was lamenting that her husband had died in debt to the major for four hundred thalers, which she did not know how to pay. i went to see her again to-day; i intended to tell her that i could lend her five hundred thalers, when i had received the money for my property; for i must put some of it by, if i do not go to persia. but she was gone; and no doubt she has not been able to pay the major. yes, i'll do that; and the sooner the better. the little woman must not take it ill of me; i cannot wait. (is going in thought, and almost runs against the major, who meets him.) scene vii. major von tellheim, paul werner maj. t. why so thoughtful, werner? wer. oh! that is you. i was just going to pay you a visit in your new quarters, major. maj. t. to fill my ears with curses against the landlord of my old one. do not remind me of it. wer. i should have done that by the way: yes. but more particularly, i wish to thank you for having been so good as to take care of my hundred louis d'ors. just has given them to me again. i should have been very glad if you would have kept them longer for me. but you have got into new quarters, which neither you nor i know much about. who knows what sort of place it is? they might be stolen, and you would have to make them good to me; there would be no help for it. so i cannot ask you to take them again. maj. t. (smiling). when did you begin to be so careful, werner? wer. one learns to be so. one cannot now be careful enough of one's money. i have also a commission for you, major, from frau marloff; i have just come from her. her husband died four hundred thalers in your debt; she sends you a hundred ducats here, in part payment. she will forward you the rest next week. i believe i am the cause that she has not sent you the whole sum. for she also owed me about eighty thalers, and she thought i was come to dun her for them--which, perhaps, was the fact--so she gave them me out of the roll which she had put aside for you. you can spare your hundred thalers for a week longer, better than i can spare my few groschens. there, take it! (hands him the ducats.) maj. t. werner! wer. well! why do you stare at me so? take it, major! maj. t. werner! wer. what is the matter with you? what annoys you? maj. t. (angrily striking his forehead, and stamping with his foot.) that... the four hundred thalers are not all there. wer. come! major, did not you understand me? maj. t. it is just because i did understand you! alas, that the best men should to-day distress me most! wer. what do you say? maj. t. this only applies partly to you. go, werner! (pushing back werner's hand with the money in it.) wer. as soon as i have got rid of this. maj. t. werner, suppose i tell you that frau marloff was here herself early this morning!!!!! wer. indeed? maj. t. that she owes me nothing now!!!!! wer. really? maj. t. that she has paid me every penny--what will you say then? wer. (thinks for a minute). i shall say that i have told a lie, and that lying is a low thing, because one may be caught at it. maj. t. and you will be ashamed of yourself? wer. and what of him who compels me to lie? should not he be ashamed too? look ye, major; if i was to say that your conduct has not vexed me, i should tell another lie, and i won't lie any more. maj. t. do not be annoyed, werner. i know your heart, and your affection for me. but i do not require your money. wer. not require it! rather sell, rather pawn, and get talked about! maj. t. oh! people may know that i have nothing more. one must not wish to appear richer than one is. wer. but why poorer? a man has something as long as his friend has. maj. t. it is not proper that i should be your debtor. wer. not proper! on that summer day which the sun and the enemy made hot for us, when your groom, who had your canteen, was not to be found, and you came to me and said--"werner, have you nothing to drink?" and i gave you my flask, you took it and drank, did you not? was that proper? upon my life, a mouthful of dirty water at that time was often worth more than such filth (taking the purse also out of his pocket, and holding out both to him). take them, dear major! fancy it is water. god has made this, too, for all. maj. t. you torment me: don't you hear, i will not be your debtor. wer. at first, it was not proper; now, you will not. ah! that is a different thing. (rather angrily.) you will not be my debtor? but suppose you are already, major? or, are you not a debtor to the man who once warded off the blow that was meant to split your head; and, at another time, knocked off the arm which was just going to pull and send a ball through your breast? how can you become a greater debtor to that man? or, is my neck of less consequence than my money? if that is a noble way of thinking, by my soul it is a very silly one too. maj. t. to whom do you say that, werner? we are alone, and therefore i may speak; if a third person heard us, it might sound like boasting. i acknowledge with pleasure, that i have to thank you for twice saving my life. do you not think, friend, that if an opportunity occurred i would have done as much for you, eh? wer. if an opportunity occurred! who doubts it, major? have i not seen you risk your life a hundred times for the lowest soldier, when he was in danger? maj. t. well! wer. but!!!!! maj. t. why cannot you understand me? i say, it is not proper that i should be your debtor; i will not be your debtor. that is, not in the circumstances in which i now am. wer. oh! so you would wait till better times. you will borrow money from me another time, when you do not want any: when you have some yourself, and i perhaps none. maj. t. a man ought not to borrow, when he has not the means of repaying. wer. a man like yourself cannot always be in want. maj. t. you know the world... least of all should a man borrow from one who wants his money himself. wer. oh! yes; i am such a one! pray, what do i want it for? when they want a sergeant, they give him enough to live on. maj. t. you want it, to become something more than a sergeant--to be able to get forward in that path in which even the most deserving, without money, may remain behind. wer. to become something more than a sergeant! i do not think of that. i am a good sergeant; i might easily make a bad captain, and certainly a worse general. maj. t. do not force me to think ill of you, werner! i was very sorry to hear what just has told me. you have sold your farm, and wish to rove about again. do not let me suppose that you do not love the profession of arms so much as the wild dissolute way of living which is unfortunately connected with it. a man should be a soldier for his own country, or from love of the cause for which he fights. to serve without any purpose--to-day here, to-morrow there--is only travelling about like a butcher's apprentice, nothing more. wer. well, then, major, i will do as you say. you know better what is right. i will remain with you. but, dear major, do take my money in the meantime. sooner or later your affairs must be settled. you will get money in plenty then; and then you shall repay me with interest. i only do it for the sake of the interest. maj. t. do not talk of it. wer. upon my life, i only do it for the sake of the interest. many a time i have thought to myself--"werner, what will become of you in your old age? when you are crippled? when you will have nothing in the world? when you will be obliged to go and beg!" and then i thought again-- "no, you will not be obliged to beg: you will go to major tellheim; he will share his last penny with you; he will feed you till you die; and with him you can die like an honest fellow." maj. t. (taking werner's hand). and, comrade, you do not think so still? wer. no, i do not think so any longer. he who will not take anything from me, when he is in want, and i have to give, will not give me anything when he has to give, and i am in want. so be it. (is going.) maj. t. man, do not drive me mad! where are you going? (detains him.) if i assure you now, upon my honour, that i still have money--if i assure you, upon my honour, that i will tell you when i have no more-- that you shall be the first and only person from whom i will borrow anything--will that content you? wer. i suppose it must. give me your hand on it, major. maj. t. there, paul! and now enough of that, i came here to speak with a certain young woman. scene viii. franziska (coming out of minna's room), major von tellheim, paul werner fran. (entering). are you there still, mr. sergeant? (seeing tellheim.) and you there too, major? i will be at your service instantly. (goes back quickly into the room.) scene ix. major von tellheim, paul werner maj. t. that was she! but it seems you know her, werner. wer. yes, i know her. maj. t. yet, if i remember rightly, when i was in thuringia you were not with me. wer. no; i was seeing after the uniforms in leipsic. maj. t. where did you make her acquaintance, then? wer. our acquaintance is very young. not a day old. but young friendship is warm. maj. t. have you seen her mistress, too? wer. is her mistress a young lady? she told me you are acquainted with her mistress. maj. t. did not you hear? she comes from thuringia. wer. is the lady young? maj. t. yes. wer. pretty? maj. t. very pretty. wer. rich? maj. t. very rich. wer. is the mistress as fond of you as the maid is? that would be capital! maj. t. what do you mean? scene x. franziska (with a letter in her hand), major von tellheim, paul werner fran. major!!!!! maj. t. franziska, i have not yet been able to give you a "welcome" here. fran. in thought, i am sure that you have done it. i know you are friendly to me; so am i to you. but it is not at all kind to vex those who are friendly to you so much. wer. (aside). ah! now i see it. it is so! maj. t. my destiny, franziska! did you give her the letter? fran. yes; and here i bring you... (holding out a letter). maj. t. an answer! fran. no, your own letter again. maj. t. what! she will not read it! fran. she would have liked, but--we can't read writing well. maj. t. you are joking! fran. and we think that writing was not invented for those who can converse with their lips whenever they please. maj. t. what an excuse! she must read it. it contains my justification--all the grounds and reasons!!!!! fran. my mistress wishes to hear them all from you yourself, not to read them. maj. t. hear them from me myself! that every look, every word of hers, may embarrass me; that i may feel in every glance the greatness of my loss. fran. without any pity! take it. (giving him his letter.) she expects you at three o'clock. she wishes to drive out and see the town; you must accompany her. maj. t. accompany her! fran. and what will you give me to let you drive out by yourselves? i shall remain at home. maj. t. by ourselves! fran. in a nice close carriage. maj. t. impossible! fran. yes, yes, in the carriage, major. you will have to submit quietly; you cannot escape there! and that is the reason. in short, you will come, major, and punctually at three.... well, you wanted to speak to me too alone. what have you to say to me? oh! we are not alone. (looking at werner.) maj. t. yes, franziska; as good as alone. but as your mistress has not read my letter, i have nothing now to say to you. fran. as good as alone! then you have no secrets from the sergeant? maj. t. no, none. fran. and yet i think you should have some from him. maj. t. why so? wer. how so, little woman? fran. particularly secrets of a certain kind.... all twenty, mr. sergeant! (holding up both her hands, with open fingers.) wer. hist! hist! girl. maj. t. what is the meaning of that? fran. presto! conjured on to his finger, mr. sergeant (as if she was putting a ring on her fingers). maj. t. what are you talking about? wer. little woman, little woman, don't you understand a joke? maj. t. werner, you have not forgotten, i hope, what i have often told you; that one should not jest beyond a certain point with a young woman! wer. upon my life i may have forgotten it! little woman, i beg!!!!! fran. well, if it was a joke, i will forgive you this once. maj. t. well, if i must come, franziska, just see that your mistress reads my letter beforehand? that will spare me the pain of thinking again--of talking again, of things which i would willingly forget. there, give it to her! (he turns the letter in giving it to her, and sees that it has been opened.) but do i see aright? why it has been opened. fran. that may be. (looks at it.) true, it is open. who can have opened it? but really we have not read it, major; really not. and we do not wish to read it, because the writer is coming himself. come; and i tell you what, major! don't come as you are now--in boots, and with such a head. you are excusable, you do not expect us. come in shoes, and have your hair fresh dressed. you look too soldierlike, too prussian for me as you are. maj. t. thank you, franziska. fran. you look as if you had been bivouacking last night. maj. t. you may have guessed right. fran. we are going to dress, directly too, and then have dinner. we would willingly ask you to dinner, but your presence might hinder our eating; and observe, we are not so much in love that we have lost our appetites. maj. t. i will go. prepare her somewhat, franziska, beforehand, that i may not become contemptible in her eyes, and in my own. come, werner, you shall dine with me. wer. at the table d'hote here in the house? i could not eat a bit there. maj. t. with me, in my room. wer. i will follow you directly. one word first with the little woman. maj. t. i have no objection to that. (exit.) scene xi. paul werner, franziska fran. well, mr. sergeant! wer. little woman, if i come again, shall i too come smartened up a bit? fran. come as you please: my eyes will find no fault with you. but my ears will have to be so much the more on their guard. twenty fingers, all full of rings. ah! ah! mr. sergeant! wer. no, little woman; that is just what i wished to say to you. i only rattled on a little. there is nothing in it. one ring is quite enough for a man. hundreds and hundreds of times i have heard the major say-- "he must be a rascally soldier, who can mislead a young girl." so think i too, little woman. you may trust to that! i must be quick and follow him. a good appetite to you. (exit.) fran. the same to you! i really believe, i like that man! (going in, she meets minna coming out.) scene xii. minna, franziska min. has the major gone already, franziska? i believe i should have been sufficiently composed again now to have detained him here. fran. and i will make you still more composed. min. so much the better! his letter! oh! his letter! each line spoke the honourable noble man. each refusal to accept my hand declared his love for me. i suppose he noticed that we had read his letter. i don't mind that, if he does but come. but are you sure he will come? there only seems to me to be a little too much pride in his conduct. for not to be willing to be indebted for his good fortune, even to the woman he loves, is pride, unpardonable pride! if he shows me too much of this, franziska!!!!! fran. you will discard him! min. see there! do you begin to pity him again already! no, silly girl, a man is never discarded for a single fault. no; but i have thought of a trick to pay him off a little for this pride, with pride of the same kind. fran. indeed, you must be very composed, my lady, if you are thinking of tricks again. min. i am so; come. you will have a part to play in my plot. (exeunt.) act iv. scene i. minna's room. minna (dressed handsomely and richly, but in good taste), franziska (they have just risen from a table, which a servant is clearing.) fran. you cannot possibly have eaten enough, my lady. min. don't you think so, franziska? perhaps i had no appetite when i sat down. fran. we had agreed not to mention him during dinner. we should have resolved likewise, not to think of him. min. indeed, i have thought of nothing but him. fran. so i perceived. i began to speak of a hundred different things, and you made wrong answers to each. (another servant brings coffee.) here comes a beverage more suited to fancies--sweet, melancholy coffee. min. fancies! i have none. i am only thinking of the lesson i will give him. did you understand my plan, franziska? fran. oh! yes; but it would be better if he spared us the putting it in execution. min. you will see that i know him thoroughly. he who refuses me now with all my wealth, will contend for me against the whole world, as soon as he hears that i am unfortunate and friendless. fran. (seriously). that must tickle the most refined self-love. min. you moralist! first you convict me of vanity--now of self-love. let me do as i please, franziska. you, too, shall do as you please with your sergeant. fran. with my sergeant? min. yes. if you deny it altogether, then it is true. i have not seen him yet; but from all you have said respecting him, i foretell your husband for you. scene ii. riccaut de la marliniere, minna, franziska ric. (before he enters). est-il permis, monsieur le major? fran. who is that? any one for us? (going to the door). ric. parbleu! i am wrong. mais non--i am not wrong. c'est la chambre!!!!! fran. without doubt, my lady, this gentleman expects to find major von tellheim here still. ric. oui, dat is it! le major de tellheim; juste, ma belle enfant, c'est lui que je cherche. ou est-il? fran. he does not lodge here any longer. ric. comment? dere is four-and-twenty hour ago he did lodge here, and not lodge here any more? where lodge he den? min. (going up to him). sir!!!!! ric. ah! madame, mademoiselle, pardon, lady. min. sir, your mistake is quite excusable, and your astonishment very natural. major von tellheim has had the kindness to give up his apartments to me, as a stranger, who was not able to get them elsewhere. ric. ah! voila de ses politesses! c'est un tres-galant homme que ce major! min. where has he gone now?--truly i am ashamed that i do not know. ric. madame not know? c'est dommage; j'en suis fache. min. i certainly ought to have inquired. of course his friends will seek him here. ric. i am vary great his friend, madame. min. franziska, do you not know? fran. no, my lady. ric. it is vary necessaire dat i speak him. i come and bring him a nouvelle, of which he will be vary much at ease. min. i regret it so much the more. but i hope to see him perhaps shortly. if it is a matter of indifference from whom he hears this good news, i would offer, sir!!!!! ric. i comprehend. mademoiselle parle francais? mais sans doute; telle que je la vois! la demande etait bien impolie; vous me pardonnerez, mademoiselle. min. sir!!!!! ric. no! you not speak french, madame? min. sir, in france i would endeavour to do so; but why here? i perceive that you understand me, sir; and i, sir, shall doubtless understand you; speak as you please. ric. good, good! i can also explain me in your langue. sachez donc, mademoiselle, you must know, madame, dat i come from de table of de ministre, ministre de, ministre de... what is le ministre out dere, in de long street, on de broad place? min. i am a perfect stranger here. ric. si, le ministre of de war departement. dere i have eat my dinner; i ordinary dine dere, and de conversation did fall on major tellheim; et le ministre m'a dit en confidence, car son excellence est de mes amis, et il n'y a point de mysteres entre nous; son excellence, i say, has trust to me, dat l'affaire from our major is on de point to end, and to end good. he has made a rapport to de king, and de king has resolved et tout a fait en faveur du major. "monsieur," m'a dit son excellence, "vous comprenez bien, que tout depend de la maniere, dont on fait envisager les choses au roi, et vous me connaissez. cela fait un tres-joli garcon que ce tellheim, et ne sais-je pas que vous l'aimez? les amis de mes amis sont aussi les miens. il coute un peu cher au roi ce tellheim, mais est-ce que l'on sert les rois pour rien? il faut s'entr'aider en ce monde; et quand il s'agit de pertes, que ce soit le roi qui en fasse, et non pas un honnete homme de nous autres. voila le principe, dont je ne me depars jamais." but what say madame to it? n'est pas, dat is a fine fellow! ah! que son excellence a le coeur bien place! he assure me au reste, if de major has not recu already une lettre de la main--a royal letter, dat to-day infailliblement must he receive one. min. certainly, sir, this news will be most welcome to major von tellheim. i should like to be able to name the friend to him, who takes such an interest in his welfare. ric. madame, you wish my name? vous voyez en moi--you see, lady, in me, le chevalier riccaut de la marliniere, seigneur de pret-au-val, de la branche de prens d'or. you remain astonished to hear me from so great, great a family, qui est veritablement du sang royal. il faut le dire; je suis sans doute le cadet le plus aventureux que la maison n'a jamais eu. i serve from my eleven year. une affaire d'honneur make me flee. den i serve de holy papa of rome, den de republic st. marino, den de poles, den de states general, till enfin i am brought her. ah! mademoiselle, que je voudrais n'avoir jamais vu ce pays-ci! had one left me in de service of de states general, should i be now at least colonel. but here always to remain capitaine, and now also a discharged capitaine. min. that is ill luck. ric. oui, mademoiselle, me voila reforme, et par la mis sur le pave! min. i am very sorry for you. ric. vous etes bien bonne, mademoiselle.... no, merit have no reward here. reformer a man, like me! a man who also have ruin himself in dis service! i have lost in it so much as twenty thousand livres. what have i now? tranchons le mot; je n'ai pas le sou, et me voila exactement vis-a-vis de rien. min. i am exceedingly sorry. ric. vous etes bien bonne, mademoiselle, but as one say--misfortune never come alone! qu'un malheur ne vient jamais seul: so it arrive with me. what ressource rests for an honnete homme of my extraction, but play? now, i always played with luck, so long i not need her. now i very much need her, je joue avec un guignon, mademoiselle, que surpasse toute croyance. for fifteen days, not one is passed, dat i always am broke. yesterday, i was broke dree times. je sais bien, qu'il y avait quelque chose de plus que le jeu. car parmi mes pontes se trouvaient certaines dames. i will not speak more. one must be very galant to les dames. dey have invite me again to-day, to give me revanche; mais-- vous m'entendez, mademoiselle,--one must first have to live, before one can have to play. min. i hope, sir!!!!! ric. vous etes bien bonne, mademoiselle. min. (takes franziska aside.) franziska, i really feel for the man. would he take it ill, if i offer him something? fran. he does not look to me like a man who would. min. very well! sir, i perceive that--you play, that you keep the bank; doubtless in places where something is to be won. i must also confess that i... am very fond of play. ric. tant mieux, mademoiselle, tant mieux! tous les gens d'esprit aiment le jeu a la fureur. min. that i am very fond of winning; that i like to trust my money to a man, who--knows how to play. are you inclined, sir, to let me join you? to let me have a share in your bank? ric. comment, mademoiselle, vous voulez etre de moitie avec moi? de tout mon coeur. min. at first, only with a trifle. (opens her desk and takes out some money.) ric. ah! mademoiselle, que vous etes charmante! min. here is what i won a short time back; only ten pistoles. i am ashamed, so little!!!!! ric. donnez toujours, mademoiselle, donnez. (takes it.) min. without doubt, your bank, sir, is very considerable. ric. oh! yes, vary considerable. ten pistoles! you shall have, madame, an interest in my bank for one third, pour le tiers. yes, one third part it shall be--something more. with a beautiful lady one must not be too exac. i rejoice myself, to make by that a liaison with madame, et de ce moment je recommence a bien augurer de ma fortune. min. but i cannot be present, sir, when you play. ric. for why it necessaire dat you be present? we other players are honourable people between us. min. if we are fortunate, sir, you will of course bring me my share. if we are unfortunate!!!!! ric. i come to bring recruits, n'est pas, madame? min. in time recruits might fail. manage our money well, sir. ric. what does madame think me? a simpleton, a stupid devil? min. i beg your pardon. ric. je suis des bons, mademoiselle. savez vous ce que cela veut dire? i am of the quite practised!!!!! min. but still, sir,!!!!! ric. je sais monter un coup!!!!! min. (amazed). could you? ric. je file la carte avec une adresse. min. never! ric. je fais sauter la coupe avec une dexterite. min. you surely would not, sir!!!!!! ric. what not, madame; what not? donnes moi un pigeonneau a plumer, et!!!!! min. play false! cheat! ric. comment, mademoiselle? vous appelez cela cheat? corriger la fortune, l'enchainer sous ses doigts, etre sur de son fait, dat you call cheat? cheat! oh! what a poor tongue is your tongue! what an awkward tongue! min. no, sir, if you think so!!!!! ric. laissez-moi faire, mademoiselle, and be tranquille! what matter to you how i play! enough! to-morrow, madame, you see me again or with hundred pistol, or you see no more. votre tres-humble, mademoiselle, votre tres humble. (exit quickly.) min. (looking after him with astonishment and displeasure). i hope the latter, sir. scene iii. minna and franziska fran. (angrily). what can i say? oh! how grand! how grand! min. laugh at me; i deserve it. (after reflecting, more calmly.) no, do not laugh; i do not deserve it. fran. excellent! you have done a charming act--set a knave upon his legs again. min. it was intended for an unfortunate man. fran. and what is the best part of it, the fellow considers you like himself. oh! i must follow him, and take the money from him. (going.) min. franziska, do not let the coffee get quite cold; pour it out. fran. he must return it to you; you have thought better of it; you will not play in partnership with him. ten pistoles! you heard, my lady, that he was a beggar! (minna pours out the coffee herself.) who would give such a sum to a beggar? and to endeavour, into the bargain, to save him the humiliation of having begged for it! the charitable woman who, out of generosity, mistakes the beggar, is in return mistaken by the beggar. it serves you right, my lady, if he considers your gift as--i know not what. (minna hands a cup of coffee to franziska.) do you wish to make my blood boil still more? i do not want any. (minna puts it down again.) "parbleu, madame, merit have no reward here" (imitating the frenchman). i think not, when such rogues are allowed to walk about unhanged. min. (coldly and slowly, while sipping her coffee). girl, you understand good men very well; but when will you learn to bear with the bad? and yet they are also men; and frequently not so bad as they seem. one should look for their good side. i fancy this frenchman is nothing worse than vain. through mere vanity he gives himself out as a false player; he does not wish to appear under an obligation to one; he wishes to save himself the thanks. perhaps he may now go, pay his small debts, live quietly and frugally on the rest as far as it will go, and think no more of play. if that be so, franziska, let him come for recruits whenever he pleases. (gives her cup to franziska.) there, put it down! but, tell me, should not tellheim be here by this time? fran. no, my lady, i can neither find out the bad side in a good man, nor the good side in a bad man. min. surely he will come! fran. he ought to remain away! you remark in him--in him, the best of me--a little pride; and therefore you intend to tease him so cruelly! min. are you at it again? be silent! i will have it so. woe to you if you spoil this fun of mine... if you do not say and do all, as we have agreed. i will leave you with him alone; and then--but here he comes. scene iv. paul werner (comes in, carrying himself very erect as if on duty), minna, franziska fran. no, it is only his dear sergeant. min. dear sergeant! whom does the "dear" refer to? fran. pray, my lady, do not make the man embarrassed. your servant, mr. sergeant; what news do you bring us? wer. (goes up to minna, without noticing franziska). major von tellheim begs to present, through me, sergeant werner, his most respectful compliments to fraulein von barnhelm, and to inform her that he will be here directly. min. where is he then? wer. your ladyship will pardon him; we left our quarters before it began to strike three; but the paymaster met us on the way; and because conversation with those gentlemen has no end, the major made me a sign to report the case to your ladyship. min. very well, mr. sergeant. i only hope the paymaster may have good news for him. wer. such gentlemen seldom have good news for officers.--has your ladyship any orders? (going.) fran. why, where are you going again, mr. sergeant? had not we something to say to each other? wer. (in a whisper to franziska, and seriously). not here, little woman; it is against respect, against discipline. ... your ladyship!!!!! min. thank you for your trouble. i am glad to have made your acquaintance. franziska has spoken in high praise of you to me. (werner makes a stiff bow, and goes.) scene v. minna, franziska min. so that is your sergeant, franziska? fran. (aside). i have not time to reproach her for that jeering _your_. (aloud.) yes, my lady, that is my sergeant. you think him, no doubt, somewhat stiff and wooden. he also appeared so to me just now; but i observed, he thought he must march past you as if on parade. and when soldiers are on parade, they certainly look more like wooden dolls than men. you should see and hear him when he is himself. min. so i should, indeed! fran. he must still be in the next room; may i go and talk with him a little? min. i refuse you this pleasure unwillingly: but you must remain here, franziska. you must be present at our conversation. another thing occurs to me. (takes her ring from her finger.) there, take my ring; keep it for me, and give me the major's in the place of it. fran. why so? min. (whilst franziska is fetching the ring). i scarcely know, myself; but i fancy i see, beforehand, how i may make use of it. some one is knocking. give it to me, quickly. (puts the ring on.) it is he. scene vi. major von tellheim (in the same coat, but otherwise as franziska advised), minna, franziska maj. t. madam, you will excuse the delay. min. oh! major, we will not treat each other in quite such a military fashion. you are here now; and to await a pleasure, is itself a pleasure. well (looking at him and smiling) dear tellheim, have we not been like children? maj. t. yes, madam; like children, who resist when they ought to obey quietly. min. we will drive out, dear major, to see a little of the town, and afterwards to meet my uncle. maj. t. what! min. you see, we have not yet had an opportunity of mentioning the most important matters even. he is coming here to-day. it was accident that brought me here without him, a day sooner. maj. t. count von bruchsal! has he returned? min. the troubles of the war drove him into italy: peace has brought him back again. do not be uneasy, tellheim; if we formerly feared on his part the greatest obstacle to our union!!!!! maj. t. to our union! min. he is now your friend. he has heard too much good of you from too many people, not to become so. he longs to become personally acquainted with the man whom his heiress has chosen. he comes as uncle, as guardian, as father, to give me to you. maj. t. ah! dear lady, why did you not read my letter? why would you not read it? min. your letter! oh! yes, i remember you sent me one. what did you do with that letter, franziska? did we, or did we not read it? what was it you wrote to me, dear tellheim? maj. t. nothing but what honour commands me. min. that is, not to desert an honourable woman who loves you. certainly that is what honour commands. indeed, i ought to have read your letter. but what i have not read, i shall hear, shall not i? maj. t. yes, you shall hear it. min. no, i need not even hear it. it speaks for itself. as if you could be guilty of such an unworthy act, as not to take me! do you know that i should be pointed at for the rest of my life? my countrywomen would talk about me, and say. "that is she, that is the fraulein von barnhelm, who fancied that because she was rich could marry the noble tellheim; as if such men were to be caught with money." that is what they would say, for they are all envious of me. that i am rich, they cannot deny; but they do not wish to acknowledge that i am also a tolerably good girl, who would prove herself worthy of her husband. is that not so, tellheim? maj. t. yes, yes, madam, that is like your countrywomen. they will envy you exceedingly a discharged officer, with sullied honour, a cripple, and a beggar. min. and are you all that? if i mistake not, you told me something of the kind this forenoon. therein is good and evil mixed. let us examine each charge more closely. you are discharged? so you say. i thought your regiment was only drafted into another. how did it happen that a man of your merit was not retained? maj. t. it has happened, as it must happen. the great ones are convinced that a soldier does very little through regard for them, not much more from a sense of duty, but everything for his own advantage. what then can they think they owe him? peace has made a great many, like myself superfluous to them; and at last we shall all be superfluous. min. you talk as a man must talk, to whom in return the great are quite superfluous. and never were they more so than now. i return my best thanks to the great ones that they have given up their claims to a man whom i would very unwillingly have shared with them. i am your sovereign, tellheim; you want no other master. to find you discharged, is a piece of good fortune i dared scarcely dream of! but you are not only discharged; you are more. and what are you more? a cripple, you say! well! (looking at him from head to foot), the cripple is tolerably whole and upright--appears still to be pretty well, and strong. dear tellheim, if you expect to go begging on the strength of your limbs, i prophesy that you will be relieved at very few doors; except at the door of a good-natured girl like myself. maj. t. i only hear the joking girl now, dear minna. min. and i only hear the "dear minna" in your chiding. i will not joke any longer; for i recollect that after all you are something of a cripple. you are wounded by a shot in the right arm; but all things considered, i do not find much fault with that. i am so much the more secure from your blows. maj. t. madam! min. you would say, "you are so much the less secure from mine." well, well, dear tellheim, i hope you will not drive me to that. maj. t. you laugh, madam. i only lament that i cannot laugh with you. min. why not? what have you to say against laughing? cannot one be very serious even whilst laughing? dear major, laughter keeps us more rational than vexation. the proof is before us. your laughing friend judges of your circumstances more correctly than you do yourself. because you are discharged, you say your honour is sullied; because you are wounded in the arm, you call yourself a cripple. is that right? is that no exaggeration? and is it my doing that all exaggerations are so open to ridicule? i dare say, if i examine your beggary that it will also be as little able to stand the test. you may have lost your equipage once, twice, or thrice; your deposits in the hands of this or that banker may have disappeared together with those of other people; you may have no hope of seeing this or that money again which you may have advanced in the service; but are you a beggar on that account? if nothing else remained to you but what my uncle is bringing for you!!!!! maj. t. your uncle, madam, will bring nothing for me. min. nothing but the two thousand pistoles which you so generously advanced to our government. maj. t. if you had but read my letter, madam! min. well, i did read it. but what i read in it, on this point, is a perfect riddle. it is impossible that any one should wish to turn a noble action into a crime. but explain to me, dear major. maj. t. you remember, madam, that i had orders to collect the contribution for the war most strictly in cash in all the districts in your neighbourhood. i wished to forego this severity, and advanced the money that was deficient myself. min. i remember it well. i loved you for that deed before i had seen you. maj. t. the government gave me their bill, and i wished, at the signing of the peace, to have the sum entered amongst the debts to be repaid by them. the bill was acknowledged as good, but my ownership of the same was disputed. people looked incredulous, when i declared that i had myself advanced the amount in cash. it was considered as bribery, as a douceur from the government, because i at once agreed to take the smallest sum with which i could have been satisfied in a case of the greatest exigency. thus the bill went from my possession, and if it be paid, will certainly not be paid to me. hence, madam, i consider my honour to be suspected! not on account of my discharge, which, if i had not received, i should have applied for. you look serious, madam! why do you not laugh? ha! ha! ha! i am laughing. min. oh! stifle that laugh, tellheim, i implore you! it is the terrible laugh of misanthropy. no, you are not the man to repent of a good deed, because it may have had a bad result for yourself. nor can these consequences possibly be of long duration. the truth must come to light. the testimony of my uncle, of our government!!!!! maj. t. of your uncle! of your government! ha! ha! ha! min. that laugh will kill me, tellheim. if you believe in virtue and providence, tellheim, do not laugh so! i never heard a curse more terrible than that laugh! but, viewing the matter in the worst light, if they are determined to mistake your character here, with us you will not be misunderstood. no, we cannot, we will not, misunderstand you, tellheim. and if our government has the least sentiment of honour, i know what it must do. but i am foolish; what would that matter? imagine, tellheim, that you have lost the two thousand pistoles on some gay evening. the king was an unfortunate card for you: the queen (pointing to herself) will be so much the more favourable. providence, believe me, always indemnifies a man of honour--often even beforehand. the action which was to cost you two thousand pistoles, gained you me. without that action, i never should have been desirous of making your acquaintance. you know i went uninvited to the first party where i thought i should meet you. i went entirely on your account. i went with a fixed determination to love you--i loved you already! with the fixed determination to make you mine, if i should find you as dark and ugly as the moor of venice. so dark and ugly you are not; nor will you be so jealous. but, tellheim, tellheim, you are yet very like him! oh! the unmanageable, stubborn man, who always keeps his eye fixed upon the phantom of honour, and becomes hardened against every other sentiment! your eyes this way! upon me,--me, tellheim! (he remains thoughtful and immovable, with his eyes fixed on one spot.) of what are you thinking? do you not hear me? maj. t. (absent). oh, yes; but tell me, how came the moor into the service of venice? had the moor no country of his own? why did he hire his arm and his blood to a foreign land? min. (alarmed). of what are you thinking, tellheim? it is time to break off. come! (taking him by the hand). franziska, let the carriage be brought round. maj. t. (disengaging his hand, and following franziska). no, franziska; i cannot have the honour of accompanying your mistress. madam, let me still retain my senses unimpaired for to-day, and give me leave to go. you are on the right way to deprive me of them. i resist it as much as i can. but hear, whilst i am still myself, what i have firmly determined, and from which nothing in the world shall turn me. if i have not better luck in the game of life; if a complete change in my fortune does not take place; if!!!!! min. i must interrupt you, major. we ought to have told him that at first, franziska.--you remind me of nothing.--our conversation would have taken quite a different turn, tellheim, if i had commenced with the good news which the chevalier de la marliniere brought just now. maj. t. the chevalier de la marliniere! who is he? fran. he may be a very honest man, major von tellheim, except that!!!!! min. silence, franziska! also a discharged officer from the dutch service, who!!!!! maj. t. ah! lieutenant riccaut! min. he assured us he was a friend of yours. maj. t. i assure you that i am not his. min. and that some minister or other had told him, in confidence, that your business was likely to have the very best termination. a letter from the king must now be on its way to you. maj. t. how came riccaut and a minister in company? something certainly must have happened concerning my affair; for just now the paymaster of the forces told me that the king had set aside all the evidence offered against me, and that i might take back my promise, which i had given in writing, not to depart from here until acquitted. but that will be all. they wish to give me an opportunity of getting away. but they are wrong, i shall not go. sooner shall the utmost distress waste me away before the eyes of my calumniators, than!!!!! min. obstinate man! maj. t. i require no favour; i want justice. my honour!!!!! min. the honour of such a man!!!!! maj. t. (warmly). no, madam, you may be able to judge of any other subject, but not of this. honour is not the voice of conscience, not the evidence of a few honourable men!!!!! min. no, no, i know it well. honour is... honour. maj. t. in short, madam... you did not let me finish.--i was going to say, if they keep from me so shamefully what is my own; if my honour be not perfectly righted--i cannot, madam, ever be yours, for i am not worthy, in the eyes of the world, of being yours. minna von barnhelm deserves an irreproachable husband. it is a worthless love which does not scruple to expose its object to scorn. he is a worthless man, who is not ashamed to owe a woman all his good fortune; whose blind tenderness!!!!! min. and is that really your feeling, major? (turning her back suddenly). franziska! maj. t. do not be angry. min. (aside to franziska). now is the time! what do you advise me, franziska? fran. i advise nothing. but certainly he goes rather too far. maj. t. (approaching to interrupt them). you are angry, madam. min. (ironically). i? not in the least. maj. t. if i loved you less!!!!! min. (still in the same tone). oh! certainly, it would be a misfortune for me. and hear, major, i also will not be the cause of your unhappiness. one should love with perfect disinterestedness. it is as well that i have not been more open! perhaps your pity might have granted to me what your love refuses. (drawing the ring slowly from her finger.) maj. t. what does this mean, madam? min. no, neither of us must make the other either more or less happy. true love demands it. i believe you, major; and you have too much honour to mistake love. maj. t. are you jesting, madam? min. here! take back the ring with which you plighted your troth to me. (gives him the ring.) let it be so! we will suppose we have never met. maj. t. what do i hear? min. does it surprise you? take it, sir. you surely have not been pretending only! maj. t. (takes the ring from her). heavens! can minna speak thus? min. in one case you cannot be mine; in no case can i be yours. your misfortune is probable; mine is certain. farewell! (is going.) maj. t. where are you going, dearest minna? min. sir, you insult me now by that term of endearment. maj. t. what is the matter, madam? where are you going? min. leave me. i go to hide my tears from you, deceiver! (exit.) scene vii. major von tellheim, franziska maj. t. her tears? and i am to leave her. (is about to follow her.) fran. (holding him back). surely not, major. you would not follow her into her own room! maj. t. her misfortune? did she not speak of misfortune? fran. yes, truly; the misfortune of losing you, after!!!!! maj. t. after? after what? there is more in this. what is it, franziska? tell me! speak! fran. after, i mean, she has made such sacrifices on your account. maj. t. sacrifices for me! fran. well, listen. it is a good thing for you, major, that you are freed from your engagement with her in this manner.--why should i not tell you? it cannot remain a secret long. we have fled from home. count von bruchsal has disinherited my mistress, because she would not accept a husband of his choice. on that every one deserted and slighted her. what could we do? we determined to seek him, whom!!!!! maj. t. enough! come, and let me throw myself at her feet. fran. what are you thinking about! rather go, and thank your good fortune. maj. t. pitiful creature! for what do you take me? yet no, my dear franziska, the advice did not come from your heart. forgive my anger! fran. do not detain me any longer. i must see what she is about. how easily something might happen to her. go now, and come again, if you like. (follows minna.) scene viii. major von tellheim maj. t. but, franziska! oh! i will wait your return here.--no, that is more torturing!--if she is in earnest, she will not refuse to forgive me. now i want your aid, honest werner!--no, minna, i am no deceiver! (rushes off.) act v. scene i. major von tellheim (from one side), werner (from the other) maj. t. ah! werner! i have been looking for you everywhere. where have you been? wer. and i have been looking for you, major; that is always the way.--i bring you good news. maj. t. i do not want your news now; i want your money. quick, werner, give me all you have; and then raise as much more as you can. wer. major! now, upon my life, that is just what i said--"he will borrow money from me, when he has got it himself to lend." maj. t. you surely are not seeking excuses! wer. that i may have nothing to upbraid you with, take it with your right hand, and give it me again with your left. maj. t. do not detain me, werner. it is my intention to repay you; but when and how, god knows! wer. then you do not know yet that the treasury has received an order to pay you your money? i just heard it at!!!!! maj. t. what are you talking about? what nonsense have you let them palm off on you? do you not see that if it were true i should be the first person to know it? in short, werner, money! money! wer. very well, with pleasure. here is some! a hundred louis d'ors there, and a hundred ducats there. (gives him both.) maj. t. werner, go and give just the hundred louis d'ors. let him redeem the ring again, on which he raised the money this morning. but whence will you get some more, werner? i want a good deal more. wer. leave that to me. the man who bought my farm lives in the town. the date for payment is a fortnight hence, certainly; but the money is ready, and by a reduction of one half per cent!!!!! maj. t. very well, my dear werner! you see that i have had recourse to you alone--i must also confide all to you. the young lady you have seen is in distress!!!!! wer. that is bad! maj. t. but to-morrow she shall be my wife. wer. that is good! maj. t. and the day after, i leave this place with her. i can go; i will go. i would sooner throw over everything here! who knows where some good luck may be in store for me? if you will, werner, come with us. we will serve again. wer. really? but where there is war, major! maj. t. to be sure. go, werner, we will speak of this again. wer. oh! my dear major! the day after to-morrow! why not to-morrow? i will get everything ready. in persia, major, there is a famous war; what do you say? maj. t. we will think of it. only go, werner! wer. hurrah! long live prince heraclius! (exit.) scene ii. major von tellheim maj. t. how do i feel!... my whole soul has acquired a new impulse. my own unhappiness bowed me to the ground; made me fretful, short-sighted, shy, careless: her unhappiness raises me. i see clearly again, and feel myself ready and capable of undertaking anything for her sake. why do i tarry? (is going towards minna's room, when franziska comes out of it.) scene iii. franziska, major von tellheim fran. is it you? i thought i heard your voice. what do you want, major? maj. t. what do i want? what is she doing? come! fran. she is just going out for a drive. maj. t. and alone? without me? where to? fran. have you forgotten, major? maj. t. how silly you are, franziska! i irritated her, and she was angry. i will beg her pardon, and she will forgive me. fran. what! after you have taken the ring back, major! maj. t. ah! i did that in my confusion. i had forgotten about the ring. where did i put it? (searches for it.) here it is. fran. is that it? (aside, as he puts it again in his pocket.) if he would only look at it closer! maj. t. she pressed it upon me so bitterly. but i have forgotten that. a full heart cannot weigh words. she will not for one moment refuse to take it again. and have i not hers? fran. she is now waiting for it in return. where is it, major? show it to me, do! maj. t. (embarrassed). i have... forgotten to put it on. just--just will bring it directly. fran. they are something alike, i suppose; let me look at that one. i am very fond of such things. maj. t. another time, franziska. come now. fran. (aside). he is determined not to be drawn out of his mistake. maj. t. what do you say? mistake! fran. it is a mistake, i say, if you think my mistress is still a good match. her own fortune is far from considerable; by a few calculations in their own favour her guardians may reduce it to nothing. she expected everything from her uncle; but this cruel uncle!!!!! maj. t. let him go! am i not man enough to make it all good to her again! fran. do you hear? she is ringing; i must go in again. maj. t. i will accompany you. fran. for heaven's sake, no! she forbade me expressly to speak with you. come in at any rate a little time after me. (goes in.) scene iv. major von tellheim maj. t. (calling after her). announce me! speak for me, franziska! i shall follow you directly. what shall i say to her? yet where the heart can speak, no preparation is necessary. there is one thing only which may need a studied turn ... this reserve, this scrupulousness of throwing herself, unfortunate as she is, into my arms; this anxiety to make a false show of still possessing that happiness which she has lost through me. how she is to exculpate herself to herself--for by me it is already forgiven--for this distrust in my honour, in her own worth... ah! here she comes. scene v. minna, franziska, major von tellheim min. (speaking as she comes out, as if not aware of the major's presence). the carriage is at the door, franziska, is it not? my fan! maj. t. (advancing to her). where are you going, madam? min. (with forced coldness). i am going out, major. i guess why you have given yourself the trouble of coming back: to return me my ring.--very well, major von tellheim, have the goodness to give it to franziska.--franziska, take the ring from major von tellheim!--i have no time to lose. (is going.) maj. t. (stepping before her). madam! ah! what have i heard? i was unworthy of such love. min. so, franziska, you have!!!!! fran. told him all. maj. t. do not be angry with me, madam. i am no deceiver. you have, on my account, lost much in the eyes of the world, but not in mine. in my eyes you have gained beyond measure by this loss. it was too sudden. you feared it might make an unfavourable impression on me; at first you wished to hide it from me. i do not complain of this mistrust. it arose from the desire to retain my affection. that desire is my pride. you found me in distress; and you did not wish to add distress to distress. you could not divine how far your distress would raise me above any thoughts of my own. min. that is all very well, major, but it is now over. i have released you from your engagement; you have, by taking back the ring!!!!! maj. t. consented to nothing! on the contrary, i now consider myself bound more firmly than ever. you are mine, minna, mine for ever. (takes off the ring.) here, take it for the second time--the pledge of my fidelity. min. i take that ring again! that ring? maj. t. yes, dearest minna, yes. min. what are you asking me? that ring? maj. t. you received it for the first time from my hand, when our positions were similar and the circumstances propitious. they are no longer propitious, but are again similar. equality is always the strongest tie of love. permit me, dearest minna! (seizes her hand to put on the ring.) min. what! by force, major! no, there is no power in the world which shall compel me to take back that ring! do you think that i am in want of a ring? oh! you may see (pointing to her ring) that i have another here which is in no way inferior to yours. fran. (aside). well, if he does not see it now! maj. t. (letting fall her hand). what is this? i see fraulein von barnhelm, but i do not hear her.--you are pretending.--pardon me, that i use your own words. min. (in her natural tone). did those words offend you, major? maj. t. they grieved me much. min. (affected). they were not meant to do that, tellheim. forgive me, tellheim. maj. t. ah! that friendly tone tells me you are yourself again, minna: that you still love me. fran. (exclaims). the joke would soon have gone a little too far. min. (in a commanding tone). franziska, you will not interfere in our affairs, i beg. fran. (aside, in a surprised tone). not enough yet! min. yes, sir, it would only be womanish vanity in me to pretend to be cold and scornful. no! never! you deserve to find me as sincere as yourself. i do love you still, tellheim, i love you still; but notwithstanding!!!!! maj. t. no more, dearest minna, no more! (seizes her hand again, to put on the ring.) min. (drawing back her hand). notwithstanding, so much the more am i determined that that shall never be,--never!--of what are you thinking, major?--i thought your own distress was sufficient. you must remain here; you must obtain by obstinacy--no better phrase occurs to me at the moment--the most perfect satisfaction, obtain it by obstinacy.... and that even though the utmost distress should waste you away before the eyes of your calumniators!!!!! maj. t. so i thought, so i said, when i knew not what i thought or said. chagrin and stifling rage had enveloped my whole soul; love itself, in the full blaze of happiness, could not illumine it. but it has sent its daughter, pity, more familiar with gloomy misfortune, and she has dispelled the cloud, and opened again all the avenues of my soul to sensations of tenderness. the impulse of self-preservation awakes, when i have something more precious than myself to support, and to support through my own exertions. do not let the word "pity" offend you. from the innocent cause of our distress we may hear the term without humiliation. i am this cause; through me, minna, have you lost friends and relations, fortune and country. through me, in me, must you find them all again, or i shall have the destruction of the most lovely of her sex upon my soul. let me not think of a future in which i must detest myself.--no, nothing shall detain me here longer. from this moment i will oppose nothing but contempt to the injustice which i suffer. is this country the world? does the sun rise here alone? where can i not go? in what service shall i be refused? and should i be obliged to seek it in the most distant clime, only follow me with confidence, dearest minna--we shall want for nothing. i have a friend who will assist me with pleasure. scene vi. an orderly, major von tellheim, minna, franziska fran. (seeing the orderly). hist, major! maj. t. (to the orderly). who do you want? ord. i am looking for major von tellheim. ah! you are the major, i see. i have to give this letter from his majesty the king (taking one out of his bag). maj. t. to me? ord. according to the direction. min. franziska, do you hear? the chevalier spoke the truth after all. ord. (whilst tellheim takes the letter). i beg your pardon, major; you should properly have had it yesterday, but i could not find you out. i learnt your address this morning only from lieutenant riccaut, on parade. fran. do you hear, my lady?--that is the chevalier's minister. "what is the name of de ministre out dere, on de broad place?" maj. t. i am extremely obliged to you for your trouble. ord. it is my duty, major. (exit.) scene vii. major von tellheim, minna, franziska maj. t. ah! minna, what is this? what does this contain? min. i am not entitled to extend my curiosity so far. maj. t. what! you would still separate my fate from yours?--but, why do i hesitate to open it? it cannot make me more unhappy than i am: no, dearest minna, it cannot make us more unhappy--but perhaps more happy! permit me. (while he opens and reads the letter, the landlord comes stealthily on the stage.) scene viii. landlord, major von tellheim, minna, franziska land. (to franziska.) hist! my pretty maid! a word! fran. (to the landlord). mr. landlord, we do not yet know ourselves what is in the letter. land. who wants to know about the letter! i come about the ring. the lady must give it to me again, directly. just is there, and wants to redeem it. min. (who in the meantime has approached the landlord). tell just that it is already redeemed; and tell him by whom--by me. land. but!!!!! min. i take it upon myself. go! (exit landlord.) scene ix. major von tellheim, minna, franziska fran. and now, my lady, make it up with the poor major. min. oh! kind intercessor! as if the difficulties must not soon explain themselves. maj. t. (after reading the letter, with much emotion.) ah! nor has he herein belied himself! oh! minna, what justice! what clemency! this is more than i expected; more than i deserved!--my fortune, my honour, all is reestablished!--do i dream? (looking at the letter, as if to convince himself.) no, no delusion born of my own desires! read it yourself, minna; read it yourself! min. i would not presume, major. maj. t. presume! the letter is to me; to your tellheim, minna. it contains-- what your uncle cannot take from you. you must read it! do read it. min. if it affords you pleasure, major. (takes the letter and reads.) "my dear major von tellheim, "i hereby inform you, that the business which caused me some anxiety on account of your honour, has been cleared up in your favour. my brother had a more detailed knowledge of it, and his testimony has more than proved your innocence. the treasury has received orders to deliver again to you the bill in question, and to reimburse the sum advanced. i have also ordered that all claims which the paymaster's office brings forward against your accounts be nullified. please to inform me whether your health will allow of your taking active service again. i can ill spare a man of your courage and sentiments. i am your gracious king," &c. maj. t. now, what do you say to that, minna? min. (folding up and returning the letter). i? nothing. maj. t. nothing? min. stay--yes. that your king, who is a great man, can also be a good man. --but what is that to me! he is not my king. maj. t. and do you say nothing more? nothing about ourselves? min. you are going to serve again. from major, you will become lieutenant- colonel, perhaps colonel. i congratulate you with all my heart. maj. t. and you do not know me better? no, since fortune restores me sufficient to satisfy the wishes of a reasonable man, it shall depend upon my minna alone, whether for the future i shall belong to any one else but her. to her service alone my whole life shall be devoted! the service of the great is dangerous, and does not repay the trouble, the restraint, the humiliation which it costs. minna is not amongst those vain people who love nothing in their husbands beyond their titles and positions. she will love me for myself; and for her sake i will forget the whole world. i became a soldier from party feeling--i do not myself know on what political principles--and from the whim that it is good for every honourable man to try the profession of arms for a time, to make himself familiar with danger, and to learn coolness and determination. extreme necessity alone could have compelled me to make this trial a fixed mode of life, this temporary occupation a profession. but now that nothing compels me, my whole and sole ambition is to be a peaceful and a contented man. this with you, dearest minna, i shall infallibly become; this in your society i shall unchangeably remain. let the holy bond unite us to-morrow; and then we will look round us, and in the whole wide habitable world seek out the most peaceful, the brightest, most smiling nook which wants but a happy couple to be a paradise. there we will dwell; there shall each day.... what is the matter, minna? (minna turns away uneasily, and endeavours to hide her emotion.) min. (regaining her composure). it is cruel of you, tellheim, to paint such happiness to me, when i am forced to renounce it. my loss!!!!! maj. t. your loss! why name your loss? all that minna could lose is not minna. you are still the sweetest, dearest, loveliest, best creature under the sun; all goodness and generosity, innocence and bliss! now and then a little petulant; at times somewhat wilful--so much the better! so much the better! minna would otherwise be an angel, whom i should honour with trepidation, but not dare to love. (takes her hand to kiss it.) min. (drawing away her hand). not so, sir. why this sudden change? is this flattering impetuous lover, the cold tellheim!--could his returning good fortune alone create this ardour in him? he will permit me during his passionate excitement to retain the power of reflection for us both. when he could himself reflect, i heard him say--"it is a worthless love which does not scruple to expose its object to scorn."--true; and i aspire to as pure and noble a love as he himself. now, when honour calls him, when a great monarch solicits his services, shall i consent that he shall give himself up to love-sick dreams with me? that the illustrious warrior shall degenerate into a toying swain? no, major, follow the call of your higher destiny. maj. t. well! if the busy world has greater charms for you, minna, let us remain in the busy world! how mean, how poor is this busy world; you now only know its gilded surface. yet certainly, minna, you will. ... but let it be so! until then! your charms shall not want admirers, nor will my happiness lack enviers. min. no, tellheim, i do not mean that! i send you back into the busy world, on the road of honour, without wishing to accompany you. tellheim will there require an irreproachable wife! a fugitive saxon girl who has thrown herself upon him!!!!! maj. t. (starting up, and looking fiercely about him). who dare say that! ah! minna, i feel afraid of myself, when i imagine that any one but yourself could have spoken so. my anger against him would know no bounds. min. exactly! that is just what i fear. you would not endure one word of calumny against me, and yet you would have to put up with the very bitterest every day. in short, tellheim, hear what i have firmly determined, and from which nothing in the world shall turn me!!!!! maj. t. before you proceed, i implore you, minna, reflect for one moment, that you are about to pronounce a sentence of life or death upon me! min. without a moment's reflection!... as certainly as i have given you back the ring with which you formerly pledged your troth to me, as certainly as you have taken back that same ring, so certainly shall the unfortunate minna never be the wife of the fortunate tellheim! maj. t. and herewith you pronounce my sentence. min. equality is the only sure bond of love. the happy minna only wished to live for the happy tellheim. even minna in misfortune would have allowed herself to be persuaded either to increase or to assuage the misfortune of her friend through herself.... he must have seen, before the arrival of that letter, which has again destroyed all equality between us, that in appearance only i refused. maj. t. is that true? i thank you, minna, that you have not yet pronounced the sentence. you will only marry tellheim when unfortunate? you may have him. (coolly.) i perceive now that it would be indecorous in me to accept this tardy justice; that it will be better if i do not seek again that of which i have been deprived by such shameful suspicion. yes; i will suppose that i have not received the letter. behold my only answer to it! (about to tear it up.) min. (stopping him). what are you going to do, tellheim? maj. t. obtain your hand. min. stop! maj. t. madam, it is torn without fail if you do not quickly recall your words.--then we will see what else you may have to object to in me. min. what! in such a tone? shall i, must i, thus become contemptible in my own eyes? never! she is a worthless creature, who is not ashamed to owe her whole happiness to the blind tenderness of a man! maj. t. false! utterly false! min. can you venture to find fault with your own words when coming from my lips? maj. t. sophistry! does the weaker sex dishonour itself by every action which does not become the stronger? or can a man do everything which is proper in a woman? which is appointed by nature to be the support of the other? min. be not alarmed, tellheim!... i shall not be quite unprotected, if i must decline the honour of your protection. i shall still have as much as is absolutely necessary. i have announced my arrival to our ambassador. i am to see him to-day. i hope he will assist me. time is flying. permit me, major!!!!! maj. t. i will accompany you, madam. min. no, major; leave me. maj. t. sooner shall your shadow desert you! come madam, where you will, to whom you will everywhere, to friends and strangers, will i repeat in your presence--repeat a hundred times each day--what a bond binds you to me, and with what cruel caprice you wish to break it!!!!! scene x. just, major von tellheim, minna, franziska just. (impetuously). major! major! maj. t. well! just. here quick! quick! maj. t. why! come to me. speak, what is the matter? just. what do you think? (whispers to him.) min. (aside to franziska). do you notice anything, franziska? fran. oh! you merciless creature! i have stood here on thorns! maj. t. (to just). what do you say?... that is not possible!... you? (looking fiercely at minna.) speak it out; tell it to her face. listen, madam. just. the landlord says, that fraulein von barnhelm has taken the ring which i pledged to him; she recognised it as her own, and would not return it. maj. t. is that true, madam? no, that cannot be true! min. (smiling). and why not, tellheim? why can it not be true? maj. t. (vehemently). then it is true!... what terrible light suddenly breaks in upon me! ... now i know you--false, faithless one! min. (alarmed). who, who is faithless? maj. t. you, whom i will never more name! min. tellheim! maj. t. forget my name... you came here with the intention of breaking with me... it is evident!... oh, that chance should thus delight to assist the faithless! it brought your ring into your possession. your craftiness contrived to get my own back into mine! min. tellheim, what visions are you conjuring up! be calm, and listen to me. fran. (aside). now she will catch it! scene xi. werner (with a purse full of gold), just, major von tellheim, minna, franziska wer. here i am already, major! maj. t. (without looking at him). who wants you? wer. i have brought more money! a thousand pistoles! maj. t. i do not want them! wer. and to-morrow, major, you can have as many more. maj. t. keep your money! wer. it is your money, major... i do not think you see whom you are speaking to! maj. t. take it away! i say. wer. what is the matter with you?--i am werner. maj. t. all goodness is dissimulation; all kindness deceit. wer. is that meant for me? maj. t. as you please! wer. why i have only obeyed your commands. maj. t. obey once more, and be off! wer. major (vexed). i am a man!!!!! maj. t. so much the better! wer. who can also be angry. maj. t. anger is the best thing we possess. wer. i beg you, major. maj. t. how often must i tell you? i do not want your money! wer. (in a rage). then take it, who will! (throws the purse on the ground, and goes to the side). min. (to franziska). ah! franziska, i ought to have followed your advice. i have carried the jest too far.--still, when he hears me... (going to him). fran. (without answering minna, goes up to werner). mr. sergeant!!!!! wer. (pettishly). go along! fran. ah! what men these are. min. tellheim! tellheim! (tellheim, biting his fingers with rage, turns away his face, without listening.) no, this is too bad... only listen!... you are mistaken!... a mere misunderstanding. tellheim, will you not hear your minna? can you have such a suspicion?... i break my engagement with you? i came here for that purpose?... tellheim! scene xii. two servants (running into the room from different sides), werner, just, major von tellheim, minna, franziska first ser. your ladyship, his excellency the count! second ser. he is coming, your ladyship! fran. (running to the window). it is! it is he! min. is it? now, tellheim, quick! maj. t. (suddenly recovering himself). who, who comes? your uncle, madam! this cruel uncle!... let him come; just let him come!... fear not!... he shall not hurt you even by a look. he shall have to deal with me... you do not indeed deserve it of me. min. quick, tellheim! one embrace and forget all. maj. t. ah! did i but know that you could regret!!!!! min. no, i can never regret having obtained a sight of your whole heart! ... ah! what a man you are!... embrace your minna, your happy minna: and in nothing more happy than in the possession of you. (embracing.) and now to meet him! maj. t. to meet whom? min. the best of your unknown friends. maj. t. what! min. the count, my uncle, my father, your father... my flight, his displeasure, my loss of property--do you not see that all is a fiction, credulous knight? maj. t. fiction! but the ring? the ring? min. where is the ring that i gave back to you? maj. t. you will take it again? ah! now i am happy... here, minna (taking it from his pocket). min. look at it first! oh! how blind are those who will not see!... what ring is that? the one you gave me? or the one i gave to you? is it not the one which i did not like to leave in the landlord's possession? maj. t. heaven! what do i see! what do i hear! min. shall i take it again now? shall i? give it to me! give it! (takes it from him, and then puts it on his finger herself.) there, now all is right! maj. t. where am i? (kissing her hand.) oh! malicious angel, to torture me so! min. as a proof, my dear husband, that you shall never play me a trick without my playing you one in return.... do you suppose that you did not torture me also? maj. t. oh you actresses! but i ought to have known you. fran. not i, indeed; i am spoilt for acting. i trembled and shook, and was obliged to hold my lips together with my hand. min. nor was mine an easy part.--but come now!!!!! maj. t. i have not recovered myself yet. how happy, yet how anxious, i feel. it is like awaking suddenly from a frightful dream. min. we are losing time... i hear him coming now. scene xiii. count von bruchsal (accompanied by several servants and the landlord), two servants, werner, just, major von tellheim, minna, franziska count. (entering). she arrived in safety, i hope? min. (running to meet him). ah! my father! count. here i am, dear minna (embracing her). but what, girl (seeing tellheim), only four-and-twenty hours here, and friends--company already! min. guess who it is? count. not your tellheim, surely! min. who else!--come, tellheim (introducing him). count. sir, we have never met; but at the first glance i fancied i recognised you. i wished it might be major von tellheim.--your hand, sir; you have my highest esteem; i ask for your friendship. my niece, my daughter loves you. min. you know that, my father!--and was my love blind? count. no, minna, your love was not blind; but your lover--is dumb. maj. t. (throwing himself in the count's arms). let me recover myself, my father! count. right, my son. i see your heart can speak, though your lips cannot. i do not usually care for those who wear this uniform. but you are an honourable man, tellheim; and one must love an honourable man, in whatever garb he may be. min. ah! did you but know all! count. why should i not hear all?--which are my apartments, landlord? land. will your excellency have the goodness to walk this way? count. come, minna! pray come, major! (exit with the landlord and servants.) min. come, tellheim! maj. t. i will follow you in an instant, minna. one word first with this man (turning to werner). min. and a good word, methinks, it should be. should it not, franziska? (exit.) scene xiv. major von tellheim, werner, just, franziska maj. t. (pointing to the purse which werner had thrown down). here, just, pick up the purse and carry it home. go! (just takes it up and goes.) wer. (still standing, out of humour, in a corner, and absent till he hears the last words). well, what now? maj. t. (in a friendly tone while going up to him). werner, when can i have the other two thousand pistoles? wer. (in a good humour again instantly). to-morrow, major, to-morrow. maj. t. i do not need to become your debtor; but i will be your banker. all you good-natured people ought to have guardians. you are in a manner spendthrifts.--i irritated you just now, werner. wer. upon my life you did! but i ought not to have been such a dolt. now i see it all clearly. i deserve a hundred lashes. you may give them to me, if you will, major. only no more ill will, dear major! maj. t. ill will! (shaking him by the hand). read in my eyes all that i cannot say to you--ah! let me see the man with a better wife and a more trusty friend than i shall have.--eh! franziska? (exit.) scene xv. werner, franziska fran. (aside). yes, indeed, he is more than good!--such a man will never fall in my way again.--it must come out. (approaching werner bashfully.) mr. sergeant! wer. (wiping his eyes). well! fran. mr. sergeant!!!!! wer. what do you want, little woman? fran. look at me, mr. sergeant. wer. i can't yet; there is something, i don't know what, in my eyes. fran. now do look at me! wer. i am afraid i have looked at you too much already, little woman! there, now i can see you. what then? fran. mr. sergeant--don't you want a mrs. sergeant? wer. do you really mean it, little woman? fran. really i do. wer. and would you go with me to persia even? fran. wherever you please. wer. you will! hullo, major, no boasting! at any rate i have got as good a wife, and as trusty a friend, as you.--give me your hand, my little woman! it's a match!--in ten years' time you shall be a general's wife, or a widow! the dramatic works of gerhart hauptmann (authorized edition) edited by ludwig lewisohn assistant professor in the ohio state university volume one: social dramas preface the present edition of hauptmann's works contains all of his plays with the exception of a few inconsiderable fragments and the historical drama _florian geyer_. the latter has been excluded by reason of its great length, its divergence from the characteristic moods of hauptmann's art, and that failure of high success which the author himself has implicitly acknowledged. the arrangement of the volumes follows, with such modifications as the increase of material has made necessary, the method used by hauptmann in the first and hitherto the only collected edition of his dramas. five plays are presented here which that edition did not include, and hence the present collection gives the completest view now attainable of hauptmann's activity as a dramatist. the translation of the plays, seven of which are written entirely in dialect, offered a problem of unusual difficulty. the easiest solution, that namely, of rendering the speech of the silesian peasants or the berlin populace into some existing dialect of english, i was forced to reject at once. a very definite set of associative values would thus have been gained for the language of hauptmann's characters, but of values radically different from those suggested in the original. i found it necessary, therefore, to invent a dialect near enough to the english of the common people to convince the reader or spectator, yet not so near to the usage of any class or locality as to interpose between him and hauptmann's characters an irish or a cockney, a southern or a new england atmosphere. into this dialect, with which the work of my collaborators has been made to conform, i have sought to render as justly and as exactly as possible the intensely idiomatic speech that hauptmann employs. in doing this i have had to take occasional liberties with my text, but i have tried to reduce these to a minimum, and always to make them serve a closer interpretation of the original shade of thought or turn of expression. the rendering of the plays written in normal literary prose or verse needs no such explanation nor the plea for a measure of critical indulgence which that explanation implies. i owe hearty thanks to dr. hauptmann for the promptness and cordiality with which he has either rectified or confirmed my view of the development and meaning of his thought and art as stated in the introduction, and to my wife for faithful assistance in the preparation of these volumes. ludwig lewisohn. columbus, o., june, . contents introduction _by the editor._ before dawn (vor sonnenaufgang) _translated by the editor._ the weavers (die weber) _translated by mary morison._ the beaver coat (der biberpelz) _translated by the editor._ the conflagration (der rote hahn) _translated by the editor._ introduction i gerhart hauptmann, the most distinguished of modern german dramatists, was born in the silesian village of obersalzbrunn on november , . by descent he springs immediately from the common people of his native province to whose life he has so often given the graveness of tragedy and the permanence of literature. his grandfather, ehrenfried, felt in his own person the bitter fate of the silesian weavers and only through energy and good fortune was enabled to change his trade to that of a waiter. by he was an independent inn-keeper and was followed in the same business by the poet's father, robert hauptmann. the latter, a man of solid and not uncultivated understanding, married marie straehler, daughter of one of the fervent moravian households of silesia, and had become, when his sons carl and gerhart were born, the proprietor of a well-known and prosperous hotel, _zur preussischen krone_. from the village-school of obersalzbrunn, where he was but an idle pupil, gerhart was sent in to the _realschule_ at breslau. here, in the company of his older brothers, carl and georg, the lad remained for nearly four years, having impressed his teachers most strongly, it appears, by a lack of attention. for this reason, but also perhaps because his father, injured by competitors and by a change in local conditions, had lost his independence, gerhart was withdrawn from school in . he was next to become a farmer and, to this end, was placed in the pious family of an uncle. gradually, however, artistic impulses began to disengage themselves--he had long modelled in a desultory way--and in october, , at the advice of his maturer brother carl hauptmann proceeded to breslau and was enrolled as a student in the royal college of art. the value of this restless shifting in his early years is apparent. for the discontent that marked his unquiet youth made for a firm retention of impressions. observation, in the saying of balzac, springs from suffering, and hauptmann saw the silesian country-folk and the artists of breslau with an almost morbid exactness of vision. actual conflict sharpened his insight. three weeks after entering the art-school he received a disciplinary warning and early in he was rusticated for eleven weeks. nevertheless he remained in breslau until april, , when he joined his brother carl and became a special student at the university of jena. here he heard lectures by liebmann, eucken and haeckel. but the academic life did not hold him long. scarcely a year passed and hauptmann is found at hamburg, the guest of his future parents-in-law and his brother's. thence he set out on an italian journey, travelling by way of spain and the south of france to genoa, and visiting naples, capri and rome. although his delight in these places was diminished by his keen social consciousness, he returned to italy the following year ( ) and, for a time, had a sculptor's studio in rome. overtaken here by typhoid fever, he was nursed back to health by his future wife, marie thienemann, and returned to germany to gather strength at the thienemann country house. so far, sculpture had held him primarily; it was now that the poetic impulse asserted itself. seeking a synthesis of these tendencies in a third art, hauptmann determined, for a time, to adopt the calling of an actor. to this end he went to berlin. here, however, the interest in literature soon grew to dominate every other and, in , the year of his marriage to fraulein thienemann, he published his first work: _promethidenlos_. the poem is romantic and amorphous and gives but the faintest promise of the masterly handling of verse to be found in _the sunken bell_ and _henry of aue_. its interest resides solely in its confirmation of the facts of hauptmann's development. for the hero of _promethidenlos_ vacillates between poetry and sculpture, but is able to give himself freely to neither art because of his overwhelming sense of social injustice and human suffering. and this, in brief, was the state of hauptmann's mind when, in the autumn of , he settled with his young wife in the berlin suburb of erkner. the years of his residence here are memorable and have already become the subject of study and investigation. and rightly so; for during this time there took place that impact of the many obscure tendencies of the age upon the most sensitive and gifted of german minds from which sprang the naturalistic movement. that movement dominated literature for a few years. then, in hauptmann's own temper and in his own work, arose a vigorous idealistic reaction which, blending with the severe technique and incorruptible observation of naturalism, went far toward producing--for a second time--a new vision and a new art. the conditions amid which this development originated are essential to a full understanding of hauptmann's work. ii at the end of the franco-prussian war, united germany looked forward to a literary movement commensurate with her new greatness. that movement did not appear. it was forgotten that men in the maturity of their years and powers could not suddenly change character and method and that the rise of a new generation was needed. so soon, however, as the first members of that generation became articulate, a bitter and almost merciless warfare arose in literature and in the drama. the brothers heinrich and julius hart, vigorous in both critical and creative activity, asserted as early as that german literature was then, at its best, the faint imitation of an outworn classicism, and the german drama a transference of the basest french models. it is easy to see to-day that their view was partisan and narrow. neither wilbrandt and heyse, on the one hand, nor lindau and l'arronge, on the other, represented the whole literary activity of the empire. it is equally easy, however, to understand their impatience with a literature which, upon the whole, lacked any breath of greatness, and handled the stuff of human life with so little freshness, incisiveness and truth. what direction was the new literature to take? the decisive influence was, almost necessarily, that of the naturalistic writers of france. for the tendencies of these men coincided with germany's growing interest in science and growing rejection of traditional religion and philosophy. tolstoi, ibsen and strindberg each contributed his share to the movement. but all the young critics of the eighties fought the battles of zola with him and repeated, sometimes word for word, the memorable creed of french naturalism formulated long before by the goncourt brothers: "the modern--everything for the artist is there: in the sensation, the intuition of the contemporary, of this spectacle of life with which one rubs elbows!" such, with whatever later developments, was the central doctrine of young germany in the eighties; such the belief that gradually expressed itself in a number of definite organisations and publications. the most noteworthy of these, prior to the founding of the _freie bühne_, were the magazine _die gesellschaft_ ( ), edited by michael conrad, the most ardent of german zolaists, and the society _durch_ ( ), in which the revolutionary spirits of berlin united to promulgate the art canons of the future. "literature and criticism," conrad declared, must first of all be "liberated from the tyranny of the conventional young lady:" the programme of _durch_ announced that the poet must give creative embodiment to the life of the present, that he shall show us human beings of flesh and blood and depict their passions with implacable fidelity; that the ideal of art was no longer the antique, but the modern. nor was there wanting creative activity in the spirit of these views. franzos and kretzer, to name but a few, originated the modern realistic novel in germany, and liliencron brought back vigour and concreteness to the lyric. into the tense atmosphere of this literary battle hauptmann was cast when he took up his residence at erkner. the house he occupied was the last in the village, half buried in woods and with far prospects over the heaths and deep green, melancholy waters of brandenburg. hither came, among many others, the brothers hart, the novelist kretzer, wilhelm bölsche, the inexhaustible prophet of the new science and the new art, and finally, the founder of german naturalism as distinguished from that of france--arno holz, the efforts of all these men harmonised with hauptmann's mood. naturalistic art goes for its subject matter to the forgotten and disinherited of the earth, and it was with these that hauptmann was primarily concerned. he read darwin and karl marx, saint-simon and zola. he was absorbed not by any problem of art but by the being and fate of humanity itself. under these influences and governed by such thoughts, he began his career as a man of letters anew. but his progress was slow and uncertain. in he published in conrad's _gesellschaft_ an episodic story, _bahnwärter thiel_, weak in narrative technique and obviously inspired by zola. even the sudden expansion of human characters into demonic symbols of their ruling passions is imitated. the medium clearly irked him and gave him no opportunity for personal expression. for many months his activity was tentative and fruitless. early in , however, arno holz, known until then only by a volume of brave and resonant verse, visited erkner and brought with him his theory of "consistent naturalism" as illustrated by _papa hamlet_ and _die familie selicke_, sketches and a drama in manuscript. this meeting gave hauptmann one of those illuminating technical hints which every creative artist knows. it brought him an immediate method such as neither tolstoi nor dostoievsky had been able to bring, and decided him for naturalism and for the drama. he had found himself at last. during a visit to his parents he gave himself up to intense labour and returned to berlin in the spring of with his first drama, _before dawn_, completed. the play might have waited indefinitely for performance, had not otto brahm and paul schlenther, both critical thinkers of some significance, founded the free stage society (_freie bühne_) earlier in the same year. it was the aim of this society to give at least eight annual performances in the city of berlin which should be wholly free from the influence of the censor and from the pressure of economic needs. the greater number of the first series of performances had already been prepared for by a selection of foreign plays--tolstoi, goncourt, ibsen, björnsen, strindberg--when, at the last moment, a young german dramatist presented himself and succeeded in having his play accepted. thus the society, long since dead, had the good fortune of fulfilling the function for which it was created: it launched the naturalistic movement; it cradled the modern drama of germany. the first performance of _before dawn_ (oct. , ) was tumultuous. it recalled the famous _hernani_ battle of french romanticism. but the victory of hauptmann was not long in doubt. with his third play he conquered the national stage of which he has since been, with whatever variations of immediate success, the undisputed master. iii the "consistent naturalism" of holz and his collaborator johannes schlaf is the technical foundation of hauptmann's work. he has long transcended its narrow theory and the shallow positivism on which it was based. it discarded verse and he has written great verse; it banished the past from art and he has gone to legend and history for his subjects; it forbade the use of symbols and he has, at times, made an approach to his meaning unnecessarily difficult. but hauptmann has never quite abandoned the practice of that form of art which resulted from the theories of holz. from history and poetry he has always returned to the naturalistic drama. _rose bernd_ follows _henry of aue_, and _griselda_ immediately preceded _the rats_. nor is this all. the methods of naturalism have followed him into the domains of poetry and of the past. his verse is scrupulously devoid of rhetoric; the psychology of his historic plays is sober and human. hence it is clear that an analysis of the consistent naturalism of german literature is, with whatever modifications, an analysis of hauptmann's work in its totality. like nearly all the greater dramatists he had his forerunners and his prophets: he proceeds from a school of art and thought which, even in transcending, he illustrates. the consistent naturalists, then, aimed not to found a new art but, in any traditional sense, to abandon it. they desired to reduce the conventions of technique to a minimum and to eliminate the writer's personality even where zola had admitted its necessary presence--in the choice of subject and in form. for style, the very religion of the french naturalistic masters, there was held to be no place, since there was to be, in this new literature, neither direct exposition, however impersonal, nor narrative. in other words, none of the means of representation were to be used by which art achieves the illusion of life; since art, in fact, was no longer to create the illusion of reality, but to _be_ reality. the founders of the school would have admitted that the french had done much by the elimination of intrigue and a liberal choice of theme. they would still have seen--and rightly according to their premises--creative vision and not truth even in the oppressive pathology of _germinie lacerteux_ and the morbid brutalities of _la terre_. the opinion of flaubert that any subject suffices, if the treatment be excellent, was modified into: there must be neither intentional choice of theme nor stylistic treatment. for style supposes rearrangement, personal vision, unjust selection of detail, and literature must be an exact rendition of the actual. stated so baldly the doctrine of consistent naturalism verges on the absurd. eliminate selection of detail and personal vision, and art becomes not only coextensive with life, but shares its confusion and its apparent purposelessness. it loses all interpretative power and ceases to be art. practically, however, the doctrine led to a very definite form--the naturalistic drama. for, if all indirect treatment of life be discarded, nothing is left but the recording of speech and, if possible, of speech actually overheard. the juxtaposition of such blocks of scrupulously rendered conversation constitutes, in fact, the earliest experiments of arno holz. under the creative energy of hauptmann, however, the form at once grew into drama, but a drama which sought to rely as little as possible upon the traditional devices of dramaturgic technique. there was to be no implication of plot, no culmination of the resulting struggle in effective scenes, no superior articulateness on the part of the characters. a succession of simple scenes was to present a section of life without rearrangement or heightening. there could be no artistic beginning, for life comes shadowy from life; there could be no artistic ending, for the play of life ends only in eternity. the development of the drama in such a direction had, of course, been foreshadowed. the plays of ibsen's middle period tend to a simpler rendering of life, and the cold intellect of strindberg had rejected the "symmetrical dialogue" of the french drama in order "to let the brains of men work unhindered." but hauptmann carries the same methods extraordinarily far and achieves a poignant verisimilitude that rivals the pity and terror of the most memorable drama of the past. these methods lead, naturally, to the exclusion of several devices. thus hauptmann, like ibsen and shaw, avoids the division of acts into scenes. the coming and going of characters has the unobtrusiveness but seldom violated in life, and the inevitable artifices are held within rigid bounds. in some of his earlier dramas he also observed the unities of time and place, and throughout his work practices a close economy in these respects. it goes without saying that he rejects the monologue, the unnatural reading of letters, the _raisonneur_ or commenting and providential character, the lightly motivised confession--all the devices, in brief, by which the conventional playwright blandly transports information across the footlights, or unravels the artificial knot which he has tied. in dialogue, the medium of the drama, hauptmann shows the highest originality and power. beside the speech of his characters all other dramatic speech, that of ibsen, of tolstoi in _the power of darkness_, or of pinero, seems conscious and unhuman. nor is that power a mere control of dialect. johannes vockerat and michael kramer, dr. scholz and professor crampton speak with a human raciness and native truth not surpassed by the weavers or peasants of silesia. hauptmann has heard the inflections of the human voice, the faltering and fugitive eloquence of the living word not only with his ear but with his soul. external devices necessarily contribute to this effect. thus hauptmann renders all dialect with phonetic accuracy and correct differentiation. in _before dawn_, hoffmann, loth, dr. schimmelpfennig and helen speak normal high german; all the other characters speak silesian except the imported footman edward, who uses the berlin dialect. in _the beaver coat_ the various gradations of that dialect are scrupulously set down, from the impudent vulgarity of leontine and adelaide, to the occasional consonantal slips of wehrhahn. the egregious mrs. wolff, in the same play, cannot deny her silesian origin. far finer shades of character are indicated by the amiable elisions of mrs. vockerat senior in _lonely lives_, the recurrent crassness of mrs. scholz in _the reconciliation_, and the solemn reiterations of michael kramer. nor must it be thought that such characterisation has anything in common with the set phrases of dickens. from the richness and variety of german colloquial speech, from the deep brooding of the german soul over the common things and the enduring emotions of life, hauptmann has caught the authentic accents that change dramatic dialogue into the speech of man. iv in the structure of his drama hauptmann met and solved an even more difficult problem than in the character of his dialogue. the whole tradition of structural technique rests upon a more or less arbitrary rearrangement of life. _othello_, the noblest of tragedies, no less than the most trivial french farce, depends for the continuity of its mere action on an improbable artifice. desdemona's handkerchief may almost be taken to symbolise that element in the drama which hauptmann studiously denies himself. and he does so by reason of his more intimate contact with the normal truth of things. in life, for instance, the conflict of will with will, the passionate crises of human existence are but rarely concentrated into a brief space of time or culminate in a highly salient situation. long and wearing attrition, and crises that are seen to have been such only in the retrospect of calmer years are the rule. in so telling a bit of dramatic writing as the final scene in augier's _le gendre de m. poirier_ the material of life has been dissected into mere shreds and these have been rewoven into a pattern as little akin to reality as the flowers and birds of a persian rug. instead of such effective rearrangement hauptmann contents himself with the austere simplicity of that succession of action which observation really affords. he shapes his material as little as possible. the intrusion of a new force into a given setting, as in _lonely lives_, is as violent an interference with the sober course of things as he admits. from his noblest successes, _the weavers_, _drayman henschel_, _michael kramer_, the artifice of complication is wholly absent. it follows that his fables are simple and devoid of plot, that comedy and tragedy must inhere in character and that conflict must grow from the clash of character with environment or of character with character in its totality. in other words: since the adventurous and unwonted are rigidly excluded, dramatic complication can but rarely, with hauptmann, proceed from action. for the life of man is woven of "little, nameless, unremembered acts" which possess no significance except as they illustrate character and thus, link by link, forge that fate which is identical with character. the constant and bitter conflict in the world does not arise from pointed and opposed notions of honour and duty held at some rare climacteric moment, but from the far more tragic grinding of a hostile environment upon man or of the imprisonment of alien souls in the cage of some social bondage. these two motives, appearing sometimes singly, sometimes blended, are fundamental to hauptmann's work. in _the reconciliation_ an unnatural marriage has brought discord and depravity upon earth; in _lonely lives_ a seeker after truth is throttled by a murky world; in _the weavers_ the whole organization of society drives men to tragic despair; in _colleague crampton_ a cold blooded woman all but destroys the gentle-hearted painter; in _the beaver coat_ the motive is ironically inverted and a base shrewdness triumphs over the stupid social machine; in _rose bernd_ traditional righteousness hounds a pure spirit out of life; and in _gabriel schilling's flight_, his latest play, hauptmann returns to a favourite motive: woman, strong through the narrowness and intensity of her elemental aims, destroying man, the thinker and dreamer, whose will, dissipated in a hundred ideal purposes, goes under in the unequal struggle. the fable and structure of _michael kramer_ illustrate hauptmann's typical themes and methods well. the whole of the first act is exposition. it is not, however, the exposition of antecedent actions or events, but wholly of character. the conditions of the play are entirely static. kramer's greatness of soul broods over the whole act. mrs. kramer, the narrow-minded, nagging wife, and arnold, the homely, wretched boy with a spark of genius, quail under it. michaline, the brave, whole-hearted girl, stands among these, pitying and comprehending all. in the second act one of arnold's sordid and piteous mistakes comes to light. an inn-keeper's daughter complains to kramer of his son's grotesque and annoyingly expressed passion for her. kramer takes his son to task and, in one of the noblest scenes in the modern drama, wrestles with the boy's soul. in the third act the inn is shown. its rowdy, semi-educated habitués deride arnold with coarse gibes. he cannot tear himself away. madly sensitive and conscious of his final superiority over a world that crushes him by its merely brutal advantages, he is goaded to self-destruction. in the last act, in the presence of his dead son, michael kramer cries out after some reconciliation with the silent universe. the play is done and nothing has happened. the only action is arnold's suicide and that action has no dramatic value. the significance of the play lies in the unequal marriage between kramer and his wife, in arnold's character--in the fact that such things _are_, and that in our outlook upon the whole of life we must reckon with them. hauptmann's simple management of a pregnant fable may be admirably observed, finally, by comparing _lonely lives_ and _rosmersholm_. hauptmann was undoubtedly indebted to ibsen for his problem and for the main elements of the story: a modern thinker is overcome by the orthodox and conservative world in which he lives. and that world conquers largely because he cannot be united to the woman who is his inspiration and his strength. in handling this fable two difficult questions were to be answered by the craftsman: by what means does the hostile environment crush the protagonist? why cannot he take the saving hand that is held out to him? ibsen practically shirks the answer to the first question. for it is not the bitter zealot kroll, despite his newspaper war and his scandal-mongering, who breaks rosmer's strength. it is fate, fate in the dark and ancient sense. "the dead cling to rosmersholm"--that is the keynote of the play. the answer to the second question is interwoven with an attempt to rationalise the fatality that broods over rosmersholm. the dead cling to it because a subtle and nameless wrong has been committed against them. and that sin has been committed by the woman who could save rosmer. at the end of the second act rebecca refuses to be his wife. the reason for that refusal, dimly prefigured, absorbs his thoughts, and through two acts of consummate dramaturgic suspense the sombre history is gradually unfolded. and no vague phrases concerning the ennobling of humanity can conceal the central fact: the play derives its power from a traditional plot and a conventional if sound motive--crime and its discovery, sin and its retribution. in _lonely lives_ the two questions apparently treated in _rosmersholm_ are answered, not in the terms of effective dramaturgy, but of life itself. johannes vockerat lives in the midst of the world that must undo him--subtly irritated by all to which his heart clings. out of that world he has grown and he cannot liberate himself from it. his good wife and his admirable parents are bound to the conventional in no base or fanatical sense. he dare scarcely tell them that their preoccupations, that their very love, slay the ideal in his soul. and so the pitiless attrition goes on. there is no action: there is being. the struggle is rooted in the deep divisions of men's souls, not in unwonted crime or plotting. and anna mahr, the free woman of a freer world, parts from johannes because she recognises their human unfitness to take up the burden of tragic sorrow which any union between them must create. the time for such things has not come, and may never come. thus johannes is left desolate, powerless to face the unendurable emptiness and decay that lie before him, destroyed by the conflicting loyalties to personal and ideal ends which are fundamental to the life of creative thought. v drama, then, which relies so little upon external action, but finds action rather in "every inner conflict of passions, every consequence of diverging thoughts," must stress the obscurest expression of such passions and such thoughts. since its fables, furthermore, are to arise from the immediate data of life, it must equally emphasise the significant factor of those common things amid which man passes his struggle. and so the naturalistic drama was forced to introduce elements of narrative and exposition usually held alien to the _genre_. briefly, it has dealt largely and powerfully with atmosphere, environment and gesture; it has expanded and refined the stage-direction beyond all precedent and made of it an important element in dramatic art. the playwrights of the middle of the last century who made an effort to lead the drama back to reality, knew nothing of this element. augier does not even suspect its existence; in robertson it is a matter of "properties" and "business." any appearance of this kind hauptmann avoids. the play is not to remind us of the stage, but of life. a difference in vision and method difficult to estimate divides robertson's direction: "sam. (astonished l. corner)" from hauptmann's "mrs. john rises mechanically and cuts a slice from a loaf of bread, as though under the influence of suggestion." robertson indicates the conventionalised gesture of life; hauptmann its moral and spiritual density. the descriptive stage direction, effectively used by ibsen, is further expanded by hauptmann. but it remains impersonal and never becomes direct comment or even argument as in shaw. it is used not only to suggest the scene but, above all, its atmosphere, its mood. through it hauptmann shows his keen sense of the interaction of man and his world and of the high moral expressiveness of common things. to define the mood more clearly he indicates the hour and the weather. the action of _rose bernd_ opens on a bright sunday morning in may, that of _drayman henschel_ during a bleak february dawn. the desperate souls in _the reconciliation_ meet on a snow-swept christmas eve; the sun has just set over the lake in which johannes vockerat finds final peace. in these indications hauptmann rarely aims at either irony or symbolism. he is guided by a sense for the probabilities of life which he expresses through such interactions between the moods of man and nature as experience seems to offer. only in _the maidens of the mount_ has the suave autumnal weather a deeper meaning, for it was clearly hauptmann's purpose in this play "to build a shadowy isle of bliss midmost the beating of the steely sea." hauptmann has also become increasingly exacting in demanding that the actor simulate the personal appearance of his characters as they arose in his imagination. in his earlier plays the descriptions of men and women are at times brief; in _the rats_ even minor figures are visualised with remarkable completeness. pastor spitta, for instance, is thus introduced: "sixty years old. a village parson, somewhat 'countrified.' one might equally well take him to be a surveyor or a landowner in a small way. he is of vigorous appearance--short-necked, well-nourished, with a squat, broad face like luther's. he wears a slouch hat, spectacles, and carries a cane and a coat over his arm. his clumsy boots and the state of his other garments show that they have long been accustomed to wind and weather." such directions obviously tax the mimetic art of the stage to the very verge of its power. thus, by the precision of his directions both for the scenery and the persons of each play, and by unmistakable indications of gesture and expression at all decisive moments of dramatic action, hauptmann has placed within narrow limits the activity of both stage manager and actor. he alone is the creator of his drama, and no alien factitiousness is allowed to obscure its final aim--the creation of living men. vi in the third act of hauptmann's latest naturalistic play, _the rats_ ( ), the ex-stage manager hassenrenter is drawn by his pupil, young spitta, into an argument on the nature of tragedy. "of the heights of humanity you know nothing," hassenrenter hotly declares. "you asserted the other day that in certain circumstances a barber or a scrubwoman could as fitly be the subject of tragedy as lady macbeth or king lear." and spitta reaffirms his heresy in the sentence: "before art as before the law all men are equal." from this doctrine hauptmann has never departed, although his interpretation of it has not been fanatical. throughout his work, however, there is a careful disregard of several classes of his countrymen: the nobility, the bureaucracy (with the notable exception of wehrhahn in _the beaver coat_), the capitalists. he has devoted himself in his prose plays to the life of the common people, of the middle classes, and of creative thinkers. the delineation of all these characters has two constant qualities: objectivity and justice. the author has not merged the sharp outlines of humanity into the background of his own idiosyncrasy. ibsen's characters speak and act as though they had suddenly stepped from another world and were still haunted by a breath of their strange doom; the people of shaw are often eloquent exponents of a theory of character and society which would never have entered their minds. hauptmann's men and women are themselves. no trick of speech, no lurking similarity of thought unites them. the nearer any two of them tend to approach a recognisable type, the more magnificently is the individuality of each vindicated. the elderly middle-class woman, harassed by ignoble cares ignobly borne, driven by a lack of fortitude into querulousness, and into injustice by the selfishness of her affections, is illustrated both in mrs. scholz and mrs. kramer. but, in the former, bodily suffering and nervous terror have slackened the moral fibre, and this abnormality speaks in every word and gesture. mrs. kramer is simply average, with the tenacity and the corroding power of the average. another noteworthy group is that of the three lutheran clergymen: kolin in _lonely lives_, kittelhaus in _the weavers_, and spitta in _the rats_. kolin has the utter sincerity which can afford to be trivial and not cease to be lovable; kittelhaus is the conscious time-server whose opinions might be anything; spitta struggles for his official convictions, half blinded by the allurements of a world which it is his duty to denounce. each is wholly himself; no hint of critical irony defaces his character; and thus each is able, implicitly, to put his case with the power inherent in the genuinely and recognisably human. from the same class of temperaments--one that he does not love--hauptmann has had the justice to draw two characters of basic importance in _lonely lives_. the elder vockerats are excessively limited in their outlook upon life. it is, indeed, in its time and place, an impossible outlook. these two people have nothing to recommend them save their goodness, but it is a goodness so keenly felt, so radiantly human, that the conflict of the play is deepened and complicated by the question whether the real tragedy be not the pain felt by these kindly hearts, rather than the destruction of their more arduous son. all these may be said to be minor characters. some of them are, in that they scarcely affect the fable involved. but in no other sense are there minor figures in hauptmann's plays. a few lines suffice, and a human being stands squarely upon the living earth, with all his mortal perplexities in his words and voice. such characters are the tutor weinhold in _the weavers_, the painter lachmann in _michael kramer_, dr. boxer in _the conflagration_ and dr. schimmelpfennig in _before dawn_. in his artists and thinkers hauptmann has illustrated the excessive nervousness of the age. michael kramer rises above it; johannes vockerat and gabriel schilling succumb. and beside these men there usually arises the sharply realised figure of the destroying woman--innocent and helpless in käthe vockerat, trivial and obtuse in alwine lachmann, or impelled by a devouring sexual egotism in eveline schilling and hanna elias. hauptmann's creative power culminates, however, as he approaches the common folk. these are of two kinds: the berlin populace and the silesian peasants. the world of the former in all its shrewdness, impudence and varied lusts he has set down with quiet and cruel exactness in _the beaver coat_ and _the conflagration_. mrs. wolff, the protagonist of both plays, rises into a figure of epic breadth--a sordid and finally almost tragic embodiment of worldliness and cunning. when he approaches the peasants of his own countryside his touch is less hard, his method not quite so remorseless. and thus, perhaps, it comes about that in the face of these characters the art of criticism can only set down a confirmatory: "they are!" old deans in _the heart of midlothian_, tulliver and the dodson sisters in _the mill on the floss_ illustrate the nature of hauptmann's incomparable projection of simple men and women. here, in dryden's phrase, is god's plenty: the morose pathos of beipst (_before dawn_); the vanity and faithfulness of friebe (_the reconciliation_); the sad fatalism of hauffe (_drayman henschel_); the instinctive kindliness of the nurse and the humorous fortitude of mrs. lehmann (_lonely lives_); the vulgar good nature of liese bänsch (_michael kramer_); the trivial despair of pauline and the primitive passion of mrs. john (_the rats_); the massive greatness of old hilse's rock-like patience and the sudden impassioned protest of luise (_the weavers_); the deep trouble of henschel's simple soul and the hunted purity of rose bernd--these qualities and these characters transcend the convincingness of mere art. like the rain drenched mould, the black trees against the sky, the noise of the earth's waters, they are among the abiding elements of a native and familiar world. vii such, then, is the naturalistic drama of hauptmann. by employing the real speech of man, by emphasising being rather than action, by creating the very atmosphere and gesture of life, it succeeds in presenting characters whose vital truth achieves the intellectual beauty and moral energy of great art. early in his career, however, an older impulse stirred in hauptmann. he remembered that he was a poet. pledged to naturalism by personal loyalty and public combat he broke through its self-set limitations tentatively and invented for that purpose the dream-technique of _the assumption of hannele_( ). pure imagination was outlawed in those years and verse was a pet aversion of the consistent naturalists. hence both were transferred to the world of dreams which has an unquestionable reality, however subjective, but in which the will cannot govern the shaping faculties of the soul. the letter of the naturalistic law was adhered to, though hannele's visions have a richness and sweetness, the verses of the angels a winsomeness and majesty which transcend any possible dream of the poor peasant child, the external encouragement which the attempt met was great, for with it hauptmann conquered the royal playhouse in berlin. three years later he openly vindicated the possibility of the modern poetic drama by writing _the sunken bell_, his most far-reaching success both on the stage and in the study. in it appears for the first time the disciplinary effect of naturalism upon literature in its loftiest mood. the blank verse is the best in the german drama, the only german blank verse, in truth, that satisfies an ear trained on the graver and more flexible harmony of english; the lyrical portions are of sufficient if inferior beauty. but there is no trace of the pseudo-heroic psychology of the romantic play. the interpretation of life is thoroughly poetic, but it is based on fact. the characters have tangible reality; they have the idiosyncrasies of men. the pastor is profoundly true, and so is magda, though the interpretative power of poetry raises both into the realm of the enduringly significant. similarly heinrich is himself, but also the creative worker of all time. driven by his ideal from the warm hearthstones of men, he falters upon that frosty height: seeking to realise impersonal aims and rising to a hardy rapture, he is broken in strength at last by the "still, sad music of humanity." except for the half humorous and not wholly successful interlude of _schluck and jau_, hauptmann neglected the poetic drama until , when he presented on the boards of the famous _burgtheater_ at vienna, _henry of aue_. there is little doubt but that this play will ultimately rank as the most satisfying poetic drama of its time. less derivative and uncertain in quality than the plays of stephen phillips, less fantastic and externally brilliant than those of rostand, it has a soundness of subject matter, a serene nobility of mood, a solidity of verse technique above the reach of either the french or the english poet. hauptmann chose as his subject the legend known for nearly seven hundred years through the beautiful middle high german poem of hartmann von der aue--the legend of that great knight and lord who was smitten with leprosy, and whom, according to the mediaeval belief, a pure maiden desired to heal through the shedding of her blood. but god, before the sacrifice could be consummated, cleansed the knight's body and permitted to him and the maiden a united temporal happiness. this story hauptmann takes exactly as he finds it. but the characters are made to live with a new life. the stark mediaeval conventions are broken and the old legend becomes living truth. the maiden is changed from an infant saint fleeing a vale of tears into a girl in whom the first sweet passions of life blend into an exaltation half sexual and half religious, but pure with the purity of a great flame. the miracle too remains, but it is the miracle of love that subdues the despairing heart, that reconciles man to his universe, and that slays the imperiousness of self. thus henry, firmly individualised as he is, becomes in some sense, like all the greater protagonists of the drama, the spirit of man confronting eternal and recurrent problems. the minor figures--gottfried, brigitte, ottacker--have the homely and delightful truth that is the gift of naturalism to modern, literature. hauptman's next play was a naturalistic tragedy, one of the best in that order, _rose bernd._ then followed, from to , a series of plays in which he let the creative imagination range over time and space. in _elga_ he tells the story of an old sorrow by means of the dream-technique of _hannele;_ in _and pippa dances,_ he lets the flame of life and love flicker its iridescent glory before man and super-man, savage and artist; in _the maidens of the mount_ he celebrates the dream of life which is life's dearest part; in _charlemagne's hostage_ and in _griselda_ he returns to the interpretation and humanising of history and legend. the last of these plays is the most characteristic and important. it takes up the old story of patient grizzel which the clerk of oxford told chaucer's pilgrims on the way to canterbury. but a new motive animates the fable. not to try her patience, not to edify womankind, does the count rob griselda of her child. his burning and exclusive love is jealous of the pangs and triumphs of her motherhood in which he has no share. it is passion desiring the utter absorption of its object that gives rise to the tragic element of the story. but over the whole drama there plays a blithe and living air in which, once more, authentic human beings are seen with their smiling or earnest faces. a stern and militant naturalistic drama, _the rats_ ( ), and yet another play of the undoing of the artist through the woman, _gabriel schilling's flight_ ( ), close, for the present, the tale of hauptmann's dramatic works. viii these works, viewed in their totality, take on a higher significance than resides in the literary power of any one of them. hauptmann's career began in the years when the natural sciences, not content with their proper triumphs, threatened to engulf art, philosophy and religion; in the years when a keen and tender social consciousness, brooding over the temporal welfare of man, lost sight of his eternal good. and so hauptmann begins by illustrating the laws of heredity and pleading, through a creative medium, for social justice. the tacit assumptions of these early plays are stringently positivistic: body and soul are the obverse and reverse of a single substance; earth is the boundary of man's hopes. with _the assumption of hannele_ a change comes over the spirit of his work. a thin, faint voice vibrates in that play--the voice of a soul yearning for a warmer ideal. but the rigorous teachers of hauptmann's youth had graven their influence upon him, and the new faith announced by heinrich in _the sunken bell_ is still a kind of scientific paganism. in _michael kramer_ ( ), however, he has definitely conquered the positivistic denial of the overwhelming reality of the ultimate problems. for it is after some solution of these that the great heart of kramer cries out. in _henry of aue_ the universe, no longer a harsh and monstrous mechanism, irradiates the human soul with the spirit of its own divinity. these utterances are, to be sure, dramatic and objective. but the author chooses his subject, determines the spirit of its treatment and thus speaks unmistakably. nor is directer utterance lacking, "the green gleam," hauptmann writes in the delicately modelled prose of his _griechischer frühling_, "the green gleam, which mariners assert to have witnessed at times, appears at the last moment before the sun dips below the horizon.... the ancients must have known the green gleam.... i do not know whether that be true, but i feel a longing within me to behold it. i can imagine some pure fool, whose life consisted but in seeking it over lands and seas, in order to perish at last in the radiance of that strange and splendid light. are we not all, perhaps, upon a similar quest? are we not beings who have exhausted the realm of the senses and are athirst for other delights for both our senses and our souls?" the author of _before dawn_ has gone a long journey in the land of the spirit to the writing of these words, and of still others in _gabriel schilling's flight_: "behind this visible world another is hidden, so near at times that one might knock at its gate...." but it is the journey which man himself has gone upon during the intervening years. thus hauptmann's work has not only created a new technique of the drama; it has not only added unforgettable figures to the world of the imagination: it has also mirrored and interpreted the intellectual history of its time. his art sums up an epoch--an epoch full of knowledge and the restraints of knowledge, still prone, so often, before the mechanical in life and thought; but throughout all its immedicable scepticism full of strange yearnings and visited by flickering dreams; and even in its darkest years and days still stretching out hands in love of a farther shore. once more the great artist, his vision fixed primarily upon his art, has most powerfully interpreted man to his own mind. ludwig lewisohn. before dawn _the first performance of this drama took place on october in the lessing theatre under the management of the free stage society. i take the occasion of the appearance of a new edition to express my hearty thanks to the directors of that society and, more especially, to messrs. otto brahm and paul schlenther. may the future prove that, by defying petty considerations and by helping to give life to a work that had its origin in pure motives, they have deserved well of german art. gerhart hauptmann charlottenburg, october , _ _acting characters_ krause, _farmer._ mrs. krause, _his second wife._ helen, martha, _krause's daughters by his first marriage._ hoffmann, _engineer, martha's husband._ wilhelm kahl, _mrs. krause's nephew._ mrs. spiller, _mrs. krause's companion._ alfred loth. dr. schimmelpfennig. beipst, _workingman on krause's farm._ guste, liese, marie _maid-servants on krause's farm._ baer, _called "hopping baer."_ edward, _hoffmann's servant._ miele, _mrs. krause's housemaid._ the coachman's wife. golisch, _a cowherd._ a packet post carrier. the first act _the room is low: the floor is covered with excellent rugs. modern luxury seems grafted upon the bareness of the peasant. on the wall, behind the dining-table, hangs a picture which represents a waggon with four horses driven by a carter in a blue blouse._ _miele, a vigorous peasant girl with a red, rather slow-witted face, opens the middle door and permits alfred loth to enter. loth is of middle height, broad-shouldered, thick-set, decided but somewhat awkward in his movements. his hair is blond, his eyes blue, his small moustache thin and very light; his whole face is bony and has an equably serious expression. his clothes are neat but nothing less than fashionable: light summer overcoat, a wallet hanging from the shoulder; cane._ miele come in, please. i'll call mr. hoffmann right off. won't you take a seat? [_the glass-door that leads to the conservatory is violently thrust open, and a peasant woman, her face bluish red with rage, bursts in. she is not much better dressed than a washerwoman: naked, red arms, blue cotton-skirt and bodice, red dotted kerchief. she is in the early forties; her face is hard, sensual, malignant. the whole figure is, otherwise, well preserved._ mrs. krause [_screams._] the hussies!... that's right!... the vicious critters!... out with you! we don't give nothin'!... [_half to miele, half to loth._] he can work, he's got arms. get out! you don't get nothin' here! loth but mrs.... surely you will ... my name is loth ... i am ... i'd like to ... i haven't the slightest in.... miele he wants to speak to mr. hoffmann. mrs. krause oho! beggin' from my son-in-law. we know that kind o' thing! he ain't got nothin'; everything he's got he gets from us. nothin' is his'n. [_the door to the right is opened and hoffmann thrusts his head in._ hoffmann mother, i must really beg of you! [_he enters and turns to loth._] what can i ... alfred! old man! well, i'll be blessed. you? that certainly is ... well, that certainly is a great notion! [_hoffmann is thirty-three years old, slender, tall, thin. in his dress he affects the latest fashion, his hair is carefully tended; he wears costly rings, diamond-studs in his shirt-front and charms on his watch chain. his hair and moustache are black; the latter is luxurious and is most scrupulously cared for. his face is pointed, bird-like, the expression blurred, the eyes dark, lively, at times restless._ loth it's by the merest accident, you know ... hoffmann [_excited._] nothing pleasanter could have ... do take your things off, first of all! [_he tries to help him off with his wallet._]--nothing pleasanter or more unexpected could possibly--[_he has relieved loth of his hat and cane and places both on a chair near the door_]--could possibly have happened to me just now--[_coming back_]--no, decidedly, nothing. loth [_taking off his wallet himself._] it's by the merest chance that i've come upon you. [_he places his wallet on the table in the foreground._ hoffmann sit down. you must be tired. do sit down--please! d'you remember when you used to come to see me you had a way of throwing yourself full-length on the sofa so that the springs groaned. sometimes they broke, too. very well, then, old fellow. do as you used to do. [_mrs. krause's face has taken on an expression of great astonishment. she has withdrawn. loth sits down on one of the chairs that stand around the table in the foreground._ hoffmann won't you drink something? whatever you say? beer? wine? brandy? coffee? tea? everything's in the house. [_helen comes reading from the conservatory. her tall form, somewhat too plump, the arrangement of her blond, unusually luxuriant hair, the expression of her face, her modern gown, her gestures--in brief, her whole appearance cannot quite hide the peasant's daughter._ helen brother, you might.... [_she discovers loth and withdraws quickly._] oh, i beg pardon. [_exit._ hoffmann stay here, do! loth your wife? hoffmann no; her sister. didn't you hear how she addressed me? loth no. hoffmann good-looking, eh? but now, come on. make up your mind. coffee? tea? grog? loth no, nothing, thank you. hoffmann [_offers him cigars._] here's something for you then. no!... not even that? loth no, thank you. hoffmann enviable frugality! [_he lights a cigar for himself and speaks the while._] the ashes ... i meant to say, tobacco ... h-m ... smoke of course ... doesn't bother you, does it? loth no. hoffmann ah, if i didn't get that much ... good lord, life anyhow!--but now, do me a favour; tell me something. ten years--you've hardly changed much, though--ten years, a nasty slice of time. how's schn ... schnurz? that's what we called him, eh? and fips, and the whole jolly bunch of those days? haven't you been able to keep your eye on any of them? loth look here, is it possible you don't know? hoffmann what? loth that he shot himself. hoffmann who? who's done that sort o' thing again? loth fips. friedrich hildebrandt. hoffmann oh come, that's impossible. loth it's a fact. shot himself in the grunewald, on a very beautiful spot on the shore of the havelsee. i was there. you have a view toward spandau. hoffmann hm. wouldn't have believed it of him. he wasn't much of a hero in other ways. loth that's the very reason why he shot himself.--he was conscientious, very conscientious. hoffmann conscientious? i don't see. loth that was the very reason ... otherwise he would probably not have done it. hoffmann i'm still in the dark. loth well, you know what the colour of his political views was? hoffmann oh, yes--green. loth put it so, if you want to. you'll have to admit, at all events, that he was a very gifted fellow. and yet for five years he had to work as a stucco-worker, and for another five years he had to starve along, so to speak, on his own hook, and in addition he modelled his little statues. hoffmann and they were revolting. i want to be cheered by art ... no, that kind of art wasn't a bit to my taste. loth not exactly to mine either. certain ideas had bitten themselves into his mind. however, last spring there was a competition for a monument. some two-penny princeling was to be immortalised, i believe. fips competed and--won. shortly afterward, he killed himself. hoffmann i don't see that that throws any ray of light on his so-called conscientiousness. i call that sort of thing silly and highfalutin. loth that is the common view. hoffmann i'm very sorry, but i'm afraid i can't help sharing it. loth well, it can make no difference to him now, what.... hoffmann oh, anyhow, let's drop the subject. at bottom i'm just as sorry for him as you can be. but now that he is dead, the good fellow, tell me something of yourself. what have you been doing? how has the world used you? loth it has used me as it was my business to expect. didn't you hear anything about me at all? from the papers, i mean? hoffmann [_somewhat embarrassed._] not that i know of. loth nothing of that business at leipzig? hoffmann ah, yes, that! yes, yes ... i believe so ... but nothing definite. loth well, then, the matter was as follows-- hoffmann [_laying his hand on loth's arm._] before you begin, won't you take anything at all? loth perhaps later. hoffmann not even a little glass of brandy? loth no; that least of all. hoffmann well, then i'll take a little ... there's nothing better for the stomach. [_he gets a bottle and two little glasses from the sideboard and places them on the table before loth._] grand champagne, finest brand. i can recommend it. won't you really? loth no, thank you. hoffmann [_tilting the contents of the glass into his mouth._] ah-h--well, now i'm all ears. loth to put it briefly, i got into a nasty mess. hoffmann the sentence was two years, wasn't it? loth quite right. you seem to be informed after all. yes, i was sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and afterwards they expelled me from the university too. and at that time i was just--twenty-one. however, during those two years i wrote my first book on economics. in spite of that i couldn't truthfully say that it was very good fun to be behind the bars. hoffmann lord, what idiots we were! it's queer. and we had really taken the thing into our heads in good earnest. i can't help thinking, old man, that it was sheer puerility. the idea! a dozen green kids like ourselves to go to america and found ... _we_ found ... a model state. delicious notion! loth puerility? ah well, in some ways no doubt it was. we certainly underestimated the difficulty of such an undertaking. hoffmann and that you really did go to america, in all seriousness, and with empty hands ... why, think, man, what it means to acquire land and foundation for a model state with empty hands. that was almost cr ... at all events it was unique in its naïveté. loth and yet i'm particularly satisfied with the result of my american trip. hoffmann [_laughing with a touch of boisterousness._] cold water treatment. that was an excellent result, if that's what you mean.... loth it may well be that i cooled down quite a little. but that process is hardly peculiar to myself. it is one which every human being undergoes. but it's a far cry from that to failing to realise the value of those ... well, let's call them, our hotheaded days. and it wasn't so frightfully simple-minded, as you represent it. hoffmann well, i don't know about that. loth all you have to do is to think of the average silliness that surrounded us in those days: the fraternity goings on at the universities, the swilling, the duelling. and what was all the noise about? it was about hecuba, as fips used to say. well, we at least, didn't make a fuss about hecuba; we had our attention, fixed on the highest aims of humanity. and, in addition to that, those silly times cleared me thoroughly of all prejudices. i took my leave of sham religion and sham morality and a good deal else.... hoffmann i'm perfectly prepared to admit that much. if, when all's said and done, i am an open-minded, enlightened man to-day, i owe it, as i wouldn't dream of denying, to the days of our intercourse! i am the last man to deny that. in fact i'm not in _any_ respect a monster. only you mustn't try to run your head through a stone wall.--you mustn't try to force out the evils under which, more's the pity, the present generation suffers, only to replace them by worse ones. what you've got to do is--to let things take their natural course. what is to be, will be! you've got to proceed practically, practically! and you will recall that i emphasised that just as much in those days as now. and that principle has paid. and that's just it. all of you, yourself included, proceed in a most unpractical way. loth i wish you'd explain just how you mean that. hoffmann it's as simple as ... you don't make use of your capabilities. take yourself, for instance: a fellow with your knowledge, energy and what not! what road would have been closed to you? instead of going ahead, what is it you do? you _compromise_ yourself, at the very start, to _such_ a degree, that ... well, honestly, old man, didn't you regret it once in a while? loth i can't very well regret the fact that i was condemned innocently. hoffmann as to that, of course, i can't judge. loth you will be able to do so at once when i tell you that the indictment declared that i had called our club, "vancouver island," into being purely for purposes of party agitation. in addition i was said to have collected funds for party purposes. now you know very well that we were thoroughly in earnest in regard to our ambitions of founding a colony. and, as far as collecting money goes--you have said yourself that we were all empty-handed together. the indictment was a misrepresentation from beginning to end, and, as a former member, you ought to.... hoffmann hold on, now. i wasn't really a member. as to the rest, of course, i believe you. judges are, after all, only human. you must consider that. in any event, to proceed quite practically, you should have avoided the very _appearance_ of that sort of thing. take it all in all: i have wondered at you often enough since then--editor of the _workingmen's tribune_, the obscurest of hole and corner sheets--parliamentary candidate of the dear mob! and what did you get out of it all? don't misunderstand me! i am the last man to be lacking in sympathy with the common people. but _if_ something is to be effected, it must be effected from above. in fact that's the only way in which anything can be done. the people never know what they really need. it's this trying to lift things from beneath that i call--running your head through a stone wall. loth i'm afraid i don't get a very clear notion of your drift. hoffmann what i mean? well now, look at me! my hands are free: i am in a position to do something for an ideal end.--i think i can say that the practical part of my programme has been pretty well carried out. and all you fellows, always with empty hands--what can you do? loth true. from what one hears you are in a fair way to become a rothschild. hoffmann [_flattered._] you do me too much honour--at least, for the present. who said that, anyhow? a man sticks to a good thing, and that, naturally, brings its reward. but who was it said that? loth it was over there in jauer. two gentlemen were conversing at the next table. hoffmann aha! h-m. i have enemies. and what did they have to say? loth nothing of importance. but i heard from them that you had retired for the present to the estate of your parents-in-law. hoffmann people have a way of finding things out; haven't they? my dear friend, you'd never believe how a man in my position is spied on at every step. that's another one of the evils of wealth ... but it is this way, you see: i'm expecting the confinement of my wife in the quiet and the healthy air here. loth what do you do for a physician? surely in such cases a good physician is of the highest importance. and here, in this village.... hoffmann ah, but that's just it! the physician here is an unusually capable one. and, do you know, i've found this out: in a doctor, conscientiousness counts for more than genius. loth perhaps it is an essential concomitant of a physician's genius. hoffmann maybe so. anyhow, our doctor _has_ a conscience. he's a bit of an idealist--more or less our kind. his success among the miners and the peasants is simply phenomenal! sometimes, i must say, he isn't an easy man to bear, he's got a mixture of hardness and sentimentality. but, as i said before, i know how to value conscientiousness; no doubt about that. but before i forget ... i do attach some importance to it ... a man ought to know what he has to look out for ... listen!... tell me ... i see it in your face. those gentlemen at the next table had nothing good to say of me? tell me, please, what they did say. loth i really ought not to do that, for i was going to beg one hundred crowns of you, literally beg, for there is hardly any chance of my ever being able to return them. hoffmann [_draws a cheque-book from his inner pocket, makes out a cheque and hands it to loth._] any branch of the imperial bank will cash it ... it's simply a pleasure.... loth your promptness surpasses all expectation. well, i accept it with, gratitude, and you know--it could be worse spent. hoffmann [_somewhat rhetorically._] a labourer is worthy of his hire. but now, loth, have the goodness to tell me what the gentlemen in question.... loth i dare say they talked nonsense. hoffmann tell me in spite of that, please. i'm simply interested, quite simply interested--that's all. loth they discussed the fact that you had violently forced another man out of his position here--a contractor named mueller. hoffmann _of_ course! the same old story. loth the man, they said, was betrothed to your present wife. hoffmann so he was. and what else? loth i tell you these things just as i heard them, for i assume that it is of some importance to you to be acquainted with the exact nature of the slander. hoffmann quite right. and so? loth so far as i could make out this mueller was said to have had the contract for the construction of a stretch of mountain railroad here. hoffmann yes, with a wretched capital of ten thousand crowns. when he came to see that the money wouldn't go far enough, he was in haste to make a catch of one of the witzdorf farmers' daughters; the honour was to have fallen to my wife. loth they said that he had his arrangement with the daughter, and you had made yours with the father.--next he shot himself, didn't he?--and you finished the construction of his section of the road and made a great deal of money out of it? hoffmann there's an element of truth in all that. of course, i could give you a very different notion of how those things hung together. perhaps they knew a few more of these edifying anecdotes. loth there was one thing, i am bound to tell you, that seemed to excite them particularly: they computed what an enormous business you were doing in coal now, and they called you--well, it wasn't exactly flattering. in short they asserted that you had persuaded the stupid farmers of the neighbourhood, over some champagne, to sign a contract by which the exploitation of all the coal mined on their property was turned over to you at a ridiculously small rental. hoffmann [_touched on the raw, gets up._] i'll tell you something, loth ... pshaw, why concern oneself with it at all. i vote that we think of supper. i'm savagely hungry--yes, quite savagely. [_he presses the button of an electric connection, the wire of which hangs down over the sofa in the form of a green cord. the ringing of an electric bell is heard._ loth well, if you want to keep me here, then have the kindness ... i'd like to brush up a bit first. hoffmann in a moment--everything that's necessary ... [_edward, a servant in livery, enters._] edward, take this gentleman to the guest chamber. edward very, well, sir. hoffmann [_pressing loth's hand._] i wonder if you'd mind coming down to supper in about fifteen minutes--at most. loth that's ample time. see you later. hoffmann yes, see you later. [_edward opens the door and lets loth precede him. both go out. hoffmann scratches the back of his head, looks thoughtfully at the floor and then approaches the door at the right. he has just touched the knob when helen, who has entered hastily by the glass door, calls to him._ helen brother! who was that? hoffmann that was one of my college chums, in fact, the oldest of them, alfred loth. helen [_quickly._] has he gone again? hoffmann no; he's going to eat supper with us. possibly ... yes, possibly he may spend the night here. helen heavens! then i shan't come to supper. hoffmann but helen! helen what is the use of my meeting cultivated people! i might just as well get as boorish as all the rest here! hoffmann oh, these eternal fancies! in fact you will do me a real favour if you will order the arrangements for supper. be so kind. i'd like to have things a bit festive, because i believe that he has something up his sleeve. helen what do you mean by that: has something up his sleeve? hoffmann mole's work ... digging, digging.--you can't possibly understand that. anyhow, i may be mistaken, for i've avoided touching on that subject so far. at all events, have everything as inviting as possible. that's the easiest way, after all, of accomplishing something with people ... champagne, of course. have the lobsters come from hamburg? helen i believe they came this morning. hoffmann very well. then--lobsters! [_a violent knocking is heard._] come in! parcel post carrier [_enters with a box under his arm. his voice has a sing-song inflection._] a box. helen where from? parcel post carrier ber-lin. hoffmann quite right. no doubt the baby's outfit from hertzog. [_he looks at the package and takes the bill._] yes, these are the things from hertzog. helen this whole box full. oh, that's overdoing! _hoffmann pays the carrier._ parcel post carrier [_still in his sing-song._] i wish you a good evening. [_exit._ hoffmann why is that overdoing? helen why, because there's enough here to fit out at least three babies. hoffmann did you take a walk with my wife? helen what am i to do if she's so easily tired? hoffmann nonsense! easily tired! she makes me utterly wretched! an hour and a half ... i wish, for goodness' sake, she would do as the doctor orders. what is the use of having a doctor, if.... helen then put your foot down and get rid of that spiller woman! what am i to do against an old creature like that who always confirms her in her own notions! hoffmann but what can i do--a man--a mere man? and, furthermore, you know my mother-in-law! don't you? helen [_bitterly._] i do. hoffmann where is she now? helen spiller has been getting her up in grand style ever since mr. loth came. she will probably go through one of her performances at supper. hoffmann [_once more absorbed in his own thoughts and pacing the room, violently._] this is the last time, i give you my word, that i'm going to await such things in this house--the last time, so help me! helen yes, you're lucky. you can go where you please. hoffmann in my house the wretched relapse into that frightful vice would most certainly not have occurred. helen don't make me responsible for it. she did not get the brandy from me! get rid of the spiller woman, i tell you. oh, if only i were a man! hoffmann [_sighing._] oh, if only it were over and done with!--[_speaking from the door to the right._] anyhow, sister, do me the favour and have the supper-table really appetising. i'll just attend to a little matter meanwhile. helen [_rings the electric bell. miele enters._] miele, set the table, and tell edward to put champagne on ice and open four dozen oysters. miele [_with sullen impudence._] you c'n tell him yer-self. he don't take orders from me. he's always sayin' he was hired by mr. hoffmann. helen then, at least, send him in to me. [_miele goes. helen steps in front of the mirror and adjusts various details in her toilet. in the meantime edward enters._ helen [_still before the mirror._] edward, put champagne on ice and open oysters. mr. hoffmann wishes it. edward very well, miss. [_as edward leaves, a knocking is heard at the middle door._ helen [_startled._] dear me! [_timidly._] come in! [_louder and more firmly._] come in! loth [_enters without bowing._] ah, i beg pardon. i didn't mean to intrude. my name is loth. _helen bows. her gesture smacks of the dancing school._ hoffmann [_his voice is heard through the closed door._] my dear people: don't be formal! i'll be with you in a moment. loth, my sister-in-law, helen krause! and, sister, my friend, alfred loth! please consider yourselves introduced. helen oh, what a way of.... loth i don't take it ill of him. as i have often been told, i am myself more than half a barbarian when correct manners are concerned. but if i intruded upon you, i.... helen not in the least; oh, not in the least, believe me. [_a pause of constraint._] indeed, indeed, it is most kind of you to have looked up my brother-in-law. he often complains that ... rather, regrets that the friends of his youth have forgotten him so entirely. loth yes, it just happened so this time. i've always been in berlin and thereabouts and had no idea what had become of hoffmann. i haven't been back in silesia since my student days at breslau. helen and so you came upon him quite by chance. loth yes, quite--and, what is more, in the very spot where i've got to pursue my investigations. helen investigations in witzdorf! in this wretched little hole. ah, you're jesting. it isn't possible. loth you say: wretched? yet there is a very unusual degree of wealth here. helen oh, of course, in that respect.... loth i've been continually astonished. i can assure you that such farms are not to be found elsewhere; they seem literally steeped in abundance. helen you are quite right. there's more than one stable here in which the cows and horses feed from marble mangers and racks of german silver! it is all due to the coal which was found under our fields and which turned the poor peasants rich almost in the twinkling of an eye. [_she points to the picture in the background._] do you see--my grandfather was a freight carter. the little property here belonged to him, but he could not get a living out of his bit of soil and so he had to haul freight. that's a picture of him in his blue blouse; they still wore blouses like that in those days. my father, when he was young, wore one too.--no! when i said "wretched" i didn't mean that. only it's so desolate here. there's nothing, nothing for the mind. life is empty ... it's enough to kill one. _miele and edward pass to and fro, busy laying the table to the right in the background._ loth aren't there balls or parties once in a while? helen not even that! the farmers gamble, hunt, drink ... what is there to be seen all the long day? [_she has approached the window and points out._] _such_ figures, mainly. loth h-m! miners. helen some are going to the mine, some are coming from the mine: all day, all day ... at least, i seem always to see them. do you suppose i even care to go into the street alone? at most i slip through the back gate out into the fields. and they are such a rough set! the way they stare at one--so menacing and morose as if one were actually guilty of some crime. sometimes, in winter, when we go sleighing, they come in the darkness, in great gangs, over the hills, through the storm, and, instead of making way, they walk stubbornly in front of the horses. then, sometimes the farmers use the handles of their whips; it's the only way they can get through. and then the miners curse behind us. ugh! i've been so terribly frightened sometimes! loth and isn't it strange that i have come here for the sake of these very people of whom you are so much afraid. helen oh, surely not.... loth quite seriously. these people interest me more than any one else here. helen no one excepted? loth no one. helen not even my brother-in-law? loth no! for my interest in these people is different and of an altogether higher nature. but you must forgive me ... you can't be expected to follow me there. helen and why not? indeed, i understand you very well ... [_she drops a letter inadvertently which loth stoops to pick up._] don't bother ... it's of no importance; only an indifferent boarding-school correspondence. loth so you went to boarding-school? helen yes, in herrnhut. you mustn't think that i'm so wholly ... no, no, i do understand. loth you see, these workingmen interest me for their own sake. helen to be sure. and a miner like that is very interesting, if you look upon him in that way. why, there are places where you never see one; but if you have them daily before your eyes ... loth even if you have them daily before your eyes, miss krause. indeed. i think that is necessary if one is to discover what is truly interesting about them. helen dear me! if it's so hard to discover--i mean what is interesting about them! loth well; it is interesting, for instance that these people, as you say, always look so menacing and so morose. helen why do you think that _that_ is particularly interesting? loth because it is not the usual thing. the rest of us look that way only sometimes and by no means always. helen yes, but why do they always look so ... so full of hatred and so surly? there must be some reason for that. loth just so. and it is this very reason that i am anxious to discover. helen oh, don't!... now you're making fun of me! what good would it do you, even if you knew that? loth one might perhaps find ways and means to remove the cause that makes these people so joyless and so full of hatred; one might perhaps make them happier. helen [_slightly confused._] i must confess freely that now ... and yet perhaps just now i begin to understand you a little. only it is so strange, so new, so utterly new ... hoffmann [_entering through the door at the right. he has a number of letters in his hand._] well, here i am again.--edward, see to it that these letters reach the post-office before eight o'clock. [_he hands the letters to the servant, who withdraws._] well, dear people, now we can eat! outrageously hot here! september and such heat! [_he lifts a bottle of champagne from the cooler. _] veuve cliquot! edward knows my secret passions! [_he turns to loth._] you've had quite a lively argument, eh? [_approaches the table, which has now been laid and which groans under delicacies. rubbing his hands._] well, that looks very good indeed! [_with a sly look in loth's direction._] don't you think it does?--by the way, sister! we're going to have company: william kahl. he has been seen in the yard. _helen makes a gesture of disgust._ hoffmann my dear girl! you almost act as if i ... how can i help it? d'you suppose i invited him? [_heavy steps are heard in the outer hall._] ah! "misfortune strides apace!" _kahl enters without having first knocked. he is twenty-four years old: a clumsy peasant who is evidently concerned, so far as possible, to make a show not only as a refined but, more especially, as a wealthy man. his features are coarse; his predominant expression is one of stupid cunning. he wears a green jacket, a gay velvet waist-coat, dark trousers and patent-leather top-boots. his head-covering is a green forester's hat with a cock's feather. his jacket has buttons of stag's horn and stag's teeth depend from his watch-chain. he stammers._ kahl g-good evening everybody! [_he sees loth, is much embarrassed and, standing still, cuts a rather sorry figure._ hoffmann [_steps up to him and shakes hands with him encouragingly._] good evening, mr. kahl. helen [_ungraciously._] good evening. kahl [_strides with heavy steps diagonally across the room to helen and takes her hand._] evenin' t'you, nellie. hoffmann [_to loth._] permit me to introduce our neighbour's son, mr. kahl. [_kahl grins and fidgets with his hat. constrained silence._ hoffmann come, let's sit down, then. is anybody missing? ah, our mama! miele, request mrs. krause to come to supper. [_miele leaves by the middle door._ miele [_is heard in the hall, calling out._] missus! missus!! you're to come down--to come'n eat! [_helen and hoffmann exchange a look of infinite comprehension and laugh. then, by a common impulse, they look at loth._ hoffmann [_to loth._] rustic simplicity! _mrs. krause appears, incredibly overdressed. silk and costly jewels. her dress and bearing betray hard arrogance, stupid pride and half-mad vanity._ hoffmann ah, there is mama! permit me to introduce to you my friend dr. loth. mrs. krause [_half-curtsies, peasant-fashion._] i take the liberty! [_after a brief pause._] eh, but doctor, you mustn't bear me a grudge, no, you mustn't at all. i've got to excuse myself before you right away--[_she speaks with increasing fluency_]--excuse myself on account o' the way i acted a while ago. you know, y'understan', we' get a powerful lot o' tramps here right along ... 'tain't reasonable to believe the trouble we has with them beggars. and they steals exackly like magpies. it ain't as we're stingy. we don't have to be thinkin' and thinkin' before we spends a penny, no, nor before we spends a pound neither. now, old louis krause's wife, she's a close one, worst kind you see, she wouldn't give a crittur that much! her old man died o' rage because he lost a dirty little two-thousand, playin' cards. no, we ain't that kind. you see that sideboard over there. that cost me two hundred crowns, not countin' the freight even. baron klinkow hisself couldn't have nothin' better. _mrs. spiller has entered shortly after mrs. krause. she is small, slightly deformed and gotten up in her mistress's cast-off garments. while mrs. krause is speaking she looks up at her with a certain devout attention. she is about fifty-five years old. every time she exhales her breath she utters a gentle moan, which is regularly audible, even when she speaks, as a soft_--m. mrs. spiller [_in a servile, affectedly melancholy, minor tone. very softly._] his lordship has exactly the identical sideboard--m--. helen [_to mrs. krause._] mama, don't you think we had better sit down first and then-- mrs. krause [_turns with lightning-like rapidity to helen and transfixes her with a withering look; harshly and masterfully._] is that proper? [_she is about to sit down but remembers that grace has not been said. mechanically she folds her hands without, however, mastering her malignity._ mrs. spiller come, lord jesus, be our guest. may thy gifts to us be blest. [_all take their seats noisily. the embarrassing situation is tided over by the passing and repassing of dishes, which takes some time._ hoffmann [_to loth._] help yourself, old fellow, won't you? oysters? loth i'll try them. they're the first i've ever eaten. mrs. krause [_has just sucked down an oyster noisily._] this season, you mean. loth no, i mean at all. [_mrs. krause and mrs. spiller exchange a look._ hoffmann [_to kahl, who is squeezing a lemon with his teeth._] haven't seen you for two days, mr. kahl. have you been busy shooting mice? kahl n-naw ... hoffmann [_to loth._] mr. kahl, i must tell you, is passionately fond of hunting. kahl m-m-mice is i-infamous amphibies. helen [_bursts out._] it's too silly. he can't see anything wild or tame without killing it. kahl las' night i sh-shot our ol' s-sow. loth then i suppose that shooting is your chief occupation. mrs. krause mr. kahl, he just does that fer his own private pleasure. mrs. spiller forest, game and women--as his excellency the minister von schadendorf often used to say. kahl 'n d-day after t-t'morrow we're g-goin' t' have p-pigeon sh-sh-shooting. loth what is that--pigeon shooting? helen ah, i can't bear such things. surely it's a very merciless sport. rough boys who throw stones at window panes are better employed. hoffmann you go too far, helen. helen i don't know. according to my feeling it's far more sensible to break windows, than to tether pigeons to a post and then shoot bullets into them. hoffmann well, helen, after all, you must consider ... loth [_using his knife and fork with energy._] it is a shameful barbarity. kahl aw! _them_ few pigeons! mrs. spiller [_to loth._] mr. kahl, you know, has m-more than two-hundred of them in his dove-cote. loth all hunting is barbarity. hoffmann but an ineradicable one. just now, for instance, five hundred live foxes are wanted in the market, and all foresters in this neighbourhood and in other parts of germany are busy snaring the animals. loth what are all those foxes wanted for? hoffmann they are sent to england, where they will enjoy the honour of being hunted from their very cages straight to death by members of the aristocracy. loth mohammedan or christian--a beast's a beast. hoffmann may i pass you some lobster, mother? mrs. krause i guess so. they're good this here season. mrs. spiller madame has such a delicate palate. mrs. krause [_to loth._] i suppose you ain't ever et lobsters neither, doctor? loth yes, i have eaten lobsters now and then--in the north, by the sea, in warnemuende, where i was born. mrs. krause [_to kahl._] times an' times a person don't know what _to_ eat no more. eh, william. kahl y-y're r-right there, cousin, g-god knows. edward [_is about to pour champagne into loth's glass._] champagne, sir. loth [_covers his glass with his hand._] no, thank you. hoffmann come now, don't be absurd. helen what? don't you drink? loth no, miss krause. hoffmann well, now, look here, old man. that is, you must admit, rather tiresome. loth if i were to drink i should only grow more tiresome. helen that is most interesting, doctor. loth [_untactfully._] that i grow even more tiresome when i drink wine? helen [_somewhat taken aback._] no, oh, no. but that you do not drink ... do not drink at all, i mean. loth and why is that particularly interesting? helen [_blushing._] it is not the usual thing. [_she grows redder and more embarrassed._ loth [_clumsily._] you are quite right, unhappily. mrs. krause [_to loth._] it costs us fifteen shillin's a bottle. you needn't be scared to drink it. we gets it straight from rheims; we ain't givin' you nothin' cheap; we wouldn't want it ourselves. mrs. spiller ah, you can believe--m-me, doctor: if his excellency, the minister von schadendorf, had been able to keep _such_ a table ... kahl i couldn't live without my wine. helen [_to loth._] do tell us why you don't drink? loth i'll do that very gladly, i ... hoffmann oh, pshaw, old fellow. [_he takes the bottle from the servant in order to press the wine upon loth._] just think how many merry hours we used to spend in the old days ... loth please don't take the trouble ... hoffmann drink to-day--this one time. loth it's quite useless. hoffmann as a special favour to me. [_hoffmann is about to pour the wine; loth resists. a slight conflict ensues._ loth no, no ... as i said before ... no!... no, thank you. hoffmann don't be offended, but that, surely, is a mere foolish whim. kahl [_to mrs. spiller._] a man that don't want nothin' has had enough. [_mrs. spiller nods resignedly._ hoffmann anyhow, if you let a man have his will what more can you do for him. but i can tell you this much: without a glass of wine at dinner ... loth and a glass of beer at breakfast ... hoffmann very well; why not? a glass of beer is a very healthy thing. loth and a nip of brandy now and then ... hoffmann ah, well, if one couldn't get that much out of life! you'll never succeed in making an ascetic of me. you can't rob life of every stimulus. loth i'm not so sure of that. i am thoroughly content with the normal stimuli that reach my nervous system. hoffmann and a company that sit together with dry throats always has been and always will be a damnably weary and boresome one--with which, as a rule, i'd care to have very little to do. mrs. krause an' all them aristocrats drinks a whole lot. mrs. spiller [_devoutly confirming her mistress' remark by an inclination of her body._] it is easy for gentlemen to drink a great deal of wine. loth [_to hoffmann._] my experience is quite to the contrary. as a rule, i am bored at a table where a great deal is drunk. hoffmann oh, of course, it's got to be done in moderation. loth what do you call moderation? hoffmann well, so long as one is in possession of one's senses ... loth aha! then you do admit that, in general, the consumption of alcohol does endanger the possession of one's senses? and for that reason, you see, i find tavern parties such a bore. hoffmann are you afraid of losing possession of your senses so easily? kahl t'-t'other d-day i drank a b-bottle o' r-rhine-wine, _an'_ another o' ch-champagne. an' on top o' that an-n-nother o' b-bordeaux--an' i wan't drunk by half. loth [_to hoffmann._] oh no. you know well enough that it was i who took you fellows home when you'd been taking too much. and i still have the same tough old system. no, i'm not afraid on that account. hoffmann well, then, what is it? helen yes, why is it really that you don't drink? do tell us! loth [_to hoffmann._] in order to satisfy you then: i do not drink to-day, if for no other reason but because i have given my word of honour to avoid spirituous liquors. hoffmann in other words, you've sunk to the level of a temperance fanatic. loth i am a total abstainer. hoffmann and for how long, may one ask, have you gone in for this-- loth for life. hoffmann [_throws down his knife and fork and half starts up from his chair._] well, i'll be ... [_he sits down again._] now, frankly, you must forgive me, but i never thought you so--childish. loth you may call it so if you please. hoffmann but how in the world did you get into that kind of thing? helen surely, for such a resolution you must have a very weighty cause--it seems so to me, at least. loth undoubtedly such a reason exists. you probably do not know, miss krause, nor you either, hoffmann, what an appalling part alcohol plays in modern life ... read bunge, if you desire to gain an idea of it. i happen to remember the statements of a writer named everett concerning the significance of alcohol in the life of the united states. his facts cover a space of ten years. in these ten years, according to him, alcohol has devoured directly a sum of three thousand millions of dollars and indirectly of six hundred millions. it has killed three hundred thousand people, it has driven thousands of others into prisons and poor-houses; it has caused two thousand suicides at the least. it has caused the loss of at least ten millions through fire and violent destruction; it has rendered no less than twenty thousand women, widows, and no less than one million children, orphans. worst of all, however, are the far-reaching effects of alcohol which extend to the third and fourth generation.--now, had i pledged myself never to marry, i might perhaps drink, but as it is--my ancestors, as i happen to know, were all not only healthy and robust but thoroughly temperate people. every movement that i make, every hardship that i undergo, every breath that i draw brings what i owe them more deeply home to me. and that, you see, is the point; i am absolutely determined to transmit undiminished to my posterity this heritage which is mine. mrs. krause look here, son-in-law, them miners o' ours do drink a deal too much. i guess that's true. kahl they swills like pigs. helen and such, things are hereditary? loth there are families who are ruined by it--families of dipsomaniacs. kahl [_half to mrs. krause; half to helen._] your old man--he's goin' it pretty fast, too. helen [_white as a sheet, vehemently._] oh, don't talk nonsense. mrs. krause eh, but listen to the impident hussy. you might think she was a princess! you're tryin' to play bein' a grand lady, i s'ppose! that's the way she goes fer her future husband. [_to loth, pointing to kahl._] that's him, you know; they're promised; it's all arranged. helen [_jumping up._] stop! or ... _stop_, mother, or i ... mrs. krause well, i do declare! say, doctor, is that what you call eddication, eh? god knows, i treat her as if she was my own child, but that's a little too much. hoffmann [_soothingly._] ah, mother, do me the favour.... mrs. krause no-o! i don't see why. such a goose like that ... that's an end o' all justice ... such a sl...! hoffmann oh, but mother, i must really beg of you to control-- mrs. krause [_doubly enraged._] instead o' sich a crittur takin' a hand on the farm.... god forbid! she pulls her sheets 'way over her ears. but her schillers and her goethes and sich like stinkin' dogs--that can't do nothin' but lie; they c'n turn her head. it's enough to make you sick! [_she stops, quivering with rage._ hoffmann [_trying to pacify her._] well, well--she will be all right now ... perhaps it wasn't quite right ... perhaps.... [_he beckons to helen, who in her excitement has drawn aside, and the girl, fighting down her tears, returns to her place._ hoffmann [_interrupting the painful silence that has followed, to loth._] ah, yes ... what were we talking about? to be sure, of good old alcohol. [_he raises his glass._] well, mother, let us have peace. come,--we'll drink a toast in peace, and honour alcohol by being peaceful. [_mrs. krause, although somewhat rebelliously, clinks glasses with him._] what, helen, and your glass is empty.... i say, loth, you've made a proselyte. helen ah ... no ... i.... mrs. spiller but, dear miss helen, that looks sus-- hoffmann you weren't always so very particular. helen [_pertly._] i simply have no inclination to drink to-day. that's all. hoffmann oh, i beg your pardon, very humbly indeed ... let me see, what were we talking about? loth we were saying that there were whole families of dipsomaniacs. hoffmann [_embarrassed anew._] to be sure, to be sure, but ... er.... [_growing anger is noticeable in the behaviour of mrs. krause. kahl is obviously hard put to it to restrain his laughter concerning something that seems to furnish him immense inner amusement. helen observes kahl with burning eyes and her threatening glance has repeatedly restrained him from saying something that is clearly on the tip of his tongue. loth, peeling an apple with a good deal of equanimity, has taken no notice of all this._ loth what is more, you seem to be rather blessed with that sort of thing hereabouts. hoffmann [_almost beside himself._] why? how? blessed with what? loth with drunkards, of course. hoffmann h-m! do you think so ... ah ... yes ... i dare say--the miners.... loth not only the miners. here, in the inn, where i stopped before i came to you, there sat a fellow, for instance, this way. [_he rests both elbows on the table, supports his head, with his hands and stares at the table._ hoffmann really? [_his embarrassment has now reached its highest point; mrs. krause coughs; helen still commands kahl with her eyes. his whole body quivers with internal laughter, but he is still capable of enough self-command not to burst out._ loth i'm surprised that you don't know this, well, one might almost say, this matchless example of his kind. it's the inn next door to your house. i was told that the man is an immensely rich farmer of this place who literally spends his days and years in the same tap-room drinking whiskey. of course he's a mere animal to-day. those frightfully vacant, drink-bleared eyes with which he stared at me! [_kahl, who has restrained himself up to this point, breaks out in coarse, loud, irrepressible laughter, so that loth and hoffmann, dumb with astonishment, stare at him._ kahl [_stammering out through his laughter._] by the almighty, that was.... oh, sure, sure--that was the ol' man. helen [_jumps up, horrified and indignant. she crushes her napkin and flings it on the table._] you are.... [_with a gesture of utter loathing._] oh, you are.... [_she withdraws swiftly._ kahl [_violently breaking through the constraint which arises from his consciousness of having committed a gross blunder._] oh, pshaw!... it's too dam' foolish! i'm goin' my own ways. [_he puts on his hat and says, without turning back:_] evenin'. mrs. krause [_calls out after him._] don' know's i c'n blame you, william. [_she folds her napkin and calls_:] miele! [_miele enters._] clear the table! [_to herself, but audibly._] sich a goose! hoffmann [_somewhat angry._] well, mother, honestly, i must say.... mrs. krause you go and...! [_arises; exits quickly._ mrs. spiller madame--m--has had a good many domestic annoyances to-day--m--. i will now respectfully take my leave. [_she rises, prays silently with upturned eyes for a moment and then leaves._ _miele and edward clear the table. hoffmann has arisen and comes to the foreground. he has a toothpick in his mouth. loth follows him._ hoffmann well, you see, that's the way women are. loth i can't say that i understand what it was about. hoffmann it isn't worth mentioning. things like that happen in the most refined families. it mustn't keep you from spending a few days with us.... loth i should like to have made your wife's acquaintance. why doesn't she appear at all? hoffmann [_cutting off the end of a fresh cigar._] well, in her condition, you understand ... women won't abandon their vanity. come, let's go and take a few turns in the garden.--edward, serve coffee in the arbour! edward very well, sir. [_hoffmann and loth disappear by way of the conservatory. edward leaves by way of the middle door and miele, immediately thereafter, goes out, carrying a tray of dishes, by the same door. for a few seconds the room is empty. then enters_ helen [_wrought up, with tear-stained eyes, holding her handkerchief against her mouth. from the middle door, by which she has entered, she takes a few hasty steps to the left and listens at the door of hoffmann's room._] oh, don't go! [_hearing nothing there, she hastens over to the door of the conservatory, where she also listens for a few moments with tense expression. folding her hands and in a tone of impassioned beseeching._] oh, don't go! don't go! the curtain falls the second act _it is about four o'clock in the morning. the windows in the inn are still lit. through the gateway comes in the twilight of a pallid dawn which, in the course of the action, develops into a ruddy glow, and this, in its turn, gradually melts into bright daylight. under the gateway, on the ground, sits beipst and sharpens his scythe. as the curtain rises, little more is visible than his dark outline which is defined against the morning sky, but one hears the monotonous, uninterrupted and regular beat of the scythe hammer on the anvil. for some minutes this is the only sound audible. then follows the solemn silence of the morning, broken by the cries of roysterers who are leaving the inn. the inn-door is slammed with a crash. the lights in the windows go out. a distant barking of dogs is heard and a loud, confused crowing of cocks. on the path from the inn to the house a dark figure becomes visible which reels in zigzag lines toward the farmyard. it is farmer krause, who, as always, has been the last to leave the inn._ farmer krause [_has reeled against the fence, clings to it for support with both hands, and roars with a somewhat nasal, drunken voice back at the inn._] the garden'sh mine ... the inn'sh mi-ine ... ash of a' inn-keeper! hi-hee! [_after mumbling and growling unintelligibly he frees himself from the fence and staggers into the yard, where, luckily, he gets hold of the handles of a plough._] the farm'sh mi'ine. [_he drivels, half singing._] drink ... o ... lil' brother, drink ... o ... lil' brother ... brandy'sh good t' give courash. hi-hee--[_roaring aloud_]--ain' i a han'some man ... ain' i got a han'some wife?... ain' i got a couple o' han'some gals? helen [_comes swiftly from the house. it is plain that she has only slipped on such garments as, in her hurry, she could find._] papa!... dear papa!! do come in! [_she supports him by one arm, tries to lead him and draw him toward the house._] oh, do come ... do please come ... quick ... quick ... come, oh, do, _do_ come! farmer krause [_has straightened himself up and tries to stand erect. fumbling with both hands he succeeds, with great pains, in extracting from his breeches-pocket a purse bursting with coins. as the morning brightens, it is possible to see the shabby garb of krause, which is in no respects better than that of the commonest field labourer. he is about fifty years old. his head is bare, his thin, grey hair is uncombed and matted. his dirty shirt is open down to his waist. his leathern breeches, tied at the ankles, were once yellow but are now shiny with dirt. they are held up by a single embroidered suspender. on his naked feet he wears a pair of embroidered bedroom slippers, the embroidery on which seems to be quite new. he wears neither coat nor waist-coat and his shirtsleeves are unbuttoned. after he has finally succeeded in extracting the purse, he holds it in his right hand and brings it down repeatedly on the palm of his left so that the coins ring and clatter, at the same time he fixes a lascivious look on his daughter._] hi-hee! the money'sh mi-ine! hey? how'd y' like couple o' crownsh? helen oh, merciful god! [_she makes repeated efforts to drag him with her. at one of these efforts he embraces her with the clumsiness of a gorilla and makes several indecent gestures. helen utters suppressed cries for help._] let go! this minute! let go-o!! oh, please, papa, oh-o!! [_she weeps, then suddenly cries out in an extremity of fear, loathing and rage:_] beast! swine! [_she pushes him from her and krause falls to his full length on the ground. beipst comes limping up from his seat under the gateway. he and helen set about lifting krause._ farmer krause [_stammers._] drink ... o ... lil' brothersh ... drrr ... [_krause is half-lifted up and tumbles into the house, dragging beipst and helen with him. for a moment the stage remains empty. in the house voices are heard and the slamming of doors. a single window is lit, upon which beipst comes out of the house again. he strikes a match against his leathern breeches in order to light the short pipe that rarely leaves his mouth. while he is thus employed, kahl is seen slinking out of the house. he is in his stocking feet, but has slung his coat loosely over his left arm and holds his bedroom slippers in his left hand. in his right hand he holds his hat and his collar in his teeth. when he has reached the middle of the yard, he sees the face of beipst turned upon him. for a moment he seems undecided; then he manages to grasp his hat and collar also with his left hand, dives into his breeches' pocket and going up to beipst presses a coin into the latter's hand._ kahl there, you got a crown ... but shut yer mouth! [_he hastens across the yard and climbs over the picket fence at the right._ [_beipst has lit his pipe with a fresh match. he limps to the gate, sits down and begins sharpening his scythe anew. again nothing is heard for a time but the monotonous hammer blows and the groans of the old man, which he interrupts by short oaths when his work will not go to his liking. it has grown considerably lighter._ loth [_steps out of the house door, stands still, stretches himself, and breathes deeply several times._] ah! the morning air. [_slowly he goes toward the background until he reaches the gateway. to beipst._] good morning! up so early? beipst [_squinting at loth suspiciously. in a surly tone._] 'mornin'. [_a brief pause, whereupon beipst addresses his scythe which he pulls to and fro in his indignation._] crooked beast! well, are ye goin' to? eksch! well, well, i'll be ... [_he continues to sharpen it._ loth [_has taken a seat between the handles of a cultivator._] i suppose there's hay harvesting to-day? beipst [_roughly._] dam' fools go a-cuttin' hay this time o' year. loth well, but you're sharpening a scythe? beipst [_to the scythe._] eksch! you ol'...! [_a brief pause._] loth won't you tell me, though, why you are sharpening your scythe if it is not time for the hay harvest? beipst eh? don't you need a scythe to cut fodder? loth so that's it. you're going to cut fodder? beipst well, what else? loth and is it cut every morning? beipst well, d' you want the beasts to starve? loth you must show me a little forbearance. you see, i'm a city man; and it isn't possible for me to know things about farming very exactly. beipst city folks! eksh! all of 'em i ever saw thought they knew it all--better'n country folks. loth that isn't the case with me.--can you explain to me, for instance, what kind of an implement this is? i have seen one like it before, to be sure, but the name-- beipst that thing that ye're sittin' on? why, they calls that a cultivator. loth to be sure--a cultivator. is it used here? beipst naw; more's the pity. he lets everything go to hell ... all the land ... lets it go, the farmer does. a poor man would like to have a bit o' land--you can't have grain growin' in your beard, you know. but no! he'd rather let it go to the devil! nothin' grows excep' weeds an' thistles. loth well, but you can get those out with the cultivator, too. i know that the icarians had them, too, in order to weed thoroughly the land that had been cleared. beipst where's them i-ca ... what d'you, call 'em? loth the icarians? in america. beipst they've got things like that there, too? loth certainly. beipst what kind of people is them i-i-ca...? loth the icarians? they are not a special people at all, but men of all nations who have united for a common purpose. they own a considerable tract of land in america which they cultivate together. they share both the work and the profits equally. none of them is poor and there are no poor people among them. beipst [_whose expression had become a little more friendly, assumes, during loth's last speech, his former hostile and suspicious look. without taking further notice of loth he has, during the last few moments, given his exclusive attention to his work._] beast of a scythe! [_loth, still seated, first observes the old man with a quiet smile and then looks out into the awakening morning._ _through the gateway are visible far stretches of clover field and meadow. between them meanders a brook whose course is marked by alders and willows. a single mountain peak towers on the horizon. all about, larks have begun their song, and their uninterrupted trilling floats, now from near, now from far, into the farm yard._ loth [_getting up._] one ought to take a walk. the morning is magnificent. [_the clatter of wooden shoes is heard. some one is rapidly coming down the stairs that lead from the stable loft. it is guste._ guste [_a rather stout maid-servant. her neck is bare, as are her arms and legs below the knee. her naked feet are stuck in wooden shoes. she carries a burning lantern._] good morning father beipst! [_beipst growls._] guste [_shading her eyes with her hand looks after loth through the gate._] what kind of a feller is that? beipst [_embittered._] he can make fools o' beggars ... he can lie like a parson ... jus' let him tell you his stories. [_he gets up._] get the wheelbarrows ready, girl! guste [_who has been washing her legs at the well gets through before disappearing into the cow stable._] right away, father beipst. loth [_returns and gives beipst a tip._] there's something for you. a man can always use that. beipst [_thawing at once, quite changed and with sincere companionableness._] yes, yes, you're right there, and i thank ye kindly.--i suppose you're the company of the son-in-law over there? [_suddenly very voluble._] you know, if you want to go walkin' out there, you know, toward the hill, then you want to keep to the left, real close to the left, because to the right, there's clefts. my son, he used to say, the reason of it was, he used to say, was because they didn't board the place up right, the miners didn't. they gets too little pay, he used to say, and then folks does things just hit or miss, in the shafts you know.--you see? over yonder? always to the left! there's holes on t'other side. it wasn't but only last year and a butter woman, just as she was, sudden, sunk down in the earth, i don't know how many fathoms down. nobody knew whereto. so i'm tellin' you--go to the left, to the left and you'll be safe. [_a shot is heard. beipst starts up as though he had been struck and limps out a few paces into the open._ loth who, do you think, is shooting so early? beipst who would it be excep' that rascal of a boy? loth what boy? beipst will kahl--our neighbour's son here ... you just wait, you! i've seen him, i tell you. he shoots larks. loth why, you limp! beipst yes, the lord pity me. [_he shakes a threatening fist toward the fields._] eh, wait, you ... you...! loth what happened to your leg? beipst my leg? loth yes. beipst eh? somethin' got into it. loth do you suffer pain? beipst [_grasping his leg._] there's a tugging pain in it, a confounded pain. loth do you see a doctor about it? beipst doctors? eh, you know, they're all monkeys--one like another. only our doctor here--he's a mighty good man. loth and did he help you? beipst a little, maybe, when all's said. he kneaded my leg, you see, he squeezed it, an' he punched it. but no,'t'ain't on that account. he is ... well, i tell you, he's got compassion on a human bein', that's it. he buys the medicine an' asks nothin'. an' he'll come to you any time ... loth still, you must have come by that trouble somehow. or did you always limp? beipst not a bit of it! loth then i don't think i quite understand. there must have been some cause ... beipst how do i know? [_once more he raises a menacing fist._] you jus' wait, you--with your rattling! kahl [_appears within his own garden. in his right hand he carries a rifle by the barrel, his left hand is closed. he calls across._] good mornin', doctor! _loth walks diagonally across the yard up to kahl. in the meantime guste as well as another maid-servant named liese have each made ready a wheel-barrow on which lie rakes and pitch-forks. they trundle their wheel-barrows past beipst out into the fields. the latter, sending menacing glances toward kahl and making furtive gestures of rage, shoulders his scythe and limps after them. beipst and the maids disappear._ loth [_to kahl._] good morning. kahl d'you want for to see somethin' fine? [_he stretches his closed hand across the fence._ loth [_going nearer._] what have you there? kahl guess! [_he opens his hand at once._ loth what? is it really true--you shoot the larks. you good for nothing! do you know that you deserve to be beaten for such mischief? kahl [_stares at loth for some seconds in stupid amazement. then, clenching his fist furtively he says:_] you son of a...! [_and swinging around, disappears toward the right._ [_for some moments the yard remains empty._] _helen steps from the house door. she wears a light-coloured summer dress and a large garden hat. she looks all around her, walks a few paces toward the gate-way, stands still and gazes out. hereupon she saunters across the yard toward the right and turns into the path that leads to the inn. great bundles of various tea-herbs are slung across the fence to dry. she stops to inhale their odours. she also bends downward the lower boughs of fruit trees and admires the low hanging, red-cheeked apples. when she observes loth coming toward her from the inn, a yet greater restlessness comes over her, so that she finally turns around and reaches the farm yard before loth. here she notices that the dove-cote is still closed and goes thither through the little gate that leads into the orchard. while she is still busy pulling down the cord which, blown about by the wind, has become entangled somewhere, she is addressed by loth, who has come up in the meantime._ loth good morning, miss krause. helen good morning. see, the wind has blown the cord up there! loth let me help you. [_he also passes through the little gate, gets the cord down and opens the dove-cote. the pigeons flutter out._ helen thank you so much! loth [_has passed out by the little gate once more and stands there, leaning against the fence. helen is on the other side of it. after a brief pause._] do you make a habit of rising so early? helen i was just going to ask you the same thing. loth i? oh, no! but after the first night in a strange place it usually happens so. helen why does that happen? loth i have never thought about it. to what end? helen oh, wouldn't it serve some end? loth none, at least, that is apparent and practical. helen and so everything that you do or think must have some practical end in view. loth exactly. furthermore ... helen i would not have thought that of you. loth what, miss krause? helen it was with those very words that, day before yesterday, my stepmother snatched "the sorrows of werther" from my hand. loth it is a foolish book. helen oh, don't say that. loth indeed, i must repeat it, miss krause. it is a book for weaklings. helen that may well be. loth how do you come across just that book? do you quite understand it? helen i hope i do--at least, in part. it rests me to read it. [_after a pause._] but if it _is_ a foolish book, as you say, could you recommend me a better one? loth read ... well, let me see ... do you know dahn's "fight for rome"? helen no, but i'll buy the book now. does it serve a practical end? loth no, but a rational one. it depicts men not as they are but such as, some day, they ought to be. thus it sets up an ideal for our imitation. helen [_deeply convinced._] ah, that is noble. [_a brief pause._] but perhaps you can tell me something else. the papers talk so much about zola and ibsen. are they great authors? loth in the sense of being artists they are not authors at all, miss krause. they are necessary evils. i have a genuine thirst for the beautiful and i demand of art a clear, refreshing draught.--i am not ill; and what zola and ibsen offer me is medicine. helen [_quite involuntarily._] ah, then perhaps, they might help me. loth [_who has become gradually absorbed in his vision of the dewy orchard and who now yields to it wholly._] how very lovely it is here. look, how the sun emerges from behind the mountain peak.--and you have so many apples in your garden--a rich harvest. helen three-fourths of them will be stolen this year just as last. there is such great poverty hereabouts. loth i can scarcely tell you how deeply i love the country. alas, the greater part of _my_ harvest must be sought in cities. but i must try to enjoy this country holiday thoroughly. a man like myself needs a bit of sunshine and refreshment more than most people. helen [_sighing._] more than others ... in what respect? loth it is because i am in the midst of a hard conflict, the end of which i will not live to see. helen but are we not all engaged in such a conflict? loth no. helen surely we are all engaged in some conflict? loth naturally, but in one that may end. helen it _may_. yon are right. but why cannot the other end--i mean the one in which you are engaged, mr. loth? loth your conflict, after all, can only be one for your personal happiness. and, so far as is humanly speaking possible, the individual can attain this. my struggle is a struggle for the happiness of all men. the condition of my happiness would be the happiness of all; nothing could content me until i saw an end of sickness and poverty, of servitude and spiritual meanness. i could take my place at the banquet table of life only as the last of its guests. helen [_with deep conviction._] ah, then you are a truly, truly good, man! loth [_somewhat embarrassed._] there is no merit in my attitude: it is an inborn one. and i must also confess that my struggle in the interest of progress affords me the highest satisfaction. and the kind of happiness i thus win is one that i estimate far more highly than the happiness which contents the ordinary self-seeker. helen still there are very few people in whom such a taste is inborn. loth perhaps it isn't wholly inborn. i think that we are constrained to it by the essential wrongness of the conditions of life. of course, one must have a sense for that wrongness. there is the point. now if one has that sense and suffers consciously under the wrongness of the conditions in question--why, then one becomes, necessarily, just what i am. helen oh, if it were only clearer to me ... tell me, what conditions, for instance, do you call wrong? loth well, it is wrong, for instance, that he who toils in the sweat of his brow suffers want while the sluggard lives in luxury. it is wrong to punish murder in times of peace and reward it in times of war. it is wrong to despise the hangman and yet, as soldiers do, to bear proudly at one's side a murderous weapon whether it be rapier or sabre. if the hangman displayed his axe thus he would doubtless be stoned. it is wrong, finally, to support as a state religion the faith of christ which teaches long-suffering, forgiveness and love, and, on the other hand, to train whole nations to be destroyers of their own kind. these are but a few among millions of absurdities. it costs an effort to penetrate to the true nature of all these things: one must begin early. helen but how did you succeed in thinking of all this? it seems so simple and yet one never thinks of it. loth in various ways: the course of my own personal development, conversation with friends, reading and independent thinking. i found out the first absurdity when i was a little boy. i once told a rather flagrant lie and my father flogged me most soundly. shortly thereafter i took a railroad journey with my father and i discovered that my father lied, too, and seemed to take the action quite as a matter of course. i was five years old at that time and my father told the conductor that i was not yet four in order to secure free transportation for me. again, our teacher said to us: be industrious, be honourable and you will invariably prosper in life. but the man had uttered folly, and i discovered that soon enough. my father was honourable, honest, and thoroughly upright, and yet a scoundrel who is alive and rich to-day cheated him of his last few thousands. and my father, driven by want, had to take employment under this very scoundrel who owned a large soap factory. helen people like myself hardly dare think of such a thing as wrong. at most one feels it to be so in silence. indeed, one feels it often--and then--a kind of despair takes hold of one. loth i recall one absurdity which presented itself to me as such with especial clearness. i had always believed that murder is punished as a crime under whatever circumstances. after the incident in question, however, it grew to be clear to me that only the milder forms of murder are unlawful. helen how is that possible? loth my father was a boilermaster. we lived hard by the factory and our windows gave on the factory yard. i saw a good many things there. there was a workingman, for instance, who had worked in the factory for five years. he began to have a violent cough and to lose flesh ... i recall how my father told us about the man at table. his name was burmeister and he was threatened with pulmonary consumption if he worked much longer in the soap factory. the doctor had told him so. but the man had eight children and, weak and emaciated as he was, he couldn't find other work anywhere. and so he _had_ to stay in the soap factory and his employer was quite self-righteous because he kept him. he seemed to himself an extraordinarily humane person.--one august afternoon--the heat was frightful--burmeister dragged himself across the yard with a wheelbarrow full of lime. i was just looking out of the window when i noticed him stop, stop again, and finally pitch over headlong on the cobblestones. i ran up to him--my father came, other workingmen came up, but he could barely gasp and his month was filled with blood. i helped carry him into the house. he was a mass of limy rags, reeking with all kinds of chemicals. before we had gotten him into the house, he was dead. helen ah, that is terrible. loth scarcely a week later we pulled his wife out of the river into which the waste lye of our factory was drained. and, my dear young lady, when one knows things of that kind as i know them now--believe me--one can find no rest. a simple little piece of soap, which makes no one else in the world think of any harm, even a pair of clean, well-cared-for hands are enough to embitter one thoroughly. helen i saw something like that once. and oh, it was frightful, frightful! loth what was that? helen the son of a workingman was carried in here half-dead. it's about--three years ago. loth had he been injured? helen yes, over there in the bear shaft. loth so it was a miner? helen oh, yes. most of the young men around here go to work in the mines. another son of the same man was also a trammer and also met with an accident. loth and were they both killed? helen yes, both ... once the lift broke; the other time it was fire damp.--old beipst has yet a third son and he has gone down to the mine too since last easter. loth is it possible? and doesn't the father object? helen no, not at all. only he is even more morose than he used to be. haven't you seen him yet? loth how could i? helen why, he sat near here this morning, under the gateway. loth oh! so he works on the farm here? helen he has been with us for years. loth does he limp? helen yes, quite badly, indeed. loth ah--ha! and what was it that happened to his leg? helen that's a delicate subject. you have met mr. kahl?... but i must tell you this story very softly. [_she draws nearer to loth._] his father, you know, was just as silly about hunting as he is. when wandering apprentices came into his yard he shot at them--sometimes only into the air in order to frighten them. he had a violent temper too, and especially when he had been drinking. well, i suppose beipst grumbled one day--he likes to grumble, you know--and so the farmer snatched up his rifle and fired at him. beipst, you know, used to be coachman at the kahls. loth outrage and iniquity wherever one goes. helen [_growing more uncertain and excited in her speech._] oh, i've had my own thoughts often and often ... and i've felt so sick with pity for them all, for old beipst and ... when the farmers are so coarse and brutish like--well, like streckmann, who--lets his farm hands starve and feeds sweetmeats to the dogs. i've often felt confused in my mind since i came home from boarding-school ... i have my burden too!--but i'm talking nonsense. it can't possibly interest you, and you will only laugh at me to yourself. loth but, my dear miss krause, how can you think that? why should i? helen how can you help it? you'll think anyhow: she's no better than the rest here! loth i think ill of no one. helen oh, you can't make me believe that--ever! loth but what occasion have i given, you to make you ... helen [_almost in tears._] oh, don't talk. you despise us; you may be sure that you do. why, how can you help despising us--[_tearfully_]--even my brother-in-law, even me. indeed, me above all, and you have--oh, you have truly good reasons for it! [_she quickly turns her back to loth, no longer able to master her emotion, and disappears through the orchard into the background. loth passes through the little gate and follows her slowly._ mrs. krause [_in morning costume, ridiculously over-dressed, comes out of the house. her face is crimson with rage. she screams._] the low-lived hussy! marie! marie!! under my roof! out with the brazen hussy! [_she runs across the yard and disappears in the stable. mrs. spiller appears in the house-door; she is crocheting. from within the stable resound scolding and howling._ mrs. krause [_comes out of the stable driving the howling maid before her._] slut of a wench!--[_the maid almost screams._]--git out o' here this minute! pack yer things 'n then git out! the maid [_catching sight of mrs. spiller, hurls her milking stool and pail from her._] that's your doin'! i'll git even with you! [_sobbing, she runs up the stairs to the loft._ helen [_joining mrs. krause._] why, what did she do? mrs. krause [_roughly._] any o' your business? helen [_passionately, almost weeping._] yes, it is my business. mrs. spiller [_coming up quickly._] dear miss helen, it's nothing fit for the ear of a young lady ... mrs. krause an' i'd like to know why not! she ain't made o' sugar. the wench lay abed with the hired man. now you know it! helen [_in a commanding voice._] the maid shall stay for all that! mrs. krause wench! helen good! then i'll tell father that you spend your nights just the same way with william kahl. mrs. krause [_strikes her full in the face._] there you got a reminder! helen [_deathly pale, but even more firmly._] and i say the maid shall stay! otherwise i'll make it known--you ... with william kahl ... your cousin, my betrothed ... i'll tell the whole world. mrs. krause [_her assurance breaking down._] who can say it's so! helen i can. for i saw him this morning coming out of your bed-room ... [_she goes swiftly into the house._ [_mrs. krause totters, almost fainting. mrs. spiller hurries to her with smelling-salts._ mrs. spiller oh, madame, madame! mrs. krause sp--iller; the maid c'n ss-stay! the curtain falls quickly the third act _time: a few minutes after the incident between helen and her step-mother in the yard. the scene is that of the first act._ _dr. schimmelpfennig sits at the table in the foreground to the left. he is writing a prescription. his slouch hat, cotton gloves and cane lie on the table before him. he is short and thick-set of figure; his hair is black and clings in small, firm curls to his head; his moustache is rather heavy. he wears a black coat after the pattern of the jaeger reform garments. he has the habit of stroking or pulling his moustache almost uninterruptedly; the more excited he is, the more violent is this gesture. when he speaks to hoffmann his expression is one of enforced equanimity, but a touch of sarcasm hovers about the corners of his mouth. his gestures, which are thoroughly natural, are lively, decisive and angular. hoffmann walks up and down, dressed in a silk dressing-gown and slippers. the table in the background to the right is laid for breakfast: costly porcelain, dainty rolls, a decanter with rum, etc._ hoffmann are you satisfied with my wife's appearance, doctor? dr. schimmelpfennig she's looking well enough. why not? hoffmann and do you think that everything will pass favourably? dr. schimmelpfennig i hope so. hoffmann [_after a pause, with hesitation._] doctor, i made up my mind--weeks ago--to ask your advice in a very definite matter as soon as i came here. dr. schimmelpfennig [_who has hitherto talked and written at the same time, lays his pen aside, arises, and hands hoffmann the finished prescription._] here ... i suppose you'll have that filled quite soon. [_taking up his hat, cane and gloves._] your wife complains of headaches, and so--[_looking into his hat and adopting a dry, business-like tone_]--and so, before i forget: try, if possible, to make it clear to your wife that she is in a measure responsible for the new life that is to come into the world. i have already said something to her of the consequences of tight lacing. hoffmann certainly, doctor ... i'll do my very best to make it clear to her that ... dr. schimmelpfennig [_bowing somewhat awkwardly._] good morning. [_he is about to go but stops again._] ah, yes, you wanted my advice ... [_he regards hoffmann coldly._ hoffmann if you can spare me a little while ... [_with a touch of affectation._] you know about the frightful death of my first boy. you were near enough to watch it. you know also what my state of mind was.--one doesn't believe it at first, but--time does heal!... and, after all, i have cause to be grateful now, since it seems that my dearest wish is about to be fulfilled. you understand that i must do everything, everything--it has cost me sleepless nights and yet i don't know yet, not even yet, just what i must do to guard the unborn child from the terrible fate of its little brother. and that is what i wanted to ask ... dr. schimmelpfennig [_dryly and business-like._] separation from the mother is the indispensable condition of a healthy development. hoffmann so it is that! do you mean complete separation?... is the child not even to be in the same house with its mother? dr. schimmelpfennig not if you are seriously concerned for the preservation of your child. and your wealth permits you the greatest freedom of movement in this respect. hoffmann yes, thank god. i have already bought a villa with a very large park in the neighbourhood of hirschberg. only i thought that my wife too ... dr. schimmelpfennig [_pulls at his moustache and stares at the floor. thoughtfully._] why don't you buy a villa somewhere else for your wife? [_hoffmann shrugs his shoulders._ dr. schimmelpfennig [_as before._] could you not, perhaps, engage the interest of your sister-in-law for the task of bringing up this child? hoffmann if you knew, doctor, how many obstacles ... and, after all, she is a young, inexperienced girl, and a mother _is_ a mother. dr. schimmelpfennig you have my opinion. good morning. hoffmann [_overwhelming the doctor with excessive courtesy._] good morning. i am extremely grateful to you ... [_both withdraw through the middle door._ _helen enters. her handkerchief is pressed to her mouth; she is sobbing, beside herself, and lets herself fall on the sofa in the foreground to the left. after a few moments, hoffmann reenters, his hands full of newspapers._ hoffmann why, what is that? tell me, sister, are things to go on this way much longer? since i came here not a day has passed on which i haven't seen you cry. helen oh!--what do _you_ know? if you had any sense for such things you'd be surprised that you ever saw me when i didn't cry! hoffmann that isn't clear to me. helen oh, but it is to me! hoffmann look here, something must have happened! helen [_jumps up and stamps her foot._] ugh ... but i won't bear it any longer ... it's got to stop! i won't endure such things any more! i don't see why ... i ... [_her sobs choke her._ hoffmann won't you tell me at least what the trouble is, so that i ... helen [_bursting out with renewed passion._] i don't care what happens to me! nothing worse _could_. i've got a drunkard for a father, a beast--with whom his ... his own daughter isn't safe.--an adulterous step-mother who wants to turn me over to her lover ... and this whole life.--no, i don't see that anyone can force me to be bad in spite of myself. i'm going away! i'll run away! and if the people here won't let me go, then ... rope, knife, gun ... i don't care! i don't want to take to drinking brandy like my sister. hoffmann [_frightened, grasps her arm._] nellie, keep still, i tell you; keep still about that. helen i don't care; i don't care one bit! i ... i'm ashamed of it all to the very bottom of my soul. i wanted to learn something, to be something, to have a chance--and what am i now? hoffmann [_who has not released her arm, begins gradually to dram the girl over toward the sofa. the tone of his voice now takes on an excessive softness, an exaggerated, vibrant gentleness._] nellie! ah, i know right well that you have many things to suffer here. but be calm...! you need not tell one who knows. [_he puts his right hand caressingly upon her shoulder and brings his face close to hers._] i can't bear to see you weep. believe me--it hurts me. but don't, don't see things in a worse light than is needful--; and then: have you forgotten, that we are both--you and i--so to speak--in the same position?--i have gotten into this peasant atmosphere--do i fit into it? as little as you do yourself, surely. helen if my--dear little mother had suspected this--when she ... when she directed--that i should be--educated at herrnhut! if she had rather ... rather left me at home, then at least ... at least i wouldn't have known anything else, and i would have grown up in this corruption, but now ... hoffmann [_has gently forced helen down upon the sofa and now sits, pressed close, beside her. in his consolations the sensual element betrays itself more and more strongly._] nellie! look at me; let those things be. let me be your consolation, i needn't talk to you about your sister. [_he embraces her more firmly. passionately and feelingly._] oh, if she were what you are!... but as it is ... tell me: what can she be to me? did you ever hear of a man, nellie, of a cultured man whose wife--[_he almost whispers_]--is a prey to such an unhappy passion? one is afraid to utter it aloud: a woman--and--brandy ... now, do you think i am any happier?... think of my little freddie! well, am i, when all's said, any better off than you are?... [_with increasing passion._] and so, you see, fate has done us one kindness anyhow. it has brought us together. and we belong together. our equal sorrows have predestined us to be friends. isn't it so, nellie? [_he puts his arms wholly around her. she permits it but with an expression which shows that she forces herself to mere endurance. she has grown quite silent and seems, with quivering tension of soul, to be awaiting some certainty, some consummation that is inevitably approaching._ hoffmann [_tenderly._] you should consent to my plan; you should leave this house and live with us. the baby that is coming needs a mother. come and be a mother to it; otherwise--[_passionately moved and sentimentally_]--it will have no mother. and then: bring a little, oh, only a very little brightness into my life! do that! oh, do that! [_he is about to lean his head upon her breast. she jumps up, indignant. in her expression are revealed contempt, surprise, loathing and hatred._ helen oh, but you are, you are ... now i know you thoroughly! oh, i've felt it dimly before. but now i am certain. hoffmann [_surprised, put out of countenance._] what? helen ... you're unique--really. helen now i know that you're not by one hair's breadth better ... indeed, you're much worse--the worst of them all here! hoffmann [_arises. with assumed coldness._] d'you know, your behaviour to-day is really quite peculiar. helen [_approaches him._] you have just one end in view. [_almost whispering._] but you have very different weapons from father and from my stepmother, or from my excellent betrothed--oh, quite different. they are all lambs, all of them, compared to you. now, now, suddenly, that has become clear as day to me. hoffmann [_with hypocritical indignation._] helen, you seem really not to be in your right mind; you're, suffering under a delusion.... [_he interrupts himself and strikes his forehead._] good lord, of course! i see it all. you have ... it's very early in the day, to be sure, but i'd wager ... helen! have you been talking to alfred loth this morning? helen and why should i not have been talking to him? he is the kind of man before whom we should all be hiding in shame if things went by rights. hoffmann so i was right!... that's it ... aha ... well, to be sure ... then i have no further cause for surprise. so he actually used the opportunity to go for his benefactor a bit. of course, one should really be prepared for things of that kind. helen do you know, i think that is really caddish. hoffmann i'm inclined to think so myself. helen he didn't breathe one syllable, not one, about you. hoffmann [_slurring helen's argument._] if things have reached that pass, then it is really my duty, my duty, i say, as a relative toward an inexperienced young girl like you ... helen inexperienced girl! what is the use of this pretence? hoffmann [_enraged._] loth came into this house on my responsibility. now i want you to know that he is, to put it mildly, an exceedingly dangerous fanatic--this mr. loth. helen to hear you saying that of mr. loth strikes me as so absurd, so laughably absurd! hoffmann and he is a fanatic, furthermore, who has the gift of muddling the heads not only of women, but even of sensible people, helen well, now, you see, that again strikes me as so absurd. i only exchanged a few words with mr. loth and ever since i feel a clearness about things that does me so much good ... hoffmann [_in a rebukeful tone._] what i tell you is by no means absurd! helen one has to have a sense for the absurd, and that's what you haven't. hoffmann [_in the same manner._] that isn't what we're discussing. i assure you once more that what i tell you is not at all absurd, but something that i must ask you to take as actually true ... i have my own experience to guide me. notions like that befog one's mind; one rants of universal brotherhood, of liberty and equality and, of course, transcends every convention and every moral law.... in those old days, for the sake of this very nonsense, we were ready to walk over the bodies of our parents to gain our ends ... heaven knows it. and he, i tell you, would be prepared, in a given case, to do the same thing to-day. helen and how many parents, do you suppose, walk year in and out over the bodies of their children without anybody's ... hoffmann [_interrupting her._] that is _nonsense_! why, that's the end of all.... i tell you to take care, in every ... i tell you emphatically, in _every_ respect. you won't find a trace of moral scrupulousness in that quarter. helen oh, dear, how absurd that sounds again. i tell you, when once you begin to take notice of things like that ... it's awfully interesting. hoffmann you may say what you please. i have warned you. only i will tell you quite in confidence: at the time of that incident i very nearly got into the same damnable mess myself. helen but if he's such a dangerous man, why were you sincerely delighted yesterday when he ... hoffmann good lord, i knew him when i was young. and how do you know that i didn't have very definite reasons for ... helen reasons? of what kind? hoffmann never mind.--though, if he came; to-day, and if i knew what i do know to-day-- helen what is it that you know? i've told you already that he didn't utter one word about you. hoffmann well, you may depend on it that if that had been the case, i would have thought it all over very carefully, and would probably have taken good care not to keep him here. loth is now and always will be a man whose acquaintance compromises you. the authorities have an eye on him. helen why? has he committed a crime? hoffmann the less said about it the better. just let this assurance be sufficient for you: to go about the world to-day, entertaining his opinions, is far worse and, above all, far more dangerous than stealing. helen i will remember.--but now--listen! after all your talk about mr. loth, you needn't ask me any more what i think of you.--do you hear? hoffmann [_with cold cynicism._] do you suppose that i'm so greatly concerned to know that? [_he presses the electric button._] and, anyhow, i hear him coming in. loth _enters._ hoffmann hallo! did you sleep well, old man? loth well, but not long. tell me this, though: i saw a gentleman leaving the house a while ago. hoffmann probably the doctor. he was here a while ago. i told you about him, didn't i?--this queer mixture of hardness and sentimentality. _helen gives instructions to edward, who has just entered. he leaves and returns shortly, serving tea and coffee._ loth this mixture, as you call him, happened to resemble an old friend of my student days most remarkably. in fact, i could have taken my oath that it was a certain--schimmelpfennig. hoffmann [_sitting down at the breakfast table._] that's quite right--schimmelpfennig. loth quite right? you mean? hoffmann that his name is really schimmelpfennig. loth who? the doctor here? hoffmann yes, certainly, the doctor. loth now that is really strange enough. then of course, it's he? hoffmann well, you see, beautiful souls find each other on sea and shore. you'll pardon me, won't you, if i begin? we were just about to sit down to breakfast. do take a seat yourself. you haven't had breakfast anywhere else, have you? loth no. hoffmann very well. then sit down. [_remaining seated himself he draws out a chair for loth hereupon addressing edward, who enters with tea and coffee._] ah, by the way, is mrs. krause coming down? edward the madame and mrs. spiller are taking their breakfast upstairs. hoffmann why, that has never before ... helen [_pushing the dishes to rights._] never mind. there's a reason. hoffmann is that so?... loth, help yourself!... egg? tea? loth i wonder if i could have a glass of milk? hoffmann with all the pleasure in the world. helen edward, tell miele to get some fresh milk. hoffmann [_peeling an egg._] milk--brrr! horrible! [_helping himself to salt and pepper._] by the way, loth, what brings you into these parts? up to now i've forgotten to ask you. loth [_spreading butter on a roll._] i would like to study the local conditions. hoffmann [_looking up sharply._] that so?... what kind of conditions? loth to be precise: i want to study the condition of your miners. hoffmann ah! in general that condition is a very excellent one, surely. loth do you think so?--that would be a very pleasant fact ... before i forget, however. you can be of some service to me in the matter. you will deserve very well of political economy, if you ... hoffmann i? how exactly? loth well, you have the sole agency for the local mines? hoffmann yes; and what of it? loth it will be very easy for you, in that case, to obtain permission for me to inspect the mines. that is to say: i would like to go down into them daily for at least a month, in order that i may gain a fairly accurate notion of the management. hoffmann [_carelessly._] and then, i suppose, you will describe what you've seen down there? loth yes, my work is to be primarily descriptive. hoffmann i'm awfully sorry, but i've nothing to do with that side of things. so you just want to write about the miners, eh? loth that question shows how little of an economist you are. hoffmann [_whose vanity is stung._] i beg your pardon! i hope you don't think ... why? i don't see why that isn't a legitimate question?... and, anyhow: it wouldn't be surprising. one can't know everything. loth oh, calm yourself. the matter stands simply thus: if i am to study the situation of the miners in this district, it is of course unavoidably necessary that i touch upon all the factors that condition their situation. hoffmann writings of that kind are sometimes full of frightful exaggerations. loth that is a fault which i hope to guard against. hoffmann that will be very praiseworthy. [_he has several times already cast brief and searching glances at helen, who hangs with naive devoutness upon loth's lips. he does so again now and continues._] i say ... it's just simply too queer for anything--how things will suddenly pop into a man's mind. i wonder how things like that are brought about in the brain? loth what is it that has occurred to you so suddenly? hoffmann it's about you.--i thought of your be--... no, maybe it's tactless to speak of your heart's secrets in the presence of a young lady. helen perhaps it would be better for me to.... loth please stay. miss krause! by all means stay, at least as far as i'm concerned. i've seen for some time what he's aiming at. there's nothing in the least dangerous about it. [_to hoffmann._] you're thinking of my betrothal, eh? hoffmann since you mention it yourself, yes. i was, as a matter of fact, thinking of your betrothal to anna faber. loth that was broken off, naturally, when i was sent to prison. hoffmann that wasn't very nice of your.... loth it was, at least, honest in her! the letter in which she broke with me showed her true face. had she shown that before she would have spared herself and me, too, a great deal. hoffmann and since that time your affections haven't taken root anywhere? loth no. hoffmann _of_ course! i suppose you've capitulated along the whole line--forsworn marriage as well as drink, eh? ah, well, _à chacun son goût_. loth it's not my taste that decides in this matter, but perhaps my fate. i told you once before, i believe, that i have made no renunciation in regard to marriage. what i fear is this, that i won't find a woman who is suitable for me, hoffman that's a big order, loth! loth i'm quite serious, though. it may be that one grows too critical as the years go on and possesses too little healthy instinct. and i consider instinct the best guarantee of a suitable choice. hoffmann [_frivolously._] oh, it'll be found again some day--[_laughing_]--the necessary instinct, i mean. loth and, after all, what have i to offer a woman? i doubt more and more whether i ought to expect any woman to content herself with that small part of my personality which does not belong to my life's work. then, too, i'm afraid of the cares which a family brings. hoffmann wh-at? the cares of a married man? haven't you a head, and arms, eh? loth obviously. but, as i've tried to tell you, my productive power belongs, for the greater part, to my life's work and will always belong to it. hence it is no longer mine. then, too, there would be peculiar difficulties ... hoffmann listen! hasn't some one been sounding a gong? loth you consider all i've said mere phrase-making? hoffmann honestly, it does sound a little hollow. after all, other people are not necessarily savages, even if they are married. but some men act as though they had a monopoly of all the good deeds that are to be done in the world. loth [_with some heat._] not at all! i'm not thinking of such a thing. if you hadn't abandoned your life's work, your happy material situation would be of the greatest assistance ... hoffmann [_ironically._] so that would be one of your demands, too? loth demands? how? what? hoffmann i mean that, in marrying, you would have an eye on money. loth unquestionably. hoffmann and then--if i know you at all--there's quite a list of demands still to come. loth so there is. the woman, for instance, must have physical and mental health. that's a _conditio sine qua non_. hoffmann [_laughing._] better and better! i suppose then that a previous medical examination of the lady would be necessary. loth [_quite seriously_.] you must remember that i make demands upon myself too. hoffmann [_more and more amused._] i know, i know! i remember your going through all the literature of love once in order to determine quite conscientiously whether that which you felt at that time for a certain lady was really the tender passion. so, let's hear a few more of your demands. loth my wife, for instance, would have to practice renunciation. helen if ... if ... ah, i don't know whether it's right to ... but i merely wanted to say that women, as a rule, are accustomed to renounce. loth for heaven's sake! you understand me quite wrongly. i did not mean renunciation in the vulgar sense. i would demand renunciation only in so far, or, rather, i would simply ask my wife to resign voluntarily and gladly that part of myself which belongs to my chosen work. no, no, in regard to every thing else, it is my wife who is to make demands--to demand all that her sex has forfeited in the course of thousands of years. hoffmann oho, oho! emancipation of woman! really, that sudden turn was admirable--now you are in the right channel. fred loth, or the agitator in a vest-pocket edition. how would you formulate your demands in this respect, or rather: to what degree would yam wife have to be emancipated?--it really amuses me to hear you talk! would she have to smoke cigars? wear breeches? loth hardly that. i would want her, to be sure, to have risen above certain social conventions. i should not want her, for instance, to hesitate, if she felt genuine love for me, to be the first to make the avowal. hoffmann [_has finished his breakfast. he jumps up in half-humorous, half-serious indignation._] do you know? that ... that is a really _shameless_ demand. and i prophesy, too, that you'll go about with it unfulfilled to your very end--unless you prefer to drop it first. helen [_mastering her deep emotion with difficulty._] if you gentlemen will excuse me now--the household ... you know [_to hoffmann_] that mama is upstairs and so ... hoffmann don't let us keep you. _helen bows and withdraws._ hoffmann [_holding a match case in his hand and walking over to the cigar-box which stands on the table._] there's no doubt ... you do get a man excited ... it's almost uncanny. [_he takes a cigar from the box and sits down on the sofa in the foreground, left. he cuts off the end of his cigar, and, during what follows, he holds the cigar in his left, the severed end between the fingers of his right hand._] in spite of all that ... it does amuse me. and then, you don't know how good it feels to pass a few days in the country this way, away from all business matters. if only to-day this confounded ... how late is it anyhow? unfortunately i have to go into town to a dinner to-day. it couldn't be helped: i had to give this banquet. what are you going to do as a business man? tit for tat. the mine officials are used to that sort of thing.--well, i've got time enough to smoke another cigar--quite in peace, too. [_he carries the cigar end to a cuspidor, sits down on the sofa again and lights his cigar._] loth [_stands at the table and turns the leaves of a deluxe volume._] "the adventures of count sandor." hoffmann you'll find that trash among all the farmers in the neighbourhood. loth [_still turning the leaves._] how old is your sister-in-law? hoffmann she was twenty-one last august. loth is she in delicate health? hoffmann don't know. i hardly think so, though. does she make that impression on you? loth she really looks rather worried than ill. hoffmann well, if you consider all the miseries with her step-mother ... loth she seems to be rather excitable, too. hoffmann in such an environment ... i should like to see any one who wouldn't become excitable. loth she seems to possess a good deal of energy. hoffmann stubbornness. loth deep feeling, too? hoffmann too much at times ... loth but if the conditions here are so unfortunate for her, why doesn't your sister-in-law live with _your_ family? hoffmann you'd better ask her that! i've often enough made her the offer. women have these fancies, that's all. [_holding the cigar in his mouth, hoffmann takes out a note-book and adds a fete items._] you'll forgive me, won't you, if i have to leave you alone after a while? loth assuredly. hoffmann how long do you think of stay-- loth i mean to look for a lodging very soon. where does schimmelpfennig live? the best thing would be to go to see him. he would _probably_ be able to secure one for me. i hope that i'll soon find a suitable place, otherwise i'll spend the night at the inn next door. hoffmann why should you? of course you'll stay with us till morning, at least. to be sure, i'm only a guest in this house myself, otherwise i'd naturally ask you to ... you understand? loth perfectly. hoffmann but do tell me, were you really quite serious when you said ... loth that i would spend the night at an inn...? hoffmann nonsense ... of course not!... i mean what you mentioned a while ago--that business about your ridiculous descriptive essay? loth why not? hoffmann i must confess that i thought you were jesting. [_he gets up and speaks confidentially and half-humorously._] now, you don't mean to say you're really capable of undermining the ground here where a friend of yours has been fortunate enough to get a firm foothold? loth you may take my word for it, hoffmann; i had no idea that you were here. if i had known that ... hoffmann [_jumps up, delighted._] very well, then; very well. if that's the way things are. and i assure you i'm more than glad that i was not mistaken in you. so now you do know that i am here. it goes without saying that i'll make up to you all your travelling expenses and all extras. no, you needn't be so excessively delicate. it's simply my duty as a friend ... now i recognise my excellent old friend again. but i tell you: for a time i had very serious suspicions of you ... now you ought to know this, however. frankly, i'm not as bad as i sometimes pretend to be, not by any means. i have always honoured you, you and your sincere, single-minded efforts. and i'm the last man to fail to attach weight to certain demands of the exploited, oppressed masses, demands which are, most unfortunately, only too well justified.--oh, you may smile. i'll go further and confess that there is just one party in parliament that has any true ideals, and that's the party to which you belong! only--as i said before--we must go slowly, slowly!--not try to rush things through. everything is coming, surely coming about exactly as it ought to. only patience! patience ... loth one must have patience. that is certain. but one isn't justified on that account in folding one's hands in idleness. hoffmann exactly my opinion.--as a matter of fact my thoughts have oftener been in accord with you than my words. it's a bad habit of mine, i admit, i fell into it in intercourse with people to whom i didn't always want to show my hand.... take the question, of woman, for instance ... you expressed a good many things quite strikingly. [_he has, in the meantime, approached the telephone, taken up the receiver and now speaks alternately into the telephone and to loth._] my little sister-in-law, by the way, was all ear ... [_into the telephone._] frank! i want the carriage in ten minutes ... [_to loth._] you made an impression on her ... [_into the telephone._] what--oh, nonsense!--well, that beats everything ... then hitch up the black horses at once ... [_to loth._] and why shouldn't you?... [_into the telephone._] well, upon my...! to the milliner, you say? the madame? the ma--! well, very well, then. but at once! oh, very well! yes! what's the--! [_he presses the button of the servants' bell. to loth._] you just wait. give me a chance to heap up the necessary mountain of shekels, and maybe you'll see something happen ... [_edward has entered._] edward, my leggings, my walking-coat! [_edward withdraws_.] maybe something will happen then that you fellows wouldn't believe of me now ... if, at the end of two or three days--you must stay with us so long by all means--i'd consider it a real insult if you didn't--[_he slips out of his dressing-gown_]--if, at the end of two or three days, you're ready to go. i'll drive you over to the train. _edward enters carrying gaiters and walking-coat._ hoffmann [_permitting himself to be helped on with the coat._] so-o! [_sitting down on a chair._] now the boots. [_after he has pulled on one of them._] there's number one! loth perhaps you didn't quite understand me after all. hoffmann surely, that's quite possible. a fellow gets out of touch with things. nothing but musty business affairs. edward, hasn't the mail come yet? wait a minute!--do go up into my room. you'll find a document in a blue cover on the left side of my desk. get that and put it into the carriage. _edward goes through the door at the right, reappears through the middle-door and then withdraws._ loth i simply meant that you hadn't understood me in one particular respect. hoffmann [_worrying his foot into the other shoe._] ouch! there! [_he rises and stamps his feet._] there we are. nothing is more disagreeable than tight shoes ... what were you saying just now? loth you were speaking of my departure ... hoffmann well? loth but i thought i had explained that i must stay here for a specific purpose. hoffmann [_in extreme consternation and thoroughly indignant at once._] look here!... that comes near being caddish!--don't you know what you owe me as your friend? loth not, i hope, the betrayal of my cause! hoffmann [_beside himself._] well then--in that case--i haven't the slightest motive for treating you as a friend. and so i tell you that i consider your appearance and demeanour here--to put it mildly--incredibly impudent. loth [_quite calmly._] perhaps you'll explain what gives you the right to use such epithets ... hoffmann yon want an explanation of that? that is going to an extreme! not to feel a thing like that it's necessary to have a rhinoceros-hide instead of skin on one's back! you come here, enjoy my hospitality, thresh out a few of your thread-bare phrases, turn my sister-in-law's head, go on about old friendship and other pleasant things, and then you tell me quite coolly: you're going to write a descriptive pamphlet about the local conditions. why, what do you take me to be, anyhow? d'you suppose i don't know that these so-called essays are merely shameless libels?... you want to write a denunciation like that, and about our coal district, of all places! are you so blind that you can't see whom such a rag would harm most keenly? only me, of course! i tell you, the trade that you demagogues drive ought to be more firmly stamped out than has been done up to now! what is it you do? you make the miners discontented, presumptuous; you stir them up, embitter them, make them rebellious, disobedient, wretched! then you delude them with promises of mountains of gold, and, in the meantime, grab out of their pockets the few pennies that keep them from starving! loth do you consider yourself unmasked now? hoffmann [_brutally._] oh, pshaw! you ridiculous, pompous wind-bag! what do you suppose i care about being unmasked by you?--go to work! leave off this silly drivelling!--do something! get ahead! i don't need to sponge on any one for two-hundred marks! [_he rushes out through the middle door._ _for several moments loth looks calmly after him. then, no less calmly, he draws a card case out of his inner pocket, takes a slip of paper therefrom--hoffmann's cheque--and tears it through several times. then he drops the scraps slowly into the coal-bin. hereupon he takes his hat and cane and turns to go. at this moment helen appears on the threshold of the conservatory._ helen [_softly._] mr. loth! loth [_quivers and turns._] ah, it is you.--well, then i can at least say farewell to _you_. helen [_in spite of herself._] did you feel the need of doing that? loth yes! i did feel it, indeed. probably, if you were in there, you heard what has taken place here, and--in that case.... helen i heard everything. loth in that case it won't astonish you to see me this house with so little ceremony. helen no-o! i do understand--! but i should like you to feel less harshly toward my brother-in-law. he always repents very quickly. i have often.... loth quite possibly. but for that very reason what he has said just now probably expresses his true opinion of me.--in fact, it is undoubtedly his real opinion. helen do you seriously believe that? loth oh, yes, quite seriously. and so.... [_he walks toward her and takes her hand._] i hope that life will be kind to you. [_he turns but at once stops again._] i don't know...! or rather:--[_he looks calmly and directly into helen's face_]--i do know, i know--at this moment the knowledge becomes clear--that it is not so easy for me to go away from here ... and ... yes ... and ... well, yes...! helen but if i begged you--begged you truly--from my heart ... to stay a little longer-- loth so you do not share hoffmann's opinion? helen no!--and that--that is just what i wanted to be sure--quite sure to tell you, before ... before--you--went. loth [_grasps her hand once more._] it helps me _much_ to hear you say that. helen [_struggling with herself. her excitement mounts rapidly and to the point of unconsciousness. she stammers out half-chokingly._] and more, oh, more i wanted to ... to tell you ... that i esteem and ... and ... honour you as ... i've done no ... man before ... that i trust ... you ... that i'm ready to ... to prove that ... that i feel toward you ... [_she sinks, swooning into his arms._ loth helen! the curtain drops quickly the fourth act _the farmyard, as in the second act. time: a quarter of an hour after helen's avowal._ _marie and golisch the cowherd drag a wooden chest down the stairs that lead to the loft. loth comes from the house. he is dressed for travelling and goes slowly and thoughtfully diagonally across the yard. before he turns into the path that leads to the inn, he comes upon hoffmann, who is hurrying toward him through the gateway._ hoffmann [_in top hat and kid gloves._] don't be angry with me. [_he obstructs loth's way and grasps both of his hands._] i take it all back herewith ... mention any reparation you demand ... i am ready to give you any!... i'm most truly, most sincerely sorry. loth that helps neither of us very much. hoffmann oh, if you would just ... look here, now...! a man can't well do more than that. i assure you that my conscience gave me no rest! i turned back just before reaching jauer.... that should convince you of the seriousness of my feeling. where were you going? loth to the inn--for the moment. hoffmann oh, that's an affront you simply can't offer me ... no, you mustn't--simply, i believe that i did hurt you badly, of course. and probably it's not the kind of thing that can be wiped out with just a few words. only don't rob me of any chance ... of every possibility to prove to you ... d'you hear? now turn back and stay at least--at least until to-morrow. or till ... till i come back. i want to talk it all over with you at leisure. you can't refuse me that favour. loth if you set so much store by it all.... hoffmann a great deal!... on my honour!... i care immensely. so come, come! don't run away! [_he leads loth, who offers no further resistance, back into the house._ _the dismissed maid and the boy have, in the meantime, placed the chest on a wheelbarrow and golisch has put on the shoulder strap._ marie [_slipping a coin into golisch's hand._] there's somethin' fer you. golisch [_refusing it._] keep yer penny. marie aw! ye donkey! golisch well, i don't care. [_he takes the coin and puts it into his leathern purse._ mrs. spiller [_appears at one of the windows of the house and calls out:_] marie. marie what d'ye want now? mrs. spiller [_appearing almost immediately at the door of the house._] the madame's willing to keep you, if you promise.... marie a stinkin' lot i'll promise her. go on, golisch! mrs. spiller [_approaching._] the madame is willing to increase your wages, if you.... [_whispering suddenly._] what d'ye care, girl! she just gits kinder rough now an' then. marie [_furiously._] she c'n keep her dirty money to herself!--[_tearfully._] i'd rather starve! [_she follows golisch, who has preceded her with the wheelbarrow._] naw, just to think of it!--it's enough to make you.... [_she disappears, as does mrs. spiller._ _through the great gate comes baer called hopping baer. he is a lank fellow with a vulture's neck and goitre. his feet and head are bare. his breeches, badly ravelled at the bottom, scarcely reach below the knee. the top of his head is bald. such hair as he has, brown, dusty, and clotted, hangs down over his shoulders. his gait is ostrich-like. by a cord he draws behind him a child's toy waggon full of sand. his face is beardless. his whole appearance shows him to be a god-forsaken peasant lad in the twenties._ baer [_with a strangely bleating voice._] sa--a--and! sa--a--and! _he crosses the yard and disappears between the house and the stables. hoffmann and helen come from the house. helen is pale and carries an empty glass in her hand._ hoffmann [_to helen._] entertain him a bit! you understand? don't let him go. i should hate to have him.--injured vanity like that!... good-bye!... oh, maybe i oughtn't to go at all? how is martha doing?--i've got a queer kind of feeling as if pretty soon.... nonsense!--good-bye! ... awful hurry!... [_calls out._] franz! give the horses their heads! [_leaves rapidly through the main gate._ _helen goes to the pump, fills her glass and empties it at one draught. she empties half of another glass. she then sets the glass on the pump and then strolls slowly, looking backward from time to time, through the gate-may. baer emerges from between the house and the stables and stops with his waggon before the house door, where miele takes some sand from him. in the meantime kahl has become visible at the right, beyond the dividing fence. he is in conversation with mrs. spiller, who is on the hither side of the fence and therefore close to the entrance of the yard. as the conversation proceeds, both walk slowly along the fence._ mrs. spiller [_mildly agonised._] ah yes--m--mr. kahl! i have--m--many a time thought of--m--you when ... when our--m--dear miss helen ... she is so to--m--speak betrothed to you and so--m--ah! i--m--must say ... in my time...! kahl [_mounts a rustic bench under the oak-tree and fastens a bird trap to the lowest branch._] when is th-that b-beast of a doctor goin' to git out o' here? ha? mrs. spiller ah, mr. kahl! i don't--m--think so very soon.--ah, mr. kahl, i--m--have, so to speak, come--m--down in the world, but i--m--know--m--what refinement is. in this respect, mr. kahl, i--must say--dear miss helen isn't--m--acting quite right toward you. no--m--in that respect, so to speak--m--i've never had anything with which to--m--reproach myself--m--my conscience, dear mr. kahl, is as pure in that--m--respect--so to speak, as new-fallen snow. _baer has finished the sale of his sand and, at this moment, passes by kahl in order to leave the yard._ kahl [_discovers baer and calls out._] heres hopping baer! hop a bit! _baer takes a, huge leap._ kahl [_bellowing with laughter._] here, hopping baer! hop again! mrs. spiller well--m--mr. kahl, what i want to say is--m--i have the best--m--intentions toward you. you ought to observe very--m--carefully. something--m--is going on between our young lady and--m-- kahl if i could j-jist git my d-dogs on that son of a--... jist once! mrs. spiller [_mysteriously._] and i'm afraid you--m--don't know what kind of an individual that--m--is. oh, i am so--m--truly sorry for our dear young lady. the wife of the bailiff--she has it straight from the office, i think. he is said to be a--m--really dangerous person. the woman said her husband had--m--orders, just think! actually--m--to keep his eye on him. _loth comes from the house and looks about._ mrs. spiller you see, now he is going--m--after our young lady. oh, it's _too_ sad--m--for anything. kahl aw! you wait an' see! [_exit._ _mrs. spiller goes to the door of the house. in passing loth she makes a deep bow. then she disappears into the house._ _loth disappears slowly through the gateway. the coachman's wife, an emaciated, worried, starved woman, emerges from between the house and the stables. she carries a large pot hidden under her apron and slinks off toward the cow-shed, looking about fearfully at every moment. she disappears into the door of the stable. the two maids, each before her a wheel-barrow laden with clover, enter by the gate. beipst, his pipe in his mouth and his scythe across his shoulder, follows them, liese has wheeled her barrow in front of the left, auguste hers in front of the right door of the barn, and both begin to carry great armfuls of clover into the building._ liese [_coming back out of the stable._] guste! d'ye know, marie is gone. auguste aw, don' tell me! liese go in there'n ask the coachman's wife. she's gittin' her a drop o' milk. beipst [_hangs up his scythe on the wall._] ye'd better not let that spiller creature get wind o' it. auguste oh, lord, no! who'd think o' it! liese a poor woman like that with eight-- auguste eight little brats. they wants to be fed! liese an' they wouldn't give her a drop o' milk even. it's low, that's what i calls it. auguste where is she milkin'? liese way back there. beipst [_fills his pipe. holding his tobacco-pouch with his teeth he mumbles._] ye say marie's gone? liese yes, it's true an' certain. the parson's hired man slept with her. beipst [_replacing the tobacco-pouch in his pocket._] everybody feels that way sometimes--even a woman. [_he lights his pipe and disappears through the gateway. in going:_] i'm goin' fer a bit o' breakfast. the coachman's wife [_hiding the pot full of milk carefully under her apron, sticks her head out of the stable door._] anybody in sight? liese ye c'n come if ye'll hurry. there ain't nobody. come! hurry! the coachman's wife [_passing by the maids._] it's fer the nursin' baby. liese [_calling out after her._] hurry! some one's comin'. _the coachman's wife disappears between the house and the stable._ auguste it's only the young miss. _the maids now finish unloading their wheelbarrows and then thrust them under the doorway. they both go into the cow-shed._ _helen and loth enter by the gate._ loth a disgusting fellow--this kahl--an insolent sneak. helen i think in the arbour in front--[_they pass through the small gate into the little garden by the house and into the arbour._] it's my favourite place, i'm less disturbed there than anywhere if, sometimes, i want to read something. loth it's a pretty place.--really. [_both sit down in the arbour, consciously keeping at some distance from one another. an interval of silence. then loth._] you have very beautiful and abundant hair. helen yes, my brother-in-law says so too. he thought he had scarcely seen anyone with so much--not even in the city ... the braid at the top is as thick as my wrist ... when i let it down, it reaches to my knees. feel it. it's like silk, isn't it? loth it is like silk. [_a tremour passes through him. he bends down and kisses her hair._ helen [_frightened._] ah, don't. if ... loth helen! were you in earnest a while ago? helen oh, i am so ashamed--so deeply ashamed. what have i done? why, i've thrown myself at you. that's what i've done. i wonder what you take me for? loth [_draws nearer to her and takes her hand in his._] ah, you mustn't let _that_ trouble you. helen [_sighing._] oh, if sister schmittgen knew of that--i dare not imagine it. loth who is sister schmittgen? helen one of my teachers at boarding-school. loth how can you worry about sister schmittgen! helen she was very good. [_laughing heartily to herself suddenly._ loth why do you laugh all at once? helen [_half between respect and jest._] oh, when she stood in the choir and sang--she had only one long tooth left--then she was supposed to sing: "trouble yourselves not, my people!"--and it always sounded like: "'rouble, 'rouble yourselves not, my people!" it was too funny. and we always had to laugh so ... when it sounded through the chapel: "'rouble, 'rouble!" [_she laughs more and more heartily. loth becomes infected by her mirth. she seems so sweet to him at this moment that he wants to take the opportunity to put his arms about her. helen wards him off._] an, no! no! just think! i threw myself at you! loth oh, don't say such things! helen but it isn't my fault; you have only yourself to blame for it. why do you demand ... _loth puts his arm about her once more and draws her closer to him. at first she resists a little, then she yields and gazes, with frank blessedness, into the joyous face of loth which bends above her. involuntarily, in the awkwardness of her very timidity, she kisses his mouth. both grow red; then loth returns her kiss. his caress is long and heartfelt. a giving and taking of kisses--silent and eloquent at once--is, for a time, all that passes between them. loth is the first to speak._ loth nellie, dearest! nellie is your name, isn't it? helen [_kisses him._] call me something else ... call me what you like best ... loth dearest!... _the exchange of kisses and of mutual contemplation is repeated._ helen [_held tight in loth's arms, resting her head on his shoulder, looking up at him with dim, happy eyes, whispers ecstatically._] oh, how beautiful! how beautiful! loth to die with you--thus ... helen [_passionately._] to live!... [_she disengages herself from his embrace._] why die now?... now ... loth yon must not misunderstand me. always, in happy moments, it has come over me with a sense of intoxication--the consciousness of the fact that it is in our power, in my power, to embrace--you understand? helen to embrace death, if you desired it? loth [_quite devoid of sentimentality._] yes! and the thought of death has nothing horrible in it for me. on the contrary, it seems like the thought of a friend. one calls and knows surely that death will come. and so one can rise above so many, many things--above one's past, above one's future fate ... [_looking at helen's hand._] what a lovely hand you have. [_he caresses it._ helen ah, yes!--so!... [_she nestles anew in his arms._ loth no, do you know, i haven't really lived--until now! helen do you think i have?... and i feel faint--faint with happiness. dear god, how suddenly it all came ... loth yes, it came all at once ... helen listen, i feel this way: all the days of my life are like one day; but yesterday and to-day are like a year--a whole year! loth didn't i come till yesterday? helen of course not! naturally! that's just it!... oh, and you don't even know it! loth and surely it seems to me ... helen doesn't it? like a whole, long year! doesn't it? [_half jumping up._] wait...! don't you hear ... [_they move away from each other._] oh, but i don't care one bit! i am so full of courage now. [_she remains seated and invites loth with her eyes to move nearer, which he does._ helen [_in loth's arms._] dear, what are we going to do first? loth your step-mother, i suppose, would send me packing. helen oh, my step-mother ... that won't matter ... it doesn't even concern her! i do as i please! i have my mother's fortune, you must know. loth did you think on that account ... helen i am of age; father will have to give me my share. loth you are not, then, on good terms with everyone here?--where has your father gone to? helen gone? you have?... oh, you haven't seen my father yet? loth no; hoffmann told me.... helen surely, you saw him once. loth not that i know of. where, dearest? helen i.... [_she bursts into tears._] no, i can't. i can't tell you ... it's too, too fearful! loth so fearful? but, helen, is anything wrong with your father? helen oh, don't ask me! not now, at least! some time...! loth i will not urge you to tell me anything, dear, that you don't voluntarily speak of. and, look, as far as the money is concerned ... if the worst came ... though i don't exactly earn superfluous cash with my articles--still, in the end, we could both manage to exist on it. helen and i wouldn't be idle either, would i? but the other way is better. my inheritance is more than enough.--and there's your life work ... no, you're not to give that up under any circumstances ... now less than ever ...! now you're to have your real chance to pursue it! loth [_kissing her tenderly._] dearest, best ... helen oh, do you truly care...? truly? truly? loth truly. helen you must say truly a hundred times. loth truly and truly and truthfully. helen oh, now, you're not playing fair! loth i am, though. that truthfully is equal to a hundred trulys. helen oh? is that the custom in berlin? loth no, but it is here in witzdorf. helen oh! but now, look at my little finger and don't laugh. loth gladly. helen did you ever love any one before your first betrothed? oh, now you _are_ laughing! loth i will tell you in all seriousness, dearest; indeed, i think it is my duty.... in the course of my life a considerable number of women.... helen [_with a quick and violent start, pressing her hand over his mouth._] for the love of.... tell me that some day, later, when we are old, when the years have passed, when i shall say to you: "now!" do you hear! not before! loth just as you will. helen rather tell me something sweet now!... listen: repeat after me: loth what? helen i have loved-- loth i have loved-- helen always you only-- loth always you only-- helen all the days of my life-- loth all the days of my life-- helen and will love you only as long as i live-- loth and will love you only as long as i live--and that is true so surely as i am an honest man. helen [_joyfully._] i didn't add that! loth but i did. [_they kiss each other._ helen [_hums very softly._] "thou in my heart art lying ..." loth but now you must confess too. helen anything you like. loth confess now! am i the first? helen no. loth who? helen [_laughing out in the fullness of her joy._] willy kahl! loth [_laughing._] who else? helen oh, no, there's no one else really. you must believe me ... truly there wasn't. why should i tell you a falsehood? loth so there _was_ someone else? helen [_passionately._] oh, please, please, please, don't ask me now. [_she hides her face in her hands and weeps apparently without any reason._ loth but ... but nellie! i'm not insistent; i don't want to ... helen later ... i'll tell you later ... not now! loth as i said before, dearest. helen there was some one--i want you to know--whom i ... because ... because among wicked people he seemed the least wicked. oh, it is so different now. [_weeping against loth's neck: stormily._] ah, if i only didn't have to leave you at all any more! oh, if i could only go away with you right here on the spot! loth i suppose you have a very unhappy time in the house here? helen oh, dear!--it's just frightful--the things that happen here. it's a life like--that ... like that of the beasts of the field--oh, i would have died without you. i shudder to think of it! loth i believe it would calm you, dearest, if you would tell me everything quite openly. helen yes, to be sure. but i don't think i can bear to. not now, at least, not yet. and i'm really afraid to. loth you were at boarding-school, weren't you? helen my mother decided that i be sent--on her death-bed. loth was your sister there with you? helen no, she was always at home ... and so when, four years ago, i came back from school, i found a father--who ... a step-mother--who ... a sister ... guess, can't you guess what i mean! loth i suppose your step-mother is quarrelsome? perhaps jealous? unloving? helen my father...? loth well, in all probability he dances to her music. perhaps she tyrannises over him? helen oh, if it were nothing else?... no! it is too frightful!--you can't possibly guess that _that_ ... my father ... that it was _my_ father whom you ... loth don't weep, nellie!... look, you almost make me feel as though i ought to insist that you tell ... helen no, no, it isn't possible. i haven't the strength!--not yet! loth but you're wearing yourself out this way! helen but i'm so ashamed, so boundlessly ashamed! why, you will drive me from you in horror...! it's beyond anything...! it's loathsome! loth nellie, dear, you don't know me if you can think such things of me! repulse you! drive you from me! do i seem such a brute to you? helen my brother-in-law said that you would quite calmly ... but no, no, you wouldn't? would you?--you wouldn't just ruthlessly walk over me? oh! you won't! you mustn't! i don't know what _would_ become of me! loth but, dear, it's senseless to talk so. there's no earthly reason! helen but if there were a reason, it might happen! loth no! not at all! helen but if you could think of a reason? loth there are reasons, to be sure; but they're not in question. helen and what kind of reasons? loth i would have to be ruthless only toward some one who would make me betray my own most ideal self. helen and surely, i wouldn't want to do that! and yet i can't rid myself of the feeling-- loth what feeling, dearest? helen perhaps it's just because i'm nothing but a silly girl. there's so little to me--why, i don't even know what it is--to have principles! isn't that frightful? but i just simply love you so! and you're so good, and so great, and so very wise! i'm so afraid that you might, sometime, discover--when i say something foolish, or do something--that it's all a mistake, that i'm much too silly for you ... i'm really as worthless and as silly as i can be! loth what shall i say to all that? you're everything to me, just everything in the whole world. i can't say more! helen and i'm very strong and healthy, too ... loth tell me, are your parents in good health? helen indeed they are. that is, mother died in childbirth. but father is still well; in fact he must have a very strong constitution. but ... loth well, you see. everything is ... helen but if my parents were not strong--; loth [_kissing helen._] but then, they are, dear. helen but suppose they were not--? _mrs. krause pushes open a window in the house and calls out into the yard._ mrs. krause hey! girls! gi--rls! liese [_from within the cow-shed._] yes, missis? mrs. krause run to mueller's! it's startin'! liese what! to the midwife, ye mean? mrs. krause are ye standin' on your ear? [_she slams the window._ _liese runs out of the cow-shed with a little shawl over her head and then out of the yard._ mrs. spiller [_calls._] miss helen! oh, miss helen! helen what do you suppose is--? mrs. spiller [_approaching the arbour._] miss helen! helen oh, i know. it's my sister who--you must go, 'round that way! [_loth withdraws rapidly by the right foreground. helen steps out from the arbour._ mrs. spiller oh, miss, there you are at last! helen what is it? mrs. spiller ah--m--your sister. [_she whispers into helen's ear._ helen my brother-in-law ordered that the doctor be sent for at any sign of-- mrs. spiller oh--m--dear miss helen--m--she doesn't really want a doctor. these doctors--m--oh, these doctors--m--with god's help ... _miele comes from the house._ helen miele, go at once for dr. schimmelpfennig! mrs. krause [_from the window, arrogantly._] miele! you come up here! helen [_in a tone of command._] miele, you go for the doctor! [_miele withdraws into the house._] well, then i must go myself ... [_she goes into the house and comes back out at once carrying her straw hat._ mrs. spiller it'll go wrong--m--if you call the doctor, dear miss helen,--m--it will surely go wrong! _helen passes her by. mrs. spiller withdraws into the house, shaking her head. as helen turns at the driveway kahl is standing at the boundary fence._ kahl [_calls out to helen._] what's the matter over at your place? _helen does not stop, nor does she deign to notice or answer kahl._ kahl [_laughing._] i guess ye got a pig killin'? curtain the fifth act _the same room, as in the first act. time: toward two o'clock in the morning. the room is in complete darkness. through the open middle door light penetrates into it from the illuminated hall. the light also falls clearly upon the wooden stairway that leads to the upper floor. the conversation in this act--with very few exceptions--is carried on in a muffled tone._ _edward enters through the middle door, carrying a light. he lights the hanging lamp (it is a gas lamp) over the corner table. while he is thus employed, loth _also enters by the middle door._ edward o lord! such goin's on! it'd take a monster to be able to close a eye here! loth i didn't even try to sleep. i have been writing. edward you don't say! [_he succeeds in lighting the lamp._] there! well, sure, i guess it's hard enough, too ... maybe you'd like to have paper and ink, sir? loth perhaps that would be ... if you would be so good, then, mr. edward? edward [_placing pen and ink on the table._] i'm always thinkin' that any honest fellow has got to get all the work there's in every bone for every dirty penny. you can't even get your rest o' nights. [_more and more confidentially._] but this crew here! they don't do one thing--a lazy, worthless crew, a--... i suppose, sir, that you've got to be at it early and late too, like all honest folks, for your bit o' bread. loth i wish i didn't have to. edward me too, you betcher. loth i suppose miss helen is with her sister? edward yes, sir, an', honestly, she's a good girl, she is; hasn't budged since it started. loth [_looking at his watch._] the pains began at eleven o'clock in the morning. so they've already lasted fifteen hours--fifteen long hours--! edward lord, yes!--and that's what they calls the weaker sex. but she's just barely gaspin'. loth and is mr. hoffmann upstairs, too? edward yes, an' i can tell you, he's goin' on like a woman. loth well, i suppose it isn't very easy to have to watch that. edward you're right there, indeed. dr. schimmelpfennig came just now. there's a man for you: rough as rough can be--but sugar ain't nothing to his real feelings. but just tell me what's become of little, old berlin in all this ... [_he interrupts himself with a_ gee-rusa-lem! _as hoffmann and the doctor are seen coming down the stairs._ _hoffmann and dr. schimmelpfennig enter._ hoffmann surely--you will stay with us from now on. dr. schimmelpfennig yes, i suppose i will stay now. hoffmann that's a very, very great consolation to me.--will you have a glass of wine? surely you'll drink a glass of wine, doctor? dr. schimmelpfennig if you want to do something for me, have a cup of coffee prepared. hoffmann with pleasure. edward! coffee for the doctor! [_edward withdraws._] are you...? are you satisfied with the way things are going? dr. schimmelpfennig so long as your wife's strength keeps up there is, at all events, no direct danger. but why didn't you call in the young midwife? i remember having recommended her to you. hoffmann my mother-in-law...! what is one to do? and, to be frank with you, my wife has no confidence in the young woman either. dr. schimmelpfennig but your ladies place confidence in this old fossil? well, i hope they'll ... and i suppose you would like to go back upstairs? hoffmann yes, honestly, i can't get much rest down here. dr. schimmelpfennig it would be better undoubtedly if you were to go somewhere--out of the house. hoffmann with the best will in the world, i--. [_loth arises from the sofa in the dim foreground and approaches the two._] hallo, loth, there you are too! dr. schimmelpfennig [_surprised in the extreme._] well, i'll be--! loth i heard that you were here. i would have looked you up to-morrow without fail. [_they shake hands cordially. hoffmann takes the opportunity to mash down a glass of brandy at the side-board and then to creep back upstairs on tiptoe._ dr. schimmelpfennig so you've evidently forgotten--ha, ha, ha--that ridiculous old affair? [_he lays aside his hat and cane._ loth long ago, schimmel! dr. schimmelpfennig well, so have i, as you can well imagine. [_they shake hands once more._] i've had so few pleasant surprises in this hole, that this one seems positively queer to me. and it is strange that we should meet just here. it _is_. loth and you faded clear out of sight. otherwise i'd have routed you out long ago. dr. schimmelpfennig oh, i just dived below the surface like a seal. made deep-sea investigations. in about a year and a half i hope to emerge once more. a man must be financially independent--do you know that?--in order to achieve anything useful. loth so you, too, are making money here? dr. schimmelpfennig naturally and as much as possible. what else is there to do here? loth you might have let some one hear from you! dr. schimmelpfennig i beg your pardon. but if i had been heard from, i would have heard from you fellows--and i absolutely didn't want to hear. nothingnothing. that would simply have kept me from exploiting my diggings here. _the two men walk slowly up and down the room._ loth i see. but then you mustn't be surprised to hear that ... well, they all, without an exception, really gave you up as hopeless. dr. schimmelpfennig that's like them--the scamps! they'll be made to take notice. loth schimmel--otherwise the "rough husk"! dr. schimmelpfennig i wish you had had to live here among the farmers for six years. hellhounds--every one of them. loth i can imagine that.--but how in the world did you get to witzdorf? dr. schimmelpfennig the way such things do happen! you remember i had to skin out from jena that time. loth was that before my crash? dr. schimmelpfennig yes, a short time after we'd given up living together. so i took up medicine at zuerich, first simply so as to have something against a time of need. but then the thing began to interest me, and now i'm a doctor, heart and soul. loth and about this place. how did you get here? dr. schimmelpfennig very simply. when i got through i said to myself: first of all you've got to have a sufficient pile. i thought of america, south and north america, of africa, australia and the isles of the sea ... in the end it occurred to me, however, that my escapade had become outlawed; and so i made up my mind to creep back into the old trap. loth and how about your swiss examinations? dr. schimmelpfennig why, i simply had to go through the whole rigmarole once more. loth man! you passed the state medical examination twice over? dr. schimmelpfennig yes, luckily i then discovered this fat pasture here. loth your toughness is certainly enviable. dr. schimmelpfennig all very well, unless one collapses suddenly.--well, it wouldn't matter so greatly after all. loth have you a very large practice? dr. schimmelpfennig oh, yes. occasionally i don't get to bed till five o'clock in the morning. and at seven my consultation hour begins again. _edward comes in, bringing coffee._ dr. schimmelpfennig [_sitting down at the table, to edward._] thank you, edward.--[_to loth._]--the way i swill coffee is--uncanny. loth you'd better give that up. dr. schimmelpfennig what is one to do? [_he takes small swallows._] as i told you awhile ago--another year; then--all this stops. at least, i hope so. loth don't you intend to practice after that at all? dr. schimmelpfennig don't think so. no--no more. [_he pushes back the tray with the dishes and wipes his mouth._] by the way, let's see your hand. [_loth holds up both his hands for inspection._] i see. you've taken no wife to your bosom yet. haven't found one, i suppose. i remember you always wanted primaeval vigour in the woman of your choice on account of the soundness of the strain. and you're quite right, too. if one takes a risk, it ought to be a good one. or maybe you've become less stringent in that respect. loth not a bit! you may take your oath. dr. schimmelpfennig i wish the farmers around here had such notions. but they're in a wretched condition--degeneration along the whole line ... [_he has half taken his cigar case from his inner pocket but lets it slip back and arises as a sound penetrates through the door which is only ajar._] wait a moment! [_he goes on tiptoe to the door leading to the hall and listens. a door is heard to open and close, and for several moments the moans of the woman in labour are audible. the doctor, turning to loth, says softly._] excuse me! [_and goes out._ _for several seconds, while the slamming of doors is heard and the sound of people running up and down the stairs, loth paces the room. then he sits down in the arm-chair in the foreground, right. helen slips in and throws her arms about loth, who has not observed her coming from, behind._ loth [_looking around and embracing her in turn._] nellie! [_he drams her down upon his knee in spite of her gentle resistance. helen weeps under his kisses._] don't cry, nellie! why are you crying so? helen why? oh, if i knew!... i keep thinking that i won't find you here. just now i had such a fright ... loth but why? helen because i heard you go out of your room--oh, and my sister--we poor, poor women!--oh, she's suffering too much! loth the pain is soon forgotten and there is no danger of death. helen oh, but she is praying so to die. she wails and wails: do let me die!... the doctor! [_she jumps up and slips into the conservatory._ dr. schimmelpfennig [_on entering._] i do really wish now that that little woman upstairs would hurry a bit! [_he sits down beside the table, takes out his cigar case again, extracts a cigar from it and lays the latter down on the table._] you'll come over to my house afterward, won't you? i have a necessary evil with two horses standing out there in which we can drive straight over. [_he taps his cigar against the edge of the table._] oh, the holy state of matrimony! o lord! [_striking a match._] so you're still pure, free, pious and merry? loth you might better have waited a few more days with that question. dr. schimmelpfennig [_his cigar is lit now._] oho! i see!--[_laughing_]--so you've caught on to my tricks at last! loth are you still so frightfully pessimistic in regard to women? dr. schimmelpfennig _fright_fully! [_watching the drifting smoke of his cigar._] in other years i was a pessimist, so to speak, by presentiment.... loth have you had very special experiences in the meantime? dr. schimmelpfennig that's just it. my shingle reads: specialist for diseases of women.--the practice of medicine, i assure you, makes a man terribly wise ... terribly ... sane ...; it's a specific against all kinds of delusions. loth [_laughing._] well, then we can fall back into our old tone at once. i want you to know ... i haven't caught on to your tricks at all. less than ever now ... but i am to understand, i suppose, that you've exchanged your old hobby? dr. schimmelpfennig hobby? loth the question of woman was in those days in a certain way your pet subject. dr. schimmelpfennig i see! and why should i have exchanged it? loth if you think even worse of women than ... dr. schimmelpfennig [_somewhat aroused. he gets up and walks to and fro while he is speaking._] i don't think evil of women.--not a bit!--i think evil only of marrying ... of marriage ... of marriage and--at most, of men ... the woman question, you think, has ceased to interest me? what do you suppose i've worked here for, during six years, like a cart horse? surely in order to devote at last all the power that is in me to the solution of that question. didn't you know that from the beginning? loth how do you suppose i could have known it? dr. schimmelpfennig well, as i said ... and i've already gathered a lot of very significant material that will be of some service to me! sh! i've got the bad habit of raising my voice. [_he falls silent, listens, goes to the door and comes back._] but what took you among these gold farmers? loth i would like to study the local conditions. dr. schimmelpfennig [_in a repressed tone._] what a notion! [_still more softly._] i can give you plenty of material there too. loth to be sure. you must be thoroughly informed as to the conditions here. how do things look among the families around here? dr. schimmelpfennig miserable! there's nothing but drunkenness, gluttony, inbreeding and, in consequence,--degeneration along the whole line. loth with exceptions, surely? dr. schimmelpfennig hardly. loth [_disquieted._] didn't the temptation ever come to you to ... to marry a daughter of one of these witzdorf gold farmers? dr. schimmelpfennig the devil! man, what do you take me for? you might as well ask whether i ... loth [_very pale._] but why ... why? dr. schimmelpfennig because ... anything wrong with you? [_he regards loth steadily for several moments._ loth certainly not. what should be wrong? dr. schimmelpfennig [_has suddenly become very thoughtful. he stops in his walking suddenly and whistles softly, glances at loth and then mutters to himself._] that's bad! loth you act very strangely all of a sudden. dr. schimmelpfennig sh! [_he listens carefully and then leaves, the room quickly by the middle door._ helen [_comes at the end of several seconds from the middle door. she cries out._] alfred!--alfred!... you're here. oh, thank god! loth well, dear, did you suppose i had run away? [_they embrace each other._ helen [_bends back. with unmistakable terror in her face._] alfred! loth what is it, dearest? helen nothing, nothing ... loth but there must be something. helen you seemed so cold ... oh, i have such foolish fancies.... loth how are things going upstairs? helen the doctor is quarreling with the midwife. loth isn't it going to end soon? helen how do i know? but when it ends, when it ends--then.... loth what then?... tell me, please, what were you going to say? helen then we ought soon to go away from here. at once! oh, right away! loth if you think that would really be best, nellie-- helen it is! it is! we mustn't wait! it's the best thing--for you and for me. if you don't take me soon, you'll just leave me quite, and then, and then ... it would just be all over with me. loth how distrustful you are, nellie. helen don't say that, dearest. anybody would trust you, would just have to trust you!... when i am your own, oh, then ... then, you surely wouldn't leave me. [_as if beside herself._] i beseech you! don't go away! only don't leave me! don't--go, alfred! if you go away without me, i would just have to die, just have to die! loth but you are strange!... and you say you're not distrustful! or perhaps they're worrying you, torturing you terribly here--more than ever ... at all events we'll leave this very night. i am ready. and so, as soon as you are--we can go. helen [_falling around his neck with a cry of joyous gratitude._] dear--dearest! [_she kisses him madly and hurries out._ _dr. schimmelpfennig comes in through the middle door and catches a glimpse of helen disappearing into the conservatory._ dr. schimmelpfennig who was that?--ah, yes! [_to himself._] poor thing! [_he sits down beside the table with a sigh, finds his old cigar, throws it aside, takes a new cigar from the case and starts to knock it gently against the edge of the table. thoughtfully he looks away across it._ loth [_watching him._] that's just the way you used to loosen every cigar before smoking it eight years ago. dr. schimmelpfennig it's possible--[_when he has lit and begun to smoke the cigar._] listen to me! loth yes; what is it? dr. schimmelpfennig i take it that, so soon as the affair is over, you'll come along with me. loth can't be done. i'm sorry. dr. schimmelpfennig once in a while, you know, one does feel like talking oneself out thoroughly. loth i feel that need quite as much, as you do. but you can see from just that how utterly out of my power it is to go ... dr. schimmelpfennig but suppose i give you my emphatic and, in a way, solemn assurance that there is a specific, an extremely important matter that i'd like--no, that i must discuss with you to-night, loth! loth queer! you don't expect me to take that in deadly earnest. surely not!--you've waited to discuss that matter so many years and now it can't wait one more day? you know me--i'm not pretending. dr. schimmelpfennig so i am right! well, well ... [_he gets up and walks about._ loth what are you right about? dr. schimmelpfennig [_standing still before loth _and looking straight into his eyes._] so there is really something between you and helen krause? loth who said--? dr. schimmelpfennig how in the world did you fall in with this family? loth how do you know that, schimmel? dr. schimmelpfennig it wasn't _so_ hard to guess. loth well then, for heaven's sake, don't say a word, because ... dr. schimmelpfennig so you're quite regularly betrothed? loth call it that. at all events, we're agreed. dr. schimmelpfennig but what i want to know is: how did you fall in with this particular family? loth hoffmann's an old college friend of mine. then, too, he was a member--though only a corresponding one--of my colonisation society. dr. schimmelpfennig i heard about that business at zuerich.--so he was associated with you. that explains the wretched half-and-half creature that he is. loth that describes him, no doubt. dr. schimmelpfennig he isn't even _that_, really.--but, look here, loth! is that your honest intention? i mean this thing with the krause girl. loth of course it is! can you doubt it? you don't think me such a scoundrel--? dr. schimmelpfennig very well! don't exert yourself! you've probably changed in all this long time. and why not? it needn't be entirely a disadvantage. a little bit of humour couldn't harm you. i don't see why one must look at all things in that damnably serious way. loth i take things more seriously than ever. [_he gets up and walks up and down with schimmelpfennig, always keeping slightly behind the latter._] you can't possibly know, and i can't possibly explain to you, what this thing means to me. dr. schimmelpfennig hm! loth man, you have no notion of the condition i'm in. one doesn't know it by simply longing for it. if one did, one would simply go mad with yearning. dr. schimmelpfennig let the devil try to understand how you fellows come by this senseless yearning. loth you're not safe against an attack yourself yet. dr. schimmelpfennig i'd like to see that! loth you talk as a blind man would of colour. dr. schimmelpfennig i wouldn't give a farthing for that bit of intoxication. ridiculous! and to build a life-long union on such a foundation. i'd rather trust a heap of shifting sand. loth intoxication! pshaw! to call it that is simply to show your utter blindness to it. intoxication is fleeting. i've had such spells, i admit. this happens to be something different. dr. schimmelpfennig hm! loth i'm perfectly sober all through it. do you imagine that i surround my darling with a kind of a--well, how shall i put it--a kind of an aureole? not in the least. she lias her faults; she isn't remarkably beautiful, at least--well, she's certainly not exactly homely either. judging her quite objectively--of course it's entirely a matter of taste--i haven't seen such a sweet girl before in my life. so when you talk of mere intoxication--nonsense! i am as sober as possible. but, my friend, this is the remarkable thing: i simply can't imagine myself without her any longer. it seems to me like an amalgam, as when two metals are so intimately welded together that you can't say any longer, here's the one, there's the other. and it all seems so utterly inevitable. in short--maybe i'm talking rot--or what i say may seem rot to you, but so much is certain: a man who doesn't know _that_ is a kind of cool-blooded fishy creature. that's the kind of creature i was up till now, and that's the kind of wretched thing you are still. dr. schimmelpfennig that's a very complete set of symptoms. queer how you fellows always slide up to the very ears into the particular things that you've long ago rejected theoretically--like yourself into marriage. as long as i've known you, you've struggled with this unhappy mania for marriage. loth it's instinct with me, sheer instinct. god knows, i can wriggle all i please--there it is. dr. schimmelpfennig when all's said and done one can fight down even an instinct. loth certainly, if there's a good reason, why not? dr. schimmelpfennig is there any good reason for marrying? loth i should say there is. it has a purpose; it has for me! you don't know how i've succeeded in struggling along hitherto. i don't want to grow sentimental. perhaps i didn't feel it quite so keenly either; perhaps i wasn't so clearly conscious of it as i am now, that in all my endeavour i had taken on something desolate, something machine-like. no spirit, no fire, no life! heaven knows whether i had any faith left! and all that has come back to me to-day--with such strange fullness, such primal energy, such joy ... pshaw, what's the use ... you don't understand. dr. schimmelpfennig the various things you fellows need to keep you going--faith, love, hope. i consider all that trash. the thing is simply this: humanity lies in its death throes and we're merely trying to make the agony as bearable as we can by administering narcotics. loth is that your latest point of view? dr. schimmelpfennig it's five or six years old by this time and i see no reason to change it. loth i congratulate you on it. dr. schimmelpfennig thank you. _a long pause ensues._ dr. schimmelpfennig [_after several disquieted and unsuccessful beginnings._] the trouble is just this. i feel that i'm responsible ... i absolutely owe you an elucidation. i don't believe that you will be able to marry helen krause. loth [_frigidly._] oh, is that what you think? dr. schimmelpfennig yes, that's my opinion. there are obstacles present which just you would ... loth look here! don't for heaven's sake have any scruples on that account. the conditions, as a matter of fact, aren't so complicated as all that. at bottom they're really terribly simple. dr. schimmelpfennig simply terrible, you'd better say. loth i was referring simply to the obstacles. dr. schimmelpfennig so was i, very largely. but take it all in all, i can't imagine that you really know the conditions as they are. loth please, schimmel, express yourself more clearly. dr. schimmelpfennig you must absolutely have dropped the chief demand which you used to make in regard to marriage, although you did give me to understand that you laid as much weight as ever on the propagation of a race sound in mind and body. loth dropped my demand...? dropped it? but why should i? dr. schimmelpfennig i see. then there's nothing else left me but to ... then you don't know the conditions here. you do not know, for instance, that hoffmann had a son who perished through alcoholism at the age of three. loth wha ... what d'you say? dr. schimmelpfennig i'm sorry, loth, but i've got to tell you. you can do afterward as you please. but the thing was no joke. they were visiting here just as they are now. they sent for me--half an hour too late. the little fellow had bled to death long before i arrived. _loth drinks in the doctor's _words with every evidence of profound and terrible emotion._ dr. schimmelpfennig the silly little chap grabbed for the vinegar bottle, thinking his beloved rum was in it. the bottle fell and the child tumbled on the broken glass. down here, you see, the _vena saphena_, was completely severed. loth whose, _whose_ child was that? dr. schimmelpfennig the child of hoffmann and of the same woman who again, up there ... and she drinks too, drinks to the point of unconsciousness, drinks whatever she can get hold of! loth so it's not, it's not inherited from hoffmann? dr. schimmelpfennig not at all. that's the tragic aspect of the man! he suffers under it as much as he is capable of suffering. to be sure, he knew that he was marrying into a family of dipsomaniacs. the old farmer simply spends his life in the tavern. loth then, to be sure--i understand many things--no, everything, rather ... everything! [_after a heavy silence._] then her life here, helen's life, is a ... how shall i express it? i have no words for it; it's ... dr. schimmelpfennig utterly horrible. i can judge of that. and i understood from the beginning how you should cling to her. but, as i said ... loth it's enough. i understand ... but doesn't...? couldn't one perhaps persuade hoffmann to do something? she ought to be removed from all this foulness. dr. schimmelpfennig hoffmann? loth yes, hoffmann. dr. schimmelpfennig you don't know him. i don't believe that he has ruined her already, but he has ruined her reputation even now. loth [_flaring up._] if that's true, i'll murder...! d'you really believe that? do you think hoffmann capable...? dr. schimmelpfennig of anything! i think him capable of anything that might contribute to his own pleasure. loth then she is--the purest creature that ever breathed ... _loth slowly takes up his hat and cane and hangs his mallet over his shoulder._ dr. schimmelpfennig what do you think of doing, loth? loth ... i mustn't meet her ... dr. schimmelpfennig so you're determined? loth determined to what? dr. schimmelpfennig to break the connection. loth how is it possible for me to be other than determined? dr. schimmelpfennig i may add, as a physician, that cases are known in which such inherited evils have been suppressed. and of course you would give your children a rational up-bringing. loth such cases may be known. dr. schimmelpfennig and the chances are not so small but that ... loth that kind of thing can't help me, schimmel. there are just three possibilities in this affair: either i marry her and then ... no, that way out simply doesn't exist. or--the traditional bullet. of course, that would mean rest, at least. but we haven't reached that point yet awhile; can't indulge in that luxury just yet. and so: live! fight!--farther, farther! [_his glance falls on the table and he observes the writing-materials that have been placed there by edward. he sits down, hesitates and says:_] and yet...? dr. schimmelpfennig i promise you that i'll represent the situation to her as clearly as possible. loth yes, yes! you see--i can't do differently. [_he writes, places his paper in an envelope and addresses it. then he arises and shakes hands with schimmelpfennig._] for the rest--i depend on you. dr. schimmelpfennig you're coming over to my house, aren't, you? let my coachman drive you right over. loth look here! oughtn't one to try, at least, to get her out of the power of this ... this person? ... as things are she is sure to become his victim. dr. schimmelpfennig my dear, good fellow! i'm sorry for you. but shall i give you a bit of advice? don't rob her of the--little that you still leave her. loth [_with a deep sigh._] maybe you're right--perhaps certainly. _hasty steps are heard descending the stairs. in the next moment hoffmann rushes in._ hoffmann doctor, i beg you, for heaven's sake ... she is fainting ... the pains have stopped ... won't you at last ... dr. schimmelpfennig i'm coming up. [_to loth significantly._] we'll see each other later. mr. hoffmann, i must request you ... any interference or disturbance might prove fatal ... i would much prefer to have you stay here. hoffmann you ask a great deal, but ... well! dr. schimmelpfennig no more than is right. [_he goes._ _hoffmann remains behind._ hoffmann [_observing loth._] i'm just trembling in every limb from the excitement. tell me, are you leaving? loth yes. hoffmann now in the middle of the night? loth i'm only going as far as schimmelpfennig's. hoffmann ah, yes. well ... as things have shaped themselves, it's of course no pleasure staying with us any longer ... so, good luck! loth i thank you for your hospitality. hoffmann and how about that plan of yours? loth what plan? hoffmann i mean that essay of yours, that economic description of our district. i ought to say ... in fact, as a friend, i would beg of you as insistently as possible ... loth don't worry about that any more. i'll be far away from here by to-morrow. hoffmann that is really-- [_he interrupts himself._ loth kind of you, you were going to say. hoffmann oh, i don't know. well, in a certain respect, yes! and anyhow you must forgive me; i'm so frightfully upset. just count on me. old friends are always the best! good-bye, good-bye. [_he leaves through the middle door._ loth [_before going to the door, turns around once more with a long glance as if to imprint the whole room on his memory. then to himself:_] i suppose i can go now ... [_after a last glance he leaves._ _the room remains empty for some seconds. the sound of muffled voices and the noise of footfalls is heard. then hoffmann appears. as soon as he has closed the door behind him, he takes out his note-book and runs over some account with exaggerated calm. he interrupts himself, listens, becomes restless again, advances to the door and listens there. suddenly some one runs down the stair and helen bursts in._ helen [_still without._] brother! [_at the door._] brother! hoffmann what's the _matter_? helen be brave: still-born! hoffmann o my god! [_he rushes out._ helen _alone._ _she looks about her and calls softly:_ alfred! alfred! _as she receives no answer, she calls out again more quickly:_ alfred! alfred! _she has hurried to the door of the conservatory through which she gazes anxiously. she goes into the conservatory, but reappears shortly._ alfred! _her disquiet increases. she peers out of the window._ alfred! _she opens the window and mounts a chair that stands before it. at this moment there resounds clearly from the yard the shouting of the drunken farmer, her father, who is coming home from the inn,_ hay-hee! ain' i a han'some feller? ain' i got a fine-lookin' wife? ain' i got a couple o' han'some gals? hay-hee! _helen utters a short cry and runs, like a hunted creature, toward the middle door. from there she discovers the letter which loth has left lying on thee table. she runs to it, tears it open, feverishly takes in the contents, of which she audibly utters separate words._ "insuperable!" ... "never again." ... _she lets the letter fall and sways._ it's over! _she steadies herself, holds her head with both hands and cries out in brief and piercing despair._ it's over! _she rushes out through the--middle door. the farmer's voice without, drawing nearer._ hay-hee! ain' the farm mine? ain' i got a han'some wife? ain' i a han'some feller? _helen, still seeking loth half-madly, comes from the conservatory and meets edward, who has come to fetch something from hoffmann's room. she addresses him:_ edward! _he answers:_ yes, miss krause. _she continues:_ i'd like to ... like to ... dr. loth ... _edward answers:_ dr. loth drove away in dr. schimmelpfennig's carriage. _he disappears into hoffmann's room._ true! _helen cries out and holds herself erect with difficulty. in the next moment a desperate energy takes hold of her. she runs to the foreground and seizes the hunting knife with its belt which is fastened to the stag's antlers above the sofa. she hides the weapon and stays quietly in the dark foreground until edward, coming from hoffmann's room, has disappeared through the middle door. the farmer's voice resounds more clearly from moment to moment._ hay-hee! ain' i a han'some feller? _at this sound, as at a signal, helen starts and runs, in her turn, into hoffmann's room. the main room is empty but one continues to hear the farmer's voice:_ ain' i got the finest teeth? ain' i got a fine farm? _miele comes through the middle door and looks searchingly about. she calls:_ miss helen! miss helen! _meanwhile the farmer's voice:_ the money 'sh mi-ine! _without further hesitation miele has disappeared into hoffmann's room, the door of which she leaves open. in the next moment she rushes out with every sign of insane terror. screaming she spins around twice--thrice--screaming she flies through the middle door. her uninterrupted screaming, softening as it recedes, is audible for several seconds. last there is heard the opening and resonant slamming of the heavy house door, the tread of the farmer stumbling about in the hall, and his coarse, nasal, thick-tongued drunkard's voice echoes through the room:_ hay-hee! ain' i got a couple o' han'some gals? curtain the weavers _i dedicate this drama to my father robert hauptmann. you, dear father, know what feelings lead me to dedicate this work to you, and i am not called upon to analyse them here. your stories of my grandfather, who in his young days sat at the loom, a poor weaver like those here depicted, contained the germ of my drama. whether it possesses the vigour of life or is rotten at the core, it is the best, "so poor a man as hamlet is" can offer. your gerhart_ complete list of characters dreissiger, _fustian manufacturer._ mrs. dreissiger. pfeifer, _manager in dreissiger's employment._ neumann, _cashier in dreissiger's employment._ an apprentice _in dreissiger's employment._ john, _coachman in dreissiger's employment._ a maid _in dreissiger's employment._ weinhold, _tutor to dreissiger's sons._ pastor kittelhaus. mrs. kittelhaus. heide, _police superintendent._ kutsche, _policeman._ welzel, _publican._ mrs. welzel. anna welzel. wiegand, _joiner._ a commercial traveller. a peasant. a forester. schmidt, _surgeon._ hornig, _rag dealer._ wittig, _smith._ weavers. becker. moritz jaeger. old baumert. mother baumert. bertha baumert emma baumert fritz, emma's _son (four years old)._ august baumert. old ansorge. mrs. heinrich. old hilse. mother hilse. gottlieb hilse. luise, gottlieb's _wife._ mielchen, _their daughter (six years old)._ reimann, _weaver._ helen, _weaver._ a weaver's wife. _a number of weavers, young and old, of both sexes._ the action passes in the forties, at kaschbach, peterswaldau and langenbielau, in the eulengebirge. the first act _a large whitewashed room on the ground floor of dreissiger's house at peterswaldau, where the weavers deliver their finished webs and the fustian is stored. to the left are uncurtained windows, in the back mall there is a glass door, and to the right another glass door, through which weavers, male and female, and children, are passing in and out. all three walls are lined with shelves for the storing of the fustian. against the right wall stands a long bench, on which a number of weavers have already spread out their cloth. in the order of arrival each presents his piece to be examined by pfeifer, dreissiger's manager, who stands, with compass and magnifying-glass, behind a large table, on which the web to be inspected is laid. when pfeifer has satisfied himself, the weaver lays the fustian on the scale, and an office apprentice tests its weight. the same boy stores the accepted pieces on the shelves. pfeifer calls out the payment due in each case to neumann, the cashier, who is seated at a small table._ _it is a sultry day towards the end of may. the clock is on the stroke of twelve. most of the waiting work-people have the air of standing before the bar of justice, in torturing expectation of a decision that means life or death to them. they are marked too by the anxious timidity characteristic of the receiver of charity, who has suffered many humiliations, and, conscious that he is barely tolerated, has acquired the habit of self-effacement. add to this a rigid expression on every face that tells of constant, fruitless brooding. there is a general resemblance among the men. they have something about them of the dwarf, something of the schoolmaster. the majority are flat-breasted, short-minded, sallow, and poor looking--creatures of the loom, their knees bent with much silting. at a, first glance the women show fewer typical traits. they look over-driven, worried, reckless, whereas the men still make some show of a pitiful self-respect; and their clothes are ragged, while the men's are patched and mended. some of the young girls are not without a certain charm, consisting in a wax-like pallor, a slender figure, and large, projecting, melancholy eyes._ neumann [_counting out money._] comes to one and seven-pence halfpenny. weaver's wife [_about thirty, emaciated, takes up the money with trembling fingers._] thank you, sir. neumann [_seeing that she does not move on._] well, something wrong this time, too? weaver's wife [_agitated, imploringly._] do you think i might have a few pence in advance, sir? i need it that bad. neumann and i need a few pounds. if it was only a question of needing it--! [_already occupied in counting out another weaver's money, gruffly._] it's mr. dreissiger who settles about pay in advance. weaver's wife couldn't i speak to mr. dreissiger himself, then, sir? pfeifer [_now manager, formerly weaver. the type is unmistakable, only he is well fed, well dressed, clean shaven; also takes snuff copiously. he calls out roughly._] mr. dreissiger would have enough to do if he had to attend to every trifle himself. that's what we are here for. [_he measures, and then examines through the magnifying-glass._] mercy on us! what a draught! [_puts a thick muffler round his neck._] shut the door, whoever comes in. apprentice [_loudly to pfeifer._] you might as well talk to stocks and stones. pfeifer that's done!--weigh! [_the weaver places his web on the scales._] if you only understood your business a little better! full of lumps again.... i hardly need to look at the cloth to see them. call yourself a weaver, and "draw as long a bow" as you've done there! _becker has entered. a young, exceptionally powerfully-built weaver; offhand, almost bold in manner. pfeifer, neumann, and the apprentice exchange looks of mutual understanding as he comes in._ becker devil take it! this is a sweatin' job, and no mistake. first weaver [_in a low voice._] this blazin' heat means rain. [_old baumert forces his way in at the glass door on the right, through which the crowd of weavers can be seen, standing shoulder to shoulder, waiting their turn. the old man stumbles forward and lays his bundle on the bench, beside becker's. he sits down by it, and wipes the sweat from his face._ old baumert a man has a right to a rest after that. becker rest's better than money. old baumert yes, but we _needs_ the money too. good mornin' to you, becker! becker mornin', father baumert! goodness knows how long we'll have to stand here again. first weaver that don't matter. what's to hinder a weaver waitin' for an hour, or for a day? what else is he there for? pfeifer silence there! we can't hear our own voices. becker [_in a low voice._] this is one of his bad days. pfeifer [_to the weaver standing before him._] how often have i told you that you must bring cleaner cloth? what sort of mess is this? knots, and straw, and all kinds of dirt. reimann it's for want of a new picker, sir. apprentice [_has weighed the piece._] short weight, too. pfeifer i never saw such weavers. i hate to give out the yarn to them. it was another story in my day! i'd have caught it finely from my master for work like that. the business was carried on in different style then. a man had to know his trade--that's the last thing that's thought of nowadays. reimann, one shilling. reimann but there's always a pound allowed for waste. pfeifer i've no time. next man!--what have you to show? heiber [_lays his web on the table. while pfeifer is examining it, he goes close up to him; eagerly in a low tone._] beg pardon, mr. pfeifer, but i wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps be so very kind an' do me the favour an' not take my advance money off this week's pay. pfeifer [_measuring and examining the texture; jeeringly._] well! what next, i wonder? this looks very much as if half the weft had stuck to the bobbins again. heiber [_continues._] i'll be sure to make it all right next week, sir. but this last week i've had to put in two days' work on the estate. and my missus is ill in bed.... pfeifer [_giving the web to be weighed._] another piece of real slop-work. [_already examining a new web._] what a selvage! here it's broad, there it's narrow; here it's drawn in by the wefts goodness knows how tight, and there it's torn out again by the temples. and hardly seventy threads weft to the inch. what's come of the rest? do you call this honest work? i never saw anything like it. [_heiber, repressing tears, stands humiliated and helpless._ becker [_in a low voice to baumert._] to please that brute you'd have to pay for extra yarn out o' your own pocket. weaver's wife [_who has remained standing near the cashier's table, from time to time looking round appealingly, takes courage and once more turns imploringly to the cashier._] i don't know what's to come o' me, sir, if you won't give me a little advance this time ... o lord, o lord! pfeifer [_calls across._] it's no good whining, or dragging the lord's name into the matter. you're not so anxious about him at other times. you look after your husband and see that he's not to be found so often lounging in the public-house. we can give no pay in advance. we have to account for every penny. it's not our money. people that are industrious, and understand their work, and do it in the fear of god, never need their pay in advance. so now you know. neumann if a bielau weaver got four times as much pay, he would squander it four times over and be in debt into the bargain. weaver's wife [_in a loud voice, as if appealing to the general sense of justice._] no one can't call me idle, but i'm not fit now for what i once was. i've twice had a miscarriage. and as to john, he's but a poor creature. he's been to the shepherd at zerlau, but he couldn't do him no good, and ... you can't do more than you've strength for.... we works as hard as ever we can. this many a week i've been at it till far on into the night. an' we'll keep our heads above water right enough if i can just get a bit o' strength into me. but you must have pity on us, mr. pfeifer, sir. [_eagerly, coaxingly._] you'll please be so very kind as to let me have a few pence on the next job, sir? pfeifer [_paying no attention._] fiedler, one and twopence. weaver's wife only a few pence, to buy bread with. we can't get no more credit. we've a lot o' little ones. neumann [_half aside to the apprentice, in a serio-comic-tone._] "every year brings a child to the linen-weaver's wife, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh." apprentice [_takes up the rhyme, half singing._] "and the little brat it's blind the first weeks of its life, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, heigh." reimann [_not touching the money which the cashier has counted out to him._] we've always got one and fourpence for the web. pfeifer [_calls across._] if our terms don't suit you, reimann, you have only to say so. there's no scarcity of weavers--especially of your sort. for full weight we give full pay. reimann how anything can be wrong with the weight o' this...! pfeifer you bring a piece of fustian with no faults in it, and there will be no fault in the pay. reimann it's clean impossible that there's too many knots in this web. pfeifer [_examining._] if you want to live well, then be sure you weave well. heiber [_has remained standing near pfeifer, so as to seize on any favourable opportunity. he laughs at pfeifer's little witticism, then steps forward and again addresses him._] i wanted to ask you, sir, if you would perhaps have the great kindness not to take my advance of sixpence off to-day's pay? my missus has been bedridden since february, she can't do a hand's turn for me, an' i've to pay a bobbin girl. an' so ... pfeifer [_takes a pinch of snuff._] heiber do you think i have no one to attend to but you? the others must have their turn. reimann as the warp was given me i took it home and fastened it to the beam. i can't bring back no better yarn than i gets. pfeifer if you're not satisfied, you need come for no more. there are plenty ready to tramp the soles off their shoes to get it. neumann [_to reimann._] don't you want your money? reimann i can't bring myself to take such pay. neumann [_paying no further attention to reimann._] heiber, one shilling. deduct sixpence for pay it advance. leaves sixpence. heiber [_goes up to the table, looks at the money, stands shaking his head as if unable to believe his eyes, then slowly takes it up._] well, i never!-- [_sighing._] oh dear, oh dear! old baumert [_looking into heiber's face._] yes, franz, that's so! there's matter enough for sighing. heiber [_speaking with difficulty._] i've a girl lyin' sick at home too, an' she needs a bottle of medicine. old baumert what's wrong with her? heiber well, you see, she's always been a sickly bit of a thing. i don't know ... i needn't mind tellin' you--she brought her trouble with her. it's in her blood, and it breaks out here, there, and everywhere. old baumert it's always the way. let folks be poor, and one trouble comes to them on the top of another. there's no help for it and there's no end to it. heiber what are you carryin' in that cloth, fatter. baumert? old baumert we haven't so much as a bite in the house, and so i've had the little dog killed. there's not much on him, for the poor beast was half starved. a nice little dog he was! i couldn't kill him myself. i hadn't the heart to do it. pfeifer [_has inspected becker's web and calls._] becker, one and threepence. becker that's what you might give to a beggar; it's not pay. pfeifer every one who has been attended to must clear out. we haven't room to turn round in. becker [_to those standing near, without lowering his voice._] it's a beggarly pittance, nothing else. a man works his treadle from early morning till late at night, an' when he's bent over his loom for days an' days, tired to death every evening, sick with the dust and the heat, he finds he's made a beggarly one and threepence! pfeifer no impudence allowed here. becker if you think i'll hold my tongue for your tellin', you're much mistaken. pfeifer [_exclaims._] we'll see about that! [_rushes to the glass door and calls into the office._] mr. dreissiger, mr. dreissiger, will you be good enough to come here? _enter dreissiger. about forty, full-bodied, asthmatic. looks severe._ dreissiger what is it, pfeifer? pfeifer [_spitefully._] becker says he won't be told to hold his tongue. dreissiger [_draws himself up, throws back his head, stares at becker; his nostrils tremble._] oh, indeed!--becker. [_to pfeifer.] is he the man?... [_the clerks nod._ becker [_insolently._] yes, mr. dreissiger, yes! [_pointing to himself._] this is the man. [_pointing to dreissiger._] and that's a man too! dreissiger [_angrily._] fellow, how dare you? pfeifer he's too well off. he'll go dancing on the ice once too often, though. becker [_recklessly._] you shut up, you jack-in-the-box. your mother must have gone dancing once too often with satan to have got such a devil for a son. dreissiger [_now in a violent passion, roars._] hold your tongue this moment, sir, or ... [_he trembles and takes a fere steps forward._ becker [_holding his ground steadily._] i'm not deaf. my hearing's quite good yet. dreissiger [_controls himself, asks in an apparently cool business tone._] was this fellow not one of the pack...? pfeifer he's a bielau weaver. when there's any mischief going, they're sure to be in it. dreissiger [_trembling._] well, i give you all warning: if the same thing happens again as last night--a troop of half-drunken cubs marching past my windows singing that low song ... becker is it "bloody justice" you mean? dreissiger you know well enough what i mean. i tell you that if i hear it again i'll get hold of one of you, and--mind, i'm not joking--before the justice he shall go. and if i can find out who it was that made up that vile doggerel ... becker it's a grand song, that's what it is! dreissiger another word and i send for the police on the spot, without more ado. i'll make short work with you young fellows. i've got the better of very different men before now. becker i believe you there. a real thoroughbred manufacturer will get the better of two or three hundred weavers in the time it takes you to turn round--swallow 'em up, and not leave as much as a bone. he's got four stomachs like a cow, and teeth like a wolf. that's nothing to him at all! dreissiger [_to his clerks._] that man gets no more work from us. becker it's all the same to me whether i starve at my loom or by the roadside. dreissiger out you go, then, this moment! becker [_determinedly._] not without my pay. dreissiger how much is owing to the fellow, neumann? neumann one and threepence. dreissiger [_takes the money hurriedly ont of the cashier's hand, and flings it on the table, so that some of the coins roll off on to the floor._] there you are, then; and now, out of my sight with you! becker not without my pay. dreissiger don't you see it lying there? if you don't take it and go ... it's exactly twelve now ... the dyers are coming out for their dinner ... becker i gets my pay into my hand--here--that's where! [_points with the fingers of his right hand at the palm of his left._ dreissiger [_to the apprentice._] pick up the money, tilgner. [_the apprentice lifts the money and puts it into becker's hand._ becker everything in proper order. [_deliberately takes an old purse out of his pocket and puts the money into it._ dreissiger [_as becker still does not move away._] well? do you want me to come and help you? [_signs of agitation are observable among the crowd of weavers. a long, loud sigh is heard, and then a fall. general interest is at once diverted to this new event._ dreissiger what's the matter there? chorus of weavers and women "some one's fainted."--"it's a little sickly boy."--"is it a fit, or what?" dreissiger what do you say? fainted? [_he goes nearer._ old weaver there he lies, any way. [_they make room. a boy of about eight is seen lying on the floor as if dead._ dreissiger does any one know the boy? old weaver he's not from our village. old baumert he's like one of weaver heinrich's boys. [_looks at him more closely._] yes, that's heinrich's little philip. dreissiger where do they live? old baumert up near us in kaschbach, sir. he goes round playin' music in the evenings, and all day he's at the loom. they've nine children an' a tenth a coming. chorus of weavers and women "they're terrible put to it."--"the rain comes through their roof."--"the woman hasn't two shirts among the nine." old baumert [_taking the boy by the arm._] now then, lad, what's wrong with you? wake up, lad. dreissiger some of you help me, and we'll get him up. it's disgraceful to send a sickly child this distance. bring some water, pfeifer. woman [_helping to lift the boy._] sure you're not goin' to be foolish and die, lad! dreissiger brandy, pfeifer, brandy will be better. becker [_forgotten by all, has stood looking on. with his hand on the door-latch, he now calls loudly and tauntingly._] give him something to eat, an' he'll soon be all right. [_goes out._ dreissiger that fellow will come to a bad end.--take him under the arm, neumann. easy now, easy; we'll get him into my room. what? neumann he said something, mr. dreissiger. his lips are moving. dreissiger what--what is it, boy? boy [_whispers._] i'm h-hungry. woman i think he says-- dreissiger we'll find out. don't stop. let us get him into my room. he can lie on the sofa there, we'll hear what the doctor says. _dreissiger, neumann, and the woman lead the boy into the office. the weavers begin to behave like school-children when their master has left the classroom. they stretch themselves, whisper, move from one foot to the other, and in the course of a few moments are conversing loudly._ old baumert i believe as how becker was right. chorus of weavers and women "he did say something like that."--"it's nothin' new here to fall down from hunger."--"god knows what's to come of 'em in winter if this cuttin' down o' wages goes on."--"an' this year the potatoes aren't no good at all."--"things'll get worse and worse till we're all done for together." old baumert the best thing a man could do would be to put a rope round his neck and hang hisself on his own loom, like weaver nentwich. [_to another old weaver._] here, take a pinch. i was at neurode yesterday. my brother-in-law, he works in the snuff factory there, and he give me a grain or two. have you anything good in your kerchief? old weaver only a little pearl barley. i was coming along behind ulbrich the miller's cart, and there was a slit in one of the sacks. i can tell you we'll be glad of it. old baumert there's twenty-two mills in peterswaldau, but of all they grind, there's never nothin' comes our way. old weaver we must keep up heart. there's always somethin' comes to help us on again. heiber yes, when we're hungry, we can pray to all the saints to help us, and if that don't fill our bellies we can put a pebble in our mouths and suck it. eh, baumert? _re-enter dreissiger, pfeifer, and neumann._ dreissiger it was nothing serious. the boy is all right again. [_walks about excitedly, panting._] but all the same it's a disgrace. the child's so weak that a puff of wind would blow him over. how people, how any parents can be so thoughtless is what passes my comprehension. loading him with two heavy pieces of fustian to carry six good miles! no one would believe it that hadn't seen it. it simply means that i shall have to make a rule that no goods brought by children will be taken over. [_he walks up and down silently for a few moments._] i sincerely trust such a thing will not occur again.--who gets all the blame for it? why, of course the manufacturer. it's entirely our fault. if some poor little fellow sticks in the snow in winter and goes to sleep, a special correspondent arrives post-haste, and in two days we have a blood-curdling story served up in all the papers. is any blame laid on the father, the parents, that send such a child?--not a bit of it. how should they be to blame? it's all the manufacturer's fault--he's made the scapegoat. they flatter the weaver, and give the manufacturer nothing but abuse--he's a cruel man, with a heart like a stone, a dangerous fellow, at whose calves every cur of a journalist may take a bite. he lives on the fat of the land, and pays the poor weavers starvation wages. in the flow of his eloquence the writer forgets to mention that such a man has his cares too and his sleepless nights; that he runs risks of which the workman never dreams; that he is often driven distracted by all the calculations he has to make, and all the different things he has to take into account; that he has to struggle for his very life against competition; and that no day passes without some annoyance or some loss. and think of the manufacturer's responsibilities, think of the numbers that depend on him, that look to him for their daily bread. no, no! none of you need wish yourselves in my shoes--you would soon have enough of it. [_after a moment's reflection._] you all saw how that fellow, that scoundrel becker, behaved. now he'll go and spread about all sorts of tales of my hard-heartedness, of how my weavers are turned off for a mere trifle, without a moment's notice. is that true? am i so very unmerciful? chorus of voices no, sir. dreissiger it doesn't seem to me that i am. and yet these ne'er-do-wells come round singing low songs about us manufacturers--prating about hunger, with enough in their pockets to pay for quarts of bad brandy. if they would like to know what want is, let them go and ask the linen-weavers: they can tell something about it. but you here, you fustian-weavers, have every reason to thank god that things are no worse than they are. and i put it to all the old, industrious weavers present: is a good workman able to gain a living in my employment, or is he not? many voices yes, sir; he is, sir. dreissiger there now! you see! of course such a fellow as that becker can't. i advise you to keep these young lads in check. if there's much more of this sort of thing, i'll shut up shop--give up the business altogether, and then you can shift for yourselves, get work where you like--perhaps mr. becker will provide it. first weaver's wife [_has come close to dreissiger, and removes a little dust from his coat with creeping servility._] you've been an' rubbed agin something, sir. dreissiger business is as bad as it can be just now, you know that yourselves. instead of making money, i am losing it every day. if, in spite of this, i take care that my weavers are kept in work, i look for some little gratitude from them. i have thousands of pieces of cloth in stock, and don't know if i'll ever be able to sell them. well, now, i've heard how many weavers hereabouts are out of work, and--i'll leave pfeifer to give the particulars--but this much i'll tell you, just to show you my good will.... i can't deal out charity all round; i'm not rich enough for that; but i can give the people who are out of work the chance of earning at any rate a little. it's a great business risk i run by doing it, but that's my affair. i say to myself: better that a man should work for a bite of bread than that, he should starve altogether, am i not right? chorus of voices yes, yes, sir. dreissiger and therefore i am ready to give employment to two hundred more weavers. pfeifer will tell you on what conditions. [_he turns to go._ first weaver's wife [_comes between him and the door, speaks hurriedly, eagerly, imploringly._] oh, if you please, sir, will you let me ask you if you'll be so good ... i've been twice laid up for ... dreissiger [_hastily._] speak to pfeifer, good woman. i'm too late as it is. [_passes on, leaving her standing._ reimann [_stops him again. in an injured, complaining tone._] i have a complaint to make, if you please, sir. mr. pfeifer refuses to ... i've always got one and two-pence for a web ... dreissiger [_interrupts him._] mr. pfeifer's my manager. there he is. apply to him. heiber [_detaining dreissiger; hurriedly and confusedly._] o sir, i wanted to ask if you would p'r'aps, if i might p'r'aps ... if mr. pfeifer might ... might ... dreissiger what is it you want? heiber that advance pay i had last time, sir; i thought p'r'aps you would kindly ... dreissiger i have no idea what you are talking about. heiber i'm awful hard up, sir, because ... dreissiger these are things pfeifer must look into--i really have not the time. arrange the matter with pfeifer. [_he escapes into the office._ [_the supplicants look helplessly at one another, sigh, and take their places again among the others._ pfeifer [_resuming his task of inspection._] well, annie, let as see what yours is like. old baumert how much is we to get for the web, then, mr. pfeifer? pfeifer one shilling a web. old baumert has it come to that! [_excited whispering and murmuring among the weavers._ end of the first act the second act _a small room in the house of wilhelm ansorge, weaver and cottager in the village of kaschbach, in the eulengebirge._ _in this room, which does not measure six feet from the dilapidated wooden floor to the smoke-blackened rafters, sit four people. two young girls, emma and bertha baumert, are working at their looms; mother baumert, a decrepit old woman, sits on a stool beside the bed, with a winding-wheel in front of her; her idiot son august sits on a foot-stool, also winding. he is twenty, has a small body and head, and long, spider-like legs and arms._ _faint, rosy evening light makes its way through two small windows in the right wall, which have their broken panes pasted over with paper or stuffed with straw. it lights up the flaxen hair of the girls, which falls loose on their slender white necks and thin bare shoulders, and their coarse chemises. these, with a short petticoat of the roughest linen, form their whole attire. the warm glow falls on the old woman's face, neck, and breast--a face worn away to a skeleton, with shrivelled skin and sunken eyes, red and watery with smoke, dust, and working by lamplight--a long goître neck, wrinkled and sinewy--a hollow breast covered with faded, ragged shawls._ _part of the right wall is also lighted up, with stove, stove-bench, bedstead, and one or two gaudily coloured sacred prints. on the stove rail rags are hanging to dry, and behind the stove is a collection of worthless lumber. on the bench stand some old pots and cooking utensils, and potato parings are laid out on it, on paper, to dry. hanks of yarn and reels hang from the rafters; baskets of bobbins stand beside the looms. in the back wall there is a low door without fastening. beside it a bundle of willow wands is set up against the wall, and beyond them lie some damaged quarter-bushel baskets._ _the room is full of sound--the rhythmic thud of the looms, shaking floor and walls, the click and rattle of the shuttles passing back and forward, and the steady whirr of the winding-wheels, like the hum of gigantic bees._ mother baumert [_in a querulous, feeble voice, as the girls stop weaving and bend over their webs._] got to make knots again already, have you? emma [_the elder of the two girls, about twenty-two, tying a broken thread_] it's the plagueyest web, this! bertha [_fifteen._] yes, it's real bad yarn they've given us this time. emma what can have happened to father? he's been away since nine. mother baumert that he has! yes. where in the wide world c'n he be? bertha don't you worry yourself, mother. mother baumert i can't help it, bertha lass. [_emma begins to weave again._ bertha stop a minute, emma! emma what is it! bertha i thought i heard some one. emma it'll be ansorge comin' home. _enter fritz, a little, barefooted, ragged boy of four._ fritz [_whimpering._] i'm hungry, mother. emma wait, fritzel, wait a bit! gran'father'll be here very soon, an' he's bringin' bread along with him, an' coffee too. fritz but i'm awful hungry, mother. emma be a good boy now, fritz. listen to what i'm tellin' you. he'll be here this minute. he's bringin' nice bread an' nice corn-coffee; an' when we stops workin' mother'll take the tater peelin's and carry them to the farmer, and the farmer'll give her a drop o' good buttermilk for her little boy. fritz where's grandfather gone? emma to the manufacturer, fritz, with a web. fritz to the manufacturer? emma yes, yes, fritz, down to dreissiger's at peterswaldau. fritz is it there he gets the bread? emma yes; dreissiger gives him money, and then he buys the bread. fritz does he give him a heap of money? emma [_impatiently._] oh, stop that chatter, boy. [_she and bertha go on weaving for a time, and then both stop again._ bertha august, go and ask ansorge if he'll give us a light. [_august goes out accompanied by fritz._ mother baumert [_overcome by her childish apprehension, whimpers._] emma! bertha! where c'n the man be stay-in'? bertha maybe he looked in to see hauffe. mother baumert [_crying._] what if he's sittin' drinkin' in the public-house? emma don't cry, mother! you know well enough father's not the man to do that. mother baumert [_half distracted by a multitude of gloomy forebodings._] what ... what ... what's to become of us if he don't come home? if he drinks the money, an' don't bring us nothin' at all? there's not so much as a handful o' salt in the house--not a bite o' bread, nor a bit o' wood for the fire. bertha wait a bit, mother! it's moonlight just now. we'll take august with us and go into the wood and get some sticks. mother baumert yes, an' be caught by the forester. _ansorge, an old weaver of gigantic stature, who has to bend down to get into the room, puts his head and shoulders in at the door. long, unkempt hair and beard._ ansorge what's wanted? bertha light, if you please. ansorge [_in a muffled voice, as if speaking' in a sick-room._] there's good daylight yet. mother baumert is we to sit in the dark next? ansorge i've to do the same mayself. [_goes out._ bertha it's easy to see that he's a miser. emma well, there's nothin' for it but to sit an' wait his pleasure. _enter mrs. heinrich, a woman of thirty, heavy with child; an expression of torturing anxiety and apprehension on her worn face._ mrs. heinrich good evenin' t'you all. mother baumert well, jenny, and what's your news? mrs. heinrich [_who limps._] i've got a piece o' glass into my foot. bertha come an' sit down, then, an' i'll see if i c'n get it out. [_mrs. heinrich seats herself, bertha kneels down, in front of her, and examines her foot._ mother baumert how are ye all at home, jenny? mrs. heinrich [_breaks out despairingly._] things is in a terrible way with us! [_she struggles in vain, against a rush of tears; then weeps silently._ mother baumert the best thing as could happen to the likes o' us, jenny, would be if god had pity on us an' took us away out o' this weary world. mrs. heinrich [_no longer able to control herself, screams, still crying._] my children's starvin'. [_sobs and moans._] i don't know what to do no more! i c'n work till i drops--i'm more dead'n alive--things don't get different! there's nine hungry mouths to fill! we got a bit o' bread last night, but it wasn't enough even for the two smallest ones. who was i to give it to, eh? they all cried; me, me, mother! give it to me!... an' if it's like this while i'm still on my feet, what'll it be when i've to take to bed? our few taters was washed away. we haven't a thing to put in our mouths. bertha [_has removed the bit of glass and washed the wound._] we'll put a rag round it. emma, see if you can find one. mother baumert we're no better off'n you, jenny. mrs. heinrich you has your girls, any way. you've a husband as c'n work. mine was taken with one o' his fits last week again--so bad that i didn't know what to do with him, and was half out o' my mind with fright. and when he's had a turn like that, he can't stir out o' bed under a week. mother baumert mine's no better. he's goin' to pieces, too. he's breathin's bad now as well as his back. an' there's not a farthin' nor a farthin's worth in the house. if he don't bring a few pence with him today, i don't know what we're to do. emma it's the truth she's tellin' you, jenny. we had to let father take the little dog with him to-day, to have him killed, that we might get a bite into our stomachs again! mrs. heinrich haven't you got as much as a handful o' flour to spare? mother baumert an' that we haven't, jenny. there's not as much as a grain o' salt in the house. mrs. heinrich well, then, i don't know ... [_rises, stands still, brooding._] i don't know what'll be the end o' this! it's more'n i c'n bear. [_screams in rage and despair._] i'd be contented if it was nothin' but pigs' food!--but i can't go home again empty-handed--that i can't. god forgive me, i see no other way out of it. [_she limps quickly out._ mother baumert [_calls after her in a warning voice._] jenny, jenny! don't you be doin' anything foolish, now! bertha she'll do herself no harm, mother. you needn't be afraid. emma that's the way she always goes on. [_seats herself at the loom and weaves for a few seconds._ _august enters, carrying a tallow candle, and lighting his father, old baumert, who follows close behind him, staggering under a heavy bundle of yarn._ mother baumert oh, father, where have you been all this long time? where have you been? old baumert come now, mother, don't fall on a man like that. give me time to get my breath first. an' look who i've brought with me. _moritz jaeger comes stooping in at the low door. reserve soldier, newly discharged. middle height, rosy-cheeked, military carriage. his cap on the side of his head, hussar fashion, whole clothes and shoes, a clean shirt without collar. draws himself up and salutes._ jaeger [_in a hearty voice._] good-evenin', auntie baumert! mother baumert well, well now! and to think you've got back! an' you've not forgotten us? take a chair, then, lad. emma [_wiping a wooden chair with her apron, and pushing it towards moritz._] an' so you've come to see what poor folks is like again, moritz? jaeger i say, emma, is it true that you've got a boy nearly old enough to be a soldier? where did you get hold o' him, eh? [_bertha, having taken the small supply of provisions which her father has brought, puts meat into a saucepan, and shoves it into the oven, while august lights the fire._ bertha you knew weaver finger, didn't you? mother baumert we had him here in the house with us. he was ready enough to marry her; but he was too far gone in consumption; he was as good as a dead man. it didn't happen for want o' warnin' from me. but do you think she would listen? not she. now he's dead an' forgotten long ago, an' she's left with the boy to provide for as best she can. but now tell us how you've been gettin' on, moritz. old baumert you've only to look at him, mother, to know that. he's had luck. it'll be about as much as he can do to speak to the likes o' us. he's got clothes like a prince, an' a silver watch, an' thirty shillings in his pocket into the bargain. jaeger [_stretching himself consequentially, a knowing smile on his face._] i can't complain, i didn't get on so badly in the regiment. old baumert he was the major's own servant. just listen to him--he speaks like a gentleman. jaeger i've got so accustomed to it that i can't help it. mother baumert well, now, to think that such a good-for-nothin' as you was should have come to be a rich man. for there wasn't nothin' to be made of you. you would never sit still to wind more than a hank of yarn at a time, that you wouldn't. off you went to your tomtit boxes an' your robin redbreast snares--they was all you cared about. isn't it the truth i'm telling? jaeger yes, yes, auntie, it's true enough. it wasn't only redbreasts. i went after swallows too. emma though we were always tellin' you that swallows was poison. jaeger what did i care?--but how have you all been gettin' on, auntie baumert? mother baumert oh, badly, lad, badly these last four years. i've had the rheumatics--just look at them hands. an' it's more than likely as i've had a stroke o' some kind too, i'm that helpless. i can hardly move a limb, an' nobody knows the pains i suffers. old baumert she's in a bad way, she is. she'll not hold out long. bertha we've to dress her in the mornin' an' undress her at night, an' to feed her like a baby. mother baumert [_speaking in a complaining, tearful voice._] not a thing c'n i do for myself. it's far worse than bein' ill. for it's not only a burden to myself i am, but to every one else. often and often do i pray to god to take me. for oh! mine's a weary life. i don't know ... p'r'aps they think ... but i'm one that's been a hard worker all my days. an' i've always been able to do my turn too; but now, all at once, [_she vainly attempts to rise_] i can't do nothin'.--i've a good husband an' good children, but to have to sit here and see them...! look at the girls! there's hardly any blood left in them--faces the colour of a sheet. but on they must work at these weary looms whether they earn enough to keep theirselves or not. what sort o' life is it they lead? their feet never off the treadle from year's end to year's end. an' with it all they can't scrape together as much as'll buy them clothes that they can let theirselves be seen in; never a step can they go to church, to hear a word o' comfort. they're liker scarecrows than young girls of fifteen and twenty. bertha [_at the stove._] it's beginnin' to smoke again! old baumert there now; look at that smoke. and we can't do nothin' for it. the whole stove's goin' to pieces. we must let it fall, and swallow the soot. we're coughin' already, one worse than the other. we may cough till we choke, or till we cough our lungs up--nobody cares. jaeger but this here is ansorge's business; he must see to the stove. bertha he'll see us out o' the house first; he has plenty against us without that. mother baumert we've only been in his way this long time past. old baumert one word of a complaint an' out we go. he's had no rent from us this last half-year. mother baumert a well-off man like him needn't be so hard. old baumert he's no better off than we is, mother. he's hard put to it too, for all he holds his tongue about it. mother baumert he's got his house. old baumert what are you talkin' about, mother? not one stone in the wall is the man's own. jaeger [_has seated himself, and taken a short pipe with gay tassels out of one coat-pocket, and a quart bottle of brandy out of another._] things can't go on like this. i'm dumfoundered when i see the life the people live here. the very dogs in the towns live better. old baumert [_eagerly._] that's what i says! eh? eh? you know it too! but if you say that here, they'll tell you that it's only bad times. _enter ansorge, an earthenware pan with soup in one hand, in the other a half-finished quarter-bushel basket._ ansorge glad to see you again, moritz! jaeger thank you, father ansorge--same to you! ansorge [_shoving his pan into the oven._] why, lad you look like a duke! old baumert show him your watch, moritz. an' he's got a new suit of clothes, an' thirty shillings cash. ansorge [_shaking his head._] is that so? well, well! emma [_puts the potato-parings into a bag._] i must be off; i'll maybe get a drop o' buttermilk for these. [_goes out._ jaeger [_the others hanging intently and devoutly on his words._] you know how you all used to be down on me. it was always: wait, moritz, till your soldierin' time comes--you'll catch it then. but you see how well i've got on. at the end o' the first half-year i had my good conduct stripes. you've got to be willin'--that's where the secret lies. i brushed the sergeant's boots; i groomed his horse; i fetched his beer. i was as sharp as a needle. always ready, accoutrements clean and shinin'--first at stables, first at roll-call, first in the saddle. an' when the bugle sounded to the assault--why, then, blood and thunder, and ride to the devil with you!! i was as keen as a pointer. says i to myself: there's no help for it now, my boy, it's got to be done; and i set my mind to it and did it. till at last the major said before the whole squadron: there's a hussar now that shows you what a hussar should be! [_silence. he lights his pipe._ ansorge [_shaking his head._] well, well, well! you had luck with you, moritz! [_sits down on the floor, with his willow twigs beside him, and continues mending the basket, which he holds between his legs._ old baumert let's hope you've brought some of it to us.--are we to have a drop to drink your health in? jaeger of course you are, father baumert. and when this bottle's done, we'll send for more. [_he flings a coin on the table._ ansorge [_open mouthed with amusement._] oh my! oh my! what goings on to be sure! roast meat frizzlin' in the oven! a bottle o' brandy on the table! [_he drinks out of the bottle._] here's to you, moritz!--well, well, well! [_the bottle circulates freely after this._ old baumert if we could any way have a bit o' meat on sundays and holidays, instead o' never seein' the sight of it from year's end to year's end! now we'll have to wait till another poor little dog finds its way into the house like this one did four weeks gone by--an' that's not likely to happen soon again. ansorge have you killed the little dog? old baumert we had to do that or starve. ansorge well, well! that's so! mother baumert a nice, kind little beast he was, too! jaeger are you as keen as ever on roast dog hereabouts? old baumert lord, if we could only get enough of it! mother baumert a nice little bit o' meat like that does you a lot o' good. old baumert have you lost the taste for it, moritz? stay with us a bit, and it'll soon come back to you. ansorge [_sniffing._] yes, yes! that will be a tasty bite--what a good smell it has! old baumert [_sniffing._] fine as spice, you might say. ansorge come, then, moritz, tell us your opinion, you that's been out and seen the world. is things at all like to improve for us weavers, eh? jaeger they would need to. ansorge we're in an awful state here. it's not livin' an' it's not dyin'. a man fights to the bitter end, but he's bound to be beat at last--to be left without a roof over his head, you may say without ground under his feet. as long as he can work at the loom he can earn some sort o poor, miserable livin'. but it's many a day since i've been able to get that sort o' job. now i tries to put a bite into my mouth with this here basket-mak-in'. i sits at it late into the night, and by the time i tumbles into bed i've earned three-halfpence. i puts it to you as knows things, if a man can live on that, when everything's so dear? nine shillin' goes in one lump for house tax, three shillin' for land tax, nine shillin' for mortgage interest--that makes one pound one. i may reckon my year's earnin' at just double that money, and that leaves me twenty-one shillin' for a whole year's food, an' fire, an' clothes, an' shoes; and i've got to keep up some sort of a place to live in. an' there's odds an' ends. is it a wonder if i'm behindhand with my interest payments? old baumert some one would need to go to berlin an' tell the king how hard put to it we are. jaeger little good that would do, father baumert. there's been plenty written about it in the news-papers. but the rich people, they can turn and twist things round ... as cunning as the devil himself. old baumert [_shaking his head._] to think they've no more sense than that in berlin. ansorge and is it really true, moritz? is there no law to help us? if a man hasn't been able to scrape together enough to pay his mortgage interest, though he's worked the very skin off his hands, must his house be taken from him? the peasant that's lent the money on it, he wants his rights--what else can you look for from him? but what's to be the end of it all, i don't know.--if i'm put out o' the house ... [_in a voice choked by tears._] i was born here, and here my father sat at his loom for more than forty year. many was the time he said to mother: mother, when i'm gone, keep hold o' the house. i've worked hard for it. every nail means a night's weavin', every plank a year's dry bread. a man would think that ... jaeger they're just as like to take the last bite out of your mouth--that's what they are. ansorge well, well, well! i would rather be carried out than have to walk out now in my old days. who minds dyin'? my father, he was glad to die. at the very end he got frightened, but i crept into bed beside him, an' he quieted down again. think of it; i was a lad of thirteen then. i was tired and fell asleep beside him--i knew no better--and when i woke he was quite cold. mother baumert [_after a pause._] give ansorge his soup out o' the oven, bertha. bertha here, father ansorge, it'll do you good. ansorge [_eating and shedding tears._] well, well, well! [_old baumert has begun to eat the meat out of the saucepan._ mother baumert father, father, can't you have patience an' let bertha serve it up properly? old baumert [_chewing._] it's two years now since i took the sacrament. i went straight after that an' sold my sunday coat, an' we bought a good bit o' pork, an' since then never a mouthful of meat has passed my lips till to-night. jaeger _we_ don't need no meat! the manufacturers eats it for us. it's the fat o' the land _they_ lives on. whoever don't believe that has only to go down to bielau and peterswaldau. he'll see fine things there--palace upon palace, with towers and iron railings and plate-glass windows. who do they all belong to? why, of course, the manufacturers! no signs of bad times there! baked and boiled and fried--horses and carriages and governesses--they've money to pay for all that and goodness knows how much more. they're swelled out to burstin' with pride and good livin'. ansorge things was different in my young days. then the manufacturers let the weaver have his share. now they keeps everything to theirselves. an' would you like to know what's at the bottom of it all? it's that the fine folks nowadays believes neither in god nor devil. what do they care about commandments or punishments? and so they steals our last scrap o' bread, an' leaves us no chance of earnin' the barest living. for it's their fault. if our manufacturers was good men, there would be no bad times for us. jaeger listen, then, and i'll read you something that will please you. [_he takes one or two loose papers from his pocket._] i say, august, run and fetch another quart from the public-house. eh, boy, do you laugh all day long? mother baumert no one knows why, but our august's always happy--grins an' laughs, come what may. off with you then, quick! [_exit august with the empty brandy-bottle._] you've got something good now, eh, father? old baumert [_still chewing; his spirits are rising from the effect of food and drink._] moritz, you're the very man we want. you can read an' write. you understand the weavin' trade, and you've a heart to feel for the poor weavers' sufferin's. you should stand up for us here. jaeger i'd do that quick enough! there's nothing i'd like better than to give the manufacturers round here a bit of a fright--dogs that they are! i'm an easy-goin' fellow, but let me once get worked up into a real rage, and i'll take dreissiger in the one hand and dittrich in the other, and knock their heads together till the sparks fly out o' their eyes.--if we could only arrange all to join together, we'd soon give the manufacturers a proper lesson ... we wouldn't need no king an' no government ... all we'd have to do would be to say: we wants this and that, and we don't want the other thing. there would be a change of days then. as soon as they see that there's some pluck in us, they'll cave in. i know the rascals; they're a pack o' cowardly hounds. mother baumert there's some truth in what you say. i'm not a bad woman. i've always been the one to say as how there must be rich folks as well as poor. but when things come to such a pass as this ... jaeger the devil may take them all, for what i care. it would be no more than they deserves. [_old baumert has quietly gone out._ bertha where's father? mother baumert i don't know where he can have gone. bertha do you think he's not been able to stomach the meat, with not gettin' none for so long? mother baumert [_in distress, crying._] there now, there! he's not even able to keep it down when he's got it. up it comes again, the only bite o' good food as he's tasted this many a day. _re-enter old baumert, crying with rage._ old baumert it's no good! i'm too far gone! now that i've at last got hold of somethin' with a taste in it, my stomach won't keep it. [_he sits down on the bench by the stove crying._ jaeger [_with a sudden violent ebullition of rage._] an' yet there's people not far from here, justices they call themselves too, over-fed brutes, that have nothing to do all the year round but invent new ways of wastin' their time. an' these people say that the weavers would be quite well off if only they wasn't so lazy. ansorge the men as says that are no men at all, they're monsters. jaeger never mind, father ansorge; we're makin' the place hot for 'em. becker and i have been and given dreissiger a piece of our mind, and before we came away we sang him "bloody justice." ansorge good lord! is that the song? jaeger yes; i have it here. ansorge they calls it dreissiger's song, don't they? jaeger i'll read it to you, mother baumert who wrote it? jaeger that's what nobody knows. now listen. [_he reads, hesitating like a schoolboy, with incorrect accentuation, but unmistakably strong feeling. despair, suffering, rage, hatred, thirst for revenge, all find utterance._ the justice to us weavers dealt is bloody, cruel, and hateful; our life's one torture, long drawn out: for lynch law we'd be grateful. stretched on the rack day after day, hearts sick and bodies aching, our heavy sighs their witness bear to spirit slowly breaking. [_the words of the song make a strong impression on old baumert. deeply agitated, he struggles against the temptation to interrupt jaeger. at last he can keep quiet no longer._ old baumert [_to his wife, half laughing, half crying, stammering._] stretched on the rack day after day. whoever wrote that, mother, wrote the truth. you can bear witness ... eh, how does it go? "our heavy sighs their witness bear" ... what's the rest? jaeger "to spirit slowly breaking." old baumert you know the way we sigh, mother, day and night, sleepin' and wakin'. [_ansorge had stopped working, and cowers on the floor, strongly agitated. mother baumert and bertha wipe their eyes frequently during the course of the reading._ jaeger [_continues to read._] the dreissigers true hangmen are, servants no whit behind them; masters and men with one accord set on the poor to grind them. you villains all, you brood of hell ... old baumert [_trembling with rage, stamping on the floor._] yes, brood of hell!!! jaeger [_reads._] you fiends in fashion human, a curse will fall on all like you, who prey on man and woman. ansorge yes, yes, a curse upon them! old baumert [_clenching his fist, threateningly._] you prey on man and woman. jaeger [_reads._] the suppliant knows he asks in vain, vain every word that's spoken. "if not content, then go and starve-- our rules cannot be broken." old baumert what is it? "the suppliant knows he asks in vain"? every word of it's true ... every word ... as true as the bible. he knows he asks in vain. ansorge yes, yes! it's all no good. jaeger [_reads._] then think of all our woe and want, o ye who hear this ditty! our struggle vain for daily bread hard hearts would move to pity. but pity's what _you've_ never known, you'd take both skin and clothing, you cannibals, whose cruel deeds fill all good men with loathing. old baumert [_jumps up, beside himself with excitement._] both skin and clothing. it's true, it's all true! here i stands, robert baumert, master-weaver of kaschbach. who can bring up anything against me?... i've been an honest, hard-workin' man all my life long, an' look at me now! what have i to show for it? look at me! see what they've made of me! stretched on the rack day after day, [_he holds out his arms._] feel that! skin and bone! "you villains all, you brood of hell!!" [_he sinks down on a chair, weeping with rage and despair._ ansorge [_flings his basket from him into a corner, rises, his whole body trembling with rage, gasps._] an' the time's come now for a change, i say. we'll stand it no longer! we'll stand it no longer! come what may! end of the second act the third act _the common-room of the principal public-house in peterswaldau. a large room with a raftered roof supported by a central wooden pillar, round which a table runs. in the back mall, a little to the right of the pillar, is the entrance-door, through the opening of which the spacious lobby or outer room is seen, with barrels and brewing utensils. to the right of this door, in the corner, is the bar--a high wooden counter with receptacles for beer-mugs, glasses, etc.; a cupboard with rows of brandy and liqueur bottles on the wall behind, and between counter and cupboard a narrow space for the barkeeper. in front of the bar stands a table with a gay-coloured cover, a pretty lamp hanging above it, and several cane chairs placed around it. not far off, in the right wall, is a door with the inscription: bar parlour. nearer the front on the same side an old eight-day clock stands ticking. at the back, to the left of the entrance-door, is a table with bottles and glasses, and beyond this, in the corner, is the great tile-oven. in the left wall there are three small windows. below them runs a long bench; and in front of each stands a large oblong wooden table, with the end towards the wall. there are benches with backs along the sides of these tables, and at the end of each facing the window stands a wooden chair. the walls are washed blue and decorated with advertisements, coloured prints and oleographs, among the latter a portrait of frederick william iv._ _welzel, the publican, a good-natured giant, upwards of fifty, stands behind the counter, letting beer run from a barrel into a glass._ _mrs. welzel is ironing by the stove. she is a handsome, tidily dressed woman in her thirty-fifth year._ _anna welzel, a good-looking girl of seventeen, with a quantity of beautiful, fair, reddish hair, sits, neatly dressed, with her embroidery, at the table with the coloured cover. she looks up from her work for a moment and listens, as the sound of a funeral hymn sung by school-children is heard in the distance._ _wiegand, the joiner, in his working clothes, is sitting at the same table, with a glass of bavarian beer before him. his face shows that he understands what the world requires of a man if he is to attain his ends--namely, craftiness, swiftness, and relentless pushing forward._ _a commercial traveller is seated at the pillar-table, vigorously masticating a beef-steak. he is of middle height, stout and thriving-looking, inclined to jocosity, lively, and impudent. he is dressed in the fashion of the day, and his portmanteau, pattern-case, umbrella, overcoat, and travelling rug lie on chairs beside him._ welzel [_carrying a glass of beer to the traveller, but addressing wiegand._] the devil's broke loose in peterswaldau to-day. wiegand [_in a sharp, shrill voice._] that's because it's delivery day at dreissiger's. mrs. welzel but they don't generally make such an awful row. wiegand it's may be because of the two hundred new weavers that he's going to take on. mrs. welzel [_at her ironing._] yes, yes, that'll be it. if he wants two hundred, six hundred's sure to have come. there's no lack of _them_. wiegand no, they'll last. there's no fear of their dying out, let them be ever so badly off. they bring more children into the world than we know what to do with. [_the strains of the funeral hymn are suddenly heard more distinctly._] there's a funeral to-day too. weaver nentwich is dead, you know. welzel he's been long enough about it. he's been goin' about like a livin' ghost this many a long day. wiegand you never saw such a little coffin, welzel; it was the tiniest, miserablest little thing i ever glued together. and what a corpse! it didn't weigh ninety pounds. traveller [_his mouth full._] what i don't understand's this.... take up whatever paper you like and you'll find the most heartrending accounts of the destitution among the weavers. you get the impression that three-quarters of the people in this neighbourhood are starving. then you come and see a funeral like what's going on just now. i met it as i came into the village. brass band, schoolmaster, school children, pastor, and such a procession behind them that you would think it was the emperor of china that was getting buried. if the people have money to spend on this sort of thing, well...! [_he takes a drink of beer; puts down the glass; suddenly and jocosely._] what do you say to it, miss? don't you agree with me? [anna _gives an embarrassed laugh, and goes on working busily._ traveller now, i'll take a bet that these are slippers for papa. welzel you're wrong, then; i wouldn't put such things on my feet. traveller you don't say so! now, i would give half of what i'm worth if these slippers were for me. mrs. welzel oh, he don't know nothing about such things. wiegand [_has coughed once or twice, moved his chair, and prepared himself to speak._] you were sayin', sir, that you wondered to see such a funeral as this. i tell you, and mrs. welzel here will bear me out, that it's quite a small funeral. traveller but, my good man ... what a monstrous lot of money it must cost! where does all that come from? wiegand if you'll excuse me for saying so, sir, there's a deal of foolishness among the poorer working people hereabouts. they have a kind of inordinate idea, if i may say so, of the respect an' duty an' honour they're bound to show to such as is taken from their midst. and when it comes to be a case of parents, then there's no bounds whatever to their superstitiousness. the children and the nearest family scrapes together every farthing they can call their own, an' what's still wanting, that they borrow from some rich man. they run themselves into debt over head and ears; they're owing money to the pastor, to the sexton, and to all concerned. then there's the victuals, an' the drink, an' such like. no, sir, i'm far from speaking against dutifulness to parents; but it's too much when it goes the length of the mourners having to bear the weight of it for the rest of their lives. traveller but surely the pastor might reason them out of such foolishness. wiegand begging your pardon, sir, but i must mention that every little place hereabouts has its church an' its reverend pastor to support. these honourable gentlemen has their advantages from big funerals. the larger the attendance is, the larger the offertory is bound to be. whoever knows the circumstances connected with the working classes here, sir, will assure you that the pastors are strong against quiet funerals. _enter hornig, the rag dealer, a little bandy-legged old man, with a strap round his chest._ hornig good-mornin', ladies and gentlemen! a glass o' schnapps, if you please, mr. welzel. has the young mistress anything for me to-day? i've got beautiful ribbons in my cart, miss anna, an' tapes, an' garters, an' the very best of pins an' hairpins an' hooks an' eyes. an' all in exchange for a few rags. [_in a changed voice._] an'out of them rags fine white paper's to be made, for your sweetheart to write you a letter on. anna thank you, but i've nothing to do with sweethearts. mrs. welzel [_putting a bolt into her iron._] no, she's not that kind. she'll not hear of marrying. traveller [_jumps up, affecting delighted surprise, goes forward to anna's table, and holds out his hand to her across it._] that's sensible, miss. you and i think alike in this matter. give me your hand on it. we'll both remain single. anna [_blushing scarlet, gives him her hand._] but you are married already! traveller not a bit of it. i only pretend to be. you think so because i wear a ring. i only have it on my finger to protect my charms against shameless attacks. i'm not afraid of you, though. [_he puts the ring into his pocket._] but tell me, truly, miss, are you quite determined never, never, never, to marry? anna [_shakes her head._] oh, get along with you! mrs. welzel you may trust her to remain single unless something very extra good turns up. traveller and why shouldn't it? i know of a rich silesian proprietor who married his mother's lady's maid. and there's dreissiger, the rich manufacturer, his wife is an innkeeper's daughter too, and not half so pretty as you, miss, though she rides in her carriage now, with servants in livery. and why not? [_he marches about, stretching himself, and stamping his feet._] let me have a cup of coffee, please. _enter ansorge and old baumert, each with a bundle. they seat themselves meekly and silently beside hornig, at the front table to the left._ welzel how are you, father ansorge? glad to see you once again. hornig yes, it's not often as you crawl down from that smoky old nest. ansorge [_visibly embarrassed, mumbles._] i've been fetchin' myself a web again. baumer he's goin' to work at a shilling the web. ansorge i wouldn't ha' done it, but there's no more to be made now by basket-weaving'. wiegand it's always better than nothin'. he does it only to give you employment. i know dreissiger very well. when i was up there takin' out his double windows last week we were talkin' about it, him and me. it's out of pity that he does it. ansorge well, well, well! that may be so. welzel [_setting a glass of schnapps on the table before each of the weavers._] here you are, then. i say, ansorge, how long is it since you had a shave? the gentleman over there would like to know. traveller [_calls across._] now, mr. welzel, you know i didn't say that. i was only struck by the venerable appearance of the master-weaver. it isn't often one sees such a gigantic figure. ansorge [_scratching his head, embarrassed._] well, well! traveller such specimens of primitive strength are rare nowadays. we're all rubbed smooth by civilisation ... but i can still take pleasure in nature untampered with.... these bushy eyebrows! that tangled length of beard! hornig let me tell you, sir, that them people haven't the money to pay a barber, and as to a razor for themselves, that's altogether beyond them. what grows, grows. they haven't nothing to throw away on their outsides. traveller my good friend, you surely don't imagine that i would ... [_aside to welzel._] do you think i might offer the hairy one a glass of beer? welzel no, no; you mustn't do that. he wouldn't take it. he's got some queer ideas in that head o' his. traveller all right, then, i won't. with your permission, miss. [_he seats himself at anna's table._] i declare, miss, that i've not been able to take my eyes off your hair since i came in--such glossy softness, such a splendid quantity! [_ecstatically kisses his finger-tips._] and what a colour!... like ripe wheat. come to berlin with that hair and you'll create no end of a sensation. on my honour, with hair like that you may go to court.... [_leans back, looking at it._] glorious, simply glorious! wiegand they've given her a fine name because of it. traveller and what may that be? anna [_laughing quietly to herself._] oh, don't listen to that! hornig the chestnut filly, isn't it? welzel come now, we've had enough o' this. i'm not goin' to have the girl's head turned altogether. she's had a-plenty of silly notions put into it already. she'll hear of nothing under a count today, and to-morrow it'll be a prince. mrs. welzel don't abuse the girl, father. there's no harm in wantin' to rise in the world. it's as well that people don't all think as you do, or nobody would get on at all. if dreissiger's grandfather had been of your way of thinkin', they would be poor weavers still. and now they're rollin' in wealth. an' look at old tromtra. he was nothing but a weaver, too, and now he owns twelve estates, an' he's been made a nobleman into the bargain. wiegand yes, welzel, you must look at the thing fairly. your wife's in the right this time. i can answer for that. i'd never be where i am, with seven workmen under me, if i had thought like you. hornig yes, you understand the way to get on; that your worst enemy must allow. before the weaver has taken to bed, you're gettin' his coffin ready. wiegand a man must stick to his business if he's to get on. hornig no fear of you for that. you know before the doctor when death's on the way to knock at a weaver's door. wiegand [_attempting to laugh, suddenly furious._] and you know better'n the police where the thieves are among the weavers, that keep back two or three bobbins full every week. it's rags you ask for but you don't say no, if there's a little yarn among them. hornig an' your corn grows in the churchyard. the more that are bedded on the sawdust, the better for you. when you see the rows o' little children's graves, you pats yourself on the belly and says you: this has been a good year; the little brats have fallen like cockchafers off the trees. i can allow myself a quart extra in the week again. wiegand and supposin' this is all true, it still don't make me a receiver of stolen goods. hornig no; perhaps the worst you do is to send in an account twice to the rich fustian manufacturers, or to help yourself to a plank or two at dreissiger's when there's building goin' on and the moon happens not to be shinin'. wiegand [_turning his back._] talk to any one you like, but not to me. [_then suddenly._] hornig the liar! hornig wiegand the coffin-jobber! wiegand [_to the rest of the company._] he knows charms for bewitching cattle. hornig if you don't look out, i'll try one of 'em on you. [_wiegand turns pale._ mrs. welzel [_had gone out; now returns with the traveller's coffee; in the act of putting it on the table._] perhaps you would rather have it in the parlour, sir? traveller most certainly not! [_with a languishing look at anna._] i could sit here till i die. _enter a young forester and a peasant, the latter carrying a whip. they wish the others_ "good morning," _and remain standing at the counter._ peasant two brandies, if you please. welzel good-morning to you, gentlemen. [_he pours out their beverage; the two touch glasses, take a mouthful, and then set the glasses down on the counter._ traveller [_to forester._] come far this morning, sir? forester from steinseiffersdorf--that's a good step. _two old weavers enter, and seat themselves beside ansorge, baumert, and hornig._ traveller excuse me asking, but are you in count hochheim's service? forester no. i'm in count keil's. traveller yes, yes, of course--that was what i meant. one gets confused here among all the counts and barons and other gentlemen. it would take a giant's memory to remember them all. why do you carry an axe, if i may ask? forester i've just taken this one from a man who was stealing wood. old baumert yes, their lordships are mighty strict with us about a few sticks for the fire. traveller you must allow that if every one were to help himself to what he wanted ... old baumert by your leave, sir, but there's a difference made here as elsewhere between the big an' the little thieves. there's some here as deals in stolen wood wholesale, and grows rich on it. but if a poor weaver ... first old weaver [_interrupts baumert._] we're forbid to take a single branch; but their lordships, they take the very skin off of us--we've assurance money to pay, an' spinning-money, an' charges in kind--we must go here an' go there, an' do so an' so much field work, all willy-nilly. ansorge that's just how it is--what the manufacturer leaves us, their lordships takes from us. second old weaver [_has taken a seat at the next table._] i've said it to his lordship hisself. by your leave, my lord, says i, it's not possible for me to work on the estate so many days this year. i comes right out with it. for why--my own bit of ground, my lord, it's been next to carried away by the rains. i've to work night and day if i'm to live at all. for oh, what a flood that was...! there i stood an' wrung my hands, an' watched the good soil come pourin' down the hill, into the very house! and all that dear, fine seed!... i could do nothin' but roar an' cry until i couldn't see out o' my eyes for a week. and then i had to start an' wheel eighty heavy barrow-loads of earth up that hill, till my back was all but broken. peasant [_roughly._] you weavers here make such an awful outcry. as if we hadn't all to put up with what heaven sends us. an' if you _are_ badly off just now, whose fault is it but your own? what did you do when trade was good? drank an' squandered all you made. if you had saved a bit then, you'd have it to fall back on now when times is bad, and not need to be goin' stealin' yarn and wood. first young weaver [_standing with several comrades in the lobby or outer room, calls in at the door._] what's a peasant but a peasant, though he lies in bed till nine? first old weaver the peasant an' the count, it's the same story with 'em both. says the peasant when a weaver wants a house: i'll give you a little bit of a hole to live in, an' you'll pay me so much rent in money, an' the rest of it you'll make up by helpin' me to get in my hay an' my corn--and if that don't please you, why, then you may go elsewhere. he tries another, and to the second he says the same as to the first. baumert [_angrily._] the weaver's like a bone that every dog takes a gnaw at. peasant [_furious._] you starvin' curs, you're no good for anything. can you yoke a plough? can you draw a straight furrow or throw a bundle of sheaves on to a cart. you're fit for nothing but to idle about an' go after the women. a pack of scoundrelly ne'er-do-wells! [_he has paid and now goes out._ [_the forester follows, laughing. welzel, the joiner, and mrs. welzel laugh aloud; the traveller laughs to himself. then there is a moment's silence._ hornig a peasant like that's as stupid as his own ox. as if i didn't know all about the distress in the villages round here. sad sights i've seen! four and five lyin' naked on one sack of straw. traveller [_in a mildly remonstrative tone._] allow me to remark, my good man, that there's a great difference of opinion as to the amount of distress here in the eulengebirge. if you can read.... hornig i can read straight off, as well as you. an' i know what i've seen with my own eyes. it would be queer if a man that's travelled the country with a pack on his back these forty years an' more didn't know something about it. there was the fullers, now. you saw the children scrapin' about among the dung-heaps with the peasants' geese. the people up there died naked, on the bare stone floors. in their sore need they ate the stinking weavers' glue. hunger carried 'em off by the hundred. traveller you must be aware, since you are able to read, that strict investigation has been made by the government, and that.... hornig yes, yes, we all know what that means. they send a gentleman that knows all about it already better nor if he had seen it, an' he goes about a bit in the village where the brook flows broad an' the best houses is. he don't want to dirty his shinin' boots. thinks he to hisself: all the rest'll be the same as this. an' so he steps into his carriage, an' drives away home again, an' then writes to berlin that there's no distress in the place at all. if he had but taken the trouble to go higher up into a village like that, to where the stream comes in, or across the stream on to the narrow side--or, better still, if he'd gone up to the little out-o'-the-way hovels on the hill above, some of 'em that black an' tumble-down as it would be the waste of a good match to set fire to 'em--it's another kind o' report he'd have sent to berlin. they should ha' come to me, these government gentlemen that wouldn't believe there was no distress here. i would ha' shown 'em something. i'd have opened their eyes for 'em in some of these starvation holes. [_the strains of the weavers' song are heard, sung outside._ welzel there they are, roaring at that devil's song again. wiegand they're turning the whole place upside down. mrs. welzel you'd think there was something in the air. _jaeger and becker arm in arm, at the head of a troop of young weavers, march noisily through the outer room and enter the bar._ jaeger halt! to your places! [_the new arrivals sit down at the various tables, and begin to talk to other weavers already seated there._ hornig [_calls out to becker._] what's up now, becker, that you've got together a crowd like this? becker [_significantly._] who knows but something may be goin' to happen? eh, moritz? hornig come, come, lads. don't you be a-gettin' of yourselves into mischief. becker blood's flowed already. would you like to see it? [_he pulls up his sleeve and shows bleeding tattoo-marks on the upper part of his arm. many of the other young weavers do the same._ becker we've been at barber schmidt's gettin' ourselves vaccinated. hornig now the thing's explained. little wonder there's such an uproar in the place, with a band of young rapscallions like you paradin' round. jaeger [_consequentially, in a loud voice._] you may bring two quarts at once, welzel! i pay. perhaps you think i haven't got the needful. you're wrong, then. if we wanted we could sit an' drink your best brandy an' swill coffee till to-morrow morning with any bagman in the land. [_laughter among the young weavers._ traveller [_affecting comic surprise._] is the young gentleman kind enough to take notice of me? [_host, hostess, and their daughter, wiegand, and the traveller all laugh._ jaeger if the cap fits, wear it. traveller your affairs seem to be in a thriving condition, young man, if i may be allowed to say so. jaeger i can't complain. i'm a traveller in made-up goods. i go shares with the manufacturers. the nearer starvation the weaver is, the better i fare. his want butters my bread. becker well done, moritz! you gave it him that time. here's to you! [_welzel has brought the corn-brandy. on his way back to the counter he stops, turns round slowly, and stands, an embodiment of phlegmatic strength, facing the weavers._ welzel [_calmly but emphatically._] you let the gentleman alone. he's done you no harm. young weavers and we're doing him no harm. [_mrs. welzel has exchanged a few words with the traveller. she takes the cup with the remains of his coffee and carries it into the parlour. the traveller follows her amidst the laughter of the weavers._ young weavers [_singing._] "the dreissigers the hangmen are, servants no whit behind them." welzel hush-sh! sing that song anywhere else you like, but not in my house. first old weaver he's quite right. stop that singin', lads. becker [_roars._] but we must march past dreissiger's, boys, and let him hear it ones more. wiegand you'd better take care--you may march once too often! [_laughter and cries of_ ho, ho! _wittig has entered; a grey-haired old smith, bareheaded, with leather apron and wooden shoes, sooty from the smithy. he is standing at the counter waiting for his schnapps._ wittig let 'em go on with their doin's. the dogs as barks most, bites least. old weavers wittig, wittig! wittig here he is. what do you want with him? old weavers "it's wittig!"--"wittig, wittig!"--"come here, wittig."--"sit beside us, wittig." wittig do you think i would sit beside a set of rascals like you? jaeger come and take a glass with us. wittig keep your brandy to yourselves. i pay for my own drink. [_takes his glass and sits down beside baumert and ansorge. clapping the latter on the stomach._] what's the weavers' food so nice? sauerkraut and roasted lice! old baumert [_drunk with excitement._] but what would you say now if they'd made up their minds as how they would put up with it no longer. wittig [_with pretended astonishment, staring open-mouthed at the old weaver._] heinerle! you don't mean to tell me that that's you? [_laughs immoderately._] o lord, o lord! i could laugh myself to death. old baumert risin' in rebellion! we'll have the tailors at it next, and then there'll be a rebellion among the baa-lambs, and the rats and the mice. damn it all, but we'll see some sport. [_he nearly splits with laughter._ old baumert you needn't go on like that, wittig. i'm the same man i've always been. i still say 'twould be better if things could be put right peaceably. wittig rot! how could it be done peaceably? did they do it peaceably in france? did robespeer tickle the rich men's palms? no! it was: away with them, every one! to the gilyoteen with 'em! allongs onfong! you've got your work before you. the geese'll not fly ready roasted into your mouths. old baumert if i could make even half a livin' ... first old weaver the water's up to our chins now, wittig. second old weaver we're afraid to go home. it's all the same whether we works or whether we lies abed; it's starvation both ways. first old weaver a man's like to go mad at home. old ansorge i've come to that pass now that i don't care how things goes. old weavers [_with increasing excitement._] "we've no peace anywhere."--"we've no spirit left to work."--"up with us in steenkunzendorf you can see a weaver sittin' by the stream washin' hisself the whole day long, naked as god made him. it's driven him clean out of his mind." third old weaver [_moved by the spirit, stands up and begins to "speak with tongues," stretching out his hand threateningly._] judgement is at hand! have no dealings with the rich and the great! judgement is at hand! the lord god of sabaoth ... [_some of the weavers laugh. he is pulled down on to his seat._ welzel that's a chap that can't stand a single glass--he gets wild at once. third old weaver [_jumps up again._] but they--they believe not in god, not in hell, not in heaven. they mock at religion.... first old weaver come, come now, that's enough! becker you let him do his little bit o' preaching. there's many a one would be the better for takin' it to heart. voices [_in excited confusion._] "let him alone!" "let him speak!" third old weaver [_raising his voice._] but hell is opened, saith the lord; its jaws are gaping wide, to swallow up all those that oppress the afflicted and pervert judgement in the cause of the poor. [_wild excitement._] third old weaver [_suddenly declaiming schoolboy fashion._] when one has thought upon it well, it's still more difficult to tell why they the linen-weaver's work despise. becker but we're fustian-weavers, man. [_laughter._ hornig the linen-weavers is ever so much worse off than you. they're wanderin' about among the hills like ghosts. you people here have still got the pluck left in you to kick up a row. wittig do you suppose the worst's over here? it won't be long till the manufacturers drain away that little bit of strength they still has left in their bodies. becker you know what he said: it will come to the weavers workin' for a bite of bread. [_uproar._ several old and young weavers who said that? becker dreissiger said it. a young weaver the damned rascal should be hung up by the heels. jaeger look here, wittig. you've always jawed such a lot about the french revolution, and a good deal too about your own doings. a time may be coming, and that before long, when every one will have a chance to show whether he's a braggart or a true man. wittig [_flaring up angrily._] say another word if you dare! has you heard the whistle o' bullets? has you done outpost duty in an enemy's country? jaeger you needn't get angry about it. we're comrades. i meant no harm. wittig none of your comradeship for me, you impudent young fool. _enter kutsche, the policeman._ several voices hush--sh! police! [_this calling goes on for some time, till at last there is complete silence, amidst which kutsche takes his place at the central pillar table._ kutsche a small brandy, please. [_again complete silence._] wittig i suppose you've come to see if we're all behavin' ourselves, kutsche? kutsche [_paying no attention to wittig._] good-morning, mr. wiegand. wiegand [_still in the corner in front of the counter._] good morning t'you. kutsche how's trade? wiegand thank you, much as usual. becker the chief constable's sent him to see if we're spoilin' our stomach on these big wages we're gettin'. [_laughter._ jaeger i say, welzel, you will tell him how we've been feastin' on roast pork an' sauce an' dumplings and sauerkraut, and now we're sittin' at our champagne wine. [_laughter._ welzel. the world's upside down with them to-day. kutsche an' even if you had the champagne wine and the roast meat, you wouldn't be satisfied. i've to get on without champagne wine as well as you. becker [_referring to kutsche's nose._] he waters his beet-root with brandy and gin. an' it thrives on it too. [_laughter._ wittig a p'liceman like that has a hard life. now it's a starving beggar boy he has to lock up, then it's a pretty weaver girl he has to lead astray; then he has to get roarin' drunk an' beat his wife till she goes screamin' to the neighbours for help; and there's the ridin' about on horseback and the lyin' in bed till nine--nay, faith, but it's no easy job! kutsche jaw away; you'll jaw a rope round your neck in time. it's long been known what sort of a fellow you are. the magistrates knows all about that rebellious tongue o' yours, i know who'll drink wife and child into the poorhouse an' himself into gaol before long, who it is that'll go on agitatin' and agitatin' till he brings down judgment on himself and all concerned. wittig [_laughs bitterly._] it's true enough--no one knows what'll be the end of it. you may be right yet. [_bursts out in fury._] but if it does come to that, i know who i've got to thank for it, who it is that's blabbed to the manufacturers an' all the gentlemen round, an' blackened my character to that extent that they never give me a hand's turn of work to do--an' set the peasants an' the millers against me, so that i'm often a whole week without a horse to shoe or a wheel to put a tyre on. i know who's done it. i once pulled the damned brute off his horse, because he was givin' a little stupid boy the most awful flogging for stealin' a few unripe pears. but i tell you this, kutsche, and you know me--if you get me put into prison, you may make your own will. if i hears as much as a whisper of it. i'll take the first thing as comes handy, whether it's a horseshoe or a hammer, a wheel-spoke or a pail; i'll get hold of you if i've to drag you out of bed from beside your wife, and i'll beat in your brains, as sure as my name's wittig. [_he has jumped up and is going to rush at kutsche._] old and young weavers [_holding him back._] wittig, wittig! don't lose your head! kutsche [_has risen involuntarily, his face pale. he backs towards the door while speaking. the nearer the door the higher his courage rises. he speaks the last words on the threshold, and then instantly disappears._] what are you goin' on at me about? i didn't meddle with you. i came to say somethin' to the weavers. my business is with them an' not with you, and i've done nothing to you. but i've this to say to you weavers: the superintendent of police herewith forbids the singing of that song--dreissiger's song, or whatever it is you calls it. and if the yelling of it on the streets isn't stopped at once, he'll provide you with plenty of time and leisure for goin' on with it in gaol. you may sing there, on bread an' water, to your hearts' content. [_goes out._ wittig [_roars after him._] he's no right to forbid, it--not if we was to roar till the windows shook an' they could hear us at reichenbach--not if we sang till the manufacturers' houses tumbled about their ears an' all the superintendents' helmets danced on the top of their heads. it's nobody's business but our own. [_becker has in the meantime got up, made a signal for singing, and now leads off, the others joining in._ the justice to us weavers dealt is bloody, cruel, and hateful; our life's one torture, long drawn out; for lynch law we'd be grateful. [_welzel attempts to quiet them, but they pay no attention to him. wiegand puts his hands to his ears and rushes off. during the singing of the next stanza the weavers rise and form, into procession behind becker and wittig, who have given pantomimic signs for a general break-up._ stretched on the rack, day after day, hearts sick and bodies aching, our heavy sighs their witness bear to spirit slowly breaking. [_most of the weavers sing the following stanza, out on the street, only a few young fellows, who are paying, being still in the bar. at the conclusion of the stanza no one is left in the room except welzel and his wife and daughter, hornig, and old baumert._ you villains all, you brood of hell, you fiends in fashion human, a curse will fall on all like you who prey on man and woman. welzel [_phlegmatically collecting the glasses._] their backs are up to-day, an' no mistake. hornig [_to old baumert, who is preparing to go._] what in the name of heaven are they up to, baumert? baumert they're goin' to dreissiger's to make him add something on to the pay. welzel and are you joining in these foolish goings on? old baumert i've no choice, welzel. the young men may an' the old men must. [_goes out rather shamefacedly._ hornig it'll not surprise me if this ends badly. welzel to think that even old fellows like him are goin' right off their heads! hornig we all set our hearts on something! end of the third act the fourth act _peterswaldau.--private room of dreissiger, _the fustian manufacturer--luxuriously furnished in the chilly taste of the first half of this century. ceiling, doors, and stove are white, and the wall paper, with its small, straight-lined floral pattern, is dull and cold in tone. the furniture is mahogany, richly-carved, and upholstered in red. on the right, between two windows with crimson damask curtains, stands the writing-table, a high bureau with falling flap. directly opposite to this is the sofa, with the strong-box; beside it; in front of the sofa a table, with chairs and easy-chairs arranged about it. against the back wall is a gun-rack. all three walls are decorated with bad pictures in gilt frames. above the sofa is a mirror with a heavily gilt rococo frame. on the left an ordinary door leads into the hall. an open folding door at the back shows the drawing-room, over-furnished in the same style of comfortless ostentation. two ladies, mrs. dreissiger and mrs. kittelhaus, the pastor's wife, are seen in the drawing-room, looking at pictures. pastor kittelhaus is there too, engaged in conversation with weinhold, the tutor, a theological graduate._ kittelhaus [_a kindly little elderly man, enters the front room, smoking and chatting familiarly with the tutor, who is also smoking; he looks round and shakes his head in surprise at finding the room empty._] you are young, mr. weinhold, which explains everything. at your age we old fellows held--well, i won't say the same opinions--but certainly opinions of the same tendency. and there's something fine about youth--youth with its grand ideals. but unfortunately, mr. weinhold, they don't last; they are as fleeting as april sunshine. wait till you are my age. when a man has said his say from the pulpit for thirty years--fifty-two times every year, not including saints' days--he has inevitably calmed down. think of me, mr. weinhold, when you come to that pass. weinhold [_nineteen, pale, thin, tall, with lanky fair hair; restless and nervous in his movements._] with all due respect, mr. kittelhaus.... i can't think ... people have such different natures. kittelhaus my dear mr. weinhold, however restless-minded and unsettled, a man may be--[_in a tone of reproof_]--and you are a case in point--however violently and wantonly he may attack the existing order of things, he calms down in the end. i grant you, certainly, that among our professional brethren individuals are to be found, who, at a fairly advanced age, still play youthful pranks. one preaches against the drink evil and founds temperance societies, another publishes appeals which undoubtedly read most effectively. but what good do they do? the distress among the weavers, where it does exist, is in no way lessened--but the peace of society is undermined. no, no; one feels inclined in such cases to say: cobbler, stick to your last; don't take to caring for the belly, you who have the care of souls. preach the pure word of god, and leave all else to him who provides shelter and food for the birds, and clothes the lilies of the field.--but i should like to know where our good host, mr. dreissiger, has suddenly disappeared to. [_mrs. dreissiger, followed by mrs. kittelhaus, now comes forward. she is a pretty woman of thirty, of a healthy, florid type. a certain discrepancy is noticeable between her deportment and way of expressing herself and her rich, elegant toilette._] mrs. dreissiger that's what i want to know too, mr. kittelhaus. but it's what william always does. no sooner does a thing come into his head than off he goes and leaves me in the lurch. i've said enough about it, but it does no good. kittelhaus it's always the way with business men, my dear mrs. dreissiger. weinhold i'm almost certain that something has happened downstairs. _dreissiger enters, hot and excited._ dreissiger well, rosa, is coffee served? mrs. dreissiger [_sulkily._] fancy your needing to run away again! dreissiger [_carelessly._] ah! these are things you don't understand. kittelhaus excuse me--has anything happened to annoy you, mr. dreissiger? dreissiger never a day passes without that, my dear sir. i am accustomed to it. what about that coffee, rosa? [_mrs. dreissiger goes ill-humouredly and gives one or two violent tugs at the broad embroidered bell-pull._ dreissiger i wish you had been downstairs just now, mr. weinhold. you'd have gained a little experience. besides.... but now let us have our game of whist. kittelhaus by all means, sir. shake off the dust and burden of the day, mr. dreissiger; forget it in our company. dreissiger [_has gone to the window, pushed aside a curtain, and is looking out. involuntarily._] vile rabble!! come here. rosa! [_she goes to the window._] look ... that tall red-haired fellow there!... kittelhaus that's the man they call red becker. dreissiger is he the man that insulted you the day before yesterday? you remember what you told me--when john was helping you into the carriage? mrs. dreissiger [_pouting, drawls._] i'm sure i don't know. dreissiger come now, drop that offended air! i must know. i am thoroughly tired of their impudence. if he's the man, i mean to have him arrested. [_the strains of the weavers' song are heard._] listen to that! just listen! kittelhaus [_highly incensed._] is there to be no end to this nuisance? i must acknowledge now that it is time for the police to interfere. permit me. [_he goes forward to the window._] see, see, mr. weinhold! these are not only young people. there are numbers of steady-going old weavers among them, men whom i have known for years and looked upon as most deserving and god-fearing. there they are, taking part in this unheard-of mischief, trampling god's law under foot. do you mean to tell me that you still defend these people? weinhold certainly not, mr. kittelhaus. that is, sir ... _cum grano salis_. for after all, they are hungry and they are ignorant. they are giving expression to their dissatisfaction in the only way they understand. i don't expect that such people.... mrs. kittelhaus [_short, thin, faded, more like an old maid than a married woman._] mr. weinhold, mr. weinhold, how can you? dreissiger mr. weinhold, i am sorry to be obliged to.... i didn't bring you into my house to give me lectures on philanthropy, and i must request that you will confine yourself to the education of my boys, and leave my other affairs entirely to me--entirely! do you understand? weinhold [_stands for a moment rigid and deathly pale, then bows, with a strained smile. in a low voice._] certainly, of course i understand. i have seen this coming. it is my wish too. [_goes out._ dreissiger [_rudely._] as soon as possible then, please. we require the room. mrs. dreissiger william, william! dreissiger have you lost your senses, rosa, that you're taking the part of a man who defends a low, blackguardly libel like that song? mrs. dreissiger but, william, he didn't defend it. dreissiger mr. kittelhaus, did he defend it or did he not? kittelhaus his youth must be his excuse, mr. dreissiger. mrs. kittelhaus i can't understand it. the young man comes of such a good, respectable family. his father held a public appointment for forty years, without a breath on his reputation. his mother was overjoyed at his getting this good situation here. and now ... he himself shows so little appreciation of it. pfeifer [_suddenly opens the door leading from the hall and shouts in._] mr. dreissiger, mr. dreissiger! they've got him! will you come, please? they've caught one of 'em. dreissiger [_hastily._] has some one gone for the police? pfeifer the superintendent's on his way upstairs. dreissiger [_at the door._] glad to see you, sir. we want you here. [_kittelhaus makes signs to the ladies that it will be better for them to retire. he, his wife, and mrs. dreissiger disappear into the drawing-room._ dreissiger [_exasperated, to the police superintendent, who has now entered._] i have at last had one of the ringleaders seized by my dyers. i could stand it no longer--their insolence was beyond all bounds--quite unbearable. i have visitors in my house, and these blackguards dare to.... they insult my wife whenever she shows herself; my boys' lives are not safe. my visitors run the risk of being jostled and cuffed. is it possible that in a well-ordered community incessant public insult offered to unoffending people like myself and my family should pass unpunished? if so ... then ... then i must confess that i have other ideas of law and order. superintendent [_a man of fifty, middle height, corpulent, full-blooded. he wears cavalry uniform with a long sword and spurs._] no, no, mr. dreissiger ... certainly not! i am entirely at your disposal. make your mind easy on the subject. dispose of me as you will. what you have done is quite right. i am delighted that you have had one of the ringleaders arrested. i am very glad indeed that a day of reckoning has come. there are a few disturbers of the peace here whom i have long had my eye on. dreissiger yes, one or two raw lads, lazy vagabonds, that shirk every kind of work, and lead a life of low dissipation, hanging about the public-houses until they've sent their last half-penny down their throats. but i'm determined to put a stop to the trade of these professional blackguards once and for all. it's in the public interest to do so, not only my private interest. superintendent of course it is! most undoubtedly, mr. dreissiger! no one can possibly blame you. and everything that lies in my power.... dreissiger the cat-o'-nine tails is what should be taken to the beggarly pack. superintendent you're right, quite right. we must institute an example. _kutsche, the policeman, enters and salutes. the door is open, and the sound of heavy steps stumbling up the stair is heard._ kutsche i have to inform you, sir, that we have arrested a man. dreissiger [_to superintendent._] do you wish to see the fellow? superintendent certainly, most certainly. we must begin by having a look at him at close quarters. oblige me, mr. dreissiger, by not speaking to him at present. i'll see to it that you get complete satisfaction, or my name's not heide. dreissiger that's not enough for me, though. he goes before the magistrates. my mind's made up. _jaeger is led in by five dyers, who have come straight from their work--faces, hands, and clothes stained with dye. the prisoner, his cap set jauntily on the side of his head, presents an appearance of impudent gaiety; he is excited by the brandy he has just drunk._ jaeger hounds that you are!--call yourselves working men!--pretend to be comrades! before i would do such a thing as lay hands on a mate, i'd see my hand rot off my arm! [_at a sign from the superintendent kutsche orders the dyers to let go their victim. jaeger straightens himself up, quite free and easy. both doors are guarded._ superintendent [_shouts to jaeger._] off with your cap, lout! [_jaeger takes it off, but very slowly, still with an impudent grin on his face._] what's your name? jaeger what's yours? i'm not your swineherd. [_great excitement is produced among the audience by this reply._ dreissiger this is too much of a good thing. superintendent [_changes colour, is on the point of breaking out furiously, but controls his rage._] we'll see about this afterwards.--once more, what's your name? [_receiving no answer, furiously._] if you don't answer at once, fellow, i'll have you flogged on the spot. jaeger [_perfectly cheerful, not showing by so much as the twitch of an eyelid that he has heard the superintendent's angry words, calls over the heads of those around him to a pretty servant girl, who has brought in the coffee and is standing open-mouthed with astonishment at the unexpected sight._] hillo, emmy, do you belong to this company now? the sooner you find your way out of it, then, the better. a wind may begin to blow here, an' blow everything away overnight. [_the girl stares at jaeger, and as soon as she comprehends that it is to her he is speaking, blushes with shame, covers her eyes with her hands, and rushes out, leaving the coffee things in confusion on the table. renewed excitement among those present._ superintendent [_half beside himself, to dreissiger._] never in all my long service ... a case of such shameless effrontery.... [_jaeger spits on the floor._ dreissiger you're not in a stable, fellow! do you understand? superintendent my patience is at an end now. for the last time: what's your name? _kittelhaus who has been peering out at the partly opened drawing-room door, listening to what has been going on, can no longer refrain from coming forward to interfere. he is trembling with excitement._ kittelhaus his name is jaeger, sir. moritz ... is it not? moritz jaeger. [_to jaeger._] and, jaeger, you know me. jaeger [_seriously._] you are pastor kittelhaus. kittelhaus yes, i am your pastor, jaeger! it was i who received you, a babe in swaddling clothes, into the church of christ. from my hands you took for the first time the body of the lord. do you remember that, and how i toiled and strove to bring god's word home to your heart? is this your gratitude? jaeger [_like a scolded schoolboy. in a surly voice._] i paid my half-crown like the rest. kittelhaus money, money.... do you imagine that the miserable little bit of money.... such utter nonsense! i'd much rather you kept your money. be a good man, be a christian! think of what you promised. keep god's law. money, money...! jaeger i'm a quaker now, sir. i don't believe in nothing. kittelhaus quaker! what are you talking about? try to behave yourself, and don't use words you don't understand. quaker, indeed! they are good christian people, and not heathens like you. superintendent mr. kittelhaus, i must ask you.... [_he comes between the pastor and jaeger._] kutsche! tie his hands! [_wild yelling outside:_ "jaeger. jaeger! come out!" dreissiger [_like the others, slightly startled, goes instinctively to the window._] what's the meaning of this next? superintendent oh, i understand well enough. it means that they want to have the blackguard out among them again. but we're not going to oblige them. kutsche, you have your orders. he goes to the lock-up. kutsche [_with the rope in his hand, hesitating._] by your leave, sir, but it'll not be an easy job. there's a confounded big crowd out there--a pack of raging devils. they've got becker with them, and the smith.... kittelhaus allow me one more word!--so as not to rouse still worse feeling, would it not be better if we tried to arrange things peaceably? perhaps jaeger will give his word to go with us quietly, or.... superintendent quite impossible! think of my responsibility. i couldn't allow such a thing. come, kutsche! lose no more time. jaeger [_putting his hands together, and holding them, out._] tight, tight, as tight as ever you can! it's not for long. [_kutsche, assisted by the workmen, ties his hands._ superintendent now off with you, march! [_to dreissiger._] if you feel anxious, let six of the weavers go with them. they can walk on each side of him, i'll ride in front, and kutsche will bring up the rear. whoever blocks the way will be cut down. [_cries from below:_ "cock-a-doodle-doo-oo-oo! bow, wow, wow!" superintendent [_with a threatening gesture in the direction of the window._] you rascals, i'll cock-a-doodle-doo and bow-wow you! forward! march! [_he marches out first, with drawn sword; the others, with jaeger, follow._ jaeger [_shouts as he goes._] an' mrs. dreissiger there may play the lady as proud as she likes, but for all that she's no better than us. many a hundred times she's served my father with a halfpenny-worth of schnapps. left wheel--march! [_exit laughing._ dreissiger [_ after a pause, with apparent calmness._] well, mr. kittelhaus, shall we have our game now? i think there will be no further interruption. [_he lights a cigar, giving short laughs as he does so; when it is lighted, bursts into a regular fit of laughing._] i'm beginning now to think the whole thing very funny. that fellow! [_still laughing nervously._] it really is too comical: first came the dispute at dinner with weinhold--five minutes after that he takes leave--off to the other end of the world; then this affair crops up--and now we'll proceed with our whist. kittelhaus yes, but ... [_roaring is heard outside._] yes, but ... that's a terrible uproar they're making outside. dreissiger all we have to do is to go into the other room; it won't disturb us in the least there. kittelhaus [_shaking his head._] i wish i knew what has come over these people. in so far i must agree with mr. weinhold, or at least till quite lately i was of his opinion, that the weavers were a patient, humble, easily-led class. was it not your idea of them, too, mr. dreissiger? dreissiger most certainly that is what they used to be--patient, easily managed, well-behaved and orderly people. they were that as long as these so-called humanitarians let them alone. but for ever so long now they've had the awful misery of their condition held up to them. think of all the societies and associations for the alleviation of the distress among the weavers. at last the weaver believes in it himself, and his head's turned. some of them had better come and turn it back again, for now he's fairly set a-going there's no end to his complaining. this doesn't please him, and that doesn't please him. he must have everything of the best. [_a loud roar of_ "hurrah!" _is heard from, the crowd._ kittelhaus so that with all their humanitarianism they have only succeeded in almost literally turning lambs over night into wolves. dreissiger i won't say that, sir. when you take time to think of the matter coolly, it's possible that some good may come of it yet. such occurrences as this will not pass unnoticed by those in authority, and may lead them to see that things can't be allowed to go on as they are doing--that means must be taken to prevent the utter ruin of our home industries. kittelhaus possibly. but what is the cause, then, of this terrible falling off of trade? dreissiger our best markets have been closed to us by the heavy import duties foreign countries have laid on our goods. at home the competition is a struggle of life and death, for we have no protection, none whatever. pfeifer [_staggers in, pale and breathless._] mr. dreissiger, mr. dreissiger! dreissiger [_in the act of walking into the drawing-room, turns round, annoyed._] well, pfeifer, what now? pfeifer oh, sir! oh, sir!... it's worse than ever! dreissiger what are they up to next? kittelhaus you're really alarming us--what is it? pfeifer [_still confused._] i never saw the like. good lord--the superintendent himself ... they'll catch it for this yet. dreissiger what's the matter with you, in the devil's name? is any one's neck broken? pfeifer [_almost crying with fear, screams._] they've set moritz jaeger free--they've thrashed the superintendent and driven him away--they've thrashed the policeman and sent him off too--without his helmet ... his sword broken ... oh dear, oh dear! dreissiger i think you've gone crazy, pfeifer. kittelhaus this is actual riot. pfeifer [_sitting on a chair, his whole body trembling._] it's turning serious, mr. dreissiger! mr. dreissiger, it's serious now! dreissiger well, if that's all the police ... pfeifer mr. dreissiger, it's serious now! dreissiger damn it all, pfeifer, will you hold your tongue? mrs. dreissiger [_coming out of the drawing-room with mrs. kittelhaus._] this is really too bad, william. our whole pleasant evening's being spoiled. here's mrs. kittelhaus saying that she'd better go home. kittelhaus you mustn't take it amiss, dear mrs. dreissiger, but perhaps, under the circumstances, it _would_ be better ... mrs. dreissiger but, william, why in the world don't you go out and put a stop to it? dreissiger you go and see if you can do it. try! go and speak to them! [_standing in front of the pastor, abruptly._] am i such a tyrant? am i a cruel master? _enter john the coachman._ john if you please, m'm, i've put to the horses. mr. weinhold's put georgie and charlie into the carriage. if it comes to the worst, we're ready to be off. mrs. dreissiger if what comes to the worst? john i'm sure i don't know, m'm. but i'm thinkin' this way: the crowd's gettin' bigger and bigger, an' they've sent the superintendent an' the p'liceman to the right-about. pfeifer it's gettin' serious now, mr. dreissiger! it's serious! mrs. dreissiger [_with increasing alarm._] what's going to happen?--what do the people want?--they're never going to attack us, john? john there's some rascally hounds among 'em, ma'am. pfeifer it's serious now! serious! dreissiger hold your tongue, fool!--are the doors barred? kittelhaus i ask you as a favour, mr. dreissiger ... as a favour ... i am determined to ... i ask you as a favour ... [_to john._] what demands are the people making? john [_awkwardly._] it's higher wages they're after, the blackguards. kittelhaus good, good!--i shall go out and do my duty. i shall speak seriously to these people. john oh sir, please sir, don't do any such thing. words is quite useless. kittelhaus one little favour, mr. dreissiger. may i ask you to post men behind the door, and to have it closed at once after me? mrs. kittelhaus o joseph, joseph! you're not really going out? kittelhaus i am. indeed i am. i know what i'm doing. don't be afraid. god will protect me. [_mrs. kittelhaus presses his hand, draws back, and wipes tears from her eyes._ kittelhaus [_while the dull murmur of a great, excited crowd is heard uninterruptedly outside._] i'll go ... i'll go out as if i were simply on my way home. i shall see if my sacred office ... if the people have not sufficient respect for me left to ... i shall try ... [_he takes his hat and stick._] forward, then, in god's name! [_goes out accompanied by dreissiger, pfeifer and john._ mrs. kittelhaus oh, dear mrs. dreissiger! [_she bursts into tears and embraces her._] i do trust nothing will happen to him. mrs. dreissiger [_absently._] i don't know how it is, mrs. kittelhaus, but i ... i can't tell you how i feel. i didn't think such a thing was possible. it's ... it's as if it was a sin to be rich. if i had been told about all this beforehand, mrs. kittelhaus, i don't know but what i would rather have been left in my own humble position. mrs. kittelhaus there are troubles and disappointments in every condition of life, mrs. dreissiger. mrs. dreissiger true, true, i can well believe that. and suppose we have more than other people ... goodness me! we didn't steal it. it's been honestly got, every penny of it. it's not possible that the people can be goin' to attack us! if trade's bad, that's not william's fault, is it? [_a tumult of roaring is heard outside. while the two women stand gazing at each other, pale and startled, dreissiger rushes in._ dreissiger quick, rosa--put on something, and get into the carriage. i'll be after you this moment. [_he rushes to the strong-box, and takes out papers and various articles of value._ _enter john._ john we're ready to start. but come quickly, before they gets round to the back door. mrs. dreissiger [_in a transport of fear, throwing her arms around john's neck._] john, john, dear, good john! save us, john. save my boys! oh, what is to become of us? dreissiger rosa, try to keep your head. let john go. john yes, yes, ma'am! don't you be frightened. our good horses'll soon leave them all behind; an' whoever doesn't get out of the way'll be driven over. mrs. kittelhaus [_in helpless anxiety._] but my husband ... my husband? but, mr. dreissiger, my husband? dreissiger he's in safety now, mrs. kittelhaus. don't alarm yourself; he's all right. mrs. kittelhaus something dreadful has happened to him. i know it. you needn't try to keep it from me. dreissiger you mustn't take it to heart--they'll be sorry for it yet. i know exactly whose fault it was. such an unspeakable, shameful outrage will not go unpunished. a community laying hands on its own pastor and maltreating him--abominable! mad dogs they are--raging brutes--and they'll be treated as such. [_to his wife who still stands petrified._] go, rosa, go quickly! [_heavy blows at the lower door are heard._] don't you hear? they've gone stark mad! [_the clatter of window-panes being smashed on the ground-floor is heard._] they've gone crazy. there's nothing for it but to get away as fast as we can. [_cries of_ "pfeifer, come out!"--"we want pfeifer!"--"pfeifer, come out!" _are heard._ mrs. dreissiger pfeifer, pfeifer, they want pfeifer! pfeifer [_dashes in._] mr. dreissiger, there are people at the back gate already, and the house door won't hold much longer. the smith's battering at it like a maniac with a stable pail. [_the cry sounds louder and clearer_: "pfeifer! pfeifer! pfeifer! come out!" _mrs. dreissiger rushes off as if pursued. mrs. kittelhaus follows. pfeifer listens, and changes colour as he hears what the cry is. a perfect panic of fear seizes him; he weeps, entreats, whimpers, writhes, all at the same moment. he overwhelms dreissiger with childish caresses, strokes his cheeks and arms, kisses his hands, and at last, like a drowning man, throws his arms round him and prevents him moving._ pfeifer dear, good, kind mr. dreissiger, don't leave me behind. i've always served you faithfully. i've always treated the people well. i couldn't give 'em more wages than the fixed rate. don't leave me here--they'll do for me! if they finds me, they'll kill me. o god! o god! my wife, my children! dreissiger [_making his way out, vainly endeavouring to free himself from pfeifer's clutch._] can't you let me go, fellow? it'll be all right; it'll be all right. _for a few seconds the room is empty. windows are shattered in the drawing-room. a loud crash resounds through the house, followed by a roaring_ "hurrah!" _for an instant there is silence. then gentle, cautious steps are heard on the stair, then timid, hushed ejaculations_: "to the left!"--"up with you!"--"hush!"--"slow, slow!"--"don't shove like that!"--"it's a wedding we're goin' to!"--"stop that crowdin'!"--"you go first!"--"no, you go!" _young weavers and weaver girls appear at the door leading from the hall, not daring to enter, but each trying to shove the other in. in the course of a few moments their timidity is overcome, and the poor, thin, ragged or patched figures, many of them sickly-looking, disperse themselves through dreissiger's room and the drawing-room, first gazing timidly and curiously at everything, then beginning to touch things. girls sit down on the sofas, whole groups admire themselves in the mirrors, men stand up on chairs, examine the pictures and take them down. there is a steady influx of miserable-looking creatures from the hall._ first old weaver [_entering._] no, no, this is carryin' it too far. they've started smashin' things downstairs. there's no sense nor reason in that. there'll be a bad end to it. no man in his wits would do that. i'll keep clear of such goings on. _jaeger, becker, wittig carrying a wooden pail, baumert, and a number of other old and young weavers, rush in as if in pursuit of something, shouting hoarsely._ jaeger where has he gone? becker where's the cruel brute? baumert if we can eat grass he may eat sawdust. wittig we'll hang him when we catch him. first young weaver we'll take him by the legs and fling him out at the window, on to the stones. he'll never get up again. second young weaver [_enters._] he's off! all who? second young weaver dreissiger. becker pfeifer too? voices let's get hold o' pfeifer! look for pfeifer! baumert yes, yes! pfeifer! tell him there's a weaver here for him to starve. [_laughter._ jaeger if we can't lay hands on that brute dreissiger himself ... we'll make him poor! baumert as poor as a church mouse ... we'll see to that! [_all, bent on the work of destruction, rush towards the drawing-room door._ becker [_who is leading, turns round and stops the others._] halt! listen to me! this is nothing but a beginnin'. when we're done here, we'll go straight to bielau, to dittrich's, where the steam power-looms is. the whole mischief's done by them factories. old ansorge [_enters from hall. takes a few steps, then stops and looks round, scarcely believing his eyes; shakes his head, taps his forehead._] who am i? weaver anton ansorge. has he gone mad, old ansorge? my head's goin' round like a humming-top, sure enough. what's he doin' here. he'll do whatever he's a mind to. where is ansorge? [_he taps his forehead repeatedly._] something's wrong! i'm not answerable! i'm off my head! off with you, off with you, rioters that you are! heads off, legs off, hands off! if you takes my house, i takes your house. forward, forward! [_goes yelling into the drawing-room, followed by a yelling, laughing mob._ end of the fourth act fifth act _langen-bielau,--old weaver hilse's workroom. on the left a small window, in front of which stands the loom. on the right a bed, with a table pushed close to it. stove, with stove-bench, in the right-hand corner. family worship is going on. hilse, his old, blind, and almost deaf wife, his son gottlieb, and luise, gottlieb's wife, are sitting at the table, on the bed and wooden stools. a winding-wheel and bobbins on the floor between table and loom. old spinning, weaving, and winding implements are disposed of on the smoky rafters; hanks of yarn are hanging down. there is much useless lumber in the low narrow room. the door, which is in the back wall, and leads into the big outer passage, or entry-room of the house, stands open. through another open door on the opposite side of the passage, a second, in most respects similar weaver's room is seen. the large passage, or entry-room of the house, is paved with stone, has damaged plaster, and a tumble-down wooden stair-case leading to the attics; a washing-tub on a stool is partly visible; linen of the most miserable description and poor household utensils lie about untidily. the light falls from the left into all three apartments._ _old hilse is a bearded man of strong build, but bent and wasted with age, toil, sickness, and hardship. he is an old soldier, and has lost an arm. his nose is sharp, his complexion ashen-grey, and he shakes; he is nothing but skin and bone, and has the deep-set, sore weaver's eyes._ old hilse [_stands up, as do his son and daughter-in-law; prays._] o lord, we know not how to be thankful enough to thee, for that thou hast spared us this night again in thy goodness ... an' hast had pity on us ... an' hast suffered us to take no harm. thou art the all-merciful, an' we are poor, sinful children of men--that bad that we are not worthy to be trampled under thy feet. yet thou art our loving father, an' thou will look upon us an' accept us for the sake of thy dear son, our lord and saviour jesus christ. "jesus' blood and righteousness, our covering is and glorious dress." an' if we're sometimes too sore cast down under thy chastening--when the fire of thy purification burns too ragin' hot--oh, lay it not to our charge; forgive us our sin. give us patience, heavenly father, that after all these sufferin's we may be made partakers of thy eternal blessedness. amen. mother hilse [_who has been bending forward, trying hard to hear._] what a beautiful prayer you do say, father! [_luise goes off to the washtub, gottlieb to the room on the other side of the passage._ old hilse where's the little lass? luise she's gone to peterswaldau, to dreissiger's. she finished all she had to wind last night. old hilse [_speaking very loud._] you'd like the wheel now, mother, eh? mother hilse yes, father, i'm quite ready. old hilse [_setting it down before her._] i wish i could do the work for you. mother hilse an' what would be the good o' that, father? there would i be, sittin' not knowin' what to do. old hilse i'll give your fingers a wipe, then, so that they'll not grease the yarn. [_he wipes her hands with a rag._ luise [_at her tub._] if there's grease on her hands, it's not from what she's eaten. old hilse if we've no butter, we can eat dry bread--when we've no bread, we can eat potatoes--when there's no potatoes left, we can eat bran. luise [_saucily._] an' when that's all eaten, we'll do as the wenglers did--we'll find out where the skinner's buried some stinking old horse, an' we'll dig it up an' live for a week or two on rotten carrion--how nice that'll be! gottlieb [_from the other room._] there you are, lettin' that tongue of yours run away with you again. old hilse you should think twice, lass, before you talk that godless way. [_he goes to his loom, calls._] can you give me a hand, gottlieb?--there's a few threads to pull through. luise [_from her tub._] gottlieb, you're wanted to help father. [_gottlieb comes in, and he and his father set themselves to the troublesome task of "drawing and slaying," that is, pulling the strands of the warp through the "heddles" and "reed" of the loom. they have hardly begun to do this when hornig appears in the outer room._ hornig [_at the door._] good luck to your work! hilse and his son thank you, hornig. old hilse i say, hornig, when do you take your sleep? you're on your rounds all day, an' on watch all night. hornig sleep's gone from me nowadays. luise glad to see you, hornig! old hilse an' what's the news? hornig it's queer news this mornin'. the weavers at peterswaldau has taken the law into their own hands, an' chased dreissiger an' his whole family out of the place. luise [_perceptibly agitated._] hornig's at his lies again. hornig no, missus, not this time, not to-day.--i've some beautiful pinafores in my cart,--no, it's god's truth i'm tellin' you. they've sent him to the right-about. he came down to reichenbach last night, but, lord love you! they daren't take him in there, for fear of the weavers--off he had to go again, all the way to schweidnitz. old hilse [_has been carefully lifting threads of the web and approaching them to the holes, through which, from the other side, gottlieb pushes a wire hook, with which he catches them and draws them through._] it's about time you were stoppin' now, hornig! hornig it's as sure as i'm a livin' man. every child in the place'll soon tell you the same story. old hilse either your wits are a-wool-gatherin' or mine are. hornig not mine. what i'm tellin' you's as true as the bible. i wouldn't believe it myself if i hadn't stood there an' seen it with my own eyes--as i see you now, gottlieb. they've wrecked his house from the cellar to the roof. the good china came flyin' out at the garret windows, rattlin' down the roof. god only knows how many pieces of fustian are lying soakin' in the river! the water can't get away for them--it's running over the banks, the colour of washin'-blue with all the indigo they've poured out at the windows. clouds of sky-blue dust was flyin' along. oh, it's a terrible destruction they've worked! and it's not only the house ... it's the dye-works too ... an' the stores! they've broken the stair rails, they've torn up the fine flooring--smashed the lookin'-glasses--cut an' hacked an' torn an' smashed the sofas an' the chairs.--it's awful--it's worse than war. old hilse an' you would have me believe that my fellow weavers did all that? [_he shakes his head incredulously._ [_other tenants of the house have collected at the door and are listening eagerly._ hornig who else, i'd like to know? i could put names to every one of 'em. it was me took the sheriff through the house, an' i spoke to a whole lot of 'em, an' they answered me back--quite friendly like. they did their business with little noise, but my word! they did it well. the sheriff spoke to 'em, and they answered him mannerly, as they always do. but there wasn't no stoppin' of them. they hacked on at the beautiful furniture as if they was workin' for wages. old hilse _you_ took the sheriff through the house? hornig an' what would i be frightened of? every one knows me. i'm always turnin' up, like a bad penny. but no one has anything agin' me. they're all glad to see me. yes, i went the rounds with him, as sure as my name's hornig. an' you may believe me or not as you like, but my heart's sore yet from the sight--an' i could see by the sheriff's face that he felt queer enough too. for why? not a livin' word did we hear--they was doin' their work and holdin' their tongues. it was a solemn an' a woeful sight to see the poor starvin' creatures for once in a way takin' their revenge. luise [_with irrepressible excitement, trembling, wiping her eyes with her apron._] an' right they are! it's only what should be! voices among the crowd at the door "there's some of the same sort here."--"there's one no farther away than across the river."--"he's got four horses in his stable an' six carriages, an' he starves his weavers to keep 'em." old hilse [_still incredulous._] what was it set them off? hornig who knows? who knows? one says this, another says that. old hilse what do they say? hornig the story as most of 'em tells is that it began with dreissiger sayin' that if the weavers was hungry they might eat grass. but i don't rightly know. [_excitement at the door, as one person repeats this to the other, with signs of indignation._ old hilse well now, hornig--if you was to say to me: father hilse, says you, you'll die to-morrow, i would answer back: that may be--an' why not? you might even go to the length of saying: you'll have a visit to-morrow from the king of prussia. but to tell me that weavers, men like me an' my son, have done such things as that--never! i'll never in this world believe it. mielchen [_a pretty girl of seven, with long, loose flaxen hair, carrying a basket on her arm, comes running in, holding out a silver spoon to her mother._] mammy, mammy! look what i've got! an' you're to buy me a new frock with it. luise what d'you come tearing in like that for, girl? [_with increased excitement and curiosity._] an' what's that you've got hold of now? you've been runnin' yourself out o' breath, an' there--if the bobbins aren't in her basket yet? what's all this about? old hilse mielchen, where did that spoon come from? luise she found it, maybe. hornig it's worth its seven or eight shillin's at least. old hilse [_in distressed excitement._] off with you, lass--out of the house this moment--unless you want a lickin'! take that spoon back where you got it from. out you go! do you want to make thieves of us all, eh? i'll soon drive that out o' you. [_he looks round for something to beat her with._ mielchen [_clinging to her mother's skirts, crying._] no, grandfather, no! don't lick me! we--we _did_ find it. all the other bob--bobbin ... girls has ... has some too. luise [_half frightened, half excited._] i was right, you see. she found it. where did you find it, mielchen? mielchen [_sobbing._] at--at peterswal--dau. we--we found them in front of--in front of drei--dreissiger's house. old hilse this is worse an' worse! get off with you this moment, unless you want me to help you. mother hilse what's all the to-do about? hornig i'll tell you what, father hilse. the best way'll be for gottlieb to put on his coat an' take the spoon to the police-office. old hilse gottlieb, put on year coat. gottlieb [_pulling it on, eagerly._] yes, an' i'll go right in to the office an' say they're not to blame us for it, for how c'n a child like that understand about it? an' i brought the spoon back at once. stop your crying now, mielchen! [_the crying child is taken into the opposite room by her mother, who shuts her in and comes back._ hornig i believe it's worth as much as nine shillin's. gottlieb give us a cloth to wrap it in, luise, so that it'll take no harm. to think of the thing bein' worth all that money! [_tears come into his eyes while he is wrapping up the spoon._ luise if it was only ours, we could live on it for many a day. old hilse hurry up, now! look sharp! as quick as ever you can. a fine state o' matters, this! get that devil's spoon out o' the house. [_gottlieb goes off with the spoon._ hornig i must be off now too. [_he goes, is seen talking to the people in the entry-room before he leaves the house._ surgeon schmidt [_a jerky little ball of a man, with a red, knowing face, comes into the entry-room._] good-morning, all! these are fine goings on! take care! take care! [_threatening with his finger._] you're a sly lot--that's what you are. [_at hilse's door without coming in._] morning, father hilse. [_to a woman in the outer room._] and how are the pains, mother? better, eh? well, well. and how's all with you, father hilse? [_enters._] why the deuce! what's the matter with mother? luise it's the eye veins, sir--they've dried up, so as she can't see at all now. surgeon schmidt that's from the dust and weaving by candlelight. will you tell me what it means that all peterswaldau's on the way here? i set off on my rounds this morning as usual, thinking no harm; but it wasn't long till i had my eyes opened. strange doings these! what in the devil's name has taken possession of them, hilse? they're like a pack of raging wolves. riot--why, it's revolution! they're getting refractory--plundering and laying waste right and left ... mielchen! where's mielchen? [_mielchen, her face red with crying, is pushed in by her mother._] here, mielchen, put your hand into my coat pocket. [_mielchen does so._] the ginger-bread nuts are for you. not all at once, though, you baggage! and a song first! the fox jumped up on a ... come, now ... the fox jumped up ... on a moonlight ... mind, i've heard what you did. you called the sparrows on the churchyard hedge a nasty name, and they're gone and told the pastor. did any one ever hear the like? fifteen hundred of them agog--men, women, and children. [_distant bells are heard._] that's at reichenbach-- alarm-bells! fifteen hundred people! uncomfortably like the world coming to an end! old hilse an' is it true that they're on their way to bielau? surgeon schmidt that's just what i'm telling you, i've driven through the middle of the whole crowd. what i'd have liked to do would have been to get down and give each of them a pill there and then. they were following on each other's heels like misery itself, and their singing was more than enough to turn a man's stomach. i was nearly sick, and frederick was shaking on the box like an old woman. we had to take a stiff glass at the first opportunity. i wouldn't be a manufacturer, not though i could drive my carriage and pair. [_distant singing._] listen to that! it's for all the world as if they were beating at some broken old boiler. we'll have them here in five minutes, friends. good-bye! don't you be foolish. the troops will be upon them in no time. keep your wits about you. the peterswaldau people have lost theirs. [_bells ring close at hand._] good gracious! there are our bells ringing too! every one's going mad. [_he goes upstairs._ gottlieb [_comes back. in the entry-room, out of breath._] i've seen 'em, i've seen 'em! [_to a woman._] they're here, auntie, they're here! [_at the door._] they're here, father, they're here! they've got bean-poles, an' ox-goads, an' axes. they're standin' outside the upper dittrich's kickin' up an awful row. i think he's payin' 'em money. o lord! whatever's goin' to happen? what a crowd! oh, you never saw such a crowd! dash it all--if once they makes a rush, our manufacturers'll be hard put to it. old hilse what have you been runnin' like that for? you'll go racin' till you bring on your old trouble, and then we'll have you on your back again, strugglin' for breath. gottlieb [_almost joyously excited._] i had to run, or they would ha' caught me an' kept me. they was all roarin' to me to join 'em. father baumert was there too, and says he to me: you come an' get your sixpence with the rest--you're a poor starvin' weaver too. an' i was to tell you, father, from him, that you was to come an' help to pay out the manufacturers for their grindin' of us down. [_passionately._] other times is comin', he says. there's goin' to be a change of days for us weavers. an' we're all to come an' help to bring it about. we're to have our half-pound o' meat on sundays, and now and again on a holiday sausage with our cabbage. yes, things is to be quite different, by what he tells me. old hilse [_with repressed indignation._] an' that man calls hisself your godfather! and he bids you take part in such works o' wickedness? have nothing to do with them, gottlieb. they've let themselves be tempted by satan, an' it's his works they're doin'. luise [_no longer able to restrain her passionate excitement, vehemently._] yes, gottlieb, get into the chimney corner, an' take a spoon in your hand, an' a dish o' skim milk on your knee, an' pat on a petticoat an' say your prayers, and then father'll be pleased with you. and _he_ sets up to be a man! [_laughter from the people in the entry-room._ old hilse [_quivering with suppressed rage._] an' you set up to be a good wife, 'eh? you calls yourself a mother, an' let your evil tongue run away with you like that? you think yourself fit to teach your girl, you that would egg on your husband to crime an' wickedness? luise [_has lost all control of herself._] you an' your piety an' religion--did they serve to keep the life in my poor children? in rags an' dirt they lay, all the four--it didn't as much as keep 'em dry. yes! i sets up to be a mother, that's what i do--an' if you'd like to know it, that's why i'd send all the manufacturers to hell--because i'm a mother!--not one of the four could i keep in life! it was cryin' more than breathin' with me from the time each poor little thing came into the world till death took pity on it. the devil a bit you cared! you sat there prayin' and singin', and let me run about till my feet bled, tryin' to get one little drop o' skim milk. how many hundred nights has i lain an' racked my head to think what i could do to cheat the churchyard of my little one? what harm has a baby like that done that it must come to such a miserable end--eh? an' over there at dittrich's they're bathed in wine an' washed in milk. no! you may talk as you like, but if they begins here, ten horses won't hold me back. an' what's more--if there's a rush on dittrich's, you'll see me in the forefront of it--an' pity the man as tries to prevent me--i've stood it long enough, so now you know it. old hilse you're a lost soul--there's no help for you. luise [_frenzied._] it's you that there's no help for! tatter-breeched scarecrows--that's what you are--an' not men at all. whey-faced gutter-scrapers that take to your heels at the sound of a child's rattle. fellows that says "thank you" to the man as gives you a hidin'. they've not left that much blood in you as that you can turn red in the face. you should have the whip taken to you, an' a little pluck flogged into your rotten bones. [_she goes out quickly._ [_embarrassed pause._] mother hilse what's the matter with liesl, father? old hilse nothin', mother! what should be the matter with her? mother hilse father, is it only me that's thinkin' it, or is the bells ringin'? old hilse it'll be a funeral, mother. mother hilse an' i've got to sit waitin' here yet. why must i be so long a-dyin', father? [_pause._] old hilse [_leaves his work, holds himself up straight; solemnly._] gottlieb!--you heard all your wife said to us. look here, gottlieb! [_he bares his breast._] here they cut out a bullet as big as a thimble. the king knows where i lost my arm. it wasn't the mice as ate it. [_he walks up and down._] before that wife of yours was ever thought of, i had spilled my blood by the quart for king an' country. so let her call what names she likes--an' welcome! it does me no harm--frightened? me frightened? what would i be frightened of, will you tell me that? of the few soldiers, maybe, that'll be comin' after the rioters? good gracious me! that would be a lot to be frightened at! no, no, lad; i may be a bit stiff in the back, but there's some strength left in the old bones; i've got the stuff in me yet to make a stand against a few rubbishin' bay'nets.--an' if it came to the worst! willin', willin' would i be to say good-bye to this weary world. death'd be welcome--welcomer to me to-day than to-morrow. for what is it we leave behind? that old bundle of aches an' pains we call our body, the care an' the oppression we call by the name o' life. we may be glad to get away from it,--but there's something to come after, gottlieb!--an' if we've done ourselves out o' that too--why, then it's all over with us! gottlieb who knows what's to come after? nobody's seen it. old hilse gottlieb! don't you be throwin' doubts on the one comfort us poor people have. why has i sat here an' worked my treadle like a slave this forty year an' more?--sat still an' looked on at him over yonder livin' in pride an' wastefulness--why? because i have a better hope, something as supports me in all my troubles. [_points out at the window._] you have your good things in this world--i'll have mine in the next. that's been my thought. an' i'm that certain of it--i'd let myself be torn to pieces. have we not his promise? there's a day of judgment comin'; but it's not us as are the judges--no: vengeance is mine, saith the lord. [_a cry of_ "weavers, come out!" _is heard outside the window._ old hilse do what you will for me. [_he seats himself at his loom._] i stay here. gottlieb [_after a short struggle._] i'm going to work too--come what may. [_goes out._ [_the weavers' song is heard, sung by hundreds of voices quite close at hand; it sounds like a dull, monotonous wail._ inmates of the house [_in the entry-room._] "oh, mercy on us! there they come swarmin' like ants!"--"where can all these weavers be from?"--"don't shove like that, i want to see too."--"look at that great maypole of a woman leadin' on in front!"--"gracious! they're comin' thicker an' thicker." hornig [_comes into the entry-room from outside._] there's a theayter play for you now! that's what you don't see every day. but you should go up to the other dittrich's an' look what they've done there. it's been no half work. he's got no house now, nor no factory, nor no wine-cellar, nor nothin'. they're drinkin' out o' the bottles--not so much as takin' the time to get out the corks. one, two, three, an' off with the neck, an' no matter whether they cuts their mouths or not. there's some of 'em runnin' about bleedin' like stuck pigs.--now they're goin' to do for dittrich here. [_the singing has stopped._ inmates of the house there's nothin' so very wicked like about them. hornig you wait a bit! you'll soon see! all they're doin' just now is makin' up their minds where they'll begin. look, they're inspectin' the palace from every side. do you see that little stout man there, him with the stable pail? that's the smith from peterswaldau--an' a dangerous little chap he is. he batters in the thickest doors as if they were made o' pie-crust. if a manufacturer was to fall into his hands it would be all over with him! house inmates "that was a crack!"--"there went a stone through the window!"--"there's old dittrich, shakin' with fright."--"he's hangin' out a board."--"hangin' out a board?"--"what's written on it?"--"can't you read?"--"it'd be a bad job for me if i couldn't read!"--"well, read it, then!"--"'you--shall have--full--satis-fac-tion! you--you shall have full satisfaction.'" hornig he might ha' spared hisself the trouble--_that_ won't help him. it's something else they've set their minds on here. it's the factories. they're goin' to smash up the power-looms. for it's them that is ruinin' the hand-loom weaver. even a blind man might see that. no! the good folks knows what they're after, an' no sheriff an' no p'lice superintendent'll bring them to reason--much less a bit of a board. him as has seen 'em at work already knows what's comin'. house inmates "did any one ever see such a crowd!"--"what can _these_ be wantin'?"--[_hastily._] "they're crossin' the bridge!"--[_anxiously._] "they're never comin' over on this side, are they?"--[_in excitement and terror._] "it's to us they're comin'! they're comin' to us! they're comin' to fetch the weavers out o' their houses!" [_general flight. the entry-room is empty. a crowd of dirty, dusty rioters rush in, their faces scarlet with brandy, and excitement; tattered, untidy-looking, as if they had been up all night. with the shout:_ "weavers, come out!" _they disperse themselves through the house. becker and several other young weavers, armed with cudgels and poles, come into old hilse's room. when they see the old man at his loom they start, and cool down a little._ becker come, father hilse, stop that. leave your work to them as wants to work. there's no need now for you to be doin' yourself harm. you'll be well taken care of. first young weaver you'll never need to go hungry to bed again. second young weaver the weaver's goin' to have a roof over his head an' a shirt on his back once more. old hilse an' what's the devil sendin' you to do now, with your poles an' axes? becker these are what we're goin' to break on dittrich's back. second young weaver we'll heat 'em red hot an' stick 'em down the manufacturers' throats, so as they'll feel for once what burnin' hunger tastes like. third young weaver come along, father hilse! we'll give no quarter. second young weaver no one had mercy on us--neither god nor man. now we're standin' up for our rights ourselves. _old baumert enters, somewhat shaky on the legs, a newly killed cock under his arm._ old baumert [_stretching out his arms._] my brothers--we're all brothers! come to my arms, brothers! [_laughter._ old hilse and that's the state you're in, willem? old baumert gustav, is it you? my poor starvin' friend. come to my arms, gustav! old hilse [_mutters._] let me alone. old baumert i'll tell you what, gustav. it's nothin' but luck that's wanted. you look at me. what do i look like? luck's what's wanted. don't i look like a lord? [_pats his stomach._] guess what's in there! there's food fit for a prince in that belly. when luck's with him a man gets roast hare to eat an' champagne wine to drink.--i'll tell you all something: we've made a big mistake--we must help ourselves. all [_speaking at once._] we must help ourselves, hurrah! old baumert as soon as we gets the first good bite inside us we're different men. damn it all! but you feels the power comin' into you till you're like an ox, an' that wild with strength that you hit out right an' left without as much as takin' time to look. dash it, but it's grand! jaeger [_at the door, armed with an old cavalry sword._] we've made one or two first-rate attacks. becker we knows how to set about it now. one, two, three, an' we're inside the house. then, at it like lightnin'--bang, crack, shiver! till the sparks are flyin' as if it was a smithy. first young weaver it wouldn't be half bad to light a bit o' fire. second young weaver let's march to reichenbach an' burn the rich folks' houses over their heads! jaeger that would be nothin' but butterin' their bread, think of all the insurance money they'd get. [_laughter._ becker no, from here we'll go to freiburg, to tromtra's. jaeger what would you say to givin' all them as holds government appointments a lesson? i've read somewhere as how all our troubles come from them birocrats, as they calls them. second young weaver before long we'll go to breslau, for more an' more'll be joinin' us. old baumert [_to hilse._] won't you take a drop, gustav? old hilse i never touches it. old baumert that was in the old world; we're in a new world to-day, gustav. first young weaver christmas comes but once a year. [_laughter._ old hilse [_impatiently._] what is it you want in my house, you limbs of satan? old baumert [_a little intimidated, coaxingly._] i was bringin' you a chicken, gustav. i thought it would make a drop o' soup for mother. old hilse [_embarrassed, almost friendly._] well, you can tell mother yourself. mother hilse [_who has been making efforts to hear, her hand at her ear, motions them off._] let me alone. i don't want no chicken soup. old hilse that's right, mother. an' i want none, an' least of all that sort. an' let me say this much to you, baumert: the devil stands on his head for joy when he hears the old ones jabberin' and talkin' as if they was infants. an' to you all i say--to every one of you: me and you, we've got nothing to do with each other. it's not with my will that you're here. in law an' justice you've no right to be in my house. a voice him that's not with us is against us. jaeger [_roughly and threateningly._] you're on the wrong track, old chap, i'd have you remember that we're not thieves. a voice we're hungry men, that's all. first young weaver we wants to _live_--that's all. an' so we've cut the rope we was hung up with. jaeger and we was in our right! [_holding his fist in front of the old man's face_.] say another word, and i'll give you one between the eyes. becker come, now, jaeger, be quiet. let the old man alone.--what we say to ourselves, father hilse, is this: better dead than begin the old life again. old hilse have i not lived that life for sixty years an' more? becker that doesn't help us--there's _got_ to be a change. old hilse on the judgment day. becker what they'll not give us willingly we're goin' to take by force. old hilse by force. [_laughs._] you may as well go an' dig your graves at once. they'll not be long showin' you where the force lies. wait a bit, lad! jaeger is it the soldiers you're meanin'? we've been soldiers too. we'll soon do for a company or two of 'em. old hilse with your tongues, maybe. but supposin' you did--for two that you'd beat off, ten'll come back. voices [_call through the window._] the soldiers are comin! look out! [_general, sudden silence. for a moment a faint sound of fifes and drums is heard; in the ensuing silence a short, involuntary exclamation:_ "the devil! i'm off!" _followed by general laughter._ becker who was that? who speaks of runnin' away? jaeger which of you is it that's afraid of a few paltry helmets? you have me to command you, and i've been in the trade. i knows their tricks. old hilse an' what are you goin' to shoot with? your sticks, eh? first young weaver never mind that old chap; he's wrong in the upper storey. second young weaver yes, he's a bit off his head. gottlieb [_has made his way unnoticed among the rioters; catches hold of the speaker._] would you give your impudence to an old man like him? second young weaver let me alone. 'twasn't anything bad i said. old hilse [_interfering._] let him jaw, gottlieb. what. would you be meddlin' with him for? he'll soon see who it is that's been off his head to-day, him or me. becker are you comin', gottlieb? old hilse no, he's goin' to do no such thing. luise [_comes into the entry-room, calls._] what are you puttin' off your time with prayin' hypocrites like them for? come quick to where you're wanted! quick! father baumert, run all you can! the major's speakin' to the crowd from horseback. they're to go home. if you don't hurry up, it'll be all over. jaeger [_as he goes out._] that's a brave husband o' yours. luise where is he? i've got no husband! [_some of the people in the entry-room sing_: once on a time a man so small, heigh-ho, heigh! set his heart on a wife so tall, heigh diddle-di-dum-di! wittig, the smith [_comes downstairs, still carrying the stable pail; stops on his way through the entry-room._] come on! all of you that is not cowardly scoundrels!--hurrah! [_he dashes out, followed by luise, jaeger, and others, all shouting_ "hurrah!" becker good-bye, then, father hilse; well see each other again. [_is going._ old hilse i doubt that. i've not five years to live, and that'll be the soonest you'll get out. becker [_stops, not understanding._] out o' what, father hilse? old hilse out o' prison--where else? becker [_laughs wildly._] do you think i'd mind that? there's bread to be had there anyhow! [_goes out._ old baumert [_has been cowering on a low stool, painfully beating his brains; he now gets up._] it's true, gustav, as i've had a drop too much. but for all that i knows what i'm about. you think one way in this here matter; i think another. i say becker's right: even if it ends in chains an' ropes--we'll be better off in prison than at home. you're cared for there, an' you don't need to starve. i wouldn't have joined 'em, gustav, if i could ha' let it be; but once in a lifetime a man's got to show what he feels. [_goes slowly towards the door._] good-bye, gustav. if anything happens, mind you put in a word for me in your prayers. [_goes out._ [_the rioters are now all gone. the entry-room, gradually fills again with curious onlookers from the different rooms of the house. old hilse knots at his web. gottlieb has taken an axe from behind the stove and is unconsciously feeling its edge. he and the old man are silently agitated. the hum and roar of a great crowd penetrate into the room._ mother hilse the very boards is shakin', father--what's goin' on? what's goin' to happen to us? [_pause._] old hilse gottlieb! gottlieb what is it? old hilse let that axe alone. gottlieb who's to split the wood, then? [_he leans the axe against the stove._ [_pause._] mother hilse gottlieb, you listen, to what father says to you. [_some one sings outside the window:_ our little man does all that he can, heigh-ho, heigh! at home he cleans the pots an' the pan, heigh-diddle-di-dum-di! [_passes on._ gottlieb [_jumps up, shakes his clenched fist at the window._] beast! don't drive me crazy! [_a volley of musketry is heard._ mother hilse [_starts and trembles._] good lord! is that thunder again? old hilse [_instinctively folding his hands._] oh, our father in heaven! defend the poor weavers, protect my poor brothers. [_a short pause ensues._ old hilse [_to himself, painfully agitated._] there's blood flowin' now. gottlieb [_had started up and grasped the axe when the shooting was heard; deathly pale, almost beside himself with excitement._] an' am i to lie to heel like a dog still? a girl [_calls from the entry-room._] father hilse, father hilse! get away from the window. a bullet's just flown in at ours upstairs. [_disappears._ mielchen [_puts her head in at the window, laughing._] gran'father, gran'father, they've shot with their guns. two or three's been knocked down, an' one of 'em's turnin' round and round like a top, an' one's twistin' hisself like a sparrow when its head's bein' pulled of. an' oh, if you saw all the blood that came pourin'--! [_disappears._ a weaver's wife yes, there's two or three'll never get up again. an old weaver [_in the entry-room._] look out! they're goin' to make a rush on the soldiers. a second weaver [_wildly._] look, look, look at the women! skirts up, an' spittin' in the soldiers' faces already! a weaver's wife [_calls in._] gottlieb, look at your wife. she's more pluck in her than you. she's jumpin' about in front o' the bay'nets as if she was dancin' to music. [_four men carry a wounded rioter through the entry-room. silence, which is broken by some one saying in a distinct voice,_ "it's weaver ulbrich." _once more silence for a few seconds, when the same voice is heard again:_ "it's all over with him; he's got a bullet in his ear." _the men are heard climbing the wooden stair. sudden shouting outside:_ "hurrah, hurrah!" voices in the entry-room "where did they get the stones from?"--"yes, it's time you were off!"--"from the new road."--"ta-ta, soldiers!"--"it's rainin' paving-stones." [_shrieks of terror and loud roaring outside, taken up by those in the entry-room. there is a cry of fear, and the house door is shut with a bang._ voices in the entry-room "they're loadin' again."--"they'll fire another volley this minute."--"father hilse, get away from that window." gottlieb [_clutches the axe._] what! is we mad dogs? is we to eat powder an' shot now instead o' bread? [_hesitating an instant to the old man._] would you have me sit here an' see my wife shot? never! [_as he rushes out._] look out! i'm coming! old hilse gottlieb, gottlieb! mother hilse where's gottlieb gone? old hilse he's gone to the devil. voices from the entry-room go away from the window, father hilse. old hilse not i! not if you all goes crazy together! [_to mother hilse, with rapt excitement._] my heavenly father has placed me here. isn't that so, mother? here we'll sit, an' do our bounden duty--ay, though the snow was to go on fire. [_he begins to weave._ [_rattle of another volley. old hilse, mortally wounded, starts to his feet and then falls forward over the loom. at the same moment loud shouting of_ "hurrah!" _is heard. the people who till now have been standing in the entry-room dash out, joining in the cry. the old woman repeatedly asks:_ "father, father, what's wrong with you?" _the continued shouting dies away gradually in the distance. mielchen comes rushing in._ mielchen gran'father, gran'father, they're drivin' the soldiers out o' the village; they've got into dittrich's house, an' they're doin' what they did at dreissiger's. gran'father! [_the child grows frightened, notices that something has happened, puts her finger in her mouth, and goes up cautiously to the dead man._] gran'father! mother hilse come now, father, can't you say something? you're frightenin' me. the end the beaver coat a thieves' comedy list of characters von wehrhahn, _justice._ krueger, _capitalist in a small way._ dr. fleischer. philip, _his son._ motes. mrs. motes. mrs. wolff, _washerwoman._ julius wolff, _her husband._ leontine, adelaide, _her daughters._ wulkow, _lighterman._ glasenapp, _clerk in the justice's court._ mitteldorf, _constable._ scene of the action: anywhere in the neighbourhood of berlin. the first act _a small, blue-tinted kitchen with low ceiling; a window at the left; at the right a door of rough boards leading out into the open; in the rear mall an empty casing from which the door has been lifted.--in the left corner a flat oven, above which hang kitchen utensils in a wooden frame; in the right corner oars and other boating implements. rough, stubby pieces of hewn wood lie in a heap under the window. an old kitchen bench, several stools, etc.--through the empty casing in the rear a second room is visible. in it stands a high, neatly, made bed; above it hang cheap photographs in still cheaper frames, small chromolithographs, etc. a chair of soft mood stands with its back against the bed.--it is winter and moonlight. on the oven a tallow-candle is burning in a candle-stick of tin. leontine wolff has fallen asleep on a stool by the oven and rests her head and arms on it. she is a pretty, fair girl of seventeen in the working garb of a domestic servant. a woolen shawl is tied over her cotton jacket.--for several seconds there is silence. then someone is heard trying to unlock the door from without. but the key is in the lock and a knocking follows._ mrs. wolff [_unseen, from without._] adelaide! adelaide! [_there is no answer and a loud knocking is heard at the window._] are you goin' to open or not? leontine [_drowsily._] no, no, i'm not goin' to be abused that way! mrs. wolff open, girl, or i'll come in through the window! [_she raps violently at the panes._ leontine [_waking up._] oh, it's you, mama! i'm coming now! [_she unlocks the door from within._ mrs. wolff [_without laying down a sack which she carries over her shoulder._] what are _you_ doin' here? leontine [_sleepily._] evenin', mama. mrs. wolff how did you get in here, eh? leontine well, wasn't the key lyin' on the goat shed? mrs. wolff but what do you want here at home? leontine [_awkwardly affected and aggrieved._] so you don't want me to come no more at all? mrs. wolff aw, you just go ahead and put on that way! i'm so fond o' that! [_she lets the sack drop from her shoulder._] you don't know nothin', i s'ppose, about how late it's gettin'? you hurry and go back to your mistress. leontine it matters a whole lot, don't it, if i get back there a little too late? mrs. wolff you want to be lookin' out, y'understand? you see to it that you go, or you'll catch it! leontine [_tearfully and defiantly._] i ain't goin' back to them people no more, mama! mrs. wolff [_astonished._] not goin'?... [_ironically._] oh, no! that's somethin' quite new! leontine well, i don't _have_ to let myself be abused that way! mrs. wolff [_busy extracting a piece of venison from the sack._] so the kruegers abuse you, do they? aw, the poor child that you are!--don't you come round me with such fool talk! a wench like a dragoon...! here, lend a hand with this sack, at the bottom. you can't act more like a fool, eh? you won't get no good out o' me that way! you can't learn lazyin' around, here, at all. [_they hang up the venison on the door._] now i tell you for the last time.... leontine i ain't goin' back to them people, i tell you. i'd jump in the river first! mrs. wolff see that you don't catch a cold doin' it. leontine i'll jump in the river! mrs. wolff go ahead. let me know about it and i'll give you a shove so you don't miss it. leontine [_screaming._] do i have to stand for that, that i gotta drag in two loads o' wood at night! mrs. wolff [_in mock astonishment._] well, now, that's pretty awful, ain't it? you gotta drag in wood? such people, i tell you! leontine ... an' i gets twenty crowns for the whole year. i'm to get my hands frost-bitten for that, am i? an' not enough potatoes and herring to go round! mrs. wolff you needn't go fussin' about that, you silly girl. here's the key; go, cut yourself some bread. an' when you've had enough, go your way, y'understand? the plum butter's in the top cupboard. leontine [_takes a large loaf of bread from a drawer and cuts some slices._] an' juste gets forty crowns a year from the schulze's an'.... mrs. wolff don't you try to be goin' too fast.--you ain't goin' to stay with them people always; you ain't hired out to 'em forever.--leave 'em on the first of april, for all i care.--but up to then, you sticks to your place.--now that you got your christmas present in your pocket, you want to run away, do you? that's no way. i have dealin's with them people, an' i ain't goin' to have that kind o' thing held against me. leontine these bits o' rag that i got on here? mrs. wolff you're forgettin' the cash you got? leontine yes! six shillin's. that was a whole lot! mrs. wolff cash is cash! you needn't kick. leontine but if i can go an' make more? mrs. wolff yes, talkin'! leontine no, sewin'! i can go in to berlin and sew cloaks. emily stechow's been doin' that ever since new year. mrs. wolff don't come tellin' me about that slattern! i'd like to get my hands on her, that's all. i'd give that crittur a piece o' my mind! you'd like to be promoted into her class, would you? to go sportin' all night with the fellows? just to be thinkin' o' that makes me feel that i'd like to beat you so you can't hardly stand up.--now papa's comin' an' you'd better look out! leontine if papa thrashes me, i'll run away. i'll see how i can get along! mrs. wolff shut up now! go an' feed the goats. they ain't been milked yet to-night neither. an' give the rabbits a handful o' hay. _leontine tries to make her escape. in the door, however, she runs into her father, but slips quickly by him with a perfunctory_ evenin'. _julius wolff, the father, is a shipwright. a tall man, with dull eyes and slothful gestures, about forty-three years old.--he places two long oars, which he has brought in across his shoulder in a corner and silently throws down his shipwright's tools._ mrs. wolff did you meet emil? julius _growls._ mrs. wolff can't you talk? yes or no? is he goin' to come around, eh? julius [_irritated._] go right ahead! scream all you want to! mrs. wolff you're a fine, brave fellow, ain't you? an' all the while you forget to shut the door. julius [_closes the door._] what's up again with leontine? mrs. wolff aw, nothin'.--what kind of a load did emil have? julius bricks again. what d'you suppose he took in?--but what's up with that girl again? mrs. wolff did he have half a load or a whole load? julius [_flying into a rage._] what's up with the wench, i asks you? mrs. wolff [_outdoing him in violence._] an' i want to know how big a load emil had--a half or a whole boat full? julius that's right! go on! the whole thing full. mrs. wolff sst! julius! [_suddenly frightened she shoots the window latch._ julius [_scared and staring at her, is silent. after a few moments, softly._] it's a young forester from rixdorf. mrs. wolff go an' creep under the bed, julius. [_after a pause._] if only you wasn't such an awful fool. you don't open your mouth but what you act like a regular tramp. you don't understand nothin' o' such things, if you want to know it. you let me look out for the girls. that ain't no part o' your concern. that's a part of my concern. with boys that'd be a different thing. i wouldn't so much as give you advice. but everybody's got their own concerns. julius then don't let her come runnin' straight across my way. mrs. wolff i guess you want to beat her till she can't walk. don't you take nothin' like that into your head. don't you think i'm goin' to allow anythin' like that! i let her be beaten black an' blue? we c'n make our fortune with that girl. i wish you had sense about some things! julius well, then let her go an' see how she gets along! mrs. wolff nobody needn't be scared about that, julius. i ain't sayin' but what you'll live to see things. that girl will be livin' up on the first floor some day and we'll be glad to have her condescend to know us. what is it the doctor said to me? your daughter, he says, is a handsome girl; she'd make a stir on the stage. julius then let her see about gettin' there. mrs. wolff you got no education, julius. yon ain't got a trace of it. lord, if it hadn't been for me! what would ha' become o' those girls! i brought 'em up to be educated, y'understand? education is the main thing these days. but things don't come off all of a sudden. one thing after another--step by step. now she's in service an' that'll learn her somethin'. then maybe, for my part, she can go into berlin. she's much too young for the stage yet. [_during mrs. wolff's speech repeated knocking has been heard. now adelaide's voice comes in._ mama! mama! please, do open! _mrs. wolff opens the door, adelaide comes in. she is a somewhat overgrown schoolgirl of fourteen with a pretty, child-like face. the expression of her eyes, however, betrays premature corruption._ why didn't you open the door, mama? i nearly got my hands and feet frozen! mrs. wolff don't stand there jabberin' nonsense. light a fire in the oven and you'll soon be warm. where've you been all this long time, anyhow? adelaide why, didn't i have to go and fetch the boots for father? mrs. wolff an' you staid out two hours doin' it! adelaide well, i didn't start to go till seven. mrs. wolff oh, you went at seven, did you? it's half past ten now. you don't know that, eh? so you've been gone three hours an' a half. that ain't much. oh, no. well now you just listen good to what i've got to tell you. if you go an' stay that long again, and specially with that lousy cobbler of a fielitz--then watch out an' see! that's all i says. adelaide oh, i guess i ain't to do nothin' except just mope around at home. mrs. wolff now you keep still an' don't let me hear no more. adelaide an' even if i do go over to fielitz's sometime.... mrs. wolff are you goin' to keep still, i'd like to know? you teach me to know fielitz! he needn't be putting on's far as i know. he's got another trade exceptin' just repairin' shoes. when a man's been twice in the penitentiary.... adelaide that ain't true at all.... that's all just a set o' lies. he told me all about it himself, mama! mrs. wolff as if the whole village didn't know, you fool girl! that man! i know what he is. he's a pi-- adelaide oh, but he's friends even with the justice! mrs wolff i don't doubt it. he's a spy. and what's more, he's a _dee_nouncer! adelaide what's that--a _dee_nouncer? julius [_from the next room, into which he has gone._] i'm just waitin' to hear two words more. [_adelaide turns pale and at once and silently she sets about building a fire in the oven._ _leontine comes in._ mrs. wolff [_has opened the stag. she takes out the heart, liver, etc, and hands them to leontine._] there, hurry, wash that off. an' keep still, or somethin'll happen yet. [_leontine, obviously intimidated, goes at her task. the girls whisper together._ mrs. wolff say, julius. what are you doin' in there? i guess you'll go an' forget again. didn't i tell you this mornin' about the board that's come loose? julius what kind o' board? mrs. wolff you don't know, eh? behind there, by the goat-shed. the wind loosened it las' night. you better get out there an' drive a few nails in, y'understand? julius aw, to-morrow mornin'll be another day, too. mrs. wolff oh, no. don't take to thinkin' that way. we ain't goin' to make that kind of a start--not we. [_julius comes into the room growling._] there, take, the hammer! here's your nails! now hurry an' get it done. julius you're a bit off' your head. mrs. wolff [_calling out after him._] when wulkow comes what d'you want me to ask? julius about twelve shillin's sure. [_exit._ mrs. wolff [_contemptuously._] aw, twelve shillin's. [_a pause._] now you just hurry so that papa gets his supper. [_a brief pause._ adelaide [_looking at the stag._] what's that anyhow, mama? mrs. wolff a stork. [_both girls laugh._ adelaide a stork, eh? a stork ain't got horns. i know what that is--that's a stag! mrs. wolff well, if you know why d'you go an' ask? leontine did papa shoot it, mama? mrs. wolff that's right! go and scream it through the village: papa's shot a stag! adelaide i'll take mighty good care not to. that'd mean the cop! leontine aw, i ain't scared o' policeman schulz. he chucked me under the chin onct. mrs. wolff he c'n come anyhow. we ain't doin' nothin' wrong. if a stag's full o' lead and lays there dyin' an' nobody finds it, what happens? the ravens eat it. well now, if the ravens eat it or we eat it, it's goin' to be eaten anyhow. [_a brief pause._] well now, tell me: you was axed to carry wood in? leontine yes, in this frost! two loads o' regular clumps! an' that when a person is tired as a dog, at half past nine in the evenin'! mrs. wolff an' now i suppose that wood is lyin' there in the street? leontine it's lyin' in front o' the garden gate. that's all i know. mrs. wolff well now, but supposin' somebody goes and steals that wood? what's goin' to happen in the mornin' then? leontine i ain't goin' there no more! mrs. wolff are those clumps green or dry? leontine they're fine, dry ones! [_she yawns again and again._] oh, mama, i'm that tired! i've just had to work myself to pieces. [_she sits down with every sign of utter exhaustion._ mrs. wolff [_after a brief silence._] you c'n stay at home tonight for all i care. i've thought it all out a bit different. an' to-morrow mornin' we c'n see. leontine i've just got as thin as can be, mama! my clothes is just hangin' on to me. mrs. wolff you hurry now and go in to bed or papa'll raise a row yet. he ain't got no understandin' for things like that. adelaide papa always speaks so uneducated! mrs. wolff well, he didn't learn to have no education. an' that'd be just the same thing with you if i hadn't brought you up to be educated. [_holding a saucepan over the oven: to leontine:_] come now, put it in! [_leontine places the pieces of washed venison into the sauce-pan._] so, now go to bed. leontine [_goes into the next room. while she is still visible, she says:_] oh, mama, motes has moved away from krueger. mrs. wolff i guess he didn't pay no rent. leontine it was just like pullin' a tooth every time, mr. krueger says, but he paid. anyhow, he says, he had to kick him out. he's such a lyin' loudmouthed fellow, and always so high and mighty toward mr. krueger. mrs. wolff if i had been in mr. krueger's place i wouldn't ha' kept him that long. leontine because mr. krueger used to be a carpenter onct, that's why motes always acts so contemptuous. and then, too, he quarrelled with dr. fleischer. mrs. wolff well, anybody that'll quarrel with _him_...! i ain't sayin' anythin', but them people wouldn't harm a fly! leontine they won't let him come to the fleischers no more. mrs. wolff if you could get a chanct to work for them people some day! leontine they treat the girls like they was their own children. mrs. wolff and his brother in berlin, he's cashier in a theatre. wulkow [_has knocked at the door repeatedly and now calls out in a hoarse voice._] ain't you goin' to have the kindness to let me in. mrs. wolff well, i should say! why not! walk right in! wulkow [_comes in. he is a lighterman on the spree river, near sixty years old, bent, with a greyish-yellow beard that frames his head from ear to ear but leaves his weather-beaten face free._] i wish you a very good evenin'. mrs. wolff look at him comin' along again to take in a woman a little bit. wulkow i've give up tryin' that this long while! mrs. wolff maybe, but that's the way it's goin' to be anyhow. wulkow t'other way roun', you mean. mrs. wolff what'll it be next?--here it's hangin'! a grand feller, eh? wulkow i tell you, julius ought to be lookin' out sharp. they's gettin' to be pretty keen again. mrs. wolff what are you goin' to give us for it, that's the main thing. what's the use o' jabberin'? wulkow well, i'm tellin' you. i'm straight from gruenau. an' there i heard it for certain. they shot fritz weber. they just about filled his breeches with lead. mrs. wolff what are you goin' to give? that's the main thing. wulkow [_feeling the stag._] the trouble is i got four o' them bucks lyin' at home now. mrs. wolff that ain't goin' to make your boat sink. wulkow an' i don't want her to do that. that wouldn't be no joke. but what's the good if i get stuck with the things here. i've gotta get 'em in to berlin. it's been hard enough work on the river all day, an' if it goes on freezin' this way, there'll be no gettin' along to-morrow. then i c'n sit in the ice with my boat, an' then i've got these things for fun. mrs. wolff [_apparently changing her mind._] girl, you run down to schulze. say how-dee-do an' he's to come up a while, cause mother has somethin' to sell. wulkow did i say as i wasn't goin' to buy it? mrs. wolff it's all the same to me who buys it. wulkow well, i'm willin' to. mrs. wolff any one that don't want it can let it be. wulkow i'll buy this feller! what's he worth? mrs. wolff [_touching the venison._] this here piece weighs a good thirty pounds. every bit of it, i c'n tell you. well, adelaide! you was here. we could hardly lift it up. adelaide [_who had not been present at all._] i pretty near sprained myself liftin' it. wulkow thirteen shillin's will pay for it, then. an' i won't be makin' ten pence on that bargain! mrs. wolff [_acts amazed. she busies herself at the oven as though she had forgotten wulkow's presence. then, as though suddenly becoming aware of it again, she says:_] i wish you a very pleasant trip. wulkow well. i can't give more than thirteen! mrs. wolff that's right. let it alone. wulkow i'm just buyin' it for the sake o' your custom. god strike me dead, but it's as true as i'm standin' here. i don't make _that_ much with the whole business. an' even if i was wantin' to say: fourteen, i'd be puttin' up money, i'd be out one shillin'. but i ain't goin' to let that stand between us. just so you see my good intentions, i'll say fourteen.... i can't give no more. i'm tellin' you facts. mrs. wolff that's all right! that's all right! we c'n get rid o' this stag. we won't have to keep it till morning. wulkow yes, if only nobody don't see it hangin' here. money wouldn't do no good then. mrs. wolff this stag here, we found it dead. wulkow yes, in a trap. i believe you. mrs. wolff you needn't try to get around us that way. that ain't goin' to do _no_ good! you want to gobble up everythin' for nothin'! we works till we got no breath. hours an' hours soakin' in the snow, not to speak o' the risk, there in the pitch dark. that's no joke, i tell you. wulkow the only trouble is that i got four of 'em already. or i'd say fifteen shillin's quick enough. mrs. wolff no, wulkow, we can't do business together today. you c'n be easy an' go a door further. we just dragged ourselves across the lake ... a hairbreadth an' we would've been stuck in the ice. we couldn't get forward an' we couldn't get backward. you can't give away somethin' you got so hard. wulkow well, what do i get out of it all, i want to know! this here lighter business ain't a natural thing. an' poachin', that's a bad job. if you all get nabbed, i'd be the first one to fly in. i been worryin' along these forty years. what've i got to-day? the rheumatiz--that's what! when i get up o' mornin's early, i gotta whine like a puppy dog. years an' years i been wantin' to buy myself a fur-coat. that's what all doctors has advised me to do, because i'm that sensitive. but i ain't been able to buy me none. not to this day. an' that's as true as i'm standin' here. adelaide [_to her mother._] did you hear what leontine said? wulkow but anyhow. let it go. i'll say sixteen. mrs. wolff no, it's no good. eighteen! [_to adelaide._] what's that you was talkin' about? adelaide mrs. krueger has bought a fur-coat that cost pretty near a hundred crowns. it's a beaver coat. wulkow a beaver coat? mrs. wolff _who_ bought it? adelaide why, mrs. krueger, i tell you, as a christmas present for mr. krueger. wulkow is that girl in service with the kruegers? adelaide not me, but my sister, i ain't goin' in service like that at all. wulkow well now, if i could have somethin' like that! that's the kind o' thing i been tryin' to get hold of all this time. i'd gladly be givin' sixty crowns for it. all this money that goes to doctors and druggists, i'd much rather spend it for furs. i'd get some pleasure out of that at least. mrs. wolff all you gotta do is to go there, wulkow. maybe kruger'll make you a present of the coat. wulkow i don't suppose he'd do it kindly. but's i said: i'm interested in that sort o' thing. mrs. wolff i believes you. i wouldn't mind havin' a thing like that myself. wulkow how do we stand now? sixteen? mrs. wolff nothin' less'n eighteen'll do. not under eighteen--that's what julius said. i wouldn't dare show up with sixteen. no, sir. when that man takes somethin' like that into his head! [_julius comes in._] well, julius, you said eighteen shillin's, didn't you? julius what's that i said? mrs. wolff are you hard o' hearin' again for a change? you said yourself: not under eighteen. you told me not to sell the stag for less. julius i said?... oh, yes, that there piece o' venison! that's right. h-m. an' that ain't a bit too much; either. wulkow [_taking' out money and counting it._] we'll make an end o' this. seventeen shillin's. is it a bargain? mrs. wolff you're a great feller, you are! that's what i said exactly: he don't hardly have to come in the door but a person is taken in! wulkow [_has unrolled a sack which had been hidden about his person._] now help me shoot it right in here. [_mrs. wolff helps him place the venison in the sack._] an' if by some chanst you should come to hear o' somethin' like that--what i means is, just f'r instance--a--fur coat like that, f'r instance. say, sixty or seventy crowns. i could raise that, an' i wouldn't mind investin' it. mrs. wolff i guess you ain't right in your head...! how should _we_ come by a coat like that? a man's voice [_calls from without._] mrs. wolff! oh, mrs. wolff! are you still up? mrs. wolff [_sharing the consternation of the others, rapidly, tensely._] slip it in! slip it in! and get in the other room! [_she crowds them all into the rear room and locks the door._ a man's voice mrs. wolff! oh, mrs. wolff! have you gone to bed? _mrs. wolff extinguishes the light._ a man's voice mrs. wolff! mrs. wolff! are you still up? [_the voice recedes singing:_] "morningre-ed, morningre-ed, thou wilt shine when i am dea-ead!" leontine aw, that's only old "morningred," mama! mrs. wolff [_listens for a while, opens the door softly and listens again. when she is satisfied she closes the door and lights the candle. thereupon she admits the others again._] 'twas only the constable mitteldorf. wulkow the devil, you say. that's nice acquaintances for you to have. mrs. wolff go on about your way now! hurry! adelaide mama, mino has been barkin'. mrs. wolff hurry, hurry, wulkow! get out now! an' the back way through the vegetable garden! julius will open for you. go on, julius, an' open the gate. wulkow an's i said, if somethin' like such a beaver coat _was_ to turn up, why-- mrs. wolff sure. just make haste now. wulkow if the spree don't freeze over, i'll be gettin' back in, say, three or four days from berlin. an' i'll be lyin' with my boat down there. mrs. wolff by the big bridge? wulkow where i always lies. well, julius, toddle ahead! [_exit._ adelaide mama, mino has been barkin' again. mrs. wolff [_at the oven._] oh, let him bark! [_a long-drawn call is heard in the distance._ "ferry over!"] adelaide somebody wants to get across the river, mama! mrs. wolff well, go'n tell papa. he's down there by the river.--["ferry over!"] an' take him his oars. but he ought to let wulkow get a bit of a start first. _adelaide goes out with the oars. for a little while mrs. wolff is alone. she marks energetically. then adelaide returns._ adelaide papa's got his oars down in the boat. mrs. wolff who wants to get across the river this time o' night? adelaide i believe, mama, it's that stoopid motes! mrs. wolff what? who is't you say? adelaide i think the voice was motes's voice. mrs. wolff [_vehemently._] go down! ran! tell papa to come up! that fool motes can stay on the other side. he don't need to come sniffin' around in the house here. _adelaide exits. mrs. wolff hides and clears away everything that could in any degree suggest the episode of the stag. she covers the sauce-pan with an apron. adelaide comes back._ adelaide mama, i got down there too late. i hear 'em talkin' a'ready. mrs. wolff well, who is it then? adelaide i've been tellin' you: motes. _mr. and mrs. motes appear in turn in the doorway. both are of medium height. she is an alert young woman of about thirty, modestly and neatly dressed. he wears a green forester's overcoat; his face is healthy but insignificant; his left eye is concealed by a black bandage._ mrs. motes [_calls in._] we nearly got our noses frozen, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff why do you go walkin' at night. you got time enough when it's bright day. motes it's nice and warm here.--who's that who has time by day? mrs. wolff why, you! motes i suppose you think i live on my fortune. mrs. wolff i don't know; i ain't sayin' what you live on. mrs. motes heavens, you needn't be so cross. we simply wanted to ask about our bill. mrs. wolff you've asked about that a good deal more'n once. mrs. motes very well. so we're asking again. anything wrong with that? we have to pay sometime, you know? mrs. wolff [_astonished._] you wants to pay? mrs. motes of course, we do. naturally. motes you act as if you were quite overwhelmed. did you think we'd run off without paying? mrs. wolff i ain't given to thinkin' such things. if you want to be so good then. here, we can arrange right now. the amount is eleven shillin's, six pence. mrs. motes oh, yes. mrs. wolff. we're going to get money. the people around here will open their eyes wide. motes there's a smell of roasted hare here. mrs. wolff burned hair! that'd be more likely. motes let's take a look and see. [_he is about to take the cover from the sauce-pan._ mrs. wolff [_prevents him._] no sniffin' 'round in my pots. mrs. motes [_who has observed everything distrustfully._] mrs. wolff, we've found something, too. mrs. wolff i ain't lost nothin'. mrs. motes there, look at these. [_she shows her several wire snares._ mrs. wolff [_without losing her equanimity in the slightest._] i suppose them are snares? mrs. motes we found them quite in the neighbourhood here! scarcely twenty paces from your garden. mrs. wolff lord love you! the amount of poachin' that's done here! mrs. motes if you were to keep a sharp lookout, you might actually catch the poacher some day. mrs. wolff aw, such things is no concern o' mine. motes if i could just get hold of a rascal like that. first, i'd give him something to remember me by, and then i'd mercilessly turn him over to the police. mrs. motes mrs. wolff have you got a few fresh eggs? mrs. wolff now, in the middle of winter? they're pretty scarce! motes [_to julius, who has just come in._] forester seidel has nabbed a poacher again. he'll be taken to the detention prison to-morrow. there's an officer with style about him. if i hadn't had my misfortune, i could have been a head forester to-day. i'd go after those dogs even more energetically. mrs. wolff there's many a one has had to pay for doin' that! motes yes, if he's afraid. i'm not! i've denounced quite a few already. [_fixing his gaze keenly on mrs. wolff and her husband in turn._] and there are a few others whose time is coming. they'll run straight into my grip some day. these setters of snares needn't think that i don't know them. i know them very well. mrs. motes have you been baking, perhaps, mrs. wolff? we're so tired of baker's bread. mrs. wolff i thought you was goin' to square your account. mrs. motes on saturday, as i've told you, mrs. wolff. my husband has been appointed editor of the magazine "chase and forest." mrs. wolff aha, yes. i know what that means. mrs. motes but if i assure you, mrs. wolff! we've moved away from the kruegers already. mrs. wolff yes, you moved because you had to. mrs. motes we had to? hubby, listen to this!--[_she gives a forced laugh._]--mrs. wolff says that we had to move from kruegers. motes [_crimson with rage._] the reason why i moved away from that place? you'll find it out some day. the man is a usurer and a cutthroat! mrs. wolff i don't know nothin' about that; i can't say nothin' about that. motes i'm just waiting to get hold of positive proof. that, man had better be careful where i'm concerned--he and his bosom friend, dr. fleischer. the latter more especially. if i just wanted to say it--one word and that man would be under lock and key. [_from the beginning of his speech on he has gradually withdrawn and speaks the last words from without._ mrs. wolff i suppose the men got to quarrelin' again? mrs. motes [_apparently confidential._] there's no jesting with my husband. if he determines on anything, he doesn't let go till it's done. and he stands very well with the justice.--but how about the eggs and the bread? mrs. wolff [_reluctantly._] well, i happen to have five eggs lyin' here. an' a piece o' bread. [_mrs. motes puts the eggs and the half of a loaf into her basket._] are you satisfied now? mrs. motes certainly; of course. i suppose the eggs are fresh? mrs. wolff as fresh as my chickens can lay 'em. mrs. motes [_hastening in order to catch up with her husband._] well, good-night. you'll get your money next saturday. [_exit._ mrs. wolff all right; that'll be all right enough! [_she closes the door and speaks softly to herself._] get outta here, you! got nothin' but debts with everybody around. [_over her sauce-pan._] what business o' theirs is it what we eat? let 'em spy into their own affairs. go to bed, child! adelaide good night, mama. [_she kisses her._ mrs. wolff well, ain't you goin' to kiss papa good-night? adelaide good night, papa. [_she kisses him, at which he growls. adelaide, exit._ mrs. wolff you always gotta say that to her special! [_a pause._ julius why do'you go an' give the eggs to them people? mrs. wolff i suppose you want me to make an enemy o' that feller? you just go ahead an' get him down on you! i tell you, that's a dangerous feller. he ain't got nothin' to do except spy on people. come. sit down. eat. here's a fork for you. you don't understand much about such things. you take care o' the things that belongs to you! did you have to go an' lay the snares right behind the garden? they was yours, wasn't they? julius [_annoyed._] go right ahead! mrs. wolff an', o' course, that fool of a motes had to find 'em first thing. here near the house you ain't goin' to lay no more snares at all! y'understan'? next thing'll be that people say we laid 'em. julius aw, you stop your jawin'. [_both eat._ mrs. wolff look here, julius, we're out of wood, too. julius an' you want me to go this minute, i suppose? mrs. wolff it'd be best if we got busy right off. julius i don't feel my own bones no more. anybody that wants to go c'n go. i ain't. mrs. wolff you men folks always does a whole lot o' talkin', an' when it comes to the point, you can't do nothin'. i'd work enough to put the crowd of you in a hole and drag you out again too. if you ain't willin' to go to-night by no means, why, you've got to go to-morrow anyhow. so what good is it? how are the climbin' irons? sharp? julius i loaned 'em to karl machnow. mrs. wolff [_after a pause._] if only you wasn't such a coward!--we might get a few loads o' wood in a hurry, an' we wouldn't have to work ourselves blue in the face neither.--no, nor we wouldn't have to go very far for 'em. julius aw, let me eat a bite, will you? mrs. wolff [_punches his head amicably._] don't always be so rough, i'm goin' to be good to you now for onct. you watch. [_fetching a bottle of whiskey and showing it to him._] here! see? i brought that for you. now you c'n make a friendly face, all right. [_she fills a glass for her husband._ julius [_drinks._] that's fine--in this cold weather--fine. mrs. wolff well, you see? don't i take care o' you? julius that was pretty good, pretty good all right. [_he fills the glass anew and drinks._ mrs. wolff [_after a pause. she is splitting kindling wood and eating a bite now and then._] wulkow--that feller--he's a regular rascal--. he always--acts--as if he was hard up. julius aw, he'd better shut up--he with his trade! mrs. wolff you heard that about the beaver coat, didn't you? julius naw, i didn't hear nothin'. mrs. wolff [_with assumed carelessness._] didn't you hear the girl tell how mrs. krueger has given krueger a fur coat? julius well, them people has the money. mrs. wolff that's true. an' then wulkow was sayin' ... you musta heard ... that if he could get hold of a coat like that some day, he'd give as much as a seventy crowns for it. julius you just let him go and get into trouble his own self. mrs. wolff [_after a pause, refilling her husband's glass._] come now, you c'n stand another. julius well, go ahead, go ahead! what in...! _mrs. wolff gets out a little note book and turns over the leaves._ julius how much is it we put aside since july? mrs. wolff about thirty crowns has been paid off. julius an' that'll leave ... leave ... mrs. wolff that'll still leave seventy. you don't get along very fast this way. fifty, sixty crowns--all in a lump; if you could add that onct! then the lot would be paid for all right. then maybe we could borrow a couple o' hundred and build up a few pretty rooms. we can't take no summer boarders like this an' it's the summer boarders what brings the money. julius well, go ahead! what are you ... mrs. wolff [_resolutely._] my, but you're a slow crittur, julius! would _you've_ gone an' bought that lot? an' if we wanted to go an' sell it now, we could be gettin' twice over what we paid for it! i got a different kind of a nature! lord, if you had one like it! julius i'm workin' all right. what's the good o' all that? mrs. wolff you ain't goin' to get very far with all your work. julius well, i can't steal. i can't go an' get into trouble! mrs. wolff you're just stoopid, an' that's the way you'll always be. nobody here ain't been talkin' o' stealin'. but if you don't risk nothin', you don't get nothin'. an' when onct you're rich, julius, an' c'n go and sit in your own carridge, there ain't nobody what's goin' to ask where you got it! sure, if we was to take it from poor people! but now suppose really--suppose we went over to the kruegers and put the two loads o' wood on a sleigh an' took 'em into our shed--them people ain't no poorer on that account! julius wood? what you startin' after again now with wood? mrs. wolff now that shows how you don't take notice o' nothin'! they c'n work your daughter till she drops; they c'n try an' make her drag in wood at ten o'clock in the evenin'. that's why she run away. an' you take that kind o' thing an' say thank you. maybe you'd give the child a hidin' and send her back to the people. julius sure!--that's what!--what d'you think ... mrs. wolff things like that hadn't ought to go unpunished. if anybody hits me, i'll hit him back. that's what i says. julius well, did they go an' hit the girl? mrs. wolff why should she be runnin' away, julius? but no, there ain't no use tryin' to do anything with you. now the wood is lyin' out there in the alley. an' if i was to say: all right, you abuse my children, i'll take your wood--a nice face you'd make. julius i wouldn't do no such thing ... i don't give a--! i c'n do more'n eat, too. i'd like to see! i wouldn't stand for nothin' like that. beatin'! mrs. wolff well, then, don't talk so much. go an' get your cord. show them people that you got some cuteness! the whole thing will be over in an hour. then we c'n go to bed an' it's all right. an' you don't have to go out in the woods to-morrow. we'll have more fuel than we need. julius well, if it leaks out, it'll be all the same to me. mrs. wolff there ain't no reason why it should. but don't wake the girls. mitteldorf [_from without._] mrs. wolff! mrs. wolff! are you still up? mrs. wolff sure, mitteldorf! come right in! [_she opens the door._ mitteldorf [_enters. he has an overcoat over his shabby uniform. his face has a mephistophelian cast. his nose betrays an alcoholic colouring. his demeanour is gentle, almost timid. his speech is slow and dragging and unaccompanied by any change in expression._] good evenin', mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff i guess you mean to say: good night! mitteldorf i was around here once before a while ago. first i thought i saw a light, an' then, all of a sudden, it was dark again. nobody didn't answer me neither. but this time there was a light an' no mistake; an' so i came back once more. mrs. wolff well, what have you got for me now, mitteldorf? mitteldorf [_has taken a seat, thinks a while and then says:_] that's what i came here for. i got a message for you from the justice's wife. mrs. wolff she ain't wantin' me to do washin'? mitteldorf [_raises his eye-brows thoughtfully._] that she does. mrs. wolff an' when? mitteldorf to-morrow.--to-morrow mornin'. mrs. wolff an' you come in tellin' me that twelve o'clock at night? mitteldorf but to-morrow is the missis' wash day. mrs. wolff but a person ought to know that a few days ahead o' time. mitteldorf that' a fac'. but don't go makin' a noise. i just plumb forgot all about it again. i got so many things to think of with my poor head, that sometimes i just naturally forgets things. mrs. wolff well, mitteldorf, i'll try an' arrange it. we always was good friends. you got enough on your shoulders, i suppose, with them twelve children o' yours at home, eh? you ain't got no call to make yourself out worse'n you are. mitteldorf if you don't come in the mornin', i'll have a pretty tough time of it! mrs. wolff i'll come. you needn't go worryin'. there, take a drink. i guess you need it this weather. [_she gives him a glass of toddy._] i just happened to have a bit o' hot water. you know, we gotta take a trip yet to-night--for fat geese over to treptow. you don't get no time in the day. that can't be helped in this kind of a life. poor people is got to work themselves sick day an' night, an' rich people lies in bed snorin'. mitteldorf i been given notice. did you know that? the justice has given me notice. i ain't keen enough after the people. mrs. wolff they wants you to be like an old watch dog, i suppose. mitteldorf i'd rather not go home at all. when i gets there, it'll be nothin' but quarrelin'. she just drives me crazy with her reproaches. mrs. wolff put your fingers in your ears! mitteldorf an' then a man goes to the tavern a bit, so that the worries don't down him altogether; an' now he ain't to do that no more neither! he ain't to do nothin'. an' now i just come from a bit of a time there. a feller treated to a little keg. mrs. wolff you ain't goin' to be scared of a woman? if she scolds, scold harder; an' if she beats you, beat her back. come here now--you're taller'n me--get me down them things off the shelf. an' julius, you get the sleigh ready! [_julius exit._] how often have i got to tell you? [_mitteldorf has taken cords and pulley lines front the high shelf on the wall._] get ready the big sleigh! you c'n hand them cords right down to him. julius [_from without._] i can't see! mrs. wolff what can't you do? julius [_appears in the doorway._] i can't get that sleigh out alone! everythin' is all mixed up in a heap here. an' there ain't nothin' to be done without a light. mrs. wolff now you're helpless again--like always. [_rapidly she puts shawls about her head and chest._] you must wait, i'll come an' lend a hand. there's the lantern, mitteldorf. [_mitteldorf slowly takes a lantern and hands it to mrs. wolff.] there! thank you. [_she puts the burning candle into the lantern._] we'll put that in here an' then we c'n go. now i'll help you drag out the sleigh. [_she goes ahead with the lantern. mitteldorf follows her. in the door she turns around and hands the lantern to mitteldorf._] you c'n come an' hold the light for us a bit! mitteldorf [_holding the light and humming to himself:_] "morningre-ed, morningre-ed ..." the curtain falls the second act _court room of justice von wehrhahn. a great, bare, white-washed room with three windows in the rear wall. the main door is in the left wall. along the wall to the right stands the long official table covered with books, legal documents, etc.; behind it the chair of the justice. near the centre window are the clerk's chair and table. to the right is a bookcase of white wood, so arranged that it is within reach of the justice when he sits in his chair. the left wall is hidden by cases containing documents. in the foreground, beginning at the wall to the left, six chairs stand in a row. their occupants would be seen by the spectator from behind.--it is a bright forenoon in winter. the clerk glasenapp sits scribbling at his table. he is a poverty-stricken, spectacled person. justice von wehrhahn, carrying a roll of documents under his arm, enters rapidly. wehrhahn is about forty years old and wears a monocle. he makes the impression of a son of the landed nobility of prussia. his official garb consists of a buttoned, black walking coat, and very tall boots put on over his trousers. he speaks in what is almost a falsetto voice and carefully cultivates a military brevity of expression._ wehrhahn [_by the way, like one crushed by the weight of affairs._] mornin'. glasenapp servant, sir. wehrhahn anything happened, glasenapp? glasenapp [_standing and looking through some papers._] i've got to report, your honour--there was first, oh, yes,--the innkeeper fiebig. he begs for permission, your honour, to have music and dancing at his inn next sunday. wehrhahn isn't that ... perhaps you can tell me. fiebig? there was some one who recently rented his hall...? glasenapp to the liberals. quite right, your honour. wehrhahn this same fiebig? glasenapp yes, my lord. wehrhahn we'll have to put a check-rein on him for a while. _the constable mitteldorf enters._ mitteldorf servant, my lord. wehrhahn listen here: once and for all--officially i am simply the justice. mitteldorf yes, sir. as you wish, my--your honour, i meant to say. wehrhahn i wish you would try to understand this fact: my being a baron is purely by the way. is not, at all events, to be considered here. [_to glasenapp._] now i'd like to hear further, please. wasn't the author motes here? glasenapp yes, your honour. wehrhahn aha! so he _was_ here! i confess that i am very curious. i hope that it was his intention to come back? glasenapp he intended to be back here about half past eleven. wehrhahn did he by any chance tell you anything? glasenapp he came in the matter of dr. fleischer. wehrhahn well, now, you may as well tell me--are you acquainted with this dr. fleischer? glasenapp all i know is that he lives in the villa krueger. wehrhahn and how long has he been living in this place? glasenapp well, i've been here since michaelmas. wehrhahn to be sure, you came here at the same time with me; about four months ago. glasenapp [_looking toward mitteldorf for information._] from what i hear the man has been living here about two years. wehrhahn [_to mitteldorf._] i don't suppose you can give us any information? mitteldorf beggin' your pardon, he came michaelmas a year ago. wehrhahn at that time he moved here? mitteldorf exactly, your honour--from berlin. wehrhahn have you any more intimate information about this individual? mitteldorf all i know is his brother is cashier of a theatre. wehrhahn i didn't ask for information concerning his brother! what is his occupation?--what does he himself do? what is he? mitteldorf i don't know as i can say anythin' particular. people do say that he's sick. i suppose he suffers from diabetes. wehrhahn i'm quite indifferent as to the character of his malady. he can sweat syrup if it amuses him. _what_ is he? glasenapp [_shrugging his shoulders._] he calls himself a free spear in scholarship. wehrhahn lance! lance! not spear! a free lance. glasenapp the bookbinder hugk always does work for him; he has some books bound every week. wehrhahn i wouldn't mind seeing what an individual of that kind reads. glasenapp the postman thinks he must take in about twenty newspapers. democratic ones, too. wehrhahn you may summon hugk to this court some time. glasenapp right away? wehrhahn no, at a more convenient time. to-morrow or the next day. let him bring a few of the books in question with him. [_to mitteldorf._] you seem to take naps all day. or perhaps the man has good cigars and knows how to invest them! mitteldorf your honour...! wehrhahn never mind! never mind! i will inspect the necessary persons myself. my honourable predecessor has permitted a state of affairs to obtain that...! we will change all that by degrees--it is simply disgraceful for a police official to permit himself to be deceived by any one. that is, of course, entirely beyond your comprehension. [_to glasenapp._] didn't motes say anything definite? glasenapp i can't say that he did--nothing definite. he was of the opinion that your honour was informed.... wehrhahn in a very general way, i am. i have had my eye on the man in question for some time--on this dr. fleischer i mean. mr. motes simply confirmed me in my own entirely correct judgment of his peculiar character.--what kind of a reputation has motes himself? [_glasenapp and_ mitteldorf exchange glances and glasenapp shrugs his shoulders._] lives largely on credit, eh? glasenapp he says he has a pension. wehrhahn pension? glasenapp well, you know he got shot in the eye. wehrhahn so his pension is really paid as damages. glasenapp beggin' your honour's pardon, but if it's a question of damages the man inflicts more than he's ever received. nobody's ever seen him have a penny for anything. wehrhahn [_amused._] is there anything else of importance? glasenapp nothing but minor matters, your honour--somebody giving notice-- wehrhahn that'll do; that'll do. do you happen ever to have heard any reports to the effect that this dr. fleischer does not guard his tongue with particular care? glasenapp not that i know of at this moment. wehrhahn because that is the information that has come to me. he is said to have made illegal remarks concerning a number of exalted personages. however, all that will appear in good time. we can set to work now. mitteldorf, have you anything to report? mitteldorf they tell me that a theft has been committed during the night. wehrhahn a theft? where? mitteldorf in the villa krueger. wehrhahn what has been stolen? mitteldorf some firewood. wehrhahn last night, or when? mitteldorf just last night. wehrhahn from whom does your information come? mitteldorf my information? it come from ... from.... wehrhahn well, from whom? out with it! mitteldorf i heard it from--i got it from dr. fleischer. wehrhahn aha! you're in the habit then of conversing with him? mitteldorf mr. krueger told me about it himself too. wehrhahn the man is a nuisance with his perpetual complaints. he writes me about three letters a week. either he has been cheated, or some one has broken his fence, or else some one has trespassed on his property. nothing but one annoyance after another. motes [_enters. he laughs almost continually in a nervous way._] beg to bid you a good morning, your honour. wehrhahn ah, there you are. very glad you came in. you can help me out with some information at once. a theft is said to have been committed at the villa krueger. motes i don't live there any longer. wehrhahn and nothing has come to your ears either? motes oh, i heard something about it, but nothing definite. as i was just passing by the villa i saw them both looking for traces in the snow. wehrhahn is that so? dr. fleischer is assisting him. i take it for granted then that they're pretty thick together? motes inseparable in every sense, your honour. wehrhahn aha! as far as fleischer is concerned--he interests me most of all. take a seat, please. i confess that i didn't sleep more than half the night. this matter simply wouldn't let me sleep. the letter that you wrote me excited me to an extraordinary degree.--that is a matter of temperament, to be sure. the slumbers of my predecessor would scarcely have been disturbed.--as far as i am concerned i have made up my mind, so to speak, to go the whole way.--it is my function here to make careful tests and to exterminate undesirable elements.--under the protection of my honourable predecessor the sphere of our activity has become a receptacle for refuse of various kinds: lives that cannot bear the light--outlawed individuals, enemies of royalty and of the realm. these people must be made to suffer.--as for yourself, mr. motes, you are an author? motes i write on subjects connected with forestry and game. wehrhahn in the appropriate technical journals, i take it. _a propos_: do you manage to make a living that way? motes if one is well known, it can be done. i may gratefully say that i earn an excellent competency. wehrhahn so you are a forester by profession? motes i studied at the academy, your honour, and pursued my studies in eberswalde. shortly before the final examinations i met with this misfortune.... wehrhahn ah, yes; i see you wear a bandage. motes i lost an eye while hunting. some bird shot flew into my right eye. the responsibility for the accident could not, unfortunately, be placed. and so i had to give up my career. wehrhahn then you do not receive a pension? motes no. but i have fought my way through pretty well now. my name is getting to be known in a good many quarters. wehrhahn h-m.--are you by any chance acquainted with my brother-in-law? motes yes, indeed--chief forester von wachsmann. i correspond a good deal with him and furthermore we are fellow members of the society for the breeding of pointers. wehrhahn [_somewhat relieved._] ah, so you are really acquainted with him? i'm very glad indeed to hear that. that makes the whole matter easier of adjustment and lays a foundation for mutual confidence. it serves to remove any possible obstacle.--you wrote me in your letter, you recall, that you had had the opportunity of observing this dr. fleischer. now tell me, please, what you know. motes [_coughs._] when i--about a year ago--took up my residence in the villa krueger, i had naturally no suspicion of the character of the people with whom i was to dwell under one roof. wehrhahn yon were acquainted with neither krueger nor fleischer? motes no; but you know how things go. living in one house with them i couldn't keep to myself entirely. wehrhahn and what kind of people visited the house? motes [_with a significant gesture._] ah! wehrhahn i understand. motes tom, dick and harry--democrats, of course. wehrhahn were regular meetings held? motes every thursday, so far as i could learn. wehrhahn that will certainly bear watching.--and you no longer associate with those people? motes a point was reached where intercourse with them became impossible, your honour. wehrhahn you were repelled, eh? motes the whole business became utterly repulsive to me. wehrhahn the unlawful atmosphere that obtained there, the impudent jeering at exalted personages--all that, i take it, you could no longer endure? motes i stayed simply because i thought it might serve some good purpose. wehrhahn but finally you gave notice after all? motes i moved out, yes, your honour. wehrhahn and finally you made up your mind to-- motes i considered it my duty-- wehrhahn to lodge notice with the authorities.--i consider that very worthy in you.--so he used a certain kind of expression--we will make a record of all that later, of course--a certain kind of expression in reference to a personage whose exalted station demands our reverence. motes he certainly did that, your honour. wehrhahn you would be willing, if necessary, to confirm that by oath. motes i would be willing to confirm it. wehrhahn in fact, you will be obliged to make such confirmation. motes yes, your honour. wehrhahn of course it would be best if we could procure an additional witness. motes i would have to look about. the trouble is, though, that the man is very prodigal of his money. wehrhahn ah, just wait a minute. krueger is coming in now. i will first attend to his business. at all events i am very grateful to you for your active assistance. one is absolutely dependent on such assistance if one desires to accomplish anything nowadays. krueger [_enters hastily and excitedly._] o lord, o lord! good day, your honour. wehrhahn [_to motes._] pardon me just a moment. [_in an arrogant and inquisitorial tone to krueger._] what is it you want? _krueger is a small man, somewhat hard of hearing and nearly seventy years old. he is slightly bowed with age; his left shoulder hangs somewhat. otherwise he is still very vigorous and emphasises his remarks by violent gesticulations. he wears a fur cap which he is now holding in his hand, a brown winter overcoat and a thick woolen shawl around his neck._ krueger [_literally charged with rage, explodes:_] i've been robbed, your honour. [_getting his breath, he wipes the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief and, after the manner of people with impaired hearing, stares straight at the mouth of the justice._ wehrhahn robbed, eh? krueger [_already exasperated._] robbed is what i said. i have been robbed. two whole loads of wood have been stolen from me. wehrhahn [_looking around at those present, half-smiling, says lightly:_] not the least thing of that kind has happened here recently. krueger [_putting his hand to his ear._] what? not the slightest thing? then perhaps i came into this office for fun? wehrhahn you need not become violent. what is your name, by the way? krueger [_taken aback._] my name? wehrhahn yes, your name! krueger so my name isn't known to you? i thought we had had the pleasure before. wehrhahn sorry. can't say that i have a clear recollection. and that wouldn't matter officially anyhow. krueger [_resignedly._] my name is krueger. wehrhahn capitalist by any chance? krueger [_with extreme and ironic vehemence._] exactly--capitalist and houseowner here. wehrhahn identify yourself, please. krueger i--identify myself! my name is krueger. i don't think we need go to any further trouble. i've been living here for thirty years. every child in the place knows me. wehrhahn the length of your residence here doesn't concern me. it is my business merely to ascertain your identity. is this gentleman known to you--mr. motes? _motes half rises with an angry expression._ wehrhahn ah, yes, i understand. kindly sit down. well, glasenapp? glasenapp yes, at your service. it is mr. krueger all right. wehrhahn very well.--so you have been robbed of wood? krueger of wood, exactly. two loads of pine wood. wehrhahn did you have the wood stored in your shed? krueger [_growing violent again._] that's quite a separate matter. that's the substance of another complaint i have to make. wehrhahn [_with an ironic laugh and looking at the others._] still another one? krueger what do you mean? wehrhahn nothing. you may go ahead with your statement. the wood, it appears, was not in your shed? krueger the wood was in the garden, that is, in front of the garden. wehrhahn in other words: it lay in the street. krueger it lay in front of the garden on my property. wehrhahn so that any one could pick it up without further ado? krueger and that is just the fault of the servant-girl. she was to take the wood in last night. wehrhahn and it dropped out of her mind. krueger she refused to do it. and when i insisted on her doing it, she ended by running away. i intend to bring suit against her parents. i intend to claim full damages. wehrhahn you may do about that as you please. it isn't likely to help you very greatly.--now is there any one whom you suspect of the theft? krueger no. they're all a set of thieves around here. wehrhahn you will please to avoid such general imputations. you must surely be able to offer me a clue of some kind. krueger well, you can't expect me to accuse any one at random. wehrhahn who lives in your house beside yourself? krueger dr. fleischer. wehrhahn [_as if trying to recall something._] dr. fleischer? dr. fleischer? why, he is a--what is he, anyhow? krueger he is a thoroughly learned man, that's what he is--thoroughly learned. wehrhahn and i suppose that you and he are very intimate with each other. krueger that is my business, with whom i happen to be intimate. that has no bearing on the matter in hand, it seems to me. wehrhahn how is one to discover anything under such circumstances? you must give me a hint, at least! krueger must i? goodness, gracious me! must i? two loads of wood have been stolen from me! i simply come to give information concerning the theft.... wehrhahn but you must have a theory of some kind. the wood must necessarily have been stolen by somebody. krueger wha.... yes ... well, i didn't do it! i of all people didn't do it! wehrhahn but my dear man.... krueger wha...? my name is krueger. wehrhahn [_interrupting and apparently bored._] m-yes.--well, glasenapp, just make a record of the facts.--and now, mr. krueger, what's this business about your maid? the girl, you say, ran away? krueger yes, that's exactly what she did--ran off to her parents. wehrhahn do her parents live in this place? krueger [_not having heard correctly._] i'm not concerned with her face. wehrhahn i asked whether the parents of the girl live here? glasenapp she's the daughter of the washerwoman wolff. wehrhahn wolff--the same one who's washing for us today, glasenapp? glasenapp the same, your honour. wehrhahn [_shaking his head._] very strange indeed!--she's a very honest and a very industrious woman.--[_to krueger._] is that a fact? is she the daughter of the woman in question? krueger she is the daughter of the washerwoman wolff. wehrhahn and has the girl come back? krueger up to the present time the girl has not come back. wehrhahn then suppose we call in mrs. wolff herself. mitteldorf! you act as though you were very tired. well, go across the yard. mrs. wolff is to come to me at once. i beg you to be seated, mr. krueger. krueger [_sitting down and sighing._] o lord! o lord! what a life! wehrhahn [_softly to glasenapp and motes._] i'm rather curious to see what will develop. there's something more than meets the eye in all this. i think a great deal of mrs. wolff. the woman works enough for four men. my wife assures me that if wolff doesn't come she has to hire two women in her place.--her opinions aren't half bad either. motes she wants her daughters to go on the operatic stage.... wehrhahn oh, of course, she may have a screw loose in that respect. but that's no fault of character. what have you hanging there, mr. motes? motes they're some wire snares. i'm taking them to the forester seidel. wehrhahn do let me see one of those things. [_he takes one and looks at it closely._] and in these things the poor beasts are slowly throttled to death. _mrs. wolff enters, followed by mitteldorf. she is drying her hands, which are still moist from the wash tub._ mrs. wolff [_unembarrassed, cheerfully, with a swift glance at the snares._] here i am. what's up now? what'm i bein' wanted for? wehrhahn mrs. wolff, is this gentleman known to you? mrs. wolff which one of 'em? [_pointing with her finger at krueger._] this here, this is mr. krueger. i guess i know him all right. good mornin', mr. krueger. wehrhahn your daughter is in mr. krueger's service? mrs. wolff who? my daughter? that's so--leontine. [_to krueger._] but then, she run away from you, didn't she? krueger [_enraged._] she did indeed. wehrhahn [_interrupting._] now wait a moment. mrs. wolff what kind o' trouble did you have together? wehrhahn mrs. wolff, you listen to me. your daughter must return to mr. krueger at once. mrs. wolff oh, no, we'd rather keep her at home now. wehrhahn that can't be done quite so easily as you think. mr. krueger has the right, if he wishes to exert it, of calling in the help, of the police. in that case we would have to take your daughter back by force. mrs. wolff but my husband just happened to take it into his head. he's just made up his mind not to let the girl go no more. an' when my husband takes a notion like that into his head.... the trouble is: all you men has such awful tempers! wehrhahn suppose you let that go, for the moment, mrs. wolff. how long has your daughter been, at home? mrs. wolff she came back last night. wehrhahn last night? very well. she had been told to carry wood into the shed and she refused. mrs. wolff eh, is that so? refused? that girl o' mine don't refuse to do work. an' i wouldn't advise her to do that kind o' thing neither. wehrhahn you hear what mrs. wolff says. mrs. wolff that girl has always been a willin' girl. if she'd ever refused to lend a hand.... krueger she simply refused to carry in the wood! mrs. wolff yes, drag in wood! at half past ten at night! people who asks such a thing of a child like that-- wehrhahn the essential thing, however, mrs. wolff, is this: the wood was left out over night and has been stolen. and so.... krueger [_losing self-control._] you will replace that wood, mrs. wolff. wehrhahn all that remains to be seen, if you will wait. krueger you will indemnify me for that wood to the last farthing! mrs. wolff an' is that so? that'd be a new way o' doin' things! did i, maybe, go an' steal your wood? wehrhahn you had better let the man calm down, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff no, when mr. krueger comes round me with things like that, payin' for wood and such like, he ain't goin' to have no luck. i always been friendly with them people--that's sure. nobody can't complain o' nothin' 'sfar 's i'm concerned. but if things gets to this point, then i'd rather up and says my say just exactly how i feel, you know. i do my dooty and that's enough. there ain't nobody in the whole village what c'n say anythin' against me. but i ain't goin' to let _nobody_ walk all over me! wehrhahn you need not wear yourself out, mrs. wolff. you have absolutely no cause for it. just remain calm, quite calm. you're not entirely unknown to me, after all. there isn't a human being who would undertake to deny your industry and honesty. so let us hear what you have to say in answer to the plaintiff. krueger the woman can't possibly have anything to say! mrs. wolff hol' on, now, everybody! how's that, i'd like to know? ain't the girl my daughter? an' i'm not to have anythin' to say! you gotta go an' look for some kind of a fool! you don't know much about me. i don't has to hide what i thinks from no one--no, not from his honour hisself, an' a good deal less from you, you may take your oath on that! wehrhahn i quite understand your excitement, mrs. wolff. but if you desire to serve the cause at issue, i would advise you to remain calm. mrs. wolff that's what a person gets. i been washin' clothes for them people these ten years. all that time we ain't had a fallin' out. an' now, all of a sudden, they treat you this way. i ain't comin' to your house no more, you c'n believe me. krueger you don't need to. there are other washerwomen. mrs. wolff an' the vegetables an' the fruit out o' your garden--you c'n just go an' get somebody else to sell 'em for you. krueger i can get rid of all that. there's no fear. all you needed to have done was to have taken a stick to that girl of yours and sent her back. mrs. wolff i won't have no daughter of mine abused. krueger who has been abusing your daughter, i'd like to know! mrs. wolff [_to wehrhahn._] the girl came back to me no better'n a skeleton. krueger then let her not spend all her nights dancing. mrs. wolff she sleeps like the dead all day. wehrhahn [_past mrs. wolff to krueger._] by the way, where did you buy the wood in question? mrs. wolff is this thing goin' to last much longer? wehrhahn why, mrs. wolff? mrs. wolff why, on account o' the washin'. if i wastes my time standin' round here, i can't get done. wehrhahn we can't take that into consideration here, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff an' your wife? what's she goin' to say? you c'n go an' settle it with her, your honour. wehrhahn it will only last another minute, anyhow.--you tell us frankly, mrs. wolff--you know the whole village. whom do you consider capable of the crime in question? who could possibly have stolen the wood? mrs. wolff i can't tell you nothin' about that, your honour. wehrhahn and nothing suspicious came to your attention? mrs. wolff i wasn't even at home last night. i had to go over to treptow to buy geese. wehrhahn at what time was that? mrs. wolff a little after ten. mitteldorf, he was there when we started. wehrhahn and no team carrying wood met you? mrs. wolff no, nothin' like that. wehrhahn how about you, mitteldorf, did you notice nothing? mitteldorf [_after some thought._] no, i didn't notice nothin' suspicious. wehrhahn of course not, i might have known that. [_to krueger._] well, where did you buy the wood? krueger why do you have to know that? wehrhahn you will kindly leave that to me. krueger i naturally bought the wood from the department of forestry. wehrhahn why naturally? i don't see that at all. there are, for instance, private wood yards. personally i buy my wood from sandberg. why shouldn't you buy yours from a dealer? one really almost gets a better bargain. krueger [_impatiently._] i haven't any more time, your honour. wehrhahn what do you mean by that? time? you have no time? have you come to me, or do i come to you? am i taking up your time or are you taking up mine? krueger that's your business. that's what you're here for. wehrhahn perhaps i'm your bootblack, eh? krueger perhaps i've stolen silver spoons! i forbid you to use that tone to me. you're not a corporal and i'm not a recruit. wehrhahn well, that passes.... don't shout so! krueger it is you who do all the shouting. wehrhahn you are half deaf. it is necessary for me to shout. krueger you shout all the time. you shout at every one who comes in here. wehrhahn i don't shout at any one. be silent. krueger you carry on as if you were heaven knows what! you annoy the whole place with your chicanery! wehrhahn i'm only making a beginning. i'll make you a good deal more uncomfortable before i get through. krueger that doesn't make the slightest impression on me. you're a pretentious nobody--nothing else. you simply want to cut a big figure. as though you were the king himself, you.... wehrhahn i _am_ king in this place. krueger [_laughs heartily._] you'd better let that be. in my estimation you're nothing at all. you're nothing but an ordinary justice of the peace. in fact, you've got to learn to be one first. wehrhahn sir, if you don't hold your tongue this minute.... krueger then, i suppose, you'll have me arrested. i wouldn't advise you to go to such lengths after all. you might put yourself into a dangerous position. wehrhahn dangerous? [_to motes._] did you hear that? [_to krueger._] and however much you intrigue, you and your admirable followers, and however you try to undermine my position--you won't force me to abandon my station. krueger good heavens! _i_ try to undermine your position? your whole personality is far too unimportant. but you may take my word for this, that if you don't change your tactics completely, you will cause so much trouble that you will make yourself quite impossible. wehrhahn [_to motes._] i suppose, mr. motes, that one must consider his age. krueger i beg to have my complaint recorded. wehrhahn [_turning over the papers on his table._] you will please to send in your complaint in writing. i have no time at this moment. _krueger looks at him in consternation, turns around vigorously, and leaves the office without a word._ wehrhahn [_after a pause of embarrassment._] that's the way people annoy me with trifles.--ugh!--[_to mrs. wolff._] you'd better get back to your washing.--i tell you, my dear motes, a position like mine is made hard enough. if one were not conscious of what one represents here--one might sometimes be tempted to throw up the whole business. but as it is, one's motto must be to stand one's ground bravely. for, after all, what is it that we are defending? the most sacred goods of the nation!-- the curtain falls the third act _it is about eight o'clock in the morning. the scene is the dwelling of mrs. wolff. water for coffee is boiling on the oven. mrs. wolff is sitting on a footstool and counting out money on the seat of a chair. julius enters, carrying a slaughtered rabbit._ julius you better go an' hide that there money! mrs. wolff [_absorbed in her calculations, gruffly:_] don't bother me! [_silence._ _julius throws the rabbit on a stool. he wanders about irresolutely, picking up one object after another. finally he sets about blacking a boot. from afar the blowing of a huntsman's horn is heard._ julius [_listens. anxious and excited._] i axed you to go an' hide that there money! mrs. wolff an' i'm tellin' you not to bother me, julius. just let that fool motes tootle all he wants. he's out in the woods an' ain't thinkin' o' nothin'. julius you go right ahead and land us in gaol! mrs. wolff don't talk that fool talk. the girl's comin'. adelaide [_comes in, just out of bed._] good mornin', mama. mrs. wolff did you sleep well? adelaide you was out in the night, wasn't you? mrs. wolff i guess you musta been dreamin'. hurry now! bring in some wood, an' be quick about it! _adelaide, playing ball with an orange, goes toward the door._ mrs. wolff where did you get that? adelaide schoebel gave it to me out o' his shop. [_exit._ mrs. wolff i don't want you to take no presents from that feller.--come here, julius! listen to me! here i got ninety-nine crowns! that's always the same old way with wulkow. he just cheated us out o' one, because he promised to give a hundred.--i'm puttin' the money in this bag, y'understand? now go an' get a hoe and dig a hole in the goatshed--but right under the manger where it's dry. an' then you c'n put the bag into the hole. d'you hear me? an' take a flat stone an' put it across. but don't be so long doin' it. julius i thought you was goin' to pay an instalment to fischer! mrs. wolff can't you never do what i tell you to? don't poke round so long, y'understand? julius don't you go an' rile me or i'll give you somethin' to make you stop. i don't hold with that money stayin' in this here house. mrs. wolff well, what's goin' to be done with it? julius you take it an' you carry it over to fischer. you said we was goin' to use it to make a payment to him. mrs. wolff you're stoopid enough to make a person sick. if it wasn't for me you'd just go to the dogs. julius go on with your screamin'! that's right. mrs. wolff a person can't help screamin', you're such a fool. if you had some sense, i wouldn't have to scream. if we go an' takes that money to fischer now, you look out an' see what happens! julius that's what i say. look at the whole dam' business. what's the good of it to me if i gotta go to gaol! mrs. wolff now it's about time you was keepin' still. julius you can't scream no louder, can you? mrs. wolff i ain't goin' to get me a new tongue on your account. you raise a row ... just as hard as you can, all on account o' this bit o' business. you just look out for yourself an' not for me. did you throw the key in the river? julius has i had a chanst to get down there yet? mrs. wolff then it's about time you was gettin' there! d'you want 'em to find the key on you? [_julius is about to go._] oh, wait a minute, julius. let me have the key! julius what you goin' to do with it? mrs. wolff [_hiding the key about her person._] that ain't no business o' yours; that's mine. [_she pours coffee beans into the hand-mill and begins to grind._] now you go out to the shed; then you c'n come back an' drink your coffee. julius if i'd ha' known all that before. aw! [_julius exit. adelaide enters, carrying a large apron full of firewood._ mrs. wolff where d'you go an' get that wood? adelaide why, from the new blocks o' pine. mrs. wolff you wasn't to use that new wood yet. adelaide [_dropping the wood on the floor in front of the oven._] that don't do no harm, mama, if it's burned up! mrs. wolff you think you know a lot! what are you foolin' about? you grow up a bit an' then talk! adelaide i know where it comes from! mrs. wolff what do you mean, girl? adelaide i mean the wood. mrs. wolff don't go jabberin' now; we bought that at a auction. adelaide [_playing ball with her orange._] oh, lord, if that was true! but you just went and took it! mrs. wolff what's that you say? adelaide it's just taken. that's the wood from krueger's, mama. leontine told me. mrs. wolff [_cuffs her head._] there you got an answer. we ain't no thieves. now go an' get your lessons. an' do 'em nice! i'll come an' look 'em over later! adelaide [_exit. from the adjoining room._] i thought i could go skatin'. mrs. wolff an' your lessons for your confirmation? i guess you forgot them! adelaide that don't come till tuesday. mrs. wolff it's to-morrow! you go an' study your verses. i'll come in an' hear you say 'em later. adelaide's [_loud yawning is heard from the adjoining room. then she says:_] "jesus to his disciples said, use your fingers to eat your bread." _julius comes back._ mrs. wolff well, julius, did you go an' do what i told you? julius if you don't like my way o' doin', go an' do things yourself. mrs. wolff god knows that _is_ the best way--always. [_she pours out two cupfuls of coffee, one for him and one for herself, and places the two cups with bread and butter on a wooden chair._] here, drink your coffee. julius [_sitting down and cutting himself some bread._] i hope wulkow's been able to get away! mrs. wolff in this thaw! julius even if it is thawin', you can't tell. mrs. wolff an' you needn't care if it do freeze a bit; he ain't goin' to be stuck. i guess he's a good way up the canal by this time. julius well, i hope he ain't lyin' under the bridge this minute. mrs. wolff for my part he can be lyin' where he wants to. julius you c'n take it from me, y'understan'? that there man wulkow is goin' to get into a hell of a hole some day. mrs. wolff that's his business; that ain't none o' ours. julius trouble is we'd all be in the same hole. you just let 'em go an' find that coat on him! mrs. wolff what coat are you talkin' about? julius krueger's, o' course! mrs. wolff don't you go talkin' rot like that, y'understan'? an' don't go an' give yourself a black eye on account o' other people's affairs! julius i guess them things concerns me! mrs. wolff concerns you--rot! that don't concern you at all. that's my business an' not yours. you ain't no man at all; you're nothin' but an old woman!--here you got some change. now hurry an' get out o' here. go over to fiebig and take a drink. i don't care if you have a good time all day sunday. [_a knocking is heard._] come right in! come right in, any one that wants to! _dr. fleischer enters, leading his little son of five by the hand. fleischer is twenty-seven years old. he wears one of the jaeger reform suits. his hair, beard and moustache are all coal-black. his eyes are deep-set; his voice, as a rule, gentle. he displays, at every moment, a touching anxiety for the child._ mrs. wolff [_jubilantly._] lord! is little philip comin' to see us once more! now, ain't that fine? now i really feel proud o' that! [_she gets hold of the child and takes off his overcoat._] come now an' take off your coat. it's warm back here an' you ain't goin' to be cold. fleischer mrs. wolff, there's a draught. i believe there's a draught. mrs. wolff oh, he ain't so weak as all that. a bit o' draught, ain't goin' to hurt this little feller! fleischer oh, but it will, i assure you. you have no idea. he catches cold so easily! exercise, philip! keep moving a little. _philip jerks his shoulders back with a pettish exclamation._ fleischer come now, philip. you'll end by being ill. all you have to do is to walk slowly up and down. philip [_naughtily._] but, i don't want to. mrs. wolff let him do like he wants to. fleischer well, good morning, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff good morning, doctor. i'm glad to see you comin' in onct more. fleischer good morning, mr. wolff. julius good mornin', mr. fleischer. mrs. wolff you're very welcome. please sit down. fleischer we have just a few minutes to stay. mrs. wolff well, if we has such a fine visit paid us so early in the mornin', we're sure to have a lucky day this day. [_kneeling down by the child._] ain't it so, my boy? you'll bring us good luck, won't you? philip [_excitedly._] i went to ze zological darden; i saw ze storks zere, an' zey bit each ozzer wis zeir dolden bills. mrs. wolff well now, you don't mean to say so! you're tellin' me a little fib, ain't you? [_hugging and kissing the child._] lord, child, i could just eat you up, eat you right up. mr. fleischer, i'm goin' to keep this boy. this is my boy. you're my boy, ain't you? an' how's your mother, eh? philip she's well an' she sends her redards an' you'll please tome in ze morning to wash. mrs. wolff well now, just listen to that. a little feller like that an' he can give all that message already! [_to fleischer._] won't you sit down, just a bit? fleischer the boy bothers me about boating. is it possible to go? mrs. wolff oh, sure. the spree is open. my girl there c'n row you out a way. fleischer the boy won't stop about it! he's just taken that into his head. adelaide [_showing herself in the door that leads to the next room, beckons to philip._] come, philip, i'll show you somethin' real fine! _philip gives a stubborn screech._ fleischer now, philip, you musn't be naughty! adelaide just look at that fine orange! _philip's face is wreathed in smiles. he takes a few steps in adelaide's direction._ fleischer go ahead, but don't beg! adelaide come on! come on! we'll eat this orange together now. [_she walks in the child's direction, takes him by the hand, holds up the orange temptingly, and both go, now quite at one, into the next room._ mrs. wolff [_following the child with her eyes._] no, that boy, i could just sit an' look at him. i don't know, when i see a boy like that ... [_she takes up a corner of her apron and wipes her eyes._] ... i feel as if i had to howl right out. fleischer did you have a boy like that once? mrs. wolff that i had. but what's the use o' all that. you can't make people come back to life. you see--things like that--that's life.... _a pause._ fleischer one can't be careful enough with children, mrs. wolff you can go an' be as careful as you want to be. what is to be, will be. [_a pause.--shaking her head._] what trouble did you have with mr. motes? fleischer i? none at all! what trouble should i have had with him? mrs. wolff oh, i was just thinkin'. fleischer how old is your daughter anyhow? mrs. wolff she'll be out o' school this easter. why? would you like to have her? i wouldn't mind her goin' into service if it's with you. fleischer i don't see why not. that wouldn't be half bad. mrs. wolff she's grown up to be a strong kind o' body. even if she is a bit young, she c'n work most as well as any one, i tell you. an' i tell you another thing. she's a scamp now an' then; she don't always do right. but she ain't no fool. that girl's got genius. fleischer that's quite possible, no doubt. mrs. wolff you just let her go an' recite a single piece for you--just once--a pome, or somethin'. an' i tell you, doctor, you ain't goin' to be able to get through shiverin'. you c'n possibly call her in some day when you got visitors from berlin. all kinds o' writers comes to your house, i believe. an' she ain't backward; she'll sail right in. oh, she does say pieces _that_ beautiful.--[_with a sudden change of manner._] now i want to give you a bit o' advice; only you musn't be offended. fleischer i'm never offended by good advice. mrs. wolff first thing, then: don't give away so much. nobody ain't goin' to thank you for it. you don't get nothin' but ingratitude. fleischer why, i don't give away very much, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff that's all right, i know. an' the more you talk, the more scared people gets. first thing they says: that's a demercrat. yon can't be too careful talkin'. fleischer in what way am i to take all that, mrs. wolff? mrs. wolff yon c'n go an' you c'n think what you please. but you gotta be careful when it comes to talkin', or you sit in gaol before you know it. fleischer [_turns pale._] well, now, look here, but that's nonsense, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff no, no. i tell you that's serious. an' be careful o' that feller, whatever you do! fleischer whom do you mean by that? mrs. wolff the same man we was talkin' about a while ago. fleischer motes, you mean? mrs. wolff i ain't namin' no names. you must ha' had some kind o' trouble with that feller. fleischer i don't even associate with him any longer. mrs. wolff well, you see, that's just what i've been think-in'. fleischer nobody could possibly blame me for that, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff an' i ain't blamin' you for it. fleischer it would be a fine thing, wouldn't it--to associate with a swindler, a notorious swindler. mrs. wolff that man is a swindler; you're right there. fleischer now he moved over to dreier's. that poor woman will have a hard time getting her rent. and whatever she has, she'll get rid of it. why, a fellow like that--he's a regular gaol-bird. mrs. wolff sometimes, you know, he'll say things ... fleischer is that so? about me? well, i _am_ curious. mrs. wolff i believe you was heard to say somethin' bad about some high person, or somethin' like that. fleischer h-m. you don't know anything definite, i dare say? mrs. wolff he's mighty thick with wehrhahn, that's certain. but i tell you what. you go over to old mother dreier. that old witch is beginnin' to smell a rat. first they was as nice as can be to her; now they're eatin' her outta house and home! fleischer oh, pshaw! the whole thing is nonsense. mrs. wolff you c'n go to the dreier woman. that don't do no harm. she c'n tell you a story ... he wanted to get her into givin' false witness.... that shows the kind o' man you gotta deal with. fleischer of course, i might go there. it can do no harm. but, in the end, the whole matter is indifferent to me. it would be the deuce of a world, if a fellow like that.... you just let him come!--here, philip, philip! where are you? we've got to go. adelaide's voice oh, we're lookin' at such pretty pictures. fleischer what do you think of that other business, anyhow? mrs. wolff what business? fleischer haven't you heard anything yet? mrs. wolff [_restlessly._] well, what was i sayin'?... [_impatiently._] hurry, julius, an' go, so's you c'n get back in time for dinner. [_to fleischer._] we killed' a rabbit for dinner to-day. ain't you ready yet, julius? julius well, give me a chanst to find my cap. mrs. wolff i can't stand seein' anybody just foolin' round that way, as if it didn't make no difference about to-day or to-morrow, i like to see things move along. fleischer why, last night, at krueger's, they ... mrs. wolff do me a favour, doctor, an' don't talk to me about that there man. i'm that angry at him! that man hurt my feelin's too bad. the way we was--him an' me, for so long--an' then he goes and tries to blacken my character with all them people. [_to julius._] are you goin' or not? julius i'm goin' all right; don't get so huffy. good mornin' to you, mr. fleischer. fleischer good morning, mr. wolff. [_julius exit._ mrs. wolff well, as i was sayin' ... fleischer that time when his wood was stolen, i suppose he quarreled with you. but he's repented of that long since. mrs. wolff that man and repent! fleischer you may believe me all the same, mrs. wolff. and especially after this last affair. he has a very high opinion of you indeed. the best thing would be if you were to be reconciled. mrs. wolff we might ha' talked together like sensible people, but for him to go an' run straight to the police--no, no! fleischer well, the poor little old couple is having bad luck: only a week ago their wood, and now the fur coat.... mrs. wolff are you comin' to your great news now? out with it! fleischer well, it's a clear case of burglary. mrs. wolff some more stealin'? don't make fun o' me! fleischer yes, and this time it's a perfectly new fur coat. mrs. wolff well now, you know, pretty soon i'll move away from here. that's a crowd round here! why, a person ain't sare o' their lives. tst! tst! such folks! it ain't hardly to be believed! fleischer you can form an idea of the noise they're making. mrs. wolff well, you can't hardly blame the people. fleischer and really, it was, a very expensive garment--of mink, i believe. mrs. wolff ain't that somethin' like beaver, mr. fleischer? fleischer perhaps it was beaver, for all i know. anyhow, they were real proud of it.--i admit, i laughed to myself over the business. when something like that is discovered it always has a comic effect. mrs. wolff you're a cruel man, really, doctor. i can't go an' laugh about things like that. fleischer you mustn't think that i'm not sorry for the man, for all that. mrs. wolff them must be pretty strange people. i don't know. there ain't no way o' understandin' that. just to go an' rob other people o' what's theirs--no, then it's better to work till you drop. fleischer you might perhaps make a point of keeping your ears open. i believe the coat is supposed to be in the village. mrs. wolff has they got any suspicion o' anybody? fleischer oh, there was a washerwoman working at the krueger's.... mrs. wolff by the name o' miller? fleischer and she has a very large family...? mrs. wolff the woman's got a large family, that's so, but to steal that way ... no! she might take some little thing, yes. fleischer of course krueger put her out. mrs. wolff aw, that's bound to come out. my goodness, the devil hisself'd have to be back o' that if it don't. i wish i was justice here. but the man is that stoopid!--well! i c'n see better'n the dark than he can by day with his glass eye. fleischer i almost believe you could. mrs. wolff i c'n tell you, if i had to, i could steal the chair from under that man's behind. fleischer [_has arisen and calls, laughingly, into the adjoining room._] come, philip, come! we've got to go! good-bye, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff you get dressed, adelaide. you c'n go an' row mr. fleischer a ways. adelaide [_enters, buttoning the last buttons at her throat and leading philip by the hand._] i'm all ready. [_to philip._] you come right here; i'll take you on my arm. fleischer [_anxiously helping the boy on with his coat._] he's got to be wrapped up well; he's so delicate, and no doubt it's windy out on the river. adelaide i better go ahead an' get the boat ready. mrs. wolff is your health better these days? fleischer much better since i'm living out here. adelaide [_calls back in from the door._] mama, mr. krueger. mrs. wolff who's comin'? adelaide mr. krueger. mrs. wolff it ain't possible! fleischer he meant to come to you during the forenoon. [_exit._ mrs. wolff [_throws a swift glance at the heap of fire wood and vigorously sets about clearing it away._] come on, now, help me get this wood out o' sight. adelaide why, mama? oh, on account o' mr. krueger. mrs. wolff well, what for d'you suppose? is this a proper way for a place to look, the way this one is look-in'? is that decent an' on sunday mornin', too? what is mr. krueger goin' to think of us? [_krueger appears, exhausted by his walk. mrs. wolff calls out to him._] mr. krueger, please don't look 'round. this place is in a terrible state! krueger [_impetuously._] good morning! good morning! don't worry about that at all! you go to work every week and your house can't be expected to be perfect on sunday. you are an excellent woman, mrs. wolff, and a very honest one. and i think we might do very well to forget whatever has happened between us. mrs. wolff [_is moved, and dries her eyes from time to time with a corner of her apron._] i never had nothin' against you in the world. i always liked to work for you. but you went an' got so rough like, you know, that a person's temper couldn't hardly help gettin' away with 'em. lord, a person is sorry for that kind o' thing soon enough. krueger you just come back and wash for us. where is your daughter leontine? mrs. wolff she went to take some cabbage to the postmaster. krueger you just let us have that girl again. she can have thirty crowns wages instead of twenty. we were always quite satisfied with her in other respects. let's forgive and forget the whole affair. [_he holds out his hand to mrs. wolff, who takes it heartily._ mrs. wolff all that hadn't no need to happen. the girl, you see, is still foolish like a child. we old people always did get along together. krueger well, then, the matter is settled. [_gradually regaining his breath._]--well, then, my mind is at rest about that, anyhow.--but now, do tell me! this thing that's happened to me! what do you say to that? mrs. wolff oh, well, you know--what _can_ a person say about such things? krueger and there we got that mr. von wehrhahn! he's very well when it comes to annoying honest citizens and thinking out all sorts of chicanery and persecution, but--that man, what doesn't he stick his inquisitive nose into! mrs. wolff into everything exceptin' what he ought to. krueger i'm going to him now to give formal notice. i won't rest! this thing has got to be discovered. mrs. wolff you oughtn't by no means to let a thing o' that kind go. krueger and if i've got to turn everything upside down--i'll get back my coat, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff what this place needs is a good cleanin' out. we won't get no rest in the village till then. they'll end up by stealin' the roof from over a person's head. krueger i ask you to consider, for heaven's sake--two robberies in the course of two weeks! two loads of wood, just like the wood you have there. [_he takes up a piece that is lying on the floor._] such good and expensive wood, mrs. wolff. mrs. wolff it's enough to make a person get blue in the face with rage. the kind o' crowd we gotta live with here! aw, things like that! no, you know! just leave me alone with it! krueger [_irately gesticulating with the piece of wood._] and if it costs me a thousand crowns, i'll see to it that those thieves are hunted down. they won't escape the penitentiary this time. mrs. wolff an' that'd be a blessin' too, as sure's we're alive! the curtain falls the fourth act _the court room. glasenapp is sitting at his table. mrs. wolff and adelaide are waiting for the justice. adelaide holds on her lap a small package wrapped in linen._ mrs. wolff he's takin' his time again to-day. glasenapp [_writing._] patience! patience! mrs. wolff well, if he's goin' to be so late again to-day, he won't have no more time for us. glasenapp goodness! you an' your trifles! we got different kinds o' things to deal with here. mrs. wolff aw, i guess they're fine things you got to do. glasenapp that's no way to talk. that ain't proper here! mrs. wolff aw, act a little more grand, will you? krueger hisself sent my girl here! glasenapp the same old story about the coat, i suppose. mrs. wolff an' why not! glasenapp now the old fellow's got somethin' for sure. now he can go stirrin' things up--the knock-kneed old nuisance. mrs. wolff you c'n use your tongue. you better see about findin' out somethin'. mitteldorf [_appears in the doorway._] you're to come right over, glasenapp. his honour wants to ax you somethin'. glasenapp has i got to interrupt myself again? [_he throws down his pen and goes out._ mrs. wolff good mornin', mitteldorf. mitteldorf good mornin'. mrs. wolff what's keepin' the justice all this while? mitteldorf he's writin' pages an' pages! an' them must be important things, i c'n tell you that. [_confidentially._] an' lemme tell you: there's somethin' in the air.--i ain't sayin' i know exactly what. but there's somethin'--i know that as sure 's ... you just look out, that's all, and you'll live to see it. it's goin' to come down--somethin'--and when it do--look out. that's all i say. no, i don't pretend to understand them things. it's all new doin's to me. that's what they calls modern. an' i don't know nothin' about that. but somethin's got to happen. things can't go on this way. the whole place is got to be cleaned out. i can't say 's i gets the hang of it. i'm too old. but talk about the justice what died. why, he wan't nothin' but a dam' fool to this one. i could go an' tell you all kinds o' things, but i ain't got no time. the baron'll be missin' me. [_he goes but, having arrived at the door, he turns back._] the lightenin' is goin' to strike, mrs. wolff. take my word for that! mrs. wolff i guess a screw's come loose somewhere with him. [_pause._ adelaide what's that i gotta say? i forgot. mrs. wolff what did you say to mr. krueger? adelaide why, i said that i found this here package. mrs. wolff well, you don't need to say nothin' but that here neither. only say it right out strong an' sure. you ain't such a mouse other times. wulkow [_comes in._] i wish you a good morning. mrs. wolff [_stares at wulkow. she is speechless for a moment. then:_] no, wulkow, i guess you lost _your_ mind! what are you doin' here? wulkow well, my wife, she has a baby ... mrs. wolff what's that she's got? wulkow a little girl. so i gotta go to the public registry an' make the announcement. mrs. wolff i thought you'd be out on the canal by this time. wulkow an' i wouldn't mind it one little bit if i was! an' so i _would_ be, if it depended on me. didn't i go an' starts out the very minute? but when i come to the locks there wasn't no gettin' farther. i waited an' waited for the spree to open up. two days an' nights i lay there till this thing with my wife came along. there wasn't no use howlin' then. i had to come back. mrs. wolff so your boat is down by the bridge again? wulkow that's where it is. i ain't got no other place, has i? mrs. wolff well, don't come to me, if ... wulkow i hope they ain't caught on to nothin', at least. mrs. wolff go to the shop an' get three cents' worth o' thread. adelaide i'll go for that when we get home. mrs. wolff do's i tell you an' don't answer back. adelaide aw, i ain't no baby no more. [_exit._ mrs. wolff [_eagerly._] an' so you lay there by the locks? wulkow two whole days, as i been tellin' you. mrs. wolff well, you ain't much good for this kind o' thing. you're a fine feller to go an' put on that coat in bright daylight! wulkow put it on? me? mrs. wolff yes, you put it on, an' in bright daylight, so's the whole place c'n know straight off what a fine fur coat you got. wulkow aw, that was 'way out in the middle o' the-- mrs. wolff it was a quarter of a hour from our house. my girl saw you sittin' there. she had to go an' row dr. fleischer out an' he went an' had his suspicion that minute. wulkow i don't know nothin' about that. that ain't none o' my business. [_some one is heard approaching._ mrs. wolff sh! you want to be on the lookout now, that's all. glasenapp [_enters hurriedly with an attempt to imitate the manner of the justice. he asks wulkow condescendingly:_] what business have you? wehrhahn [_still without._] what do you want, girl? you're looking for me? come in, then. [_wehrhahn permits adelaide to precede him and then enters._] i have very little time to-day. ah, yes, aren't you mrs. wolff's little girl? well, then, sit down. what have you there? adelaide i got a package ... wehrhahn wait a moment first ... [_to wulkow._] what do you want? wulkow i'd like to report the birth of ... wehrhahn matter of the public registry. the books, glasenapp. that is to say, i'll attend to the other affair first. [_to mrs. wolff._] what's the trouble about your daughter? did mr. krueger box her ears again? mrs. wolff well, he didn't go that far no time. wehrhahn what's the trouble, then? mrs. wolff it's about this here package ... wehrhahn [_to glasenapp._] hasn't motes been here yet? glasenapp not up to this time. wehrhahn that's incomprehensible. well, girl, what do you want? glasenapp it's in the matter of the stolen fur coat, your honour. wehrhahn is that so? can't possibly attend to that today. no one can do everything at once. [_to mrs. wolff._] she may come in to-morrow. mrs. wolff she's tried to talk to you a couple o' times already. wehrhahn then let her try for a third time to-morrow. mrs. wolff but mr. krueger don't give her no peace no more. wehrhahn what has mr. krueger to do with it? mrs. wolff the girl went to him with the package. wehrhahn what kind of a rag is that? let me see it. mrs. wolff it's all connected with the business of the fur coat. leastways that's what mr. krueger thinks. wehrhahn what's wrapped up in those rags, eh? mrs. wolff there's a green waist-coat what belongs to mr. krueger. wehrhahn and you found that? adelaide i found it, your honour. wehrhahn where did you find it? adelaide that was when i was goin' to the train with mama. i was walkin' along this way and there ... wehrhahn never mind about that now. [_to mrs. wolff._] make your deposition some time soon. we can come back to this matter to-morrow. mrs. wolff oh, _i'm_ willin' enough ... wehrhahn well, who isn't then? mrs. wolff mr. krueger is so very anxious about it. wehrhahn mr. krueger, mr. krueger--i care very little about him. the man just simply annoys me. things like this cannot be adjusted in a day. he has offered a reward and the matter has been published in the official paper. mrs. wolff you can't never do enough for him, though. wehrhahn what does that mean: we can't do enough for him? we have recorded the facts in the case. his suspicions fell upon his washerwoman and we have searched her house. what more does he want? the man ought to keep quiet. but, as i said, to-morrow i'm at the service of this affair again. mrs. wolff it's all the same to us. we c'n come back. wehrhahn very well, then. to-morrow morning. mrs. wolff good mornin'. adelaide [_dropping a courtsey._] good mornin'. _mrs. wolff and adelaide exeunt._ wehrhahn [_turning over some documents. to glasenapp._] i'm curious to see what the result of all this will be. mr. motes has finally agreed to offer witnesses. he says the dreier woman, that old witch of a pastry cook, once stood within earshot when fleischer expressed himself disrespectfully. how old is the woman, anyhow? glasenapp somewhere around seventy, your honour. wehrhahn a bit confused in her upper story, eh? glasenapp depends on how you look at it. she's fairly sensible yet. wehrhahn i can assure you, glasenapp, that it would be no end of a satisfaction to me to flutter these dove-cotes here pretty thoroughly. these people ought to be made to feel that they're dealing with somebody, after all. who absented himself from the festivities on the emperor's birthday? fleischer, of course. the man is simply capable of anything. he can put on all the innocent expressions he pleases. we know these wolves in sheep's clothing. they're too sweet-tempered to harm a fly, but if they think the occasion has come, the hounds can blow up a whole place. well, here, at least, it will be made too hot for them! motes [_comes in._] your servant. wehrhahn well, how are things going? motes mrs. dreier said that she would be here around eleven. wehrhahn this matter will attract quite a little notice. it will, is fact, make a good deal of noise. i know what will be said: "that man wehrhahn pokes his nose into everything." well, thank heaven, i'm prepared for that. i'm not standing in this place for my private amusement. i haven't been put here for jest. people think--a justice, why he's nothing but a superior kind of gaoler. in that case they can put some one else here. the gentlemen, to be sure, who appointed me know very well with whom they are dealing. they know to the full the seriousness with which i conceive of my duties. i consider my office in the light of a sacred calling. [_pause._] i have reduced my report to the public prosecutor to writing. if i send it off at noon to-day, the command of arrest can reach us by day after to-morrow. motes now everybody will be coming down on me. wehrhahn you know i have an uncle who is a chamberlain. i'll talk to him about you. confound it all! there comes fleischer! what does that fellow want? does he smell a rat by any chance? [_a knocking is heard and wehrhahn shouts:_] come in! fleischer [_enters, pale and excited._] good morning! [_he receives no answer._] i should like to lodge information which has reference to the robbery recently committed here. wehrhahn [_with his most penetrating official glance._] you are dr. joseph fleischer? fleischer quite right. my name is joseph fleischer. wehrhahn and you come to give me some information. fleischer if you will permit me, that is what i should like to do. i have made an observation which may, quite possibly, help the authorities to track down the thief in question. wehrhahn [_drums on the table with his fingers. he looks around at the others with an expression of affected surprise which tempts them to laughter._] what is this important observation which you have made? fleischer of course, if you have previously made up your mind to attach no importance to my evidence, i should prefer ... wehrhahn [_quickly and arrogantly._] what would you prefer? fleischer to hold my peace. wehrhahn [_turns to motes with a look expressive of inability to understand fleischer's motives. then, in a changed tone, with very superficial interest._] my time is rather fully occupied. i would request you to be as brief as possible. fleischer my time is no less preëmpted. nevertheless i considered it my duty ... wehrhahn [_interrupting._] you considered it your duty. very well. now tell us what you know. fleischer [_conquering himself._] i went boating yesterday. i had taken mrs. wolff's boat and her daughter was rowing. wehrhahn are these details necessarily pertinent to the business in hand? fleischer they certainly are--in my opinion. wehrhahn [_drumming impatiently on the table._] very well! very well! let's get on! fleischer we rowed to the neighbourhood of the locks. a lighter lay at anchor there. the ice, we were able to observe, was piled up there. the lighter had probably not been able to proceed. wehrhahn h-m. is that so? that interests us rather less. what is the kernel of this whole story? fleischer [_keeping his temper by main force._] i must confess that this method of ... i have come here quite voluntarily to offer a voluntary service to the authorities. glasenapp [_impudently._] his honour is pressed for time. you are to talk less and state what you have to say briefly and compactly. wehrhahn [_vehemently._] let's get to business at once. what is it you want? fleischer [_still mastering himself._] i am concerned that the matter be cleared up. and in the interest of old mr. krueger, i will ... wehrhahn [_yawning and bored._] the light dazzles me; do pull down the shades. fleischer on the lighter was an old boatman--probably the owner of the vessel. wehrhahn [_yawning as before._] yes, most probably. fleischer this man sat on his deck in a fur coat which, at a distance, i considered a beaver coat. wehrhahn [_bored._] i might have taken it to be marten. fleischer i pulled as close up to him as possible and thus gained a very good view. the man was a poverty-stricken, slovenly boatman and the fur coat seemed by no means appropriate. it was, in addition, a perfectly new coat ... wehrhahn [_apparently recollecting himself._] i am listening, i am listening! well? what else? fleischer what else? nothing. wehrhahn [_waking up thoroughly._] i thought you wanted to lodge some information. you mentioned something important. fleischer i have said all that i had to say. wehrhahn you have told us an anecdote about a boatman who wears a fur coat. well, boatmen do, no doubt, now and then wear such coats. there is nothing new or interesting about that. fleischer you may think about that as you please. in such circumstances i have no more to say. [_exit._ wehrhahn well now, did you ever see anything like that? moreover, the fellow is a thorough fool. a boatman had on a fur coat! why, has the man gone mad? i possess a beaver coat myself. surely that doesn't make me a thief.--confound it all! what's that again? i suppose i am to get no rest to-day at all! [_to mitteldorf, who is standing by the door._] don't let anyone else in now! mr. motes, do me the favour of going over to my apartment. we can have our discussion there without interruptions. there's krueger for the hundred and first time. he acts as though he'd been stung by a tarantula. if that old ass continues to plague me, i'll kick him straight out of this room some day. _in the open door krueger becomes visible, together with fleischer and mrs. wolff._ mitteldorf [_to krueger._] his honour can't be seen, mr. krueger. krueger nonsense! not to be seen! i don't care for such talk at all. [_to the others._] go right on, right on! i'd like to see! _all enter, krueger leading the way._ wehrhahn i must request that there be somewhat more quiet. as you see, i am having a conference at present. krueger go right ahead with it. we can wait. later you can then have a conference with us. wehrhahn [_to motes._] over in my apartment, then, if you please. and if you see mrs. dreier, tell her i had rather question her there too. you see for yourself: it isn't possible here. krueger [_pointing to fleischer._] this gentleman knows something about mrs. dreier too. he has some documentary evidence. motes your honour's servant. i take my leave. [_exit._ krueger that's a good thing for _that_ man to take. wehrhahn you will kindly omit remarks of that nature. krueger i'll say that again. the man is a swindler. wehrhahn [_as though he had not heard, to wulkow._] well, what is it? i'll get rid of you first. the records, glasenapp!--wait, though! i'll relieve myself of this business first. [_to krueger._] i will first attend to your affair. krueger yes, i must ask you very insistently to do so. wehrhahn suppose we leave that "insistently" quite out of consideration. what request have you to make? krueger none at all. i have no request to make. i am here in order to demand what is my right. wehrhahn your right? ah, what is that, exactly? krueger my good right. i have been robbed and it is my right that the local authorities aid me in recovering my stolen possessions. wehrhahn have you been refused such assistance? krueger certainly not. and that is not possible. nevertheless, it is quite clear that nothing is being done. the whole affair is making no progress. wehrhahn you imagine that things like that can be done in a day or two. krueger i don't imagine anything, your honour. i have very definite proofs. you are taking no interest in my affairs. wehrhahn i could interrupt you at this very point. it lies entirely beyond the duties of my office to listen to imputations of that nature. for the present, however, you may continue. krueger you could not interrupt me at all. as a citizen of the prussian state i have my rights. and even if you interrupt me here, there are other places where i could make my complaint. i repeat that you are not showing any interest in my affair. wehrhahn [_apparently calm._] suppose you prove that. krueger [_pointing to mrs. wolff and her daughter._] this woman here came to you. her daughter made a find. she didn't shirk the way, your honour, although she is a poor woman. you turned her off once before and she came back to-day ... mrs. wolff but his honour didn't have no time, you know. wehrhahn go on, please! krueger i will. i'm not through yet by any means. what did you say to the woman? you said to her quite simply that you had no time for the matter in question. you did not even question her daughter. you don't know the slightest circumstance: you don't know anything about the entire occurrence. wehrhahn i will have to ask you to moderate yourself a little. krueger my expressions are moderate; they are extremely moderate. i am far too moderate, your honour. my entire character is far too full of moderation. if it were not, what do you think i would say? what kind of an investigation is this? this gentleman here, dr. fleischer, came to you to report an observation which he has made. a boatman wears a beaver coat ... wehrhahn [_raising his hand._] just wait a moment. [_to wulkow._] you are a boatman, aren't you? wulkow i been out on the river for thirty years. wehrhahn are you nervous? you seem to twitch. wulkow i reely did have a little scare. that's a fac'. wehrhahn do the boatmen on the spree frequently wear fur coats? wulkow a good many of 'em has fur coats. that's right enough. wehrhahn this gentleman saw a boatman who stood on his deck wearing a fur coat. wulkow there ain't nothin' suspicious about that, your honour. there's many as has fine coats. i got one myself, in fac'. wehrhahn you observe: the man himself owns a fur coat. fleischer but then he hasn't exactly a beaver coat. wehrhahn you were not in a position to discover that. krueger what? has this man a beaver coat? wulkow there's many of 'em, i c'n tell you, as has the finest beaver coats. an' why not? we makes enough. wehrhahn [_filled with a sense of triumph but pretending indifference._] exactly. [_lightly._] now, please go on, mr. krueger. that was only a little side-play. i simply wanted to make clear to you the value of that so-called "observation."--you see now that this man himself owns a fur coat. [_more violently._] would it therefore occur to us in our wildest moments to assert that he has stolen the coat? that would simply be an absurdity. krueger wha--? i don't understand a word. wehrhahn then i must talk somewhat louder still. and since i am talking to you now, there's something else i might as well say to you--not in my capacity as justice, but simply man to man, mr. krueger. a man who is after all an honourable citizen should be more chary of his confidence--he should not adduce the evidence of people ... krueger are you talking about my associates? _my_ associates? wehrhahn exactly that. krueger in that case you had better take care of yourself. people like motes, with whom you associate, were kicked out of my house. fleischer i was obliged to show the door to this person whom you receive in your private apartment! krueger he cheated me out of my rent. mrs. wolff there ain't many in this village that that man ain't cheated all ways--cheated out o' pennies an' shillin's, an' crowns an' gold pieces. krueger he has a regular system of exacting tribute. fleischer [_pulling a document out of his pocket._] more than that, the fellow is ripe for the public prosecutor. [_he places the document on the table._] i would request you to read this through. krueger mrs. dreier has signed that paper herself. motes tried to inveigle her into committing perjury. fleischer she was to give evidence against me. krueger [_putting his hand on fleischer's arm._] this gentleman is of unblemished conduct and that scoundrel wanted to get him into trouble. and you lend your assistance to such things! **all speak at once.** wehrhahn my patience is exhausted now. whatever dealings you may have with motes don't concern me and are entirely indifferent to me. [_to fleischer._] you'll be good enough to remove that rag! krueger [_alternately to mrs. wolff and to glasenapp._] that man is his honour's friend: that is his source of information. a fine situation. we might better call him a source of defamation! fleischer [_to mitteldorf._] i'm not accountable to any one. it's my own business what i do; it's my own business with whom i associate; it's my own business what i choose to think and write! glasenapp why you can't hear your own words in this place no more! your honour, shall i go an' fetch a policeman? i can run right over and get one. mitteldorf!... **end all** wehrhahn quiet, please! [_quiet is restored. to fleischer._] you will please remove that rag. fleischer [_obeys._] that rag, as you call it, will be forwarded to the public prosecutor. wehrhahn you may do about that exactly as you please. [_he arises and takes from a case in the wall the package brought by mrs. wolff._] let us finally dispose of this matter, then. [_to mrs. wolff._] where did you find this thing? mrs. wolff it ain't me that found it at all. wehrhahn well, who did find it? mrs. wolff my youngest daughter. wehrhahn well, why didn't you bring her with you then? mrs. wolff she was here, all right, your honour. an' then, i c'n go over an' fetch her in a minute. wehrhahn that would only serve to delay the whole business again. didn't the girl tell you anything about it? krueger you said it was found on the way to the railway station. wehrhahn in that case the thief is probably in berlin, that won't make our search any easier. krueger i don't believe that at all, your honour, mr. fleischer seems to me to have an entirely correct opinion. the whole business with the package is a trick meant to mislead us. mrs. wolff well, well. that's mighty possible. wehrhahn now, mrs. wolff, you're not so stupid as a rule. things that are stolen here go in to berlin. that fur coat was sold in berlin before we even knew that it was stolen. mrs. wolff no, your honour, i can't help it, but i ain't quite, not quite of the same opinion. if the thief is in berlin, why, i ax, does he have to go an' lose a package like that? wehrhahn such things are not always lost intentionally. mrs. wolff just look at that there package. it's all packed up so nice--the vest, the key, an' the bit o' paper ... krueger i believe the thief to be in this very place. mrs. wolff [_confirming him._] well, you see, mr. krueger. krueger i firmly believe it. wehrhahn sorry, but i do not incline to that opinion. my experience is far too long ... krueger what? a long experience? h-m! wehrhahn certainly. and on the basis of that experience i know that the chance of the coat being here need scarcely be taken into account. mrs. wolff well, well, we shouldn't go an' deny things that way, your honour. krueger [_referring to fleischer._] and then he saw the boatman ... wehrhahn don't bother me with that story. i'd have to go searching people's houses every day with twenty constables and policemen, i'd have to search every house in the village. mrs. wolff then you better go an' start with my house, your honour. wehrhahn well, isn't that ridiculous? no, no, gentlemen: that's not the way. that method will lead us nowhither, now or later. you must give me entire freedom of action. i have my own suspicions and will continue to make my observations. there are a number of shady characters here on whom i have my eye. early in the morning they ride in to berlin with heavy baskets on their backs, and in the evening they bring home the same baskets empty. krueger i suppose you mean the vegetable hucksters. that's what they do. wehrhahn not only the vegetable hucksters, mr. krueger. and i have no doubt but that your coat travelled in the same way. mrs. wolff that's possible, all right. there ain't nothin' impossible in _this_ world, i tell you. wehrhahn well, then! now, what did you want to announce? wulkow a little girl, your honour. wehrhahn i will do all that is possible. krueger i won't let the matter rest until i get back my coat. wehrhahn well, whatever can be done will be done. mrs. wolff can use her ears a little. mrs. wolff the trouble is i don't know how to act like a spy. but if things like that don't come out--there ain't no sayin' what's safe no more. krueger you are quite right, mrs. wolff, quite right. [_to wehrhahn._] i must ask you to examine that package carefully. the handwriting on the slip that was found in it may lead to a discovery. and day after to-morrow morning, your honour, i will take the liberty of troubling you again. good morning! [_exit._ fleischer good morning. [_exit._ wehrhahn [_to wulkow._] how old are you?--there's something wrong with those two fellows up here. [_he touches his forehead. to wulkow._] what is your name? wulkow august philip wulkow. wehrhahn [_to mitteldorf._] go over to my apartment. that motes is still sitting there and waiting. tell him i am sorry but i have other things to do this morning. mitteldorf an' you don't want him to wait? wehrhahn [_harshly._] no, he needn't wait! [_mitteldorf, exit._ wehrhahn [_to mrs. wolff._] do you know this author motes? mrs. wolff when it comes to people like that, your honour, i'd rather go an' hold my tongue. there ain't much good that i could tell you. wehrhahn [_ironically._] but you could tell me a great deal that's good about fleischer. mrs. wolff he ain't no bad sort, an' that's a fac'. wehrhahn i suppose you're trying to be a bit careful in what you say. mrs. wolff no, i ain't much good at that. i'm right out with things, your honour. if i hadn't always gone an' been right out with what i got to say, i might ha' been a good bit further along in the world. wehrhahn that policy has never done you any harm with me. mrs. wolff no, not with you, your honour. you c'n stand bein' spoken to honest. nobody don't need to be sneaky 'round you. wehrhahn in short: fleischer is a man of honour. mrs. wolff that he is! that he is! wehrhahn well, you remember my words of to-day. mrs. wolff an' you remember mine. wehrhahn very well. the future will show. [_he stretches himself, gets up, and stamps his feet gently on the floor. to wulkow._] this is our excellent washerwoman. she thinks that all people are like herself. [_to mrs. wolff._] but unfortunately the world is differently made. you see human beings from the outside; a man like myself has learned to look a little deeper. [_he takes a few paces, then stops before her and lays his hand on her shoulder._] and as surely as it is true when i say: mrs. wolff is an honest woman; so surely i tell you: this dr. fleischer of yours, of whom we were speaking, is a thoroughly dangerous person! mrs. wolff [_shaking her head resignedly._] well, then i don't know no more what to think ... the curtain falls the conflagration persons: fielitz, _shoemaker and spy. near sixty years old._ mrs. fielitz, _formerly mrs. wolff, his wife. of the same age._ leontine, _her oldest daughter by her first marriage; unmarried; near thirty._ schmarowski, _architect._ langheinrich, _smith. thirty years old._ rauchhaupt, _retired prussian constable._ gustav, _his oldest son, a congenital imbecile._ mieze, lotte, trude, lenchen, lieschen, mariechen, tienchen, hannchen, _his daughters._ dr. boxer, _a vigorous man of thirty-six. physician. of jewish birth._ von wehrhahn, _justice._ ede, _journeyman at langheinrich's._ glasenapp, _clerk in the justice's court._ schulze, _constable._ mrs. schulze, _his aunt._ tschache, _constable._ a fireman. a boy. janitor of the court. village people. scene: anywhere in the neighbourhood of berlin. the first act _the work shop of the shoemaker fielitz. a low room with blue tinted walls. a window to the right. in each of the other walls a door. under the window at the right a small platform. upon it a cobbler's bench and a small table. on the latter a stand upholding three spheres of glass filled with water. near them stands an unlit coal-oil lamp. in the corner, left, a brown tile oven surrounded by a bench and kitchen utensils of various kinds._ _shoemaker fielitz is still crouching over his work. on the platform and around it old shoes and boots of every size are heaped up. fielitz is hammering a piece of leather into flexibility._ _mrs. fielitz (formerly mrs. wolff) is thoughtfully turning over in her hands a little wooden box and a stearin candle. it is toward evening, at the end of september._ fielitz you get outta this here shop. go on now! mrs. fielitz [_briefly and contemptuously._] who d'you think'll come in here now? it's past six. fielitz you get outta the shop with that trash o' yours. mrs. fielitz i wish you wouldn't act so like a fool. what's wrong about this here little box, eh? a little box like this ain't no harm. fielitz [_working with enraged violence._] it's somethin' good, ain't it now? mrs. fielitz [_still thoughtfully and half in jest._] the sawdust comes up to here ... an' then they go an' put a candle plumb in the middle here ... fielitz look here, ma, you're too smart for me! if that there smartness o' yours keeps on, i see myself in gaol one o' these days. mrs. fielitz [_harshly._] i s'ppose you can't listen a bit when a person talks to you. you might pay some attention when i talks to you. things like that interest a body. fielitz i takes an interest in my boots, an' i don't take no interest in nothin' else. mrs. fielitz that's it! o lordy! that'd be a nice state for us. we'd all go an' starve together. your cobblin'--there's a lot o' good in that!--they puts the candle in here. y'understand? this here little box ain't big enough neither. that one over there would be more like. let's throw them children's shoes out. [_she turns a box full of children's shoes upside down._ fielitz [_frightened._] don't you go in for no nonsense, y'understand? mrs. fielitz an' then when they've lit the candle--... then they stands it up in the middle o' the box, so's it can't burn the top, o' course. then you puts it, reel still, up in some attic--grabow didn't do that different neither--right straight in a heap o' old trash--an' then you goes quiet to berlin, an' when you comes back ... fielitz ssh! somebody's comin'! ssh! mrs. fielitz an' the devil hisself can't go an' prove nothin' against you. [_a protracted silence._ fielitz if it was as simple as all that! but that ain't noways as easy as you thinks. first of all there's got to be air-holes in here. o' course this here awl--: that'll do for a drill. that thing's got to have a draught, if you want it to catch! if there ain't no draught, it just smothers! fire's gotta have a draught or it won't burn. somebody's got to lend a hand here as knows somethin'. mrs. fielitz well, that'd be an easy thing for you! fielitz [_forgetting his point of view in his growing zeal._] there's gotta be a draught here an' another here! an' it's all gotta be done just right! an' then sawdust an' rags here. an' then you go an' pour some kerosene right in.--there ain't nothin' new in all that. i was out in the world for six years. mrs. fielitz well, exactly. that's what i been sayin'. fielitz you c'n do that with a sponge an' you c'n do that with a string. all you gotta do is to steep 'em good an' hard in saltpetre. an' you c'n light that with burning glasses. it c'n be done twenty steps away!--all that's been done before now. there ain't nothin' new in all that to me. i know all about it. mrs. fielitz an' grabow's built up again. if he hadn't gone an' taken his courage in both hands, he'd ha' been in the street long ago. fielitz that's all right, if a man's in trouble like water up to his neck an' is goin' to be drowned. maybe then ... mrs. fielitz an' there's many as lets the time slip till he is drowned. [_the doorbell rings._ fielitz go an' put the box away an' then open the door. _justice von wehrhahn enters, wearing a thick overcoat, tall boots and a fur cap._ wehrhahn evening, fielitz! how about those boots? fielitz they's all right, your honour. mrs. fielitz you better go an' get a little light so's mr. von wehrhahn can see somethin'. wehrhahn well, how is everything and what are you doing, mrs. wolff? mrs. fielitz i ain't no mrs. wolff no more. wehrhahn she's grown very proud, eh, fielitz? she carries her head very high? she feels quite set up? mrs. fielitz hear that! marryin's gone to my head? i could ha' lived much better as a widder. fielitz [_who has drawn the lasts out of wehrhahn's boots._] then you might ha' gone an' stayed a widder. mrs. fielitz if i'd ha' known what kind of a feller you are, i wouldn't ha' been in no hurry. i could ha' gotten an old bandy-legged crittur like you any day o' the week. wehrhahn gently, gently! fielitz never you mind her. [_with almost creeping servility._] if you'll be so very kind, your honour, an' have the goodness to pull off your right boot. if you'll let me; i c'n do that. so. an' if you'll be so good now an' put your foot on this here box. mrs. fielitz [_holding the burning lamp._] an' how is the missis, baron? wehrhahn thank you, she's quite well. but she's still lamenting her mrs. wolff ... mrs. fielitz well, you see, i couldn't do that no more reely. i washed thirty years an' over for you. you c'n get enough o' anything in that time, i tell you. i c'n show you my legs some day. the veins is standin' out on 'em, thick as your fist. that comes from the everlastin' standin' up at the tub! an' i got frost boils all over me and the rheumatiz in every limb. they ain't no end to the doctorin' i gotta do! i just gotta wrap myself up in cotton, an' anyhow i'm cold all day. wehrhahn certainly, mrs. wolff, i can well believe that. mrs. fielitz there was a time an' i'd work against anybody. i had a constitootion! you couldn't ha' found one in ten like it. but nowadays ... o lord! things is lookin' different. fielitz you c'n holler a little louder if you want to. wehrhahn i can't blame you, of course, mrs. fielitz. any one who has worked as you have may well consider herself entitled to some rest. mrs. fielitz an' then, you see, things keep goin'. we got our livin' right along. [_she give fielitz a friendly nudge on the head._] an' he does his part all right now. we ain't neither of us lazy, so to speak. if only a body could keep reel well! but saturday i gotta go to the doctor again. he goes and electrilises me with his electrilising machine, you know. i ain't sayin' but what it helps me. but first of all there's the expenses of the trip in to berlin an' then every time he electrilises me that costs five shillin's. sometimes, you know, a person, don't know where to get the money. fielitz you go ahead an' ram your money down doctors' throats! wehrhahn [_treads firmly with his new shoe._] none of us are getting any younger, mrs. fielitz. i'm beginning to feel that quite distinctly myself. perfectly natural. nothing to be done about it. we've simply got to make up our minds to that.--and, anyhow, you oughtn't to complain. i heard it said a while ago that your son-in-law had passed his examinations very well. in that case everything is going according to your wishes. mrs. fielitz that's true, of course, an' it did make me reel happy too. in the first place he'll be able to get along much better now that he's somethin' like an architect ... an' then, he deserved it all ways.--the kind o' time he had when he was a child! well, i ain't had no easy time neither, but a father like that ... wehrhahn schmarowski is a fellow of solid worth. i never had any fears for him. your adelaide was very lucky there.--you remember my telling you so at the time. you came running over to me that time, you recall, when the engagement was almost broken, and i sent you to pastor friederici:--that shows you the value of spiritual advice. a young man is a young man and however christian and upright his life, he's apt to forget himself once in a while. that's where the natural function of the spiritual adviser comes in. mrs. fielitz yes, yes, i s'ppose you're right enough there. an' i'll never forget what the pastor did for us that time! if schmarowski had gone an' left the girl, she'd never have lived through it, that's certain. wehrhahn there we've got an instance of what happens when a church and a pastor are in a place. the house of god that we've built together has brought many a blessing. so, good evening and good luck to you.--oh, what i was going to say, fielitz: the celebration takes place on monday morning. you will be there surely? mrs. fielitz naturally he'll come. fielitz sure an' certain. wehrhahn i would hardly know what to do without you, fielitz. in the meantime, come in for a moment on sunday, i'm proposing certain points ... certain very marked points, and we must pull together vigorously. so, good evening! don't forget--we've got to have a strong parade. fielitz that's right. you can't do them things without one. [_exit wehrhahn._ fielitz you go an' take that candle out! will you, please? mrs. fielitz you're as easy scared as a rabbit, anton! that's what you are--a reg'lar rabbit. _she takes the candle out of the little box. almost at the same moment rauchhaupt opens the door and looks in._ rauchhaupt good evenin'. am i intrudin'? fielitz -- -- -- -- mrs. fielitz aw, come right into our parlour! rauchhaupt ain't langheinrich the smith come in yet? mrs. fielitz was he goin' to come? no, he ain't been here. rauchhaupt we made a special engagement.--i brought along the cross too. here, gustav! bring that there cross in! [_gustav brings in a cross of cast iron with an inscription on it._] go an' put it down on that there box. fielitz [_quickly._] no, never mind, edward, that'll break. rauchhaupt then you c'n just lean it against the wall. mrs. fielitz so you got through with it at last. [_calls out through the door._] leontine! you come down a minute! rauchhaupt trouble is i had so much to do. i'm buildin' a new hot house, you know. mrs. fielitz another one, eh? ain't that a man for you! you're a reg'lar mole, rauchhaupt. the way that man keeps diggin' around in the ground. rauchhaupt a man feels best when he's doin' that. that's what we're all made of--earth: an that's what we're all goin' to turn to again. why shouldn't we be diggin' around in the earth? [_he helps himself from the snuff-box which fielitz holds out to him._] that's got a earthy smell, too, fielitz. that smells like good, fresh earth. _leontine enters. a pair of scissors hangs by her side; she has a thimble on her finger._ leontine here i am, mama. what's up? mrs. fielitz he just brought in papa his hephitaph. _leontine and mrs. fielitz regard the cross thoughtfully._ mrs. fielitz light the candle for me, girl. [_she hands her the tallow-candle with which she has been experimenting._] we wants to study the writin' a bit. rauchhaupt i fooled around with that thing a whole lot. but i got it to please me in the end. you c'n go an' look through the whole cemetery three times over and you'll come away knowin' this is the finest inscription you c'n get. i went an' convinced myself of that. [_he sits down on the low platform and fills his nose anew with snuff._ _mrs. fielitz holds the lighted lamp and puzzles out the inscription._ mrs. fielitz here rests in ... leontine [_reading on._] in god. rauchhaupt that's what i said: in god. i was goin' to write first: in the lord. but that's gettin' to be so common. mrs. fielitz [_reads on with trembling voice._] here rests in god the unforgotten carpenter ... [_weeping aloud._] oh, no, i tell you, it's too awful! that man--he was the best man in the world, he was. a man like that, you c'n take my word for it, you ain't likely to find no more these days. leontine [_reading on._] ... the unforgotten carpenter mr. julian wolff ... [_she snivels._ fielitz --don't you be takin' on now, y'understand? no corpse ain't goin' to come to life for all your howlin'. [_he hands the whiskey bottle to rauchhaupt._] here, edward, that'll do you good. them goin's on don't. [_he gets up and brushes off his blue apron with the air of a man who has completed his day's work._ rauchhaupt [_pointing with the bottle._] them lines there i made up myself. i'll say 'em over for you; listen now: "the hearts of all to sin confess" ... 'tain't everybody c'n do that neither!-- "the hearts of all to sin confess, the beggar's and the king's no less. but this man's heart from year to year was spotless and like water clear." [_the women weep more copiously. he continues._] i gotta go over that with white paint. an' this part here about god is goin' to be prussian blue. [_he drinks._ _the smith langheinrich enters._ langheinrich [_regarding leontine desirously._] well now, look here, rauchhaupt, old man, i been lookin' for you half an hour! i thought i was to come an' fetch you, you chucklehead.--well, are you pleased with the job? mrs. fielitz oh, go an' don't bother me, any of you! if a person loses a man like that one, how's she goin' to get along with you jackasses afterwards! fielitz come on, man, an' pull up a stool. you just let her get back to her right mind. langheinrich [_with sly merriment._] that's right, i always said so myself: this here dyin' is a invention of the devil. mrs. fielitz we was married for twenty years an' more. an' there wasn't so much as one angry word between us. an' the way that man was honest. not a penny, no,--he never cheated any man of a penny in all his days. an' sober! he didn't so much as know what whiskey was like. you could go an' put the bottle before him an' he wouldn't look at it. an' the way he brought up his children! what _d'you_ think about, but playin' cards and swillin' liquor ... leontine gustav is poking out his tongue at me. rauchhaupt [_takes hold of a cobbler's last and throws himself enragedly upon gustav, who has been making faces at leontine and has poked out his tongue at her.] you varmint! ill break your bones!--that rotten crittur is goin' to be the death o' me yet. i just gets so mad sometimes i think it's goin' to be the death o' me. langheinrich the poor crittur ain't got his right senses. rauchhaupt i wish to god the dam' brat was dead. i'll get so dam' wild some day, if he ain't, that i'll go an' kill my own flesh an' blood. fielitz i'd go an' have him locked up in the asylum. then you don't have the worry of him no more. d'you want me to write out a petition for you? rauchhaupt don't i know all about petitions? what does they say then: he ain't dangerous bein' at large.--the whole world ain't nothin' but a asylum. it ain't dangerous, o' course, that he fires bricks at me, an' unscrews locks and steals house keys--oh, no, that ain't considered dangerous. no, an' it's all right for him to eat my tulip bulbs. i c'n just go ahead an' do the best i can. mrs. fielitz how did that happen at grabow's the other day--i mean when his inn the "prussian eagle" burned down? langheinrich aw, grabow, he needed just that. it wasn't no gustav that set that there fire. he wasn't needed there. mrs. fielitz they say he's always playin' with matches. rauchhaupt gustav an' matches? aw, that's all right. if he c'n just go an' hunt up matches some place, trouble ain't very far off. you know i needs coverin's for my hot house plants; so i built a kind of a shed. i stored the straw in there. well, i tell you, mrs. fielitz, that there idjit went an' burned the shed down. it was bright day an' o' course nobody wasn't thinkin', an' i got loose boards all over my lot. the shed crackled right off. it wasn't more'n a puff! but grabow--he took care o' his fire hisself. mrs. fielitz i'd give notice about a thing like that, rauchhaupt--i mean burnin' down the shed. rauchhaupt i don't get along so very well with constable schulze. that's often the way with people in your own profession. i was honourably retired. he don't like that. he ain't sooted with that. all right; all that may be so. an' that i own my own lot, an' that my old woman died. sure, it ain't no use denyin' it! i made a few crowns outta all that. an' that my gardenin' brings in somethin'--well, he don't like to see it. so then it's easy to say: rauchhaupt? he don't need no help. he c'n take care o' hisself. an' that's the end of it. mrs. fielitz fred grabow, he's all right now! langheinrich [_eagerly._] an' he's got me to thank for it. only thing is, i pretty near got into a dam' mess myself that time. you see, i'm captain of the hook an' ladder. well, i says to my boys, says i:--i don't know but i must ha' had more'n i could carry. the whole crowd was pretty well full!--well, i says to my boys: sail right in an' see that there ain't a stone left standin', 'cause if there is, grabow'll get one reduction of insurance after another an' then the whole thing ain't no good to him. i guess i hollered that out a bit too loud. so when i takes a step or two backward i thinks all hell's broke loose, 'cause there stands constable schulze an' stares at me. your health, says i, your health, captain!--grabow, you know, was treatin' to beer!--an' then schulze was real sociable and took a drink with me. mrs. fielitz it's queer that nothin' don't come out there. that fellow ain't a bit cute. how did he manage to do it? langheinrich everybody likes fritz grabow. mrs. fielitz he ain't got sense enough to count up to three. an' anyhow he had to go an' take oath. rauchhaupt takin' oath? aw, that ain't so much! i'll just tell you how 'tis, 'cause you never can't tell. who knows about it? anybody might have to do that some day. all you do is to twist off one o' your breeches buttons while you goes ahead and swears reel quiet. you just try it. that's easy as slidin'. [_general laughter._ mrs. fielitz he's got one o' his jokin' spells again. i won't have to go an' twist off a button, i c'n tell you. things can't get that way with me.--but tell me this: whose turn is it goin' to be now? it's about time for somebody, you know. somethin's got to burn pretty soon now. langheinrich it could be most anybody. things is lookin' pretty poor over at strombergers. the rain's comin' right down into his sittin' room,--well, good evenin'. a man's got to have his joke. mrs. fielitz but who's goin' to drink my hot toddy now? fielitz you stay right where you are! langheinrich can't be done. i gotta be goin'. [_he puts an arm around leontine, who frees herself carelessly and with a contemptuous expression._]--if mother don't hear my hammerin' downstairs she'll be swimmin' away in tears an' the bed with her when i gets home. leontine that's nothin' but jealousy, mama. mrs. fielitz maybe it is, an' maybe she's got reason. you go on up to your work.--how is the missis? langheinrich pretty low. what c'n you expect? leontine you'll be drivin' me to work till i gets consumption. mrs. fielitz if you get consumption, it won't be your dress-makin' that's the cause of it. you act as much like a ninny as if you was a man. langheinrich [_putting his arms around mrs. fielitz._] come now, young woman, don't be so cross! young people wants to have their fling--that's all. an' they'll have it, if it's only with constable schulze. [_exit._ mrs. fielitz now what's the meanin' o' that? rauchhaupt wait there a minute an' i'll join you. [_he gets up and motions to gustav, who lifts the iron cross again._ mrs. fielitz why d'you go an' run off all of a sudden? rauchhaupt i gotta go an' get rid o' some work. [_exit with gustav. mrs. fielitz what's the trouble with you an' langheinrich again? you act like a fool--that's what you do! leontine there ain't no trouble. i want him to leave me alone. mrs. fielitz he'll be willin' to do that all right! if you're goin' to turn up your nose an' wriggle around that way, you won't have to take much trouble to get rid o' him. he don't need nothin' like that! leontine but he's a married man. mrs. fielitz so he is. let him be. you got no sense 'cause you was born a fool. you got a baby and no husband; adelaide's got a husband an' no baby. [_leontine goes slowly out._ mrs. fielitz if she'd only go an' take advantage o' her chances. there ain't no tellin' how soon langheinrich'll be a widower. fielitz i don't know's i like to see the way constable schulze runs after that girl. mrs. fielitz [_sententiously._] you can't run your head through no stone walls. [_she sits down, takes out a little notebook and turns its leaves._] you got a office. all right. why shouldn't you have? things is _as_ they is. but havin' a office you got to look out all around. you just let constable schulze alone! did you read the letter from schmarowski? fielitz aw, yes, sure. i got enough o' him all right. i wish somebody'd given me the money--half the money--that feller's had the use of. but no: nobody never paid no attention to me. nobody sent me to no school o' architecture. mrs. fielitz i'd like to know what you got against schmarowski! you're pickin' at him all the time. fielitz hold on! not me! he ain't no concern o' mine. but every time you open your mouth i gets ready to bet ten pairs o' boots that you're goin' to talk about schmarowski. mrs. fielitz did he do you any harm, eh? well? fielitz no, i can't say as he has. not that i know. an' i wouldn't advise him to try neither. only when i sees him i gets kind o' sick at my stomick. you oughta have married him yourself. mrs. fielitz if i had been thirty years younger--sure enough. fielitz well, why don't you go an' move over to your daughter then! go right on! hurry all you can an' go to adelaide's. then they got hold of you good and tight an' you c'n get rid o' your savin's. mrs. fielitz that's an ambitious man. he don't have to wait, for me; that's sure!--there ain't no gettin' ahead with your kind. instead o' you fellows helpin' each other, you're always hittin' out at each other. now schmarowski--he's a wide-awake kind o' man. no money ain't been wasted on him. you needn't be scared: he'll make his way all right.--but if you knew just a speck o' somethin' about life, you'd know what you'd be doin' too. fielitz me? how's that? why me exactly? mrs. fielitz what was it that there bricklayer boss told me? i saw him one day when he was full; they was just raisin' that church. he says: schmarowski, says he, that's a sly dog. an' he knew why he was sayin' that. them plans o' his takes 'em all in. fielitz i ain't got no objection to his takin' 'em in. mrs. fielitz he ain't the kind o' man to sit an' draw till he's blind an' let the bricklayers get all the profit. fielitz well, i ain't made the world. mrs. fielitz no, nor you ain't goin' to stop it neither. fielitz an' i don't want to. mrs. fielitz you ain't goin' to stop it, fielitz--not the world an' not me. that's settled.-- [_she has said this in a slightly ironical way, yet with a half embarrassed laugh. she now puts away her little book excitedly._ fielitz i can't get to understand reel straight. i'm always thinkin' there's somethin' wrong with you. mrs. fielitz maybe there was somethin' wrong with grabow too, eh? i s'ppose that's the reason he's livin' in his new house this day.--i wish there'd be somethin' like that wrong with you onct in a while. but if somebody don't pull an' poke at you, you'd grow fast to the stool you're sittin' on. fielitz [_with decision._] mother, put that there thing outta your mind. i tell you that in kindness now. i ain't goin' to lend my help to no such thing. because why? i knows what that means. is i goin' to jump into that kind of a mess again? no, i ain't young enough for that no more. mrs. fielitz just because you're an old feller you oughta be thinkin' about it all the more. how long are you goin' to be able to work along here. you don't get around to much no more now. you cobbled around on wehrhahn's shoes! it took more'n two weeks. fielitz well, mother, you needn't lie that way. mrs. fielitz that cobblin' o' yours--that ain't worth a damn. i ain't much good no more an' you ain't. that's a fact. i don't excep' myself at all. an' if people like us don't go an' get somethin' they c'n fall back on, they got to go beggin' in the end anyhow. you c'n kick against that all you want to. fielitz it's a queer thing about you, mother. it's just like as if the devil hisself got a hold o' you. first it just sort o' peeps up, an' god knows where it comes from. sometimes it's there an' sometimes it's gone. an' then it'll come back again sudden like an' then it gets hold o' you an' don't let you go no more. i've known some tough customers in my time, mother, but when you gets took that way--then i tell you, you makes the cold shivers run down my back. mrs. fielitz [_has taken out her notebook again and become absorbed in it._] what did you think about all this? we're insured here for seven thousand. fielitz what i thought? i didn't think nothin'. mrs. fielitz well, there ain't any value to this place excep' what's in the lot itself. fielitz [_gets up and puts on his coat._] you just leave me alone, y'understand? mrs. fielitz well, ain't it true? you just stop your foolin'. i seen that long ago, before we was ever married. schmarowski told me that ten times over, that this here is the proper place for a big house. an' anybody as has any sense c'n see that it's so. now just look for yourself: over there, that's the drug shop! an' a bit across the way to the left is the post office. an' then a little ways on is the baker an' he's built hisself a nice new shop. four noo villas has gone up and if, some day, we gets the tramway out here--we'll be right in the midst o' things. fielitz [_about to go._] good evenin'. mrs. fielitz are you goin' out this time o' day? fielitz yes, 'cause i can't stand that no more.--if i'd known the kind of a crittur you are ... only i didn't know nothin' about it ... i'd ha' thought this here marryin' over a good bit--yes, a good bit. mrs. fielitz you? is that what you'd ha' thought over, eh? fielitz is i goin' to let myself be put up to things like that?... mrs. fielitz a whole lot o' thinkin' over you'd ha' done! you ain't done any thinkin' all the days o' your life. a great donkey like you ... an' thinkin'. well! a fine mess would come of it if you took to thinkin'. fielitz mother, i axes you to consider that ... mrs. fielitz put you up? to what? what is i puttin' you up to?--this here old shed is goin' to burn down sometime. it's goin' to burn down one time or 'nother, if it don't first come topplin' down over our heads. it's squeezed in here between the other houses in a way to make a person feel ashamed, if he looks at it. fielitz mother, i axes you to consider ... mrs. fielitz aw, i wish you'd clear out o' the front door this minute! i'm goin' to pack up my things pretty soon too. an' you c'n go over to the justice for all i care. i been puttin' you up to things, you know! fielitz mother, i axes you to consider that ... look out that you don't go an' get a black eye! 'cause i, if i ... mrs. fielitz [_with a gesture as though about to push him out._] get out! just get out! it'll be good riddance! the sooner the better! what are you dawdlin' for? fielitz [_beside himself._] mother, i'll hit you one across the ... you're goin' to put me out, eh? what? outta my shop? is this here your shop? i'll learn you! just wait! mrs. fielitz well, i'm waitin'. why don't you start? you're that kind of a man, are you? come right on! come on now! you got the courage! i'll hold my breath or maybe i'd blow you right into berlin. fielitz [_hurls a boot against the wall in his impotent rage._] i'll break every stick in this here shop! to hell with the whole business: that's what i says! i must ha' been just ravin' mad! there i goes an' burdens myself with a devil of a woman like that, an' i might ha' lived as comfortable as can be! she killed off one husband an' now i'm dam' idjit enough, to take his place! but you're goin' to find out! it ain't goin' to be so easy this time! i'll first kick you out before i'll let you get the best o' me! not me! no, sir! you c'n believe that! mrs. fielitz you needn't exert yourself that much, fielitz ... fielitz not me! not me! you c'n depend on that! you ain't agoin' to down me! you c'n take my word for it. [_he sits down, exhausted._ mrs. fielitz maybe you might like throwin' some more boots. there's plenty of 'em around here--i s'ppose you married me for love, eh? fielitz god knows why i did! mrs. fielitz if you'll go an' study it out, maybe you'll know why. maybe it was out o' pity? eh? maybe not.--or maybe it was the money i had loaned out?--well, you see! i s'ppose that was it.--you c'n live a hundred years for my part! but it's always the same thing. 'twasn't much different with julius neither. if things had gone his way, i wouldn't have nothin' saved this day neither. the trouble is a person is too good to you fellers. fielitz an' outta goodness you want me to go an' take a match an' set fire to the roof over my head? mrs. fielitz you knew that you'd have to go an' build. i said that to myself right off, an' buildin' costs money. there ain't no gettin' away from that fact. an' the few pennies we has ain't more'n a beginnin'. if we had what you might call a real house here ... schmarowski, he'd build us one that'd make all the others look like nothin' ... you could have a fine shop here. we might put a few hundred dollars into it an' sell factory shoes. if you'd want to take in repairing you could get a journeyman an' put him here. an' if you wanted to go an' make some new shoes yourself, you could take the time for all i care. fielitz i don't know! i s'ppose i ain't got sense enough for them things. i thought i'd get hold o' a bit o' money ... i thought i'd be able to lay out a bit o' money! buildin' a little annex of a shop--that's good fun. i thought it all out to myself like--with nice shelves and things like that ... an' i planned to hang up a big clock an' such. an' now you sit on your money bag like an old watch dog. mrs. fielitz that money--it ain't to be thrown away so easy. 'twas earned too bitter hard for that. fielitz ... you forgets that i've been in trouble before. is i to go an' get locked up again? mrs. fielitz never mind, fielitz, to-morrow is another day. a person mustn't go an' take things that serious! i was more'n half jokin' anyhow.--go over to grabow's an' drink a glass o' beer!... we must all be satisfied's best we can. an' even if you can't go an' open a shoe shop, an' even if you gotta worry along cobblin' an' can't buy no clock--well, a good conscience is worth somethin' too. the curtain falls the second act _the smithy of langheinrich. the little house protrudes at an angle into the village street. the shed that projects over the smithy is supported by wooden posts. the empty space below the shed is used for the storage of tools and materials. wheels are leaned against the wood, a plough, wheel-tyres, pieces of pig iron, etc. an anvil stands in the open, too, and several working stools. from behind the house, jutting out diagonally, a wooden wagon is visible. the left front wheel has been taken off and a windlass supports the axle._ _through the door that leads to the shop one sees smithy fires and bellows._ _opposite the smithy, on the left side of the village street which, taking a turn, is lost to view in the background, there is a board fence. a small locked gate opens upon the street._ _a cloudy, windy day._ _dr. boxer, in a slouch hat and light overcoat, stands holding a heavy smith's hammer at arm's length. ede has a horseshoe in his right hand, a smaller hammer in his left, and is looking on._ ede [_counts._] ... twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four an' one makes twenty-five an' another makes twenty-six.--great guns, you're ahead o' me now. an' twenty-seven, an' twenty-eight, an' twenty-nine an' thirty. my respects, doctor. that's all right. is that the effect o' the sea air? dr. boxer it may be. you see i haven't quite forgotten the trick. ede no, you haven't. that's pretty good. now let's try it with weights, though. i c'n hold up a hundred an' fifty pounds, doctor. how about yourself? dr. boxer i don't know. it remains to be seen. ede what? you think you c'n lift a hundred weight an' a half? you're a little bit of a giant, ain't you? you didn't learn that on board ship. i thought you travelled as a sawbones an' not as a strong man!--look at that little man over there goin' into mrs. fielitz' house. that's her son-in-law. dr. boxer he looks very much like a bishop. ede right enough! that's what he is--bishop schmarowski.--you c'n knock! the old woman's out and she took her cobbler with her. there won't be nothin' to get there to-day.--you see, doctor, when that fellow goes there he wants money. if he weren't hard up he wouldn't come. dr. boxer the fielitzes went in to berlin to-day; i met them this morning at the railway station. tell me: _he_ isn't quite right in his mind, is he? ede how so? that wasn't never noticed. he's a pretty keen fellow ... no, i couldn't say that _he's_ crazy. dr. boxer he talked a mixture of idiotic nonsense and looked away from me while he was talking. the fellow looked like an evil conscience personified. but i don't suppose he has a conscience. ede by the way: that time they came down on you an' made a search in your house--that fellow fielitz had his hand in it. he helped get you into that pickle. [_mrs. schulze puts her head out at the attic window._ mrs. schulze ede! ede what? mrs. schulze ain't mr. langheinrich back yet? ede well, o' course he is, naturally. [_mrs. schulze disappears and ede withdraws under the shed._] quick! take this hammer, will you, doctor, an' hammer away a bit. if you kept up your strength the way you have, you ain't forgot about that neither. dr. boxer i went at locksmith's work like the deuce when there was nothing to do on board ship. that gave me a very good chance. ede you're a doctor an' you're a smith an' ... i guess you're a sausage maker too! dr. boxer i even made sausages once. ede nobody didn't want to eat them, i guess. dr. boxer i wouldn't have advised any one to do so either. the sausages were mainly filled with arsenic. the rats scarcely left us space to turn around in. ede [_about to set to work._] ugh! that wouldn't be no kind o' sausage for me. come now, doctor, go at it! we wants the missis to think that two people is workin' here or she'll never stop axin' questions. dr. boxer where did langheinrich go so early? ede that's a secret all right--the kind o' secret that all the sparrows on the gutters is chirpin'.--doctor, roll that wheel over here, will you? you got a chance now to deserve well, as they says, o' the prussian state, 'cause this here waggon belongs to the government forester.--that sort o' thing can't do you no harm. dr. boxer no. and anyhow i ought to stand in with people. [_he rolls the wheel slowly along; it escapes him and glides backwards._ ede that ain't so easy. them people has long memories. [_he catches the wheel._] hold on there! no goin' backward! i'm for progress, i am, doctor! i'm willin' to fight for that! dr. boxer but you must be careful of your fingers. [_he puts on a leathern apron._] is langheinrich going to be gone long? ede [_whistles._] that depends on how hard it is! dr. boxer why do you whistle so significantly? ede that's a gift o' my family. all my eleven brothers an' sisters is musicians. i'm the only one that's a smith. [_for a space both work at the wheel in silence. then ede continues._] 'twouldn't be a bad stage play, i tell you. you wouldn't have to be scared o' riskin' somethin' on that. you'd make money! that's somethin' fine--specially for young people! you been away here a good long while, that's the reason you don't know what's what. i could tell you a few little things that happen around here in bright daylight.--d'you know that leontine? dr. boxer very sorry indeed, but i don't. ede no? an' then you pretend that this is your home an' don't know that girl. somethin' wrong with you! dr. boxer oh, yes, yes, leontine! mrs. wolff's daughter! i once got the deuce of a flogging on her account. ede well, i wish you'd ha' been here two hours ago. well, first of all that same girl slouched by here ... no! first of all her mother an' father went away ...'twasn't more'n dawn yet! then leontine at about eight. she looked all around an' waited an' made lovin' eyes in this direction an' then walked by. you should ha' seen langheinrich. "sweetheart, where are you goin'?"--then, after a while comes constable schulze and goes after her.--that was too much for langheinrich. off with his apron an' there he goes, quick 's a stag. that's the way it was. you could ha' observed that: the rest ain't to be observed.--there's langheinrich hurryin' back now. [_he at once sets zealously to work and pretends to discover langheinrich, who is approaching hastily and vigorously at this moment._] well, at last! good thing you're here! no end o' askin' after you. did you catch her? langheinrich [_brusquely._] catch what? ede i meant the 'bus. langheinrich hold your...! i had business to attend to.--well now, i'll give a dollar if this here ain't dr. boxer! why, how are you? how are things goin'? an' what are you doin' nowadays? did your ship come in? you been away now--lemme see--that must be three years, eh? sure. that's ... well, time passes. dr. boxer i want to settle down here, langheinrich. that is to say, i have that intention if it's possible. i should like to try my luck at home for a change. langheinrich things is best at home, that's right. o' course, there's one here now, a doctor i mean, but he ain't good for much. they say somethin' queer happened to him onct--got his ears boxed too hard or somethin'. an' they say that made him kind o' melancholious. that ain't much good for his patients! no sick man can't get well through that. i'll send for you, doctor, if i need help. dr. boxer i'll extract my first dozen wisdom teeth free of charge. so you'll be glad if you don't need me soon. langheinrich well, i ... fact is ... my wife is sick. _mrs. schulze comes hurriedly from the house._ mrs. schulze it's a mighty good thing that you're here. d'you hear? that whimperin' goes right on. langheinrich doctor, i'm goin' to ax you somethin' now: d'you know any cure for jealousy? you see, it's this way: we had a baby, an' i'd be lyin' if i said i wasn't mighty well pleased. an' why shouldn't i be? but now my wife is sick. she can't get up an' she don't want me to budge from the side o' her bed. she screams an' she scolds an' she reproaches me. sometimes i reely don't know what to do no more. mrs. schulze you better go upstairs a bit first. ede do give him a chance to get his breath! langheinrich oh, pshaw! never you mind! i c'n attend to that right off. [_after he has taken off his hat and coat and slipped on wooden shoes he hurries into the house._ ede well, what d'you think o' that? dr. boxer he's a cheerful soul--more so, if possible, than he used to be. it does one good to find a man that way. ede only that i axed after leontine, that riled him more'n a little bit all right. mrs. schulze [_to ede, watchfully:_] where was the boss so early this mornin'? ede in lichtenberg, attendin' a dance. mrs. schulze the treatment that woman's gettin' is all wrong, doctor. i don't mix in what don't concern me. but the way she's treated, that ain't no kind o' treatment, i c'n tell you. i told that majunke man too that the missis was goin' to the dogs this way. dr. boxer but dr. majunke is very capable. i know him to be an excellent physician. mrs. schulze [_interrupting._] sure, sure, an' that's true. 'course he's capable. that's right, an' so he is. but, you see, he just won't prescribe nothin' ... dr. boxer what should he prescribe? let the people save their money. mrs. schulze but that's just what people don't want to do. it's like this: medicine's got to be. if there ain't none they says: how c'n the doctor help us? dr. boxer mrs. langheinrich never was strong. even years ago when she used to sew for us ... mrs. schulze that's the way it is. she's a little bit humpbacked; that's right. that's the way women is, though, doctor! a seamstress--that's what she was...! she sewed an' she sewed and saved up a little money...! an' what kind of a bargain is it she's got now. a handsome feller an' sickness an' worry an' no rest no more by day or night. _langheinrich returns from the house._ langheinrich [_tapping mrs. schulze's shoulder somewhat roughly._] hurry now! go on up! it's all arranged an' settled. to-morrow i'm goin' to take her to the clinic. mrs. schulze that ain't goin' to be no easy work! langheinrich [_lifts a great can of water to his mouth._] i can't help that. things is as they is. [_he takes an enormously long draught from the tin can. putting it down:_] ede, drive them ducks away! ede [_acting as though he were driving away ducks, flaps his leathern apron and rattles his wooden shoes._] shoo! shoo! shoo! chuck! chuck! chuck! _mrs. schulze retires into the house, shaking her head._ langheinrich them ducks is your regular fire eaters. there don't need nothin' but for some sparks to fly off an', right straight off, they gobbles 'em down. then we gets what you might call roast duck that never meant to be roasted. an' my old woman she ain't no friend o' that. _rauchhaupt looks over the fence to the left._ langheinrich there's been a big fire again over there behind landsberg. all the houses on a great estate is ashes. rauchhaupt did you maybe see gustav anywhere? langheinrich mornin', old boy! no, not me! has he gone an' run off again? rauchhaupt i ordered him to go over to the fielitzes. langheinrich the fielitzes have all gone in to town. rauchhaupt i don't know, but there's a kind o' burned smell in the air ... ouch! [_he distorts his face in pain and grasps his leg._] ain't leontine here? langheinrich naw, she had to go to court to-day. always the same trouble with the alimony. that confounded feller, he don't pay. rauchhaupt [_calls out._] gustav! [_he listens and then turns leisurely back to the little gate. the wind worries and drives him._] gustav! langheinrich stiff wind coming up, all right! [_rauchhaupt disappears._] ede! ede all right. langheinrich let's get to work now! [_he spits into his hands and sets to work vigorously._] well, doctor, where've you been runnin' about? did you get as far as the chinese? you gotta tell us all about that some day when we got plenty o' time for it. dr. boxer surely, i've been all over. langheinrich did you see the sea-serpent too? da. boxer surely, langheinrich, far down in the south seas. langheinrich an' it's true that it feeds on dill pickles? dr. boxer several hundred dozen a day. langheinrich [_laughing._] that's all right then. an' when, you see that serpent again, just give her my best regards. dr. boxer i doubt whether i'll ever get so far again in life. langheinrich i guess you got all you wanted o' that? now you see. doctor, you just got to the point where i am exactly an' i didn't have to move from this spot.--well, i guess your old mother, she'll be glad. she's gettin' along all right. doin' reel well. i always looked in a bit now an' then, helpin' to see that things was all right. dr. boxer and that was very good in you, langheinrich. langheinrich naw! pshaw! i ain't sayin' it on that account. by the way, though, before i forget. i got a little account standin' with your good mother--for taffeta an' silk an' needles an' thread. some cloth, too. my wife used 'em sewing. i'll straighten that up very soon. dr. boxer [_deprecatingly._] never mind. that matter will be arranged. langheinrich ede! ede all right? langheinrich hurry along now! [_he takes up a heavy hammer._] if i don't go right on workin' i'll end by bustin' out o' my skin. _ede approaches with a white hot piece of iron in the tongs and holds it on the anvil._ langheinrich now we're goin' to start, doctor! down on it! hit it now! [_he and dr. boxer beat the iron, keeping time with each other._] well, you see! it's got to go evenly. doctor! then i tell you the work's smooth as butter. [_they stop hammering; ede takes up the iron again, takes it into the smithy and holds it into the flame._ langheinrich [_takes up the water can again and sets it to his lips._] there ain't much to this! [_drinks._ ede things like that makes you thirsty. _langheinrich puts the can down._ langheinrich you c'n believe me, doctor: it was fine anyhow. dr. boxer what was it that was go very fine? langheinrich lord! i don't know! i don't know nothin' much. but when i met constable schulze i had a devil of a good time--that's what! ede an' now a glass o' beer from grabow over there. that's what i could stand fine just now. langheinrich hurry! get three steins! dr. boxer will pay for 'em. _ede wipes his hands on his apron and goes._ langheinrich an' so you want to settle down here now! that ain't no bad idea neither. only this: you got to be up to all kinds o' tricks here. an' if you want my advice, doctor, don't go to people for nothin'. dr. boxer do you think that i'll be unmolested in other respects? langheinrich aw, them old stories! them's all outlawed by now. an' then, nowadays they can't worry people so much no more as they used to do under the old laws. dr. boxer well, at all events i'll make the attempt ... my political ardour has cooled off. if these people annoy me in spite of that, i'll simply trudge off again. i'll go back to sea, or i'll let myself be engaged ... langheinrich pretty easy drownin' on water! dr. boxer [_continuing._] ... then i'll let myself be engaged to go to brazil with the russian jews. langheinrich what would you get out o' that? dr. boxer yellow fever, perhaps. langheinrich anything else. doctor? that wouldn't be nothin' for me! dr. boxer i believe that. langheinrich me go an' wear myself out for other people? not me! no, sir! i don't do nothin' like that. an' why should i? nobody don't give me nothin'. i tell you people in this world is a pretty sly set. i've had time to find that out. dr. boxer you're a regular heathen: you're not a christian at all! langheinrich that kind o' talk don't do much good with me. i'm a christian just like all the rest is! the people that sit in the new church here ... 'cause they built a new church here now!... if them is christians, the lord forgive 'em. dr. boxer that's easily said, langheinrich. but one ought not to be a pharisee. where is your christian long-suffering? langheinrich no, i ain't goin' in for long-sufferin'. i'm a sinner myself; that's true all right. but now you take this dalchow here for instance! it'd take the devil to be long-sufferin' where _he's_ concerned! what did he do with that son o' his. he kicked him out, that's what, by night, in winter. then he tied him up and beat him till he couldn't gasp. an' then he apprenticed the little feller to a butcher so that he had to drive out the sheep! an' all the time jabbin' at him an' overworkin' him till in the end the poor little crittur went an' drowned hisself in the lake. just shook his head an' kept still an' then dived down an' that was the end. dr. boxer [_ironically._] i don't see what you've got against dalchow, langheinrich? he's a man who seems to understand his business magnificently. langheinrich yes, ruinin' girls an' that sort o' thing, that's what. an' then beatin' his hat around their heads an' sayin': out with the low strumpet! that's what they is all of a sudden when it's he that made 'em--_what_ they is!--oh, an' then he's a great friend o' wehrhahn's an' grunts out like a swine in public meetin's: there ain't no more morality these days ... an' there ought to be laws against such doin's ... an' so on, an' so on ... an' if you'd like to go to church, there the old rotten sinner sits an' turns up his eyes. [_a distant ringing of church bells if heard._] listen to that! the sparrow is singin'.--i always calls that the sparrow, doctor. i always says: the sparrow sings. i mean when them bells is ringin'. an' ain't i right that it's the sparrow that sings? 'cause since wehrhahn got that bird in his buttonhole them bells has begun to ring. an' if the bells didn't go an' ring, why he wouldn't have no decoration neither. _ede comes in grinning and carrying three steins of beer._ ede oho, listen there, the sparrow is singin'. langheinrich well, you see, he don't call it nothin' else no more. [_each of the three holds a stein. they knock them together._] your health! an' welcome back to the old country! [_they drink._] that's a fine evenin' this mornin'. i'd like to see this night by day. dr. boxer now i'm goin' to blaspheme a bit. i'm not opposed to the building of churches at all. langheinrich an' i ain't neither. people gets work! i didn't get any this time, though. an' even if there's a little trouble now an' then, pastor friderici an' a bit o' nonsense with coloured windows an' altar cloths--that don't do no harm. people has to have a little. dr. boxer yes, those people are entitled to cultivate their own pleasures. and then, langheinrich, a higher principle has to be represented somehow. langheinrich sure, an' it brings people out here too, you c'n believe me. buildin' lots has gone up considerable. ede that's so. an' there was a man onct that didn't have no roof over his head ... no, that ain't the way to begin what i want to say.--i was onct out on the heath--far out. all of a sudden: what d'you think i heard, doctor! i heard a dickens of a screechin'.--i goes up to it. crows! yes, sir. there was a feller hangin' high up in a pine tree--tailor's journeyman from over in berkenbruck: he hanged hisself on account o' starvation--hanged hisself high up.--yes, there's always got to be somethin' higher! [_while they finish drinking their beer the long-drawn cries of pain of a man's voice are heard from some distance. the wind has risen considerably._ dr. boxer what is that? ede rauchhaupt. nothin' to worry about. langheinrich sounds kind o' gruesome, don't it? 'tain't nothin' very lovely neither. when that feller's pains in his leg gets hold o' him an' he roars out that way o' nights--that goes right through an' through any one. no, before i'd stand pain like that i'd go an' put a bullet through my head. ede gee-rusalem! that's a wind again. look out, doctor, that your hat don't fly away. _a hat is whirled by the wind along the street. schmarowski, hatless, a roll of paper in his hand, runs chasing it._ ede run along, sonny! right on there! show us what you c'n do! dr. boxer that hat is tired of his position: wants a holiday. schmarowski [_who has recovered his hat, turns angrily to dr. boxer._] what was that very appropriate remark you made just now? dr. boxer that you are an excellent runner. schmarowski schmarowski! dr. boxer boxer! schmarowski much pleased.--now i'd like to ask you a question. do you know what a fathead is? dr. boxer no. schmarowski you don't? neither do i. but now tell me: you know what a _schlemihl_ is, i suppose. langheinrich nothin' broke loose here? what's all this about? easy now, easy! howdy do, mr. schmarowski? how are you? have you come to visit your mother-in-law? schmarowski i have business here!--and before i forget it, i should like to say: have the goodness to be more careful. dr. boxer who is this amusing gentleman, langheinrich? ede that's mrs. wolff's son-in-law. schmarowski i'll have no dealings with you at all. ede naw, you better not. schmarowski not with you--[_turning to dr. boxer._] but if you don't know who i am, you can get information from baron von wehrhahn, the right reverend bishop, the baroness bielschewski and the countess strach. dr. boxer you want me to go around and get information from all those people? schmarowski that's what you're to do--just that an' nothing else. then maybe you can be more careful in future an' look people over before you talk. langheinrich what's gotten into you to-day? you're so dam' touchy! schmarowski [_to dr. boxer, who has glanced at ede and langheinrich alternately with serene laughter._] you just be so good an' be more careful: we ain't so soft. we don't take jokes so easy, especially not from the race to which you ... langheinrich hold on, mr. schmarowski! that's enough! nothin' like that here. that's enough an' too much, mr. schmarowski. you just see about gettin' along on your way now. schmarowski do you know where i am going straight from here? langheinrich you c'n go straight ahead to the lord hisself! you c'n go where you want to, schmarowski; only, don't be keepin' me from my work. we ain't got no time to lose here!--ede, put that axle in! _schmarowski exit, enraged._ ede good-bye! dr. boxer so that was mr. schmarowski, the envied pillar of the church? why, he's a poisonous little devil! langheinrich yes, you're right there! pois'nous is what he is. so you didn't, know him, dr. boxer? well, then you've seen him now--nothin' but a little, sly, venomous pup! but you ought to go an' watch him when he gets in with that pious crowd. then he lets his ears hang, so 'umble his own mother wouldn't hardly know him, like as if he was sayin': i ain't goin' to live more'n two weeks at--most an' then i'm goin' to heaven to be with jesus. yes! likely! there's another place where he's goin'. but that won't be soon. he ain't thinkin' of it much yet. an' in the meantime he rolls his eyes upward 'cause somethin' might be hangin' round that he c'n make a profit on. ede well, you c'n look out now! yon ain't goin' to get no work on the new institution. langheinrich i know that. can't be helped. things is as they is. can't hold' my tongue at things like that. i won't learn that in a lifetime. dr. boxer have you many of that kind hereabouts now? langheinrich so, so. enough to last for the winter. _rauchhaupt has come out of the little gate. he faces the wind, shades his eyes with his hand and peers around._ rauchhaupt lord a'mighty! well, well! things is goin' the queerest way to-day! when is they comin' back--them fielitzes? langheinrich that ain't goin' to be so very soon to-day. they've gone to buy a seven-day clock, a regulator. what are you upset about to-day? rauchhaupt wha'? fielitz goin' to buy that kind of a clock? i don't believe's he c'n survive that. [_calls._] gustav! langheinrich ain't he come back yet? i guess he's listenin' to the bells. you know how he sits an' listens when they ring. rauchhaupt i don't know. things is goin' queer to-day. mrs. fielitz sent for him to come over. horseradish seed is what she said she wanted. an' then she goes an' leaves for the city. [_exit, shaking his head._ ede they been stalkin' about since four o'clock in the mornin'. up an' down they went with their bull's-eye lantern. i don't believe they went to bed at all. langheinrich well, if fielitz has gone to buy a clock you can't expect him to eat or drink or sleep. rauchhaupt [_behind the fence._] gustav! dr. boxer the boy is coming now, running along. langheinrich that's right. rauchhaupt! here's gustav! _gustav comes prancing up, highly excited, gesticulating violently. he points in the direction from which he has come._ ede is that there a war dance you're tryin' to perform? looks like the cannibals' goin's on. i believe that brat feeds on human flesh. langheinrich hurry now an' run to your father. ede go on now! langheinrich get along with your horse-radish. _gustav gesticulating, puts his hollow hand to his mouth and toots in imitation of a trumpet. laughter._ ede where's the fire, you little firebrand? langheinrich ede, catch hold o' him! ede all right. [_he tries to creep up to gustav. the latter observes this, gives a loud toot and, still tooting, hurries away, dropping a box of matches as he does so._] hallo! langheinrich what's that? ede just what i need. langheinrich what? ede safetys! a whole box full. _mrs. schulze comes rushing down the stairs._ mrs. schulze mr. langheinrich! langheinrich well, what? mrs. schulze mr. langheinrich! langheinrich here i is! mrs. schulze it's ... it's ... it's ... over at ... langheinrich anything about the missis? mrs. schulze no, at fielitzes'. langheinrich is that so? nothin' about my wife? well, then,--[_he shakes her_]--just stop to get your breath. things is as they is. i'm prepared for anythin'--life an' death. i gotta stand it. mrs. schulze the engine! langheinrich what kind o' talk is that? anythin' wrong with you? mrs. schulze no; it's burnin'! langheinrich go an' blow it out then!--where is it burnin'! mrs. schulze at the fielitzes'! langheinrich good lord! that ain't possible! [_he drops the iron file and some nails which he has been holding._ ede where's the fire? mrs. schulze at fielitzes'; the flame is comin' out o' the skylight. dr. boxer [_has stepped forward._] confound it all, but it's smoky! come here! you can see it well from here. ede [_also stares in the direction of the fire. his expression shows that a complete understanding of the situation has come to him, which he expresses by a conscious whistling._] there ain't no words for this; i just gotta whistle. langheinrich ede! run over to scheibler's! run! get the horses for the engine! that smoke's comin' up thick over the gable. [_he rushes into the smithy, throws his apron aside, puts on a fireman's helmet, belt, etc._ mrs. schulze an' nobody at home there, goodness gracious! dr. boxer that's the lucky part of it, after all. _the roaring of the fire alarm trumpet is heard._ mrs. schulze you hear, doctor? they're tootin' already! langheinrich [_reappears in his fireman's uniform._] you get out o' the way here, old lady. go an' attend to things upstairs. nothin' to be done here with a syringe. you go up to my wife. hold on! we gotta have the key to the engine house. the devil! _mrs. schulze withdraws into the house. rauchhaupt's head reappears on the other side of the fence._ rauchhaupt my, but there's a smell o' burnin' in the air. langheinrich sure it smells that way. there's a fire at the fielitzes'. rauchhaupt the devil! i didn't know nothin' about that! langheinrich that's all right, old man. wasn't you a constable onct? [_he rushes away._ _a fourteen-year-old boy comes madly hurrying up._ the boy [_to dr. boxer._] master! the key to the engine house! they can't get in to the engine. dr. boxer i'm not the fireman! just keep cool! the boy they wants you to come to the engine right off. dr. boxer you didn't hear what i told you. the boy there's a fire! dr. boxer i know that. the engine master has left. he's reached the engine long ago. the boy there's a fire. they wants you to come down to the engine! [_he runs away._ _rauchhaupt appears at the gate. two little girls cling to his rags._ rauchhaupt i'm used to that! it don't excite me a bit! mieze! lottie! you c'n come an' see somethin'.--i seen hundreds an' hundreds o' fires, dr. boxer [_takes off the leathern apron._] it's a very sad thing for those people, though! rauchhaupt everythin' is sad in this here world. it's all a question o' how you looks at it! the same thing that's sad c'n be mighty cheerin'. now there's me: i raises pineapples, an' my hothouse wall ... it's right up against fielitzes' back wall. now i won't have to keep no fire goin' for three days. _a somewhat older girl also comes out through the gate and nestles close up to the others. mrs. schulze leans out from the window in the gable._ mrs. schulze [_addressing someone in the room behind her._] missis, you c'n be reel quiet! the wind's blowin' from the other side. [_she disappears._ rauchhaupt did you see that there old witch? she always knows where the wind comes from.--i retired from all that, yessir! i didn't want to be a old bloodhound right along. i don't mix in them things no more. but that woman--she could be a keen one. [_a fireman, blowing his horn very excitedly, walks by._] go it easy, august! patience! look out, or your breeches will bust! the fireman [_enraged._] aw, shut up! go an' hide yourself in the holes you're always diggin. [_exit._ _a fourth and a fifth girl, aged nine and ten years respectively, join the old man._ dr. boxer [_laughing._] that's quite a fierce fellow. rauchhaupt gussie, nelly, gimme your hand.--that's all nothin' but hurry. that feller don't know what's goin' on in this world. he's blowin' the trumpet of jericho, i'm thinkin', or maybe even the trump o' judgment day!-- dr. boxer i don't think i quite take your meaning, mr. rauchhaupt. rauchhaupt maybe mrs. wolff was only tryin' to scorch roaches. all right. maybe, for all i care, 'twas somethin' else. but if mrs. wolff ever puts _her_ hand to somethin'--there ain't very much left. dr. boxer what do you mean by that? rauchhaupt oh, i was just thinkin'. [_he withdraws, together with the children._ the curtain falls the third act _the court-room of justice von wehrhahn. a large, white-washed room level with the ground. the main door is in the left wall. along the wall to the right is the large official table covered with books, documents, etc. behind it stands the chair of the justice. by the middle window, small table and chair for the clerk of the court. in the foreground, right, a book case of soft wood, and on the left wall, shelves for documents and records. a small door in the background. several chairs._ _glasenapp sits at his small table. the justice's chair is unoccupied._ _in front of the official table dr. boxer, langheinrich in his uniform of a captain of the fire brigade, ede and three firemen are waiting. they are engaged in a rather excited conversation. all are red with heat, stained with mud, wet and sooty._ _mrs. schulze, somewhat pale, is resting in a chair and waiting likewise. she is in a very thoughtful mood. repeatedly she takes off her headkerchief and puts it on again and arranges her grey hair._ _the action takes place on the same day as that of the first act, five hours later._ _the conversation suddenly ceases._ _justice von wehrhahn enters betraying a high degree of official zeal. he covers his left eye with his left hand as though in pain, sits down behind the table, takes his hand from his eye, which twitches painfully, and begins._ wehrhahn well, what's the result of this wretched mess? langheinrich [_noticeably stimulated by exertion, whiskey and beer._] i've come to announce, baron, that the whole business is burned down. wehrhahn [_throwing down on the table an object which he has brought with him. it is seen to be a photograph in a frame of deer feet._] that's because you're all only half awake! you're all made that way. yon drowse around and do nothing. we're not three miles distant from berlin; our entire activity should have a different air! ede [_softly to dr. boxer._] the fire did have air enough, eh? langheinrich your honour.... wehrhahn never mind. i know all about it. [_he pulls out his handkerchief, wipes the perspiration from his forehead and taps his eye._ langheinrich your honour, i'd like to lay claim, humbly, to some credit ... we did our part honestly. we was on the spot with the engine. wehrhahn then get a better engine! langheinrich but if you can't get no water! wehrhahn you managed to get plenty of beer. langheinrich -----------? ede puttin' out a fire makes you thirsty! wehrhahn that seems undoubtedly to have been the case.--glasenapp, will you come and look? something flew into my eye. [_glasenapp jumps up and investigates._] i had just examined mrs. schulze when the north gable caved in. it must have been a spark or something like that.--by the way, hasn't mrs. schulze been here? mrs. schulze here i is. glasenapp yes, baron. _wehrhahn motions him away. glasenapp steps back and goes over to his table._ wehrhahn to proceed, then. it has come to my ears ... mrs. schulze has informed me, that a certain incident took place in front of your smithy.--it seems that you saw that worthless boy immediately before the flame rose and that he had a box of matches. how is it now with this story of the matches? tell us what you know! langheinrich he had a box o' matches. that's so. wehrhahn and he let it fall. ede an' i picked it up. yessir. wehrhahn you? ede me. same person you see. here's the box. all the matches ain't there no more 'cause i smoked several times ... [_he places the box of matches on the official table._] wehrhahn [_unpleasantly impressed by ede's manner, takes up the box and fixes his eyes upon him._] you helped along vigorously, i suppose? ede you bet! 'tain't no fun otherwise. wehrhahn i meant especially in the consumption of beer. ede that's what i thought you meant. yessir! wehrhahn you seem to be in a very playful mood. ede merry an' larky--that's my motto, your honour! wehrhahn delighted to hear that, i must say.--look here, are you dr. boxer? dr. boxer quite right. dr. boxer. wehrhahn so you are he! aha! i would hardly have recognised you. your mother still has the little notion shop here.... your father was a--er--tradesman--? dr. boxer [_voluntarily misunderstanding him._] yes, my father was in the reserve forces and was decorated with the iron cross in . wehrhahn ah, yes. of course. i recall.--your mother came running to my office recently and brought along several stones. her kitchen windows had been broken, i believe. mischievous boys, no doubt. i investigated, of course. i'm told you want to settle down here?--there's a very good physician here now--formerly of the army staff--very capable. dr. boxer i don't doubt that for a moment. wehrhahn to be quite frank--as things are now--i wonder whether this is an appropriate territory for you? dr. boxer i can take some time to discover that. wehrhahn naturally. so can we. so continue, please.--what was it that you observed, dr. boxer? dr. boxer the incident of the matches certainly. wehrhahn the incident of the horn blowing and of the matches. dr. boxer certainly. wehrhahn where were you when all this took place? dr. boxer i stood in front of langheinrich's smithy. wehrhahn did you have any particular business there?--you needn't get impatient at all. i understand that it doesn't concern me at present. your sympathetic affinity for the working classes is known to us from of old.--the boy will be arrested now. i imagine that constable tschache has captured him. at all events--is on his trail. he was seen, in rahnsdorf too. please call in sadowa! [_glasenapp withdraws by the rear door._ dr. boxer am i dismissed now, your honour? wehrhahn extremely sorry; no. kindly wait.--mrs. schulze, where is your nephew keeping himself today? i haven't seen him all day long. does any one know where constable schulze is? ede [_softly._] he might send out a warrant after him. wehrhahn doesn't any one know where constable schulze is?--has any one interviewed mrs. fielitz? or hasn't she returned from berlin yet?--i want somebody to go to councillor reinberg.--[_to glasenapp, who is just returning._] mr. schmarowski, mrs. fielitz's son-in-law, is there submitting his building-plans. the news should be broken to him gently. ede [_softly to boxer and langheinrich._] yes, gently, so he don't stumble over the church steeple. [_dr. boxer and langheinrich restrain their laughter with difficulty._] wehrhahn [_observing this._] does that strike you as very amusing?--i don't know what other reason you should have to laugh, langheinrich. when people are hardworking and ambitious and a fright like this comes to them--a visitation from god--we might properly say: god protect us from such things! i see nothing to laugh at.--did you have the impression ... did the boy seem to you ... i mean, in reference to this affair--as if things were not quite right with him? ede [_softly to boxer and langheinrich._] we knows where he ain't quite right! wehrhahn did he arouse your suspicion? yes or no? or did the thought actually occur to you that he might have started the fire? dr. boxer no. i have become too much of a stranger here. the conditions seem to overwhelm me. wehrhahn in what respect? dr. boxer [_with assumed seriousness._] i have returned from a very narrow life. out on the ocean one becomes accustomed to a certain narrowness of outlook. and so, as i said, i hardly feel capable of any comment for the present and must ask for the necessary consideration. wehrhahn we're not discussing conditions. the thing that lies before us is a concrete case. for instance: whether the boy tootled or not--what has that to do with narrowness or breadth of outlook? dr. boxer quite right. i haven't been able to get a general view yet. i can't so suddenly find my way again. i feel, naturally, the importance, the seriousness of the conditions here at home and that makes me feel hesitant. wehrhahn he did tootle this way, through his hand, didn't he? you heard that too, didn't you, langheinrich? langheinrich sure, he did it right out loud. ede when a feller tootles so tootin'ly that you c'n rightly say he's tootlin', then you c'n hear that there tootlin' tootin'ly. wehrhahn [_to langheinrich._] did you observe anything else that aroused your suspicions? i mean, while you were extinguishing the fire? were there any indications that pointed in another direction, or that might, at least, point in another direction? [_langheinrich thinks for a moment, then shakes his head._] you didn't get inside of the house, did you? langheinrich i just barely glanced into the room. then the ceiling came crashin' down. a hair's breadth sooner an' i'd ha' been smothered. wehrhahn the fire was started from without. constable tschache is quite right in that supposition. probably from behind where the goatshed is. that would also be in agreement with your evidence, mrs. schulze! you saw him creep around the house. right above the goatshed there is a window from which, as a rule, straw was sticking out. i myself made that observation. and this window gives on rauchhaupt's garden. this window tempted the boy. it tempted him because he had it daily before his eyes. so he simply climbed on the roof of the shed and from there reached the sky-light. very pleasant neighbour to have--i must say!--who's that crossing the street and howling so? glasenapp [_looks through the window._] shoemaker fielitz and his wife. wehrhahn what? is that mrs. fielitz who comes howling so? it's enough to melt the heart of a stone. _mrs. fielitz, whose loud, convulsive weeping has been audible before she appeared, enters, leaning upon the sexton and followed by her husband, who carries a large, new clock carefully in his arms. fielitz and his wife are both in their sunday clothes._ wehrhahn well, heavens and earth, mrs. fielitz! trust in the lord! our trust in the lord--that's the main thing! this isn't a killing matter.--get a drink of brandy, nickel! go over and ask my wife for it. mrs. fielitz has got to be brought to her senses first.--do me a favour, mrs. fielitz, and stop your outburst of tears. i can feel for you, when it comes to that. quite a severe blow of fate. have any valuables been destroyed? [_mrs. fielitz weeps more violently._] mrs. fielitz! mrs. fielitz! listen to me! please listen to what i say to you! kindly don't lose your reason! d'you understand? don't lose your head! you're generally a sensible woman.--well, if you won't, you won't.--[_nickel, who has been gone for a moment, returns with a brandy bottle and a small glass._]--give her the brandy; quick,--i'll address myself to you, fielitz. i see that you're quite collected, at least. that's the way a man ought to be, you understand. in any situation--be that what it may. so, fielitz, you give me some information! i'll put the same question to you first: have any valuables been destroyed? fielitz [_he is only partially successful in restraining the convulsive sobs that attack him while he speaks._] yes. six bills ... banknotes! wehrhahn well, i'll be blessed! is that true? and, of course, you don't even know the numbers! my gracious, but you're careless people! one ought to think of such things! but that does no good now. fielitz, do you hear me! one ought to take some thought.--now he's beginning to howl too! do you understand me? the place for ready money is a bank! and anyhow--the whole business! one doesn't leave one's property alone like that! one shouldn't leave it quite unprotected, especially with such a crowd in the neighbourhood as we have here! fielitz i ... aw ... who'd ha' thought o' such a thing, your honour? wehrhahn why don't you lay that clock down? fielitz i'm a peaceable man, your honour. i--i--i--i--oh, lordy, lordy! i can't tell you nothin', how that there thing happened.--i'm on good terms with people; i don't quarrel with nobody ... i has made mistakes in my life. that happens when a man ain't got no good companions. but that people should go an' treat me this way! no, i ain't never deserved that. mrs. fielitz [_weeping._] fielitz, what has i always been tellin' you? who's right now, eh? tell me that: who's right now? you didn't make no enemies on _our_ account. them's very different stories--them is. an' i guess mr. von wehrhahn knows somethin' about that! fielitz aw, mother, keep still. that there, that was my dooty. [_ede, half seriously, half in jest, makes a threatening gesture behind fielitz. wehrhahn observes this._ wehrhahn look here, you there! what's that you did? you stood behind fielitz and shook your fist over his head. ede maybe i'm weak in the chest, but i don't rightly know. wehrhahn listen: i'll tell you something. the place for insane people is the asylum. but if you behave with any more impudence, you'll first be taken to gaol!--i didn't understand you quite rightly, mrs. fielitz. you insinuated something just now. have you any suspicions in that direction? i don't care to express myself more clearly. but do you suspect a--how shall i express it--an act of, so to speak, political reprisal? in that case you must be absolutely open. we shall then certainly get to the bottom of it. mrs. fielitz no, no, no! i ain't got no suspicion. i'd rather go an' beg on the public roads. i don't want to accuse no human being. i don't know. i can't make nothin' of it at all. that's what i says again an' again. i don't know nothin'.--everythin' was locked up. we went away. the kitchen fire was out; the top o' the oven was cold. well, how did it happen? i can't understand it, nohow. i don't know. but you see, that a feller like that there feller c'n sit here an' make insinerations--that does hurt a body right to the soul! wehrhahn don't permit that to make any impression on you! where would any of us be, if we let such things affect us? any one who goes to church nowadays has the whole world hooting him. you just stick to me. [_he rummages among the papers on his table._] by the way, i succeeded in saving something here--a picture of your late husband. at least, i believe that that's what it is. it was framed in deer's feet. [_he finds the picture and hands it to mrs. fielitz._] here! _mrs. fielitz takes the picture, grasps wehrhahn's hand with a swift motion and kisses it, weeping._ ede [_audibly._] has anybody maybe got a bit o' sponge in his pocket, 'cause, you see, stockin's don't absorb so much water. wehrhahn make a note of that fellow, glasenapp! out with him! at once! you are to withdraw! _ede withdraws with absurd gestures of his arms and legs. suppressed laughter._ wehrhahn i'm really very much surprised at you, langheinrich. that fellow has a regular felon's face. one of those knife ruffians; a regular socialist. he's been in gaol several times on account of street brawls. and that's the kind of a man that you take into your shop and home. langheinrich all that don't concern me, your honour. i don't mix in politics. wehrhahn oh, is that so? we can afford to wait and see. langheinrich if a feller goes an' does his work all right ... wehrhahn nonsense! mere twaddle! let any one tell me with whom he associates and i will tell him who he is. _the murmuring and chattering of a crowd is heard. constable schulze enters in full uniform._ wehrhahn where have you been all day? schulze [_utterly disconcerted for some moments. then:_] we nabbed the boy, your honour. wehrhahn is that so? who did it? schulze me and tschache. wehrhahn where? schulze right near here; by the church. glasenapp he always sits there and listens to the bells. wehrhahn why didn't you tell us that before? did he try to escape? did he run from you? schulze he sat in the ditch an' didn't notice us. tschache could ride close up to him. an' then we got him by the scruff an' had him tight. [_he steps back and grasps gustav, whom_ tschache is leading in. members of the crowd press forward._ wehrhahn h-m! at all events he is here. i'm rather sorry, i must say. he's the son of a former prussian constable ... has any one informed old rauchhaupt? somebody had better go for him. mrs. schulze i'm takin' care of a sick person, your honour. maybe i might be able to get off now? wehrhahn prepare the record, glasenapp. no, mrs. schulze, you'll have to remain here for the present. the matter will be finished soon enough.--so let us prepare the record ... [_he leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling as if collecting his thoughts for the purpose of dictating._ langheinrich [_softly to dr. boxer._] look at mrs. fielitz, will you, doctor? eh? ain't she grown yellow as a lemon peel?--if only that thing don't go crooked, i tell you. [_he shows to dr. boxer, who wards him off with a gesture, something secretly in his hollow hand._] d'you want to see somethin'? eh? that's a fuse, that's what. dr. boxer [_softly._] where did you get that from? langheinrich it ain't me that knows! that might come from anywhere in the world. it might even come from fielitz's cellar. yessir. maybe you don't believe that? an' if i wanted to be nasty, doctor ... wehrhahn private conversation is not permitted here. mrs. fielitz [_tugs at langheinrich's sleeve and asks softly:_] didn't you meet leontine to-day? where was it? langheinrich [_with a triumphant glance at schulze._] over in woltersdorf. wehrhahn well, then, glasenapp ... this is a horrible state of affairs--the seventh conflagration this autumn. and these people pretend to constitute a civilised society! these firebrands pretend to be christians. one need merely step out on one's balcony to see the reflection of a fire somewhere in the heavens. now and then in clear nights i have counted the reflections of as many as five. contempt of judges and laws--that's what it is! and that has taken such hold of these scoundrels that arson has become a kind of diversion.--but they had better go slow. just a little patience, ladies and gentlemen! we know the tracks! we are on the right scent! and the people in question will have a terrible awakening when, quite suddenly, discovery and retribution come upon them. any one who is at all versed in the procedure of criminal justice knows that it goes ahead slowly and surely and finally lays hold upon the guilty.--but as commissioner von stoeckel quite rightly observed: the whole moral downfall of our time, its actual return to savagery is a consequence of the lack of religion! educated people do not hesitate to undermine the divine foundations upon which the structure of salvation rests.--but, thank god, we're always to be found at our place! we are, so to speak, always on our watch-tower!--and, i tell you, boy: there is a god! do you understand? there is a god in heaven from whom no evil deed remains hidden. brotherly love! christian spirit! what your kind needs is to have your breeches drawn tight and your behind flogged! i'd make you sick of playing with fires, you infamous little scamp!--yes, dr. boxer, that is exactly my conviction. you can shrug your shoulders all you please; that doesn't disturb me in the slightest degree. you can even take up your pen and raise the cry of cruelty and unfeelingness in the public prints! flogging! christian discipline--that's what is needed, and no sentimental slopping around! you understand! gustav [_has become more and more excited by the rising enthusiasm of the speaker. at the end of wehrhahn's oratorical effort he can restrain himself no longer and breaks out in a loud, deceptively exact imitation of an ass's bray._] i! a! a! a! i! a! a! a! [_general embarrassment._ wehrhahn [_also embarrassed._] what does that mean? glasenapp i really don't know. langheinrich that's gustav's art, your honour. he's famous for imitatin' animals' voices. wehrhahn is that so? and what animal was this supposed to be? langheinrich i guess a lion, all right.-- [_general laughter._ _wehrhahn shrugs his shoulders, laughs jeeringly and goes to his seat. silence. then renewed laughter._ wehrhahn i must request silence. this is no place for laughter! we are not indulging in horse-play for your benefit. we are not trying to amuse any one. the things we are discussing here are of a deadly seriousness. this isn't a circus. _rauchhaupt enters and stares helplessly about him._ mrs. fielitz [_tugs at the coat of schulze, who stands near her but with his back turned. he faces her and she asks with a sorrowful expression._] did you see my girl to-day? _schulze nods and turns back again._ mrs. fielitz [_as before._] you did see leontine this morning? _schulze nods again and turns away._ mrs. fielitz [_repeating the action._] an' where did you meet her, constable? schulze [_almost without moving his lips._] it was over beyond woltersdorf. rauchhaupt [_to langheinrich._] what's the matter here? what's all this here about? wehrhahn [_observes rauchhaupt._] you are a retired prussian constable? rauchhaupt [_having failed to hear the question._] say, schulze, what's all this for? schulze his honour axed you somethin'. i can't go an' give you no information. that's against orders. if you'd only ha' kept a better watch on that there boy! i preached to you about that often enough. rauchhaupt i don't know what you been preachin'! you ol' mush head! go on preachin'! schulze i begs to have it recorded that rauchhaupt insulted me officially. rauchhaupt what? 'cause you're such a old idjit? that's the reason why i insults you officially.... wehrhahn man alive! do you know where you are? or have you just dropped here out of the clouds! confound it all! stand still! obey orders! rauchhaupt here i is, your honour, an' i humbly announces ... wehrhahn that you are recalcitrant and disorderly! you are trying to get into trouble! how long have you been retired? rauchhaupt eleven years. wehrhahn in addition your memory is probably injured. and anyhow--your whole appearance! the devil! to think of a former constable looking like that ... i thought i knew all types! rauchhaupt that's 'cause i am ... you'll kindly excuse ... wehrhahn nothing is excused here! d'you understand? you actually smell! you contaminate the air! rauchhaupt 'tain't nothin' but the smell o' earth ... wehrhahn horse dung! rauchhaupt that must be from them pineapples.-- [_laughter._ wehrhahn in short: make haste to get out as soon as possible; otherwise, as i said ... out! out! you have probably seen now what is taking place here, and now you have nothing further to do.--here are the papers. constable! take them right over to the court. [_he hands the papers to schulze. the officers clash their sabres, grasp gustav more firmly and prepare to lead him out. rauchhaupt glares about in helpless and growing terror._ dr. boxer i have the impression, your honour, that this boy is really a patient. you will forgive me for mingling ... langheinrich the boy's a imbecile--clean daft! mrs. schulze no, no, doctor! oh, no, mr. langheinrich, that there boy knows what he's doin'. i had a hen onct an' she went an' hatched out eleven little chicks and he goes an' takes bricks an' kills seven of 'em. schulze that's right, aunt. an' how about that other business, about the little purse what he stole? mrs. schulze the little purse, yes, an' what was in it. an' the way he went about that there thing ... nobody as is well could ha' done it more clever. schulze an' then, aunt, the shawl ... mrs. schulze naw, an' then that there pistol. that boy's got all the good sense he needs. i'm a old an' experienced woman. rauchhaupt what's that you is? what? a ole witch with a low, lousy tongue in her head! you go an' sweep in front o' your own door before you go an' accuse other people. if somebody was to go an' watch your trade--takin' care o' babies an' such like an' seein' to it that there ain't no shortage o' angels in heaven--all kinds o' things might come out an' you wouldn't know how to see or hear no more.--what's this? what's the matter with gustav? i gotta know that--what all this here is! wehrhahn hold your tongue! [_to the constable._] right about--march! rauchhaupt hold on, i says! hold on, now! that's no way! things like that ain't mentioned in scripter! i'm the father o' this here child! what's he done? what do people think he's done? gustav! what is they accusin' you of? i went through the schleswig-holstein campaign; i was under fire in 'sixty-six; i was wounded in 'seventy. here's my leg an' here is my scars. i served the king of prussia ... wehrhahn those are old stories that you're telling us. rauchhaupt ... with god for king and fatherland! but this thing here, no, sir; i can't allow that. i wants to know what this thing here with gustav is about! wehrhahn look here, my man, you had better come to your senses! i have told you that once before. in consideration of your service to the state i have overlooked several things as it is. well now, i'll do one thing more. listen to me! this fine little product--this son of yours, has committed arson. at least, he is under the very strongest suspicion. now step out of the way and don't interfere with the officers in the performance of their duty. go on, schulze! rauchhaupt committed arson? that there boy? over there? at fielitz's? gustav? this here boy? this here little feller? o lordy! but that makes me laugh! an' that they ain't all laughin'--that's the funny part. here, schulze, don't you go in for no foolishness! i wore them brass buttons myself onct!--howdy-do, mrs. fielitz! well, fielitz, how are you? where are you goin' to hang up that clock o' yours? mrs. fielitz now he's jeerin' at us atop o' our troubles. rauchhaupt not a bit. why should i be jeerin' at you anyhow? it's a misfortune, you think! lord, lord, so it is! cats die around in sheds an' the birds they falls down dead to the earth. no, i ain't jeerin' at you! anyhow: i ain't scared o' many things. i've gone for some tough customers in my time--fellers that none o' the other constables wanted to tackle! this here finger is bitten through. yessir! but before i tackles any one like you--i'll go an' hang myself. mrs. fielitz [_almost grey in the face, with trembling lips, yet with considerable vehemence and energy._] what's that man goin' for me like that for? what did i ever do to him, i'd like to know! can i help it that things has turned out this way? i ain't seen nothin'! i wasn't there! i ain't cast no suspicions on no one! an' if they went an' arrested that boy o' yours--i didn't know no more about that than you! rauchhaupt woman! woman! look at me! mrs. fielitz rot! stop botherin' me. leave me in peace an' don't go showin' off that way! i got enough trouble to go through. the doctor tells a person not to get excited, 'cause you might go just like that! an' a man like you ... we don't know where to lie down! we don't know where we're goin' to sleep to-night! we're lyin' in the street, you might say, half dead an' all broken up ... rauchhaupt woman! woman! can you look at me? mrs. fielitz leave me alone an' go where you belongs. i don't let nobody treat me like that! i c'n look at you all right! why not? i c'n look at you three days an' three nights an' see nothin' but a donkey before me! if this here thing is put off on your boy now, whose fault is it mostly? how did you go an' talk about the boy? you says, says you: he steals, he sets fire to your straw shed--an' now you're surprised that things turns out this way! you beat this here poor boy ... he used to come runnin' over to me with so many blue spots on his body that there wasn't a place on him that wasn't sore. an' now you acts all of a sudden like a crazy man! _wehrhahn has motioned the officers who grasp gustav more firmly and lead him toward the door. rauchhaupt observes this and jumps with lightning-like rapidity in front of gustav, placing his hands on the latter's shoulders and holding him fast._ rauchhaupt can't be done! i can't allow that, your honour. my gustav ain't no criminal! i lived along reel quiet all to myself an' now i got into this here conspiracy. there's got to be proofs first of all! [_to langheinrich._] could it ha' been he, d'you think? [_langheinrich shrugs his shoulders._] them's all a crowd o' thieves around here--that's what ... gustav, don't you cry! they can't, in god's name--they can't do nothin' to you ... wehrhahn hands off! or ... hands off! rauchhaupt your honour, i'll take my oath o' office, that's what i'll take, that my boy here is innercent! wehrhahn _tempi passati_. you're getting yourself into trouble. for the last time: hands off! rauchhaupt then i'd rather kill him right here on the spot, your honour! wehrhahn [_steps between and separates rauchhaupt from his son._] move' on! you're not to touch the boy! if you dare the constable will draw his sabre! rauchhaupt [_white as chalk, half maddened with excitement, has loosened his hold on gustav and plants himself in front of the main door._] don't do that to me, your honour, for god's sake, for christ's sake--don't! that's a point o' honour with me--a point o' honour! anythin' exceptin' that! i'll go instead. i c'n furnish bail. i'll run an' get bail. i c'n get back here right away! eh? c'n i? or can't that be done now? wehrhahn stuff and nonsense. move out of the way! rauchhaupt i knows who it was that did it! _wehrhahn thrusts rauchhaupt aside and the two officers conduct gustav out. dr. boxer and langheinrich support and restrain rauchhaupt at the same time. he falls into a state of dull collapse. silence ensues. without saying a word wehrhahn returns to his table, blows his nose, glances swiftly at rauchhaupt and mrs. fielitz and sits down._ wehrhahn let us have some light, glasenapp. _glasenapp lights a lamp on the table._ mrs. fielitz no, no, i tell you; it's bad, bad! a man like that! he goes an' accuses everybody in the whole place. wehrhahn you! mrs. schulze! you can go your ways! _mrs. schulze withdraws rapidly._ mrs. fielitz i'd like to ax your honour ... we don't even know where we're goin' to sleep to-night. wehrhahn are you asleep now, fielitz? fielitz [_frightened from the contemplation of his clock._] not me, your honour! wehrhahn i thought you were because your head drooped so. fielitz [_with childish bashfulness._] i was just lookin' at the hands. wehrhahn [_to mrs. fielitz._] you want to go? mrs. fielitz if it's maybe possible ... i can't hardly stand on them two legs o' mine no more. wehrhahn i believe that. when did you get up this morning? mrs. fielitz -- -- --? fielitz we both got up around eight o'clock. wehrhahn do you always get up so late? mrs. fielitz sure not! that there man is confused to-day in his mind. we got up at five. we always get up at five! wehrhahn well, mrs. fielitz, you go on home now.--i should be mighty sorry in some respects ... however, justice goes its way. murder will out. criminals come to a fearful end! the eternal judge doesn't forget. and--you [_to rauchhaupt._] might as well go home. go home and wait to see how things turn out. i'll let things go this time. your paternal feeling robbed you of your senses. rauchhaupt [_steps forward._] i should like 'umbly to report, your honour ... wehrhahn go on! go on! what else do you want? let us have no more nonsense, my good man. rauchhaupt [_goes close up to mrs. fielitz._] god is my witness! i'll show you up! the curtain falls the fourth act _the attic room over langheinrich's smithy. to the left, two small, curtained windows. at one of the windows an arm-chair on which mrs. fielitz is sitting. she has aged perceptibly and grown thinner.--at the second window stands a sewing-machine with a chair beside it. a skirt at which some one has been working is thrown across the chair. a bodice lies on the machine itself. a door in the rear wall leads to a little sleeping-chamber immediately under the roof. to the left of this door a brown tile-oven; to its right, a yellow wardrobe. in the right wall there is likewise a door which opens upon the hall. behind this door a neatly made bed and a yellow chest of drawers. above this chest hangs a seven-day clock. the shoemaker fielitz stands in his stocking feet upon the chest of drawers and winds the clock._ _in the middle of the room an extension table. a hanging lamp above it. four yellow chairs surround the table, a fifth--of the same set stands near the bed. langheinrich and ede, _dressed in their working-clothes, are busy at the table. langheinrich holds an iron weather-vane which ede is painting red._ _ede and langheinrich break out in loud laugh._ fielitz [_who has been minding the clock while the others have been laughing._] somebody's been pokin' around here again. langheinrich you c'n bet on that. i s'ppose that's what's happened. you'd better watch out more. [_renewed laughter._ fielitz all i say is: let me catch some one at it! an' i won't care what happens neither! langheinrich that's right! that's the way! don't you care who it is, neither. i think it was leontine. mrs. fielitz the girl ain't been near that there clock! langheinrich oh, oh! fielitz somethin's goin' to happen some day. i don't take no jokes o' that kind. ede you gotta save that to put it in the shop. langheinrich that's the truth! that's what i always been sayin'! that corner shop'll soon be built now, an' then maybe he won't have no clock to hang up in it. how could he go an' start a business then! fielitz firebrands! pack o' thieves! laugh if you wants to! you can't never get the better o' me! langheinrich not a bit, can they! an' that wouldn't do. how many contracts has you been makin'? i mean about furnishin' people with shoes. you got to have somethin' to start with! mrs. fielitz can't you leave the man in peace! fielitz you just go in my room; there you c'n see letters an' contracts lyin' around--packages an' heaps o' them! ede [_looks into the adjoining room._] i don't see nothin'. langheinrich tear up the floorin': you'll find the docyments hidden there. people has got to have their business secrets! fielitz o' course they has! an' whippersnappers don't know much about that. go an' learn how to read an' write before you go an' mix in my business. mrs. fielitz come, fielitz, let them be! don't lose your temper. you know as langheinrich has got to have his joke! that's the way the man is made. langheinrich i do feel pretty jolly to-day, an' that's a fac'! i got a piece o' work done. an' if i don't go an' fall down from the steeple when i puts it up--i'll go an' christen this here occasion. an' i won't use water. mrs. fielitz are you goin' to put it up yourself? langheinrich you c'n take your oath on that! an' why not? schmarowski, he designed it. but i forged it an' i'll put it up. _leontine enters._ leontine you better let schmarowski do that himself. ede schmarowski ain't afraid o' anything shaky. langheinrich no, that's as true as can be, i know. he ain't afraid o' god nor the devil. that little man ... i tell you, bismarck is just a coward alongside o' him! fielitz i'd like to make a inquiry: who is it that built that there new house? langheinrich well, who did? fielitz me! an' not schmarowski. ede well, that's certain! we all knows that, mr. fielitz. fielitz right up from the foundation! me an' nobody but me! that there is my land, my bricks, my money! all the insurance money's been sunk into that. ax mother here if that ain't the fac'! [_laughter._ mrs. fielitz oh, lord, fielitz! can't you let that be? has you got to tell them old stories all over again? fielitz that i has! i got to prove that, mother! i got to let them people know who i is! watch out, i tell you, when i makes my speech to-day! mrs. fielitz schmarowski says there ain't goin' to be no speech makin'. fielitz you can't go an' tie up my tongue, an' schmarowski can't do it neither! [_he withdraws into the adjoining little room._ langheinrich you better look out, ole lady, an' see that there ain't no bloody row raised. there's talk now o' some people wantin' to get ugly. better be a bit careful! mrs. fielitz all you gotta do is to keep your eye on him a bit. treat him to drinks from the beginnin'. i can't keep that man in order to-day. he's bound to go to the festival. langheinrich schmarowski got a drubbin' yesterday. ede last night, yes, after the people's meetin'. mrs. fielitz maybe he went an' gave it to 'em a bit too hot. langheinrich that's what he did. that little scamp talked, mrs. fielitz! the whole meetin' just shouted! an' he didn't mind callin' a spade a spade neither. mrs. fielitz he oughtn't to be so hot, i think. langheinrich that he ought, just that! an' why not? do what you can an' go ahead! that's the way! that whole crowd don't deserve no better. not wehrhahn an' not friderici. an' anyhow, it was a good thing, mrs. fielitz. it was done just in the nick o' time! now he's gone an' broken with them fellers, an' everybody knows it. there ain't no goin' back now. now he belongs to us, mrs. fielitz, an' i never would ha' thought it of him! mrs. fielitz you got reason to be satisfied with him, i'm thinkin'. look at the noise in your workshop with four journeymen ... langheinrich that's true, too, an' i'm not denyin' it. he put money in circulation. i couldn't make friends with pastor friderici's collection plate. couldn't do it. now everything's arranged.--now i want you to keep your eyes open at the window when i gets up to the top o' the steeple. i'll wave an' sing out an'--jump down! _langheinrich and ede exeunt with the weather vane. a brief silence._ mrs. fielitz i wonder if rauchhaupt will be comin' in to-day? leontine i don't see, mother, why you're so frightened all the time. rauchhaupt ain't nothin' but an old fool. let him come all he pleases an' jabber away! let him, mother. nobody don't pay no attention to his nonsense! mrs. fielitz they says as he's been talkin' around a lot. leontine well, let him! i got letters too. here's one of 'em again, mother. [_she throws down a letter in its envelope._] but i don't worry about that. an' anyhow it's only that assistant at the railroad. mrs. fielitz it might ha' been constable schulze, too. leontine or that assistant teacher lehnert--if you want to go on guessin'! mrs. fielitz well, let 'em! them fellers is jealous--an' envious o' schmarowski an' his new house! they'd like to go an' lay somethin' at our door. but no! 'tain't so simple as that! leontine [_who has been sewing at her machine for a moment._] look, mama, i found this here! mrs. fielitz hurry now, hurry! don't go an' lose time now. that dress has got to be ready by two. adelaide has been sendin' over again!--the one thing you ought to do is to go down to the cellar an' get that couple o' bottles o' wine, so's we can drink their health when they come up! you c'n see, they'll soon be through. leontine that thing was the missis' spine supporter. mrs. fielitz she was a poor, wretched crittur: strappin' herself an' tyin' herself an' squeezin' herself, an' yet she couldn't get rid o' her hump. leontine well, why did she have to be so vain! mrs. fielitz don't grudge her her rest. she's deserved it. leontine they says that her ghost keeps rappin' up in the top attic where langheinrich sleeps. mrs. fielitz let her be! let her be! don't talk no more. maybe he was a bit rough with her for all she brought money to him. she had to sew an' sew an' earn money.... no wonder she can't find no rest. leontine why did she have to go an' marry langheinrich? mrs. fielitz let them old stories be! i don't like to hear about 'em. my head's full enough o' trouble without 'em. i don't know what's wrong with me anyhow. a body sees ghosts enough now an' then without thinkin' o' the past. leontine i must say, though, that if he's unfaithful to me that way.... mrs. fielitz langheinrich? let him go an' be. when it comes to that, there ain't no man that's any good. if there was to be a single one whom you could go an' depend on when it comes to that--it'd be somethin' new to me.--main thing is to be at your post. the man ain't bad. he means reel well. be savin'. you know how careful he is! an' take care o' his bit o' clothes an' be good to his little girl. he don't object to your boy. [_fielitz re-enters clad in his long, black sunday coat._] you can't go to that dinner lookin' like that. come here an' i'll sew on that there button. fielitz 'tain't possible you'll do that much! don't go an' hurt yourself now. mrs. fielitz [_holds his garment with her left hand and sews, still seated._] it ain't nobody's fault if a body can't get around so quick no more. you gets well enough taken care of. fielitz aw, them times is past! you needn't lie atop of it all! i'm like a old bootjack--kicked in a corner.--has anybody been shovin' my clock? leontine it's likely. he's got a screw loose. [_exit._ fielitz you just wait! mrs. fielitz langheinrich was just jokin'? fielitz i'll show the whole crowd o' you somethin' now that i got on top. i c'n go an' stand up to any man yet! mrs. fielitz well, o' course. there ain't nobody doubts that. fielitz i just want you to wait two years an' see who it'll be that has made the most money: schmarowski, langheinrich or me! mrs. fielitz i don't see what grudge you got against langheinrich? he went an' took us into his house.... fielitz he did that 'cause he's got his reason an' 'cause he wants a high rent. mrs. fielitz you better be glad he is the way he is. fielitz on account o' that bit o' business with the fuse? you go right ahead an' let him trample on you. mrs. fielitz what was that there about a fuse? fielitz that business? what d'you s'ppose? dr. boxer talked about it too. mrs. fielitz i don't know nothin' about them affairs o' yours. fielitz mother, i got a good conscience. mrs. fielitz you c'n go an' put it in a glass case. fielitz mother, i ain't sayin' nothin' else right now ... mrs. fielitz that's all foolishness! fielitz all right. mrs. fielitz schmarowski was here. how's that now with, the mortgage? fielitz you mean that my mortgage is now the fourth? mrs. fielitz anybody knows that a buildin' like that costs money. fielitz schmarowski is sinkin' all his money in bricks an' mortar. mrs. fielitz nonsense! fielitz it's a fac'! that thing has taken hold o' him like a sickness. mrs. fielitz main thing is that you agrees. don't you? fielitz not a bit! i don't agree to nothin'. i been a agent in my time an' took care o' the most complexcated affairs. yes, an' wehrhahn patted me on the back an' was mighty jolly 'cause i'd been so sly ... no, mother, i ain't so green.--i c'n keep accounts! i knows how to use my pen! i'm more'n half a lawyer! that feller ain't goin' to get the better o' me. _schmarowski enters very bustling. he has changed the style of his garments considerably--light spring overcoat, elegant little hat and cane. he carries a roll of building plans._ schmarowski mornin', mrs. fielitz. how are you now? did you get over that slight cold? mrs. fielitz thank you kindly; i gets along. take a seat. schmarowski yes, i will. i've reely deserved it. i've been on my feet since four o'clock this morning! lord only knows how i succeed in staggerin' along. fielitz mornin'. i'm here too, you know. schmarowski good mornin'. didn't notice you at all. i have my head so full these days ... fielitz me too. schmarowski certainly. don't doubt it! have you anything to say to me? if so, go ahead, please! fielitz not this here moment! i got other things to attend to just now. i gotta go an' meet a gentleman at the station on account o' them russian rubber shoes. later. sure. but not just now. [_he stalks out excitedly._ schmarowski that cobbler makes us all look ridiculous. he plays off in all the public houses. the other day this thing happened out there in the waiting-room where all the best people were sittin': he just made his way to 'em an' talked all kinds of rot about the factories he was goin' to build and such like. mrs. fielitz the man acts as if he didn't have his right mind no more. schmarowski but you're gettin' along all right. mrs. fielitz tolerable. oh, yes. only i can't hardly stand the hammerin' no more. i wish we was out o' this here house! schmarowski patience! for heaven's sake, have patience now! things have gone pretty smoothly so far. don't let's begin to hurry now. just a little patience. i'm as anxious as any one for us to get settled. but i can't do no wonders. i'm glad the roof is on. i know what that cost me--an' then all these annoyances atop o' that. [_he shows her a number of opened letters._] anonymous, all of 'em, of course. the meanest accusations of fielitz, of you, an', of course, of myself. mrs. fielitz i don't know what them people wants. when you got trouble you needn't go huntin' for insult. that's the way things is, an' different they won't be. they questioned us up an' down. three times i had to go an' run to court. if there'd been anythin' to find out, they'd ha' found it out long ago. schmarowski i don't want to offer no opinion about that. that's your affair; that don't concern me. 's far as i'm concerned, i gave the people to understand what i am. when people want to get rid o' me, they got to take the consequences. that's what pastor friderici had better remember. i saw through his game.--but to come to the point, as i'm in a hurry, as you see. everything's goin' very 'well--but cash is needed--cash! mrs. fielitz but fielitz ain't willin'. schmarowski mr. fielitz will have to be! mrs. fielitz he's still thinkin' about that corner shop o' his. can't you keep a bit o' space for it? schmarowski can't be done! how'd i end if i begin that way? you got sense enough to see that yourself. no. there wasn't no such agreement. we can't be thinkin' o' things like that.--a banker is comin' to this dinner, mrs. fielitz, an' i ought to know what to expect exactly. everything is bein' straightened out now. if i'm left to stick in the mud now...! mrs. fielitz i'll see to it. don't bother. schmarowski very well. an' now there's something else. have you heard anything from rauchhaupt again? mrs. fielitz yes, i hears that he don't want to hold his tongue an' that he goes about holdin' us up to contempt. that's the same thing like with wehrhahn. i never did nothin' but kindnesses to rauchhaupt. an' now he comes here day in an' day out an' makes a body sick an' sore with his old stories that never was nowhere but in his head. maybe ... my goodness ... a man like that ... he c'n go an' keep on an' on, till, in the end ... well, well ... schmarowski don't be afraid, mrs. fielitz. things don't go no further now that the noise is quieted down.--by the way, i see that the carpenters are assemblin'. i got to go over there an' rattle off my bit o' speech. it's just this: if rauchhaupt should come in again, you just question him carefully a little. there's a new affair bein' started. got a political side to it. immense piece o' business. 'course i got my finger in that pie, as i has in all the others now. we'd like to get rauchhaupt's land ... he bought it for a song in the old days. if we c'n get it--the whole of it an' not parcelled--there'd be a cool million in it. mrs. fielitz an' here i got two savin's bank books. schmarowski thank you. just what i need. there are times when a man can't be sparin' o' money ... mrs. fielitz the girl is comin'. hurry an' slip 'em into your pocket. _schmarowski hastily puts the bankbooks into his pocket, nods to mrs. fielitz and withdraws rapidly._ mrs. fielitz [_half rising from her chair and looking anxiously out through the window._] if only they don't go' an' make trouble this day. there's a great crowd o' people standin' around. _leontine returns with the three bottles of wine and the glasses._ leontine mama! mama! he's downstairs again. that fool of a rauchhaupt is down there. mrs. fielitz [_frightened._] who? leontine rauchhaupt. he's comin' in right behind me. [_she places the bottles and glasses on the table._ mrs. fielitz [_with sudden determination._] let him! he c'n come up for all i cares. i'll tell him the reel truth for onct. [_rauchhaupt puts his head in at the door._ rauchhaupt is i disturbing you, mrs. fielitz? mrs. fielitz no, you ain't disturbin' me. rauchhaupt is i disturbin' anybody else then? mrs. fielitz i don't know about that. it depends. rauchhaupt [_enters. his appearance is not quite so neglected as formerly._] my congratulations. i'm comin' in to see if things is goin' right again. mrs. fielitz [_with forced joviality._] you got a fine instinct for them things, rauchhaupt. rauchhaupt [_staring at her, emphatically._] that i has, certainly! that i has!--i just met dr. boxer, too. he's goin' to come up and see you in a minute, too. an' i axed him about a certain matter, too. mrs. fielitz what kind o' thing was that? rauchhaupt about that time, you know! they says that he said somethin' to langheinrich that time an' langheinrich said somethin' to him, too. mrs. fielitz i ain't concerned with them affairs o' yours. leontine! go an' get a piece o' sausage so that they c'n have a bite o' food when they comes over afterwards. rauchhaupt the world don't stop movin'. mrs. fielitz no, it don't. that's so. leontine wouldn't you like for me to stay here now? rauchhaupt yon better be goin' an' buy some silk stockin's. mrs. fielitz what's the meanin' o' that? rauchhaupt that don't mean, nothin' much. you might think she was a countess--standin' there at mrs. boxer's:--adelaide, i mean, what's now mrs. schmarowski. there she stood in the shop an' chaffered about a yellow petticoat. she's a great lady nowadays an' one as wears red silk stockin's. leontine people like us don't hardly have enough to buy cotton, ones. [_exit._ mrs. fielitz i wonder what people will say about adelaide in the end? rauchhaupt that ain't just talkin'. them's facts. t'other day the beer waggon unloaded some beer at mrs. kehrwieder's--mrs. kehrwieder that's a washerwoman hereabouts. well, my lady comes rustlin' up--that's what she does--an' turns up her nose--she ain't no beastly snob, oh, no!--an' then she asks mrs. kehrwieder: is it reely true that the poor drinks beer? mrs. fielitz you needn't come to me with your rot an' your gossip. rauchhaupt anyhow, what i was goin' to tell you is this: i'm on a new scent! mrs. fielitz what kind of a scent is that you're on? rauchhaupt mum's the word! i gotta be careful. i can't say nothin'; i don't pretend to know nothin'. but i kept my eyes open pretty wide, i tell you. there's detectives workin', too. i been to wehrhahn, too, an' he told me to go right on! mrs. fielitz [_knitting._] o lordy! wehrhahn. he's goin' to do you a lot o' good, ain't he? it'll cost some more o' your money--that's what! rauchhaupt mrs. fielitz, the things we has found out, i'll show 'em up clear as day, i tell you. you c'n get hold o' the smallest secret. the public prosecutor hisself pricked up his ears. an' the way you does it is this: first you draws big circles, mrs. fielitz, an' then you draws littler ones an' littler ones an' then--then somebody is caught! who? why, them criminals what set fire to the house. o' course i don't mean you, mrs. fielitz. mrs. fielitz i'd give the matter a rest if i was you. nothin' ain't goin' to come out. rauchhaupt how much you bet, missis? i'll take you up. mrs. fielitz if nothin' didn't come out at first ... rauchhaupt how much you bet, missis? come now, an' bet. all a body's gotta be is patient. you ordered gustav to come over at eleven o'clock with the seeds. an' just then mrs. schulze passed by your door. no, i don't take my nose off the scent. mrs. fielitz now i'll tell you something rauchhaupt. i don't care nothin' about your nose. but i tell you, if you don't stop but go on sniffin' around here all the blessed time.... i tell you, some day my patience'll be at an end! rauchhaupt why don't you go an' sue me, mrs. fielitz? mrs. fielitz for my part you c'n say right out what you has to say. then a person'll know what to answer you. but don't go plannin' your stinkin' plans with that schulze woman! i put that there woman outta here! she comes here an' tries to talk me into lettin' leontine come over to her. the constable, he'd like that pretty well. my girl ain't that kind, though. an' now, o' course, the old witch'd like to give us a dig. before that she wanted to do the same to you!--i don't know anyhow what you're makin' so much noise about! i don't see as anythin' bad has happened to that boy o' yours! he's taken care of. he's got a good home! he gets nursin' an' good food! rauchhaupt no, no, that don't do me no good inside. i don't let that there rest on me--not on me an' not on gustav. can't be done! that keeps bitin' into me. i can't let that go. it cost me ten years o' my life. i knows that! i knows what i went through that time when i tried to hang myself. i ain't never goin' to get over that, 's long's i live! i'll find out who was at the bottom of it all! i made up my mind to that! fielitz good lord, an' why not? go ahead an' do it! keep peggin' away at it. what business is it o' mine? has i got to have myself excited this way all the time when, the doctor told me how bad it is for me.... rauchhaupt missis, there ain't a soul as knows what that was. i knows it. i just ran home, blind.... couldn't see nothin'! i didn't know nothin' no more o' god or the world. i just kept pantin' for air! an' then there i lay--like a dead person on the bed. they rubbed me with towels an' they brushed me with brushes, an' sprayed camphor all over me an' such stuff! then i came back to life. mrs. fielitz how many hundreds o' times has you been tellin' me that? i knows, rauchhaupt, that you went off o' your head. well, what about that? look at me! my hair didn't get no blacker from that there business; i didn't get no stronger from it neither. who's worse off right now--you or me? that's what i'd like to know. you got your health; you're lookin' prosperous! an' me? what am i to-day? an' how does i look? well, then, what more d'you want?--i dreamed o' my own funeral, already!--what do you want more'n that? i ain't goin' to bother nobody much longer. there ain't much good to be got by houndin' me!... an' that's the truth.--an' anyhow, you're a foolish kind o' a man, rauchhaupt. you're so crazy, nobody wouldn't hardly believe it. first you was always wantin' to get rid o' the boy ... rauchhaupt oh, you don't know gustav, that you don't! what that there boy could do when i had him ... an' the way he was kind to children an' such like! an' the way he c'n sing! an' the thoughts he's got in his head! that there time when he ran away from the asylum, he went an' he sat down in front o' the church where he was always listenin' to the bells, an' there he sat reel still, waitin'. you ought to ha' seen the boy then, mrs. fielitz, the way all that shows in his face. that's somethin'! only thing is, he can't get it out the way the likes o' us c'n do it. mrs. fielitz rauchhaupt, i had worse things 'n that. yes. i lost a boy--an' he was the best thing i had in this world. well, you see? you c'n go an' stare at me now! my life--it ain't been no joke neither.--go right on starin' at me! maybe you'll lose your taste for this kind o' thing the way you did onct before. rauchhaupt mrs. fielitz, i'm a peaceable man, but that there ... i'm peaceable, missis. i never liked bein' a constable, but ... mrs. fielitz well, then! everybody knows that! on that very account! an' now there ain't nobody as bad as you! you're actin' like a reg'lar bloodhound! why? you've always been as good as gold, rauchhaupt! every child in the place knows that! an' now, what's all this about?--you c'n go an' open one o' them there bottles. why shouldn't we go an' drink a bit o' a drop together? [_rauchhaupt wipes his eyes and then walks across to draw the cork of one of the bottles._]--fightin' c'n begin again afterwards. i s'ppose life ain't no different from that.--an' we can't change it. there ain't nothin' but foolishness around. an' when you want to go an' open people's eyes--you can't do it! foolishness--that's what rules this world.--what are we: you an' me an' all of us? we has had to go worryin' and workin' all our lives--every one of us has! well, then! we ought to know how things reely is! if you don't join the scramble--you're lazy: if you do--you're bad.--an' everythin' we does get, we gets out o' the dirt. people like us has to turn their hands to anythin'! an' they, they tells you: be good, be good! how? what chanct has we got? but no, we don't even live in peace with each other.--i wanted to get on--that's true. an' ain't it natural? we all wants to get out o' this here mud in which we all fights an' scratches around ... out o' it ... away from it ... higher up, if you wants to call it that ... is it true as you're wantin' to move away from here, rauchhaupt? rauchhaupt yes, mrs. fielitz, i been havin' that in my mind. an' why? dr. boxer an' me, we knows why. [_he groans sorrowfully._] it ain't only on account o' my wantin' to be nearer to gustav. no, no! i don't feel well in this here neighbourhood no more. everybody looks at me kind o' queer nowadays. [_the bottle has now been uncorked and rauchhaupt fills two glasses._ mrs. fielitz that's another thing. why does we care what people think? rauchhaupt no, no! when a man has done what i has--that's different. when a man's gone that length--an' a former officer at that--that he's gone an' taken a rope an' tried.... i don't understand, missis, i don't understand how i could ha' done that.--but they cut me down ... that they did. [_he drinks._ mrs. fielitz is it reely true what people says about it? rauchhaupt you see, it got out, an' people knows! an' that--me bein' a former officer--when i think o' that! no, no rain an' no wind can't wash that blot off o' me. [_he drinks._ mrs. fielitz i say: let's drink to our health. i don't care about people nor what they thinks.--but if, maybe, you do want to sell some day--who knows?... i c'n talk to schmarowski. you two might agree. _dr. boxer, ede and leontine enter._ dr. boxer you're having a very jolly time here, mrs. fielitz. mrs. fielitz just to-day. it's an exception; that it is! ede young lady! hey, there! you want to see somethin'? langheinrich is dancin' around on the church-steeple! _mrs. fielitz rises with difficulty and looks out._ leontine i can't bear to look at things like that even. ede let him fall! he won't fall nowhere but on his feet; he's just like a cat. dr. boxer [_softly and half-humorously threatening rauchhaupt._] stop exciting my patient all the time. a deuce of a lot of good all my doctoring will do then! mrs. fielitz you c'n leave the man be, doctor. people has put him up to things. otherwise he's the best feller in the world. dr. boxer very well, then! and beyond that, mrs. fielitz, how do you feel? mrs. fielitz well enough. 'tis true,--[_she points to her breast_]--somethin's cracked inside o' here. but then! everybody's gotta get out o' the world sometime. i've lived quite a while! dr. boxer you musn't talk so much! you must keep still longer. [_to rauchhaupt._] i've got an invitation for you. mr. schmarowski saw you going in here, and so he stopped me and asked me to say that he'd like to have you come over to the dinner! mrs. fielitz rauchhaupt--well, o' course. why not? rauchhaupt an' i won't go givin' nothin' away yet. mrs. fielitz and you, doctor? dr. boxer [_quickly._] heaven forbid! not i? mrs. fielitz an' why not? do you bear him a grudge about anythin'? dr. boxer i? bear a grudge? i never do that. but, do you see, i'm a lost man as far as all this is concerned. i don't deny that it amuses me to watch all these doings here, but i can't join in them. i'll never learn to do that.--i will probably go away again, too. mrs. fielitz an' give up such a good practice? dr. boxer sea-faring--that gives a man true health. that is the best practice for one, mrs. fielitz, who is in some respects so little practical. mrs. fielitz you ain't very practical, that's true. dr. boxer no, i am not.--listen, listen, how they're letting themselves go! [_many voices are heard in enthusiastic shouting._] great enthusiasm again! in a moment they will raise schmarowski and carry him on their shoulders. they were about to do it a moment ago. [_a great, confused noise of huzzaing voices floats into the room._] well, do you see? isn't that truly uplifting? leontine mother, look, look who the workin'men is raisin' up! the workin'men is raisin' him up! mrs. fielitz who? [_she rises convulsively and stares out._ leontine don't you see who it is? rauchhaupt schmarowski. ede that's how it is. i couldn't bear to see that there feller. but now ... well ... he's got some sense an' he's fightin' for sensible ideas--against arbitrary an' police power--now, well, i'll drink to his health, too. dr. boxer well, of course, ede, naturally you will! _fielitz enters highly excited._ fielitz me ... me ... me ... me ... it was me that did it! go on an' shout, an' shout! it's that there feller that they lifts up! let 'em. but i don't make no speeches like that! character, conscience--them's the main things. yes, it was me as paid an' me as built. but even if wehrhahn went an' dropped me--i don't let go my sound opinions! there's gotta be order! there's gotta be morality! i'm for the monarchy right down to my marrow! i don't envy him that there triumph! dr. boxer look here, fielitz! come over here to the light, will you? i'd like to examine your eyes.--don't your pupils move at all? mrs. fielitz [_pants swiftly and convulsively, throws her hands high up as if in joy, and cries out half in rapture, half in terror:_] julius! leontine mama! mama! ede she's gone to sleep. leontine [_appealing to the doctor._] mother is swingin' her arms around so! dr. boxer who? where? mrs. fielitz? leontine look! look! ede [_laughing._] is she tryin' to catch sparrows in the air? _dr. boxer has turned from fielitz to mrs. fielitz._ dr. boxer mrs. fielitz! _fielitz unconcerned by the events in the room, walks excitedly up and down in the background. rauchhaupt is tensely watching from the window what takes place without._ leontine what is it? mother won't answer at all! rauchhaupt i believe they're goin' to end by comin' over here! dr. boxer what is it, mrs. fielitz? what are you trying to do? why do you move your hands about in that way? mrs. fielitz [_reaching out strangely with both hands._] you reaches ... you reaches ... always this way ... dr. boxer after what? mrs. fielitz [_as before._] you always reaches out after ... somethin' ... [_her arms drop and she falls silent._ leontine [_to dr. boxer._] is she sleepin'? dr. boxer [_seriously._] yes, she has fallen asleep. but keep all those people back now. rauchhaupt the whole crowd is comin' over here. dr. boxer [_emphatically._] keep them back! ede! turn them back at once! _ede runs out._ leontine doctor, what's happened to mother? dr. boxer your mother has ... leontine what, what? dr. boxer [_significantly._] has fallen asleep. leontine's [_face assumes an expression of horror; she is about to shriek. dr. boxer takes hold of her vigorously and puts his hand over her mouth. she regains a measure of self-control._] but, doctor, she was talkin' just now...? dr. boxer [_gently draws leontine forward with his left hand and places his right upon the forehead of the dead woman._] so she was. and from now on she takes her fill of silence. _in the background fielitz, careless of what has happened, regards his eyes sharply and intently in a hand mirror._ the curtain falls transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=bpqiaaaaqaaj&pg [illustration: lessing.] the dramatic works of g. e. lessing. translated from the german. edited by ernest bell, m.a., trinity college, cambridge. with a short memoir by helen zimmern. _miss sara sampson_, _philotas_, _emilia galotti_, _nathan the wise_. london: george bell and sons, york street, covent garden. . london: printed by william clowes anb sons, stamford street and charing cross. preface. a translation of some of lessing's works has long been contemplated for 'bonn's standard library,' and the publishers are glad to be able to bring it out at a time when an increased appreciation of this writer has become manifest in this country. the publication of mr. sime's work on lessing, and the almost simultaneous appearance of miss helen zimmern's shorter but probably more popular biographical study, will, without doubt, tend to spread amongst english-speaking people a knowledge of a writer who is held in peculiar reverence by his own countrymen; and there is little, if anything, of what he wrote that does not appeal in some way or other to the sympathies of englishmen. in this translation it is purposed to include the most popular of his works--the first two volumes comprising all the finished dramatic pieces, whilst the third will contain the famous 'laokoon,' and a large portion of the 'hamburg dramaturgy' (here called 'dramatic notes'), and some other smaller pieces. the arrangement of the plays is as follows:--the first volume contains the three tragedies and the "dramatic poem," 'nathan the wise.' this last piece and 'emilia galotti' are translated by mr. r. dillon boylan, whose english versions of schiller's 'don carlos,' goethe's 'wilhelm meister,' &c., had previously distinguished him in this path of literature. the second volume will be found to consist entirely of comedies, arranged according to the date of composition; and as it happens that all these comedies, with the exception of the last and best, 'minna von barnhelm,' were written before he published any more serious dramatic composition, we have, by reversing the order of the first two volumes, an almost exactly chronological view of lessing's dramatic work. the later section of it has been placed at the commencement of the series, simply because it was more convenient to include in it the introductory notice which miss zimmern kindly consented to write. york street, covent garden. _june_ . contents. memoir miss sara sampson philotas emilia galotti nathan the wise lessing. since luther, germany has produced no greater or better man than gotthold ephraim lessing; these two are germany's pride and joy. this is the witness of heine, and with goethe in memory, none would pronounce the statement too bold. luther and lessing are germany's representative men; each inaugurates an epoch the very existence of which would not have been possible without him. nor is this the only point of analogy. lessing was the luther of the eighteenth century. like luther, lessing is distinguished by earnestness, ardour, true manliness, fierce hatred of dissimulation, largeness of mind, breadth, and profundity of thought. like luther, he stands in history a massive presence whereon the weak may lean. like luther, he led the vanguard of reform in every department of human learning into which he penetrated. like luther, he was true to every conviction, and did not shrink from its expression. like luther, he could have said, "i was born to fight with devils and storms, and hence it is that my writings are so boisterous and stormy." like luther, he became the founder of a new religion and of a new german literature. and again, like luther, his life labours were not for germany alone, but spread over all europe; and few of us know how much of our present culture we owe directly or indirectly to lessing's influence. in this country he has not been sufficiently known. up to the present, his name has been familiar to englishmen only as the author of the 'laokoon,' 'nathan the wise,' and, possibly also, of 'minna von barnhelm.' in knowing these, we certainly know the names of some of his masterpieces, but we cannot thence deduce the entire cause of the man's far-spreading influence. fully to understand lessing's influence, and fully to understand the bearing of his works, some slight previous acquaintance with german literature is absolutely requisite. for unless we comprehend the source whence an author's inspirations have sprung, we may often misconceive his views. and lessing's writings, above all, essentially sprang from the needs of his time. the subject is a large one, and can only be briefly indicated here; but we venture to remark, for those whose interest may be aroused in the subject of this volume, that the fuller their knowledge of the man and the motive force that evoked his works, the keener will be their enjoyment of these works themselves. in naming lessing, goethe, and schiller, we utter the three greatest names that german literature can boast. and between the three runs a connecting link of endeavour; the efforts of none can be conceived without the efforts of the others; but lessing was the leader. he was the mental pathfinder who smoothed the way for goethe's genius, and prepared the popular understanding for schiller, the poetical interpreter of kant. lessing was born in the early years of the eighteenth century, at a time therefore when germany may be said practically to have had no literature. for the revival of learning, the interest in letters that arose with the reformation, and had been fostered by the emancipating spirit of protestantism, had been blighted and extinguished by the terrible wars that ravaged the country for thirty years, impoverishing the people, destroying the homesteads and farms, and utterly annihilating the mental repose needful to the growth and to the just appreciation of literature. books were destroyed as relentlessly in those sad times as flourishing cornfields were down-trodden by the iron heel of the invader. it was a fearful period of anarchy and retrogression, under the baneful effects of which germany still labours. peace was at last restored in by the treaty of westphalia, but it found the nation broken in spirit and vigour, and where material needs entirely absorb the mental energies of a people the muses cannot flourish. and not only was the spirit of the people broken by the war, their national feeling seemed totally extinct. the bold fine language wherewith luther had endowed them was neglected and despised by the better classes, who deemed servile imitation of the foreigner the true and only criterion of good taste. it grew, at last, to be held quite a distinction for a german to be unable to speak his own language correctly, and it seems probable that but for the religious utterances of the hymn-writers, who thus provided the poor oppressed people with ideal consolations, the very essence of the language, in all its purity, might have perished. it is among these hymn-writers that we must seek and shall find the finest, truest, and most national expressions of that time. shortly before lessing's birth there had awakened a sense of this national degradation, and some princes and nobles formed themselves into a society to suppress the fashionable gallicisms and reinstate the people's language. their efforts met with some little success, but their powers were too limited, and their attempts too artificial and jejune to exert any considerable influence either in the direction of conservation or of reform. it needed something stronger, bolder, to dispel the apathy of a century. still these associations, known as the two silesian schools, bore their part in sowing the good seed, and though most of it fell on stony ground, because there was little other ground for it whereon to fall, still some fell on fruitful earth, and brought forth in due season. an excessive interest in french literature was opposed by an equal interest in english literature. the adherents of these two factions formed what was known as the swiss and leipzig schools. they waged a fierce paper warfare, that had the good effect of once more attracting popular attention to the claims of letters, as well as showing the people that in french manners, french language, and french literature, the alpha and omega of culture need not of necessity be sought. the leader of the leipzig faction, who stood by the french, was gottsched, a german professor of high pretensions and small merits, who put his opponents on their mettle by his pedantic and arrogant attacks. he had instituted himself a national dictator of good taste, and for a long time it seemed probable that he and his party would triumph. his ultimate defeat was accomplished by lessing, whose early boyhood was contemporaneous with the fiercest encounters of these antagonists. it was he who gave the death-blow to their factious disputes, and referred the nation back to itself and its own national glory and power. he found germany without original literature, and, before his short life was ended, the splendid genius of goethe shed its light over the land. who and what was the man who effected so much? gotthold ephraim lessing was born on the twenty-second of january, , at camentz, a small town in saxony, of which his father was head pastor. for several generations lessing's ancestors had been distinguished for their learning, and with few exceptions they had all held ecclesiastical preferment. the father of gotthold ephraim was a man of no inconsiderable talents and acquirements. his upright principles, breadth of vision and scholarly attainments, made him a venerated example to his son, with whom he maintained through life the most cordial relationship, though the son's yet more enlightened standpoint came to transcend the comprehension of the father. their first divergence occurred on the choice of a profession. it had been traditional among the lessings that the eldest son should take orders, and accordingly gotthold ephraim was silently assumed to be training for the ministry. he was sent for this end, first to the grammar-school of his native town, then to a public school at meissen, and finally to the university of leipzig. at meissen he distinguished himself in classical studies, and attempted some original german verses. he outstripped his compeers, and before he had accomplished his curriculum, the rector recommended his removal, inasmuch as he had exhausted the resources of the school. at leipzig he appeared to turn his back on study. he deserted the class-rooms of the theologians and was the more constant attendant instead at the theatre, at that time the _bête noire_ of all who affected respectability, and decried loudly by the clergy as a very hotbed of vice. news of their son's haunts reached the dismayed parents. they urged him to abandon his courses, that could only end in mental and moral destruction. in vain the son represented to them that he had lived in retirement too long, that he now wished to become acquainted with the world and men, and that he held the theatre to be a popular educator. in vain he represented that he did attend the philosophical courses of professors kaestner, ernesti, and christ. he was a playgoer, and what was still worse, he was a play-writer, for the directress of the leipzig theatre, frau neuber, a woman, of great taste and intelligence, had put on the stage lessing's juvenile effort, 'the young scholar.' nay more, he associated with a notorious freethinker, mylius, and in concert with him had contributed to various journals and periodicals. and meanwhile the magistracy of camentz was allowing lessing a stipend on condition of studying theology. it was too much. his son was neglecting the _dic cur hic_, and to obviate this the father recalled him home by a stratagem, informing him that his mother was dying and desired once more to see her son. the _ruse_, intended also as a test of lessing's filial obedience, succeeded in so far as to prove that this was at least unshaken; but his parents urged in vain that he should abandon his evil ways. he once more expressed with great decision his disinclination towards a theological career. but he was also firmly resolved to be no longer a burden to his parents, whose large family was a great drain on their resources. he determined to follow mylius, who had gone to berlin in the capacity of editor, convinced that a good brain and steadfast will would force their own way in the world. accordingly lessing settled in berlin in , a youth of barely twenty years, prepared to fight a hand-to-hand struggle for existence. frederick the great at that time ruled in prussia, and his capital was in ill repute as a hotbed of frivolity and atheism. if anything could be worse in the parents' eyes than their son's attendance at the theatre, it was his presence at berlin. they urged his return home. he refused respectfully but decidedly. he had found employment that remunerated him. voss's _gazette_ had appointed him literary editor, he wrote its critical feuilletons, and here he had the first opportunity of attacking the swiss and leipzig factions, and of exposing the absurdities of both schools. he was able to teach himself spanish and italian, he translated for the booksellers, he catalogued a library; and while thus earning his livelihood _tant bien que mal_, he indirectly prosecuted his studies and enlarged his knowledge of literature and life. for at berlin he was not forced to associate only with books, he also came in contact with intellectual men, his views expanded, his judgment became sure. a volume of minor poems that he published in excited attention. the essays he contributed to voss's _gazette_ gave him notoriety on account of their independent spirit, their pregnant flashes of originality and truth. this unknown youth ventured alone and unsupported to attack gottsched's meretricious writings, and so successfully that even the vain dictator trembled, and the rival schools asked each other who was this daniel that had come to judgment? with pitiless subtlety he exposed the crudity, the inflation of klopstock's 'messiah,' which at that time one half the world extolled, the other half abused, while he alone could truly distinguish in what respects the poem fell short of its pretensions to be a national epic, and where its national importance and merit really lay. for two years lessing remained at berlin; busy years, in which he scattered these treatises teeming with discernment and genius. then at the end of that time he felt himself exhausted, he craved seclusion, in which he could once more live for himself and garner up fresh stores of knowledge. the city and his numerous friends were too distracting. so one day he stole away without previous warning and installed himself in the quiet university town of wittenberg. at wittenberg he spent a year of quiet study. the university library was freely opened to him, and he could boast that it did not contain a book he had not held in his hands. wittenberg: being chiefly a theological university, lessing's attention was principally attracted to that subject, and he here laid the foundations of the accurate knowledge that was in after years to stand him in great stead. when he had exhausted all that wittenberg could offer, he one day ( ) reappeared at berlin as unexpectedly as he had quitted it, and quickly resumed his old relations there, which proved as busy and significant as before. lessing again maintained himself by authorship, but this time his productions were riper. he published several volumes of his writings. they contained treatises composed at wittenberg, rehabilitations (_rettungen_) of distinguished men, whom he held the world had maligned, as well as several plays, among which were the 'jews,' 'the woman-hater,' 'the freethinker,' 'the treasure,' as well as the fragmentary play 'samuel henzi,' a novel attempt to treat of modern historical incidents on the stage. a somewhat savage attack, entitled 'vade mecum,' in which he criticised unsparingly a certain pastor lange's rendering of 'horace,' drew upon lessing the attention of the learned world, and since he was in the right in his strictures, they regarded him with mingled fear and admiration. his renewed criticisms in voss's _gazette_ further maintained his reputation as a redoubtable critic. these were happy, hopeful years in lessing's life; he enjoyed his work, and it brought him success. he had, moreover, formed some of the warmest friendships of his life with the bookseller nicolai and the philosopher moses mendelssohn. with the former he discoursed on english literature, with the latter, on æsthetic and metaphysical themes. their frequent reunions were sources of mental refreshment and invigoration to all three. what cared lessing that his resources were meagre, he could live, and his father was growing more reconciled now that men of established repute lauded his son's works. together with mendelssohn, lessing wrote an essay on a theme propounded by the berlin academy, 'pope a metaphysician!' that did not obtain the prize, as it ridiculed the learned body which had proposed a ridiculous theme, but it attracted notice. in the year lessing wrote 'miss sara sampson,' a play that marks an epoch in his life and in german literature. it was the first german attempt at domestic drama, and was, moreover, written in prose instead of in the fashionable alexandrines. the play was acted that same year at frankfurt-on-the-oder, and lessing went to superintend in person. its success was immense, and revived lessing's love for the stage, which had rather flagged at berlin from want of a theatre there. he accordingly resolved on this account to remove to leipzig again, and disappeared from berlin without announcing his intention to his friends. at leipzig he once more lived among the comedians, and carried on a lively correspondence with mendelssohn on the philosophical theories of the drama in general, with especial reference to aristotle. a proposal to act as travelling companion to a rich leipzig merchant interrupted this life. the pair started early in the year , intending a long absence that should include a visit to england. the trip, however, did not extend beyond holland, as the seven years' war broke out. prussian troops were stationed at leipzig, and this caused lessing's companion to desire return. return they accordingly did, lessing waiting all the winter for the resumption of their interrupted project. but as the prospects of peace grew more distant, their contract was annulled, much to lessing's regret, and also to his severe pecuniary loss. he found himself at leipzig penniless, the theatre closed by the war, and interest in letters deadened from the same cause. he contrived, however, to maintain himself by hack-work for the booksellers; but it was a dismal time, not devoid, however, of some redeeming lights. the poet von kleist was then stationed at leipzig, and with him lessing formed a friendship that proved one of his warmest and tenderest. on the removal of kleist to active service, lessing determined to quit leipzig, which had grown distasteful to him in its military hubbub. in may he once more appeared at berlin, and fell into his former niche. he worked at his 'fables,' wrote a play on the greek models, 'philotas,' began a life of sophocles, and edited and translated several works of minor importance. but the chief labour of the period was the establishment of a journal dealing with contemporary literature. it was to be written tersely, as was suited to a time of war and general excitement; and to connect it with the war, it was couched in the form of letters purporting to be addressed to an officer in the field, who wished to be kept acquainted with current literature. kleist was certainly in lessing's mind when he began. the letters were to be written by mendelssohn, nicolai, and lessing, but nearly all the earlier ones are from lessing's pen. the papers made a great mark, from their bold strictures and independence. they did not belong to either of the recognised coteries, plainly placing themselves on a footing outside and above them. though they were issued anonymously, lessing was now sufficiently known, and it was not long before they were universally attributed to him. their peculiar merit was that they did not merely condemn the contemporary productions, but showed the way to their improvement. they are throughout written with dialectic brilliancy, vigour, and lively wit, so that they are classics to this day, although their immediate themes are long removed from our interests from these 'letters concerning contemporary literature' our modern science of criticism may be said to date. after this, works were no longer merely judged by ancient standards, but by their application to the demands of the age in which they were written. the news of kleist's death affected lessing severely, and so broke down his energies that he felt the imperative need of a change of scene. he therefore accepted an offer to act as secretary to general tauentzien, who had been appointed governor of breslau. he followed him to that city in , hoping to find renewed energies in a fixed employment that gave him good emolument and left him free time for self-culture. lessing remained at this post for nearly five years, until the conclusion of the seven years' war, and though his letters of that period are very scanty, and though he gained evil repute at breslau as a gambler and a tavern haunter, they were really the busiest and most studious years of his life. here he read spinoza and the church fathers, studied æsthetics and winckelmann's newly issued 'history of art,' wrote his 'minna von barnhelm,' and the 'laokoon.' their publication did not occur till his return to berlin after the peace of hubertsburg, when lessing threw up his appointment, greatly to the dismay of his family, who had reckoned on it as a permanent resource. but lessing had had enough of soldiers and military life, he had exhausted all they could teach him, and he craved to resume his studious and independent existence. he did not like it on resumption so well as he had thought he should at a distance. restlessness seized him. he wanted to travel; to see italy. his friends desired an appointment for him as royal librarian. he applied for the post, and was kept for some time in uncertainty. he failed, however, owing to frederick's dislike to german learned men, and it was in vain that lessing's friends pleaded that he was anything but the typical german pedant, uncouth, unkempt, who was frederick's _bête noire_. to prove his efficiency for the post, lessing had published his 'laokoon.' he published it as a fragment, and, like too many of lessing's works, it never grew beyond that stage. but _torso_ as it is, its influence has been far spreading. the science of æsthetics was in its infancy when lessing wrote. pedantic and conventional rules were laid down regarding beauty, and the greatest confusion of ideas existed concerning the provinces and limits of the respective arts. poetry and painting were treated as arts identical in purpose and scope; indeed each was advised to borrow aid from the resources of the other. simonides' dictum that "painting is silent poetry, and poetry eloquent painting," was regarded as an incontrovertible axiom. winckelmann's lately published 'history of art' had supported this view of the matter; a point of view that encouraged allegorical painting and didactic poetry. the 'laokoon' strove to expose the radical error of this idea, as its second title, 'or the boundaries of poetry and painting,' proves. the conclusions established by the 'laokoon' have become to-day the very groundwork of cultured art criticism, and though the somewhat narrow scope of its æsthetic theory has been extended, the basis remains untouched and unshaken. the book is of as much value now as upon its first appearance. its luminous distinctions, its suggestive utterances, point the way to exact truth, even where they do not define it. like the celebrated torso of the vatican, it can be made an object of constant study, and every fresh investigation will reveal new beauties, new subtle traits of artistic comprehension hitherto overlooked. this work, so grand and ultimately fruitful, fell, nevertheless, very flat on its first issue, and only gradually assumed the position that was its due. it had indeed to educate its public, so new were the principles it enunciated. three years after its publication, lessing told a friend that hardly any one seemed to know at what goal he had aimed in his 'laokoon.' critics arose in plenty, but their criticism was of such a character that lessing, usually so combative, did not hold them worthy of a reply. little wonder, therefore, that even the discerning frederick did not recognise the value of its author, and finally decided against lessing's appointment as royal librarian. in november lessing describes himself as standing idly in the market-place waiting for hire. he was discontented with his surroundings, eager to find himself in a wider and more congenial mental atmosphere than that of berlin, uncertain whither to turn, and hampered by money difficulties, private debts and family demands. at this juncture an invitation from hamburg reached him, which at the first aspect seemed to open out a future peculiarly suited to lessing's tastes and idiosyncrasies. an association of rich burghers had conceived the idea of founding a national theatre, which, liberally endowed, and thus removed from the region of pecuniary speculation, could devote itself exclusively to the cultivation of high art, and thus raise the national standard of taste. a dramatic critic and adviser was to belong to the establishment, and this post was offered to lessing with a salary of thalers. he accepted with alacrity, and repaired to hamburg in the confidence of having at last found a niche well suited to his capacity. at the worst, he had nothing to lose and everything to gain by this step, and he gladly turned his back on berlin, now distasteful to him. he hoped to throw himself once more into dramatic labours, and to find himself in contact with the living stage. only too speedily his hopes were destined to disappointment. he had not been long at hamburg before, notwithstanding all his power of illusion, he could not disguise from himself the fact that the project that sounded so noble and disinterested really rested on no higher basis than that of miserable stage cabals. before issuing the first number of his paper, the 'hamburger dramaturgie,' a critical journal, which was to accompany the art of the author and actor throughout the representations, he already knew that the project begun with such high hopes must end in a miserable _fiasco_. still he set to work upon his journal undauntedly, determined that it should, as far as it lay in his power, serve the purposes of the drama and instruct the populace as to the full import and aim of this noble art. the paper was a weekly one, the criticisms, therefore, had the merit of being thoroughly thought out and digested, not written like our modern theatrical criticisms under the very glare of the foot-lights. lessing analysed the plays and their performance; he pointed out not only where, but why actors had erred; his sure perception and accurate knowledge of stage routine made him an invaluable guide to the performers. his criticisms, had they been continued, would have laid the basis of a science of histrionics, but unhappily for the world, the wretched vanity of the _artistes_, some of whom he had ventured gently to condemn, caused him to desist from this portion of his criticism. he confined himself solely to the play performed. after a while, however, even this did not suffice; bad management, stage cabals, private jealousy, and clerical intrigues, had undermined the slender popularity of the theatre. before the end of its first year, the house saw itself forced to close its doors, thanks to creditors and to the rival and superior attractions of a company of french comedians. it is true the german troupe returned in the spring to make a final effort, but this also proved a failure; the debts were only increased, and the throng of creditors who besieged the box-office was so great that the public could not have entered if it had tried. in november ( ) the theatre finally closed its doors. _transeat cum cæteris erroribus_, was lessing's comment on the event. he was the poorer by another hope, and not only poorer in spirit but in fact. the promised salary had not been paid, the sale of his rich library would not suffice for his debts and needs, and he had moreover hampered himself with a printing-press that only helped yet more to cripple his means. his position was a sorry one. literary work was once more his only resource. it happened that he had from the first been in arrears with his journal, first advisedly, then from a tendency to procrastination that befell him whenever the first white heat of interest had been expended. he now determined to continue it, employing it as a vehicle for his own opinions under the cover of criticisms of the national theatre, which he still hoped against hope might not be utterly defunct. the 'dramaturgy' is the permanent result of this shipwrecked undertaking, itself a fragment--for after a while lessing wearied of it, and piratical reprints robbed him of the slender profit--but a fragment like the 'laokoon,' full of suggestive truths and flashes of elucidation. as an entire work it is not as homogeneous in design as the 'laokoon'; no connected or definite thread of reasoning pervades it, its perusal requires more independent thought from the reader, who must form his own conclusions, they are not worked out before him as in the 'laokoon.' but in its ultimate results it is no less valuable, and has been no less effective. it freed the german stage from bondage to french pseudo-classicisms by its scornful exposure of the perversions practised by the gallic authors under the cloak of aristotelian laws. lessing showed the divergence between real and absolute, and fanciful and perverted rules. he pointed out how the three unities insisted on by the french had been often violated by them in the spirit if not in the letter. he demonstrated the real meaning of aristotle; and enabled, by his exact classical knowledge, to place himself on the actual stand-point of the ancients, he exposed the meretricious imitations of the french, that had been too long passed off as genuine. he referred the germans to shakespeare as a far truer follower of sophocles than voltaire or corneille, and he illustrated his conclusions by excerpts and digressions remote from the subject presumed to be under treatment, and which had first started this train of thought. until now the french had prescribed the sole standard of good taste. lessing wished to destroy this unthinking veneration, and lead his nation back to the true sources of inspiration, and he fought with an iconoclastic zeal against all distortions, and all confusions of æsthetic boundaries. in a measure, indeed, the 'dramaturgy' supplements the 'laokoon', for in the latter work lessing had distinctly referred to the drama as the highest expression of poetry, and he had placed poetry above the arts of design in its results and capacities. once more he displays his subtlety in discriminating between the various constituents of the complex feelings produced by art, and his rare faculty of combining æsthetic sensibility with logical criticism constitutes one of his grand claims to originality. the 'dramaturgy' must be regarded rather as a collection of [greek: epea pteroenta], than a systematic book. this remark applies, indeed, to all lessing's prose writings. the 'dramaturgy' was not the only work that occupied lessing at hamburg. a certain professor klotz had been for some time past attacking lessing's writings, and had done this in a spirit of arrogant superiority that roused his ire. a remark that lessing had been guilty of "an unpardonable fault," in an archaeological matter, wherein klotz himself was plainly in error, brought matters to a crisis, and drew down on klotz a series of 'letters treating of antiquarian subjects,' that utterly demolished both the man and his conclusions. a private feud gave occasion to this publication, but, like all that lessing wrote, it is full of matter of permanent worth. cameos and engraved gems form the ground-work of the controversy that was waged fast and furiously for some months, until at last lessing silenced his adversary. the archaeological studies that it necessitated had awakened afresh lessing's artistic interests and provoked the charming little essay, 'how the ancients represented death,' that starting as a polemic against klotz, ended in becoming a finished and exquisite whole. about this time ( ) lessing received encouragement from vienna to settle in the austrian dominions, but as the offers concerned the theatre he declined compliance, still feeling sore from his late experiences. the old desire to visit italy was once more uppermost, his restless activity had exhausted the slender intellectual resources of hamburg. but he was once more hampered by money difficulties. he vacillated for a while between remaining and leaving, and finally accepted an appointment at the brunswick court as librarian of the wolfenbüttel library, with the proviso that this appointment should not permanently interfere with his projected italian journey. his salary was to be thalers, with an official residence; his duties were undefined. the duke, who recognised lessing's eminence, wished to attach him to his court, and desired that lessing should use the library for his personal convenience rather than as its custodian. the post promised well, though lessing entered on it with reluctance; his love of freedom causing him at any time to shrink from any definite appointment. he loved, as he himself expressed it, to be like the sparrow on the housetops, but considerations hitherto unknown contributed to induce him to seek a settled post and establish his affairs on a more permanent basis than heretofore. the wish to marry had become awakened in him at the mature age of forty; he had made the acquaintance in hamburg of a madame koenig, a widow, the first woman who had seriously roused his interest. business complications of her late husband's and the charge of a family made union impossible for some little time, but lessing had not been long at wolfenbüttel before a formal engagement was entered upon whose ultimate fulfilment it was confidently expected would not be too long deferred. it was deferred, however, for the space of six years--years that were the weariest and saddest in lessing's life, and mark the only time when his healthful optimism, his sanguine cheerfulness broke into complaint and yielded to depression of mind. physical causes were at work as well as mental. wolfenbüttel was an old deserted capital, devoid of society, and lessing, who loved to mingle with his fellow-creatures, saw himself banished from any intelligent human intercourse, unless he undertook the somewhat expensive journey to brunswick. at hamburg he had lived in an active and intellectual circle; here he found himself thrown back upon himself and books. his heart and thoughts were with madame koenig, her business affairs went badly; their rare meetings only further strengthened his desire to claim as his own this the only woman who understood him and felt with him. the promised leave of absence, too, for italy, was constantly deferred under futile pretexts, and thus depressed, dispirited, lessing could not feel within himself the capability of original production. at the same time he did not feel it right or wise to neglect the resources placed within his reach by the excellent library of which he was custodian; he ransacked its manuscript treasures, and published some of them. he also in a brief period of renewed happiness and mental vigour, that followed a visit to hamburg and a meeting with madame koenig, wrote his famous tragedy 'emilia galotti.' this drama is an illustration of the principles enunciated by lessing in his 'dramaturgy;' its condensation is a protest against the verbosity of the french, its form an approach to shakespeare; while its tendency is a stricture on the abuses practised at petty courts. the latter was a bold innovation, considering that at the time lessing wrote and produced this play he was himself the servant of a court, enlightened and liberal it is true, but libertine and despotic; and that parallels could not fail to be drawn by the malevolent between brunswick and guastalla. the story is a modernised version of that of virginia, but the catastrophe is not equally harmonious, because not so absolutely necessitated by the conditions of modern society as by those of the ancient world. still the play is in many respects inimitable; the manner in which the story is developed and unravelled renders it a model to young dramatists; nothing superfluous, nothing obscure, no needless retrogressions, no violent transitions. lessing's contemporaries were not slow to recognise that he had presented them with a master-piece. he himself after its completion had sunk back into his former mood of irritated depression, and he would not even be present at the first representation. this mood was in great part physical, but was also the result of circumstances. he was anxious and uneasy. the hereditary prince had held out hopes to him, but their fulfilment was too long deferred; madame koenig's affairs grew more and more involved, the solitude of wolfenbüttel more and more arid. at last his restless spirit could brook this position no longer. heedless of madame koenig's warning prayers not to bring matters to an abrupt crisis, to have patience with the court whose financial position at the time was truly a sorry one, lessing one day broke away from wolfenbüttel and appeared at berlin, whence he applied for an extended leave of absence to vienna, where madame koenig's business had lately required her presence. he reassures her that he has not burnt his ships behind him, and this was true, but he wished to ascertain for himself how matters stood with her, and also if there was, any opening for him in that capital. he arrived at vienna in march , and found madame koenig's affairs so far advanced towards settlement as to justify him in entertaining hopes of a speedy union. but the evil fortune that seemed to run like a fatal thread through lessing's life whenever he found himself near the fulfilment of an ardent desire again asserted itself. he had not been ten days in vienna before one of the younger princes of the house of brunswick arrived there also on his way to italy. he wished to have lessing as his travelling companion. thus a long cherished desire was to be realised at the moment when a far stronger one had usurped its place. lessing debated for some time what he should do, but on consideration with madame koenig, it was decided to be unwise to offend the prince whose earnest wish for lessing's companionship was supported by the empress maria theresa, and moreover the projected journey was only to extend over eight weeks; consequently the parting and delay would be brief, while the ultimate consequences of having obliged the ducal house at personal inconvenience might be incalculable. the journey extended to nine months, and was a period of misery to lessing. he never received a line from madame koenig all this time, her letters having all miscarried, thanks to the officious zeal of her vienna acquaintances, and he tortured himself with fears lest she were ill or dead. neither did he write to her, nor keep a diary, beyond the very briefest records of some discoveries in libraries. not a word about the art, the scenery of the land he had so craved to see. he perceived quickly enough that it could offer all, and more than he had anticipated, but, added to his private anxieties, this travelling in the suite of a prince was not propitious to the proper enjoyment of italy. receptions, formal dinners, deputations, at all of which lessing had to be present, engrossed the precious time that should have been devoted to more intellectual pursuits. _transeat cum cæteris erroribus_, lessing might again have written when he returned to germany in december. he hastened to vienna to learn news of his beloved, and there a whole packet of her letters were put into his hands--those letters the want of which had preyed upon his heart. he was now more fully determined than ever to bring matters to a crisis; if the brunswick court would not improve his position he would seek employment elsewhere; at the very worst he could not fare worse than he was at present faring. his resolution triumphed, his salary was raised, his position improved, and on the th of october, , he was at last united to the woman of his choice. then followed a very heyday of happiness to lessing; he was at last content, at peace; his wife understood him and felt with him; she was his stay, his pride, his joy. but once more the evil fate was at work, and could not permit of ease to this poor victim she pursued so relentlessly. early in january ( ) lessing saw his wife and baby boy laid in the grave. the brief sunshine which had illumined his path had vanished for ever. the letters written by him at the time are more pathetic in their stoic brevity than folios of lamentations. there were no further hopes of happiness for him on earth; he must just resign himself and work on at his appointed labour until he too should be laid to rest. he turned with an ardour that was almost furious to encounter the assailants of his last literary publication. since his appointment as wolfenbüttel librarian lessing had from time to time published some of its manuscript treasures, and among these he had inserted portions of a work that had been intrusted to him, and which he deemed ought not to be withheld from the light of day. these were the famous wolfenbüttel fragments issued anonymously by lessing, but really the work of a deceased hamburger, professor reimarus. their publication drew down upon lessing a fury of rancorous abuse, and involved him in a vortex of controversy that lasted till his death. the chief and most vehement of his opponents was pastor j. m. goeze, whose insulting polemic reached him by the bedside of his dying wife. its malignant and unjustified attacks roused lessing's energy. he assailed goeze with all the strength of his grief, for which he was thankful to find a safety-valve in controversy. the work of reimarus had advocated rationalism; lessing had distinctly placed himself in position of editor, and pronounced that he did not of necessity subscribe to the opinions therein enunciated, but he found in their reasoning much food for thought, and with his almost romantic passion for truth he deemed that such matter should not be withheld from the world. goeze chose to consider that lessing was sailing under false colours, that the fragments were his own composition, and that he was undermining the national faith. lessing replied to goeze's insults by a series of fourteen letters, entitled 'anti-goeze,' which actually silenced his opponent, who had never been known before to allow an adversary the last word. they are written in a serio-comic tone, and for sparkling wit, trenchant sarcasm, and dramatic dialectics surpass anything ever penned by lessing. no less admirable is his accurate theological knowledge and his large-minded comprehension of the purposes of religion. the same noble spirit pervades his 'nathan the wise,' which he wrote about this time as a relief to his controversial discussions, and as another protest against the narrow-minded assumptions of the professional theologians. lessing had ever contended that the stage might prove as useful a pulpit as the church, and in 'nathan' he strove to preach the universal brotherhood of mankind; its hero is a jew of ideal and pure morality. the whole purpose of the drama was a stricture on class prejudices and an enunciation of the innate truth that underlies all forms of creeds. the play is too well known even in this country to require much comment; it is a noble monument of toleration and large-mindedness, and the fact that he could produce it under the load of a crushing sorrow speaks volumes for the true earnest religious faith that dwelt in lessing's nature. at the time its pure tendencies were not understood. lessing had progressed beyond the comprehension of his age, and the inevitable consequences ensued,--misconstruction and mental loneliness. he began to be regarded with suspicion as a dangerous innovator; even old friends held aloof in doubt. meanwhile his only comfort remained in his home, in the step-children, whom his wife had brought thither. his step-daughter was his tender and attentive companion, for since his wife's death lessing's health had declined, and he required care. though no trace of impaired vigour appears in his writings of the period, which indeed are animated by an exhilarating vitality, yet too evident traces of impaired vigour appeared in himself. he grew languid, an excessive inclination to sleep overpowered him; he suffered from attacks of vertigo. yet as long as he could hold a pen he should write, he told his brother,--write in the cause of what he firmly held to be the truth. a small pamphlet, consisting of a hundred propositions, entitled 'the education of the human race,' was his next production, a work pregnant with thought that opens out wide vistas of knowledge and progress to mankind. lessing indeed was the first man of his century to formulate the modern doctrine of progress; he preached a true millennium of toleration, love, and knowledge; he distinctly proclaimed his faith in the immortality of the soul. 'the education of the human race' is a splendid disavowal of his enemies' calumnious assertions. it was a glorious swan-song, wherewith he lulled himself into eternal peace. on one of his official visits to brunswick, lessing was overtaken by a paralytic stroke. on the th of february, , he passed away. he died as he lived, nobly, in a reverent assurance that he had fought a good fight on earth in the cause of truth and enlightenment, progress and humanity. time, the true criterion of human fame, has not only left his glory undiminished, but has augmented it, as popular intelligence has gradually arisen to the comprehension of its many-sided significance. it will be long before we have outgrown lessing, if indeed that time can ever come. and even if some things in his writings may seem narrow or antiquated to our vision, we may readily pass them over to arrive at matters eternally true, exalted, sublime. truth was the main purpose of all he wrote, and truth is for all ages and all time. lessing was one of the truly great ones of this earth, and petty cavillers should lay to heart the words of another wise man, the author of 'the imitation:' "all perfection in this world has some imperfection coupled with it, and none of our investigations are without some obscurity." helen zimmern. miss sara sampson. a tragedy in five acts. miss sara sampson, the first of lessing's tragedies, was completed in the year , while lessing was at potsdam. in the same year it was represented at frankfort-on-the-oder, and was very well received. it was afterwards translated and acted in france, where it also met with success. the present is the first english translation which has appeared. dramatis personÆ. sir william sampson. miss sara sampson, _his daughter_. mellefont. marwood, _formerly_ mellefont's _mistress_. arabella, _a child, daughter of_ marwood. waitwell, _an old servant of_ sir william. norton, _servant of_ mellefont. betty, sara's _maid_. hannah, marwood's _maid_. _the_ innkeeper _and others_. miss sara sampson. act i. scene i.--_a room in an inn_. sir william sampson, waitwell. sir william. my daughter, here? here in this wretched inn? waitwell. no doubt, mellefont has purposely selected the most wretched one in the town. the wicked always seek the darkness, because they are wicked. but what would it help them, could they even hide themselves from the whole world? conscience after all is more powerful than the accusations of a world. ah, you are weeping again, again, sir!--sir! sir william. let me weep, my honest old servant! or does she not, do you think, deserve my tears? waitwell. alas! she deserves them, were they tears of blood. sir william. well, let me weep! waitwell. the best, the loveliest, the most innocent child that ever lived beneath the sun, must thus be led astray! oh, my sara, my little sara! i have watched thee grow; a hundred times have i carried thee as a child in these arms, have i admired thy smiles, thy lispings. from every childish look beamed forth the dawn of an intelligence, a kindliness, a---- sir william. oh, be silent! does not the present rend my heart enough? will you make my tortures more infernal still by recalling past happiness? change your tone, if you will do me a service. reproach me, make of my tenderness a crime, magnify my daughter's fault; fill me with abhorrence of her, if you can; stir up anew my revenge against her cursed seducer; say, that sara never was virtuous, since she so lightly ceased to be so; say that she never loved me, since she clandestinely forsook me! waitwell. if i said that, i should utter a lie, a shameless, wicked lie. it might come to me again on my death-bed, and i, old wretch, would die in despair. no, little sara has loved her father; and doubtless, doubtless she loves him yet. if you will only be convinced of this, i shall see her again in your arms this very day. sir william. yes, waitwell, of this alone i ask to be convinced. i cannot any longer live without her; she is the support of my age, and if she does not help to sweeten the sad remaining days of my life, who shall do it? if she loves me still, her error is forgotten. it was the error of a tender-hearted maiden, and her flight was the result of her remorse. such errors are better than forced virtues. yet i feel, waitwell, i feel it, even were these errors real crimes, premeditated vices--even then i should forgive her. i would rather be loved by a wicked daughter, than by none at all. waitwell. dry your tears, dear sir! i hear some one. it will be the landlord coming to welcome us. scene ii. _the_ landlord, sir william sampson, waitwell. landlord. so early, gentlemen, so early? you are welcome; welcome, waitwell! you have doubtless been travelling all night! is that the gentleman, of whom you spoke to me yesterday? waitwell. yes, it is he, and i hope that in accordance with what we settled---- landlord. i am entirely at your service, my lord. what is it to me, whether i know or not, what cause has brought you hither, and why you wish to live in seclusion in my house? a landlord takes his money and lets his guests do as they think best. waitwell, it is true, has told me that you wish to observe the stranger a little, who has been staying here for a few weeks with his young wife, but i hope that you will not cause him any annoyance. you would bring my house into ill repute and certain people would fear to stop here. men like us must live on people of all kinds. sir william. do not fear; only conduct me to the room which waitwell has ordered for me; i come here for an honourable purpose. landlord. i have no wish to know your secrets, my lord! curiosity is by no means a fault of mine. i might for instance have known long ago, who the stranger is, on whom you want to keep a watch, but i have no wish to know. this much however i have discovered, that he must have eloped with the young lady. the poor little wife--or whatever she may be!--remains the whole day long locked up in her room, and cries. sir william. and cries? landlord. yes, and cries; but, my lord, why do your tears fall? the young lady must interest you deeply. surely you are not---- waitwell. do not detain him any longer! landlord. come, come! one wall only will separate you from the lady in whom you are so much interested, and who may be---- waitwell. you mean then at any cost to know, who---- landlord. no, waitwell! i have no wish to know anything. waitwell. make haste, then, and take us to our rooms, before the whole house begins to stir. landlord. will you please follow me, then, my lord? (_exeunt_.) scene iii.--mellefont's _room_. mellefont, norton. mellefont (_in dressing-gown, sitting in an easy chair_). another night, which i could not have spent more cruelly on the rack!--(_calls_) norton!--i must make haste to get sight of a face or two. if i remained alone with my thoughts any longer, they might carry me too far. hey, norton! he is still asleep. but is not it cruel of me, not to let the poor devil sleep? how happy he is! however, i do not wish any one about me to be happy! norton! norton (coming). sir! mellefont. dress me!--oh, no sour looks please! when i shall be able to sleep longer myself i will let you do the same. if you wish to do your duty, at least have pity on me. norton. pity, sir! pity on you? i know better where pity is due. mellefont. and where then? norton. ah, let me dress you and don't ask. mellefont. confound it! are _your_ reproofs then to awaken together with my conscience? i understand you; i know on whom you expend your pity. but i will do justice to her and to myself. quite right, do not have any pity on me! curse me in your heart; but--curse yourself also! norton. myself also? mellefont. yes, because you serve a miserable wretch, whom earth ought not to bear, and because you have made yourself a partaker in his crimes. norton. i made myself a partaker in your crimes? in what way? mellefont. by keeping silent about them. norton. well, that is good! a word would have cost me my neck in the heat of your passions. and, besides, did i not find you already so bad, when i made your acquaintance, that all hope of amendment was vain? what a life i have seen you leading from the first moment! in the lowest society of gamblers and vagrants--i call them what they were without regard to their knightly titles and such like--in this society you squandered a fortune which might have made a way for you to an honourable position. and your culpable intercourse with all sorts of women, especially with the wicked marwood---- mellefont. restore me--restore me to that life. it was virtue compared with the present one. i spent my fortune; well! the punishment follows, and i shall soon enough feel all the severity and humiliation of want. i associated with vicious women; that may be. i was myself seduced more often than i seduced others; and those whom i did seduce wished it. but--i still had no ruined virtue upon my conscience. i had carried off no sara from the house of a beloved father and forced her to follow a scoundrel, who was no longer free. i had----who comes so early to me? scene iv. betty, mellefont, norton. norton. it is betty. mellefont. up already, betty? how is your mistress? betty. how is she? (_sobbing_.) it was long after midnight before i could persuade her to go to bed. she slept a few moments; but god, what a sleep that must have been! she started suddenly, sprang up and fell into my arms, like one pursued by a murderer. she trembled, and a cold perspiration started on her pale face. i did all i could to calm her, but up to this morning she has only answered me with silent tears. at length she sent me several times to your door to listen whether you were up. she wishes to speak to you. you alone can comfort her. o do so, dearest sir, do so! my heart will break, if she continues to fret like this. mellefont. go, betty! tell her, i shall be with her in a moment, betty. no, she wishes to come to you herself. mellefont. well, tell her, then, that i am awaiting her---- (_exit_ betty.) scene v. mellefont, norton. norton. o god, the poor young lady! mellefont. whose feelings is this exclamation of yours meant to rouse? see, the first tear which i have shed since my childhood is running down my cheek. a bad preparation for receiving one who seeks comfort. but why does she seek it from me? yet where else shall she seek it? i must collect myself (_drying his eyes_). where is the old firmness with which i could see a beautiful eye in tears? where is the gift of dissimulation gone by which i could be and could say whatsoever i wished? she will come now and weep tears that brook no resistance. confused and ashamed i shall stand before her; like a convicted criminal i shall stand before her. counsel me, what shall i do? what shall i say? norton. you shall do what she asks of you! mellefont. i shall then perpetrate a fresh act of cruelty against her. she is wrong to blame me for delaying a ceremony which cannot be performed in this country without the greatest injury to us. norton. well, leave it, then. why do we delay? why do you let one day after the other pass, and one week after the other? just give me the order, and you will be safe on board to-morrow! perhaps her grief will not follow her over the ocean; she may leave part of it behind, and in another land may---- mellefont. i hope that myself. silence! she is coming! how my heart throbs! scene vi. sara, mellefont, norton. mellefont (_advancing towards her_). you have had a restless night, dearest sara. sara. alas, mellefont, if it were nothing but a restless night. mellefont (_to his servant_). leave us! norton (_aside, in going_). i would not stay if i was paid in gold for every moment. scene vii. sara, mellefont. mellefont. you are faint, dearest sara! you must sit down! sara (_sits down_). i trouble you very early! will you forgive me that with the morning i again begin my complaints? mellefont. dearest sara, you mean to say that you cannot forgive me, because another morning has dawned, and i have not yet put an end to your complaints? sara. what is there that i would not forgive you? you know what i have already forgiven you. but the ninth week, mellefont! the ninth week begins to-day, and this miserable house still sees me in just the same position as on the first day. mellefont. you doubt my love? sara. i doubt your love? no, i feel my misery too much, too much to wish to deprive myself of this last and only solace. mellefont. how, then, can you be uneasy about the delay of a ceremony? sara. ah, mellefont! why is it that we think so differently about this ceremony! yield a little to the woman's way of thinking! i imagine in it a more direct consent from heaven. in vain did i try again, only yesterday, in the long tedious evening, to adopt your ideas, and to banish from my breast the doubt which just now--not for the first time, you have deemed the result of my distrust. i struggled with myself; i was clever enough to deafen my understanding; but my heart and my feeling quickly overthrew this toilsome structure of reason. reproachful voices roused me from my sleep, and my imagination united with them to torment me. what pictures, what dreadful pictures hovered about me! i would willingly believe them to be dreams---- mellefont. what? could my sensible sara believe them to be anything else? dreams, my dearest, dreams!--how unhappy is man!--did not his creator find tortures enough for him in the realm of reality? had he also to create in him the still more spacious realm of imagination in order to increase them? sara. do not accuse heaven! it has left the imagination in our power. she is guided by our acts; and when these are in accordance with our duties and with virtue the imagination serves only to increase our peace and happiness. a single act, mellefont, a single blessing bestowed upon us by a messenger of peace, in the name of the eternal one, can restore my shattered imagination again. do you still hesitate to do a few days sooner for love of me, what in any case you mean to do at some future time? have pity on me, and consider that, although by this you may be freeing me only from torments of the imagination, yet these imagined torments are torments, and are real torments for her who feels them. ah! could i but tell you the terrors of the last night half as vividly as i have felt them. wearied with crying and grieving--my only occupations--i sank down on my bed with half-closed eyes. sly nature wished to recover itself a moment, to collect new tears. but hardly asleep yet, i suddenly saw myself on the steepest peak of a terrible rock. you went on before, and i followed with tottering, anxious steps, strengthened now and then by a glance which you threw back upon me. suddenly i heard behind me a gentle call, which bade me stop. it was my father's voice--i unhappy one, can i forget nothing which is his? alas if his memory renders him equally cruel service; if he too cannot forget me!--but he has forgotten me. comfort! cruel comfort for his sara!--but, listen, mellefont! in turning round to this well-known voice, my foot slipped; i reeled, and was on the point of falling down the precipice, when just in time, i felt myself held back by one who resembled myself. i was just returning her my passionate thanks, when she drew a dagger from her bosom. "i saved you," she cried, "to ruin you!" she lifted her armed hand--and--! i awoke with the blow. awake, i still felt all the pain which a mortal stab must give, without the pleasure which it brings--the hope for the end of grief in the end of life. mellefont. ah! dearest sara, i promise you the end of your grief, without the end of your life, which would certainly be the end of mine also. forget the terrible tissue of a meaningless dream! sara. i look to you for the strength to be able to forget it. be it love or seduction, happiness or unhappiness which threw me into your arms, i am yours in my heart and will remain so for ever. but i am not yet yours in the eyes of that judge, who has threatened to punish the smallest transgressions of his law---- mellefont. then may all the punishment fall upon me alone! sara. what can fall upon you, without touching me too? but do not misinterpret my urgent request! another woman, after having forfeited her honour by an error like mine, might perhaps only seek to regain a part of it by a legal union. i do not think of that, mellefont, because i do not wish to know of any other honour in this world than that of loving you. i do not wish to be united to you for the world's sake but for my own. and i will willingly bear the shame of not appearing to be so, when i am united to you. you need not then, if you do not wish, acknowledge me to be your wife, you may call me what you will! i will not bear your name; you shall keep our union as secret as you think good, and may i always be unworthy of it, if i ever harbour the thought of drawing any other advantage from it than the appeasing of my conscience. mellefont. stop, sara, or i shall die before your eyes. how wretched i am, that i have not the courage to make you more wretched still! consider that you have given yourself up to my guidance; consider that it is my duty to look to our future, and that i must at present be deaf to your complaints, if i will not hear you utter more grievous complaints throughout the rest of your life. have you then forgotten what i have so often represented to you in justification of my conduct? sara. i have not forgotten it, mellefont! you wish first to secure a certain bequest. you wish first to secure temporal goods, and you let me forfeit eternal ones, perhaps, through it. mellefont. ah, sara! if you were as certain of all temporal goods as your virtue is of the eternal ones---- sara. my virtue? do not say that word! once it sounded sweet to me, but now a terrible thunder rolls in it! mellefont. what? must he who is to be virtuous, never have committed a trespass? has a single error such fatal effect that it can annihilate a whole course of blameless years? if so, no one is virtuous; virtue is then a chimera, which disperses in the air, when one thinks that one grasps it most firmly; if so, there is no wise being who suits our duties to our strength; if so, there is----i am frightened at the terrible conclusions in which your despondency must involve you. no, sara, you are still the virtuous sara that you were before your unfortunate acquaintance with me. if you look upon yourself with such cruel eyes, with what eyes must you regard me! sara. with the eyes of love, mellefont! mellefont. i implore you, then, on my knees i implore you for the sake of this love, this generous love which overlooks all my unworthiness, to calm yourself! have patience for a few days longer! sara. a few days! how long even a single day is! mellefont. cursed bequest! cursed nonsense of a dying cousin, who would only leave me his fortune on the condition that i should give my hand to a relation who hates me as much as i hate her! to you, inhuman tyrants of our freedom, be imputed all the misfortune, all the sin, into which your compulsion forces us. could i but dispense with this degrading inheritance. as long as my father's fortune sufficed for my maintenance, i always scorned it, and did not even think it worthy of mentioning. but now, now, when i should like to possess all the treasures of the world only to lay them at the feet of my sara, now, when i must contrive at least to let her appear in the world as befits her station, now i must have recourse to it. sara. which probably will not be successful after all. mellefont. you always forbode the worst. no, the lady whom this also concerns is not disinclined to enter into a sort of agreement with me. the fortune is to be divided, and as she cannot enjoy the whole with me, she is willing to let me buy my liberty with half of it. i am every hour expecting the final intelligence, the delay of which alone has so prolonged our sojourn here. as soon as i receive it, we shall not remain here one moment longer. we will immediately cross to france, dearest sara, where you shall find new friends, who already look forward to the pleasure of seeing and loving you. and these new friends shall be the witnesses of our union---- sara. they shall be the witnesses of our union? cruel man, our union, then, is not to be in my native land? i shall leave my country as a criminal? and as such, you think, i should have the courage to trust myself to the ocean. the heart of him must be calmer or more impious than mine, who, only for a moment, can see with indifference between himself and destruction, nothing but a quivering plank. death would roar at me in every wave that struck against the vessel, every wind would howl its curses after me from my native shore, and the slightest storm would seem a sentence of death pronounced upon me. no, mellefont, you cannot be so cruel to me! if i live to see the completion of this agreement, you must not grudge another day, to be spent here. this must be the day, on which you shall teach me to forget the tortures of all these tearful days. this must be the sacred day--alas! which day will it be? mellefont. but do you consider, sara, that our marriage here would lack those ceremonies which are due to it? sara. a sacred act does not acquire more force through ceremonies. mellefont. but---- sara. i am astonished. you surely will not insist on such a trivial pretext? o mellefont, mellefont! had i not made for myself an inviolable law, never to doubt the sincerity of your love, this circumstance might----but too much of this already, it might seem as if i had been doubting it even now. mellefont. the first moment of your doubt would be the last moment of my life! alas, sara, what have i done, that you should remind me even of the possibility of it? it is true the confessions, which i have made to you without fear, of my early excesses cannot do me honour, but they should at least awaken confidence. a coquettish marwood held me in her meshes, because i felt for her that which is so often taken for love which it so rarely is. i should still bear her shameful fetters, had not heaven, which perhaps did not think my heart quite unworthy to bum with better flames, taken pity on me. to see you, dearest sara, was to forget all marwoods! but how dearly have you paid for taking me out of such hands! i had grown too familiar with vice, and you know it too little---- sara. let us think no more of it. scene viii. norton, mellefont, sara. mellefont. what do you want? norton. while i was standing before the house, a servant gave me this letter. it is directed to you, sir! mellefont. to me? who knows my name here? (_looking at the letter_). good heavens! sara. you are startled. mellefont. but without cause, sara, as i now perceive. i was mistaken in the handwriting. sara. may the contents be as agreeable to you as you can wish. mellefont. i suspect that they will be of very little importance. sara. one is less constrained when one is alone, so allow me to retire to my room again. mellefont. you entertain suspicions, then, about it? sara. not at all, mellefont. mellefont (_going with her to the back of the stage_). i shall be with you in a moment, dearest sara. scene ix. mellefont, norton. mellefont (_still looking at the letter_). just heaven! norton. woe to you, if it is only just! mellefont. is it possible? i see this cursed handwriting again and am not chilled with terror? is it she? is it not she? why do i still doubt? it is she! alas, friend, a letter from marwood! what fury, what demon has betrayed my abode to her? what does she still want from me? go, make preparations immediately that we may get away from here. yet stop! perhaps it is unnecessary; perhaps the contempt of my farewell letters has only caused marwood to reply with equal contempt. there, open the letter; read it! i am afraid to do it myself. norton (_reads_). "if you will deign, mellefont, to glance at the name which you will find at the bottom of the page, it will be to me as though i had written you the longest of letters." mellefont. curse the name! would i had never heard it! would it could be erased from the book of the living! norton (_reads on_). "the labour of finding you out has been sweetened by the love which helped me in my search." mellefont. love? wanton creature! you profane the words which belong to virtue alone. norton (_continues_). "love has done more still"---- mellefont. i tremble---- norton. "it has brought me to you"---- mellefont. traitor, what are you reading? (_snatches the letter from his hand and reads himself_). "i am here; and it rests with you, whether you will await a visit from me, or whether you will anticipate mine by one from you. marwood." what a thunderbolt! she is here! where is she? she shall atone for this audacity with her life! norton. with her life? one glance from her and you will be again at her feet. take care what you do! you must not speak with her, or the misfortunes of your poor young lady will be complete. mellefont. o, wretched man that i am! no, i must speak with her! she would go even into sara's room in search of me, and would vent all her rage on the innocent girl. norton. but, sir---- mellefont. not a word! let me see (_looking at the letter_) whether she has given the address. here it is! come, show me the way! (_exeunt_). act ii. scene i.--marwood's _room in another inn_. marwood (_in negligée_), hannah. marwood. i hope belfort has delivered the letter at the right address, hannah? hannah. he has. marwood. to him himself? hannah. to his servant. marwood. i am all impatience to see what effect it will have. do i not seem a little uneasy to you, hannah? and i am so. the traitor! but gently! i must not on any account give way to anger. forbearance, love, entreaty are the only weapons which i can use against him, if i rightly understand his weak side. hannah. but if he should harden himself against them? marwood. if he should harden himself against them? then i shall not be angry. i shall rave! i feel it, hannah, and i would rather do so to begin with. hannah. calm yourself! he may come at any moment. marwood. i only hope he may come; i only hope he has not decided to await me on his own ground. but do you know, hannah, on what i chiefly found my hopes of drawing away the faithless man from this new object of his love? on our bella! hannah. it is true, she is a little idol to him; and there could not have been a happier idea than that of bringing her with you. marwood. even if his heart should be deaf to an old love, the language of blood will at least be audible to him. he tore the child from my arms a short time ago under the pretext of wishing to give her an education such as she could not have with me. it is only by an artifice that i have been able to get her again from the lady who had charge of her. he had paid more than a year in advance, and had given strict orders the very day before his flight that they should by no means give admission to a certain marwood, who would perhaps come and give herself out as mother of the child. from this order i see the distinction which he draws between us. he regards arabella as a precious portion of himself, and me as an unfortunate creature, of whose charms he has grown weary. hannah. what ingratitude! marwood. ah, hannah! nothing more infallibly draws down ingratitude, than favours for which no gratitude would be too great. why have i shown him these fatal favours? ought i not to have foreseen that they could not always retain their value with him; that their value rested on the difficulty in the way of their enjoyment, and that the latter must disappear with the charm of our looks which the hand of time imperceptibly but surely effaces? hannah. you, madam, have not anything to fear for a long time from this dangerous hand! to my mind your beauty is so far from having passed the point of its brightest bloom, that it is rather advancing towards it, and would enchain fresh hearts for you every day if you only would give it the permission. marwood. be silent, hannah! you flatter me on an occasion which makes me suspicious of any flattery. it is nonsense to speak of new conquests, if one has not even sufficient power to retain possession of those which one has already made. scene ii. a servant, marwood, hannah. servant. some one wishes to have the honour of speaking with you. marwood. who is it? servant. i suppose it is the gentleman to whom the letter was addressed. at least the servant to whom i delivered it is with him. marwood. mellefont!--quick, bring him up! (_exit_ servant.) ah, hannah! he is here now! how shall i receive him? what shall i say? what look shall i put on? is this calm enough? just see! hannah. anything but calm. marwood. this, then? hannah. throw a little sweetness into it. marwood. so, perhaps? hannah. too sad. marwood. would this smile do? hannah. perfectly--only less constrained--he is coming. scene iii. mellefont, marwood, hannah. mellefont (_entering with wild gestures_). ha! marwood---- marwood (_running to meet him smiling, and with open arms_). ah, mellefont! mellefont (_aside_). the murderess! what a look! marwood. i must embrace you, faithless, dear fugitive! share my joy with me! why do you tear yourself from my caresses! mellefont. i expected, marwood, that you would receive me differently. marwood. why differently? with more love, perhaps? with more delight? alas, how unhappy i am, that i cannot express all that i feel! do you not see, mellefont, do you not see that joy, too, has its tears? here they fall, the offspring of sweetest delight! but alas, vain tears! his hand does not dry you! mellefont. marwood, the time is gone, when such words would have charmed me. you must speak now with me in another tone. i come to hear your last reproaches and to answer them. marwood. reproaches? what reproaches should i have for you, mellefont? none! mellefont. then you might have spared yourself the journey, i should think. marwood. dearest, capricious heart. why will you forcibly compel me to recall a trifle which i forgave you the same moment i heard of it? does a passing infidelity which your gallantry, but not your heart, has caused, deserve these reproaches? come, let us laugh at it! mellefont. you are mistaken; my heart is more concerned in it, than it ever was in all our love affairs, upon which i cannot now look back but with disgust. marwood. your heart, mellefont, is a good little fool. it lets your imagination persuade it to whatever it will. believe me, i know it better than you do yourself! were it not the best, the most faithful of hearts, should i take such pains to keep it? mellefont. to keep it? you have never possessed it, i tell you. marwood. and i tell you, that in reality i possess it still! mellefont. marwood! if i knew that you still possessed one single fibre of it, i would tear it out of my breast here before your eyes. marwood. you would see that you were tearing mine out at the same time. and then, then these hearts would at last attain that union which they have sought so often upon our lips. mellefont (_aside_). what a serpent! flight will be the best thing here.--just tell me briefly, marwood, why you have followed me, and what you still desire of me! but tell it me without this smile, without this look, in which a whole' hell of seduction lurks and terrifies me. marwood (_insinuatingly_). just listen, my dear mellefont! i see your position now. your desires and your taste are at present your tyrants. never mind, one must let them wear themselves out. it is folly to resist them. they are most safely lulled to sleep, and at last even conquered, by giving them free scope. they wear themselves away. can you accuse me, my fickle friend, of ever having been jealous, when more powerful charms than mine estranged you from me for a time? i never grudged you the change, by which i always won more than i lost. you returned with new ardour, with new passion to my arms, in which with light bonds, and never with heavy fetters i encompassed you. have i not often even been your confidante though you had nothing to confide but the favours which you stole from me, in order to lavish them on others. why should you believe then, that i would now begin to display a capriciousness just when i am ceasing, or, perhaps have already ceased, to be justified in it. if your ardour for the pretty country girl has not yet cooled down, if you are still in the first fever of your love for her; if you cannot yet do without the enjoyment she gives you; who hinders you from devoting yourself to her, as long as you think good? but must you on that account make such rash projects, and purpose to fly from the country with her? mellefont. marwood! you speak in perfect keeping with your character, the wickedness of which i never understood so well as i do now, since, in the society of a virtuous woman, i have learned to distinguish love from licentiousness. marwood. indeed! your new mistress is then a girl of fine moral sentiments, i suppose? you men surely cannot know yourselves what you want. at one time you are pleased with the most wanton talk and the most unchaste jests from us, at another time we charm you, when we talk nothing but virtue, and seem to have all the seven sages on our lips. but the worst is, that you get tired of one as much as the other. we may be foolish or reasonable, worldly or spiritual; our efforts to make you constant are lost either way. the turn will come to your beautiful saint soon enough. shall i give you a little sketch? just at present you are in the most passionate paroxysm over her. i allow this two or at the most three days more. to this will succeed a tolerably calm love; for this i allow a week. the next week you will only think occasionally of this love. in the third week, you will have to be reminded of it; and when you have got tired of being thus reminded, you will so quickly see yourself reduced to the most utter indifference, that i can hardly allow the fourth week for this final change. this would be about a month altogether. and this month, mellefont, i will overlook with the greatest pleasure; but you will allow that i must not lose sight of you. mellefont. you try all the weapons in vain which you remember to have used successfully with me in bygone days. a virtuous resolution secures me against both your tenderness and your wit. however, i will not expose myself longer to either. i go, and have nothing more to tell you but that in a few days you shall know that i am bound in such a manner as will utterly destroy all your hope of my ever returning into your sinful slavery. you will have learned my justification sufficiently from the letter which i sent to you before my departure. marwood. it is well that you mention this letter. tell me, who did you get to write it? mellefont. did not i write it myself? marwood. impossible! the beginning of it, in which you reckoned up--i do not know what sums--which you say you have wasted with me, must have been written by an innkeeper, and the theological part at the end by a quaker. i will now give you a serious reply to it. as to the principal point, you well know that all the presents which you have made are still in existence. i have never considered your cheques or your jewels as my property, and i have brought them all with me to return them into the hands which entrusted them to me. mellefont. keep them all, marwood! marwood. i will not keep any of them. what right have i to them without you yourself? although you do not love me any more, you must at least do me justice and not take me for one of those venal females, to whom it is a matter of indifference by whose booty they enrich themselves. come, mellefont, you shall this moment be as rich again as you perhaps might still be if you had not known me; and perhaps, too, might _not_ be. mellefont. what demon intent upon my destruction speaks through you now! voluptuous marwood does not think so nobly. marwood. do you call that noble? i call it only just. no, sir, no, i do not ask that you shall account the return of your gifts as anything remarkable. it costs me nothing, and i should even consider the slightest expression of thanks on your part as an insult, which could have no other meaning than this: "marwood, i thought you a base deceiver; i am thankful that you have not wished to be so towards me at least." mellefont. enough, madam, enough! i fly, since my unlucky destiny threatens to involve me in a contest of generosity, in which i should be most unwilling to succumb. marwood. fly, then! but take everything with you that could remind me of you. poor, despised, without honour, and without friends, i will then venture again to awaken your pity. i will show you in the unfortunate marwood only a miserable woman, who has sacrificed to you her person, her honour, her virtue, and her conscience. i will remind you of the first day, when you saw and loved me; of the first, stammering, bashful confession of your love, which you made me at my feet; of the first assurance of my return of your love, which you forced from me; of the tender looks, of the passionate embraces, which followed, of the eloquent silence, when each with busy mind divined the other's most secret feelings, and read the most hidden thoughts of the soul in the languishing eye; of the trembling expectation of approaching gratification; of the intoxication of its joys; of the sweet relaxation after the fulness of enjoyment, in which the exhausted spirits regained strength for fresh delights. i shall remind you of all this, and then embrace your knees, and entreat without ceasing for the only gift, which you cannot deny me, and which i can accept without blushing--for death from your hand. mellefont. cruel one! i would still give even my life for you. ask it, ask it, only do not any longer claim my love. i must leave you, marwood, or make myself an object of loathing to the whole world. i am culpable already in that i only stand here and listen to you. farewell, farewell! marwood (_holding him back_). you must leave me? and what, then, do you wish, shall become of me? as i am now, i am your creature; do, then, what becomes a creator; he may not withdraw his hand from the work until he wishes to destroy it utterly. alas, hannah, i see now, my entreaties alone are too feeble. go, bring my intercessor, who will now, perhaps, return to me more than she ever received from me. (_exit_ hannah). mellefont. what intercessor, marwood? marwood. ah, an intercessor of whom you would only too willingly have deprived me. nature will take a shorter road to your heart with her grievances. mellefont. you alarm me. surely you have not---- scene iv. arabella, hannah, mellefont, marwood. mellefont. what do i see? it is she! marwood, how could you dare to---- marwood. am i not her mother? come, my bella, see, here is your protector again, your friend, your .... ah! his heart may tell him what more he can be to you than a protector and a friend. mellefont (_turning away his face_). god, what shall i have to suffer here? arabella (_advancing timidly towards him_). ah, sir! is it you? are you our mellefont? no, madam, surely, surely it is not he! would he not look at me, if it were? would he not hold me in his arms? he used to do so. what an unhappy child i am! how have i grieved him, this dear, dear man, who let me call him my father? marwood. you are silent, mellefont? you grudge the innocent child a single look? mellefont. ah! arabella. why, he sighs, madam! what is the matter with him? cannot we help him? cannot i? nor you? then let us sigh with him! ah, now he looks at me! no, he looks away again! he looks up to heaven! what does he want? what does he ask from heaven? would that heaven would grant him everything, even if it refused me everything for it! marwood. go, my child, go, fall at his feet! he wants to leave us, to leave us for ever. arabella (_falling on her knees before him_). here i am already. you will leave us? you will leave us for ever? have not we already been without you for a little "for ever." shall we have to lose you again? you have said so often that you loved us. does one leave the people whom one loves? i cannot love you then, i suppose, for i should wish never to leave you. never, and i never will leave you either. marwood. i will help you in your entreaties, my child! and you must help me too! now, mellefont, you see me too at your feet.... mellefont (_stopping her, as she throws herself at his feet_). marwood, dangerous marwood! and you, too, my dearest bella (_raising her up_), you too are the enemy of your mellefont? arabella. i your enemy? marwood. what is your resolve? mellefont. what it ought not to be, marwood; what it ought not to be. marwood (_embracing him_). ah, i know that the honesty of your heart has always overcome the obstinacy of your desires. mellefont. do not importune me any longer! i am already what you wish to make me; a perjurer, a seducer, a robber, a murderer! marwood. you will be so in imagination for a few days, and after that you will see that i have prevented you from becoming so in reality. you will return with us, won't you? arabella (_insinuatingly_). oh yes, do! mellefont. return with you! how can i? marwood. nothing is easier, if you only wish it. mellefont. and my sara---- marwood. and your sara may look to herself. mellefont. ha! cruel marwood, these words reveal the very bottom of your heart to me. and yet i, wretch, do not repent? marwood. if you had seen the bottom of my heart, you would have discovered that it has more true pity for your sara than you yourself have. i say true pity; for your pity is egotistic and weak. you have carried this love-affair much too far. we might let it pass, that you as a man, who by long intercourse with our sex has become master in the art of seducing, used your superiority in dissimulation and experience against such a young maiden, and did not rest until you had gained your end. you can plead the impetuosity of your passion as your excuse. but, mellefont, you cannot justify yourself for having robbed an old father of his only child, for having rendered to an honourable old man his few remaining steps to the grave harder and more bitter, for having broken the strongest ties of nature for the sake of your desires. repair your error, then, as far as it is possible to repair it. give the old man his support again, and send a credulous daughter back to her home, which you need not render desolate also, because you have dishonoured it. mellefont. this only was still wanting--that you should call in my conscience against me also. but even supposing what you say were just, must i not be brazenfaced if i should propose it myself to the unhappy girl? marwood. well, i will confess to you, that i have anticipated this difficulty, and considered how to spare you it. as soon as i learned your address, i informed her old father privately of it. he was beside himself with joy, and wanted to start directly. i wonder he has not yet arrived. mellefont. what do you say? marwood. just await his arrival quietly, and do not let the girl notice anything. i myself will not detain you any longer. go to her again; she might grow suspicious. but i trust that i shall see you again to-day. mellefont. oh, marwood! with what feelings did i come to you, and with what must i leave you! a kiss, my dear bella. arabella. that was for you, now one for me! but come back again soon, do! (_exit_ mellefont). scene v. marwood, arabella, hannah. marwood (_drawing a deep breath_). victory, hannah! but a hard victory! give me a chair, i feel quite exhausted (_sitting down_). he surrendered only just in time, if he had hesitated another moment, i should have shown him quite a different marwood. hannah. ah, madam, what a woman you are! i should like to bee the man who could resist you. marwood. he has resisted me already too long. and assuredly, assuredly, i will not forgive him that he almost let me go down on my knees to him. arabella. no, no! you must forgive him everything. he is so good, so good---- marwood. be silent, little silly! hannah. i do not know on what side you did not attack him! but nothing, i think, touched him more, than the disinterestedness with which you offered to return all his presents to him. marwood. i believe so too. ha! ha! ha! (_contemptuously_). hannah. why do you laugh, madam? you really risked a great deal, if you were not in earnest about it. suppose he had taken you at your word? marwood. oh, nonsense, one knows with whom one has to deal. hannah. i quite admit that! but you too, my pretty bella, did your part excellently, excellently! arabella. how so? could i do it, then, any other way? i had not seen him for such a long time. i hope you are not angry, madam, that i love him so? i love you as much as him, just as much. marwood. very well, i will pardon you this time that you do not love me better than him. arabella (_sobbing_). this time? marwood. why, you are crying actually? what is it about? arabella. ah, no! i am not crying. do not get angry! i will love you both so much, so much, that it will be impossible to love either of you more. marwood. very well. arabella. i am so unhappy. marwood. now be quiet----but what is that? scene vi. mellefont, marwood, arabella, hannah. marwood. why do you come back again so soon, mellefont? (_rising_). mellefont (_passionately_). because i needed but a few moments to recover my senses. marwood. well? mellefont. i was stunned, marwood, but not moved! you have had all your trouble in vain. another atmosphere than this infectious one of your room has given me back my courage and my strength, to withdraw my foot in time from this dangerous snare. were the tricks of a marwood not sufficiently familiar to me, unworthy wretch that i am? marwood (_impatiently_). what language is that? mellefont. the language of truth and anger. marwood. gently, mellefont! or i too shall speak in the same language. mellefont. i return only in order not to leave you one moment longer under a delusion with regard to me, which must make me despicable even in your eyes. arabella (_timidly_). oh, hannah! mellefont. look at me as madly as you like. the more madly the better! was it possible that i could hesitate only for one moment between a marwood and a sara, and that i had well nigh decided for the former? arabella. oh, mellefont! mellefont. do not tremble, bella! for your sake too i came back. give me your hand, and follow me without fear! marwood (_stopping them_). whom shall she follow, traitor? mellefont. her father! marwood. go, pitiable wretch, and learn first to know her mother. mellefont. i know her. she is a disgrace to her sex. marwood. take her away, hannah! mellefont. remain here, bella (_attempting to stop her_). marwood. no force, mellefont, or---- (_exeunt_ hannah _and_ arabella). scene vii. mellefont, marwood. marwood. now we are alone! say now once more, whether you are determined to sacrifice me for a foolish girl? mellefont (_bitterly_). sacrifice you? you recall to my mind that impure animals were also sacrificed to the ancient gods. marwood (_mockingly_). express yourself without these learned allusions. mellefont. i tell you, then, that i am firmly resolved never to think of you again, but with the most fearful of curses. who are you? and who is sara? you are a voluptuous, egoistic, shameful strumpet, who certainly can scarcely remember any longer that she ever was innocent. i have nothing to reproach myself with but that i have enjoyed with you that which otherwise you would perhaps have let the whole world enjoy. you have sought me, not i you, and if i now know who marwood is, i have paid for this knowledge dearly enough. it has cost me my fortune, my honour, my happiness---- marwood. and i would that it might also cost you your eternal happiness. monster! is the devil worse than you, when he lures feeble mortals into crimes and himself accuses them afterwards for these crimes which are his own work! what is my innocence to you? what does it matter to you when and how i lost it. if i could not sacrifice my virtue, i have at least staked my good name for you. the former is no more valuable than the latter. what do i say? more valuable? without it the former is a silly fancy, which brings one neither happiness nor guilt. the good name alone gives it some value, and can exist quite well without it. what did it matter what i was before i knew you, you wretch! it is enough that in the eyes of the world i was a woman without reproach. through you only it has learned that i am not so; solely through my readiness to accept your heart, as i then thought, without your hand. mellefont. this very readiness condemns you, vile woman! marwood. but do you remember to what base tricks you owed it? was i not persuaded by you, that you could not be publicly united to me without forfeiting an inheritance which you wished to share with me only? is it time now to renounce it? and to renounce it, not for me but for another! mellefont. it is a real delight to me to be able to tell you that this difficulty will soon be removed. content yourself therefore with having deprived me of my father's inheritance, and let me enjoy a far smaller one with a more worthy wife. marwood. ha! now i see what it is that makes you so perverse. well, i will lose no more words. be it so! be assured i shall do everything to forget you. and the first thing that i will do to this end, shall be this. you will understand me! tremble for your bella! her life shall not carry the memory of my despised love down to posterity; my cruelty shall do it. behold in me a new medea! mellefont (_frightened_). marwood!---- marwood. or, if you know a more cruel mother still, behold her cruelty doubled in me! poison and dagger shall avenge me. but no, poison and dagger are tools too merciful for me! they would kill your child and mine too soon. i will not see it dead. i will see it dying! i will see each feature of the face which she has from you disfigured, distorted, and obliterated by slow torture. with eager hand will i part limb from limb, vein from vein, nerve from nerve, and will not cease to cut and burn the very smallest of them, even when there is nothing remaining but a senseless carcass! i--i shall at least feel in it--how sweet is revenge! mellefont. you are raving, marwood---- marwood. you remind me that my ravings are not directed against the right person. the father must go first! he must already be in yonder world, when, through a thousand woes the spirit of his daughter follows him (_she advances towards him with a dagger which she draws from her bosom_). so die, traitor! mellefont (_seizing her arm, and snatching the dagger from her_). insane woman! what hinders me now from turning the steel against you? but live, and your punishment shall be left for a hand void of honour. marwood (_wringing her hands_). heaven, what have i done? mellefont---- mellefont. your grief shall not deceive me. i know well why you are sorry--not that you wished to stab me, but that you failed to do so. marwood. give me back the erring steel! give it me back, and you shall see for whom it was sharpened! for this breast alone, which for long has been too narrow for a heart which will rather renounce life than your love. mellefont. hannah! marwood. what are you doing, mellefont? scene viii. hannah (_in terror_), marwood, mellefont. mellefont. did you hear, hannah, how madly your mistress was behaving? remember that i shall hold you responsible for arabella! hannah. madam, how agitated you are! mellefont. i will place the innocent child in safety immediately. justice will doubtless be able to bind the murderous hands of her cruel mother (_going_). marwood. whither, mellefont? is it astonishing that the violence of my grief deprived me of my reason? who forces me to such unnatural excess? is it not you yourself? where can bella be safer than with me? my lips may rave, but my heart still remains the heart of a mother. oh, mellefont, forget my madness, and to excuse it think only of its cause. mellefont. there is only one thing which can induce me to forget it. marwood. and that is? mellefont. that you return immediately to london! i will send arabella there under another escort. you must by no means have anything further to do with her. marwood. very well! i submit to everything; but grant me one single request more. let me see your sara once. mellefont. and what for? marwood. to read in her eyes my future fate. i will judge for myself whether she is worthy of such a breach of faith as you commit against me; and whether i may cherish the hope of receiving again, some day at any rate, a portion of your love. mellefont. vain hope! marwood. who is so cruel as to grudge even hope to the unhappy? i will not show myself to her as marwood, but as a relation of yours. announce me to her as such; you shall be present when i call upon her, and i promise you, by all that is sacred, to say nothing that is in any way displeasing to her. do not refuse my request, for otherwise i might perhaps do all that is in my power to show myself to her in my true character. mellefont. marwood! this request----(_after a moment's reflection_) might be granted.--but will you then be sure to quit this spot? marwood. certainly; yes i promise you. even more, i will spare you the visit from her father, if that is still possible. mellefont. there is no need of that! i hope that he will include me too in the pardon which he grants to his daughter. but if he will not pardon her, i too shall know how to deal with him. i will go and announce you to my sara. only keep your promise, marwood. (_exit_.) marwood. alas, hannah, that our powers are not as great as our courage. come, help me to dress. i do not despair of my scheme. if i could only make sure of him first. come! act iii. scene i. (_a room in the first inn_.) sir william sampson, waitwell. sir william sampson. there, waitwell, take this letter to her! it is the letter of an affectionate father, who complains of nothing but her absence. tell her that i have sent you on before with it, and that i only await her answer, to come myself and fold her again in my arms. waitwell. i think you do well to prepare them for your arrival in this way. sir william sampson. i make sure of her intentions by this means, and give her the opportunity of freeing herself from any shame or sorrow which repentance might cause her, before she speaks verbally with me. in a letter it will cost her less embarrassment, and me, perhaps, fewer tears. waitwell. but may i ask, sir, what you have resolved upon with regard to mellefont? sir william sampson. ah, waitwell, if i could separate him from my daughter's lover, i should make some very harsh resolve. but as this cannot be, you see, he is saved from my anger. i myself am most to blame in this misfortune. but for me sara would never have made the acquaintance of this dangerous man. i admitted him freely into my house on account of an obligation under which i believed myself to be to him. it was natural that the attention which in gratitude i paid him, should win for him the esteem of my daughter. and it was just as natural, that a man of his disposition should suffer himself to be tempted by this esteem to something more. he had been clever enough to transform it into love before i noticed anything at all, and before i had time to inquire into his former life. the evil was done, and i should have done well, if i had forgiven them everything immediately. i wished to be inexorable towards him, and did not consider that i could not be so towards him alone. if i had spared my severity, which came too late, i would at least have prevented their flight. but here i am now, waitwell! i must fetch them back myself and consider myself happy if only i can make a son of a seducer. for who knows whether he will give up his marwoods and his other creatures for the sake of a girl who has left nothing for his desires to wish for and who understands so little the bewitching arts of a coquette? waitwell. well, sir, it cannot be possible, that a man could be so wicked---- sir william sampson. this doubt, good waitwell, does honour to your virtue. but why, at the same time, is it true that the limits of human wickedness extend much further still? go now, and do as i told you! notice every look as she reads my letter. in this short deviation from virtue she cannot yet have learned the art of dissimulation, to the masks of which only deep-rooted vice can have recourse. you will read her whole soul in her face. do not let a look escape you which might perhaps indicate indifference to me--disregard of her father. for if you should unhappily discover this, and if she loves me no more, i hope that i shall be able to conquer myself and abandon her to her fate. i hope so, waitwell. alas! would that there were no heart here, to contradict this hope. (_exeunt on different sides_.) scene ii. miss sara, mellefont. (sara's _room_.) mellefont. i have done wrong, dearest sara, to leave you in uneasiness about the letter which came just now. sara. oh dear, no, mellefont! i have not been in the least uneasy about it. could you not love me even though you still had secrets from me? mellefont. you think, then, that it was a secret? sara. but not one which concerns me. and that must suffice for me. mellefont. you are only too good. let me nevertheless reveal my secret to you. the letter contained a few lines from a relative of mine, who has heard of my being here. she passes through here on her way to london, and would like to see me. she has begged at the same time to be allowed the honour of paying you a visit. sara. it will always be a pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of the respected members of your family. but consider for yourself, whether i can yet appear before one of them without blushing. mellefont. without blushing? and for what? for your love to me? it is true, sara, you could have given your love to a nobler or a richer man. you must be ashamed that you were content to give your heart for another heart only, and that in this exchange you lost sight of your happiness. sara. you must know yourself how wrongly you interpret my words. mellefont. pardon me, sara; if my interpretation is wrong, they can have no meaning at all. sara. what is the name of your relation? mellefont. she is--lady solmes. you will have heard me mention the name before. sara. i don't remember. mellefont. may i beg you to see her? sara. beg me? you can command me to do so. mellefont. what a word! no, sara, she shall not have the happiness of seeing you. she will regret it, but she must submit to it. sara has her reasons, which i respect without knowing them. sara. how hasty you are, mellefont! i shall expect lady solmes, and do my best to show myself worthy of the honour of her visit. are you content? mellefont. ah, sara! let me confess my ambition. i should like to show you to the whole world! and were i not proud of the possession of such a being, i should reproach myself with not being able to appreciate her value. i will go and bring her to you at once. (_exit_.) sara (_alone_). i hope she will not be one of those proud women, who are so full of their own virtue that they believe themselves above all failings. with one single look of contempt they condemn us, and an equivocal shrug of the shoulders is all the pity we seem to deserve in their eyes. scene iii. waitwell, sara. betty (_behind the scenes_). just come in here, if you must speak to her yourself! sara (_looking round_). who must speak to me? whom do i see? is it possible? you, waitwell? waitwell. how happy i am to see our young lady again! sara. good god, what do you bring me? i hear already, i hear already; you bring me the news of my father's death! he is gone, the excellent man, the best of fathers! he is gone, and i--i am the miserable creature who has hastened his death. waitwell. ah, miss---- sara. tell me, quick! tell me, that his last moments were not embittered by the thought of me; that he had forgotten me; that he died as peacefully as he used to hope to die in my arms; that he did not remember me even in his last prayer---- waitwell. pray do not torment yourself with such false notions! your father is still alive! he is still alive, honest sir william! sara. is he still alive? is it true? is he still alive? may he live a long while yet, and live happily! oh, would that god would add the half of my years to his life! half! how ungrateful should i be, if i were not willing to buy even a few moments for him with all the years, that may yet be mine! but tell me at least, waitwell, that it is not hard for him to live without me; that it was easy to him to renounce a daughter who could so easily renounce her virtue, that he is angry with me for my flight, but not grieved; that he curses me, but does not mourn for me. waitwell. ah! sir william is still the same fond father, as his sara is still the same fond daughter that she was. sara. what do you say? you are a messenger of evil, of the most dreadful of all the evils which my imagination has ever pictured to me! he is still the same fond father? then he loves me still? and he must mourn for me, then! no no, he does not do so; he cannot do so? do you not see how infinitely each sigh which he wasted on me would magnify my crime? would not the justice of heaven have to charge me with every tear which i forced from him, as if with each one i repeated my vice and my ingratitude? i grow chill at the thought. i cause him tears? tears? and they are other tears than tears of joy? contradict me, waitwell! at most he has felt some slight stirring of the blood on my account; some transitory emotion, calmed by a slight effort of reason. he did not go so far as to shed tears, surely not to shed tears, waitwell? waitwell (_wiping his eyes_). no, miss, he did not go so far as that. sara. alas! your lips say no, and your eyes say yes. waitwell. take this letter miss, it is from him himself---- sara. from whom? from my father? to me? waitwell. yes, take it! you can learn more from it, than i am able to say. he ought to have given this to another to do, not to me. i promised myself pleasure from it; but you turn my joy into sadness. sara. give it me, honest waitwell! but no! i will not take it before you tell me what it contains. waitwell. what can it contain? love and forgiveness. sara. love? forgiveness? waitwell. and perhaps a real regret, that he used the rights of a father's power against a child, who should only have the privileges of a father's kindness. sara. then keep your cruel letter. waitwell. cruel? have no fear. full liberty is granted you over your heart and hand. sara. and it is just this which i fear. to grieve a father such as he, this i have had the courage to do. but to see him forced by this very grief-by his love which i have forfeited, to look with leniency on all the wrong into which an unfortunate passion has led me; this, waitwell, i could not bear. if his letter contained all the hard and angry words which an exasperated father can utter in such a case, i should read it--with a shudder it is true--but still i should be able to read it. i should be able to produce a shadow of defence against his wrath, to make him by this defence if possible more angry still. my consolation then would be this-that melancholy grief could have no place with violent wrath and that the latter would transform itself finally into bitter contempt. and we grieve no more for one whom we despise. my father would have grown calm again, and i would not have to reproach myself with having made him unhappy for ever. waitwell. alas, miss! you will have to reproach yourself still less for this if you now accept his love again, which wishes only to forget everything. sara. you are mistaken, waitwell! his yearning for me misleads him, perhaps, to give his consent to everything. but no sooner would this desire be appeased a little, than he would feel ashamed before himself of his weakness. sullen anger would take possession of him, and he would never be able to look at me without silently accusing me of all that i had dared to exact from him. yes, if it were in my power to spare him his bitterest grief, when on my account he is laying the greatest restraint upon himself; if at a moment when he would grant me everything i could sacrifice all to him; then it would be quite a different matter. i would take the letter from your hands with pleasure, would admire in it the strength of the fatherly love, and, not to abuse this love, i would throw myself at his feet a repentant and obedient daughter. but can i do that? i shall be obliged to make use of his permission, regardless of the price this permission has cost him. and then, when i feel most happy, it will suddenly occur to me that he only outwardly appears to share my happiness and that inwardly he is sighing--in short, that he has made me happy by the renunciation of his own happiness. and to wish to be happy in this way,--do you expect that of me, waitwell? waitwell. i truly do not know what answer to give to that. sara. there is no answer to it. so take your letter back! if my father must be unhappy through me, i will myself remain unhappy also. to be quite alone in unhappiness is that for which i now pray heaven every hour, but to be quite alone in my happiness--of that i will not hear. waitwell (_aside_). i really think i shall have to employ deception with this good child to get her to read the letter. sara. what are you saying to yourself? waitwell. i was saying to myself that the idea i had hit on to get you to read this letter all the quicker was a very clumsy one. sara. how so? waitwell. i could not look far enough. of course you see more deeply into things than such as i. i did not wish to frighten you; the letter is perhaps only too hard; and when i said that it contained nothing but love and forgiveness, i ought to have said that i wished it might not contain anything else. sara. is that true? give it me then! i will read it. if one has been unfortunate enough to deserve the anger of one's father, one should at least have enough respect for it to submit to the expression of it on his part. to try to frustrate it means to heap contempt on insult. i shall feel his anger in all its strength. you see i tremble already. but i must tremble; and i will rather tremble than weep (_opens the letter_). now it is opened! i sink! but what do i see? (_she reads_) "my only, dearest daughter"--ah, you old deceiver, is that the language of an angry father? go, i shall read no more---- waitwell. ah, miss! you will pardon an old servant! yes, truly, i believe it is the first time in my life that i have intentionally deceived any one. he who deceives once, miss, and deceives for so good a purpose, is surely no old deceiver on that account. that touches me deeply, miss! i know well that the good intention does not always excuse one; but what else could i do? to return his letter unread to such a good father? that certainly i cannot do! sooner will i walk as far as my old legs will carry me, and never again come into his presence. sara. what? you too will leave him? waitwell. shall i not be obliged to do so if you do not read the letter? read it, pray! do not grudge a good result to the first deceit with which i have to reproach myself. you will forget it the sooner, and i shall the sooner be able to forgive myself. i am a common, simple man, who must not question the reasons why you cannot and will not read the letter. whether they are true, i know not, but at any rate they do not appear to me to be natural. i should think thus, miss: a father, i should think, is after all a father; and a child may err for once, and remain a good child in spite of it. if the father pardons the error, the child may behave again in such a manner that the father may not even think of it any more. for who likes to remember what he would rather had never happened? it seems, miss, as if you thought only of your error, and believed you atoned sufficiently in exaggerating it in your imagination and tormenting yourself with these exaggerated ideas. but, i should think, you ought also to consider how you could make up for what has happened. and how will you make up for it, if you deprive yourself of every opportunity of doing so. can it be hard for you to take the second step, when such a good father has already taken the first? sara. what daggers pierce my heart in your simple words! that he has to take the first step is just what i cannot bear. and, besides, is it only the first step which he takes? he must do all! i cannot take a single one to meet him. as far as i have gone from him, so far must he descend to me. if he pardons me, he must pardon the whole crime, and in addition must bear the consequences of it continually before his eyes. can one demand that from a father? waitwell. i do not know, miss, whether i understand this quite right. but it seems to me, you mean to say that he would have to forgive you too much, and as this could not but be very difficult to him, you make a scruple of accepting his forgiveness. if you mean that, tell me, pray, is not forgiving a great happiness to a kind heart? i have not been so fortunate in my life as to have felt this happiness often. but i still remember with pleasure the few instances when i have felt it. i felt something so sweet, something so tranquillising, something so divine, that i could not help thinking of the great insurpassable blessedness of god, whose preservation of miserable mankind is a perpetual forgiveness. i wished that i could be forgiving continually, and was ashamed that i had only such trifles to pardon. to forgive real painful insults, deadly offences, i said to myself, must be a bliss in which the whole soul melts. and now, miss, will you grudge your father such bliss? sara. ah! go on, waitwell, go on! waitwell. i know well there are people who accept nothing less willingly than forgiveness, and that because they have never learned to grant it. they are proud, unbending people, who will on no account confess that they have done wrong. but you do not belong to this kind, miss! you have the most loving and tender of hearts that the best of your sex can have. you confess your fault too. where then is the difficulty? but pardon me, miss! i am an old chatterer, and ought to have seen at once that your refusal is only a praiseworthy solicitude, only a virtuous timidity. people who can accept a great benefit immediately without any hesitation are seldom worthy of it. those who deserve it most have always the greatest mistrust of themselves. yet mistrust must not be pushed beyond limits! sara. dear old father! i believe you have persuaded me. waitwell. if i have been so fortunate as that it must have been a good spirit that has helped me to plead. but no, miss, my words have done no more than given you time to reflect and to recover from the bewilderment of joy. you will read the letter now, will you not? oh, read it at once! sara. i will do so, waitwell! what regrets, what pain shall i feel! waitwell. pain, miss! but pleasant pain. sara. be silent! (_begins reading to herself_). waitwell (_aside_). oh! if he could see her himself! sara (_after reading a few moments_). ah, waitwell, what a father! he calls my flight "an absence." how much more culpable it becomes through this gentle word! (_continues reading and interrupts herself again_). listen! he flatters himself i shall love him still. he flatters himself! he begs me--he begs me? a father begs his daughter? his culpable daughter? and what does he beg then? he begs me to forget his over-hasty severity, and not to punish him any longer with my absence. over-hasty severity! to punish! more still! now he thanks me even, and thanks me that i have given him an opportunity of learning the whole extent of paternal love. unhappy opportunity! would that he also said it had shown him at the same time the extent of filial disobedience. no, he does not say it! he does not mention my crime with one single word. (_continues reading_.) he will come himself and fetch his children. his children, waitwell! that surpasses everything! have i read it rightly? (_reads again to herself_) i am overcome! he says, that he without whom he could not possess a daughter deserves but too well to be his son. oh that he had never had this unfortunate daughter! go, waitwell, leave me alone! he wants an answer, and i will write it at once. come again in an hour! i thank you meanwhile for your trouble. you are an honest man. few servants are the friends of their masters! waitwell. do not make me blush, miss! if all masters were like sir william, servants would be monsters, if they would not give their lives for them. (_exit_.) scene iv. sara (_sits down to write_). if they had told me a year ago that i should have to answer such a letter! and under such circumstances! yes, i have the pen in my hand. but do i know yet what i shall write? what i think; what i feel. and what then does one think when a thousand thoughts cross each other in one moment? and what does one feel, when the heart is in a stupor from a thousand feelings. but i must write! i do not guide the pen for the first time. after assisting me in so many a little act of politeness and friendship, should its help fail me at the most important office? (_she pauses, and then writes a few lines_.) it shall commence so? a very cold beginning! and shall i then begin with his love? i must begin with my crime. (_she scratches it out and writes again_.) i must be on my guard not to express myself too leniently. shame may be in its place anywhere else, but not in the confession of our faults. i need not fear falling into exaggeration, even though i employ the most dreadful terms. ah, am i to be interrupted now? scene v. marwood, mellefont, sara. mellefont. dearest sara, i have the honour of introducing lady solmes to you; she is one of the members of my family to whom i feel myself most indebted. marwood. i must beg your pardon, madam, for taking the liberty of convincing myself with my own eyes of the happiness of a cousin, for whom i should wish the most perfect of women if the first moment had not at once convinced me, that he has found her already in you. sara. your ladyship does me too much honour! such a compliment would have made me blush at any time, but now i would almost take it as concealed reproach, if i did not think that lady solmes is much too generous to let her superiority in virtue and wisdom be felt by an unhappy girl. marwood (_coldly_). i should be inconsolable if you attributed to me any but the most friendly feelings towards you. (_aside_.) she is good-looking. mellefont. would it be possible madam, to remain indifferent to such beauty, such modesty? people say, it is true, that one charming woman rarely does another one justice, but this is to be taken only of those who are over-vain of their superiority, and on the other hand of those who are not conscious of possessing any superiority. how far are you both removed from this. (_to_ marwood, _who stands in deep thought_.) is it not true, madam, that my love has been anything but partial? is it not true, that though i have said much to you in praise of my sara, i have not said nearly so much as you yourself see? but why so thoughtful. (_aside to her_.) you forget whom you represent. marwood. may i say it? the admiration of your dear young lady led me to the contemplation of her fate. it touched me, that she should not enjoy the fruits of her love in her native land. i recollected that she had to leave a father, and a very affectionate father as i have been told, in order to become yours; and i could not but wish for her reconciliation with him. sara. ah, madam! how much am i indebted to you for this wish. it encourages me to tell you the whole of my happiness. you cannot yet know, mellefont, that this wish was granted before lady solmes had the kindness to wish it. mellefont. how do you mean, sara? marwood (_aside_). how am i to interpret that? sara. i have just received a letter from my father. waitwell brought it to me. ah, mellefont, such a letter! mellefont. quick, relieve me from my uncertainty. what have i to fear? what have i to hope? is he still the father from whom we fled? and if he is, will sara be the daughter who loves me so tenderly as to fly again? alas, had i but done as you wished, dearest sara, we should now be united by a bond which no caprice could dissolve. i feel now all the misfortune which the discovery of our abode may bring upon me.--he will come and tear you out of my arms. how i hate the contemptible being who has betrayed us to him (_with an angry glance at_ marwood). sara. dearest mellefont, how flattering to me is this uneasiness i and how happy are we both in that it is unnecessary. read his letter! (_to_ marwood, _whilst_ mellefont _reads the letter_.) he will be astonished at the love of my father. of my father? ah, he is _his_ now too. marwood (_perplexed_). is it possible? sara. yes, madam, you have good cause to be surprised at this change. he forgives us everything; we shall now love each other before his eyes; he allows it, he commands it. how has this kindness gone to my very soul! well, mellefont? (_who returns the letter to her_). you are silent? oh no, this tear which steals from your eye says far more than your lips could say. marwood (_aside_). how i have injured my own cause. imprudent woman that i was! sara. oh, let me kiss this tear from your cheek. mellefont. ah, sara, why was it our fate to grieve such a godlike man? yes, a godlike man, for what is more godlike than to forgive? could we only have imagined such a happy issue possible, we should not now owe it to such violent means, we should owe it to our entreaties alone. what happiness is in store for me! but how painful also will be the conviction, that i am so unworthy of this happiness! marwood (_aside_). and i must be present to hear this. sara. how perfectly you justify my love by such thoughts. marwood (_aside_.) what restraint must i put on myself! sara. you too, madam, must read my father's letter. you seem to take too great an interest in our fate to be indifferent to its contents. marwood. indifferent? (_takes the letter_). sara. but, madam, you still seem very thoughtful, very sad---- marwood. thoughtful, but not sad! mellefont (_aside_). heavens! if she should betray herself! sara. and why then thoughtful? marwood. i tremble for you both. could not this unforeseen kindness of your father be a dissimulation? an artifice? sara. assuredly not, madam, assuredly not. only read and you will admit it yourself. dissimulation is always cold, it is not capable of such tender words. (marwood _reads_.) do not grow suspicious, mellefont, i beg. i pledge myself that my father cannot condescend to an artifice. he says nothing which he does not think, falseness is a vice unknown to him. mellefont. oh, of that i am thoroughly convinced, dearest sara! you must pardon lady solmes for this suspicion, since she does not know the man whom it concerns. sara (_whilst_ marwood _returns the letter to her_). what do i see, my lady? you are pale! you tremble! what is the matter with you? mellefont (_aside_). what anxiety i suffer? why did i bring her here? marwood. it is nothing but a slight dizziness, which will pass over. the night air on my journey must have disagreed with me. mellefont. you frighten me! would you not like to go into the air? you will recover sooner than in a close room. marwood. if you think so, give me your arm! sara. i will accompany your ladyship! marwood. i beg you will not trouble to do so! my faintness will pass over immediately. sara. i hope then, to see you again soon. marwood. if you permit me (mellefont _conducts her out_). sara (_alone_). poor thing! she does not seem exactly the most friendly of people; but yet she does not appear to be either proud or ill-tempered. i am alone again. can i employ the few moments, while i remain so, better than by finishing my answer? (_is about to sit down to write_.) scene vi. betty, sara. betty. that was indeed a very short visit. sara. yes, betty! it was lady solmes, a relation of my mellefont. she was suddenly taken faint. where is she now? betty. mellefont has accompanied her to the door. sara. she is gone again, then? betty. i suppose so. but the more i look at you--you must forgive my freedom, miss--the more you seem to me to be altered. there is something calm, something contented in your looks. either lady solmes must have been a very pleasant visitor, or the old man a very pleasant messenger. sara. the latter, betty, the latter! he came from my father. what a tender letter i have for you to read! your kind heart has often wept with me, now it shall rejoice with me, too. i shall be happy again, and be able to reward you for your good services. betty. what services could i render you in nine short weeks? sara. you could not have done more for me in all the rest of my life, than in these nine weeks. they are over! but come now with me, betty. as mellefont is probably alone again, i must speak to him. it just occurs to me that it would be well if he wrote at the same time to my father, to whom an expression of gratitude from him could hardly come unexpectedly. come! (_exeunt_.) scene vii. sir william sampson, waitwell. (_the drawing-room_.) sir william. what balm you have poured on my wounded heart with your words, waitwell! i live again, and the prospect of her return seems to carry me as far back to my youth as her flight had brought me nearer to my grave. she loves me still? what more do i wish! go back to her soon, waitwell? i am impatient for the moment when i shall fold her again in these arms, which i had stretched out so longingly to death! how welcome would it have been to me in the moments of my grief! and how terrible will it be to me in my new happiness! an old man, no doubt, is to be blamed for drawing the bonds so tight again which still unite him to the world. the final separation becomes the more painful. but god who shows himself so merciful to me now, will also help me to go through this. would he, i ask, grant me a mercy in order to let it become ray ruin in the end? would he give me back a daughter, that i should have to murmur when he calls me from life? no, no! he gives her back to me that in my last hour i may be anxious about myself alone. thanks to thee, eternal father! how feeble is the gratitude of mortal lips? but soon, soon i shall be able to thank him more worthily in an eternity devoted to him alone! waitwell. how it delights me, sir, to know you happy again before my death! believe me, i have suffered almost as much in your grief as you yourself. almost as much, for the grief of a father in such a case must be inexpressible. sir william. do not regard yourself as my servant any longer, my good waitwell. you have long deserved to enjoy a more seemly old age. i will give it you, and you shall not be worse off than i am while i am still in this world. i will abolish all difference between us; in yonder world, you well know, it will be done. for this once be the old servant still, on whom i never relied in vain. go, and be sure to bring me her answer, as soon as it is ready. waitwell. i go, sir! but such an errand is not a service. it is a reward which you grant me for my services. yes, truly it is so! (_exeunt on different sides of the stage_.) act iv. scene i.--mellefont's _room_. mellefont, sara. mellefont. yes, dearest sara, yes! that i will do! that i must do. sara. how happy you make me! mellefont. it is i who must take the whole crime upon myself. i alone am guilty; i alone must ask for forgiveness. sara. no, mellefont, do not take from me the greater share which i have in our error! it is dear to me, however wrong it is, for it must have convinced you that i love my mellefont above everything in this world. but is it, then, really true, that i may henceforth combine this love with the love of my father? or am i in a pleasant dream? how i fear it will pass and i shall awaken in my old misery! but no! i am not merely dreaming, i am really happier than i ever dared hope to become; happier than this short life may perhaps allow. but perhaps this beam of happiness appears in the distance, and delusively seems to approach only in order to melt away again into thick darkness, and to leave me suddenly in a night whose whole terror has only become perceptible to me through this short illumination. what forebodings torment me! are they really forebodings, mellefont, or are they common feelings, which are inseparable from the expectation of an undeserved happiness, and the fear of losing it? how fast my heart beats, and how wildly it beats. how loud now, how quick! and now how weak, how anxious, how quivering! now it hurries again, as if these were its last throbbings, which it would fain beat out rapidly. poor heart! mellefont. the tumult of your blood, which a sudden surprise cannot fail to cause, will abate, sara, and your heart will continue its work more calmly. none of its throbs point to aught that is in the future, and we are to blame--forgive me, dearest sara!--if we make the mechanic pressure of our blood into a prophet of evil. but i will not leave anything undone which you yourself think good to appease this little storm within your breast. i will write at once, and i hope that sir william will be satisfied with the assurances of my repentance, with the expressions of my stricken heart, and my vows of affectionate obedience. sara. sir william? ah, mellefont, you must begin now to accustom yourself to a far more tender name. my father, your father, mellefont---- mellefont. very well, sara, our kind, our dear father! i was very young when i last used this sweet name; very young, when i had to unlearn the equally sweet name of mother. sara. you had to unlearn it, and i--i was never so happy, as to be able to pronounce it at all. my life was her death! o god, i was a guiltless matricide! and how much was wanting--how little, how almost nothing was wanting to my becoming a parricide too! not a guiltless, but a voluntary parricide. and who knows, whether i am not so already? the years, the days, the moments by which he is nearer to his end than he would have been without the grief i have caused him--of those i have robbed him. however old and weary he may be when fate shall permit him to depart, my conscience will yet be unable to escape the reproach that but for me he might have lived yet longer. a sad reproach with which i doubtless should not need to charge myself, if a loving mother had guided me in my youth. through her teaching and her example my heart would--you look tenderly on me, mellefont? you are right; a mother would perhaps have been a tyrant for very love, and i should not now belong to mellefont. why do i wish then for that, which a wiser fate denied me out of kindness? its dispensations are always best. let us only make proper use of that which it gives us; a father who never yet let me sigh for a mother; a father who will also teach you to forget the parents you lost so soon. what a flattering thought. i fall in love with it, and forget almost, that in my innermost heart there is still something which refuses to put faith in it. what is this rebellious something? mellefont. this something, dearest sara, as you have already said yourself, is the natural, timid incapability to realize a great happiness. ah, your heart hesitated less to believe itself unhappy than now, to its own torment, it hesitates to believe in its own happiness! but as to one who has become dizzy with quick movement, the external objects still appear to move round when again he is sitting still, so the heart which has been violently agitated cannot suddenly become calm again; there remains often for a long time, a quivering palpitation which we must suffer to exhaust itself. sara. i believe it, mellefont, i believe it, because you say it, because i wish it. but do not let us detain each other any longer! i will go and finish my letter. and you will let me read yours, will you not, after i have shown you mine? mellefont. each word shall be submitted to your judgment; except what i must say in your defence, for i know you do not think yourself so innocent as you are. (_accompanies sara to the back of the stage_.) scene ii. mellefont (_after walking up and down several times in thought_). what a riddle i am to myself! what shall i think myself? a fool? or a knave? heart, what a villain thou art! i love the angel, however much of a devil i may be. i love her! yes, certainly! certainly i love her. i feel i would sacrifice a thousand lives for her, for her who sacrificed her virtue for me; i would do so,--this very moment without hesitation would i do so. and yet, yet--i am afraid to say it to myself--and yet--how shall i explain it? and yet i fear the moment which will make her mine for ever before the world. it cannot be avoided now, for her father is reconciled. nor shall i be able to put it off for long. the delay has already drawn down painful reproaches enough upon me. but painful as they were, they were still more supportable to me than the melancholy thought of being fettered for life. but am i not so already? certainly,--and with pleasure! certainly i am already her prisoner. what is it i want, then? at present i am a prisoner, who is allowed to go about on parole; that is flattering! why cannot the matter rest there? why must i be put in chains and thus lack even the pitiable shadow of freedom? in chains? quite so! sara sampson, my beloved! what bliss lies in these words! sara sampson, my wife! the half of the bliss is gone! and the other half--will go! monster that i am! and with such thoughts shall i write to her father? yet these are not my real thoughts, they are fancies! cursed fancies, which have become natural to me through my dissolute life! i will free myself from them, or live no more. scene iii. norton, mellefont. mellefont. you disturb me, norton! norton. i beg your pardon, sir (_withdrawing again_). mellefont. no, no! stay! it is just as well that you should disturb me. what do you want? norton. i have heard some very good news from betty, and have come to wish you happiness. mellefont. on the reconciliation with her father, i suppose you mean? i thank you. norton. so heaven still means to make you happy. mellefont. if it means to do so,--you see, norton, i am just towards myself--it certainly does not mean it for my sake. norton. no, no; if you feel that, then it will be for your sake also. mellefont. for my sara's sake alone. if its vengeance, already armed, could spare the whole of a sinful city for the sake of a few just men, surely it can also bear with a sinner, when a soul in which it finds delight, is the sharer of his fate. norton. you speak with earnestness and feeling. but does not joy express itself differently from this? mellefont. joy, norton? (_looking sharply at him_.) for me it is gone now for ever. norton. may i speak candidly? mellefont. you may. norton. the reproach which i had to hear this morning of having made myself a participator in your crimes, because i had been silent about them, may excuse me, if i am less silent henceforth. mellefont. only do not forget who you are! norton. i will not forget that i am a servant, and a servant, alas, who might be something better, if he had lived for it. i am your servant, it is true, but not so far as to wish to be damned along with you. mellefont. with me? and why do you say that now? norton. because i am not a little astonished to find you different from what i expected. mellefont. will you not inform me what you expected? norton. to find you all delight. mellefont. it is only the common herd who are beside themselves immediately when luck smiles on them for once. norton. perhaps, because the common herd still have the feelings which among greater people are corrupted and weakened by a thousand unnatural notions. but there is something besides moderation to be read in your face--coldness, irresolution, disinclination. mellefont. and if so? have you forgotten who is here besides sara? the presence of marwood---- norton. could make you anxious, i daresay, but not despondent. something else troubles you. and i shall be glad to be mistaken in thinking you would rather that the father were not yet reconciled. the prospect of a position which so little suits your way of thinking---- mellefont. norton, norton! either you must have been, or still must be, a dreadful villain, that you can thus guess my thoughts. since you have hit the nail upon the head, i will not deny it. it is true--so certain as it is that i shall love my sara for ever so little does it please me, that i _must_--_must_ love her for ever! but do not fear; i shall conquer this foolish fancy. or do you think that it is no fancy? who bids me look at marriage as compulsion? i certainly do not wish to be freer than she will permit me to be. norton. these reflections are all very well. but marwood will come to the aid of your old prejudices, and i fear, i fear---- mellefont. that which will never happen! you shall see her go back this very evening to london. and as i have confessed my most secret--folly we will call it for the present--i must not conceal from you either, that i have put marwood into such a fright that she will obey the slightest hint from me. norton. that sounds incredible to me. mellefont. look! i snatched this murderous steel from her hand (_showing the dagger which he had taken from_ marwood) when in a fearful rage she was on the point of stabbing me to the heart with it. will you believe now, that i offered her a stout resistance? at first she well nigh succeeded in throwing her noose around my neck again. the traitoress!--she has arabella with her. norton. arabella? mellefont. i have not yet been able to fathom by what cunning she got the child back into her hands again. enough, the result did not fall out as she no doubt had expected. norton. allow me to rejoice at your firmness, and to consider your reformation half assured. yet,--as you wish me to know all--what business had she here under the name of lady solmes? mellefont. she wanted of all things to see her rival. i granted her wish partly from kindness, partly from rashness, partly from the desire to humiliate her by the sight of the best of her sex. you shake your head, norton? norton. i should not have risked that. mellefont. risked? i did not risk anything more, after all, than what i should have had to risk if i had refused her. she would have tried to obtain admittance as marwood; and the worst that can be expected from her incognito visit is not worse than that. norton. thank heaven that it went off so quietly. mellefont. it is not quite over yet, norton. a slight indisposition came over her and compelled her to go away without taking leave. she wants to come again. let her do so! the wasp which has lost its sting (_pointing to the dagger_) can do nothing worse than buzz. but buzzing too shall cost her dear, if she grows too troublesome with it. do i not hear somebody coming? leave me if it should be she. it is she. go! (_exit_ norton.) scene iv. mellefont, marwood. marwood. no doubt you are little pleased to see me again. mellefont. i am very pleased, marwood, to see that your indisposition has had no further consequences. you are better, i hope? marwood. so, so. mellefont. you have not done well, then, to trouble to come here again. marwood. i thank you, mellefont, if you say this out of kindness to me; and i do not take it amiss, if you have another meaning in it. mellefont. i am pleased to see you so calm. marwood. the storm is over. forget it, i beg you once more. mellefont. only remember your promise, marwood, and i will forget everything with pleasure. but if i knew that you would not consider it an offence, i should like to ask---- marwood. ask on, mellefont! you cannot offend me any more. what were you going to ask? mellefont. how you liked my sara? marwood. the question is natural. my answer will not seem so natural, but it is none the less true for that. i liked her very much. mellefont. such impartiality delights me. but would it be possible for him who knew how to appreciate the charms of a marwood to make a bad choice? marwood. you ought to have spared me this flattery, mellefont, if it is flattery. it is not in accordance with our intention to forget each other. mellefont. you surely do not wish me to facilitate this intention by rudeness? do not let our separation be of an ordinary nature. let us break with each other as people of reason who yield to necessity; without bitterness, without anger, and with the preservation of a certain degree of respect, as behoves our former intimacy. marwood. former intimacy! i do not wish to be reminded of it. no more of it. what must be, must, and it matters little how. but one word more about arabella. you will not let me have her? mellefont. no, marwood! marwood. it is cruel, since you can no longer be her father, to take her mother also from her. mellefont. i can still be her father, and will be so. marwood. prove it, then, now! mellefont. how? marwood. permit arabella to have the riches which i have in keeping for you, as her father's inheritance. as to her mother's inheritance i wish i could leave her a better one than the shame of having been borne by me. mellefont. do not speak so! i shall provide for arabella without embarrassing her mother's property. if she wishes to forget me, she must begin by forgetting that she possesses anything from me. i have obligations towards her, and i shall never forget that really--though against her will--she has promoted my happiness. yes, marwood, in all seriousness i thank you for betraying our retreat to a father whose ignorance of it alone prevented him from receiving us again. marwood. do not torture me with gratitude which i never wished to deserve. sir william is too good an old fool; he must think differently from what i should have thought in his place. i should have forgiven my daughter, but as to her seducer i should have---- mellefont. marwood! marwood. true; you yourself are the seducer! i am silent. shall i be presently allowed to pay my farewell visit to miss sampson? mellefont. sara could not be offended, even if you left without seeing her again. marwood. mellefont, i do not like playing my part by halves, and i have no wish to be taken, even under an assumed name, for a woman without breeding. mellefont. if you care for your own peace of mind you ought to avoid seeing a person again who must awaken certain thoughts in you which---- marwood (_smiling disdainfully_). you have a better opinion of yourself than of me. but even if you believed that i should be inconsolable on your account, you ought at least to believe it in silence.--miss sampson would awaken certain thoughts in me? certain thoughts! oh yes; but none more certain than this--that the best girl can often love the most worthless man. mellefont. charming, marwood, perfectly charming. now you are as i have long wished to see you; although i could almost have wished, as i told you before, that we could have retained some respect for each other. but this may perhaps come still when once your fermenting heart has cooled down. excuse me for a moment. i will fetch miss sampson to see you. scene v. marwood (_looking round_). am i alone? can i take breath again unobserved, and let the muscles of my face relax into their natural position? i must just for a moment be the true marwood in all my features to be able again to bear the restraint of dissimulation! how i hate thee, base dissimulation! not because i love sincerity, but because thou art the most pitiable refuge of powerless revenge. i certainly would not condescend to thee, if a tyrant would lend me his power or heaven its thunderbolt.--yet, if thou only servest my end! the beginning is promising, and mellefont seems disposed to grow more confident. if my device succeeds and i can speak alone with his sara; then-yes, then, it is still very uncertain whether it will be of any use to me. the truths about mellefont will perhaps be no novelty to her; the calumnies she will perhaps not believe, and the threats, perhaps, despise. but yet she shall hear truths, calumnies and threats. it would be bad, if they did not leave any sting at all in her mind. silence; they are coming. i am no longer marwood, i am a worthless outcast, who tries by little artful tricks to turn aside her shame,--a bruised worm, which turns and fain would wound at least the heel of him who trod upon it. scene vi. sara, mellefont, marwood. sara. i am happy, madam, that my uneasiness on your account has been unnecessary. marwood. i thank you! the attack was so insignificant that it need not have made you uneasy. mellefont. lady solmes wishes to take leave of you, dearest sara! sara. so soon, madam? marwood. i cannot go soon enough for those who desire my presence in london. mellefont. you surely are not going to leave to-day? marwood. to-morrow morning, first thing. mellefont. to-morrow morning, first thing? i thought to-day. sara. our acquaintance, madam, commences hurriedly. i hope to be honoured with a more intimate intercourse with you at some future time. marwood. i solicit your friendship, miss sampson. mellefont. i pledge myself, dearest sara, that this desire of lady solmes is sincere, although i must tell you beforehand that you will certainly not see each other again for a long time. lady solmes will very rarely be able to live where we are. marwood (_aside_). how subtle! sara. that is to deprive me of a very pleasant anticipation, mellefont! marwood. i shall be the greatest loser! mellefont. but in reality, madam, do you not start before tomorrow morning? marwood. it may be sooner! (_aside_.) no one comes. mellefont. we do not wish to remain much longer here either. it will be well, will it not, sara, to follow our answer without delay? sir william cannot be displeased with our haste. scene vii. betty, mellefont, sara, marwood. mellefont. what is it, betty? betty. somebody wishes to speak with you immediately. marwood (_aside_). ha! now all depends on whether---- mellefont. me? immediately? i will come at once. madam, is it agreeable to you to shorten your visit? sara. why so, mellefont? lady solmes will be so kind as to wait for your return. marwood. pardon me; i know my cousin mellefont, and prefer to depart with him. betty. the stranger, sir--he wishes only to say a word to you. he says, that he has not a moment to lose. mellefont. go, please! i will be with him directly. i expect it will be some news at last about the agreement which i mentioned to you. (_exit_ betty.) marwood (_aside_). a good conjecture! mellefont. but still, madam---- marwood. if you order it, then, i must bid you---- sara. oh no, mellefont; i am sure you will not grudge me the pleasure of entertaining lady solmes during your absence? mellefont. you wish it, sara? sara. do not stay now, dearest mellefont, but come back again soon! and come with a more joyful face, i will wish! you doubtless expect an unpleasant answer. don't let this disturb you. i am more desirous to see whether after all you can gracefully prefer me to an inheritance, than i am to know that you are in the possession of one. mellefont. i obey. (_in a warning tone_.) i shall be sure to come back in a moment, madam. marwood (_aside_). lucky so far. (_exit_ mellefont.) scene viii. sara, marwood. sara. my good mellefont sometimes gives his polite phrases quite a wrong accent. do not you think so too, madam? marwood. i am no doubt too much accustomed to his way already to notice anything of that sort. sara. will you not take a seat, madam? marwood. if you desire it. (_aside, whilst they are seating themselves_.) i must not let this moment slip by unused. sara. tell me! shall i not be the most enviable of women with my mellefont? marwood. if mellefont knows how to appreciate his happiness, miss sampson will make him the most enviable of men. but---- sara. a "but," and then a pause, madam---- marwood. i am frank, miss sampson. sara. and for this reason infinitely more to be esteemed. marwood. frank--not seldom imprudently so. my "but" is a proof of it. a very imprudent "but." sara. i do not think that my lady solmes can wish through this evasion to make me more uneasy. it must be a cruel mercy that only rouses suspicions of an evil which it might disclose. marwood. not at all, miss sampson! you attach far too much importance to my "but." mellefont is a relation of mine---- sara. then all the more important is the slightest charge which you have to make against him. marwood. but even were mellefont my brother, i must tell you, that i should unhesitatingly side with one of my own sex against him, if i perceived that he did not act quite honestly towards her. we women ought properly to consider every insult shown to one of us as an insult to the whole sex, and to make it a common affair, in which even the sister and mother of the guilty one ought not to hesitate to share. sara. this remark---- marwood. has already been my guide now and then in doubtful cases. sara. and promises me--i tremble. marwood. no, miss sampson, if you mean to tremble, let us speak of something else---- sara. cruel woman! marwood. i am sorry to be misunderstood. i at least, if i place myself in imagination in miss sampson's position, would regard as a favour any more exact information which one might give me about the man with whose fate i was about to unite my own for ever. sara. what do you wish, madam? do i not know my mellefont already? believe me i know him, as i do my own soul. i know that he loves me---- marwood. and others---- sara. _has_ loved others. that i know also. was he to love me, before he knew anything about me? can i ask to be the only one who has had charm enough to attract him? must i not confess it to myself, that i have striven to please him? is he not so lovable, that he must have awakened this endeavour in many a breast? and isn't it but natural, if several have been successful in their endeavour? marwood. you defend him with just the same ardour and almost the same words with which i have often defended him already. it is no crime to have loved; much less still is it a crime to have been loved. but fickleness is a crime. sara. not always; for often, i believe, it is rendered excusable by the objects of one's love, which seldom deserve to be loved for ever. marwood. miss sampson's doctrine of morals does not seem to be of the strictest. sara. it is true; the one by which i judge those who themselves confess that they have taken to bad ways is not of the strictest. nor should it be so. for here it is not a question of fixing the limits which virtue marks out for love, but merely of excusing the human weakness that has not remained within those limits and of judging the consequences arising therefrom by the rules of wisdom. if, for example, a mellefont loves a marwood and eventually abandons her; this abandonment is very praiseworthy in comparison with the love itself. it would be a misfortune if he had to love a vicious person for ever because he once had loved her. marwood. but do you know this marwood, whom you so confidently call a vicious person? sara. i know her from mellefont's description. marwood. mellefont's? has it never occurred to you then that mellefont must be a very invalid witness in his own affairs? sara. i see now, madam, that you wish to put me to the test. mellefont will smile, when you repeat to him how earnestly i have defended him. marwood. i beg your pardon, miss sampson, mellefont must not hear anything about this conversation. you are of too noble a mind to wish out of gratitude for a well-meant warning to estrange from him a relation, who speaks against him only because she looks upon his unworthy behaviour towards more than one of the most amiable of her sex as if she herself had suffered from it. sara. i do not wish to estrange anyone, and would that others wished it as little as i do. marwood. shall i tell you the story of marwood in a few words? sara. i do not know. but still--yes, madam! but under the condition that you stop as soon as mellefont returns. he might think that i had inquired about it myself; and i should not like him to think me capable of a curiosity so prejudicial to him. marwood. i should have asked the same caution of miss sampson, if she had not anticipated me. he must not even be able to suspect that marwood has been our topic; and you will be so cautious as to act in accordance with this. hear now! marwood is of good family. she was a young widow, when mellefont made her acquaintance at the house of one of her friends. they say, that she lacked neither beauty, nor the grace without which beauty would be nothing. her good name was spotless. one single thing was wanting. money. everything that she had possessed,--and she is said to have had considerable wealth,--she had sacrificed for the deliverance of a husband from whom she thought it right to withhold nothing, after she had willed to give him heart and hand. sara. truly a noble trait of character, which i wish could sparkle in a better setting! marwood. in spite of her want of fortune she was sought by persons, who wished nothing more than to make her happy. mellefont appeared amongst her rich and distinguished admirers. his offer was serious, and the abundance in which he promised to place marwood was the least on which he relied. he knew, in their earliest intimacy, that he had not to deal with an egoist, but with a woman of refined feelings, who would have preferred to live in a hut with one she loved, than in a palace with one for whom she did not care. sara. another trait which i grudge miss marwood. do not flatter her any more, pray, madam, or i might be led to pity her at last. marwood. mellefont was just about to unite himself with her with due solemnity, when he received the news of the death of a cousin who left him his entire fortune on the condition that he should marry a distant relation. as marwood had refused richer unions for his sake, he would not now yield to her in generosity. he intended to tell her nothing of this inheritance, until he had forfeited it through her. that was generously planned, was it not? sara. oh, madam, who knows better than i, that mellefont possesses the most generous of hearts? marwood. but what did marwood do? she heard late one evening, through some friends, of mellefont's resolution. mellefont came in the morning to see her, and marwood was gone. sara. whereto? why? marwood. he found nothing but a letter from her, in which she told him that he must not expect ever to see her again. she did not deny, though, that she loved him; but for this very reason she could not bring herself to be the cause of an act, of which he must necessarily repent some day. she released him from his promise, and begged him by the consummation of the union, demanded by the will, to enter without further delay into the possession of a fortune, which an honourable man could employ for a better purpose than the thoughtless flattery of a woman. sara. but, madam, why do you attribute such noble sentiments to marwood? lady solmes may be capable of such, i daresay, but not marwood. certainly not marwood. marwood. it is not surprising, that you are prejudiced against her. mellefont was almost distracted at marwood's resolution. he sent people in all directions to search for her, and at last found her. sara. no doubly because she wished to be found! marwood. no bitter jests! they do not become a woman of such gentle disposition. i say, he found her; and found her inexorable. she would not accept his hand on any account; and the promise to return to london was all that he could get from her. they agreed to postpone their marriage until his relative, tired of the long delay, should be compelled to propose an arrangement. in the meantime marwood could not well renounce the daily visits from mellefont, which for a long time were nothing but the respectful visits of a suitor, who has been ordered back within the bounds of friendship. but how impossible is it for a passionate temper not to transgress these bounds. mellefont possesses everything which can make a man dangerous to us. nobody can be more convinced of this than you yourself, miss sampson. sara. alas! marwood. you sigh! marwood too has sighed more than once over her weakness, and sighs yet. sara. enough, madam, enough! these words i should think, are worse than the bitter jest which you were pleased to forbid me. marwood. its intention was not to offend you, but only to show you the unhappy marwood in a light, in which you could most correctly judge her. to be brief--love gave mellefont the rights of a husband; and mellefont did not any longer consider it necessary to have them made valid by the law. how happy would marwood be, if she, mellefont, and heaven alone knew of her shame! how happy if a pitiable daughter did not reveal to the whole world that which she would fain be able to hide from herself. sara. what do you say? a daughter---- marwood. yes, through the intervention of sara sampson, an unhappy daughter loses all hope of ever being able to name her parents without abhorrence. sara. terrible words! and mellefont has concealed this from me? am i to believe it, madam? marwood. you may assuredly believe that mellefont has perhaps concealed still more from you. sara. still more? what more could he have concealed from me? marwood. this,--that he still loves marwood. sara. you will kill me! marwood. it is incredible that a love which has lasted more than ten years can die away so quickly. it may certainly suffer a short eclipse, but nothing but a short one, from which it breaks forth again with renewed brightness. i could name to you a miss oclaff, a miss dorcas, a miss moore, and several others, who one after another threatened to alienate from marwood the man by whom they eventually saw themselves most cruelly deceived. there is a certain point beyond which he cannot go, and as soon as he gets face to face with it he draws suddenly back. but suppose, miss sampson, you were the one fortunate woman in whose case all circumstances declared themselves against him; suppose you succeeded in compelling him to conquer the disgust of a formal yoke which has now become innate to him; do you then expect to make sure of his heart in this way? sara. miserable girl that i am! what must i hear? marwood. nothing less than that! he would then hurry back all the more into the arms of her who had not been so jealous of his liberty. you would be called his wife and she would be it. sara. do not torment me longer with such dreadful pictures! advise me rather, madam, i pray you, advise me what to do. you must know him! you must know by what means it may still be possible to reconcile him with a bond without which even the most sincere love remains an unholy passion. marwood. that one can catch a bird, i well know; but that one can render its cage more pleasant than the open field, i do not know. my advice, therefore, would be that one should rather not catch it, and should spare oneself the vexation of the profitless trouble. content yourself, young lady, with the pleasure of having seen him very near your net; and as you can foresee, that he would certainly tear it if you tempted him in altogether, spare your net and do not tempt him in. sara. i do not know whether i rightly understand your playful parable---- marwood. if you are vexed with it, you have understood it. in one word. your own interest as well as that of another--wisdom as well as justice, can, and must induce miss sampson to renounce her claims to a man to whom marwood has the first and strongest claim. you are still in such a position with regard to him that you can withdraw, i will not say with much honour, but still without public disgrace. a short disappearance with a lover is a stain, it is true; but still a stain which time effaces. in some years all will be forgotten, and for a rich heiress there are always men to be found, who are not so scrupulous. if marwood were in such a position, and she needed no husband for her fading charms nor father for her helpless daughter, i am sure she would act more generously towards miss sampson than miss sampson acts towards her when raising these dishonourable difficulties. sara (_rising angrily_). this is too much! is that the language of a relative of mellefont's? how shamefully you are betrayed, mellefont! now i perceive, madam, why he was so unwilling to leave you alone with me. he knows already, i daresay, how much one has to fear from your tongue. a poisoned tongue! i speak boldly--for your unseemly talk has continued long enough. how has marwood been able to enlist such a mediator; a mediator who summons all her ingenuity to force upon me a dazzling romance about her; und employs every art to rouse my suspicion against the loyalty of a man, who is a man but not a monster? was it only for this that i was told that marwood boasted of a daughter from him; only for this that i was told of this and that forsaken girl--in order that you might be enabled to hint to me in cruel fashion that i should do well if i gave place to a hardened strumpet! marwood. not so passionate, if you please, young lady! a hardened strumpet? you are surely using words whose full meaning you have not considered. sara. does she not appear such, even from lady solmes's description? well, madam, you are her friend, perhaps her intimate friend. i do not say this as a reproach, for it may well be that it is hardly possible in this world to have virtuous friends only. yet why should i be so humiliated for the sake of this friendship of yours? if i had had marwood's experience, i should certainly not have committed the error which places me on such a humiliating level with her. but if i had committed it, i should certainly not have continued in it for ten years. it is one thing to fall into vice from ignorance; and another to grow intimate with it when you know it. alas, madam, if you knew what regret, what remorse, what anxiety my error has cost me! my error, i say, for why shall i be so cruel to myself any longer, and look upon it as a crime? heaven itself ceases to consider it such; it withdraws my punishment, and gives me back my father.--but i am frightened, madam; how your features are suddenly transformed! they glow-rage speaks from the fixed eye, and the quivering movement of the mouth. ah, if i have vexed you, madam, i beg for pardon! i am a foolish, sensitive creature; what you have said was doubtless not meant so badly. forget my rashness! how can i pacify you? how can i also gain a friend in you as marwood has done? let me, let me entreat you on my knees (_falling down upon her knees_) for your friendship, and if i cannot have this, at least for the justice not to place me and marwood in one and the same rank. marwood (_proudly stepping back and leaving sara on her knees_). this position of sara sampson is too charming for marwood to triumph in it unrecognised. in me, miss sampson, behold the marwood with whom on your knees you beg--marwood herself--not to compare you. sara (_springing up and drawing back in terror_). you marwood? ha! now i recognise her--now i recognise the murderous deliverer, to whose dagger a warning dream exposed me. it is she! away, unhappy sara! save me, mellefont; save your beloved! and thou, sweet voice of my beloved father, call! where does it call? whither shall i hasten to it?--here?--there?--help, mellefont! help, betty! now she approaches me with murderous hand! help! (_exit_.) scene ix. marwood. what does the excitable girl mean? would that she spake the truth, and that i approached her with murderous hand! i ought to have spared the dagger until now, fool that i was! what delight to be able to stab a rival at one's feet in her voluntary humiliation! what now? i am detected. mellefont may be here this minute. shall i fly from him? shall i await him? i will wait, but not in idleness. perhaps the cunning of my servant will detain him long enough? i see i am feared. why do i not follow her then? why do i not try the last expedient which i can use against her? threats are pitiable weapons; but despair despises no weapons, however pitiable they may be. a timid girl, who flies stupid and terror-stricken from my mere name, can easily take dreadful words for dreadful deeds. but mellefont! mellefont will give her fresh courage, and teach her to scorn my threats. he will! perhaps he will not! few things would have been undertaken in this world, if men had always looked to the end. and am i not prepared for the most fatal end? the dagger was for others, the drug is for me! the drug for me! long carried by me near my heart, it here awaits its sad service; here, where in better times i hid the written flatteries of my lovers,--poison for us equally sure if slower. would it were not destined to rage in my veins only! would that a faithless one--why do i waste my time in wishing? away! i must not recover my reason nor she hers. he will dare nothing, who wishes to dare in cold blood! act v. scene i. sara's _room_. sara (_reclining in an armchair_), betty. betty. do you feel a little better, miss? sara. better--i wish only that mellefont would return! you have sent for him, have you not? betty. norton and the landlord have gone for him. sara. norton is a good fellow, but he is rash. i do not want him by any means to be rude to his master on my account. according to his story, mellefont is innocent of all this. she follows him; what can he do? she storms, she raves, she tries to murder him. do you see, betty, i have exposed him to this danger? who else but me? and the wicked marwood at last insisted on seeing me or she would not return to london. could he refuse her this trifling request? have not i too often been curious to see marwood. mellefont knows well that we are curious creatures. and if i had not insisted myself that she should remain with me until his return, he would have taken her away with him. i should have seen her under a false name, without knowing that i had seen her. and i should perhaps have been pleased with this little deception at some future time. in short, it is all my fault. well, well, i was frightened; nothing more! the swoon was nothing. you know, betty, i am subject to such fits. betty. but i had never seen you in so deep a swoon before. sara. do not tell me so, please! i must have caused you a great deal of trouble, my good girl. betty. marwood herself seemed moved by your danger. in spite of all i could do she would not leave the room, until you had opened your eyes a little and i could give you the medicine. sara. after all i must consider it fortunate that i swooned. for who knows what more i should have had to hear from her! she certainly can hardly have followed me into my room without a purpose! you cannot imagine how terrified i was. the dreadful dream i had last night recurred to me suddenly, and i fled, like an insane woman who does not know why and whither she flies. but mellefont does not come. ah! betty. what a sigh, miss! what convulsions! sara. god! what sensation was this---- betty. what was that? sara. nothing, betty! a pain! not one pain, a thousand burning pains in one! but do not be uneasy; it is over now! scene ii. norton, sara, betty. norton. mellefont will be here in a moment. sara. that is well, norton! but where did you find him? norton. a stranger had enticed him beyond the town gate, where he said a gentleman waited for him, to speak with him about matters of the greatest importance. after taking him from place to place for a long time, the swindler slunk away from him. it will be bad for him if he lets himself be caught; mellefont is furious. sara. did you tell him what has happened? norton. all. sara. but in such a way!---- norton. i could not think about the way. enough! he knows what anxiety his imprudence has again caused you. sara. not so, norton; i have caused it myself. norton. why may mellefont never be in the wrong? come in, sir; love has already excused you. scene iii. mellefont, norton, sara, betty. mellefont. ah, sara! if this love of yours were not---- sara. then i should certainly be the unhappier of the two. if nothing more vexatious has happened to you in your absence than to me, i am happy. mellefont. i have not deserved to be so kindly received. sara. let my weakness be my excuse, that i do not receive you more tenderly. if only for your sake, i would that i was well again. mellefont. ha! marwood! this treachery too! the scoundrel who led me with a mysterious air from one street to another can assuredly have been a messenger of her only! see, dearest sara, she employed this artifice to get me away from you. a clumsy artifice certainly, but just from its very clumsiness, i was far from taking it for one. she shall have her reward for this treachery! quick, norton, go to her lodgings; do not lose sight of her, and detain her until i come! sara. what for, mellefont? i intercede for marwood. mellefont. go! (_exit_ norton.) scene iv. sara, mellefont, betty. sara. pray let the wearied enemy who has ventured the last fruitless assault retire in peace! without marwood i should be ignorant of much---- mellefont. much? what is the "much?" sara. what you would not have told me, mellefont! you start! well, i will forget it again, since you do not wish me to know it. mellefont. i hope that you will not believe any ill of me which has no better foundation than the jealousy of an angry slanderer. sara. more of this another time! but why do you not tell me first of all about the danger in which your precious life was placed? i, mellefont, i should have been the one who had sharpened the sword, with which marwood had stabbed you. mellefont. the danger was not so great. marwood was driven by blind passion, and i was cool, so her attack could not but fail. i only wish that she may not have been more successful with another attack--upon sara's good opinion of her mellefont! i must almost fear it. no, dearest sara, do not conceal from me any longer what you have learned from her. sara. well! if i had still had the least doubt of your love, mellefont, marwood in her anger would have removed it. she surely must feel that through me she has lost that which is of the greatest value to her; for an uncertain loss would have let her act more cautiously. mellefont. i shall soon learn to set some store by her bloodthirsty jealousy, her impetuous insolence, her treacherous cunning! but sara! you wish again to evade my question and not to reveal to me---- sara. i will; and what i said was indeed a step towards it. that mellefont loves me, then, is undeniably certain. if only i had not discovered that his love lacked a certain confidence, which would be as flattering to me as his love itself. in short, dearest mellefont--why does a sudden anxiety make it so difficult for me to speak?--well, i suppose i shall have to tell it without seeking for the most prudent form in which to say it. marwood mentioned a pledge of love; and the talkative norton--forgive him, pray--told me a name--a name, mellefont, which must rouse in you another tenderness than that which you feel for me. mellefont. is it possible? has the shameless woman confessed her own disgrace? alas, sara, have pity on my confusion! since you already know all, why do you wish to hear it again from my lips? she shall never come into your sight,--the unhappy child, who has no other fault than that of having such a mother. sara. you love her, then, in spite of all? mellefont. too much, sara, too much for me to deny it. sara. ah, mellefont! how i too love you, for this very love's sake! you would have offended me deeply, if you had denied the sympathy of your blood for any scruples on my account. you have hurt me already in that you have threatened me never to let her come into my sight. no, mellefont! that you will never forsake arabella must be one of the promises which you vow to me in presence of the almighty! in the hands of her mother she is in danger of becoming unworthy of her father. use your authority over both, and let me take the place of marwood. do not refuse me the happiness of bringing up for myself a friend who owes her life to you--a mellefont of my own sex. happy days, when my father, when you, when arabella will vie in your calls on my filial respect, my confiding love, my watchful friendship. happy days! but, alas! they are still far distant in the future. and perhaps even the future knows nothing of them, perhaps they exist only in my own desire for happiness! sensations, mellefont, sensations which i never before experienced, turn my eyes to another prospect. a dark prospect, with awful shadows! what sensations are these? (_puts her hand before her face_.) mellefont. what sudden change from exultation to terror! hasten, betty! bring help! what ails you, generous sara! divine soul! why does this jealous hand (_moving it away_) hide these sweet looks from me? ah, they are looks which unwillingly betray cruel pain. and yet this hand is jealous to hide these looks from me. shall i not share your pain with you? unhappy man, that i can only share it--that i may not feel it alone! hasten, betty! betty. whither shall i hasten? mellefont. you see, and yet ask? for help! sara. stay. it passes over. i will not frighten you again, mellefont. mellefont. what has happened to her, betty? these are not merely the results of a swoon. scene v. norton, mellefont, sara, betty. mellefont. you are back again already, norton? that is well! you will be of more use here. norton. marwood is gone---- mellefont. and my curses follow her! she is gone? whither? may misfortune and death, and, were it possible, a whole hell lie in her path! may heaven thunder a consuming fire upon her, may the earth burst open under her, and swallow the greatest of female monsters! norton. as soon as she returned to her lodgings, she threw herself into her carriage, together with arabella and her maid, and hurried away, at full gallop. this sealed note was left behind for you. mellefont (_taking the note_). it is addressed to me. shall i read it, sara? sara. when you are calmer, mellefont. mellefont. calmer? can i be calmer, before i have revenged myself on her, and before i know that you are out of danger, dearest sara? sara. let me not hear of revenge! revenge is not ours.--but you open the letter? alas, mellefont! why are we less prone to certain virtues with a healthy body, which feels its strength, than with a sick and wearied one? how hard are gentleness and moderation to you, and how unnatural to me appears the impatient heat of passion! keep the contents for yourself alone. mellefont. what spirit is it that seems to compel me to disobey you? i opened it against my will, and against my will i must read it! sara (_whilst_ mellefont _reads to himself_). how cunningly man can disunite his nature, and make of his passions another being than himself, on whom he can lay the blame for that which in cold blood he disapproves.--the water, betty! i fear another shock, and shall need it. do you see what effect the unlucky note has on him? mellefont! you lose your senses, mellefont! god! he is stunned! here, betty. hand him the water! he needs it more than i. mellefont (_pushing_ betty _back_). back, unhappy girl! your medicines are poison! sara. what do you say? recover yourself! you do not recognise her. betty. i am betty,--take it! mellefont. wish rather, unhappy girl, that you were not she! quick! fly, before in default of the guiltier one you become the guilty victim of my rage. sara. what words! mellefont, dearest mellefont---- mellefont. the last "dearest mellefont" from these divine lips, and then no more for ever! at your feet, sara----(_throwing himself down_). but why at your feet? (_springing up again_). disclose it? i disclose it to you? yes! i will tell you, that you will hate me, that you must hate me! you shall not hear the contents, no, not from me. but you will hear them. you will----why do you all stand here, stock still, doing nothing? run, norton, bring all the doctors? seek help, betty! let your help be as effective as your error! no, stop here! i will go myself---- sara. whither, mellefont? help for what? of what error do you speak? mellefont. divine help, sara! or inhuman revenge! you are lost, dearest sara! i too am lost! would the world were lost with us! scene vi. sara, norton, betty. sara. he is gone! i am lost? what does he mean? do you understand him, norton? i am ill, very ill; but suppose the worst, that i must die, am i therefore lost? and why does he blame you, poor betty? you wring your hands? do not grieve; you cannot have offended him; he will bethink himself; had he only done as i wished, and not read the note! he could have known that it must contain the last poisoned words from marwood. betty. what terrible suspicion! no, it cannot be. i do not believe it! norton (_who has gone towards the back of the stage_). your father's old servant, miss. sara. let him come in, norton. scene vii. waitwell, sara, betty, norton. sara. i suppose you are anxious for my answer, dear waitwell. it is ready except a few lines. but why so alarmed? they must have told you that i am ill. waitwell. and more still. sara. dangerously ill? i conclude so from mellefont's passionate anxiety more than from my own feelings. suppose, waitwell, you should have to go with an unfinished letter from your unhappy sara to her still more unhappy father! let us hope for the best! will you wait until to-morrow? perhaps i shall find a few good moments to finish off the letter to your satisfaction. at present, i cannot do so. this hand hangs as if dead by my benumbed side. if the whole body dies away as easily as these limbs----you are an old man, waitwell, and cannot be far from the last scene. believe me, if that which i feel is the approach of death, then the approach of death is not so bitter. ah! do not mind this sigh! wholly without unpleasant sensation it cannot be. man could not be void of feeling; he must not be impatient. but, betty, why are you so inconsolable? betty. permit me, miss, permit me to leave you. sara. go; i well know it is not every one who can bear to be with the dying. waitwell shall remain with me! and you, norton, will do me a favour, if you go and look for your master. i long for his presence. betty (_going_). alas, norton, i took the medicine from marwood's hands! scene viii. waitwell, sara. sara. waitwell, if you will do me the kindness to remain with me, you must not let me see such a melancholy face. you are mute! speak, i pray! and if i may ask it, speak of my father! repeat all the comforting words which you said to me a few hours ago. repeat them to me, and tell me too, that the eternal heavenly father cannot be less merciful. i can die with that assurance, can i not? had this befallen me before your arrival, how would i have fared? i should have despaired, waitwell. to leave this world burdened with the hatred of him, who belies his nature when he is forced to hate--what a thought! tell him that i died with the feelings of the deepest remorse, gratitude and love. tell him--alas, that i shall not tell him myself--how full my heart is of all the benefits i owe to him. my life was the smallest amongst them. would that i could yield up at his feet the ebbing portion yet remaining! waitwell. do you really wish to see him, miss? sara. at length you speak--to doubt my deepest, my last desire! waitwell. where shall i find the words which i have so long been vainly seeking? a sudden joy is as dangerous as a sudden terror. i fear only that the effect of his unexpected appearance might be too violent for so tender a heart! sara. what do you mean? the unexpected appearance of whom? waitwell. of the wished-for one! compose yourself! scene ix. sir william sampson, sara, waitwell. sir william. you stay too long, waitwell! i must see her! sara. whose voice---- sir william. oh, my daughter! sara. oh, my father! help me to rise, waitwell, help me to rise that i may throw myself at his feet, (_she endeavours to rise and falls back again into the arm-chair_). is it he, or is it an apparition sent from heaven like the angel who came to strengthen the strong one? bless me, whoever thou art, whether a messenger from the highest in my father's form or my father himself! sir william. god bless thee, my daughter! keep quiet (_she tries again to throw herself at his feet_). another time, when you have regained your strength, i shall not be displeased to see you clasp my faltering knees. sara. now, my father, or never! soon i shall be no more! i shall be only too happy if i still have a few moments to reveal my heart to you. but not moments--whole days--another life, would be necessary to tell all that a guilty, chastened and repentant daughter can say to an injured but generous and loving father. my offence, and your forgiveness---- sir william. do not reproach yourself for your weakness, nor give me credit for that which is only my duty. when you remind me of my pardon, you remind me also of my hesitation in granting it. why did i not forgive you at once? why did i reduce you to the necessity of flying from me. and this very day, when i had already forgiven you, what was it that forced me to wait first for an answer from you? i could already have enjoyed a whole day with you if i had hastened at once to your arms. some latent spleen must still have lain in the innermost recesses of my disappointed heart, that i wished first to be assured of the continuance of your love before i gave you mine again. ought a father to act so selfishly? ought we only to love those who love us? chide me, dearest sara! chide me! i thought more of my own joy in you than of you yourself. and if i were now to lose this joy? but who, then, says that i must lose it? you will live; you will still live long. banish all these black thoughts! mellefont magnifies the danger. he put the whole house in an uproar, and hurried away himself to fetch the doctors, whom he probably will not find in this miserable place. i saw his passionate anxiety, his hopeless sorrow, without being seen by him. now i know that he loves you sincerely; now i do not grudge him you any longer. i will wait here for him and lay your hand in his. what i would otherwise have done only by compulsion, i now do willingly, since i see how dear you are to him. is it true that it was marwood herself who caused you this terror? i could understand this much from your betty's lamentations, but nothing more. but why do i inquire into the causes of your illness, when i ought only to be thinking how to remedy it. i see you growing fainter every moment, i see it and stand helplessly here. what shall i do, waitwell? whither shall i run? what shall i give her? my fortune? my life? speak! sara. dearest father! all help would be in vain! the dearest help, purchased with your life, would be of no avail. scene x. mellefont, sara, sir william, waitwell. mellefont. do i dare to set my foot again in this room? is she still alive? sara. step nearer, mellefont! mellefont. am i to see your face again? no, sara; i return without consolation, without help. despair alone brings me back. but whom do i see? you, sir? unhappy father! you have come to a dreadful scene! why did you not come sooner? you are too late to save your daughter! but, be comforted! you shall not have come too late to see yourself revenged. sir william. do not remember in this moment, mellefont, that we have ever been at enmity! we are so no more, and we shall never be so again. only keep my daughter for me, and you shall keep a wife for yourself. mellefont. make me a god, and then repeat your prayer! i have brought so many misfortunes to you already, sara, that i need not hesitate to announce the last one. you must die! and do you know by whose hand you die? sara. i do not wish to know it--that i can suspect it is already too much---- mellefont. you must know it, for who could be assured that you did not suspect wrongly? marwood writes thus: (_he reads_) "when you read this letter, mellefont, your infidelity will already be punished in its cause. i had made myself known to her and she had swooned with terror. betty did her utmost to restore her to consciousness. i saw her taking out a soothing-powder, and the happy idea occurred to me of exchanging it for a poisonous one. i feigned to be moved, and anxious to help her, and prepared the draught myself. i saw it given to her, and went away triumphant. revenge and rage have made me a murderess; but i will not be like a common murderess who does not venture to boast of her deed. i am on my way to dover; you can pursue me, and let my own handwriting bear witness against me. if i reach the harbour unpursued i will leave arabella behind unhurt. till then i shall look upon her as a hostage, marwood." now you know all, sara! here, sir, preserve this paper! you must bring the murderess to punishment, and for this it is indispensable.--how motionless he stands! sara. give me this paper, mellefont! i will convince myself with my own eyes (_he hands it to her and she looks at it for a moment_). shall i still have sufficient strength? (_tears it_.) mellefont. what are you doing, sara! sara. marwood will not escape her fate; but neither you nor my father shall be her accusers. i die, and forgive the hand through which god chastens me. alas, my father, what gloomy grief has taken hold of you? i love you still, mellefont, and if loving you is a crime, how guilty shall i enter yonder world! would i might hope, dearest father, that you would receive a son in place of a daughter! and with him you will have a daughter too, if you will acknowledge arabella as such. you must fetch her back, mellefont; her mother may escape. since my father loves me, why should i not be allowed to deal with this love as with a legacy? i bequeath this fatherly love to you and arabella. speak now and then to her of a friend from whose example she may learn to be on her guard against love. a last blessing, my father!--who would venture to judge the ways of the highest?--console your master, waitwell! but you too stand there in grief and despair, you who lose in me neither a lover nor a daughter? sir william. we ought to be giving you courage, and your dying eyes are giving it to us. no more, my earthly daughter--half angel already; of what avail can the blessing of a mourning father be to a spirit upon whom all the blessings of heaven flow? leave me a ray of the light which raises you so far above everything human. or pray to god, who hears no prayer so surely as that of a pious and departing soul--pray to him that this day may be the last of my life also! sara. god must let the virtue which has been tested remain long in this world as an example; only the weak virtue which would perhaps succumb to too many temptations is quickly raised above the dangerous confines of the earth. for whom do these tears flow, my father? they fall like fiery drops upon my heart; and yet--yet they are less terrible to me than mute despair. conquer it, mellefont!--my eyes grow dim.--that sigh was the last! but where is betty?--now i understand the wringing of her hands.--poor girl!--let no one reproach her with carelessness, it is excused by a heart without falsehood, and without suspicion of it.--the moment is come! mellefont--my father--(_dies_). mellefont. she dies! ah, let me kiss this cold hand once more (_throwing himself at her feet_). no! i will not venture to touch her. the old saying that the body of the slain bleeds at the touch of the murderer, frightens me. and who is her murderer? am i not he, more than marwood? (_rises_) she is dead now, sir; she does not hear us any more. curse me now. vent your grief in well-deserved curses. may none of them miss their mark, and may the most terrible be fulfilled twofold! why do you remain silent? she is dead! she is certainly dead. now, again, i am nothing but mellefont! i am no more the lover of a tender daughter, whom you would have reason to spare in him. what is that? i do not want your compassionate looks! this is your daughter! i am her seducer. bethink yourself, sir! in what way can i rouse your anger? this budding beauty, who was yours alone, became my prey! for my sake her innocent virtue was abandoned! for my sake she tore herself from the arms of a beloved father! for my sake she had to die! you make me impatient with your forbearance, sir! let me see that you are a father! sir william. i am a father, mellefont, and am too much a father not to respect the last wish of my daughter. let me embrace you, my son, for whom i could not have paid a higher price! mellefont. not so, sir! this angel enjoined more than human nature is capable of! you cannot be my father. behold, sir (_drawing the dagger from his bosom_), this is the dagger which marwood drew upon me to-day. to my misfortune, i disarmed her. had i fallen a guilty victim of her jealousy, sara would still be living. you would have your daughter still, and have her without mellefont. it is not for me to undo what is done--but to punish myself for it is still in my power! (_he stabs himself and sinks down at_ sara's _side_.) sir william. hold him, waitwell! what new blow upon my stricken head! oh, would that my own might make the third dying heart here. mellefont (_dying_). i feel it. i have not struck false. if now you will call me your son and press my hand as such, i shall die in peace. (sir william _embraces him_.) you have heard of an arabella, for whom sara pleaded; i should also plead for her; but she is marwood's child as well as mine. what strange feeling seizes me? mercy--o creator, mercy! sir william. if the prayers of others are now of any avail, waitwell, let us help him to pray for this mercy! he dies! alas! he was more to pity than to blame. scene xi. norton, the others. norton. doctors, sir!---- sir william. if they can work miracles, they may come in! let me no longer remain at this deadly spectacle! one grave shall enclose both. come and make immediate preparations, and then let us think of arabella. be she who she may, she is a legacy of my daughter! (_exeunt_.) philotas. a tragedy in one act. philotos was written at berlin in the year . it was never represented, and was probably not intended for the stage. it is here translated for the first time into english. dramatis personÆ aridäus, _the king_. strato, _a general of_ aridäus. philotas, _a prisoner_. parmenio, _a soldier_. philotas. scene i. _the scene is laid in a tent in the camp of_ aridäus. philotas. am i really a prisoner? a prisoner? a worthy commencement this of my apprenticeship in war. o ye gods! o my father! how gladly would i persuade myself that all was but a dream! my earliest years have never dreamt of anything but arms and camps, battles and assaults. could not the youth too be dreaming now of loss and defeat? do not delude thyself thus, philotas!--if i did not see, did not feel the wound through which the sword dropped from my palsied hand.--they have dressed it for me against my will! o cruel mercy of a cunning foe! "it is not mortal," said the surgeon, and thought to console me. wretch, it should be mortal! and one wound only, only one! did i know that i should make it mortal by tearing it open and dressing it and tearing it open again.--i rave, unhappy wretch. and with what a scornful face--i now recall it--that aged warrior looked at me--who snatched me from my horse! he called me--child! his king, too, must take me for a child, a pampered child. to what a tent he has had me brought! adorned and provided with comforts of every sort! it must belong to one of his mistresses! a disgusting place for a soldier! and instead of being guarded, i am served. o mocking civility! scene ii. strato. philotas. strato. prince-- philotas. another visitor already? old man, i like to be alone! strato. prince! i come by order of the king. philotas. i understand you! it is true, i am the king's prisoner, and it rests with him how he will have me treated. but listen: if you are the man whose features you bear,--if you are an old and honest warrior, have pity on me, and beg the king to have me treated as a soldier, not as a woman. strato. he will be with you directly; i come to announce his approach. philotas. the king with me? and you come to announce him? i do not wish that he should spare me one of the humiliations to which a prisoner must submit. come, lead me to him! after the disgrace of having been disarmed, nothing is disgraceful to me now. strato. prince! your countenance, so full of youthful graces, bespeaks a softer heart! philotas. mock not my countenance! your visage, full of scars, is assuredly a more handsome face. strato. by the gods! a grand answer! i must admire and love you. philotas. i would not object if only you had feared me first. strato. more and more heroic! we have the most terrible of enemies before us, if there are many like philotas amongst his youths. philotas. do not flatter me! to become terrible to you, they must combine greater deeds with my thoughts. may i know your name? strato. strato. philotas. strato? the brave strato, who defeated my father on the lycus? strato. do not recall that doubtful victory! and how bloodily did your father revenge himself in the plain of methymna! such a father must needs have such a son. philotas. to you, the worthiest of my father's enemies, i may bewail my fate! you only can fully understand me; you too, you too have been consumed in your youth by the ambition of the glory--the glory of bleeding for your native land. would you otherwise be what you are? how have i not begged, implored, conjured him--my father these seven days--for only seven days has the manly toga covered me--conjured him seven times on each of these seven days upon my knees to grant me that i should not in vain have outgrown my childhood,--to let me go with his warriors who had long cost me many a tear of jealousy. yesterday i prevailed on him, the best of fathers, for aristodem assisted my entreaties. you know aristodem; he is my father's strato.--"give me this youth, my king, to go with me to-morrow," spoke aristodem, "i am going to scour the mountains, in order to keep open the way to cäsena." "would i could accompany you!" sighed my father. he still lies sick from his wounds. "but be it so!" and with these words he embraced me. ah, what did his happy son feel in that embrace! and the night which followed! i did not close my eyes; and yet dreams of glory and victory kept me on my couch until the second watch. then i sprang up, threw on my new armour, pushed the uncurled hair beneath the helmet, chose from amongst my father's swords the one which matched my strength, mounted my horse and had tired out one already before the silver trumpet awakened the chosen band. they came, and i spoke with each of my companions, and many a brave warrior there pressed me to his scarred breast. only with my father i did not speak; for i feared he might retract his word, if he should see me again. then we marched. by the side of the immortal gods one cannot feel happier than did i by the side of aristodem. at every encouraging glance from him i would have attacked a host alone, and thrown myself on the certain death of the enemy's swords. in quiet determination i rejoiced at every hill, from which i hoped to discern the enemy in the plain below, at every bend of the valley behind which i flattered myself that we should come upon them. and when at last i saw them rushing down upon us from the woody height,--showed them to my companions with the point of my sword,--flew up the mountain towards them, recall, o renowned warrior, the happiest of your youthful ecstasies, you could never have been happier. but now, now behold me, strato; behold me ignominiously fallen from the summit of my lofty expectations! o how i shudder to repeat this fall again in thought! i had rushed too far in advance; i was wounded, and--imprisoned! poor youth, thou hadst prepared thyself only for wounds, only for death,--and thou art made a prisoner! thus always do the gods, in their severity, send only unforeseen evils to stultify our self-complacency. i weep--i must weep, although i fear to be despised for it by you. but despise me not! you turn away? strato. i am vexed: you should not move me thus. i become a child with you. philotas. no; hear why i weep! it is no childish weeping which you deign to accompany with your manly tears. what i thought my greatest happiness, the tender love with which my father loves me, will now become my greatest misery. i fear, i fear he loves me more than he loves his empire! what will he not sacrifice, what will not your king exact from him, to rescue me from prison! through me, wretched youth, will he lose in one day more than he has gained in three long toilsome years with the blood of his noble warriors, with his own blood. with what face shall i appear again before him? i, his worst enemy! and my father's subjects--mine at some future day, if i had made myself worthy to rule them. how will they be able to endure the ransomed prince amongst them without contemptuous scorn. and when i die for shame, and creep unmourned to the shades below, how gloomy and proud will pass by the souls of those heroes who for their king had to purchase with their lives those gains, which, as a father, he renounces for an unworthy son! oh, that is more than a feeling heart can endure! strato. be comforted, dear prince! it is the fault of youth always to think itself more happy or less than it really is. your fate is not so cruel yet;--the king approaches, you will hear more consolation from his lips. scene iii. king aridäus, philotas, strato. aridÄus. the wars which kings are forced to wage together are no personal quarrels. let me embrace you, prince! ah what happy days your blooming youth recalls to me! thus bloomed your father's youth! this was his open, speaking eye; these his earnest, honest features; this his noble bearing! let me embrace you again; in you i embrace your younger father. have you never heard from him, prince, what good friends we were at your age? that was the blessed age, when we could still abandon ourselves to our feelings without restraint. but soon we were both called to the throne, and the anxious king, the jealous neighbour, stifled, alas, the willing friend. philotas. pardon me, o king, if you find me too cold in my reply to such sweet words. my youth has been taught to think, but not to speak. what can it now aid me, that you and my father once were friends? were! so you say yourself. the hatred which one grafts on an extinguished friendship bears the most deadly fruit of all; or i still know the human heart too little. do not, therefore, o king, do not prolong my despair. you have spoken as the polished statesman: speak now as the monarch, who has the rival of his greatness completely in: his power. strato. o king, do not let him be tormented longer by the uncertainty of his fate! philotas. i thank you, strato! yes, let me hear at once, i beg you, how despicable you will render an unfortunate son in his father's eyes. with what disgraceful peace, with how many lands shall he redeem him? how small and contemptible shall he become, in order to regain his child? o my father! aridÄus. this early, manly language too, prince, was your father's! i like to hear you speak thus. and would that my son, no less worthy of me, spoke thus before your father now. philotas. what mean you by that? aridÄus. the gods--i am convinced of it--watch over our virtue, as they watch over our lives. to preserve both as long as possible is their secret and eternal work. where is the mortal who knows how wicked he is at heart,--how viciously he would act, if they allowed free scope to each treacherous inducement to disgrace himself by little deeds! yes, prince! perhaps i might be he, whom you think me; perhaps i might not have sufficient nobleness of thought to use with modesty the strange fortune of war, which delivered you into my hands; perhaps i might have tried through you to exact that for which i would no longer venture to contend by arms; perhaps--but fear nothing; a higher power has forestalled this. perhaps. i cannot let your father redeem his son more dearly than by--mine. philotas. i am astounded! you give me to understand that---- aridÄus. that my son is your father's prisoner, as you are mine. philotas. your son my father's prisoner? your polytimet? since when? how? where? aridÄus. fate willed it thus! from equal scales it took equal weights at the same time, and the scales are balanced still. strato. you wish to know more details. polytimet led the very squadron, towards which you rushed too rashly; and when your soldiers saw that you were lost, rage and despair gave them superhuman strength. they broke through the lines and all assailed the one in whom they saw the compensation for their loss. the end you know! now accept a word of advice from an old soldier: the assault is not a race; not he who first, but he who most surely meets the enemy, approaches victory. note this, too ardent prince! otherwise the future hero may be stifled in his earliest bud. aridÄus. strato, you vex the prince with your warning, though it be friendly. how gloomily he stands there! philotas. not so. but do not mind me. in deep adoration of providence-- aridÄus. the best adoration, prince, is grateful joy! cheer up! we fathers will not long withhold our sons from one another. my herald is now ready; he shall go and hasten the exchange. but you know that joyful tidings, heard from the enemy alone, have the appearance of snares. they might suspect that you, perchance, had died from your wound. it will be necessary, therefore, for you to send a trustworthy messenger to your father with the herald. come with me! choose among the prisoners one whom you hold worthy of your confidence. philotas. you wish, then, that i shall detest myself a hundredfold? in each of the prisoners i shall behold myself! spare me this embarrassment! aridÄus. but---- philotas. parmenio must be among the prisoners. send him to me! i will despatch him. aridÄus. well, be it so! come, strato! prince, we shall see each other soon again! scene iv. philotas. o god! the lightning could not have struck nearer without destroying me entirely. wondrous gods! the flash returns! the vapour passes off, and i was only stunned. my whole misery then was seeing how miserable i might have become--how miserable my father through me!--now i may appear again before you, my father! but still with eyes cast down; though shame alone will cast them down, and not the burning consciousness of having drawn you down with me to destruction. now i need fear nothing from you but a smiling reprimand; no silent grief; no curses stifled by the stronger power of paternal love---- but--yes, by heavens! i am too indulgent towards myself. may i forgive myself all the errors which providence seems to pardon me? shall i not judge myself more severely than providence and my father judge me? all too indulgent judges! all other sad results of my imprisonment the gods could annihilate; one only they could not--the disgrace! it is true they could wipe out that fleeting shame, which falls from the lips of the vulgar crowd: but not the true and lasting disgrace, which the inner judge, my impartial self, pronounces over me! and how easily i delude myself! does my father then lose nothing through me? the weight which the capture of polytimet must throw into the scale if i were not a prisoner--is that nothing? only through me does it become nothing! fortune would have declared for him for whom it should declare;--the right of my father would triumph, if polytimet was prisoner and not philotas and polytimet! and now--but what was that which i thought just now? nay, which a god thought within me--i must follow it up! let me chain thee, fleeting thought! now i have it again! how it spreads, farther and farther; and now it beams throughout my soul! what did the king say? why did he wish that i myself should send a trustworthy messenger to my father? in order that my father should not suspect--yes, thus ran his own words--that i had already died, perchance, from my wounds. he thinks, then, that the affair would take a different aspect, if i had died already from my wound. would it do so? a thousand thanks for this intelligence. a thousand thanks! of course it is so. for my father would then have a prince as his prisoner, for whom he could make any claim; and the king, his enemy, would have the body of a captured prince, for which he could demand nothing; which he must have buried or burned, if it should not become an object of disgust to him. good! i see that! consequently, if i, i the wretched prisoner, will still turn the victory into my father's hands--on what does it depend? on death? on nothing more? o truly--the man is mightier than he thinks, the man who knows how to die! but i? i, the germ, the bud of a man, do i know how to die? not the man, the grown man alone, knows how to die; the youth also, the boy also; or he knows nothing at all. he who has lived ten years has had ten years time to learn to die; and what one does not learn in ten years, one neither learns in twenty, in thirty, nor in more. all that which i might have been, i must show by what i already am. and what could i, what would i be? a hero! who is a hero? o my excellent, my absent father, be now wholly present in my soul! have you not taught me that a hero is a man who knows higher goods than life? a man who has devoted his life to the welfare of the state; himself, the single one, to the welfare of the many? a hero is a man--a man? then not a youth, my father? curious question! it is good that my father did not hear it. he would have to think that i should be pleased, if he answered "no" to it. how old must the pine-tree be which has to serve as a mast? how old?--it must be tall enough, and must be strong enough. each thing, said the sage who taught me, is perfect if it can fulfil its end. i can fulfil my end, i can die for the welfare of the state; i am therefore perfect, i am a man. a man! although but a few days ago i was still a boy. what fire rages in my veins? what inspiration falls on me? the breast becomes too narrow for the heart! patience, my heart! soon will i give thee space! soon will i release thee from thy monotonous and tedious task! soon shalt thou rest, and rest for long! who comes? it is parmenio! quick! i must decide! what must i say to him? what message must i send my father through him?--right! that i must say, that message i must send. scene v. parmenio. philotas. philotas. approach, parmenio! well? why so shy--so full of shame? of whom are you ashamed? of yourself or of me? parmenio. of both of us, prince! philotas. speak always as you think! truly, parmenio, neither of us can be good for much, since we are here. have you already heard my story? parmenio. alas! philotas. and when you heard it? parmenio. i pitied you, i admired you, i cursed you; i do not know myself what i did. philotas. yes, yes! but now that you have also learned, as i suppose, that the misfortune is not so great since polytimet immediately afterwards was---- parmenio. yes, now; now i could almost laugh! i find that fate often stretches its arm to terrible length to deal a trifling blow. one might think it wished to crush us, and it has after all done nothing but killed a fly upon our forehead. philotas. to the point. i am to send you to my father with the king's herald. parmenio. good! your imprisonment will then plead for mine. without the good news which i shall bring him from you, and which is well worth a friendly look, i should have had to promise myself rather a frosty one from him. philotas. no, honest parmenio; in earnest now! my father knows that the enemy carried you from the battle-field bleeding and half dead. let him boast who will. he whom approaching death has already disarmed is easily taken captive. how many wounds have you now, old warrior? parmenio. o, i could cite a long list of them once. but now i have shortened it a good deal. philotas. how so? parmenio. ha! i do not any more count the limbs on which i am wounded; to save time and breath i count those which still are whole. trifles after all! for what else has one bones, but that the enemy's iron should notch itself upon them? philotas. that is bold! but now--what will you say to my father? parmenio. what i see: that you are well. for your wound, if i have heard the truth---- philotas. is as good as none. parmenio. a sweet little keepsake. such as an ardent maid nips in our cheek. is it not, prince? philotas. what do i know of that? parmenio. well, well, time brings experience! further i will tell your father what i believe you wish---- philotas. and what is that? parmenio. to be with him again as soon as possible. your childlike longing, your anxious impatience---- philotas. why not home-sickness at once! knave! wait and i will teach you to think differently. parmenio. by heavens you must not! my dear youthful hero, let me tell you, you are still a child! do not let the rough soldier so soon stifle in you the loving child! or else one might not put the best construction on your heart; one might take your valour for inborn ferocity. i also am a father, father of an only son, who is but a little older than you, who with equal ardour--but you know him! philotas. i know him. he promises everything that his father has accomplished. parmenio. but if i knew that the young rogue did not long for his father at every moment when service leaves him free, and did not long for him as the lamb longs for its dam, i should wish--you see--that i had not begotten him. at present he must love more than respect me. i shall soon enough have to content myself with the respect, when nature guides the stream of his affection in another channel; when he himself becomes a father. do not grow angry, prince! philotas. who can grow angry with you? you are right! tell my father everything which you think a loving son should say to him at such a time. excuse my youthful rashness, which has almost brought him and his empire to destruction. beg him to forgive my fault. assure him that i shall never again remind him of it by a similar fault; that i will do everything that he too may be able to forget it. entreat him---- parmenio. leave it to me! such things we soldiers can say well. and better than a learned orator, for we say it more sincerely. leave it to me! i know it all already. farewell, prince! i hasten---- philotas. stop! parmenio. well? what means this serious air which you suddenly assume? philotas. the son has done with you, but not yet the prince. the one had to feel; the other has to think! how willingly would the son be again with his father,--his beloved father--this very moment--sooner than were possible; but the prince, the prince cannot.--listen! parmenio. the prince cannot? philotas. and will not! parmenio. will not? philotas. listen! parmenio. i am surprised! philotas. i say, you shall listen and not be surprised. listen! parmenio. i am surprised, because i listen. it has lightened, and i expect the thunderbolt. speak!--but, young prince, no second rashness! philotas. but, soldier, no subtilising! listen! i have my reasons for wishing not to be redeemed before to-morrow. not before to-morrow! do you hear? therefore tell our king that he shall not heed the haste of our enemy's herald! tell him that a certain doubt, a certain plan compelled philotas to this delay. have you understood me? parmenio. no! philotas. not? traitor! parmenio. softly, prince! a parrot does not understand, but he yet recollects what one says to him. fear not! i will repeat everything to your father that i hear from you. philotas. ha! i forbade you to subtilise; and that puts you out of humour. but how is it that you are so spoiled? do all your generals inform you of their reasons? parmenio. all, prince!--except the young ones. philotas. excellent! parmenio, if i were so sensitive as you---- parmenio. and yet he only to whom experience has given twofold sight can command my blind obedience. philotas. then i shall soon have to ask your pardon. well, i ask your pardon, parmenio! do not grumble, old man! be kind again, old father! you are indeed wiser than i am. but not the wisest only have the best ideas. good ideas are gifts of fortune, and good fortune, as you well know, often gives to the youth rather than to the old man. for fortune is blind. blind, parmenio! stone blind to all merit. if it were not so, would you not have been a general long ago? parmenio. how you know how to flatter, prince! but in confidence, beloved prince, do you not wish to bribe me--to bribe me with flatteries? philotas. i flatter? and bribe you? you are the man indeed whom one could bribe! parmenio. if you continue thus, i may become so. already i no longer thoroughly trust myself. philotas. what was it i was saying? one of those good ideas, which fortune often throws into the silliest brain, i too have seized--merely seized, not the slightest portion of it is my own. for if my reason,--my invention had some part in it, should i not wish to consult with you about it? but this i cannot do; it vanishes, if i impart it; so tender, so delicate is it, that i do not venture to clothe it in words. i conceive it only, as the philosopher has taught me to conceive god, and at the most i could only tell you what it is not. it is possible enough that it is in reality a childish thought; a thought which i consider happy, because i have not yet had a happier. but let that be; if it can do no good, it can at least do no harm. that i know for certain; it is the most harmless idea in the world; as harmless as--as a prayer! would you cease to pray because you are not quite certain whether the prayer will be of use to you? do not then spoil my pleasure, parmenio, honest parmenio! i beg you, i embrace you. if you love me but a very little--will you? can i rely on you? will you manage that i am not exchanged before to-morrow? will you? parmenio. will? must i not? must i not? listen, prince; when you shall one day be king, do not give commands. to command is an unsure means of being obeyed. if you have a heavy duty to impose on anyone, do with him as you have just now done with me; and if he then refuses his obedience--impossible! he cannot refuse it to you. i too must know what a man can refuse. philotas. what obedience? what has the kindness which you show me to do with obedience? will you, my friend---- parmenio. stop! stop! you have won me quite already. yes! i will do everything. i will, i will tell your father, that he shall not exchange you until to-morrow. but why only to-morrow? i do not know! that i need not know. that he need not know either. enough that i know you wish it. and i wish everything that you wish. do you wish nothing else? is there nothing else that i shall do? shall i run through the fire for you? shall i cast myself from a rock for you? command only, my dear young friend, command! i will do everything now for you. even say a word and i will commit a crime, an act of villainy for you! my blood, it is true, curdles; but still, prince, if you wish, i will--i will---- philotas. o my best, my fiery friend! o how shall i call you? you creator of my future fame! i swear to you by everything that is sacred to me, by my father's honour, by the fortune of his arms, by the welfare of his land--i swear to you never in my life to forget this your readiness, your zeal! would that i also could reward it sufficiently! hear, ye gods, my oath! and now, parmenio, swear too! swear to keep your promise faithfully! parmenio. i swear? i am too old for swearing. philotas. and i too young to trust you without an oath. swear to me! i have sworn to you by my father, swear you by your son. you love your son? you love him from your heart? parmenio. from my heart, as i love you! you wish it, and i swear. i swear to you by my only son, by my blood which flows in his veins, by the blood which i would willingly have shed for your father's sake, and which he will also willingly shed some future day for yours--by this blood i swear to you to keep my word. and if i do not keep it, may my son fall in his first battle, and never live to see the glorious days of your reign! hear, ye gods, my oath! philotas. hear him not yet, ye gods! you will make fun of me, old man! to fall in the first battle--not to live to see my reign; is that a misfortune? is it a misfortune to die early? parmenio. i do not say that. yet only to see you on the throne, to serve you, i should like--what otherwise i should not wish at all--to become young again. your father is good; but you will be better than he. philotas. no praise that slights my father! alter your oath! come, alter it like this. if you do not keep your word, let your son become a coward, a scoundrel; in the choice between death and disgrace, let him choose the latter; let him live ninety years the laughing-stock of women, and even die unwillingly in his ninetieth year. parmenio. i shudder, but i swear. let him do so. hear the most terrible of oaths, ye gods! philotas. hear it! well, you can go, parmenio! we have detained each other long enough, and almost made too much ado about a trifle. for is it not a very trifle to tell my father--to persuade him not to exchange us until tomorrow? and if he should wish to know the reason--well, then invent a reason on your way! parmenio. that, too, i'll do. yet i have never, though i am so old, devised a lie. but for your sake, prince--leave it to me. wickedness may still be learned even in old age. farewell! philotas. embrace me! go! scene vi. philotas. there are said to be so many rogues in the world, and yet deceiving is so hard, even when done with the best intentions. had i not to turn and twist myself! only see, good parmenio, that my father does not exchange us before to-morrow, and he shall not need to exchange us at all. now i have gained time enough! time enough to strengthen myself in my purpose--time enough to choose the surest means. to strengthen myself in my purpose! woe to me if i need that! firmness of age, if thou art not mine, then obstinacy of youth, stand thou by me! yes, it is resolved! it is firmly resolved! i feel that i grow calm--i am calm! thou who standest there, philotas (_surveying himself_)--ha! it must be a glorious, a grand sight; a youth stretched on the ground, the sword in his breast! the sword? gods! o unhappy wretch that i am. and now only do i become aware of it! i have no sword; i have not anything! it became the booty of the warrior who made me prisoner. perhaps he would have left it me, but the hilt was of gold. accursed gold! art thou then always the ruin of virtue? no sword? i no sword? gods, merciful gods, grant me this one thing! mighty gods, ye who have created heaven and earth, ye could not create a sword for me, if ye wished to do so? what is now my grand and glorious design? i become a bitter cause of laughter to myself. and there the king comes back already! stop! suppose i played the child? this idea is promising. yes, perhaps i may succeed. scene vii. aridäus. philotas. aridÄus. the messengers have now gone, my prince! they have started on their swiftest horses, and your father's camp is so near at hand, that we can receive a reply in a few hours. philotas. you are then very impatient, king, to embrace your son once more? aridÄus. will your father be less so to press you to his heart again? but let me enjoy your company, dearest prince! the time will speed more quickly in it, and perhaps in other respects it may also have good results, if we become more intimately acquainted with each other. often already have loving children been the mediators of their angry fathers. follow me therefore to my tent, where the greatest of my generals await you! they burn with the desire to see you, and offer you their admiration. philotas. men must not admire a child, king! leave me here, therefore, i pray! shame and vexation would make me play a very foolish part. and as to your conversation with me, i do not see at all what good could come of it. i know nothing else, but that you and my father are involved in war; and the right--the right, i think, is on my father's side. this i believe, king! and will believe, even though you could prove the reverse indisputably. i am a son and a soldier, and have no other opinion than that of my father and my general. aridÄus. prince! it shows a great intelligence thus to deny one's intelligence. yet i am sorry that i shall not ever be able to justify myself before you. accursed war! philotas. yes, truly, an accursed war! and woe to him who caused it. aridÄus. prince! prince! remember that it was your father who first drew the sword. i do not wish to join in your curses. he was rash, he was too suspicious. philotas. well, my father drew the first sword. but does the conflagration only take its rise when the bright flame already breaks through the roof? where is the patient, quiet creature, devoid of all feeling, which cannot be embittered through incessant irritations? consider--for you compel me to speak of things of which i have no right to speak--consider what a proud and scornful answer you sent him when he--but you shall not compel me; i will not speak of it! our guilt and our innocence are liable to endless misinterpretations, endless excuses. only to the undeceived eye of the gods do we appear as we are; they alone can judge us. but the gods, you know it, king, speak their verdict through the sword of the bravest. let us therefore wait to hear their bloody sentence. why shall we turn in cowardice from this highest of judgments to a lower? are our arms already so weary that the pliant tongue must take their place? aridÄus. i hear with astonishment---- philotas. ah! a woman, too, may be listened to with astonishment. aridÄus. with astonishment, prince, and not without grief. fate has destined you for the throne! to you it will confide the welfare of a mighty and noble nation; to you! what dreadful future reveals itself to me! you will overwhelm your people with laurels,--and with misery. you will count more victories than happy subjects. well for me, that my days will not reach into yours! but woe to my son, to my honest son! you will scarcely allow him to lay aside his armour---- philotas. comfort the father, o king! i shall allow your son far more!--far more! aridÄus. far more? explain yourself. philotas. have i spoken a riddle? o do not ask, king, that a youth, such as i am, shall always speak with caution and design. i only wished to say the fruit is often very different from what the blossom promises. an effeminate prince, history has taught me, has often proved a warlike king. could not the reverse occur with me? or perhaps the meaning of what i said was that i had still a long and dangerous way to the throne. who knows if the gods will allow me to accomplish it? and do not let me accomplish it, father of gods and men, if in the future thou seest in me a waster of the most precious gift which thou hast entrusted to me,--the blood of my subjects! aridÄus. yes, prince; what is a king, if he be not a father? what is a hero void of human love? now i recognise this also in you, and am your friend again! but come, come; we must not remain alone here! we are too serious for one another. follow me! philotas. pardon, king---- aridÄus. do not refuse! philotas. thus, as i am, shall i show myself to many eyes? aridÄus. why not? philotas. i cannot, king, i cannot! aridÄus. and the reason? philotas. o, the reason! it would make you laugh. aridÄus. so much the better,--let me hear it! i am a human being, and like to laugh and cry. philotas. well, laugh then! see, king, i have no sword, and should not like to appear amongst soldiers without this mark of the soldier. aridÄus. my laughing turns to joy! i have thought of that beforehand, and your wish will be gratified at once. strato has the order to get your sword again for you. philotas. let us then await him here! aridÄus. and then you will accompany me? philotas. then i will follow you immediately. aridÄus. as we willed it! there he comes! well, strato! scene viii. strato (_with a sword in his hand_), aridäus, philotas. strato. king! i came to the soldier who had taken the prince and demanded the prince's sword from him in your name. but hear how nobly the soldier refused! "the king," he said, "must not take the sword from me! it is a good sword, and i shall use it in his service. i must also keep a remembrance of this deed. by the gods, it was none of my least! the prince is a young demon. but perhaps you wish only the precious hilt!" and on this, before i could prevent it, his strong hand had broken off the hilt, and throwing it contemptuously before my feet--"there it is," he continued, "what care i for your gold?" aridÄus. o strato, make good for me what this man has done! strato. i have done so. and here is one of your swords! aridÄus. give it me! will you accept it, prince, instead of yours? philotas. let me see! ha! (_aside_.) be thanked, ye gods! (_eyeing it long and earnestly_). a sword! strato. have i not chosen well, prince? aridÄus. what do you find in it so worthy of your deep attention? philotas. that it is a sword!--(_recovering himself_.) and a beautiful sword! i shall not lose anything by this exchange. a sword! aridÄus. you tremble, prince! philotas. with joy! it seems, however, a trifle short for me. but why short? a step nearer to the enemy replaces what is wanting in the steel. beloved sword! what a beautiful thing is a sword,--to play with and to use! i have never played with anything else. aridÄus (_to_ strato). o the wondrous combination of child and hero! philotas (_aside_). beloved sword! could i but be alone with thee! but, courage! aridÄus. now gird on the sword, prince, and follow me! philotas. directly! yet one must not know one's friend and one's sword only outwardly (_he draws it, and_ strato _steps between him and the king_). strato. i understand the steel better than the workmanship. believe me, prince, the steel is good. the king has cleft more than one helmet with it since his youth. philotas. i shall never grow so strong as that! but--do not step so near, strato! strato. why not? philotas. so! (_springing back and swinging the sword through the air_). it has the right swing. aridÄus. prince, spare your wounded arm! you will excite yourself! philotas. of what do you remind me, king? of my misfortune--no, of my shame! i was wounded and made prisoner. yes, but i shall never be so again! by this my sword, i shall never be so again! no, my father, no! to-day a wonder spares you the shameful ransom of your son; his death may spare it you in the future!--his certain death, when he shall see himself surrounded again! surrounded again? horrible! i am so! i am surrounded! what now? companions! friends! brothers! where are you? all dead? enemies everywhere! through here, philotas! ha! that is for you, rash fellow!--and that for you!--and that for you! (_striking around him_.) strato. prince! what ails you? calm yourself (_approaches him_.) philotas (_stepping away from him_). you too, strato? you too? o, foe, be generous! kill me! do not make me captive! no, i do not deliver myself up! were you all, who surround me, stratos, yet i will defend myself against you all--against a world will i defend myself! do your best, my foes! but you will not? you will not kill me, cruel men? you only wish to have me alive? i laugh at you! to take me prisoner alive? me? sooner shall this sword--this sword--shall pierce this breast--sooner--before--(_he stabs himself_.) aridÄus. god! strato! strato. king! philotas. i wished it thus! (_sinking back_.) aridÄus. hold him, strato! help! help for the prince! prince, what raving anguish---- philotas. forgive me, king! i have dealt you a more deadly blow than myself! i die, and soon will peaceful lands enjoy the fruit of my death. your son, king, is a prisoner, and the son of my father is free! aridÄus. what do i hear? strato. then it was your purpose, prince? but as our prisoner, you had no right over yourself! philotas. do not say that, strato! should a man be able to fetter another's liberty to die, the liberty which the gods have left in all vicissitudes of life? strato. o king! terror has paralyzed him! king! aridÄus. who calls me? strato. king! aridÄus. be silent! strato. the war is over, king! aridÄus. over? you lie, strato! the war is not over, prince! die! yes, die! but carry with you this tormenting thought! you believed, as a true ignorant boy, that fathers were all of one and the same mould,--all of the soft, effeminate nature of your father. they are not all like him! i am not so! what do i care about my son? and do you think that he cannot die as well for his father as you did for yours? let him die! let his death too spare me the disgraceful ransom! strato, i am bereft now, i poor man! you have a son;--he shall be mine. for a son one must have! happy strato! philotas. your son too lives still, king! and will live! i hear it! aridÄus. does he live still? then i must have him back. but you--die! i will have him back, let what will come of it. and in exchange for you! or i will have such disgrace and dishonour shown to your body--i will have it---- philotas. the dead body!--if you will revenge yourself, king, awaken it again! aridÄus. ah! what do i say? philotas. i pity you! farewell, strato! there, where all virtuous friends and all brave men are members of one blessed state--in elysium we shall meet again! we also, king, shall meet again. aridÄus. and reconciled! prince! philotas. o then, ye gods, receive my triumphant soul; and thou, goddess of peace, thy offering! aridÄus. hear me, prince! strato. he dies! am i traitor, king, if i weep over your enemy? i cannot restrain myself. a wondrous youth! aridÄus. weep over him, weep! and i too! come! i must have my son again. but do not oppose me, if i pay too high a ransom for him! in vain have we shed our streams of blood, in vain have we conquered lands. there he departs with our booty, the greater victor!--come! get me my son! and when i have him, i will no more be king. do ye believe, ye men, that one does not grow weary of it? (_exeunt_.) emilia galotti. a tragedy in five acts. (_translated by b. dillon boylan_.) 'emilia galotti' was commenced in , when lessing was at leipzig, but was thrown aside for some years, until in , when at hamburg, he again took it up, intending to have it represented on the hamburg stage. but on the failure of the theatrical enterprise with which he was connected, he once more abandoned it until , when he again turned his attention to it, and completed it in february of the following year. it was immediately represented on the brunswick stage. dramatis personÆ. emilia galotti. odoardo _and_ \ > _parents of_ emilia. claudia galotti, / hettore gonzaga, _prince of guastalla_. marinelli, _the prince's chamberlain_. camillo rota, _one of the prince's councillors_. conti, _an artist_. count appiani. angelo, _a bandit_. pirro _and sundry servants_. emilia galotti. act i. scene i.--_the prince's cabinet_. _the_ prince, _seated at a desk, which is covered with papers_. prince. complaints; nothing but complaints! petitions; nothing but petitions! wretched employment! and yet we are envied! to be sure, if we could relieve every one, we might indeed be envied. emilia? (_opening a petition, and looking at the signature_.) an emilia? yes--but an emilia bruneschi--not galotti. not emilia galotti. what does she want, this emilia bruneschi? (_reads_) she asks much--too much. but her name is emilia. it is granted (_signs the paper, and rings_). _enter a_ servant. prince. are any of the councillors in the antechamber? servant. no, your highness. prince. i have begun the day too early. the morning is so beautiful, i will take a drive. the marquis marinelli shall accompany me. let him be called. (_exit_ servant.) i can attend to nothing more. i was so happy--delightful thought! so happy--when all at once this wretched bruneschi must be named emilia. now all my peace is fled. _re-enter the_ servant, _bringing a note_. servant. the marquis has been sent for; and here is a letter from the countess orsina. prince. the countess orsina? put it down. servant. her courier waits. prince. i will send an answer if necessary. where is she, in town, or at her villa? servant. she arrived in town yesterday. prince. so much the worse--the better, i mean. there is less reason for the messenger to wait. (_exit_ servant.) my dear countess! (_with sarcasm, as he takes up the letter_) as good as read (_throwing it down again_). well, well, i fancied i loved her--one may fancy anything. it may be that i really did love her. but--i did. _re-enter_ servant. servant. the painter conti requests the honour---- prince. conti? good! admit him. that will change the current of my thoughts (_rising_). scene ii. conti, _the_ prince. prince. good morning, conti. how goes it with you? how does art thrive? conti. art is starving, prince. prince. that must not--shall not be, within the limits of my small dominions. but the artist must be willing to work. conti. work! that is his happiness. but too much work may rain his claim to the title of artist. prince. i do not mean that his works should be many, but his labour much: a little, but well done. but you do not come empty-handed, conti? conti. i have brought the portrait which your highness ordered; and another which you did not order; but as it is worthy of inspection---- prince. that one, is it? and yet i do not well remember---- conti. the countess orsina. prince. true. the commission, however, was given rather long ago. conti. our beauties are not every day at the artist's command. in three months, the countess could only make up her mind to sit once. prince. where are the pictures? conti. in the antechamber. i will fetch them (_exit_). scene iii. prince. her portrait! let it come; it is not herself. but perhaps i may see in the picture what i can no longer find in her person. but i have no wish to make such a discovery. the importunate painter! i almost believe that she has bribed him. but even were it so, if another picture which is pourtrayed in brighter colours and on a different canvas, could be obliterated to make room for her once more in my heart, i really think that i should be content. when i loved the countess, i was ever gay, sprightly, and cheerful; now i am the reverse. but no, no, no; happy or unhappy, it is better as it is. scene iv. _the_ prince, conti, _with the portraits; he places one with the face reversed against a chair, and prepares to show the other_. conti. i beg your highness will bear in mind the limits of our art; much of the highest perfection of beauty lies altogether beyond its limits. look at it in this position. prince (_after a brief inspection_). excellent! conti, most excellent! it does credit to your taste,--to your skill. but flattered, conti--quite, infinitely flattered! conti. the original did not seem to be of your opinion. but, in truth, she is not more flattered than art is bound to flatter. it is the province of art to paint as plastic nature--if there is such a thing--intended her original design, without the defects which the unmanageable materials render inevitable, and free from the ravages which result from a conflict with time. prince. the intelligent artist has therefore double merit. but the original, you say, notwithstanding all this---- conti. pardon me, prince! the original is a person who commands my respect. i did not intend to insinuate anything to her disadvantage. prince. as much as you please. but what said the original? conti. "i am satisfied," said the countess, "if i am not plainer." prince. not plainer! the original herself! conti. and she uttered this with an expression of which the portrait affords no trace, no idea. prince. that is just what i meant; therein lies your infinite flattery. oh! i know well her proud, contemptuous look, which would disfigure the face of one of the graces. i do not deny that a handsome mouth set off with a slight curl of scorn, sometimes acquires thereby additional beauty. but, observe, it must be only slight; the look must not amount to grimace, as it does with this countess. the eyes, too, must keep control over the disdainful charmer; eyes which the worthy countess decidedly does not possess. you do not even give them to her in the picture. conti. your highness, i am perfectly amazed. prince. and wherefore? all that could be achieved by the resources of art out of the great prominent staring medusa eyes of the countess, you have honourably accomplished. honourably, i say, but less honourably would have been more honest; for tell me yourself, conti, is the character of the individual expressed by this picture? yet it should be. you have converted pride into dignity, disdain into a smile, and the gloom of discontent into soft melancholy. conti (_somewhat vexed_). ah! prince, we painters expect that a portrait when finished will find the lover as warm as when he ordered it. we paint with eyes of love, and the eyes of love alone must judge our works. prince. 'tis true, conti; but why did you not bring it a month sooner? lay it aside. what is the other? conti (_taking it up and holding it still reversed_). it is also a female portrait. prince. then i had almost rather not see it; for the ideal depicted here (_pointing to his forehead_), or rather here (_laying his hand upon his heart_), it cannot equal. i should like, conti, to admire your art in other subjects. conti. there may be more admirable examples of art, but a more admirable subject than this cannot exist. prince. then i'll lay a wager, conti, that it is the portrait of the artist's own mistress. (conti _turns the picture_.) what do i see? your work, conti, or the work of my fancy? emilia galotti! conti. how, prince! do you know this angel? prince (_endeavouring to compose himself, but unable to remove his eyes from the picture_). a little; just enough to recognise her. a few weeks ago i met her with her mother at an assembly; since then i have only seen her in sacred places, where staring is unseemly. i know her father also; he is not my friend. he it was who most violently opposed my pretensions to sabionetta. he is a veteran, proud and unpolished, but upright and brave. conti. you speak of the father, this is the daughter. prince. by heavens! you must have stolen the resemblance from her mirror (_with his eyes still rivetted on the picture_). oh, you well know, conti, that we praise the artist most when we forget his merits in his works. conti. yet i am extremely dissatisfied with this portrait, and nevertheless i am satisfied with being dissatisfied with myself. alas! that we cannot paint directly with our eyes! on the long journey from the eye through the arm to the pencil, how much is lost! but, as i have already said, though i know what is lost, and how and why it is lost, i am as proud and prouder of this loss than of what i have preserved. for by the former i perceive more than by the latter, that i am a good painter, though my hand is not always so. or do you hold, prince, that raffaelle would not have been the greatest of all artists even had he unfortunately been born without hands? prince (_turning his eyes a moment from the picture_). what do you say, conti? what was your enquiry? conti. oh, nothing--nothing; mere idle observations! your soul, i observe, was wholly in your eyes. i like such souls and such eyes. prince (_affecting coldness_). and so, conti, you really consider emilia galotti amongst the first beauties of our city. conti. amongst them? amongst the first? the first of our city? you jest, prince, or your eyesight must have been all this time as insensible as your hearing. prince. dear conti (_again fixing his eyes on the picture_), how can we uninitiated trust our eyes? in fact, none but an artist can judge of beauty. conti. and must the feeling of every person wait for the decision of a painter? to a cloister with him who would learn from us what is beautiful! but this much i must own to you, as a painter, prince. it is one of the greatest delights of my life that emilia galotti has sat to me. this head, this countenance, this forehead, these eyes, this nose, this mouth, this chin, this neck, this bosom, this shape, this whole form, are from the present time forward my only model of female beauty. the original picture for which she sat, is in the possession of her absent father. but this copy---- prince (_turning to him quickly_). well, conti--is not surely bespoke already? conti. is for you, prince, if it affords you any pleasure. prince. pleasure! (_smiling_.) how can i do better than make your model of female beauty my own? there, take back that other portrait, and order a frame for it. conti. good. prince. as rich and splendid as the carver can possibly make it. it shall be placed in the gallery. but this must remain here. a study need not be treated with so much ceremony; one does not hang it up for display. it should always be at hand. i thank you, conti, cordially. and as i said before, the arts shall never starve in my dominions, as long as i have bread. send to my treasurer, conti, and let him pay your own price for both pictures; as much as you please, conti. conti. i must begin to fear, prince, that you mean to reward me for something else besides my art? prince. oh the jealousy of an artist! no, no! but remember, conti, as much as you please. (_exit_ conti.) scene v. _the_ prince. prince. yes, as much as he pleases. (_turning to the picture_.) thou art mine, too cheap at any price. oh, thou enchanting work of art! do i then possess thee? but who shall possess thyself, thou still more beautiful masterpiece of nature? claim what you will, honest old mother; ask what you will, morose old father. demand any price. yet, dear enchantress, i should be far more happy to buy thee from thyself! this eye! how full of love and modesty! this mouth! when it speaks, when it smiles! this mouth!--some one comes.--i am still too jealous of thee. (_turning the picture to the wall_.) it is marinelli. i wish i had not sent for him! what a morning might i have had! scene vi. marinelli, _the_ prince. marinelli. your highness will pardon me; i was not prepared for so early a summons. prince. i felt an inclination to drive out, the morning was so fine. but now it is almost over, and my inclination has subsided. (_after a short pause_). any news, marinelli? marinelli. nothing of importance that i know. the countess orsina arrived in town yesterday. prince. yes, here lies her morning salutation (_pointing to the letter_), or whatever it may be. i am not inquisitive about it. have you seen her? marinelli. am i not unfortunately her confidant? but if ever i am so again with a lady who takes it into her head to love you desperately, prince, may i---- prince. no rash vows, marinelli. marinelli. indeed, prince! is it possible? the countess, then, is not so utterly mistaken. prince. quite mistaken, certainly. my approaching union with the princess of massa compels me in the first place to break off all such connections. marinelli. if that were all, the countess would doubtless know as well how to submit to her fate, as the prince to his. prince. my fate is harder far than hers. my heart is sacrificed to a miserable political consideration. she has but to take back hers, and need not bestow it against her inclination. marinelli. take it back! "why take it back," asks the countess, "for a wife, whom policy and not love attaches to the prince?" with a wife of that kind the mistress may still hold her place. it is not, therefore, for a wife that she dreads being sacrificed, but---- prince. perhaps another mistress. what then? would you make a crime of that, marinelli? marinelli. i, prince? oh, confound me not with the foolish woman whose cause i advocate--from pity! for yesterday i own she greatly moved me. she wished not to mention her attachment to you, and strove to appear cold and tranquil. but in the midst of the most indifferent topics, some expression, some allusion, escaped her, which betrayed her tortured heart. with the most cheerful demeanour she said the most melancholy things, and on the other hand uttered the most laughable jests with an air of deep distress. she has taken to books for refuge, which i fear will be her ruin. prince. yes, for books gave the first blow to her poor understanding. and, marinelli, you will scarcely employ for the purpose of renewing my attachment, that which was the chief cause of our separation. if love renders her foolish, she would sooner or later have become so, even without such influence. but enough of her! to something else. is there nothing new in town? marinelli. next to nothing; for that count appiani will be married to-day is little better than nothing. prince. count appiani! to whom? i have not heard that he is engaged. marinelli. the affair has been kept a profound secret. and indeed, there was not much to create a sensation. you will smile, prince; but it ever happens so with sentimental youths! love always plays the worst of tricks. a girl without fortune or rank has managed to catch him in her snares, without any trouble, but with a little display of virtue, sensibility, wit, and so forth. prince. the man who can wholly resign himself to the impressions which innocence and beauty make upon him is, in my opinion, rather to be envied than derided. and what is the name of the happy fair one? for though i well know, marinelli, that you and appiani dislike each other, he is nevertheless a very worthy young man, a handsome man, a rich man, and an honourable man. i should like to be able to attach him to myself. marinelli. if it be not too late; for, as far as i can learn, it is not his intention to seek his fortune at court. he will retire with his spouse to his native valleys of piedmont, and indulge himself in hunting chamois or training marmots upon the alps. what can he do better? here his prospects are blighted by the connection he has formed. the first circles are closed against him. prince. the first circles! what are they worth, mere resorts of ceremony, restraint, ennui, and poverty? but how call you the fair being who is the cause of all these wondrous sacrifices? marinelli. a certain--emilia galotti? prince. what! marinelli! a certain---- marinelli. emilia calotti. prince. emilia galotti? never!---- marinelli. assuredly, your highness. prince. but no, i say. it is not, and it cannot be! you mistake the name. the family of galotti is numerous. it may be a galotti, but not emilia galotti! marinelli. emilia--emilia galotti. prince. there must be another who bears the same names. you said, however, a certain emilia galotti,--a certain one. of the real emilia, none but a fool could so speak. marinelli. your highness is excited. do you know this emilia? prince. it is my place to question, not yours, marinelli. is she the daughter of colonel galotti, who resides at sabionetta? marinelli. the same. prince. who lives here in guastalla with her mother. marinelli. the same. prince. near the church of all-saints. marinelli. the same. prince. in a word (_turning hastily to the portrait, and giving it to_ marinelli)--there! is it this emilia galotti? pronounce again those damning words, "the same," and plunge a dagger in my heart. marinelli. the same. prince. traitor! this? this emilia galotti--will to-day be---- marinelli. the countess appiani. (_the_ prince _seizes the portrait from the hands of_ marinelli, _and flings it aside_.)--the marriage will be celebrated privately at her father's villa, in sabionetta. about noon the mother and daughter, the count, and perhaps a few friends, will leave town together. prince (_throwing himself in a state of desperation into a chair_). then i am lost, and care no more for life. marinelli. what thus affects your highness? prince (_starting towards him again_). traitor! what affects me thus? yes, in truth, i love her! i adore her! you may, perhaps, know it, may even long have known it; all of you who desire that i should wear for ever the ignominious fetters of the proud orsina. that you, marinelli, who have so often assured me of your sincere friendship--but a prince has no friend, can have no friend--that you should act so treacherously, so deceitfully, as to conceal till this moment the peril which threatened my love.--oh, if ever i forgive you this, let no sin of mine be pardoned! marinelli. i could scarcely find words, prince, to express my astonishment--even if you gave me the opportunity. you love emilia galotti? hear, then, my oath in reply to yours. if i have ever known or suspected this attachment in the slightest degree, may the angels and saints abandon me! i repeat the same imprecation for orsina. her suspicions were directed to a wholly different quarter. prince. pardon me, then, marinelli (_throwing himself into his arms_), and pity me. marinelli. well, yes, prince. there see the consequence of your reserve. "a prince has no friends." and why? because he will have none. to-day you honour us with your confidence, entrust to us your most secret wishes, open your whole soul to us--and to-morrow we are as perfect strangers to you, as if you had never exchanged a word with us. prince. alas, marinelli, how could i entrust a secret to you which i would scarcely confess to myself? marinelli. and, which you have, therefore, of course, not confessed to the author of your uneasiness? prince. to her!--all my endeavours have been fruitless to speak with her a second time. marinelli. and the first time---- prince. i spoke to her;--oh, my brain is turned, and must i continue this conversation longer? you behold me at the mercy of the waves, and why inquire how all this has happened? save me if you can, and then question me. marinelli. save you! is there much to save? what your highness has not confessed to emilia galotti, you will confess to the countess appiani. goods which cannot be obtained in their primitive perfection, must be bought at second hand, and are often, on that account, bought at a cheaper rate. prince. be serious, marinelli, or---- marinelli. to be sure, such articles are generally so much the worse---- prince. for shame, marinelli. marinelli. and the count intends to leave this country too. well, we must devise some scheme---- prince. and what scheme? my best and dearest marinelli, contrive something for me. what would you do, were you in my situation? marinelli. above all things, i should regard a trifle as a trifle--and say to myself that i would not be what i am for nothing--your highness! prince. delude me not with a power of which i can, on this occasion, make no use. to-day, said you?--this very day? marinelli. to-day it is to take place;--but it is only things which have taken place that cannot be recalled. (_after a short pause_.) prince, will you let me act as i please? will you approve all i do? prince. anything, marinelli, which can avert this blow. marinelli. then let us lose no time. you must not remain in town, but go to your palace at dosalo. the road to sabionetta passes it. should i not succeed in removing the count, i think--yes, yes, he will be caught in that snare without doubt. you wish to send an ambassador to massa respecting your marriage. let the count be ambassador, and order him to depart this very day. prince. excellent!--bring him to my palace.--haste, haste!--i will leave town instantly. (_exit_ marinelli.) scene vii. prince. instantly, instantly. where is it? (_turns to the portrait_) on the ground! that was too bad. (_takes it up_) but look! and yet i will look at thee no more now. why should i plunge the arrow deeper into the wound? (_lays it on the table_). i have suffered and sighed long enough--longer than i ought, but done nothing, and my listless inactivity had nearly ruined all.--and may not all yet be lost? may not marinelli fail? why should i rely on him alone?--it occurs to me that at this hour (_looks at his watch_) at this very hour, the pious girl daily attends mass at the church of the dominicans. how, if i attempted to address her there? but to-day--the day of her marriage--her heart will be occupied with other things than mass. yet, who knows?--'tis but a step--(_rings, and whilst he hastily arranges the papers on the table_)-- _enter_ servant. my carriage!--have none of the council arrived? servant. camillo rota waits without. prince. admit him. (_exit_ servant). but he must not attempt to detain me long. not now--another time, i will attend to his scrupulous investigations----there was a petition of one emilia bruneschi--here it is--but, good bruneschi, if your intercessor---- scene viii. _enter_ camillo rota. come, rota, come. there lie the papers which i have opened this morning--not very consoling--you will see what is to be done. take them with you. camillo. i will attend to them. prince. here is a petition from one emilia galot--i mean bruneschi. i have already signed my consent to it--but yet the request is no trifle. you may defer the execution of it--or not--as you please. camillo. not as i please, your highness. prince. what more is there--anything to sign? camillo. sentence of death for your highness's signature. prince. with all my heart!--where is it? quick! camillo (_starts and gazes at the_ prince). i said a death--warrant. prince. i understood you plain enough. it might have been done by this. i am in haste. camillo (_looking at his papers_). i really believe i have not brought it. i beg your highness's forgiveness. it can be deferred till to-morrow. prince. be it so. just collect these papers together. i must away. the rest to-morrow, rota. camillo (_shaking his head, as he collects the papers_). "with all my heart!"--a death-warrant, with all my heart! i would not have let him sign at such a moment, had the criminal murdered my own son.--"with all my heart!" "with all my heart"--the cruel words pierce my very soul. (_exit_.) act ii. scene i.--_a room in_ galotti's _house_. claudia galotti, pirro. claudia. who dismounted just now in the court-yard? pirro. pirro. my master, madam. claudia. my husband? is it possible? pirro. here he comes. claudia. so unexpectedly? (_hastens towards him_). my dearest lord! scene ii. odoardo, _and the foregoing_. odoardo. good morning, my love. does not my arrival surprise you? claudia. most agreeably. but is it intended as no more than a surprise? odoardo. no more. be not alarmed. the happiness of to-day awakened me early. the morning was so fine, and the ride so short, i fancied you would be so busy here to-day, and thought you might perhaps forget something: in a word, i am come to see you, and shall return immediately. where is emilia? occupied with her dress, i have no doubt? claudia. with her soul. she is gone to hear mass. "i have need," she said, "to-day more than at any other time to implore a blessing from above;" then leaving all else she took her veil, and disappeared. odoardo. alone! claudia. it is but a few steps---- odoardo. one incautious step often leads to mischief. claudia. be not angry; but come in and rest a moment, and, if you please, take some refreshment. odoardo. well, well, as you like. but she ought not to have gone alone. claudia. stay here, pirro, in the antechamber, and excuse me to all visitors. (_exeunt_ odoardo _and_ claudia.) scene iii. pirro, _and afterwards_ angelo. pirro. all inquisitive visitors. how i have been questioned! who comes here? (_enter_ angelo, _in a short mantle, with which he conceals his face_.) angelo. pirro! pirro! pirro. an acquaintance, it seems. (angelo _throws back the mantle_). heavens! angelo. you! angelo. yes, angelo, as you perceive. i have been wandering long enough round the house, in order to speak to you. one word with you---- pirro. and dare you again appear in public? don't you know that, in consequence of your last murder, you are declared an outlaw, a price has been put upon your head? angelo. you don't intend to claim it, i presume? pirro. what do you want? i implore you not to involve me in misfortune. angelo. in this way, you mean? (_showing a purse_). take it; it belongs to you. pirro. to me? angelo. have you forgotten? the german gentleman, your last master---- pirro. hush! angelo. ----whom you led into our clutches on the road to pisa---- pirro. if any one should overhear us! angelo. ----had the kindness, you know, to bequeath us a valuable ring. do you not remember? it was so valuable that we could not immediately convert it into money without suspicion. at length, however, i succeeded. i received a hundred pistoles for it, and this is your share. take it. pirro. no, no! you may keep it. angelo. well, with all my heart! if you don't care at what price you put your head in the market. pirro. give it me, then (_takes it_). and now, what do you want? for i suppose you did not come in search of me merely for that purpose. angelo. it seems to you not very credible. rascal! what do you think of us? that we are capable of withholding any man's earnings? that may be the way with honest people; but we don't follow their fashions. farewell! (_affects to be going, but turns at the door_). one question i must ask. old galotti has just come hurriedly into town quite alone. what does he want? pirro. nothing, merely a ride. his daughter is to be married this evening, at his country house, whence he has come to count appiani. he awaits the moment with impatience. angelo. then he will return soon? pirro. so soon, that if you remain any longer he will discover you. but you surely have no thoughts of attacking him. take care. he is a man---- angelo. don't i know him? have i not served under him in the army; but nevertheless if one could only get much from him! at what time do the young people follow him? pirro. towards noon. angelo. with many attendants? pirro. a single carriage will contain the party--the mother, the daughter, and the count. a few friends from sabionetta attend as witnesses. angelo. and the servants? pirro. only two besides myself. i shall ride before. angelo. good. another question. is the carriage galotti's or the count's? pirro. the count's. angelo. that is unlucky. there is another outrider, besides a courageous driver. however---- pirro. i am amazed. what do you intend? the few ornaments which the bride has will scarcely reward your trouble. angelo. then the bride herself shall be the reward. pirro. and you mean that i should be your accomplice in this crime? angelo. you ride before! then ride, ride, and take no trouble about the matter. pirro. never! angelo. what?--i believe the fellow means to play the conscientious--you rascal! i think you know me. if you utter a syllable--if every circumstance be not as you have described it---- pirro. but, angelo, for heaven's sake---- angelo. do what you cannot avoid. (_exit_.) pirro. ha! let the devil hold thee by a single hair, and thou art his for ever! wretch that i am! scene iv. odoardo _and_ claudia galotti, pirro. odoardo. she stays too long. claudia. one moment more, odoardo. it would distress her to miss seeing you. odoardo. i must wait upon the count, too. how eager am i to call this worthy man my son! his conduct enchants me, and, above everything, his resolution to pass his days in his native valleys. claudia. my heart almost breaks when i think of it. must we so entirely lose our dear and only child! odoardo. can you think you have lost her, when you know she is in the arms of an affectionate husband? does not her happiness make your delight? you almost make me again suspect that your motive for remaining with her in town, far from an affectionate husband and father, was the bustle and the dissipation of the world, and proximity of the court, rather than the necessity of giving our daughter a proper education. claudia. how unjust, odoardo! but to-day, i may be allowed to speak somewhat in favour of town and court, though both are so hateful to your strict virtue; for here alone could love have united a couple formed for each other; here alone could the count have found our emilia, and he has found her. odoardo. that i allow. but were you right, good claudia, because the result has been fortunate? it is well that this court education has ended so happily. let us not affect to be wise, when we have only been fortunate. it is well that it has ended so happily. they who were destined for each other have found each other. now let them go where peace and innocence invite them. why should the count remain here? to cringe--to fawn--to flatter--to supplant the marinellis--to make a fortune which he does not want--to obtain a dignity, which he does not value?--pirro! pirro. sir! odoardo. lead my horse to the count's door. i'll follow you anon, and mount it there. (_exit_ pirro).--why should the count serve here, when he may command elsewhere? besides, you do not consider, claudia, that, by his union with my daughter, he is utterly ruined with the prince? the prince hates me---- claudia. less, perhaps, than you fear. odoardo. fear! should i fear anything so contemptible? claudia. why, have i not already told you that the prince has seen our daughter? odoardo. the prince! where? claudia. at the last assembly of the chancellor grimaldi, which he honoured with his presence. he conducted himself so graciously towards her---- odoardo. graciously? claudia. yes. he conversed with her for some time. odoardo. conversed with her? claudia. appeared to be so delighted with her cheerfulness and good sense---- odoardo. delighted? claudia. spoke of her elegance and beauty, in terms of such admiration---- odoardo. admiration? and all this you relate to me in a tone of rapture. oh, claudia! vain, foolish mother! claudia. why so? odoardo. well, well. this, too, has ended happily.--ha! when i think----that were exactly the point where a wound would be to me most deadly.--a libertine, who admires, and seduces----claudia! claudia! the very thought rouses my fury. you ought to have mentioned this to me immediately.--but to-day i would not willingly say anything to vex you. and i should (_as she takes him by the hand_), were i to stay longer. therefore, let me begone. god be with you, claudia; follow me in safety. (_exit_.) scene v. claudia, galotti. claudia. what a man! what rigid virtue--if virtue that should be called, to which everything seems suspicious and culpable. if this be a knowledge of mankind, who would not wish to remain in ignorance? why does emilia stay so long?----he dislikes the father--consequently, if he admire the daughter, he must mean to bring disgrace upon him! scene vi. emilia _and_ claudia galotti. emilia (_rushing in, much alarmed_.) heaven be praised! i am now in safety. or has he even followed me hither? (_throwing back her veil and espying her mother_). has he, my mother, has he?--no, thank heaven. claudia. what has happened to you, my daughter? emilia. nothing--nothing. claudia. and yet you look wildly round, and tremble in every limb! emilia. what have i had to hear?--and where have i been forced to hear it? claudia. i thought you were at church. emilia. i was. but what are churches and altars to the vicious?--oh, my mother! (_throws herself into_ claudia's _arms_.) claudia. speak, my daughter, and remove my fears. what evil can have happened to you in so holy a place? emilia. never should my devotion have been more fervent and sincere than on this day. never was it less what it ought to have been. claudia. emilia we are all human. the faculty of praying fervently is not always in our power; but, in the eye of heaven, the wish to pray is accepted as prayer. emilia. and our wish to sin as sin. claudia. that my emilia never wished. emilia. no, my mother. the grace of heaven has preserved me from falling so low. but, alas! that the vice of others should render us accomplices in vice against our will! claudia. compose yourself.--collect your thoughts as well as you can. tell me at once what has happened to you. emilia. i had just sunk upon my knees, further from the altar than usual--for i arrived too late. i had just begun to raise my thoughts towards heaven--when some person placed himself behind me--so close behind me! i could neither move forwards nor aside, however much i desired it, in my fear lest the devotion of my neighbour might interrupt my prayers. devotion was the worst thing which i suspected. but it was not long before i heard a deep sigh close to my ear, and not the name of a saint;--no--the name--do not be angry, dear mother--the name of your daughter.--my own name! oh, that a peal of thunder had at that moment made me deaf to the rest. the voice spoke of beauty and of love--complained that this day, which crowned my happiness (if such should prove the case) sealed his misery for ever. he conjured me--all this i was obliged to hear, but i did not look round. i wished to seem as if i was not listening. what more could i do? nothing but pray that my guardian angel would strike me with deafness--even with eternal deafness. this was my prayer--the only prayer which i could utter. at length it was time to rise; the service came to an end. i trembled at the idea of being obliged to turn round--trembled at the idea of beholding him whose impiety had so much shocked me--and when i turned--when i beheld him---- claudia. whom, my daughter? emilia. guess, dear mother, guess: i thought i should have sunk into the earth. himself! claudia. whom do you mean? emilia. the prince! claudia. the prince! blest be your father's impatience! he was here just now, and would not stay till you returned. emilia. my father here--and not stay till i returned! claudia. if, in the midst of your confusion, you had told him too. emilia. well, dear mother--could he have found anything in my conduct deserving of censure? claudia. no--as little as in mine. and yet, yet--you do not know your father. when enraged, he would have mistaken the innocent for the guilty--in his anger he would have fancied me the cause of what i could neither prevent nor foresee. but proceed, my daughter, proceed. when you recognised the prince, i trust that you were sufficiently composed to convince him by your looks, of the contempt which he deserved. emilia. that i was not. after the glance by which i recognised him, i had not courage to cast a second. i fled. claudia. and the prince followed you? emilia. i did not know it till i had reached the porch, where i felt my hand seized--by him. shame compelled me to stop; as an effort to extricate myself would have attracted the attention of every one who was passing. this was the only reflection of which i was capable, or which i at present remember. he spoke, and i replied--but what he said, or what i replied, i know not.--should i recollect it, my dear mother, you shall hear it. at present i remember nothing further. my senses had forsaken me.--in vain do i endeavour to recollect how i got away from him, and escaped from the porch. i found myself in the street--i heard his steps behind me--i heard him follow me into the house, and pursue me up the stairs---- claudia. fear has its peculiar faculty, my daughter. never shall i forget the look with which you rushed into this room!--no. he dared not follow you so far.--heavens! had your father known this!--how angry was he when i merely told him that the prince had lately beheld you with admiration! be at ease, however, my dear girl. fancy what has happened to be a mere dream. the result will be less, even, than a dream. you will be assured to-day from all similar designs. emilia. no, mother! the count must know it--to him i must relate it. claudia. not for the world. wherefore? why? do you wish to make him uneasy without a cause? and granting that he may not become so at present--know, my child, the poison which does not operate immediately, is not on that account less dangerous. that which has no effect upon the lover, may produce a serious one upon the husband. the lover might even be flattered at winning the prize from so great a rival; but when he has won it--alas, my dear emilia, the lover often becomes quite another being. heaven preserve you from such experience! emilia. you know, dear mother, how willingly i ever submit to your superior judgment. but should he learn from another that the prince spoke to me to-day, would not my silence sooner or later increase his uneasiness?--i think it would be better not to conceal anything from him. claudia. weakness--a fond weakness. no, on no account, my daughter! tell him nothing. let him observe nothing. emilia. i submit. i have no will, dear mother, opposed to yours. ah! (_sighing deeply_), i shall soon be well again. what a silly, timid thing i am! am i not, mother? i might have conducted myself otherwise, and should, perhaps, have compromised myself just a little. claudia. i would not say this, my daughter, till your own good sense had spoken, which i was sure would be as soon as your alarm was at an end. the prince is a gallant. you are too little used to the unmeaning language of gallantry. in your mind a civility becomes an emotion--a compliment, a declaration--an idea, a wish--a wish, a design. a mere nothing, in this language, sounds like everything, while everything is in reality nothing. emilia. dear mother, my terror cannot but appear ridiculous to myself now. but my kind appiani shall know nothing of it. he might, perhaps, think me more vain than virtuous----ah! there he comes himself. that is his step. scene vii. _enter_ appiani, _in deep meditation. his eyes are cast down, and he approaches without observing_ claudia _and_ emilia, _till the latter runs towards him_. appiani. ha! my dearest! i did not expect to find you in the ante-room. emilia. i wish you to be cheerful, even where you do not expect to see me. why so grave and solemn? should not this day inspire joyful emotions? appiani. it is of greater value to me than my whole life; but it teems with so much bliss for me--perhaps it is this very bliss which makes me so grave--so solemn, as you express it (_espies_ claudia). ha! you too here, dear madam. this day i hope to address you by a more familiar name. claudia. which will be my greatest pride.--how happy you are, emilia! why would not your father share our delight? appiani. but a few minutes have elapsed since i tore myself from his arms--or rather he from mine.--what a man your father is, my emilia! a pattern of every manly virtue! with what sentiments does his presence inspire my soul! never is my resolution to continue just and good, so firm as when i see or think of him. and by what, but by fulfilling this resolution, can i make myself worthy of the honour to be called his son--to become your husband, dear emilia? emilia. and he would not wait for me! appiani. because, in my opinion, this brief interview with his emilia would have distressed him too much, too deeply affected his soul. claudia. he expected to find you busy with your bridal ornaments, and heard---- appiani. what i have learnt from him with the tenderest admiration. right, my emilia. i shall be blessed with a pious wife--and one who is not proud of her piety. claudia. but let us not, whilst we attend to one subject, forget another. it is high time, emilia. go! appiani. go! why? claudia. surely, my lord, you would not lead her to the altar in her present attire. appiani. in truth, i was not, till you spoke, aware of that. who can behold emilia, and take heed of her dress? yet why should i not lead her to the altar thus? emilia. no, dear count, not exactly thus; yet in a dress not much more gay. in a moment i shall be ready. i do not mean to wear those costly jewels, which were the last present of your prodigal generosity, no, nor anything suited to such jewels. oh, i could quarrel with those jewels were they not your present--for thrice i've dreamt---- claudia. indeed! i know nothing of that. emilia. that while i wore them, every diamond changed suddenly to a pearl--and pearls, you know, dear mother, signify tears. claudia. child, the interpretation is more visionary than the dream. were you not always more fond of pearls than diamonds? emilia. i assuredly, dear mother--assuredly---- appiani (_thoughtful and melancholy_). signify tears! emilia. how! does that affect you? you? appiani. it does, though i ought to be ashamed that such is the case; yet when the fancy is once disposed to sad impressions---- emilia. but why should yours be so? guess the subject of my thoughts. what did i wear, and how did i look when i first attracted your attention? do you remember? appiani. remember! i never see you in idea but in that dress, and i see you so, even when you are not thus attired. emilia. i mean to wear one of the same colour and form--flowing and loose. appiani. excellent! emilia. and my hair---- appiani. in its own dark beauty, in curls formed by the hand of nature. emilia. not forgetting the rose. right! have a little patience, and you shall see me thus. (_exit_.) scene viii. count appiani, claudia galotti. appiani (_looks after her with a downcast mien_). "pearls signify tears!"--a little patience! yes! if we could but defy time! if a minute on the clock were not sometimes an age within us! claudia. emilia's remark was no less just than quick, count. you are to-day more grave than usual. and yet you are but a step from the object of your wishes. do you repent that you have attained the wished-for goal? appiani. how could you, dear mother, suspect this of your son? but it is true. i am to-day unusually dejected and gloomy. all that i have seen, heard or dreamt, has preached since yesterday, and before yesterday this doctrine to me--to be but one step from the goal, and not to have attained it, is in reality the same. this one idea engrosses all my thoughts. what can it mean? i understand it not. claudia. you make me uneasy, count. appiani. one thought succeeds another. i am vexed--angry with my friends and with myself. claudia. why so? appiani. my friends absolutely require, that, before i solemnize my marriage, i should acquaint the prince with my intentions. they allow i am not bound to do this, but maintain that respect towards him demands it; and i have been weak enough to consent. i have already ordered my carriage for the purpose. claudia (_starts_). to wait upon the prince! scene ix. pirro, _afterwards_ marinelli, count appiani, claudia. _enter_ pirro. pirro. my lady, the marquis marinelli is at the door, and inquires for the count. appiani. for me! pirro. here his lordship comes. (_opens the door and exit_.) _enter_ marinelli. marinelli. i ask pardon, madam. my lord count, i called at your house, and was informed that i should find you here. i have important business with you. once more pardon, madam. it will occupy but a few minutes. claudia. i will not impede it. (_curtseys and exit_.) scene x. marinelli, appiani. appiani. now, my lord? marinelli. i come from his highness. appiani. what are his commands? marinelli. i am proud to be the bearer of this distinguished favour; and if count appiani will not wilfully misunderstand one of his most devoted friends---- appiani. proceed, i pray, without more ceremony. marinelli. i will. the prince is obliged to send an ambassador immediately to the duke of massa respecting his marriage with the princess his daughter. he was long undetermined whom to appoint, till his choice at last has fallen upon you, my lord. appiani. upon me? marinelli. yes--and if friendship may be allowed to boast, i was instrumental---- appiani. truly i am at a loss for thanks. i had long renounced the hope of being noticed by the prince. marinelli. i am sure he only waited for a proper opportunity, and if the present mission be not sufficiently worthy of count appiani, i own my friendship has been too precipitate. appiani. friendship, friendship! every third word. with whom am i speaking? the marquis marinelli's friendship i never dreamt of gaining. marinelli. i acknowledge my fault, count appiani, my unpardonable fault in wishing to be your friend without your permission. but what of that? the favour of his highness, and the dignity he offers, remain the same. i do not doubt you will accept them with pleasure. appiani (_after some consideration_). undoubtedly. marinelli. come, then, with me. appiani. whither? marinelli. to the prince's palace at dosalo. all is ready. you must depart to-day. appiani. what say you? to-day? marinelli. yes. rather now than an hour hence. the business presses. appiani. indeed! then i am sorry i must decline the honour which the prince intended to confer upon me. marinelli. how? appiani. i cannot depart to-day,--nor to-morrow--nor the next day. marinelli. you are jesting, count. appiani. with you? marinelli. incomparable! if with the prince, the joke is so much the merrier.--you cannot? appiani. no, my lord, no--and i trust that the prince himself will think my excuse sufficient. marinelli. i am eager to hear it. appiani. oh, it is a mere trifle. i mean to be married to-day. marinelli. indeed!--and what then? appiani. and what then?--your question shows a cursed simplicity! marinelli. there are examples, count, of marriages having been deferred. i do not mean to infer that the delay was pleasant to the bride and bridegroom. to them it was, no doubt, a trial, yet the sovereign's command---- appiani. sovereign's command? a sovereign of my own option, i am not so strictly bound to obey. i admit that you owe the prince absolute obedience, but not i. i came to his court a volunteer. i wished to enjoy the honour of serving him, but not of being his slave. i am the vassal of a greater sovereign. marinelli. greater or smaller, a monarch is a monarch. appiani. idle controversy! enough! tell the prince what you have heard. tell him i am sorry i cannot accept the honour, as i to-day intend to solemnize an union which will consummate my happiness. marinelli. will you not at the same time inform him with whom? appiani. with emilia galotti. marinelli. the daughter of this family? appiani. yes. marinelli. humph! appiani. what do you mean? marinelli. i mean that there would be the less difficulty in deferring the ceremony till your return. appiani. the ceremony? marinelli. yes. the worthy parents will not think much about it. appiani. the worthy parents? marinelli. and emilia will remain faithful to you, of course. appiani. _of course_?----you are an impertinent ape, with your "of course." marinelli. this to me, count? appiani. why not? marinelli. heaven and hell! you shall hear from me. appiani. pshaw! the ape is malicious, but---- marinelli. death and damnation!--count, i demand satisfaction. appiani. you shall have it. marinelli. ----and would insist upon it instantly--but that i should not like to spoil the day for the loving bridegroom. appiani. good--natured creature!--(_seizes his arm_). i own an embassy to massa does not suit me, but still i have time enough to take a walk with you. come. marinelli (_extricates himself from the_ count's _grasp_). patience, my lord, patience! (_exit_.) scene xi. appiani, claudia. appiani. go, worthless wretch----ha! that does me good. my blood circulates----i feel different and all the better. claudia (_hastily and alarmed_). heavens! my lord--i overheard an angry altercation. your cheek is flushed. what has happened? appiani. nothing, madam, nothing. the chamberlain marinelli has conferred a favour on me. he has saved me a visit to the prince. claudia. indeed! appiani. we can therefore leave town earlier. i go to give orders to my people, and shall return immediately. emilia will, in the meantime, get ready. claudia. may i feel quite at ease, my lord? appiani. perfectly so, dear madam. (_exeunt severally_.) act iii. scene, _an apartment in the_ prince's _country palace_. scene i. _enter_ prince _and_ marinelli. marinelli. in vain. he refused the proffered honour with the greatest contempt. prince. this ends all hope, then. things take their course, marinelli. according to all appearances. prince. i relied so firmly on your project--but who knows how ridiculously you acted? i ought to have recollected that though a blockhead's counsel may be good, it requires a clever man to execute it. marinelli. a pretty reward, this! prince. why should you be rewarded? marinelli. for having risked my life on the venture. finding that neither raillery nor reason could induce the count to sacrifice his love to honour, i tried to rouse his anger. i said things to him which made him forget himself. he used insulting expressions, and i demanded satisfaction--yes, satisfaction on the spot. one of us must fall, thought i. should it be his fate, the field is ours--should it be mine--why, he must fly, and the prince will at least gain time. prince. did you act thus, marinelli? marinelli. yes; he, who is ready to sacrifice his life for princes, ought to learn beforehand how grateful they are likely to be. prince. and the count? report says that he is not the man to wait till satisfaction is a second time demanded. marinelli. no doubt, in ordinary cases. who can blame him? he said that he had then something of greater consequence than a duel to occupy his thoughts, and put me off till a week after his marriage. prince. with emilia galotti. the idea drives me to distraction----thus, then, the affair ended, and now you come hither to boast that you risked your life in my behalf--sacrificed yourself for me. marinelli. what more, my lord, would you have had me do? prince. more? as if you had done anything! marinelli. may i be allowed to ask what your highness has done for yourself? you were so fortunate as to see her at church. what is the result of your conference? prince (_with a sneer_). you have curiosity enough--but i will satisfy it. all happened as i wished. you need take no further trouble, my most serviceable friend. she met my proposal more than half way. i ought to have taken her with me instantly. (_in a cold and commanding tone_.) now you have heard what you wished to know, and may depart. marinelli. and may depart! yes, yes. thus the song ends, and so 'twould be were i to attempt the impossible. the impossible, did i say? no. impossible it is not--only a daring attempt. had we the girl in our power, i would answer for it that no marriage should take place. prince. ay--you would answer for anything. i suppose, for instance, you would like to take a troop of my guards, lie in ambush by the highway, fall to the number of fifty upon one carriage, and bear the girl in triumph to me. marinelli. a girl has been carried off before now by force, though there has been no appearance of force in the transaction.---- prince. if you were able to do this, you would not talk so much about it. marinelli. ----but i cannot be answerable for the consequences. unforeseen accidents may happen. prince. is it my custom to make people answerable for what they cannot help? marinelli. therefore your highness will--(_a pistol is fired at a distance_). ha! what was that? did not my ears deceive me? did not your highness also hear a shot. and hark! another! prince. what means this? what is the matter? marinelli. how if i were more active than you deemed me? prince. more active! explain, then---- marinelli. in short, what i mentioned is now taking place. prince. is it possible? marinelli. but forget not, prince, what you just now promised. you pledge your word that---- prince. the necessary precautions i hope have been taken. marinelli. yes, as carefully as possible. the execution of my plan is entrusted to people on whom i can rely. the road, as you know, runs close by your park fence. there the carriage will be attacked by a party, apparently to rob the travellers. another band (one of whom is my trusty servant) will rush from the park as if to assist those who are attacked. during the sham battle between the two parties, my servant will seize emilia, as if to rescue her, and bring her through the park into the palace. this is the plan. what says your highness now? prince. you surprise me beyond measure. a fearful anxiety comes o'er me. (marinelli _walks to the window_.) what are you looking at? marinelli. that must be the scene of action--yes, and see, some one in a mask has just leapt over the fence--doubtless to acquaint me with the result. withdraw awhile, your highness. prince. ah, marinelli---- marinelli. well--now, doubtless, i have done too much--as i before had done too little. prince. not so--not so--yet i cannot perceive---- marinelli. perceive?--it is best done at one blow. withdraw quickly. you must not be seen here. (_exit_ prince.) scene ii. marinelli _and presently_ angelo. marinelli (_goes again to the window_). the carriage is returning slowly to town. so slowly? and at each door a servant? these appearances do not please me; they show the plot has only half succeeded. they are driving some wounded person carefully, and he is not dead. the fellow in the mask comes nearer. 'tis angelo himself--foolhardy! but he knows the windings of this place. he beckons to me--he must know that he has succeeded.--ha! ha! count appiani. you, who refused an embassy to massa, have been obliged to go a longer journey. who taught you to recognize apes so well? 'tis true, they are malicious (_walks towards the door_). well, angelo? _enter_ angelo, _with his mash in his hand_. angelo. be ready, my lord. she will be here directly. marinelli. how did you succeed in other respects? angelo. as you wished, i have no doubt. marinelli. how is it with the count? angelo. so, so. but he must have had some suspicions, for he was not quite unprepared. marinelli. quick, tell me--is he dead? angelo. i am sorry for him, poor man. marinelli. there! take that for thy compassion (_gives him a purse_). angelo. and our poor nicolo too, he has shared the same luck. marinelli. what! loss on both sides? angelo. yes. i could cry for the honest lad's fate; though i come in for another quarter of this purse by it; for i am his heir, since i avenged him. this is a law among us, and as good a law, methinks, as ever was made for the support of friendship and fidelity. this nicolo, my lord---- marinelli. no more of your nicolo! the count---- angelo. zounds! the count finished him, and i finished the count. he fell, and though he might be alive when they put him into the coach, i'll answer for it that he will never come alive out of it. marinelli. were you but sure of this, angelo---- angelo. i'll forfeit your custom, if it be not true. have you any further commands? for i have a long journey. we must be across the frontier before sunset. marinelli. go, then. angelo. should anything else occur in my way, you know where to inquire for me. what any other can venture to do will be no magic for me, and my terms are lower than any other's. (_exit_.) marinelli. 'tis well--yet not so well as it might have been. shame on thee, angelo, to be such a niggard! surely the count was worthy of a second shot. now, he may die in agony; poor count! shame, angelo! it was a cruel and bungling piece of work. the prince must not know what has happened. he himself must discover how advantageous this death is to him. death! what would i not give to be certain of it! scene iii. the prince, marinelli. prince. here she comes up the avenue. she flies before the servants. fear gives wings to her feet. she must not suspect our design. she thinks she is escaping from robbers. how long will her mistake last? marinelli. at least we have her here. prince. but will not her mother come in search of her? will not the count follow her? what can we do then? how can i keep her from them? marinelli. to all this i confess i can make no reply. but we must see. compose yourself, prince. this first step was, at all events, necessary. prince. how so, if we are obliged to recede? marinelli. but perhaps we need not. there are a thousand things on which we may make further steps. have you forgotten the chief one? prince. how can i have forgotten that of which i never thought? what mean you by the chief one? marinelli. the art of pleasing and persuading--which in a prince who loves can never fail. prince. can never fail! true, except when it is most needed. i have already made a poor attempt in this art to-day. all my flattery, all my entreaties could not extract one word from her. mute, trembling, and abashed, she stood before me like a criminal who fears the judge's fatal sentence. her terror was infectious. i trembled also and concluded by imploring her forgiveness. scarcely dare i speak to her again--and, at all events, i dare not be present when she arrives. you, marinelli, must receive her. i will listen to your conversation, and join you when i am more collected. scene iv. marinelli, _presently his servant_ battista, _and_ emilia. marinelli. if she did not see him fall--and of course she could not, as she fled instantly but she comes, and i too do not wish to be the first to meet her eye (_withdraws to a corner of the apartment_). _enter_ battista _and_ emilia. battista. this way--this way--dear lady. emilia (_out of breath_). oh! i thank you, my friend--i thank you. but, heavens! where am i? quite alone, too! where are my mother, and the count? they are surely coming? are they not close behind me? battista. i suppose so. emilia. you suppose so? are you not certain? have you not seen them? were not pistols fired behind us? battista. pistols? was it so? emilia. surely. oh, heavens! and the count or my mother is shot. battista. i'll go in search of them instantly. emilia. not without me! i'll go with you! i must go with you. come, my friend. marinelli (_approaches as if he had just entered_). ha! fair lady! what misfortune, or rather what good fortune--what fortunate misfortune has procured us the honour---- emilia (_astonished_). how!--you here, my lord!--this then is doubtless your house. pardon my intrusion. we have been attacked by robbers. some good people came to our assistance,--and this honest man took me out of the carriage and conducted me hither. but i am alarmed to find that i alone am rescued. my mother must be still in danger. i heard pistols fired behind us. perhaps she is dead,--and yet i live. pardon me. i must away, i must return to the place, which i ought not to have left. marinelli. compose yourself, dear lady. all is well. the beloved persons, for whom you feel this tender anxiety, will soon be here.--run, battista; they may perhaps not know where the lady is. see whether you can find them in any of the lodges, and conduct them hither instantly. (_exit_ battista.) emilia. are you sure they are all safe? has nothing happened to them?--oh, what a day of terrors has this been to me! but i ought not to remain here; i should hasten to meet them. marinelli. why so, dear lady? you are already breathless and exhausted. compose yourself, and condescend to step into this room, where you will find better accommodation than here. i feel certain that the prince has already found your gracious mother, and is escorting her hither. emilia. who do you say? marinelli. our gracious prince himself. emilia (_extremely terrified_). the prince! marinelli. he flew to your assistance at the first intelligence. he is highly incensed that such a crime should have been committed so near to his villa, nay, almost before his eyes. he has sent in search of the villains, and if they be seized, their punishment will be most severe. emilia. the prince!--where am i then? marinelli. at dosalo, the prince's villa. emilia. how strange!--and you think he will soon arrive?--but with my mother too? marinelli. here he is, already. scene v. _the_ prince, emilia, _and_ marinelli. prince. where is she? where is she?--we have sought you everywhere, dear lady.--you are well, i hope? now, all is well. the count and your mother---- emilia. oh, your highness! where are they? where is my mother? prince. not far off, close at hand. emilia. heavens! in what a situation shall i perhaps find one or other of them! for your highness conceals from me--i perceive---- prince. i conceal nothing, be assured. lean on my arm, and accompany me to them without fear. emilia (_irresolute_). but--if they be not wounded--if my suspicions be not true--why are they not already here? prince. hasten then, that all these sad apprehensions may at once be banished. emilia. what shall i do? (_wrings her hands_). prince. how, dear lady! can you harbour any suspicion against me? emilia (_falls at his feet_). on my knees i entreat you---- prince (_raising her_). i am quite ashamed.--yes, emilia, i deserve this mute reproach. my conduct this morning cannot be justified, or even excused. pardon my weakness: i ought not to have made you uneasy by an avowal, from which i could expect no advantage. i was amply punished by the speechless agitation with which you listened to it, or rather did not listen to it. and if i might be allowed to think this accident the signal of more favourable fortune--the most wondrous respite of my final sentence--this accident, which allows me to behold and speak to you again before my hopes for ever vanish--this accident, which gives me an opportunity of imploring your forgiveness--yet will i--do not tremble--yet will i rely only and entirely on your looks. not a sigh, not a syllable shall offend you. only wound me not with suspicions--do not for a moment doubt the unbounded influence which you possess over me--only imagine not that you need any protection against me. and now come--come where delights more in harmony with your feelings, await you. (_leads her away, not without opposition_.) follow us, marinelli. (_exeunt_ prince _and_ emilia.) marinelli. follow us! that means of course--follow us not. and why should i follow them? he will now find how far he can proceed with her, without witnesses. all that i have to do is to prevent intrusion. from the count i no longer expect it--but from her mother. wonderful, indeed, would it be, were she to have departed quietly, leaving her daughter unprotected. well, battista, what now? scene vi. battista _and_ marinelli. battista (_in haste_). the mother, my lord chamberlain---- marinelli. as i suspected. where is she? battista. she will be here immediately, unless you prevent it. when you ordered me to pretend to look for her, i felt little inclination to do so. but in the distance i heard her shrieks. she is in search of her daughter, and will discover the whole plot. all the people who inhabit this retired spot have gathered round her, and each vies with his neighbour to show her the way. whether she has been told that you are here, or that the prince is here, i know not. what is to be done? marinelli. let us see (_considering_). refuse her admittance when she knows that her daughter is here? that will not do. she will certainly open her eyes when she finds her lambkin in the clutches of the wolf. eyes! they would be of little consequence; but heaven have mercy on our ears! well, well. a woman's lungs are not inexhaustible. she will be silent, when she can shriek no longer. besides, the mother it is whom we should gain over to our side--and if i be a judge of mothers--to be a sort of prince's step--mother would flatter most of them. let her come, battista, let her come. battista. hark, my lord! claudia (_within_). emilia! emilia! my child! where are you? marinelli. go, battista, and use your endeavours to dismiss her inquisitive companions. scene vii. claudia, battista, marinelli. _as_ battista _is going_, claudia _meets him_. claudia. ha! you took her out of the carriage. you led her away. i know you again. where is she? speak, wretch. battista. are these your thanks? claudia. oh, if you merit thanks (_in a mild tone_), forgive me, worthy man. where is she? let me no longer be deprived of her. where is she? battista. she could not be more safe, were she in heaven.--my master, here, will conduct you to her. (_observes that some people are beginning to follow_ claudia.) back there! begone! (_exit, driving them away_.) scene viii. claudia, marinelli. claudia. your master? (_espies_ marinelli, _and starts_). ha! is this your _master_? you here, sir--and my daughter here--and you--you will conduct me to her? marinelli. with great pleasure, madam. claudia. hold! it just occurs to me. it was you, i think, who visited count appiani this morning at my house,--whom i left alone with him,--and with whom he afterwards had a quarrel? marinelli. a quarrel? that i did not know. we had a trifling dispute respecting affairs of state. claudia. and your name is marinelli? marinelli. the marquis marinelli. claudia. true. hear, then, marquis marinelli. your name, accompanied with a curse----but no--i will not wrong the noble man--the curse was inferred by myself--your name was the last word uttered by the dying count. marinelli. the dying count? count appiani?----you hear, madam, what most surprises me in this your strange address--the dying count?--what else you mean to imply, i know not. claudia (_with asperity, and in a deliberate tone_). marinelli was the last word uttered by the dying count.--do you understand me now? i myself did not at first understand it, though it was spoken in a tone--a tone which i still hear. where were my senses that i could not understand it instantly? marinelli. well, madam, i was always the count's friend--his intimate friend. if, therefore, he pronounced my name at the hour of death---- claudia. in that tone!--i cannot imitate--i cannot describe it--but it signified----everything. what! were we attacked by robbers? no--by assassins--by hired assassins: and marinelli was the last word uttered by the dying count, in such a tone---- marinelli. in such a tone? did any one ever hear that a tone of voice used in a moment of terror could be a ground of accusation against an honest man? claudia. oh that i could appear before a tribunal of justice, and imitate that tone? yet, wretch that i am! i forget my daughter. where is she--dead too? was it my daughter's fault that appiani was thy enemy? marinelli. i revere the mother's fears, and therefore pardon you.--come, madam. your daughter is in an adjoining room, and i hope her alarms are by this time at an end. with the tenderest solicitude is the prince himself employed in comforting her. claudia. who? marinelli. the prince. claudia. the prince! do you really say the prince--our prince? marinelli. who else should it be? claudia. wretched mother that i am!--and her father, her father! he will curse the day of her birth. he will curse me. marinelli. for heaven's sake, madam, what possesses you? claudia. it is clear. to-day--at church--before the eyes of the all-pure--in the presence of the eternal, this scheme of villainy began. (_to_ marinelli.) murderer! mean, cowardly murderer! thou wast not bold enough to meet him face to face, but base enough to bribe assassins that another might be gratified. thou scum of murderers! honourable murderers would not endure thee in their company. why may i not spit all my gall, all my rancour into thy face, thou panderer? marinelli. you rave, good woman. moderate your voice, at any rate, and remember where you are. claudia. where i am! remember where i am! what cares the lioness, when robbed of her young, in whose forest she roars? emilia (_within_). ha! my mother! i hear my mother's voice. claudia. her voice? 'tis she! she has heard me. where are you, my child?--i come, i come (_rushes into the room, followed by_ marinelli). act iv. scene i.--_the same_. the prince _and_ marinelli. prince. come, marinelli, i must collect myself--i look to you for explanation. marinelli. oh! maternal anger! ha! ha! ha! prince. you laugh? marinelli. had you, prince, but seen her frantic conduct in this room! you heard how she screamed; yet how tame she became as soon as she beheld you! ha! ha! yes--i never yet knew the mother who scratched a prince's eyes out, because he thought her daughter handsome. prince. you are a poor observer. the daughter fell senseless into her mother's arms. this made the mother forget her rage. it was her daughter, not me, whom she spared, when, in a low voice, she uttered--what i myself had rather not have heard--had rather not have understood. marinelli. what means your highness? prince. why this dissimulation? answer me. is it true or false? marinelli. and if it were true! prince. if it were! it is, then--he is dead (_in a threatening tone_). marinelli! marinelli! marinelli. well? prince. by the god of justice i swear that i am innocent of this blood. had you previously told me that the count's life must be sacrificed--god is my witness i would as soon have consented to lose my own. marinelli. had i previously told you! as if the count's death was part of my plan! i charged angelo that on his soul he should take care that no person suffered injury; and this, too, would have been the case, had not the count begun the fray, and shot the first assailant on the spot. prince. indeed! he ought to have understood the joke better. marinelli. so that angelo was enraged, and instantly avenged his comrade's death---- prince. well, that is certainly very natural. marinelli. i have reproved him for it. prince. reproved him! how good--natured! advise him never to appear again in my dominions; for my reproof might not be found so good-natured. marinelli. just as i foresaw! i and angelo.--design and accident; all the same.--it was, however, agreed, and indeed promised, that i should not be answerable for any accidents which might happen. prince. _might_ happen, say you, or _must_? marinelli. still better! yet one word, your highness, before you say in harsh phrase what you think of me. the count's death was far from being a matter of indifference to me. i had challenged him. he left the world without giving me satisfaction, and my honour, consequently, remains tarnished. allowing, therefore, what under other circumstances i deserved the suspicion you allude to, can i in this? (_with assumed anger_.) he who can so suspect me---- prince (_yielding_). well, well! marinelli. oh that he were still alive! i would give all that i possess--(_with bitterness_)--even the favour of my prince--even that treasure, invaluable and never to be trifled with, would i give. prince. well, well! i understand you. his death was accidental, merely accidental--you assure me that it was so, and i believe it. but will any one else believe it? will emilia--her mother--the world? marinelli (_coldly_). scarcely. prince. what, then, will they believe? you shrug your shoulders. they will suppose angelo the tool and me the prime mover. marinelli (_still more coldly_). probable enough! prince. me! me, myself!--or from this hour i must resign all hopes of emilia. marinelli (_in a tone of perfect indifference_). which you must also have done, had the count lived. prince (_violently_). marinelli!--(_checking his warmth_)--but you shall not rouse my anger. be it so. it is so. you mean to imply that the count's death is fortunate for me;--the best thing which could have happened--the only circumstance which could bring my passion to a happy issue--and, therefore, no matter how it happened. a count more or less in the world is of little consequence. am i right?--i am not alarmed at a little crime; but it must be a secret little crime, a serviceable little crime. but ours has not been either secret or serviceable. it has opened a passage only to close it again. every one will lay it to our door. and, after all, we have not perpetrated it at all. this can only be the result of your wise and wonderful management. marinelli. if your highness have it so---- prince. why not?--i want an explanation---- marinelli. i am accused of more than i deserve. prince. i want an explanation. marinelli. well then, what error in my plans has attached such obvious suspicion to the prince? the fault lies in the master-stroke which your highness so graciously put to my plans---- prince. i? marinelli. allow me to say that the step which you took at church this morning--with whatever circumspection it was done, or however inevitable it might be--was not part of my programme. prince. how did that injure it? marinelli. not indeed the whole plan, but its opportuneness. prince. do i understand you? marinelli. to speak more intelligibly. when i undertook the business, emilia knew nothing of the prince's attachment. her mother just as little. how if i formed my foundation upon this circumstance, and in the meantime the prince was undermining my edifice? prince (_striking his forehead_). damnation! marinelli. how, if he himself betrayed his intentions? prince. cursed interposition! marinelli. for had he not so behaved himself i should like to know what part of my plan could have raised the least suspicion in the mind of the mother or the daughter? prince. you are right. marinelli. and therein i certainly am very wrong.--pardon me. scene ii. battista, the prince, marinelli. _enter_ battista (_hastily_). the countess is arrived. prince. the countess? what countess? battista. orsina! prince. orsina? marinelli! marinelli. i am as much astonished as yourself. prince (_to_ battista). go--run--battista. she must not alight. i am not here--not here to her. she must return this instant. go, go. (_exit_ battista). what does the silly woman want? how dares she take this liberty? how could she know that we were here? is she come as a spy? can she have heard anything? oh, marinelli, speak, answer me. is the man offended, who vows he is my friend--offended by a paltry altercation? shall i beg pardon? marinelli. prince, as soon as you recover yourself, i am yours again, with my whole soul. the arrival of orsina is as much an enigma to me as to you. but she will not be denied. what will you do? prince. i will not speak to her. i will withdraw. marinelli. right! do so instantly; i will receive her. prince. but merely to dismiss her. no more. we have other business to perform. marinelli. not so, not so. our other things are done. summon up resolution and all deficiencies will be supplied. but do i not hear her? hasten, prince. in that room (_pointing to an adjoining apartment, to which the_ prince _retires_)--you may, if you please, listen to our conversation. she comes, i fear, at an unpropitious moment for her. scene iii. the countess orsina, marinelli. orsina (_without perceiving_ marinelli). what means this? no one comes to meet me, but a shameless servant, who endeavours to obstruct my entrance. surely i am at dosalo, where, on former occasions, an army of attendants rushed to receive me--where love and ecstasy awaited me. yes. the place is the same, but----ha! you here, marinelli? i am glad the prince has brought you with him. yet, no. my business with his highness must be transacted with himself only. where is he? marinelli. the prince, countess? orsina. who else? marinelli. you suppose that he is here, then,--or know it, perhaps. he, however, does not expect a visit from your ladyship. orsina. indeed! he has not then received my letter this morning. marinelli. your letter? but--yes. i remember he mentioned that he had received one. orsina. well? did i not in that letter request he would meet me here to-day? i own he did not think proper to return a written answer; but i learnt that an hour afterwards he drove from town to dosalo. this i thought a sufficient answer, and therefore i have come. marinelli. a strange accident! orsina. accident! it was an agreement--at least as good as an agreement. on my part, the letter--on his, the deed. how you stand staring, marquis! what surprises you? marinelli. you seemed resolved yesterday never to appear before the prince again. orsina. night is a good councillor. where is he? where is he? doubtless in the chamber, whence sighs and sobs were issuing as i passed. i wished to enter, but the impertinent servant would not let me pass. marinelli. dearest countess---- orsina. i heard a woman's shriek. what means this, marinelli? tell me--if i be your dearest countess--tell me. a curse on these court slaves! their tales! their lies! but what matters it whether you choose to tell me or not? i will see for myself. marinelli (_holding her back_). whither would you go? orsina. where i ought to have gone long since. is it proper, think you, that i should waste any time in idle conversation with you in the ante-chamber, when the prince expects me in the saloon? marinelli. you are mistaken, countess. the prince does not expect you here. he cannot--will not see you. orsina. and yet is here, in consequence of my letter. marinelli. not in consequence of your letter. orsina. he received it, you say. marinelli. yes, but he did not read it. orsina (_violently_). not read it! (_less violently_.) not read it! (_sorrowfully, and wiping away a tear_.) not even read it! marinelli. from preoccupation, i am certain, not contempt. orsina (_with pride_). contempt! who thought of such a thing? to whom do you use the term? marinelli, your comfort is impertinent. contempt! contempt! to me! (_in a milder tone_.) it is true that he no longer loves me. that is certain. and in place of love something else has filled his soul. it is natural. but why should this be contempt? indifference would be enough. would it not, marinelli? marinelli. certainly, certainly. orsina (_with a scornful look_). certainly! what an oracle, who can be made to say what one pleases! indifference in the place of love!--that means nothing in the place of something. for learn, thou mimicking court-parrot, learn from a woman, that indifference is but an empty word, a mere sound which means nothing. the mind can only be indifferent to objects of which it does not think; to things which for itself have no existence. only indifferent for a thing that is nothing--that is as much as saying not indifferent. is that meaning beyond thee, man? marinelli (_aside_). alas! how prophetic were my fears? orsina. what do you mutter? marinelli. mere admiration! who does not know, countess, that you are a philosopher? orsina. am i not? true; i am a philosopher. but have i now shown it; ah, shame! if i have shown it, and have often done so, it were no wonder if the prince despised me. how can man love a creature which, in spite of him, will _think_? a woman who thinks is as silly as a man who uses paint. she ought to laugh--do nothing but laugh, that the mighty lords of the creation may be kept in good humour--what makes me laugh now, marinelli? why, the accidental circumstance that i should have written to the prince to come hither--that he should not have read my letter and nevertheless have come. ha! ha! ha! 'tis an odd accident, very pleasant and amusing. why don't you laugh, marinelli? the mighty lords of the creation may laugh, though we poor creatures dare not think. (_in a serious and commanding tone_.) then laugh, you! marinelli. presently, countess, presently. orsina. blockhead! while you speak the proper moment is for ever past. no. do not laugh--for mark me, marinelli, (_with emotion_) that which makes me laugh, has, like every thing in the world, its serious side. accident! could it be accidental that the prince, who little thought that he would see me here, must see me?--accident! believe me, marinelli, the word accident is blasphemy. nothing under the sun is accidental, and least of all this, of which the purpose is so evident.--almighty and all--bounteous providence, pardon me that i joined this poor weak sinner in giving the name of accident to what so plainly is thy work--yes, thy immediate work. (_in a hasty tone to_ marinelli.) dare not again to lead me thus astray from truth. marinelli. this is going too far (_aside_)--but, countess---- orsina. peace with your _but_--that word demands reflection, and--my head, my head!--(_puts her hand to her forehead_)--contrive that i may speak to the prince immediately, or i shall soon want strength to do so. you see, marinelli, that i must speak to him--that i am resolved to speak to him. scene iv. the prince, orsina, marinelli. prince (_aside, as he advances_). i must come to his assistance. orsina (_espies him, but remains irresolute whether to approach him or not_). ha! there he is. prince (_walks straight across the room towards the other apartments_). ha! the fair countess, as i live. how sorry i am, madam, that i can to-day so ill avail myself of the honour of your visit. i am engaged. i am not alone. another time, dear countess, another time. at present stay no longer--no longer, i beg. and you, marinelli--i want you. (_exit_.) scene v. orsina, marinelli. marinelli. your ladyship has now heard, from himself, what you would not believe from my lips, have you not? orsina (_as if petrified_). have i? have, i indeed? marinelli. most certainly. orsina (_deeply affected_). "i am engaged, i am not alone." is this all the excuse i am worth? for whose dismissal would not these words serve? for every importunate, for every beggar. could he not frame one little falsehood for me? engaged! with what? not alone! who can be with him? marinelli, dear marinelli, be compassionate--tell me a falsehood on your own account. what can a falsehood cost you? what has he to do? who is with him? tell me, tell me. say anything which first occurs to you, and i will go. marinelli (_aside_). on this condition, i may tell her part of the truth. orsina. quick, marinelli, and i will go. he said, "another time, dear countess!" did he not? that he may keep his promise--that he may have no pretext to break it--quick, then, marinelli,--tell me a falsehood, and i will go. marinelli. the prince, dear countess, is really not alone. there are persons with him, whom he cannot leave for a moment--persons, who have just escaped imminent danger. count appiani---- orsina. is with him! what a pity that i know this to be false! quick, another! for count appiani, if you do not know it, has just been assassinated by robbers. i met the carriage, with his body in it, as i came from town. or did i not? was it a dream? marinelli. alas, it was not a dream. but they who accompanied the count were fortunately rescued, and are now in this palace; namely, a lady to whom he was betrothed, and whom, with her mother, he was conducting to sabionetta, to celebrate his nuptials. orsina. they are with the prince! a lady and her mother! is the lady handsome? marinelli. the prince is extremely sorry for her situation. orsina. that he would be, i hope, even if she were hideous--for her fate is dreadful. poor girl! at the moment he was to become thine for ever, he was torn for ever from thee. who is she? do i know her? i have of late been so much out of town, that i am ignorant of every thing. marinelli. it is emilia galotti. orsina. what? emilia galotti? oh, marinelli, let me not mistake this lie for truth. marinelli. why? orsina. emilia galotti? marinelli. yes. whom you can scarcely know. orsina. i do know her--though our acquaintance only began to-day. emilia galotti! answer me seriously. is emilia galotti the unfortunate lady whom the prince is consoling? marinelli (_aside_). can i have disclosed too much? orsina. and count appiani was her destined bridegroom--count appiani, who was shot to-day? marinelli. exactly. orsina (_clapping her hands_). bravo! bravo! bravo! marinelli. what now? orsina. i could kiss the devil that tempted him to do it. marinelli. whom? tempted? to do what? orsina. yes, i could kiss--him--even wert thou that devil, marinelli. marinelli. countess! orsina. come hither. look at me--steadfastly--eye to eye. marinelli. well? orsina. know you not my thoughts? marinelli. how can i? orsina. have you no concern in it? marinelli. in what? orsina. swear. no, do not swear, for that might be another crime. but yes--swear. one sin more or less is of no consequence to a man who is already damned. have you no concern in it? marinelli. you alarm me, countess. orsina. indeed! now, marinelli--has your good heart no suspicion? marinelli. suspicion? of what? orsina. 'tis well. then i will entrust you with a secret--a secret, which will make each hair upon your head stand on end. but here, so near the door, some one might overhear us. come here--(_puts her finger to her mouth_)--mark me, it is a secret--a profound secret. (_places her mouth to his ear, as if about to whisper, and shouts as loudly as she can_) the prince is a murderer! marinelli. countess! countess! have you lost your senses? orsina. senses? ha! ha! ha! (_laughing loudly_). i have very seldom, if ever, been so satisfied with my understanding as i am at this moment. depend upon it, marinelli--but it is between ourselves--(_in a low voice_)--the prince is a murderer--the murderer of count appiani. the count was assassinated, not by robbers, but by the prince's myrmidons, by the prince himself. marinelli. how can so horrid a suspicion fall from your lips, or enter your imagination? orsina. how? very naturally. this emilia galotti, who is now in the palace, and whose bridegroom--was thus trundled head over heels out of the world--this emilia galotti did the prince to-day accost in the church of the dominicans, and held a lengthy conversation with her. that i know, for my spies not only saw it, but heard what he said. now, sir, have i lost my senses? methinks i connect the attendant circumstances very tolerably together. or has all this happened, too, by accident? if so, marinelli, you have as little idea of the wickedness of man as you have of prevision. marinelli. countess, you would talk your life into danger---- orsina. were i to mention this to others? so much the better! so much the better! to-morrow i will repeat it aloud in the market-place--and, if any one contradict me--if any one contradict me, he was the murderer's accomplice. farewell. (_as she is going, she meets_ odoardo _entering hastily_.) scene vi. odoardo, orsina, marinelli. odoardo. pardon me, gracious lady---- orsina. i can grant no pardon here, for i can take no offence. you must apply to this gentleman (_pointing to_ marinelli). marinelli (_aside_). the father! this completes the business. odoardo. pardon a father, sir, who is in the greatest embarrassment, for entering unannounced. orsina. father!--(_turning round again_)--of emilia, no doubt! ha! thou art welcome. odoardo. a servant came in haste to tell me that my family was in danger near here. i flew hither, he mentioned, and found that count appiani has been wounded--and carried back to town--and that my wife and daughter have found refuge in the palace. where are they, sir, where are they? marinelli. be calm, colonel. your wife and daughter have sustained no injury save from terror. they are both well. the prince is with them. i will immediately announce you. odoardo. why announce? merely _announce_ me? marinelli. for reasons--on account of--on account of--you know, sir, that you are not upon the most friendly terms with the prince. gracious as may be his conduct towards your wife and daughter--they are ladies--will your unexpected appearance be welcome to him? odoardo. you are right, my lord, you are right. marinelli. but, countess, may i not first have the honour of handing you to your carriage? orsina. by no means. marinelli (_taking her hand, not in the most gentle way_). allow me to perform my duty. orsina. softly!--i excuse you, marquis. why do such as you ever consider mere politeness a duty, and neglect as unimportant what is really an essential duty? to announce this worthy man immediately is your duty. marinelli. have you forgotten what the prince himself commanded? orsina. let him come, and repeat his commands. i shall expect him. marinelli (_draws_ odoardo _aside_). i am obliged to leave you, colonel, with a lady whose intellect--you understand me, i mention this that you may know in what way to treat her remarks, which are sometimes singular. it were better not to enter into conversation with her. odoardo. very well. only make haste, my lord. (_exit_ marinelli.) scene vii. orsina, odoardo. orsina (_after a pause, during which she has surveyed_ odoardo _with a look of compassion, while he has cast towards her a glance of curiosity_). alas! what did he say to you, unfortunate man? odoardo (_half aside_). unfortunate! orsina. truth it certainly was not--at least, not one of those sad truths which await you. odoardo. which await me? do i, then, not know enough? madam--but proceed, proceed. orsina. you know nothing? odoardo. nothing. orsina. worthy father! what would i give that you were my father! pardon me. the unfortunate so willingly associate together. i would faithfully share your sorrows--and your anger. odoardo. sorrows and anger? madam--but i forget--go on. orsina. should she even be your only daughter--your only child--but it matters not. an unfortunate child is ever an only one. odoardo. unfortunate?--madam! but why do i attend to her? and yet, by heaven, no lunatic speaks thus. orsina. lunatic? that, then, was the secret which he told you of me. well, well. it is perhaps not one of his greatest falsehoods. i feel that i am something like one; and believe me, sir, they who, under certain circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose. odoardo. what must i think? orsina. treat me not with contempt, old man. you possess strong sense. i know it by your resolute and reverend mien. you also possess sound judgment, yet i need but speak one word, and both these qualities are fled for ever. odoardo. oh, madam, they will have fled before you speak that word, unless you pronounce it soon. speak, i conjure you; or it is not true that you are one of that good class of lunatics who claim our pity and respect; you are naught else than a common fool. you cannot have what you never possessed. orsina. mark my words, then. what do you know, who fancy that you know enough? that appiani is wounded? wounded only? he is dead. odoardo. dead? dead? woman, you abide not by your promise. you said you would rob me of my reason, but you break my heart. orsina. thus much by the way. now, let me proceed. the bridegroom is dead, and the bride, your daughter, worse than dead. odoardo. worse? worse than dead? say that she too is dead--for i know but one thing worse. orsina. she is not dead; no, good father, she is alive, and will now just begin to live indeed; the finest, merriest fool's paradise of a life--as long as it lasts. odoardo. say the word, madam! the single word, which is to deprive me of my reason! out with it! distil not thus your poison drop by drop. that single word at once! orsina. you yourself shall put the letters of it together. this morning the prince spoke to your daughter at church; this afternoon he has her at his----his summer-palace. odoardo. spoke to her at church? the prince to my daughter? orsina. with such familiarity and such fervour. their agreement was about no trifling matter; and if they did agree, all the better: all the better if your daughter made this her voluntary asylum. you understand--and in that case this is no forcible seduction, but only a trifling--trifling assassination. odoardo. calumny! infamous calumny! i know my daughter. if there be murder here, there is seduction also, (_looks wildly round, stamping and foaming_.) now, claudia! now, fond mother! have we not lived to see a day of joy? oh, the gracious prince! oh, the mighty honour! orsina (_aside_). have i roused thee, old man? odoardo. here i stand before the robber's cave. (_throws his coat back on both sides, and perceives he has no weapon_.) 'tis a marvel that, in my haste, i have not forgotten my hands too. (_feeling in all his pockets_.) nothing, nothing. orsina. ha! i understand, and can assist you. i have brought one. (_produces a dagger_.) there! take it, take it quickly, ere any one observes us. i have something else, too--poison--but that is for women, not for men. take this (_forcing the dagger upon him_), take it. odoardo. i thank thee. dear child, whosoever again asserts thou art a lunatic, he shall answer it to me. orsina. conceal it, instantly. (odoardo _hides the dagger_.) the opportunity for using it is denied to me. you will not fail to find one, and you will seize the first that comes, if you are a man. i am but a woman, yet i came hither resolute. we, old man, can trust each other, for we are both injured, and by the same seducer. oh, if you knew how preposterously, how inexpressibly, how incomprehensibly, i have been injured by him, you would almost forget his conduct towards yourself. do you know me? i am orsina, the deluded, forsaken orsina--perhaps forsaken only for your daughter. but how is she to blame? soon she also will be forsaken; then another, another, and another. ha! (_as if in rapture_) what a celestial thought! when all who have been victims of his arts shall form a band, and we shall be converted into mænads, into furies; what transport will it be to tear him piecemeal, limb from limb, to wallow through his entrails, and wrench from its seat the traitor's heart--that heart which he promised to bestow on each, and gave to none. ha! that indeed will be a glorious revelry! scene viii. claudia, odoardo, orsina. _enter_ claudia. claudia (_looks round, and as soon as she espies her husband, runs towards him_.) i was right. our protector, our deliverer! are you really here? do i indeed behold you, odoardo? from their whisper and their manner i knew it was the case. what shall i say to you, if you are still ignorant? what shall i say to you if you already know everything? but we are innocent. i am innocent. your daughter is innocent. innocent; wholly innocent. odoardo (_who, on seeing his wife, has endeavoured to compose himself_). 'tis well. be calm, and answer me.--(_to_ orsina)--not that i doubt your information, madam. is the count dead? claudia. he is. odoardo. is it true that the prince spoke this morning to emilia, at the church? claudia. it is; but if you knew how much she was alarmed--with what terror she rushed home. orsina. now, was my information false? odoardo (_with a bitter laugh_). i would not that it were! for worlds i would not that it were! orsina. am i a lunatic? odoardo (_wildly pacing the apartment_). oh!--nor as yet am i. claudia. you commanded me to be calm, and i obeyed--my dear husband, may i--may i entreat---- odoardo. what do you mean? am i not calm? who can be calmer than i? (_putting restraint upon himself_.) does emilia know that appiani is dead? claudia. she cannot know it, but i fear that she suspects it, because he does not appear. odoardo. and she weeps and sobs. claudia. no more. that is over, like her nature, which you know. she is the most timid, yet the most resolute of her sex; incapable of governing her first emotions, but upon the least reflection calm and prepared for all. she keeps the prince at a distance--she speaks to him in a tone----let us, dear odoardo, depart immediately. odoardo. i came on horseback hither. what is to be done? you, madam, will probably return to town? orsina. immediately. odoardo. may i request you to take my wife with you. orsina. with pleasure. odoardo. claudia, this is the countess orsina, a lady of sound sense, my friend and benefactress. accompany her to town, and send our carriage hither instantly. emilia must not return to guastalla. she shall go with me. claudia. but--if only--i am unwilling to part from the child. odoardo. is not her father here? i shall be admitted at last. do not delay! come, my lady. (_apart to her_.) you shall hear from me.--come, claudia. (_exeunt_.) act v. scene i.--_as before_. the prince, marinelli. marinelli. from this window your highness may observe him. he is walking to and fro under the arcade. now he turns this way. he comes; no, he turns again. he has not yet altogether made up his mind; but is much calmer, or at least appears so. to us this is unimportant. he will scarcely dare utter the suspicions which these women have expressed! battista says that he desired his wife to send the carriage hither as soon as she should reach the town, for he came hither on horseback. mark my words. when he appears before your highness, he will humbly return thanks for the gracious protection which you were pleased to afford to his family, will recommend himself and his daughter to your further favour, quietly take her to town, and with perfect submission await the further interest which your highness may think proper to take in the welfare of his child. prince. but should he not be so resigned--and i scarcely think he will, i know him too well to expect it--he may, perhaps, conceal his suspicions, and suppress his indignation; but instead of conducting emilia to town, he may take her away and keep her with himself, or place her in some cloister beyond my dominions. what then? marinelli. love's fears are farsighted. but he will not. prince. but, if he were to do it, what would the death of the unfortunate count avail us? marinelli. why this gloomy supposition? "forward!" shouts the victor, and asks not who falls near him--friend or foe. yet if the old churl should act as you fear, prince--(_after some consideration_) i have it. his wish shall prove the end of his success. i'll mar his plan. but we must not lose sight of him. (_walks again to the window_.) he had almost surprised us. he comes. let us withdraw awhile, and in the meanwhile, prince, you shall hear how we can elude the evil you apprehend. prince (_in a threatening tone_). but, marinelli---- marinelli. the most innocent thing in the world. (_exeunt_.) scene ii. odoardo. still no one here? 'tis well. they allow me time to get still cooler. a lucky chance. nothing is more unseemly than a hoary-headed man transported with the rage of youth. so i have often thought, yet i have suffered myself to be aroused----by whom? by a woman whom jealousy had driven to distraction. what has injured virtue to do with the revenge of vice? i have but to save the former. and thy cause, my son--my son----i could never weep, and will not learn the lesson now. there is another, who will avenge thy cause. sufficient for me that thy murderer shall not enjoy the fruit of his crime. may this torment him more than even the crime itself; and when at length loathsome satiety shall drive him from one excess to another, may the recollection of having failed in this poison the enjoyment of all! in every dream may the bride appear to him, led to his bedside by the murdered bridegroom; and when, in spite of this, he stretches forth his sinful arms to seize the prize, may he suddenly hear the derisive laughter of hell echo in his ears, and so awake. scene iii. marinelli, odoardo. marinelli. we have been looking for you, sir. odoardo. has my daughter been here? marinelli. no; the prince. odoardo. i beg his pardon. i have been conducting the countess to her carriage. marinelli. indeed. odoardo. a good lady! marinelli. and where is your lady? odoardo. she accompanied the countess that she might send my carriage hither. i would request the prince to let me stay with my daughter till it arrives. marinelli. why this ceremony? the prince would have felt pleasure in conducting your daughter and her mother to town. odoardo. my daughter at least would have been obliged to decline that honour. marinelli. why so? odoardo. she will not go to guastalla again. marinelli. indeed! why not? odoardo. count appiani is dead. marinelli. for that very reason---- odoardo. she must go with me. marinelli. with you? odoardo. with me.--i tell you the count is dead--though she may not know it. what therefore has she to do in guastalla? she must go with me. marinelli. the future residence of the lady must certainly depend upon her father--but at present---- odoardo. well? what? marinelli. at present, sir, you will, i hope, allow her to be conveyed to guastalla. odoardo. my daughter, conveyed to guastalla? why so? marinelli. why! consider---- odoardo (_incensed_). consider! consider! consider that there is nothing to consider. she must and shall go with me. marinelli. we need have no contention on the subject, sir. i may be mistaken. what i think necessary may not be so. the prince is the best judge--he, therefore, will decide. i go to bring him to you. scene iv. odoardo. odoardo. how? never! prescribe to me whether she shall go! withhold her from me! who will do this?--who dares attempt it?--he, who dares here do anything he pleases?----'tis well, 'tis well. then shall he see how much i, too, dare, and whether i have not already dared. short-sighted voluptuary! i defy thee.--he who regards no law is as independent as he who is subject to no law. knowest thou not this? come on, come on----but what am i saying? my temper once more overpowers my reason. what do i want? i should first know why i rave. what will not a courtier assert? better had i allowed him to proceed. i should have heard his pretext for conveying my daughter to guastalla, and i could have prepared a proper reply. but can i need a reply!--should one fail me--should----i hear footsteps. i will be calm. scene v. the prince, marinelli, odoardo. prince. my dear worthy galotti.--was such an accident necessary to bring you to your prince? nothing less would have sufficed--but i do not mean to reproach you. odoardo. your highness, i have ever thought it unbecoming to press into the presence of my prince. he will send for those whom he wants. even now i ask your pardon---- prince. would that many, whom i know, possessed this modest pride!--but to the subject. you are, doubtless, anxious to see your daughter. she is again alarmed on account of her dear mother's sudden departure. and why should she have departed? i only waited till the terrors of the lovely emilia were completely removed, and then i should have conveyed both the ladies in triumph to town. your arrival has diminished by half the pleasure of this triumph; but i will not entirely resign it. odoardo. your highness honours me too much. allow me to spare my unfortunate child the various mortifications, which friendship and enmity, compassion and malicious pleasure, prepare for her in town. prince. of the sweet comforts, which the friendly and compassionate bestow, it would be cruelty to deprive her; but against all the mortifications of enmity and malice, believe me, i will guard her, dear galotti. odoardo. prince, paternal love is jealous of its duties. i think i know what alone suits my daughter in her present situation. retirement from the world--a cloister as soon as possible. prince. a cloister? odoardo. till then, let her weep under the protection of her father. prince. shall so much beauty wither in a cloister?----should one disappointed hope embitter one against the world?--but as you please. no one has a right to dictate to a parent. take your daughter wherever you think proper, galotti. odoardo (_to_ marinelli). do you hear, my lord? marinelli. nay, if you call upon me to speak---- odoardo. by no means, by no means. prince. what has happened between you two? odoardo. nothing, your highness, nothing. we were only settling which of us had been deceived in your highness. prince. how so?--speak, marinelli. marinelli. i am sorry to interfere with the condescension of my prince, but friendship commands that i should make an appeal to him as judge. prince. what friendship? marinelli. your highness knows how sincerely i was attached to count appiani--how our souls were interwoven---- odoardo. does his highness know that? then you are indeed the only one who does know it. marinelli. appointed his avenger by himself---- odoardo. you? marinelli. ask your wife. the name of marinelli was the last word of the dying count, and was uttered in such a tone----oh may that dreadful tone sound in my ears for ever, if i do not strain every nerve to discover and to punish his murderers! prince. rely upon my utmost aid. odoardo. and upon my most fervent wishes. all this is well. but what further? prince. that i, too, want to know, marinelli. marinelli. it is suspected that the count was not attacked by robbers---- odoardo (_with a sneer_). indeed! marinelli. but that a rival hired assassins to despatch him. odoardo (_bitterly_). indeed! a rival? marinelli. exactly. odoardo. well then--may damnation overtake the vile assassin! marinelli. a rival--a favoured rival too. odoardo. how? favoured? what say you? marinelli. nothing but what fame reports. odoardo. favoured? favoured by my daughter? marinelli. certainly not. that cannot be. were you to say it i would contradict it. but, on this account, your highness, though no prejudice, however well-grounded, can be of any weight in the scale of justice, it will, nevertheless, be absolutely necessary that the unfortunate lady should be examined. prince. true--undoubtedly. marinelli. and where can this be done but in guastalla? prince. there you are right, marinelli, there you are right.--this alters the affair, dear galotti. is it not so. you yourself must see---- odoardo. yes! i see----what i see. o god! o god! prince. what now? what is the matter? odoardo. i am only angry with myself for not having foreseen what i now perceive. well, then--she shall return to guastalla. i will take her to her mother, and till she has been acquitted, after the most rigid examination, i myself will not leave guastalla. for who knows--(_with a bitter smile of irony_)--who knows whether the court of justice may not think it necessary to examine me? marinelli. it is very possible. in such cases justice rather does too much than too little. i therefore even fear---- prince. what? what do you fear? marinelli. that the mother and daughter will not, at present, be suffered to confer together. odoardo. not confer together? marinelli. it will be necessary to keep mother and daughter apart. odoardo. to keep mother and daughter apart? marinelli. the mother, the daughter, and the father. the forms of the court absolutely enjoin this caution; and i assure your highness that it pains me that i must enforce the necessity of at least placing emilia in strict security. odoardo. in strict security!--oh, prince, prince!--butyes--right!--of course, of course! in strict security! is it not so, prince? oh! justice! oh justice is a fine thing! excellent! (_hastily puts his hand into the pocket in which he had concealed the dagger_.) prince (_in a soothing tone_). compose yourself, dear galotti. odoardo (_aside, drawing his hand, without the dagger, from his pocket_). there spoke his guardian angel. prince. you are mistaken. you do not understand him. you think, perhaps, by security is meant a prison and a dungeon. odoardo. let me think so, and i shall be at ease. prince. not a word of imprisonment, marinelli. the rigour of the law may easily be combined with the respect due to unblemished virtue. if emilia must be placed in proper custody, i know the most proper situation for her--my chancellor's house. no opposition, marinelli. thither i will myself convey her, and place her under the protection of one of the worthiest of ladies, who shall be answerable for her safety. you go too far, marinelli, you go too far, if you require more. of course, galotti, you know my chancellor grimaldi and his wife? odoardo. undoubtedly i do. i also know the amiable daughters of this noble pair. who does not know them? (_to_ marinelli).--no, my lord--do not agree to this. if my daughter must be confined, she ought to be confined in the deepest dungeon. insist upon it, i beseech you. fool that i was to make any request. yes, the good sybil was right. "they, who under certain circumstances, do not lose their intellect, have none to lose." prince. i do not understand you. dear galotti, what can i do more? be satisfied, i beseech you. she shall be conveyed to the chancellor's house. i myself will convey her thither; and if she be not there treated with the utmost respect, my word is of no value. but fear nothing; it is settled. you, galotti, may do as you think proper. you may follow us to guastalla, or return to sabionetta, as you please. it would be ridiculous to dictate any conduct to you. and now, farewell for the present, dear galotti.--come, marinelli. it grows late. odoardo (_who has been standing in deep meditation_). --how! may i not even see my daughter, then? may i not even see her here? i submit to everything--i approve of everything. a chancellor's house is, of course, a sanctuary of virtue. take my daughter thither, i beseech your highness--nowhere but thither. yet i would willingly have some previous conversation with her. she is still ignorant of the count's death, and will be unable to understand why she is separated from her parents. that i may apprise her gently of the one, and console her for this parting----i must see her, prince, i must see her. prince. come, then, with us. odoardo. surely the daughter can come to her father. let us have a short conversation here, without witnesses. send her hither, i beg your highness. prince. that, too, shall be done. oh, galotti, if you would be my friend, my guide, my father! (_exeunt_ prince _and_ marinelli). scene vi. odoardo. odoardo (_after a pause, during which his eyes follow the_ prince). why not? most willingly. ha! ha! ha! (_looks wildly around_.) who laughed? by heaven i believe it was myself. 'tis well. i will be merry. the game is near an end. thus must it be, or thus. but--(_pauses_)--how if she were in league with him? how if this were the usual deception? how if she were not worthy of what i am about to do for her? (_pauses again_.) and what am i about to do for her? have i a heart to name it even to myself? a thought comes to me--a thought which can be but a thought. horrible!--i will go. i will not wait until she comes. (_raises his eyes towards heaven_.) if she be innocent, let him who plunged her into this abyss, extricate her from it. he needs not my hand. i will away. (_as he is going he espies_ emilia.) ha! 'tis too late. my hand is required--he requires it. scene vii. emilia, odoardo. _enter_ emilia. emilia. how! ton here, my father? and you alone--without the count--without my mother? so uneasy, too, my father? odoardo. and you so much at ease, my daughter? emilia. why should i not be so, my father? either all is lost, or nothing. to be able to be at ease, and to be obliged to be at ease, do they not come to the same thing! odoardo. but what do you suppose to be the case? emilia. that all is lost--therefore that we must be at ease, my father. odoardo. and you are at ease, because necessity requires it? who are you? a girl; my daughter? then should the man and the father be ashamed of you. but let me hear. what mean you when you say that all is lost?--that count appiani is dead? emilia. and why is he dead? why? ha! it is, then, true, my father--the horrible tale is true which i read in my mother's tearful and wild looks. where is my mother? where has she gone? odoardo. she is gone before us--if we could but follow her. emilia. oh, the sooner the better. for if the count be dead--if he was doomed to die on that account--ha! why do we stay here? let us fly, my father. odoardo. fly! where is the necessity? you are in the hands of your ravisher, and will there remain. emilia. i remain in his hands? odoardo. and alone--without your mother--without me. emilia. i remain alone in his hands? never, my father--or you are not my father. i remain alone in his hands? 'tis well. leave me, leave me. i will see who can detain me--who can compel me. what human being can compel another? odoardo. i thought, my child, you were tranquil. emilia. i am so. but what do you call tranquillity?--to lay my hands in my lap, and patiently bear what cannot be borne, and suffer what should be suffered. odoardo. ha! if such be thy thoughts, come to my arms, my daughter. i have ever said, that nature, when forming woman, wished to form her master-piece. she erred in that the clay she chose was too plastic. in every other respect man is inferior to woman. ha! if this be thy composure, i recognize my daughter again. come to my arms. now, mark me. under the pretence of legal examination, the prince--tears thee (the hellish fool's play!) tears thee from our arms, and places thee under the protection of grimaldi. emilia. tears me from your arms? takes me--would tear me--take me--would--would----as if we ourselves had no will, father. odoardo. so incensed was i, that i was on the point of drawing forth this dagger (_produces it_), and plunging it into the hearts of both the villains. emilia. heaven forbid it! my father. this life is all the wicked can enjoy. give me, give me the dagger. odoardo. child, it is no bodkin. emilia. if it were, it would serve as a dagger. 'twere the same. odoardo. what! is it come to that? not yet, not yet. reflect. you have but one life to lose, emilia. emilia. and but one innocence. odoardo. which is proof against all force. emilia. but not against all seduction. force! force! what is that? who may not defy force? what you call force is nothing. seduction is the only real force. i have blood, my father, as youthful and as warm as that of others. i have senses too. i cannot pledge myself: i guarantee nothing. i know the house of grimaldi. it is a house of revelry--a single hour spent in that society, under the protection of my mother, created such a tumult in my soul, that all the rigid exercises of religion could scarcely quell it in whole weeks. religion! and what religion? to avoid no worse snares thousands have leapt into the waves, and now are saints. give me the dagger, then, my father, give it to me. odoardo. and didst thou but know who armed me with this dagger---- emilia. that matters not. an unknown friend is not the less a friend. give me the dagger, father, i beseech you. odoardo. and if i were to give it you?--what then? there! (_he presents it_) emilia. and there! (_she seizes it with ardour, and is about to stab herself when_ odoardo _wrests it from her_.) odoardo. see how rash----no; it is not for thy hand. emilia. tis true; then with this bodkin will i! (_she searches for one in her hair, and feels the rose in her head_). art thou still there? down, down! thou shouldst not deck the head of one, such as my father wishes me to be! odoardo. oh! my daughter! emilia. oh, my father! if i understand you. but no, you will not do it, or why so long delayed. (_in a bitter tone, while she plucks the leaves of the rose_.) in former days there was a father, who, to save his daughter from disgrace plunged the first deadly weapon which he saw, into his daughter's heart--and thereby gave her life, a second time. but those were deeds of ancient times. such fathers exist not now. odoardo. they do, they do, my daughter (_stabs her_). god of heaven! what have i done? (_supports her in his arms as she sinks_.) emilia. broken a rose before the storm had robbed it of its bloom. oh, let me kiss this kind parental hand. scene viii. the prince, marinelli, odoardo, emilia. prince (_entering_). what means this? is emilia not well? odoardo. very well, very well. prince (_approaching her_.) what do i see? oh, horror! marinelli. i am lost! prince. cruel father, what hast thou done. odoardo. broken a rose before the storm had robbed it of its bloom. said you not so, my daughter? emilia. not you, my father. i, i myself---- odoardo. not thou my daughter--not thou! quit not this world with falsehood on thy lips. not thou, my daughter--thy father, thy unfortunate father. emilia. ah!--my father----(_dies in his arms. he lays her gently on the floor_.) odoardo. ascend on high! there, prince! does she still charm you? does she still rouse your appetites?--here, weltering in her blood--which cries for vengeance against you. (_after a pause_.) doubtless you wait to see the end of this. you expect, perhaps, that i shall turn the steel against myself, and finish the deed like some wretched tragedy. you are mistaken. there! (_throws the dagger at his feet_.) there lies the blood-stained witness of my crime. i go to deliver myself into the hands of justice. i go to meet you as my judge: then i shall meet you in another world, before the judge of all. (_exit_.) prince (_after a pause, during which he surveys the body with a look of horror and despair, turns to_ marinelli). here! raise her. how! dost thou hesitate? wretch! villain! (_tears the dagger from his grasp_.) no. thy blood shall not be mixed with such as this. go: hide thyself for ever. begone, i say. oh god! oh god! is it not enough for the misery of many that monarchs are men? must devils in disguise become their friends? nathan the wise. a dramatic poem in five acts. (_translated by r. dillon boylan_.) the well-known goetze controversy is to be thanked for the appearance of this, the longest, and in many respects the most important of lessing's dramatic works. it was written in - , in reply to some of the theological censures of the hamburg pastor. in , it was first acted at berlin, but it met with little success there or elsewhere, until in , when it was introduced on the weimar stage, by schiller and goethe. dramatis personÆ sultan saladin. sittah, _his sister_. nathan, _a rich jew of jerusalem_. recha, _his adopted daughter_. daja, _a christian woman living in the jew's house as_ recha's _companion_. _a young_ knight templar. a dervise. _the_ patriarch of jerusalem. a friar. _an_ emir _and several of_ saladin's mamelukes. _the scene is in jerusalem_. nathan the wise. "introite, nam et heic dii sunt." _apud_ gellium. act i. scene i.--_a hall in nathan's house_. nathan, _returning from a journey_; daja, _meeting him_. daja. 'tis he! 'tis nathan! endless thanks to heaven that you at last are happily returned. nathan. yes, daja! thanks to heaven! but why at _last_? was it my purpose--was it in my power to come back sooner? babylon from here, as i was forced to take my devious way, is a long journey of two hundred leagues; and gathering in one's debts is not--at best, a task that expedites a traveller's steps. daja. o nathan! what a dire calamity had, in your absence, nigh befallen us! your house---- nathan. took fire. i have already heard. god grant i may have learnt the whole that chanced! daja. chance saved it, or it had been burnt to ashes. nathan. then, daja! we had built another house, and a far better---- daja. true--ay, true! but recha was on the point of perishing amid the flames---- nathan. of perishing? who saidst thou? recha? i had not heard of that. i should not then have needed any house. what! on the point of perishing? nay, nay; perchance she's dead-- is burnt alive. speak, speak the dreadful truth. kill me, but do not agonize me thus. tell me at once she's dead. daja. and if she were could you expect to hear it from these lips? nathan. why then alarm me? recha! o my recha! daja. your recha? yours? nathan. and can it ever be that i shall cease to call this child my own? daja. is all you have yours by an equal title? nathan. nought by a better. what i else enjoy are fortune's gifts, or nature's. this alone-- this treasure do i owe to virtue. daja. nathan! how dearly must i pay for all your goodness! if goodness practised for an end like yours deserves the name. nathan. an end like mine! what mean you? daja. my conscience---- nathan. daja, let me tell you first---- daja. i say my conscience---- nathan. oh, the gorgeous robe that i have bought for you in babylon! costly it is and rare. for recha's self i have not bought a richer. daja. what of that? my conscience can be silent now no more. nathan. i long to witness your delight, to see the bracelets, earrings, and the golden chain which i selected at damascus for you. daja. 'tis always so, you surfeit me with gifts. nathan. accept them freely, as they are bestowed, and silence! daja. silence! yes. but who can doubt that you are generosity itself? and yet---- nathan. i'm but a jew! daja, confess that i have guessed your thought. daja. you know my thoughts far better. nathan. well, be silent! daja. i am dumb. and henceforth all the evil that may spring from this, which i cannot avert, nor change, fall on your head. nathan. let it all fall on me! but where is recha? what detains her thus? are you deceiving me? can she have heard that i am here? daja. yourself must answer that. terror still palpitates through every nerve, and fancy mingles fire with all her thoughts. in sleep her soul's awake; but when awake, is wrapt in slumber. less than mortal now, and now far more than angel, she appears. nathan. poor child! how frail a thing is human nature! daja. she lay this morning with her eyelids closed-- one would have thought her dead--when suddenly she started from her couch, and cried, "hark, hark! here come my father's camels, and i hear his own sweet voice again!" with that, her eyes once more she opened, and her arms' support withdrawn, her head droop'd softly on her pillow. quickly i hastened forth, and now behold, i find you here. but marvel not at this. has not her every thought been long engrossed with dreams of you and him? nathan. of him! what him? daja. of him who from the flames preserved her life. nathan. and who was he? where is he? name the man who saved my recha? daja. a young templar he! brought hither captive lately, and restored to freedom by the sultan. nathan. how? a templar? a captive, too, and pardoned by the sultan? could not my recha's life have been preserved by some less wondrous miracle? o god! daja. but for this stranger's help, who risked afresh the life so unexpectedly restored, recha had surely perished. nathan. where is he? where is this noble youth? where is he, daja? oh, lead me to his feet! but you already have surely lavished on him all the wealth that i had left behind; have given him all-- and promised more, much more. daja. how could we, nathan? nathan. why not? daja. he came we know not whence, he went we know not whither. to the house a stranger, and guided by his ear alone, he rushed with fearless daring through the smoke and flame, his mantle spread before him, till he reached the spot whence issued piercing screams for help. we thought him lost; when, bursting through the fire, he stood before us, bearing in his arms her almost lifeless form. unmoved and cold, deaf to our cries of thanks, he left his prize, passed through the wondering crowd, and disappeared. nathan. but not for ever, daja, i would hope. daja. for some days after, 'neath yon spreading palms, which wave above our blest redeemer's grave, we saw him pacing thoughtful to and fro. with transport i approached to speak my thanks. i pleaded, begged, entreated that for once, once only, he would see the grateful maid, who longed to shed at her preserver's feet her tears of gratitude. nathan. well? daja. all in vain! deaf to my warmest prayers, he poured on me such bitter taunts---- nathan. that you withdrew dismayed. daja. far otherwise. i sought to meet him daily, and daily heard his harsh insulting words. much have i borne, and would have borne still more; but lately he has ceased his lonely walk beneath the spreading palms that shade the grave of him who rose from death; and no man knows where he may now be found. you seem surprised. nathan. i was considering how such a scene must work upon a mind like recha's. scorned by one whom she can never cease to prize; repelled by one who still attracts her to him. her head and heart at strife! and long, full long the contest may endure, without the power to say if anger or regret shall triumph. should neither prove the victor, fancy then may mingle in the fray, and turn her brain. then passion will assume fair reason's garb, and reason act like passion. fatal change! such, doubtless, if i know my recha well, must be her fate; her mind is now unhinged. daja. but her illusions are so sweet and holy. nathan. but yet she raves! daja. the thought she clings to most, is that the templar was no earthly form, but her blest guardian angel, such as she from childhood fancied hovering o'er her path; who from his veiling cloud, amid the fire rushed to her aid in her preserver's form. you smile incredulous. who knows the truth? permit her to indulge the fond deceit, which christian, jew, and mussulman alike agree to own. the illusion is so sweet! nathan. i love it too. but go, good daja! go, see what she does--if i can speak with her. this guardian angel, wilful and untamed, i'll then seek out--and if he still is pleased to sojourn here a while with us--or still is pleased to play the knight so boorishly, i'll doubtless find him out and bring him here. daja. you are too daring, nathan. nathan. trust me, daja! if fond delusion yield to sweeter truth-- for human beings ever to their kind are dearer after all than angels are-- you will not censure me, when you perceive our lov'd enthusiast's mind again restored. daja. you are so good, and so discerning, nathan! but see, behold! yes, here she comes herself. scene ii. recha, nathan, _and_ daja. recha. and is it you! your very self, my father? i thought you had but sent your voice before you, where are you lingering still? what mountains, streams, or deserts now divide us? here we are once more together, face to face, and yet you do not hasten to embrace your recha! poor recha! she was almost burnt alive! yet she escaped----but do not, do not shudder. it were a dreadful death to die by fire! nathan. my child! my darling child! recha. your journey lay across the tigris, jordan, and euphrates, and many other rivers. 'till that fire i trembled for your safety, but since then methinks it were a blessed, happy thing to die by water. but you are not drowned, nor am i burnt alive. we will rejoice, and thank our god, who bore you on the wings of unseen angels o'er the treacherous streams, and bade my angel bear me visibly on his white pinion through the raging flames. nathan (_aside_). on his white pinion! ha! i see; she means the broad white fluttering mantle of the templar. recha. yes, visibly he bore me through the flames, o'ershadowed by his wings. thus, face to face, i have beheld an angel--my own angel. nathan. recha were worthy of so blest a sight. and would not see in him a fairer form than he would see in her. recha (_smiling_). whom would you flatter-- the angel, dearest father, or yourself? nathan. and yet methinks, dear recha, if a man-- just such a man as nature daily fashions-- had rendered you this service, he had been a very angel to you. recha. but he was no angel of that stamp, but true and real. and have i not full often heard you say 'tis possible that angels may exist? and how god still works miracles for those who love him? and i love him dearly, father. nathan. and he loves you; and 'tis for such as you that he from all eternity has wrought such ceaseless wonders daily. recha. how i love to hear you thus discourse! nathan. well, though it sound a thing but natural and common-place that you should by a templar have been saved, is it the less a miracle for that? the greatest of all miracles seems this: that real wonders, genuine miracles, can seem and grow so commonplace to us. without this universal miracle, those others would scarce strike a thinking man, awaking wonder but in children's minds, who love to stare at strange, unusual things, and hunt for novelty. daja. why will you thus with airy subtleties perplex her mind, already overheated? nathan. silence, daja! and was it then no miracle that recha should be indebted for her life to one whom no small miracle preserved himself? who ever heard before, that saladin pardoned a templar? that a templar asked it-- hoped it--or for his ransom offered more than his own sword--belt, or at most his dagger? recha. that argues for me, father! all this proves that my preserver was no templar knight, but only seemed so. if no captive templar has e'er come hither but to meet his death, and through jerus'lem cannot wander free, how could i find one, in the night, to save me? nathan. ingenious, truly! daja, you must speak. doubtless, you know still more about this knight; for 'twas from you i learnt he was a prisoner. daja. 'tis but report indeed, but it is said that saladin gave freedom to the knight, moved by the likeness which his features bore to a lost brother whom he dearly loved, though since his disappearance twenty years have now elapsed. he fell i know not where, and e'en his very name's a mystery. but the whole tale sounds so incredible, it may be mere invention, pure romance. nathan. and why incredible? would you reject this story, daja, as so oft is done, to fix on something more incredible, and credit that? why should not saladin, to whom his race are all so dear, have loved in early youth a brother now no more? since when have features ceased to be alike? is an impression lost because 'tis old? will the same cause not work a like effect? what, then, is so incredible? my daja, this can to you be no great miracle; or does a wonder only claim belief when it proceeds from you? daja. you mock me, nathan! nathan. nay, 'tis the very tone you use yourself. and yet, dear recha, your escape from death remains no less a miracle of him who turns the proud resolves of kings to mockery, or guides them to their end by the most slender threads. recha. o father, father! my error is not wilful, if i err. nathan. no, i have ever found you glad to learn. see, then, a forehead vaulted thus or thus, a nose of such a shape, and brows that shade the eye with straighter or with sharper curve, a spot, a mole, a wrinkle, or a line-- a nothing--in an european's face, and you are saved in asia from the flames! is that no wonder, wonder-seeking folk? what need to summon angels to your aid? daja. but, nathan, where's the harm,--if i may speak-- in thinking one was rescued by an angel rather than by a man? are we not brought thus nearer to the first mysterious cause of our life's preservation? nathan. pride, rank pride! the iron pot would with a silver tongs be lifted from the furnace, to believe itself a silver vase! well! where's the harm? and "where's the good?" i well may ask in turn. your phrase, "it brings you nearer to the first mysterious cause!" is nonsense--if 'tis not rank blasphemy:--it works a certain harm. attend to me. to him who saved your life, whether he be an angel or a man, you both--and you especially--should pay substantial services in just return. is not this true? now, what great services have you the power to render to an angel! to sing his praise--to pour forth sighs and prayers-- dissolve in transports of devotion o'er him-- fast on his vigil, and distribute alms? mere nothings! for 'tis clear your neighbour gains far more than he by all this piety. not by your abstinence will he grow fat, nor by your alms will he be rendered rich; nor by your transports is his glory raised, nor by your faith in him his power increased. say, is not all this true? but to a man---- daja. no doubt a man had furnished us with more occasions to be useful to himself; god knows how willingly we had seized them! but he who saved her life demanded nought; he needed nothing--in himself complete and self--sufficient--as the angels are; recha. and when at last he vanished---- nathan. how was that? did he then vanish? 'neath yon spreading palms has he not since been seen? or have you sought elsewhere to find him? daja. no, in truth we've not. nathan. not sought him, daja? cold enthusiasts! see now the harm: suppose your angel stretched upon a bed of sickness! daja. sickness, what! recha. a chill creeps over me. i shudder, daja! my forehead, which till now was warm, becomes as cold as very ice; come, feel it, daja. nathan. he is a frank, unused to this hot clime, young and unpractised in his order's rules, in fastings and in watchings quite untrained. recha. sick! sick! daja. your father means 'twere possible. nathan. friendless and penniless, he may be lying without the means to purchase aid. recha. alas! nathan. without advice, or hope, or sympathy, may lie a prey to agony and death. recha. where, where? nathan. and yet for one he never knew-- enough for him it was a human being-- he plunged amid the flames and---- daja. spare her, nathan! nathan. he sought no more to know the being whom he rescued thus--he shunned her very thanks---- recha. oh, spare her! nathan. did not wish to see her more, unless to save her for the second time-- enough for him that she was human! daja. hold! nathan. he may have nothing to console him dying, save the remembrance of his deed. daja. you kill her! nathan. and you kill him, or might have done at least. 'tis med'cine that i give, not poison, recha! but be of better cheer: he lives--perhaps he is not ill. recha. indeed? not dead--not ill? nathan. assuredly not dead--for god rewards good deeds done here below--rewards them hero. then go, but ne'er forget how easier far devout enthusiasm is, than good deeds. how soon our indolence contents itself with pious raptures, ignorant, perhaps, of their ulterior end, that we may be exempted from the toil of doing good. recha. o father! leave your child no more alone.-- but may he not have only gone a journey? nathan. perhaps. but who is yonder mussulman, numbering with curious eye my laden camels? say, do you know him? daja. surely your own dervise. nathan. who? daja. your dervise--your old chess companion. nathan. al-hafi do you mean? what!--that al-hafi? daja. no other: now the sultan's treasurer. nathan. what, old al-hafi? do you dream again? and yet 'tis he himself--he's coming hither. quick, in with you! what am i now to hear? scene iii. nathan _and the_ dervise. dervise. ay, lift your eyes and wonder. nathan. is it you? a dervise so magnificent! dervise. why not? can you make nothing of a dervise, nathan? nathan. ay, surely, but i've still been wont to think a dervise--i would say a thorough dervise-- will ne'er let anything be made of him. dervise. well, by the prophet! though it may be true that i'm no thorough dervise, yet one must---- nathan. _must_, hafi! you a dervise! no man _must_---- and least of all a dervise. dervise. nay, he must, when he is much implored and deems it right. nathan. well spoken, hafi! let us now embrace. you're still, i trust, my friend. dervise. why not ask first what has been made of me? nathan. i take my chance, in spite of all that has been made of you. dervise. may i not be a servant of the state whose friendship is no longer good for you? nathan. if you but still possess your dervise heart i'll run the risk of that. the stately robe is but your cloak. dervise. and yet it claims some honour. but, tell me truly, at a court of yours what had been hafi's rank? nathan. a dervise only-- or, if aught else--perhaps my cook. dervise. why yes! that i might thus unlearn my native trade, your cook! why not your butler? but the sultan-- he knows me better--i'm his treasurer. nathan. what, you?--his treasurer? dervise. mistake me not, i only bear his lesser purse; his father still manages the greater, and i am the treasurer of his house. nathan. his house is large! dervise. far larger than you think--all needy men are of his house. nathan. yet saladin is such a foe to beggars! dervise. that he'd root them out, though he turned beggar in the enterprise. nathan. bravo! i meant as much. dervise. he's one already. his treasury at sunset every day is worse than empty; and although the tide flowed high at morn, 'tis ebb before the noon. nathan. because it flows through channels such as we can neither stop nor fill. dervise. you hit the truth. nathan. i know it well. dervise. ah! 'tis an evil case when kings are vultures amid carcases, but ten times worse when they're the carcases amid the vultures. nathan. dervise, 'tis not so. dervise. is that your thought? but, come, what will you give if i resign my office in your favour? nathan. what are your profits? dervise. mine? not much; but you would soon grow rich; for when, as oft occurs, the sultan's treasury is at an ebb, you might unlock your sluices, pour in gold, and take in form of interest what you please. nathan. and interest on the interest of the interest. dervise. of course. nathan. until my capital becomes all interest. dervise. well! is not the offer tempting? farewell for ever to our friendship then, for i had counted on you. nathan. how so, hafi? dervise. i thought you would have helped me to discharge my task with credit; that i should have found your treasury ready. ha! you shake your head. nathan. let us explain. we must distinguish here. to you, dervise al-hafi, all i have is welcome; but to you, the defterdar of saladin--to that al-hafi, who---- dervise. i guessed as much. you ever are as good as you are wise and prudent. only wait. the two al-hafis you distinguish thus will soon be parted. see, this robe of honour, which saladin bestowed, before 'tis worn to rags, and suited to a dervise back, will in jerusalem hang from a nail; whilst i, upon the ganges' scorching strand, barefoot amid my teachers will be found. nathan. that's like yourself! dervise. or playing chess with them. nathan. your greatest bliss! dervise. what do you think seduced me? hopes of escaping future penury, the pride of acting the rich man to beggars, would this have metamorphosed all at once the richest beggar to a poor rich man? nathan. no. dervise. but i yielded to a sillier whim. for the first time i felt myself allured by saladin's kind-hearted, flattering words. nathan. and what were they? dervise. he said a beggar's wants are known but to the poor alone; that they alone can tell how want should be relieved. "thy predecessor was too cold," he said, "too harsh, and when he gave, 'twas with a frown. he searched each case too strictly, not content to find out want, he would explore the cause, and thus he measured out his niggard alms. not so wilt thou bestow, and saladin will not appear so harshly kind in thee. thou art not like that choked-up conduit-pipe, whence in unequal streams the water flows, which it receives in pure and copious stores. al-hafi thinks, al-hafi feels like me." the fowler whistled, and at last the quail ran to his net. cheated, and by a cheat? nathan. hush, dervise, hush! dervise. what! is it not a cheat to grind mankind by hundred thousands thus! oppress them, plunder, butcher, and torment, and singly play the philanthropic part? not cheating, to pretend to imitate that heavenly bounty, which in even course descends alike on desert and on plain, on good and bad, in sunshine and in shower, and not possess the never empty hand of the most high! not cheating---- nathan. dervise, cease! dervise. nay, let me speak of cheating of my own, how now? were it not cheating to seek out the bright side of impostures such as these, that under colour of this brighter side i might take part in them? what say you now? nathan. fly to your desert quickly. amongst men i fear you'll soon unlearn to be a man. dervise. i fear so too. farewell! nathan. what, so abrupt? stay, stay, al-hafi! has the desert wings? it will not fly away. here, stay, al-hafi! he's gone; he's gone. i would that i had asked about that templar; he must know the man. scene iv. daja (_rushing in_), nathan. daja. o nathan, nathan! nathan. well! what now? daja. he's there. he shows himself once more. nathan. who, daja--who? daja. he--he! nathan. where cannot he be found? but _he_ you mean, is, i suppose, the only _he_. that should not be, were he an angel's self. daja. beneath the palms he wanders up and down, and gathers dates. nathan. and eats them, i suppose, just as a templar would. daja. you mock me, sir! her eager eye espied him long ago, when scarcely seen amid the distant trees. she watches him intently, and implores that you will go to him without delay. then go, and from the window she will mark which way his paces tend. go, go; make haste! nathan. what! thus, as i alighted from my camel? would that be seemly? but do you accost him; tell him of my return. i do not doubt you'll find the honest man forbore our house because the host was absent. he'll accept a father's invitation. say i ask him, i heartily request him. daja. all in vain! in short, he will not visit any jew. nathan. then use your best endeavours to detain him, or, with unerring eye, observe his steps, and mark him well. go, i shall not be long. (nathan _enters the house_. daja _retires_.) scene v. _a place of palms. the_ templar, _walking to and fro; a_ friar, _following him at some distance, as if desirous of addressing him_. templar. it cannot be for pastime that this man follows me thus. see how he eyes my hands! good brother--or, perhaps i should say, father! friar. no, brother; a lay brother, at your service. templar. well, brother, then, if i had anything-- but truly i have nothing---- friar. thanks the same! god will reward your purpose thousandfold. the will and not the deed perfects the giver. nor was i sent to follow you for alms. templar. sent? friar. from the convent. templar. where i even now was hoping to partake a pilgrim's fare. friar. 'tis meal--time now, the tables all are full; but if it please you, we will turn together. templar. no matter, though i have not tasted meat for many days; these dates, you see, are ripe. friar. be sparing of that fruit, sir, for too much is hurtful, sours the blood, and makes one sad. templar. and what if sadness suits me? though, methinks, 'twas not to give this warning that you came. friar. oh, no! my mission was to question you-- to feel your pulse a little. templar. and you tell this tale yourself? friar. why not? templar. an artful soul! (_aside_). and has the convent many more like you? friar. i know not. mere obedience is my duty. templar. and you obey without much questioning. friar. could it be rightly termed obedience else? templar. the simple mind is ever in the right.--(_aside_). but will you not inform me who it is that wishes to know more of me? not you, i dare be sworn. friar. would such a wish become or profit me? templar. whom would it then become or profit to be thus inquisitive? friar. perhaps the patriarch--'twas he that sent. templar. the patriarch? and does he know my badge so ill?--the red cross on the snow-white robe. friar. why? i know that. templar. well, brother, hear me out. i am a templar--and a prisoner now. made captive with some others at tebnin, whose fortress we had almost ta'en by storm just as the truce expired. our hopes had been to threaten sidon next. of twenty knights made prisoners there together, i alone was pardoned by command of saladin. the patriarch now knows what he requires, and more than he requires. friar. and yet no more than he had learned already. he would ask why you, of all the captives doomed to die, alone were spared? templar. can i myself tell that? already with bare neck i had knelt down upon my mantle, to await the stroke, when saladin with steadfast eye surveys me. nearer he draws--he makes a sign--they raise me-- i am unbound--i would express my thanks-- i mark the tear-drop glisten in his eye-- we both stand mute--he turns and leaves the spot-- i stay. and now, how all this hangs together, the patriarch must explain. friar. the patriarch thinks that heaven preserved you for some mighty deed. templar. some mighty deed? to rescue from the flames a jewish maid! to lead to sinai's mount bands of inquiring pilgrims--and the like! friar. the time may come for more important tasks: perhaps the patriarch has already planned some mighty business for you. templar. think you so? has he already given you a hint? friar. yes--but my task is first to sift a little, to see if you are one to undertake---- templar. well--sift away? (we'll see how this man sifts). friar. the better course will be to name at once what is the patriarch's desire. templar. it is----? friar. to make you bearer of a letter. templar. me? i am no carrier. is that the office more meritorious than to save from death a jewish maid? friar. so, truly, it would seem. the patriarch says that this little note involves the general weal of christendom, and that to bear it to its destined hand, safely, will merit a peculiar crown from heaven--and of that crown, the patriarch says none can worthier be than you. templar. than i! friar. you have your liberty--can look around; you understand how cities may be stormed, and how defended, says the patriarch; you know the strength and weakness of the towers, and of the inner rampart lately reared by saladin, and you could point out all to the lord's champions fully. templar. may i know exactly the contents of this same letter? friar. of that i am not quite informed myself. 'tis to king philip; and our patriarch-- i often wonder how that holy man, whose every thought would seem absorbed by heaven, can stoop to earthly things, and how his mind can be so deeply skilled in human lore---- templar. well, then, your patriarch---- friar. exactly knows from secret sources, how, and with what force, and in what quarter, should the war break out, the foe and saladin will take the field. templar. knows he so much? friar. ay, truly! and he longs to send the urgent tidings to king philip, that he may better calculate if now the danger be so great, as to demand at every hazard that he should renew the truce so boldly broken by the templars. templar. the noble patriarch! he seeks in me no common herald, but the meanest spy. therefore, good brother, tell your patriarch, that i am not--as far as you can sift-- the man to suit his ends. i hold myself a captive still. i know a templar's duty: ready to die, not live to play the spy. friar. i thought as much. nor can i censure you for your resolve. the best has still to come. our patriarch has learnt the very fort, its name, its strength, its site on lebanon, wherein those countless treasures are concealed, wherewith the sultan's prudent father pays his troops, and all the heavy costs of war. he knows that saladin, from time to time, visits this fortress, by some secret way, with but a few attendants. templar. well! what then? friar. 'twould be an easy task, methinks, to seize the sultan thus defenceless--and to end him. you shudder, knight! two monks who fear the lord, are ready now to undertake the task, and wait a leader. templar. and the patriarch has pitched on me to do this noble deed? friar. he thinks king philip might from ptolemais give aid in the design. templar. has pitched on me! on me!--say, brother, have you never heard the boundless debt i owe to saladin? friar. truly i have. templar. and yet---- friar. the patriarch says that is very well; but yet your order, and vows to god---- templar. change nothing; they command no villainy. friar. no. but the patriarch says what seems villainy to human eyes, may not appear so in the sight of god. templar. brother, i owe my life to saladin, and his shall my hand take? friar. oh, no!--but yet the patriarch maintains that saladin, who is the common foe of christendom, can never have a claim to be your friend. templar. my friend? forsooth! because i will not be a thankless wretch to him! friar. 'tis so!--but yet the patriarch thinks gratitude is not before the eyes of god or man, a debt, unless, for our own sakes, some benefit has been conferred; and, says the patriarch, it is affirmed the sultan spared your life merely because your voice, your look, your air, awoke a recollection of his brother---- templar. he knows all this, and yet?----ah, were it true! and, saladin, could nature form in me a single feature in thy brother's likeness, with nothing in my soul to answer it? or what does correspond, shall i belie to please a patriarch? no, surely nature could never lie so basely! nor, kind god, couldst thou so contradict thyself! go, brother, and do not rouse my anger. friar. i withdraw more gladly than i came. and, pardon me: a monk's first duty, sir, is to obey. scene vi.--_the_ templar _and_ daja. (_she has been watching him from afar and now approaches_.) daja. methinks the monk left him in no good mood, but, spite of that, i must my errand risk. templar. this hits exactly. as the proverb goes, women and monks are ever satan's tools, and i to-day am subject to them both. daja. whom do i see? thank god, our noble knight. where have you been so long? not ill, i hope? templar. no. daja. in good health? templar. yes. daja. we have all been grieved lest something should have ailed you. have you been upon a journey? templar. fairly guessed. daja. since when have you returned to us? templar. since yesterday. daja. our recha's father, too, is just returned, and now may recha hope at last. templar. for what? daja. for what she has so often asked in vain. her father pressingly invites you too. he lately has arrived from babylon with twenty camels, bearing precious stones, and stuffs and fragrant spices, which he sought in india, persia, syria, and china. templar. i am no merchant. daja. he is much esteemed by all his nation--honoured as a prince-- and yet to hear how he is named by all nathan _the wise_, and not _the rich_, seems strange. it often makes me wonder. templar. but to them it may be, _wise_ and rich--both mean the same. daja. it seems to me he should be called _the good_, so rich a store of goodness dwells in him. since he has learned the weighty debt he owes for service done to recha there is nought he would withhold from you. templar. well? daja. try him, sir! templar. what then? a moment passes soon away. daja. i had not dwelt with him so many years were he less kind. i know a christian's worth, and it was never o'er my cradle sung that i to palestine should wend my way, following a husband's steps, to educate a jewish maid. my husband was a page, a noble page, in emperor frederick's court---- templar. by birth a swiss, who earned the sorry fame of drowning in one river with his lord. woman! how often have you told this tale? when will you cease to persecute me thus? daja. to persecute you! templar. ay, to persecute! now mark me. i will never see you more, hear you, nor be reminded of a deed performed at random. when i think of it, i wonder somewhat, though i ne'er repent. but hear me still. should such a fatal chance again occur, you have yourself to blame if i proceed more calmly, question first. and let what's burning, burn. daja. great god forbid! templar. and now i have a favour to implore. know me henceforth no more. grant me this grace, and save me from her father; for with me a jew's a jew; a swabian blunt am i. the image of the maid is now erased out of my soul--if it was ever there. daja. but yours remains with her. templar. well, and what then? daja. who knows? men are not always what they seem. templar. they're seldom better. (_going_.) daja. stay a little while. what need of haste? templar. woman! forbear to make these palm--trees odious: i have loved their shade. daja. then go, thou german bear! yet i must follow him. (_she follow him at a distance_.) act ii. scene i.--_the sultan's palace_. saladin and sittah (_playing at chess_). sittah. where are your thoughts? how ill you play, dear brother! saladin. not well in truth--and yet i thought---- sittah. oh, yes! you're playing well for me; take back that move. saladin. why? sittah. don't you see you leave your knight exposed? saladin. ay, true!--then so. sittah. and now i take your pawn. saladin. that's true again, dear sittah! well, then, check! sittah. that will not help you--i protect my king, and all is safe again. saladin. well, out of this dilemma 'tis not easy to escape. i cannot save the knight. sittah. i pass him by; i will not take him. saladin. well, i owe you nothing; the place you gain is better than the piece. sittah. perhaps. saladin. but reckon not without your host; you did not see that move. sittah. not i, indeed; i did not think you weary of your queen. saladin. my queen! sittah. well, well! i see that i to-day shall win my thousand dinars and no more. saladin. why so? sittah. why so? because designedly you lose the game! you vex me, saladin! i find no pleasure in a game like this. and even when i lose, i come off well; for, to console me for the games you win, you force me to accept a double stake. saladin. in that case, then, it may be by design that you have sometimes lost. is that the truth? sittah. at least your generosity's to blame that i improve so little in my play. saladin. but we forget the game; come, finish it. sittah. well, 'tis my move; now, check to king and queen! saladin. indeed! i did not see the double check. i lose my queen. sittah. let's see! can it be helped? saladin. no, take the queen--i have no luck with her. sittah. only with her? saladin. remove her from the board, i shall not miss her. now i am right again. sittah. i know from lessons which yourself have taught how courteously we should behave to queens. (_offering to restore the piece_.) saladin. take her or not, i shall not move her more. sittah. why need i take her? check, and check! saladin. go on. sittah. check, check, and check again! saladin. 'tis checkmate now. sittah. hold!--no, not yet. you may advance the knight, and ward the danger. but 'twill be the same. saladin. you are the winner, and al-hafi pays. let him be called, sittah! you were not wrong. my thoughts were wandering--were not in the game, but who gives us so oft these shapeless bits of wood? which speak of naught--suggest no thought. was it with iman that i've played--well, well, ill-luck is ever wont to seek excuse. not the unmeaning squares or shapeless men have made me heedless; your dexterity, your calm, sharp eye, dear sittah! sittah. what of that? is that to blunt the sting of your defeat? enough--your thoughts were wandering more than mine. saladin. than yours? what subject could engage your thoughts? sittah. far different cares than those which trouble you. but, saladin, say, when shall we again resume this pleasant pastime? saladin. dearest sittah, this interruption will but whet our zeal. your thoughts are on the war: well, let it come-- 'twas not my arm that first unsheathed the sword; i would have willingly prolonged the truce, and willingly have knit a tender bond, for sittah's sake, with richard's noble brother. sittah. how pleased you are, can you but praise your richard. saladin. if richard's sister had but been bestowed upon our brother melek, what a house had then been ours! the best, the happiest the earth could boast. you know i am not slow to praise myself: i'm worthy of my friends. what men these unions would have given us! sittah. did i not smile at once at your fine dreams? you do not, will not, know the christian race. it is their pride not to be men, but christians. the virtue which their founder felt and taught, the charity he mingled with their creed, is valued, not because it is humane, and good, and lovely, but for this alone, that it was christ who taught it, christ who did it. 'tis well for them he was so good a man, well that they take his goodness all on trust, and in his virtues put their faith. his virtues! 'tis not his virtues, but his name alone they wish to thrust upon us--his mere name, which they desire should overspread the world, should swallow up the name of all good men, and put the rest to shame. 'tis for his name alone they care. saladin. else, sittah, as you say, they would not have required that you and melek should be called christians, ere they suffered you to feel for christians the pure flame of love. sittah. as if from christians, and from them alone, that love can be expected, which the hand of our creator gives to man and wife. saladin. christians believe such vain absurdities, that this may be among them. and yet, sittah, the templars, not the christians, are in this to blame. 'tis they alone who thwart my plans; 'tis they who still hold acca, pledged to us by treaty as the dower of richard's sister. and, to maintain their order's interests, they use this cant--the nonsense of the monk. scarce would they wait until the truce expired to fall upon us. but, go on, good sirs! would that all else may thrive as well as this! sittah. why, what else troubles you? what other care have you to struggle with? saladin. that constant grief-- i've been to lebanon, and seen our father. he's full of care. sittah. alas! saladin. he must give way. straitened on every side, no aid, no help, nothing comes in. sittah. what ails him, saladin? saladin. the only thing that i am loth to name, which, when i have it, so superfluous seems, and, when i have it not, so necessary. where is al-hafi? have they gone for him? will no one go? oh, fatal, cursed money! welcome, al-hafi! you are come at last. scene ii. _the_ dervise al-hafi, saladin, _and_ sittah. al-hafi. the gold from egypt, i suppose, is come. say, is it much? saladin. what! have you heard of it? al-hafi. not i. i thought i should receive it here. saladin (_pacing thoughtfully to and fro_). sittah has won a thousand dinars, pay them. al-hafi. pay without getting. that is worse than nothing! and still to sittah--once again for chess! but let us see the board; how stands the game? sittah. you grudge me my good fortune? al-hafi (_examining the board_). grudge you? when-- you know too well---- sittah (_making signs to him_). oh, hush! al-hafi, hush! al-hafi (_still examining the board_). don't grudge it to yourself. sittah. al-hafi, hush! al-hafi. and were the white men yours? you gave the check? sittah. 'tis well he does not hear. al-hafi. the move is his. sittah (_approaching nearer_). then promise me that i shall have the money. al-hafi (_still intent upon the board_). you shall receive it as you've always done. sittah. how! are you mad? al-hafi. the game's not over yet. you have not lost it, saladin. saladin (_paying no attention_). oh, yes; pay down the money. al-hafi. pay! here stands the queen. saladin (_still heedless_). she's of no use; she's lost. sittah. do say that i may send and fetch the gold. al-hafi (_still studying the game_). oh, yes! of course. but though the queen be lost, you are not mate. saladin (_dashing down the board_). i say i am. i will be mate. al-hafi. if so, small pains, small gains, say i. so got, so spent. saladin. what is he muttering there? sittah (_to_ saladin, _making a sign meanwhile to_ al-hafi). you know him well. he likes entreaties--loves to be implored. who knows if he be not a little jealous? saladin. well, not of thee--not of my sister, surely. what do i hear? al-hafi, are you jealous? al-hafi. perhaps i am. i wish i had her head, or that i were as good as she. sittah. my brother, he always pays me fairly, and to-day he'll do the same. let him alone. now go! al-hafi! go! i'll have the money---- al-hafi. no, not i. i'll act this farce no more. he must know soon. saladin. who? what? sittah. al-hafi! say, is this your promise? is't thus you keep your word? al-hafi. could i foresee that it would come to this? saladin. well, tell me all. sittah. al-hafi! i implore you, be discreet. saladin. 'tis very strange; and what can sittah have so earnestly to sue for, from a stranger-- a dervise--rather than from me, her brother? al-hafi, i command you. dervise, speak. sittah. let not a trifle touch my brother nearer than is becoming, for you know that i have often won as much from you at chess. but as i stand in little need of gold, i've left the money in al-hafi's chest, which is not over full; but never fear, it is not my intention to bestow my wealth on either of you. al-hafi. were this all! sittah. some more such trifles are perhaps unclaimed: my own allowance, which you set apart has lain some months untouched. al-hafi. nor is this all. saladin. then tell the whole. al-hafi. whilst we've been waiting for the gold from egypt, she---- sittah. nay, hear him not. al-hafi. not only has had nothing,---- saladin. dearest sister i-- but also has been lending it to you? al-hafi. ay! at her sole expense maintained your state. saladin (_embracing her_). so like my sister! sittah. who but you, my brother, could make me rich enough to have the power? al-hafi. and soon he'll make her once again as poor as he is now. saladin. i poor! her brother poor! when had i more--when had i less than now? a cloak, a horse, a sabre, and my god! what need i else? and these ne'er can i lack. and yet, al-hafi, i could scold you now. sittah. nay, brother, do not scold. i would that i could thus also relieve our father's cares! saladin. ah! now my joy has vanished all at once. we can want nothing; but he's destitute. and whilst he wants, we all are poor indeed. what shall i do? from egypt we can hope for nothing--though god only knows the cause. 'tis general peace around, and as for me, i could live sparingly, reduce, retrench, if none else suffered; but 'twould not avail. a cloak, a horse, a sword i ne'er can want. as to my god, he is not to be bought. he asks but little, only asks my heart. i had relied, al-hafi, on your chest, upon the surplus there. al-hafi. a surplus there! say, should i not have been impaled or hanged, if i had been detected hoarding up a surplus? deficits i might have ventured. saladin. well, but what next? could you have found out none to borrow from, but sittah? sittah. and would i have borne it, had another been preferred? i claim that privilege. i am not yet quite beggared. saladin. no, not quite. dear sittah, this alone was wanting. but, al-hafi, go, inquire about, take where and what you can; borrow on promise, contract, anyhow; but, mark me, not from those i have enriched. 'twould seem as if i wished to have it back. go to the covetous. they gladliest lend. they know how well their money thrives with me. al-hafi. i know of none. sittah. i recollect just now, i heard, al-hafi, of your friend's return. al-hafi (_starting_). friend! friend of mine! and who can that be, pray? sittah. your boasted jew. al-hafi. a jew! and praised by me! sittah. on whom his god--i think i recollect the very words you used, as touching him-- on whom his god, of all the choicest goods of earth, in full abundance, has bestowed the greatest and the least. al-hafi. what could i mean when i said so? sittah. the least of good things--wealth. the greatest--wisdom! al-hafi. how! and of a jew did i say that? sittah. ay, that you did--of nathan. al-hafi. oh, true! of nathan--yes! he did not now occur to me. but he's returned at last, then do not doubt that he's well off. he's called the wise, the rich, by all the jewish folk. sittah. now more than ever is he named the rich. the town resounds with news of costly stuffs and priceless treasures he has brought with him. al-hafi. is he the rich once more? then, do not fear, he'll be the wise again. sittah. what think you? will you visit him, al-hafi? al-hafi. what, to borrow? you know him, surely! think you he will lend? his very wisdom lies in this--that he will lend to no one. sittah. formerly you gave a picture very different of him. al-hafi. in case of need he'll lend you merchandise; but money--money--never! he's a jew, who has not many equals 'mongst his tribe. he's wise, knows how to live, can play at chess; excels in evil, too, as well as good. rely not on him. to the poor, indeed, he vies with saladin himself in gifts; and if not quite so much, he gives as freely, to jew, and christian, and mahometan-- to all alike. sittah. and such a man as this---- saladin. how comes it, then, i never heard of him? sittah. can he refuse to lend to saladin, who wants for others--never for himself. al-hafi. ay, there peeps out the jew--the vulgar jew: believe me, he is jealous, envious of generosity. it seems as though to earn god's favour were his special mission. and that he may possess wherewith to give, he never lends. the law he serves, commands that he show mercy, but not complaisance. thus him has mercy made the rudest churl in all the world. 'tis true i have not been this long time past on friendly terms with him, but do not think that i would do him wrong, he's good in all things else, but not in that; therefore i'll go and knock at other doors. i recollect this instant an old moor, who's rich and covetous: i'll go to him. (_exit_.) sittah. why in such haste, al-hafi? saladin. let him go. scene iii. sittah, saladin. sittah. he speeds away, as though he would escape. why so? is he indeed himself deceived, or would he now mislead me? saladin. can i guess? i scarcely know the man of whom you speak, and, for the first time, hear to-day of him. sittah. can it be possible you know him not who, it is said, has visited the of solomon and david; knows the spell to ope their marble lids, and thence obtain the boundless stores that claim no lesser source. saladin. were this man's wealth by miracle procured, 'tis not at solomon's or david's tomb that it is found. mere mortal fools lie there. sittah. or knaves!--but still his source of opulence is more productive, more exhaustless than a cave of mammon. saladin. for he trades, i'm told. sittah. his caravans through every desert toil, his laden camels throng the public roads, his ships in every harbour furl their sails. al-hafi long ago has told me this, adding, with pride, how nathan gives away, what he esteems it noble to have earned by patient industry, for others' wants; how free from bias is his lofty soul, his heart to every virtue how unlocked, to every lovely feeling how allied! saladin. and yet al-hafi spoke with coldness of him. sittah. not coldness, but unwillingness, as if he deemed it dangerous to praise too much, yet knew not how to blame without a cause. or can it be, in truth, that e'en the best amongst a tribe can never quite escape the foibles of their race, and that, in fact, al-hafi has in this to blush for nathan? but come what may, let him be jew or not, if he be rich, that is enough for me. saladin. you would not, sister, take his--wealth by force? sittah. by force? what mean you? fire and sword? oh, no! what force is necessary with the weak but their own weakness? come awhile with me, into my harem. i have bought a songstress you have not heard--she came but yesterday. meanwhile i'll think upon a subtle plan for this same nathan. follow, saladin! scene iv. _the place of palms, near_ nathan's _house, from which_ recha _and_ nathan _are coming_; daja, _meeting them_. recha. dear father! you have been so slow, that you will scarcely meet him now. nathan. well, well, my child; if not beneath the palms, be sure that we shall meet him somewhere else. be satisfied. is not that daja whom i see approaching? recha. she certainly has lost him. nathan. wherefore so? recha. her pace were quicker else. nathan. she has not seen us. recha. there, now she spies us. nathan. and her speed redoubles. recha, be calm! recha. what! would you have your child be cold and unconcerned about his fate to whom her life is due?--a life to her but dear because she owed it first to you. nathan. i would not wish you other than you are, e'en if i knew that in your secret soul another and a different feeling throbs. recha. what means my father? nathan. do you ask of me-- so tremblingly of me? what passes now within your soul is innocence and nature. nay, fear not, for it gives me no alarm. but promise, if the heart shall ever speak a plainer language, you will not conceal one single of your wishes from my love. recha. oh, the bare thought that i should ever wish to hide them from my father, makes me shudder. nathan. recha, enough of this. now, what says daja? daja. he's still beneath the palms, and presently he'll reach yon wall. see! here he comes at last. recha. he seems irresolute which way to turn, to left or right! daja. his custom is to seek the convent walls, so he will pass this way. what will you wager? yes, he comes to us. recha. right! did you speak to him? how did he look? daja. as usual. nathan. do not let him see you here. stand farther back, or to the house retire. recha. just one look more. ah! the trees hide him now. daja. come, come away! recha, your father's right. should he observe us he'll retire at once. recha. alas! the trees---- nathan. now he emerges from them. he can't but see you. hence! i beg of you. daja. come, recha, come! i know a window whence we may observe him better. recha. come, then, come. (_they both retire_.) scene v. nathan (_who is presently joined by the_ templar). nathan. i almost shrink from meeting this strange fellow-- recoil from his rough virtue! that one man should ever make another feel confused! but see, he comes! he seems a noble youth; looks like a man. i like his daring eye, his honest gait. although the shell is bitter, the kernel may not be so. i have seen one like him somewhere. pardon, noble frank---- templar. what would you? nathan. pardon me---- templar. what would you, jew? nathan. the privilege of speaking to you. templar. well! how can i help it? quick, then--what's your wish? nathan. patience! nor pass with such contempt and pride one who must be your debtor evermore. templar. how so? i almost guess. no; are you then---- nathan. my name is nathan, father to the maid your generous courage rescued from the flames. i come to---- templar. if you come to render thanks, spare them. i have already been compelled to bear too many thanks for this small act. besides, you owe me nothing. could i know the maiden was your daughter? i was bound-- it is a templar's duty--to assist all who need succour; and my life just then was a mere burden. it was a relief to risk it for another, even though the task were to preserve a jewess' life. nathan. great--great yet horrible--i understand the turn. the modest greatness will assume the hideous mask to ward off gratitude. but though he may disdain our proffer'd thanks, is there no other tribute we can pay? sir knight! if you were not a stranger here, and not a pris'ner, i were not so bold. but, come, what service can i render you? templar. you!--nothing. nathan. i am rich. templar. the richer jew was ne'er in my esteem the better jew. nathan. is that a reason why you should not use the better part of him--his wealth? templar. well, well, i'll not refuse it wholly, for the sake of my poor mantle; when it is well worn, and spite of darning will not hold together, i'll come and borrow cloth or gold of you, to make a new one. nay, sir, do not start; the danger is not pressing--'tis not yet quite worthless; it is sound, and strong, and good. save in one corner, where an ugly spot is singed, and that is from a burn it got when i bore off your daughter from the fire. nathan (_taking hold of the mantle_). 'tis strange, indeed, that such a spot as this should bear far better witness to the man than his own lips. this spot! oh, i could kiss it. your pardon, sir, in truth, i meant it not! templar. what? nathan. 'twas a tear that fell. templar. well, 'tis no matter. 'tis not the first. (this jew doth puzzle me.) nathan. would you but send this mantle to my daughter! templar. why? nathan. that she, too, may press it to her lips; for at her benefactor's feet to fall she now may hope in vain. templar. but, jew, your name? tis nathan, is it not? you choose your words with skill--i am confused. i did not think nathan. feign, templar, and dissemble as you may, i see the truth. i see your generous heart, too honest and too good to be polite. a grateful girl, all feeling, and her maid swift to obey--a father far from home, you valued her fair fame, and would not see her. you scorned to tempt lest you should victor prove. for this too i must tender you my thanks. templar. you know at least how templars _ought_ to feel. nathan. why templars only? and why ought to feel? is it because your rules and vows enjoin these duties to _your order_? sir, i know how good men all should feel, and know as well that every country can produce good men. templar. you'll make distinctions? nathan. yes, in colour, form, and dress, perhaps. templar. ay, and in number too-- here more--there less. nathan. the difference is not much. great men, like trees, have ever need of room; too many set together only serve to crush each other's boughs. the middling sort, like us, are found in numbers, they abound; only let not one scar and bruise the other, let not the gnarl be angry with the stump, let not the upper branch alone pretend not to have started from the common earth. templar. well said. and yet what nation was the first to scatter discord 'mongst their fellow-men? to claim the title of "the chosen people?" how now if i were not to hate them, but to scorn this upstart nation, for their pride? that pride which it bequeathed to mussulman and christian, as if god were theirs alone. you start to hear a christian and a templar talk thus. but when and where has all this rage, this pious rage, to win the better god, and force this better god on all the world, shown itself more, or in a blacker form, than here, and now? who here, who now retains the blinding scales upon his eyes--and yet let him be blind who will!--forget my words, and leave me (_is going_). nathan. templar! you but little know how closer henceforth i shall cling to you. we must, we must be friends. despise my people-- we did not choose a nation for ourselves. are we our nation's? what then is a nation? were jews or christians such, ere they were men? ah! would that i had found in you one man to whom it were enough to be a man. templar. thou hast so, nathan! yes, by heaven, thou hast. thy hand. i blush to have mistaken thee. nathan. now i feel proud. 'tis only common souls in whom we seldom err. templar. uncommon ones we do not oft forget. nathan, we must, we must be friends. nathan. we are so. and my recha will now rejoice. how bright the prospect grows that dawns upon me! if you did but know her. templar. i grow impatient, nathan. but who now comes from your house? methinks it is your daja. nathan. yes, and her look how full of care! god grant---- templar. that nothing may have chanced to our recha! scene vi. daja (_rushing in_). daja. nathan, dear nathan! nathan. well. daja. forgive me, knight, that i must interrupt you. nathan. what has happened? daja. the sultan sends for you--commands you straight to speak with him. protect us, heaven! the sultan! nathan. the sultan sends for me! he would inspect the goods--the precious wares that i have brought from persia. say there's nothing yet unpacked. daja. no, no; 'tis not to look at anything; he wants to speak to you in person, nathan, and orders you to come at once. nathan. i go. daja, return. daja. knight, take it not amiss. we were alarmed for what the sultan might require of nathan. nathan. that i soon shall know. (_exit daja_.) scene vii. nathan, _the_ templar. templar. are you then not acquainted with him yet? nathan. who, saladin? not yet. i've neither shunned nor sought to see him. and the public voice proclaims his fame so loud, that i could wish rather to take its language upon trust, than sift the truth. and yet if it be true that he has spared your life---- templar. yes, so it is. the life i live, he gave. nathan. then he bestows a double, treble life on me. and thus he flings a bond around me, which secures my duty to his service; and henceforth i burn to know his wishes. now, for all i am prepared; and further, will confess 'tis for your sake alone that i am thus. templar. often i've sought to meet him, but as yet have found no means to render him my thanks. the impress which his mind received of me was transient, and ere now has disappeared. who knows if he may still remember me? and yet once more at least he must recall me to his thoughts--to fix my future lot! 'tis not enough that by his gracious will i still have of life; i've yet to learn according to whose will i have to live. nathan. therefore 'twere well i did not tarry now. perchance some happy word may give excuse to speak of you. now, pardon me, farewell! i must away. when shall we meet again? templar. whenever 'tis permitted. nathan. when you will. templar. to-day, then. nathan. and your name? templar. my name was--is-- conrad of stauffen. nathan. conrad of stauffen! stauffen! templar. what is there in my name to wonder at? nathan. there are more races of that name, no doubt. templar. yes, many of the name were here--rot here, my uncle even--i should say my father. but wherefore is your eye so fixed on me? nathan. i know not; but i love to look on you. templar. therefore i take my leave. the searching eye will oft discover more than it desires. i fear it, nathan; so, farewell. let time, not curious prying, make us better known. (_exit_.) nathan (_looking after him with astonishment_). "the searching eye will oft discover more than it desires." as if he read my soul! that, too, may chance to be. 'tis not alone his walk, his stature, but his very voice! leonard so bore himself--was even wont to carry thus his sword upon his arm, and thus to shade his eyebrow with his hand, as if to hide the fire that fill'd his look. so deeply graven images may seem at times to lie asleep within the soul, when all at once a single word--a tone-- calls them to life again. of stauffen--right-- filnek and stauffen--i will soon know more. but first to saladin. ha! daja here-- and on the watch! come nearer, daja, come. scene viii. daja, nathan. nathan. well, both of you have something more at heart than to know what the sultan wants with me. daja. and you can hardly blame her for it, sir. you were beginning to converse with him more trustingly yourself, when suddenly the sultan's message drove us from the window. nathan. go tell her, daja, she may soon expect a visit from the templar. daja. what! indeed! nathan. i think i may rely upon you, daja. be on your guard, i beg, you'll not repent it. your conscience shall at length be satisfied, but do not mar my plans. inquire, explain, but with reserve, with fitting modesty. daja. no need for such advice. i go, i go. and you must follow; for, see, hafi comes-- the sultan sends a second messenger. scene ix. nathan, al-hafi. al-hafi. ha! are you there? i have been seeking you. nathan. why in such haste? what can he want with me? al-hafi. who? nathan. saladin. but i am coming quickly. al-hafi. to whom? to saladin? nathan. has he not sent you? al-hafi. me? no--but has he sent already? nathan. yes. al-hafi. then it is so. nathan. what's so? al-hafi. that----i'm not guilty, god knows, i'm not to blame; 'tis not my fault. i've done my best--belied, and slandered you-- to save you from it. nathan. save me? and from what? be plain. al-hafi. from being made his defterdar. i pity you--i cannot stay to see it. i fly this hour--you know the road i take. speak, then, if i can serve you; but your wants must suit a wretch that's wholly destitute. quick, what's your pleasure? nathan. recollect yourself-- your words are mystery. i know of nothing. what do you mean? al-hafi. you'll take your money--bags? nathan. my money--bags! al-hafi. ay, bring your treasures forth-- the treasures you must shower on saladin. nathan. and is that all? al-hafi. ah! shall i witness it, how, day by day, he'll scoop and pare you down, till nothing but a hollow, empty shell, a husk as light as film, is left behind. nathan, you've yet to learn how spendthrift waste from prudent bounty's never empty stores borrows and borrows, till there's not a crumb left to keep rats from starving. do not think that he who wants your gold will heed advice. when has the sultan listened to advice? hear what befel me with him. nathan. well--go on. al-hafi. he played just now at chess with sittah. she is a keen player. i drew near and watched. the game which saladin supposed was lost, stood yet upon the board. he had given in, i marked, and cried, "the game's not lost at all!" nathan. oh! what a grand discovery for you. al-hafi. he needed only to remove his king behind the castle--and the check was saved. could i but show you---- nathan. i believe it all! al-hafi. then with the castle free, he must have won. i saw it, and i called him to the board. what do you think he did? nathan. he doubted you. al-hafi. not only that--he would not hear a word-- and with contempt he overthrew the board. nathan. indeed! al-hafi. he said he chose it--would be mate. is that to play the game? nathan. most surely not. 'twas rather playing with the game. al-hafi. and yet the stakes were high. nathan. a trifle to the sultan! money is nought to him. it is not that which galls, but not to hear al-hafi out-- not to admire his comprehensive glance, his eagle eye--'tis that demands revenge. say, am i right? al-hafi. i only tell this tale that you may know how much his head is worth. but i am weary of him. all the day i am running round to every wretched moor to borrow--money for him--i who ne'er ask for myself, am now obliged to sue for others--and, according to my creed, to borrow is to beg, as, when you lend your money upon usury, you steal. among my ghebers on the ganges' shores i shall need neither; there i shall not be the tool or pimp of any; there alone upon the ganges honest men are found. you, nathan, you alone of all i see are worthy on the ganges' banks to live. then come with me; leave him the wretched gold that he would strip you of--'tis all he wants. little by little he will ruin you; 'tis better to be quit of all at once; come, then, and i'll provide you with a staff. nathan. nay, that resource will still remain for us as a last refuge. but i'll think of it. al-hafi. nay, ponder not upon a thing like this. nathan. then stay till i have seen the sultan. stay till i have bid farewell. al-hafi. the man who stays to hunt for motives, to search reasons out, who cannot boldly and at once resolve to live a free man's life, must be the slave of others till his death. but as you please. farewell! my path is here, and yours is there! nathan. but stay, al-hafi! till you have arranged the state accounts. al-hafi. pah! nathan, there's no need; the balance in the chest is quickly told, and my account, sittah, or you, will vouch. farewell! (_exit_.) nathan (_looking after him_). yes, i will vouch it, honest, wild-- how shall i call him? ah! the real beggar is, after all, the only real king. (_exit at opposite side_.) act iii. scene i.--_a room in_ nathan's _house_. recha, daja. recha. well, daja, did my father really say "that i might instantly expect him here?" that surely meant that he would come at once, and yet how many minutes have rolled by! but i'll not dwell upon the moments gone, i'll only live in those that are to come, that one which brings him here must come in time. daja. but for the sultan's ill-timed messenger nathan had brought him hither. recha. when he comes-- oh! when this dearest of my inmost hopes shall be fulfilled--what then--what then? daja. what then? why then i trust the wish most dear to me will also be fulfilled. recha. and in its place what wish shall take possession of my breast? which now forgets to heave, unless it pant with some fond wish? will nothing come? i shudder! daja. my wish shall then supplant the one fulfilled, my wish to see you borne to europe's shores by hands well worthy of you. recha. you do err. the very thought which makes you form this wish forbids it to be mine. your native land attracts you, and has mine no charm for me? shall a remembrance of your cherished home, your absent kindred and your dearest friends, which years and distance have not yet effaced, rule in your soul with softer, mightier sway than what i know, and hear, and feel of mine. daja. 'tis vain to struggle, for the ways of heaven are still the ways of heaven. and who can say if he who saved your life may not be doomed, through his god's arm, for whom he nobly fights. to lead you to that people--to that land to which you should belong by right of birth? recha. what are you saying, daja? dearest daja! indeed you have some strange and curious thoughts. "_his_ god!" whose god? to whom can god belong, and how can god belong to any man, or need a human arm to fight his battles? and who, among the scattered clods of earth can say for which of them himself was born, unless for that on which he was produced? if nathan heard thee! how has nathan sinned, that daja seeks to paint my happiness so far removed from his? what has he done, that thus amongst the seeds of reason, which he sowed unmixed and pure within my soul, the hand of daja must for ever seek to plant the weeds, or flowers of her own land? he has no wish to see upon this soil such rank luxuriant blossoms. i myself must own i faint beneath the sour--sick odour; your head is stronger and is used to it. i find no fault with those of stronger nerves who can support it--mine, alas! give way. your angel too, how near befool'd was i through him; i blush whene'er i see my father. daja. as if, dear recha, you alone were wise. folly! if i might speak---- recha. and may you not? have i not listened gladly to your tales about the valiant heroes of your faith? have i not freely on their deeds bestowed my admiration--to their sufferings given the tribute of my tears? their faith, 'tis true, has never seemed to me their noblest boast, but, therefore, daja, i have only learnt to find more consolation in the thought that our devotion to the god of all depends not on our notions of that god. my father has so often taught me this-- you have so often to this point agreed, how can it be that you wish now alone to undermine what you have built together? but this is no discourse with which to wait the friend whom we expect--and yet for me 'tis of some moment whether he----but hark! hark! some one comes this way.---if it were he! scene ii. the templar, daja, recha. (_a servant ushers in the_ templar.) this way, sir knight!-- (recha _starts, composes herself, and is about to fall at his feet_.) 'tis he! my rescuer. ah! templar. 'twas only to avoid this scene that i so long postponed my visit. recha. at the feet of this proud man, i will thank god alone, and not the man. he does not want my thanks-- as little as the bucket does which proved itself so useful at the fire, and let itself be filled and emptied; so this man, he too was thrust by chance amid the flames; i dropped by chance into his open arms, by chance remained there, like a fluttering spark upon his mantle--till--i know not what expelled us from the flames. what room is here for thanks?--in europe wine excites the men to greater deeds--the templar knows his duty, performs his task, as well-trained spaniels do, who fetch alike from water and from flames. templar (_who has been surveying her with surprise and uneasiness_). o daja, daja! if in hasty hours of care and grief, this unchecked tongue of mine betrayed me into rudeness, why convey to her each idle word that leaves my lips? this is indeed too galling a revenge! yet, if henceforth, you will interpret better---- daja. i question if these little stings, sir knight, were so shot forth as to have done you wrong. recha. how! you had cares, and were more covetous of them than of your life. templar. thou best of beings, how is my soul with eye and ear at strife? no, 'twas not she i rescued from the fire, for who could know her and forbear the deed? in truth, disguised by terror---- (_he gazes on her as if entranced_.) recha. but to me you still appear the same as then you seemed. (_a pause, till she resumes in order to interrupt his reverie_.) tell me, sir knight, where have you been so long? and--i might almost ask--where are you now? templar. i am where i, perhaps, ought not to be. recha. and been, perhaps, where you should not have been. that is not well. templar. i have been up the mountain-- what is the name?--ay! sinai! recha. i am glad; for, doubtless, you can tell me if 'tis true---- templar. if what is true? if holy people show the spot where moses stood before his god? recha. oh no; not that. wherever moses stood it was before his god. i know enough about such things already. is it true-- i wish to learn from you who have been there-- if it is not by far less difficult to climb than to descend the holy mount? for with all other mountains that i know, 'tis quite the contrary. you turn away! why do you turn, sir knight? nay, look at me. templar. i wish to hear you rather. recha. i perceive, because you do not wish that i should see you smile at my simplicity. you smile that i have not some more important thing to ask about the holy hill of hills. is it so? templar. must i meet those eyes again? and now you cast them down, and check your smile. how can i in those changeful features read what i so plainly hear--the truth your words so audibly declare, and yet would hide? how truly did your father say to me, "if you but knew her!" recha. who said that to you? templar. your father, and of you he spoke the words. daja. have i not said it to you many times? templar. where is your father now? with saladin? recha. doubtless he is. templar. still there! oh, i forget. he cannot still be there. he waits for me, as he appointed, near the cloister gate. forgive me, i must go in quest of him. daja. i will do that. wait here, i'll bring him straight. templar. o no, o no! he is expecting me. besides, you cannot tell what may have chanced. 'tis not unlikely he may be engaged with saladin--you do not know the sultan-- in some unpleasant----danger may ensue if i delay. recha. danger! for whom? for what? templar. danger for me--for you--for him! unless i go at once (_exit_.) scene iii. recha, daja. recha. what is the matter, daja? so quick! what ails him--makes him fly from hence? daja. let him alone. i think it no bad sign. recha. sign! and of what? daja. that something vexes him. it boils, but it must not boil over. go, 'tis your turn now. recha. my turn. you have become incomprehensible to me--like him. daja. now you may pay him back with interest all the unrest he once occasioned you. but be not too vindictive--too severe. recha. well, daja, you must know your meaning best. daja. and are you then already calm once more? recha. in truth i am. daja. confess at least, dear recha, that all this restlessness has brought you pleasure, and that you have to thank his want of ease for all the ease that you yourself enjoy. recha. i know not that, but i must still confess that to myself it seems a mystery how in this bosom, such a pleasing calm can suddenly succeed so rude a storm. his countenance, his speech, his manner have---- daja. by this time satisfied you. recha. no, not that. daja. well, satisfied your more impatient want. recha. well, well, if you must have it so. daja. not i! recha. to me he must be ever dear. to me he must remain more dear than life, although my pulse no longer flutters at his name, my heart no longer, when i think of him, beats with a fuller throb. what have i said? come, daja, to the window once again which overlooks the palms. daja. i see 'tis not yet satisfied, that more impatient want. recha. now, i shall see the palm--trees once again; not him alone amidst them. daja. such a fit of coldness speaks of fevers yet to come. recha. nay, i'm not cold, in truth i do not see less gladly that which i do calmly see. scene iv. (_the hall of audience in_ saladin's _palace_.) saladin, sittah. saladin (_giving directions_). bring the jew here, as soon as he arrives. he seems in no great haste. sittah. nay, saladin, perhaps he was not found at home. saladin. ah, sister! sittah. you look as if some contest were at hand. saladin. ay! and with weapons i'm not used to wield. must i then play the hypocrite--and frame precautions--lay a snare? where learnt i that? and for what end? to seek for money--money! for money from a jew? and to such arts must saladin descend, that he may win the most contemptible of paltry things? sittah. but paltry things, despised too much, are sure to find some method of revenge. saladin. 'tis true! what, if this jew should prove an upright man, such as the dervise painted him? sittah. why, then, your difficulty ceases; for a snare implies an avaricious, cheating jew, and not an upright man. then he is ours without a snare. 'twill give us joy to hear how such a man will speak--with what stern strength he'll tear the net, or with what cunning skill untangle all its meshes, one by one. saladin. true, sittah! 'twill afford me rare delight. sittah. what, then, need trouble you? for if he be, like all his nation, a mere cozening jew, you need not blush, if you appear to him no better than he deems all other men. but if to him you wear a different look, you'll be a fool--his dupe! saladin. so i must, then, do ill, lest bad men should think ill of me. sittah. yes, brother, if you call it doing ill to put a thing to its intended use. saladin. well, there is nothing woman's wit invents it cannot palliate---- sittah. how, palliate? saladin. sittah, i fear such fine-wrought filagree will break in my rude hand. it is for those who frame such plots to bring them into play. the execution needs the inventor's skill. but let it pass.--i'll dance as best i can-- yet sooner would i do it ill than well. sittah. oh, brother, have more courage in yourself! have but the will, i'll answer for the rest. how strange that men like you are ever prone to think it is their swords alone that raise them. when with the fox the noble lion hunts, 'tis of the fellowship he feels ashamed, but of the cunning, never. saladin. well, 'tis strange that women so delight to bring mankind down to their level. but, dear sittah, go; i think i know my lesson. sittah. must i go? saladin. you did not mean to stay? sittah. no, not with you, but in this neighb'ring chamber. saladin. what! to listen? not so, my sister, if i shall succeed. away! the curtain rustles--he is come. beware of lingering! i'll be on the watch. (_while_ sittah _retires through, one door_, nathan _enters at another, and_ saladin _seats himself_.) scene v. saladin, nathan. saladin. draw nearer, jew--yet nearer--close to me! lay fear aside. nathan. fear, sultan, 's for your foes. saladin. your name is nathan? nathan. yes. saladin. nathan the wise. nathan. no. saladin. but, at least the people call you so. nathan. that may be true. the people! saladin. do not think i treat the people's voice contemptuously. i have been wishing long to know the man whom it has called the wise. nathan. what, if it named him so in scorn? if wise means prudent only-- and prudent, one who knows his interest well? saladin. who knows his real interest, you mean. nathan. then, sultan, selfish men were the most prudent, and wise, and prudent, then, would mean the same. saladin. you're proving what your speeches contradict. you know the real interests of man: the people know them not--have never sought to know them. that alone can make man wise. nathan. which every man conceives himself to be. saladin. a truce to modesty! to meet it ever, when we are seeking truth is wearisome (_springs up_). so, let us to the point. be candid, jew, be frank and honest. nathan. i will serve you, prince, and prove that i am worthy of your favour. saladin. how will you serve me? nathan. you shall have the best of all i have, and at the cheapest rate. saladin. what mean you? not your wares?--my sister, then, shall make the bargain with you. (that's for the listener!) i am not versed in mercantile affairs, and with a merchant's craft i've nought to do. nathan. doubtless you would inquire if i have marked upon my route the movements of the foe? whether he's stirring? if i may presume---- saladin. neither was that my object. on that point i know enough. but hear me. nathan. i obey. saladin. it is another, a far different thing on which i seek for wisdom; and since you are called the wise, tell me which faith or law you deem the best. nathan. sultan, i am a jew. saladin. and i a mussulman. the christian stands between us. here are three religions, then, and of these three one only can be true. a man like you remains not where his birth by accident has cast him; or if so, conviction, choice, or ground of preference, supports him. let me, nathan, hear from you, in confidence, the reasons of your choice, which i have lacked the leisure to examine. it may be, nathan, that i am the first sultan who has indulged this strange caprice, which need not, therefore, make a sultan blush. am i the first? nay, speak; or if you seek a brief delay to shape your scattered thoughts, i yield it freely. (has she overheard? she will inform me if i've acted right.) reflect then, nathan, i shall soon return. (_exit_.) scene vi. nathan (_alone_). strange! how is this? what can the sultan want? i came prepared for cash--he asks for truth! truth! as if truth were cash! a coin disused-- valued by weight! if so, 'twere well, indeed! but coin quite new, not coin but for the die, to be flung down and on the counter told---- it is not that. like gold tied up in bags, will truth lie hoarded in the wise man's head, to be produced at need? now, in this case, which of us plays the jew? he asks for truth. is truth what he requires? his aim, his end? or does he use it as a subtle snare? that were too petty for his noble mind. yet what is e'er too petty for the great? did he not rush at once into the house, whilst, as a friend, he would have paused or knocked? i must beware. yet to repel him now and act the stubborn jew, is not the thing; and wholly to fling off the jew, still less. for if no jew, he might with justice ask, why not a mussulman?--that thought may serve.-- others than children may be quieted with tales well told. but see, he comes--he comes. scene vii. saladin, nathan. saladin. (_aside_) (the coast is clear)--i am not come too soon? have you reflected on this matter, nathan? speak! no one hears. nathan. would all the world might hear! saladin. and are you of your cause so confident? 'tis wise, indeed, of you to hide no truth, for truth to hazard all, even life and goods. nathan. ay, when necessity and profit bid. saladin. i hope that henceforth i shall rightly bear one of my names, "reformer of the world and of the law!" nathan. a noble title, truly; but, sultan, ere i quite explain myself, permit me to relate a tale. saladin. why not? i ever was a friend of tales well told. nathan. well told! ah, sultan! that's another thing. saladin. what! still so proudly modest? but begin. nathan. in days of yore, there dwelt in eastern lands a man, who from a valued hand received a ring of priceless worth. an opal stone shot from within an ever-changing hue, and held this virtue in its form concealed, to render him of god and man beloved, who wore it in this fixed unchanging faith. no wonder that its eastern owner ne'er withdrew it from his finger, and resolved that to his house the ring should be secured. therefore he thus bequeathed it: first to him who was the most beloved of his sons, ordaining then that he should leave the ring to the most dear among his children; then, that without heeding birth, the fav'rite son, in virtue of the ring alone, should still be lord of all the house. you hear me, sultan? saladin. i understand. proceed. nathan. from son to son, the ring at length descended to a sire who had three sons, alike obedient to him, and whom he loved with just and equal love. the first, the second, and the third, in turn, according as they each apart received the overflowings of his heart, appeared most worthy as his heir, to take the ring, which, with good-natured weakness, he in turn had promised privately to each; and thus things lasted for a while. but death approached, the father now embarrassed, could not bear to disappoint two sons, who trusted him. what's to be done? in secret he commands the jeweller to come, that from the form of the true ring, he may bespeak two more. nor cost nor pains are to be spared, to make the rings alike--quite like the true one. this the artist managed. when the rings were brought the father's eye could not distinguish which had been the model. overjoyed, he calls his sons, takes leave of each apart--bestows his blessing and his ring on each--and dies. you hear me? saladin (_who has turned away in perplexity_). ay! i hear. conclude the tale. nathan. 'tis ended, sultan! all that follows next may well be guessed. scarce is the father dead, when with his ring, each separate son appears, and claims to be the lord of all the house. question arises, tumult and debate-- but all in vain--the true ring could no more be then distinguished than----(_after a pause, in which he awaits the sultan's reply_) the true faith now. saladin. is that your answer to my question? nathan. no! but it may serve as my apology. i cannot venture to decide between rings which the father had expressly made, to baffle those who would distinguish them. saladin. rings, nathan! come, a truce to this! the creeds which i have named have broad, distinctive marks, differing in raiment, food, and drink! nathan. 'tis true! but then they differ not in their foundation. are not all built on history alike, traditional or written? history must be received on trust. is it not so? in whom are we most likely to put trust? in our own people? in those very men whose blood we are? who, from our earliest youth have proved their love for us, have ne'er deceived, except in cases where 'twere better so? why should i credit my forefathers less than you do yours? or can i ask of you to charge your ancestors with falsehood, that the praise of truth may be bestowed on mine? and so of christians. saladin. by our prophet's faith, the man is right. i have no more to say. nathan. now let us to our rings once more return. we said the sons complained; each to the judge swore from his father's hand immediately to have received the ring--as was the case-- in virtue of a promise, that he should one day enjoy the ring's prerogative. in this they spoke the truth. then each maintained it was not possible that to himself his father had been false. each could not think his father guilty of an act so base. rather than that, reluctant as he was to judge his brethren, he must yet declare some treach'rous act of falsehood had been done. saladin. well! and the judge? i'm curious now to hear what you will make him say. go on, go on! nathan. the judge said: if the father is not brought before my seat, i cannot judge the case. am i to judge enigmas? do you think that the true ring will here unseal its lips? but, hold! you tell me that the real ring enjoys the secret power to make the man who wears it, both by god and man, beloved. let that decide. who of the three is loved best by his brethren? is there no reply? what! do these love--exciting rings alone act inwardly? have they no outward charm? does each one love himself alone? you're all deceived deceivers. all your rings are false. the real ring, perchance, has disappeared; and so your father, to supply the loss, has caused three rings to fill the place of one. saladin. o, charming, charming! nathan. and,--the judge continued:-- if you insist on judgment, and refuse my counsel, be it so. i recommend that you consider how the matter stands. each from his father has received a ring: let each then think the real ring his own. your father, possibly, desired to free his power from one ring's tyrannous control. he loved you all with an impartial love, and equally, and had no inward wish to prove the measure of his love for one by pressing heavily upon the rest. therefore, let each one imitate this love; so, free from prejudice, let each one aim to emulate his brethren in the strife to prove the virtues of his several ring, by offices of kindness and of love, and trust in god. and if, in years to come, the virtues of the ring shall reappear amongst your children's children, then, once more, come to this judgment--seat. a greater far than i shall sit upon it, and decide. so spake the modest judge. saladin. oh god, o god! nathan. and if now, saladin, you think you're he---- saladin. (_approaches_ nathan, _and takes his hand, which he retains to the end of the scene_.) this promised judge--i?--dust! i?--nought! oh god! nathan. what is the matter, sultan? saladin. dearest nathan! that judge's thousand years are not yet past; his judgment-seat is not for me. but go, and still remain my friend. nathan. has saladin aught else to say? saladin. no. nathan. nothing? saladin. truly nothing. but why this eagerness? nathan. i could have wished an opportunity to ask a boon. saladin. wait not for opportunity. speak now. nathan. i have been traveling, and am just returned from a long journey, from collecting debts. hard cash is troublesome these perilous times, i know not where i may bestow it safely. these coming wars need money; and, perchance, you can employ it for me, saladin? saladin (_fixing his eyes upon_ nathan). i ask not, nathan, have you seen al-hafi? nor if some shrewd suspicion of your own moves you to make this offer. nathan. what suspicion? saladin. i do not ask--forgive me,--it is just, for what avails concealment? i confess i was about---- nathan. to ask this very thing? saladin. yes! nathan. then our objects are at once fulfilled, and if i cannot send you all my store, the templar is to blame for that. you know the man. i owe a heavy debt to him. saladin. the templar! surely, nathan, with your gold you do not aid my direst foes? nathan. i speak of him whose life was spared by saladin. saladin. of what do you remind me? i had quite forgot the youth. where is he? know you him? nathan. have you not heard, then, how your clemency through him has flowed to me? how, at the risk of the existence which your mercy gave, he saved my daughter from the raging flames? saladin. ha! did he so? he looked like one that would! my brother, too--his image--would have done it. is he still here? bring him to me at once. i have so often spoken to my sister of this same brother, whom she never knew, that i must let her see his counterfeit. go, fetch him. how a single noble deed, though but the offspring of the merest whim, gives birth to other blessings! bring him to me. nathan (_loosing_ saladin's _hand_). i'll go--the other matter then is settled. (_exit_.) saladin. i wish i had but let my sister listen. i'll go at once to her and tell it all. (_exit on the opposite side_.) scene viii. _the place of palms in the neighbourhood of the convent, where the_ templar _awaits_ nathan. templar (_walking to and fro, in conflict with himself_.) the panting victim here may rest awhile. so far 'tis well. i dare not ask myself what change has sprung within me, nor inquire what yet may happen. flight has proved in vain, and, come what may, i could no more than flee, the stroke was far too sudden to escape. long--much--i strove to keep aloof, in vain. but once to see her, e'en against my will, to see her, and to frame a firm resolve never to lose her. what, then, is resolve? resolve is purpose--action, while--in truth-- i was but passive. but to see her once, and feel that i was woven into her being, was then and still remains the self-same thing. to live apart from her--oh, bitter thought!-- were death; and after death--where'er we were-- 'twould there be death too. say, then, is this love? and doth the templar love? a christian loves a jewish maiden! well, and what of that? this is the holy land; holy to me, and dear, because i have of late renounced full many a prejudice. what says my vow? in the same hour that made me prisoner to saladin. the head he gave me back, was it the old one? no. i'm newly framed, i know no fragment of the ancient forms that bound me once. my brain is clearer now, more fit for my paternal home above. now i can think as once my father thought, if tales of him are not untruly told-- tales that were ne'er so credible as now, when i am stumbling where my father fell. fell! yet 'twere better far to fall with men than stand with boys. his conduct guarantees his approbation. and what need i more than nathan's approbation? of his praise i cannot doubt. oh, what a jew is he! and yet he would appear the simple jew. but, see, he comes--he comes in haste--delight beams from his eye. but who leaves saladin with other looks? ho! nathan! scene ix. nathan, _the_ templar. nathan. are you there? templar. your visit to the sultan has been long. nathan. not over long. my audience was delayed. but, conrad, this man well supports his fame-- his fame is but his shadow. but i must without delay inform you that he would---- templar. say on. nathan. would speak with you. so, come with me at once. i have some brief commands to give at home, then to the sultan. templar. nathan, i will ne'er enter your door again---- nathan. then you've been there already--spoken with her. tell me all. how do you like my recha? templar. words would fail to tell how much. i dare not trust myself alone with her again, unless you say that i may gaze upon her form for ever. nathan. what can this mean? templar (_after a short pause, embracing him suddenly_). my father! nathan. how, young man? templar (_withdrawing himself as suddenly_). call me your son! i do implore you, nathan. nathan. dear youth! templar. and not your son! i pray you, nathan, conjure you, by the strongest ties of nature, let it content you now to be a man: repel me not. nathan. my dearest friend! templar. say son! why not your son? what, if in recha's heart mere gratitude had paved the way for love, and if we both but waited your assent to crown our union! you are silent, sir! nathan. i am astonished at your words, young knight. templar. astonished! do i then astonish you with your own thoughts, although you know them not when uttered by my lips. astonished, nathan? nathan. would that i knew what stauffen was your father! templar. what say you, nathan? at a time like this, can you indulge such empty, curious thoughts? nathan. i knew a stauffen once whose name was conrad. templar. what, if my father bore that very name? nathan. and did he so? templar. i bear my father's name, i am called conrad. nathan. so! and yet the man i knew was not your father, for, like you, he was a templar, and was never married. templar. and what of that? nathan. how? templar. he might still have been my father. nathan. nay, you jest. templar. you're far too good. what matters it? does bastard wound your ear? the race, good sir, is not to be despised. but spare my pedigree, and i'll spare yours. great god! forbid my words should ever cast the smallest doubt on your ancestral tree. you can attest it backwards, leaf by leaf, to abraham. and from that point--i know it well, myself--can even swear to it. nathan. your words are bitter. do i merit this? what have i e'er refused you? i have but forborn assent at the first word you spoke. no more! templar. oh! true, no more. forgive me, nathan. nathan. well, come with me, come. templar. whither? to your house? that will i not--it burns. i'll wait you here. farewell. if i'm to see her once again, i then shall see her often; and if not, i have already seen her too--too much. scene x. _the_ templar, daja. templar. too much, indeed! strange that the human brain so infinite of comprehension, should at times with a mere trifle be engrossed, suddenly filled, and all at once quite full, no matter what it teems with. but the soul soon calms again, and the fermenting stuff makes itself room, restoring life and order. and is this, then, the first time that i love? and was the glow to which i gave that name not love at all? and is this love alone which now with burning flame consumes my heart? daja (_who has crept up to his side_). sir knight! sir knight! templar. who calls? what, daja, you! daja. yes, i am here; i managed to slip by him. but he can see us where we stand. come nearer, and place yourself with me behind this tree. templar. why so mysterious? what's the secret, daja? daja. yes, 'tis a secret which has brought me hither-- a twofold secret. part is known to me, the other part to you. come, let us change: first tell me yours, and then i'll tell you mine. templar. yes, willingly, when i have ascertained what you call mine. but yours will throw a light upon the whole. begin, then. daja. that's not fair; you must begin, sir knight, and i will follow. for be assured my secret's nothing worth, unless i hear yours first. then lose no time, for if i guess it, you've not trusted me; my secret, then, will be my own, and yours worth nothing. but do you suppose, sir knight, that you can hide such secrets from a woman? templar. secrets we often are unconscious of. daja. perhaps. but i must prove myself your friend and tell you all. confess how happened it that you so suddenly took leave of us, and that with nathan you will not return? has recha, then, made no impression on you, or made too deep a one, perchance? oh yes! too deep--too deep! you are a hapless bird whose fluttering wing the fatal twig has limed, confess it, plainly, with a word, you love-- love her to madness, and i'll tell you then---- templar. to madness? ah! you understand it well. daja. well, grant the love, the madness i'll resign. templar. because, of course, there is no doubt of it. a templar love a jewess!---- daja. why, it seems absurd. but often there's more fitness in some things than we can readily discern; and 'twould not be the first time that our lord had drawn us to him by a secret path which we had ne'er discovered of ourselves. templar. solemnly spoken i (and if for our lord i substituted providence, 'twere true). you make me curious, far beyond my wont. daja. this is the land of miracles! templar. ay, true, of miracles! can it be otherwise, when all the world flocks hither? dearest daja, you have your wish; so take it as confessed that i do love her, nor can comprehend how i can live without her. daja. can this be? then swear, sir knight, to make her yours--to save her here on earth--to save her there for ever. templar. how can i this? how can i swear to do what stands not in my power. daja. 'tis in your power! one single word brings it within your power. templar. but will her father smile upon my suit? daja. her father, truly! he shall be compelled. templar. compell'd! what, has he fallen among thieves? compell'd! daja. then hear me. nathan will consent: he must consent. templar. consent! and must! oh, daja! i have already tried to touch that chord; it vibrates not responsive. daja. what! reject you? templar. he answered me in such discordant tone that i was hurt. daja. what say you? did you breathe the shadow of a wish to marry recha. and did not nathan leap for joy? did he draw coldly back--raise obstacles? templar. he did. daja. then i'll deliberate no moment more. templar (_after a pause_). and yet you are deliberating still. daja. nathan in all things has been ever good. i owe him much. did he refuse to listen? god knows it grieves me to constrain him thus. templar. i pray you, daja, now to terminate this dire uncertainty. but if you doubt whether the thing you would impart to me be right or wrong, worthy of shame or honour, then tell it not, and henceforth i'll forget you have a secret it were well to hide. daja. your words but spur me on to tell you all. then learn that recha is no jewess--that she is a christian maid. templar (_coldly_). i wish you joy! at last the tedious labour's at an end. the birth-pangs have not hurt you. still go on with undiminished zeal, and people heaven when you are fit no more to people earth. daja. how, knight! and does the news i bring deserve such bitter taunts? does it confer no joy on you to hear that recha is a christian, on you, her lover, and a christian knight? templar. and more especially since recha is a christian of your making? daja. think you so? then i would fain see him that may convert her. it is her fate long since to have been that which she can now no more become. templar. explain, or leave me. daja. well! she is a christian maid, of christian parents born--and is baptised. templar (_hastily_). and nathan! daja. not her father. templar. nathan not her father? are you sure of that? daja. i am; the truth has cost me tears of blood. he's not. templar. but as his daughter he has brought her up, brought up the christian maiden as a jewess? daja. just so. templar. and knows she aught about her birth? has she not learnt from him that she was born a christian and no jewess? daja. never yet. templar. and he not only let the child grow up in this mistaken notion, but he leaves the woman in it. daja. ay, alas! templar. oh, nathan! how can the wise, good nathan lend himself to stifle nature's voice--to misdirect the yearnings of a heart in such a way which, to itself abandoned, would have formed another bias, daja? ay, in truth, the secret is of moment, and may have important issues. but i feel perplexed: i know not how i ought to act. but go, let me have breathing time. he may approach, he may surprise us suddenly. farewell! daja. i tremble with affright. templar. and i can scarce express my thoughts. but go; and should you chance to meet him, say he'll find me at the sultan's. daja. let him not see that you have any thing against him. that 'twere well to keep reserved, to give the proper turn to things at last. it may remove your scruples, touching recha. but if you take her back to europe, knight, you will not leave me here? templar. we'll see, now go! act iv. scene i.--_the cloisters of the convent_. _the_ friar, _and presently afterwards the_ templar. friar. ay, ay! he must be right, the patriarch! and yet, of all his business, no great part has prospered in my hands. but why should he entrust such tasks to me? i have no wish to play the knave, to wheedle and persuade, to worm out secrets, and to thrust my hand into my neighbour's business. not for this did i renounce the world, that i might be entangled with its cares for other men. templar (_entering abruptly_). good brother, are you here? i've sought you long. friar. me, sir? templar. what, don't you recollect me, then? friar. ay! but, sir knight, i never thought to see your face again--and so i hoped in god. god knows how much i hated the proposal which i was bound to make you, and he knows how little i desired you should assent, how in my inmost soul i was rejoiced when you refused, without a moment's thought, to do what had been shameful in a knight. but have you thought the matter o'er again? templar. you seem to know what object brings me here. friar. have you, sir knight, reflected by this time, that our good patriarch is not much deceived in thinking gold and glory may be won by his commission? that a foe's a foe, were he our guardian angel seven times o'er? have you 'gainst flesh and blood weighed all these things, and are you come to strike a bargain now? templar. my dear good man, be patient; not for this am i come hither; not for aught like this do i desire to see the patriarch. on every point my thoughts remain unchanged; nor would i for the wealth of all this world forfeit that good opinion, which i won from such an upright, honest man as you. i merely come to ask the patriarch for counsel. friar (_looking round timidly_). counsel from the patriarch! what, you! a knight to ask a priest's advice! templar. mine is a priestly business. friar. yet the priests would scorn a knight's advice, were their affairs ever so knightly. templar. therefore they're allowed to err sometimes, a privilege which i, for one, don't greatly envy them; and yet, if i were acting only for myself, and were not bound to others, i should care but little for advice. but in some things 'twere better to go wrong by others' guidance than, by our own, go right. and i observe, by this time, that religion's naught but party, and he who in his own belief is most impartial, does but hold the standard up of his own creed, howe'er unconsciously. yet since 'tis so, it must be right. friar. i'm silent. in truth, i don't quite comprehend. templar. and yet-- (let me consider first what 'tis i want-- decision or advice from sage or simple?) thanks, brother; yes, i thank you for your hint. what is a patriarch? be thou for once my patriarch; for 'tis the christian rather whom in the patriarch i would consult, than in the christian the mere patriarch. friar. hold, hold, sir knight! no more of this, i find that you mistake me. he who hath learnt much must needs have many cares. i know but one---- but hark, behold! here comes the very man! 'tis he, so stay; he has perceived us both. scene ii. _the_ patriarch, _after marching up one of the aisles with great pomp, approaches_. templar. i'd rather shun him--he is not my man-- a round, red smiling prelate! and what state! friar. but you should see him at a festival, now he but comes from visiting the sick. templar. great saladin will then have cause to blush. patriarch (_coming forward, makes signs to the_ friar). was that the templar? what's his business here? friar. i know not. patriarch (_advancing, whilst the_ friar _and his train retire_.) well, sir knight, i'm truly glad to meet so brave a youth. so very young, something may come of him, if heaven assist. templar. not more than has already come of him, but rather less, my reverend father. patriarch. well, it is my prayer that so devout a knight may for the cause of christendom and god be long preserved; nor can it fail to be, if valour will give ear to aged words. then say, how can i serve you, sir? templar. with that in which my youth's deficient--sound advice. patriarch. most gladly, if you'll follow my advice. templar. not blindly, though. patriarch. whose words are those? indeed, none should neglect to use the intellect bestowed by god, when it is suitable. but is it always suitable? o no! if god, through one of the celestial choir-- that is, through one of the blest ministers of his most sacred word--should condescend to show some way by which the church's weal, or else the general good of christendom, might be secured, what man would venture then to weigh the laws of intellect against his will, who fashioned intellect itself? or measure the unchanged decrees of heaven by empty rules that suit this petty world? but of all this enough. now tell me, knight, wherefore you seek our counsel? templar. reverend father! suppose a jew possessed an only child-- a girl--whom he with fond parental care trained to each virtue, treasured as his soul, whilst she, with love as ardent as his own, repaid his love,--suppose it rumoured then that she was not the daughter of this jew, but a poor orphan, purchased in her youth, or stolen, or found--or anything, but still of christian birth, and in her youth baptised, and that the jew had reared her in his faith, allowed her to be thought a jewish maid, and firmly to believe herself his child,-- say, reverend father, what should then be done? patriarch. i shudder at the thought! but, worthy sir, say, is this fact, or mere hypothesis? that is, if your own head has framed the case, or has it happened--does it still exist? templar. that's unimportant, and could not assist your reverence to pronounce upon the point. patriarch. what! unimportant! see, sir knight, how apt proud reason is to err in sacred things. 'tis of deep import; though, 'tis true, the case may be the offspring of your sportive wit, when we should straight dismiss it from our thoughts, and i should then refer you to the stage where _pros_ and _cons_ like these are oft discussed with loud applause. but if the object be, by something better than a sleight of hand, to sound my judgment, if the thing be fact, and may have happened in our diocese, here in our dear jerusalem itself, why then---- templar. what then? patriarch. then were it well, sir knight, to execute at once upon the jew the penalty provided for the case, by papal and imperial laws, against so foul a crime, such dire iniquity. templar. indeed! patriarch. the laws i mention have decreed that if a jew shall to apostasy seduce a christian, he shall die by fire. templar. indeed! patriarch. how much more when a jew by force tears from baptismal bonds a christian child? for all that's done to children is by force, save what the church shall order and perform. templar. what if the child were steeped in misery, and must have died, but for this bounteous jew? patriarch. it matters not: the jew should still be burnt. 'twere better to expire in misery, than live to suffer never-ending pains. the jew moreover should not have forestalled the hand of god, whom had he willed to save, could save without him. templar. make him happy too, in spite of him. patriarch. it matters not, the jew must still be burnt. templar. that grieves me very much, and all the more, as people say that he has reared the child not in his own belief, so much as in no faith at all, and taught her neither more nor less of god than is by reason asked. patriarch. it matters not, the jew must still be burnt--and for this very cause would merit threefold death. to rear a child without a faith! not even teach a child the greatest of all duties--to believe! 'tis heinous, and i'm rapt in wonder, knight, that you yourself---- templar. oh, reverend sir, the rest in the confessional, if god allow. (_is going_.) patriarch. what, going! and not await my questioning! not name to me this infidel, this jew! not find him out for me at once! but, hold! a thought occurs. i'll to the sultan straight. according to the treaty we have sworn with saladin, he must protect our creed with all the privileges, all the rights that appertain to our most holy faith. thank god! we have retained the deed itself, with seal and signature affixed, and we can readily convince him, make him feel how full of peril for the state it is not to believe. all civil bonds are rent asunder, torn to pieces, knight, when men have no belief. away, away for ever with such impiety! templar. i much deplore that i want time to relish this discourse, this holy sermon. saladin awaits my coming. patriarch. ah, indeed! templar. and i'll prepare the sultan for your presence, reverend sir, if you desire. patriarch. why, yes! for i have heard you have found favour in the sultan's sight. i beg to be remembered with respect. zeal in the cause of god impels me on, and all excesses are performed for him. weigh that in kindness, then, most noble sir! but, tell me, was your case about the jew a problem merely? templar. problem! (_he retires_.) patriarch. (of the facts, i must have fuller knowledge. i must be better informed; 'twill be another job for brother bonafides.) son, come hither! (_speaks with the_ friar _as he retires_.) scene iii. saladin's _palace_. (_slaves are employed in bringing bags of gold, and piling them on the floor_.) saladin, sittah. saladin. in truth, this weary business ne'er will end; say, is it nearly done? a slave. one half is done. saladin. then take the rest to sittah? where's al-hafi? he must take charge of what is here. but, hold, were it not best to send it to my father? here 'twill be quickly spent. i feel, in truth, that i am growing miserly. at last he must be skilful who gets much from me, and till from egypt further treasure comes, our poverty must be content to struggle. yet, at the holy sepulchre, the cost of all the christian pilgrims must be paid; they must, at least, not go with empty hands. sittah. why, what is this? wherefore this gold to me? saladin. recoup yourself with it, if aught is left, keep it in store. sittah. are nathan and the knight not yet arrived? saladin. the former everywhere is seeking him. sittah. behold what i have found in turning o'er my ornaments and jewels (_showing a small portrait_). saladin. ha! what is here! a portrait! yes, my brother! 'tis he--'tis he! _was_ he--_was_ he, alas! oh dear, brave youth! so early lost to me! with thee at hand what had i not achieved! give me the portrait, sittah. i recall this picture well. he gave it to his lilla-- your elder sister--when one summer morn he tore himself away reluctantly. she would not yield, but clasped him in her arms. 'twas the last morning that he e'er rode forth, and i, alas! i let him ride alone. poor lilla died of grief, and ne'er forgave my error that i let him ride alone. he ne'er returned. sittah. poor brother! saladin. say no more. a few short years, and we shall ne'er return. and then who knows? but 'tis not death alone that blights the hopes and promises of youth, they have far other foes, and oftentimes the strongest, like the weakest, is o'ercome. but be that as it may, i must compare this portrait with the templar, that i may observe how much my fancy cheated me. sittah. 'twas for that purpose that i brought it here. but give it, and i'll tell thee if 'tis like: we women are best judges of such things. saladin (_to the doorkeeper who enters_). who's there? the templar? bid him come at once. sittah. not to disturb you, or perplex him with my curious questions, i'll retire awhile. (_throws herself upon the sofa, and lets her veil fall_.) saladin. that's well. (and now his voice--will that be like? for assad's voice still slumbers in my soul!) scene iv. _the_ templar _and_ saladin. templar. i am your prisoner, sultan. saladin. you my prisoner! shall i refuse him liberty, whose life i freely spared? templar. it is my duty, sire, to hear, and not anticipate, your will. yet it but ill becomes my character and station, sultan, to be thus profuse of gratitude because you've spared my life-- a life which henceforth is at your command. saladin. only forbear to use it to my hurt. not that i grudge my mortal enemy another pair of hands; but such a heart as yours i do not yield him willingly. you valiant youth! i have not gauged you ill: in soul and body, you are truly assad. i fain would learn where you have been so long concealed. in what dim cavern you have slept? what spirit, in some region of the blest, has kept this beauteous flower so fresh in bloom? methinks i could remind you of our sports in days gone by; and i could chide you, too, for having kept one secret from my ear, for having dared one gallant deed alone. i'm happy that so much of this deceit at least is true, that in my sear of life an assad blooms for me once more. and you, you too are happy, knight! templar. whate'er you will-- whatever be your thought--lies as a wish within mine inmost soul. saladin. we'll prove you, then. will you abide with me?--cling to my side, whether as christian or as mussulman, in turban or white mantle? choose your garb-- choose for yourself. i never have desired that the same bark should grow on every tree. templar. else, saladin, you never had become the hero that you are--who'd rather be the gardener of the lord. saladin. if thus you think of saladin, we're half agreed, already---- templar. nay, quite! saladin (_offering his hand_). one word! templar (_taking it_). one man! and with this hand take more than you can e'er take back again. henceforth i'm wholly yours. saladin. this is too much-- for one day 'tis too much! came he not with you? templar. who? saladin. who? nathan. templar. no; i came alone. saladin. oh, what a deed was thine! what happiness that such a deed should serve so good a man! templar. 'twas nothing. saladin. why so cold, o valiant youth! when god makes man his minister of good, he need not be so cold, nor modestly wish to appear so cold. templar. but in the world all things have many sides, and who is he can comprehend how they may fit each other? saladin. cling ever to what's noble, and praise god! he knows how all things fit. but if you are so scrupulous, young man, i must beware. i too have many sides, and some of them may seem to you not always made to fit. templar. that grieves me; for suspicion, at the least, is not a sin of mine. saladin. then, tell me, whom do you suspect? not nathan, surely? what! nathan suspected, and by you? explain-- afford me this first proof of confidence. templar. i've nothing against nathan. i am vexed, but with myself alone. saladin. why so? templar. for dreaming that any jew can think himself no jew. i dreamt this waking. saladin. tell me all your dream. templar. you know that nathan has a daughter, sultan! and what i did for her, i did--because i did it. far too proud to reap the thanks i had not sown, from day to day i shunned the maiden's sight. her father was afar. he comes, he hears, he seeks me, give me thanks; wishes that she might please me, and he talks of dawning prospects. well, i hear it all, i listen to him, go and see the maid-- o! such a maiden, sultan. but, i blush. saladin. why blush? blush that a jewish maid should win your admiration? 'tis a venial fault. templar. but oh! that, through her father's sweet discourse, to this impression my o'er-hasty heart such weak resistance offered! fool. i leaped a second time into the flame, and then i wooed, and was denied. saladin. denied?--denied? templar. the prudent father does not plainly say no, to my suit--but he must first inquire-- he must reflect. well, be it so. had i not done the same? i looked about, inquired-- reflected--ere i plunged into the flames where she was shrieking. oh, by heaven! it is a splendid thing to be so circumspect! saladin. nay, but you must concede somewhat to age. his doubts will pass away, nor will he wish you to become a jew. templar. who knows? saladin. who knows! one who knows nathan better than yourself. templar. and yet the superstitions we have learned from education, do not lose their power when we have found them out; nor are all free whose judgment mocks the galling chains they wear. saladin. 'tis wisely said; but nathan, surely nathan---- templar. that superstition is the worst of all which thinks itself the easiest to be borne---- saladin. 'tis possible. but nathan---- templar. and to trust to it alone a blind humanity till it is used to truth's more brilliant light. to it alone---- saladin. well, well! but nathan's fate is not to be so weak---- templar. i thought so once, but what if this bright pattern to mankind were such a thorough jew that he seeks out for christian children to bring up as jews? how then? saladin. who speaks so of him? templar. e'en the maid for whom i'm so distressed, with hopes of whom he seemed so glad to recompense the deed he would not suffer me to do for naught. this maid is not his daughter; no, she is a kidnapped christian child. saladin. whom nathan now refuses you! templar (_earnestly_). refuse or not refuse, he is found out--the prating hypocrite is now found out; but on this jewish wolf, for all his philosophical sheep's garb, dogs i can loosen who will tear his hide. saladin (_earnestly_). peace, christian! templar. what! peace, christian? wherefore so? shall jew and mussulman be free to boast their creeds, and shall the christian be ashamed to own his faith? saladin (_more earnestly_). peace, christian! templar (_calmly_). yes, i feel what weight of blame lies in your calm reproof-- in that one word pronounced by saladin. oh! that i knew what assad would have done had he but fill'd my place! saladin. he had not done much better; nay, perhaps, had been more warm. where did you learn to bribe me with a word? and yet, in truth, if all has happened so as you narrate, it is not much like nathan. but nathan is my friend, and of my friends one must not quarrel with the other. so take counsel, act with prudence. do not loose on him the fanatics among your race. keep silence. all the clergy of your sect would call to me for vengeance upon him with far more show of right than i could wish. let not revenge impel you to become a christian to the jew or mussulman. templar. thanks to the patriarch's bloodthirsty rage, your counsel almost comes too late; and i had nearly proved his cruel instrument. saladin. how so? and did you see the patriarch before you came to me? templar. yes, in the storm of passion--in the whirl of doubt----forgive me. i fear you will no longer find in me one feature of your assad. saladin. yes, that fear is like him. but, methinks, i know full well the weaknesses from which our virtues spring: attend to these--the former cannot hurt. but go, seek nathan, as he sought for you, and bring him hither. be but reconciled. are you in earnest, knight, about this maid? be calm--she shall be yours. nathan shall feel that without swines-flesh he has dared to rear a christian child. now, templar, leave me. go! (_exit the_ templar. sittah _leaves the sofa_.) scene v. saladin _and_ sittah. sittah. 'tis strange, indeed. saladin. what say you now, my sittah? was not our assad once a handsome youth? sittah. if this were like him, and 'twere not the knight who had his portrait taken. but, dear brother, how could you ever so forget yourself as not to make inquiry for his parents? saladin. and more especially about his mother? that was your meaning--eh? sittah. you are too quick. saladin. but nothing is more possible; for he, my brother assad, was so favoured by the christian ladies--handsome christian ladies-- that a report once spread----but 'tis not right we should refer to that. we'll be content that he is here again, with all his faults, the faults and wildness of his gentle heart-- that he is here again. oh, nathan must give him the maid. what think you? sittah. what, to him? saladin. ay! for what claim has nathan to the girl if he is not her father? he, who saved her life, may properly assume the rights of him who gave existence to the maid. sittah. then might not saladin lay claim to her, withdrawing her from the unrightful owner? saladin. there is no need of that. sittah. no actual need, but female curiosity suggests that counsel to me. there are certain men of whom i feel impatient till i know what maidens they can love. saladin. well send for her. sittah. brother, may i do that? saladin. but hurt not nathan. he must not think that we, by violence, would separate them. sittah. fear it not. saladin. farewell! i must find out where this al-hafi is. scene vi. _the hall in_ nathan's _house, looking towards the palm-trees, as in the first act. part of the merchandise and treasures unpacked and displayed_. nathan _and_ daja. daja. o, how magnificent are all these things! how rich! they're such as none but you could give. where was this silver stuff with sprigs of gold woven? what might it cost? 'tis what i call a wedding garment. is there any queen could wish aught richer? nathan. why a wedding robe? daja. in buying it, you never thought of that. but, nathan, it must be so--it must, indeed-- 'twas made for that. see, here, the pure white ground, emblem of innocence; that branching gold, covering the virgin white on every side, emblem of wealth. say, is it not divine? nathan. why all this ingenuity of speech? over whose wedding dress would you display this learning? have you found a lover, daja? daja. what, i? nathan. who, then? daja. i, gracious heaven? nathan. who, then? whose wedding garment would you speak of, daja? all this is yours, 'tis meant for no one else. daja. what, mine! for me! i thought it was for recha. nathan. no, what i bought for her is elsewhere packed; 'tis in another bale. but, come, away with all this rubbish. daja. nathan, tempt me not, for were these things the very costliest in all the world, i'll touch not one of them till you have sworn to seize a happy chance which heaven ne'er offers twice. nathan. what happy chance? what must i seize? daja. nathan, feign not such ignorance. but, in one word--the templar loves your recha-- give her to him, and then your sin, which i can hide no longer, will for ever cease. the maid will then once more resume her place amongst the christians, will again become what she was born to, and what once she was; and you, whom we can never thank enough for all your goodness, will not then have heaped more burning coals of fire upon your head. nathan. still harping on the same old string again, new tuned, but neither to accord nor hold. daja. how so? nathan. the templar pleases me; 'tis true i'd rather he, than any one, had recha. but patience. daja. patience! and, say, is not that the string you always harp on? nathan. still, have patience but for a few days longer. ha! who comes? a friar! go ask him what his errand is. daja (_going_). what can he want? nathan. give--give before he begs. (oh, that i knew how i could sound the knight without betraying what my motive is! for should i tell it, and my thoughts prove false, i shall have staked the father's rights in vain.) what is the matter? daja. he would speak with you. nathan. let him approach. leave us together, daja. scene vii. nathan _and the_ friar. nathan. (_aside_. gladly i would continue recha's father! and can i not be so, though i may cease to bear the name? to her--at least to her-- i should be father still, if she but knew how willingly i bore that title once.) what can i do to serve you, pious brother? friar. not much; and yet it gives me pleasure, nathan, to see at least that you are still so well. nathan. you know me, then, it seems? friar. who knows you not? you have impressed your name on many a hand-- it has been stamped on mine these many years. nathan (_feeling for his purse_). come, brother, come; here's to refresh it. friar. thanks. that would be robbing poorer men. i will take nothing; but i beg of you, permit that i refresh your memory with my name; for i can boast of having formerly placed something in your hand you should not scorn. nathan. excuse me--i'm ashamed--what was it? say, and then take for atonement sevenfold the value of the thing. friar. well, first of all, hear how this very day has brought to mind the pledge i gave you. nathan. what! a pledge to me? friar. not long ago i led a hermit's life on quarantana, near to jericho. some arab thieves came and attacked my cell; they robbed my oratory, forcing me to follow them. but fortune favoured me. i fled, came hither to the patriarch, and sought from him another calm retreat, where i might serve my god in solitude till death should bless me. nathan. ah! i am on thorns. be quick! what pledge did you entrust to me? friar. yes, nathan, presently. the patriarch has promised i shall have a hermitage on tabor, when 'tis vacant; and meanwhile employs me in this convent as a brother, and here i am at present. but i pine for tabor fifty times a day; for here he makes me toil at work which i detest. nathan. be speedy, i beseech you. friar. well, it chanced some one has whispered in his ear to-day that a jew lives hard by, who educates a christian as his daughter. nathan. how? friar. nay, hear. he has commissioned me, if possible, to find this jew out for him; and he raves loudly and bitterly against the crime, which he pronounces as the actual sin against the holy ghost--that is, the sin the greatest, which a sinner can commit. but luckily we can't exactly tell its nature. but my conscience all at once was roused, and it occurred to me that i had once, perhaps, been guilty of this sin. do you remember, eighteen years ago, when a knight's squire committed to your hands a female infant but a few weeks old? nathan. what say you? well, in fact there was---- friar. ay, look-- look well at me--for i'm that squire: 'twas i. nathan. what! you? friar. and he from whom i brought the child was, if i recollect the matter right, a lord of filneck--wolf von filneck. nathan. right. friar. because the mother died not long before; and he, the father, was obliged to fly to gaza suddenly. the helpless child could not accompany him, and therefore he committed it to you: that was my task. i found you out at daran. nathan. right, quite right. friar. it were no wonder had my memory deceived me. i have served so many lords. the one who fled was not my master long, he fell at askalon. his heart was kind. nathan. yes, yes, and i have much to thank him for. not once, but many times he saved my life. friar. o, glorious! then the greater joy for you to educate his daughter. nathan. you say well. friar. where is she now? she is not dead, i hope. let me not hear, i pray, that she is dead. if no one else have found the secret out, all is yet safe. nathan. indeed! friar. oh, nathan, trust me. this is my way of thinking: if the good that i propose to do is intertwined with mischief, then i let the good alone; for we know well enough what mischief is, but not what is the best. 'twas natural, if you intended to bring up the child with care, that you should rear it as your own. and to have done this lovingly and well, and be thus recompensed, is piteous. it were perhaps more prudent, if the child had been brought up by some good christian's hand, in her own faith. but then you had not loved your dear friend's orphan child; and children need love--were it but the affection of a brute-- more at that age, than christianity: there's always time enough for that: and if the maiden had grown up before your eyes, healthy and pious, she had then remained the same as ever in her maker's eyes. for is not christianity all built upon the jewish creed? oh oft, too oft, it vexes me and costs me bitter tears, to think that christians will so constantly forget that christ our saviour was a jew. nathan. good brother, you shall be my advocate, when hate and bigotry shall frown on me, all for a deed--which you alone shall hear-- but take it with you to the tomb. as yet e'en vanity has never tempted me to breathe it to a soul; to you alone it shall be told; for simple piety like yours can truly feel what man can do who places his full confidence in god. friar. you're moved, and your eyes run o'er with tears. nathan. at daran 'twas you met me with the child. you had not heard that, a few days before, the christians murdered every jew in gath-- woman and child. amongst them was my wife-- along with her, my seven hopeful sons. all had sought shelter 'neath my brother's roof, and there were burnt alive. friar. just god! nathan. you came. three nights in dust and ashes i had lain before my god and wept; and i at times arraigned my maker, raged, and cursed myself and the whole world together, and i swore eternal hate to christianity. friar. who can condemn you? i believe it well. nathan. but by degrees returning reason came, and spoke with gentle accent: "god is just! and this was his decree. now exercise the lesson thou so long hast understood, and which is surely not more difficult to exercise than well to understand." i rose and cried to god, "i will, i will! do thou but aid my purpose." and, behold, just at that moment you dismounted. you gave me the child enfolded in your robe. the words we spoke occur not to me now. this much i recollect: i took the child; i bore it to my bed; i kissed its cheek; i flung myself upon my knees, and sobbed, "my god, thou hast restored me one of seven!" friar. nathan, you are a christian. yes, i swear you are a christian--better never lived. nathan. indeed! the very thing that makes me seem christian to you, makes you a jew to me. but let us not distress each other thus, 'tis time to act, and though a sevenfold love had bound me to this strange, this lovely maid, though the mere thought distracts me, that in her i lose my seven dear sons a second time, if providence require her at my hands i'm ready to obey. friar. 'tis well! and thus i thought to counsel you; but there's no need: your own good genius has forestalled my words. nathan. the first chance claimant must not tear her hence. friar. most surely not. nathan. and he who has no claim stronger than mine--at least he ought to have those prior claims which---- friar. certainly, nathan. those claims which are derived from nature and from blood. friar. in my opinion, yes. nathan. then name the man as brother, or as uncle, bound to her, i'll not withhold her from him; she was made to be the ornament of any house, the pride of any faith. i hope you know more of your master and his creed than i. friar. on that point, nathan, i'm but ill informed, i have already told you that i spent only some moments with him. nathan. can you tell the mother's name, at least? she was, i think, a stauffen? friar. possibly; nay, more--you're right. nathan. conrad of stauffen was her brother's name. he was a templar. friar. yes, i think he was: but hold, i have a book that was my lord's. i drew it from his bosom when he lay dead, and we buried him at askalon. nathan. well! friar. there are prayers in it; 'tis what we call a breviary. this, thought i, yet may serve some christian man--not me, forsooth--for i can't read a word. nathan. no matter--to the point. friar. the pages of this book are written all in his own hand, and, as i'm told, contain all that's important touching him and her. nathan. go, run and fetch the book: 'tis fortunate! i'll pay you for it with its weight in gold. and with a thousand thanks besides. go! run! friar. i go--but what he wrote is arabic. (_exit_) nathan. no matter, fetch it. what, if from this book i can find means to keep this precious girl, and win, to boot, a son-in-law like him! i hardly hope--fate must decide. but who has told the patriarch this? i must not fail to ascertain. it surely was not daja? scene viii. daja _and_ nathan. daja (_rushing in in agitation_). only think, nathan! nathan. what? daja. well--only think: the child was frightened when the message came! nathan. from whom? the patriarch? daja. the sultan's sister, the princess sittah-- nathan. not the patriarch? daja. no, sittah. can't you hear? the princess sends, and wishes recha to be brought to her. nathan. wishes for recha! sittah wishes thus? 'tis sittah, then--and not the patriarch? daja. why do you speak of him? nathan. have you not heard some tidings of him lately? have you seen nothing of him, and whispered nothing to him? daja. how could i so? nathan. where are the messengers? daja. they stand without. nathan. i'll speak to them myself-- 'tis prudent; i shall see if nothing lurks behind this message, from the patriarch. (_exit_.) daja. well, i have other fears. the only child, as they suppose, of such a wealthy jew, would for a mussulman be no bad thing. i'll wager that the templar loses her, unless i risk a second step, and state plainly to recha who she is. so, courage! and to do this i must at once employ the first brief moments when we are alone. chance serves: she waits for me, and on the way an earnest hint will never prove amiss. so now or never. all will soon be well. (_follows nathan_.) act v. scene i.--_the room in_ saladin's _palace. the treasure still piled up_. (saladin, _and several mamelukes_.) saladin (_as he enters_). there lies the gold--and no one yet has seen the dervise. he will probably be found over the chess-board. play can often make a man forget himself. then why not me? but patience. what's the matter? st mameluke. oh, good news! joy, sultan! joy. the cairo caravan is safe arrived, and from the nile it brings the seven years' tribute. saladin. bravo, ibrahim! you always were a welcome messenger, and now at length--accept my heartfelt thanks for the good tidings. st mameluke (_waiting_). (let me have them, then!) saladin. what are you waiting for? go. st mameluke. nothing more for my good news? saladin. what further? st mameluke. messengers of good are paid. am i to be the first whom saladin has learnt to pay with words? the first to whom he proves ungenerous? saladin. go, take a purse. st mameluke. no, no--not now. not if you'd give them all to me. saladin. all? hold, young man! come hither. take these purses--take these two. what, going? and shall i be conquered thus in generosity? for surely 'tis more difficult for this man to refuse than for the sultan to bestow. then, here here, ibrahim! shall i be tempted, just before my death, to be a different man? shall saladin not die like saladin? then wherefore has he lived like saladin? (_enter a second mameluke_.) nd mameluke. hail, sultan! saladin. if you come and bring the news---- nd mameluke. that the egyptian convoy is arrived. saladin. i know it. nd mameluke. then i come too late. saladin. too late? wherefore too late? there, for your tidings take a purse or two. nd mameluke. say three. saladin. you reckon well; but take them. nd mameluke. a third messenger will come ere long, if he be able. saladin. wherefore so? nd mameluke. he may perhaps, ere this, have brok'n his neck. we three, when we had heard of the approach of the rich caravan, mounted our steeds, and galloped hitherward. the foremost fell, then i was first, and i continued so into the town; but that sly fellow there, who knew the streets---- saladin. but where is he who fell? go seek him out. nd mameluke. that i will quickly do, and if he lives, one half of this is his. (_exit_.) saladin. oh, what a noble fellow! who can boast such mamelukes as these? and may i not, without conceit, imagine that my life has helped to make them so? avaunt the thought! that i should ever teach them otherwise. rd mameluke. sultan! saladin. are you the man who fell? rd mameluke. no, sire. i have to tell you that the emir mansor, who led the caravan, is just arrived. saladin. then bring him quickly.--there he is already. scene ii. _the emir_ mansor _and_ saladin. saladin. emir, you're welcome! what has happened to you, mansor? we have expected you for long. mansor. this letter will explain how, in thebais, some discontents required the sabred hand of abulkassen. but, since then, our march has been pressed forward. saladin. i believe it all. but take, good mansor--take, without delay, another escort if you will proceed, and take the treasure on to lebanon: the greater part is destined for my father. mansor. most willingly. saladin. and let your escort be a strong and trusty one, for lebanon is far from quiet, and the templars there are on the stir again; be cautious, then come, i must see your troop, and order all. (_to a slave_.) say i shall presently return to sittah. scene iii. (_the palm-trees before_ nathan's _house_.) _the_ templar, _walking up and down_. templar. into this house i never enter more: he'll come to me at last. yet, formerly, they used to watch for me with longing eyes; and now----the time may come he'll send to beg, most civilly, that i will get me hence, and not pace up and down before his door! no matter: though i feel a little hurt. i know not what has thus embittered me: he answered yes, and has refused me naught, so far, and saladin has pledged himself to bring him round. say, does the christian live deeper in me than the jew lurks in him? ah! who can truly estimate himself? how comes it else that i should grudge him so the trifling booty, which he took such pains to rob the christians of? no trifling theft! no less than such a creature! and to whom does she belong? oh, surely not to him, the thoughtless slave, who floated the mere block on to life's barren strand, then disappeared. rather to him, the artist, whose fine soul has from the block moulded this godlike form, and graved it there. and yet in spite of him, the christian, who begot this beauteous maid, recha's true father must be still the jew. were i to fancy her a christian now, bereft of all the jew has given to her-- which only such a jew could have bestowed-- speak out, my heart--where would have been her charm' it had been nothing--little; then her smile had been a pretty twisting of the mouth and that which caused it were unworthy deemed of the enchantment blooming on her lips. no: not her very smile! i've seen sweet smiles squandered on pride, on foppery, on lies, on flatterers, on wicked wooers spent: and did they charm me then? did they awake the wish to flutter out existence in their sunshine? and i'm angry now with him who gave this higher value to the maid? and wherefore so? do i deserve the taunt with which i was dismissed by saladin? 'twas bad enough he should think thus of me. how wicked, how contemptible, alas! i must have seemed to him! and for a girl! conrad, this will not do. avaunt such thoughts! and what if daja has been chattering of things not easy to be proved? but see, he comes, engaged in converse; and with whom? with him, the friar. then he knows all: perhaps he has betrayed him to the patriarch. o conrad! what vile mischief hast thou done! o! that one spark of love, that wayward passion, should so inflame the brain! but, quick! resolve; what's to be done? stay, step aside awhile; perhaps the friar will leave him. let us see. scene iv. nathan _and the_ friar. nathan (_approaching him_). good brother, once more, thanks. friar. the same to you. nathan. why thanks from you? because i'm wayward, and would force upon you what you cannot use? friar. the book you have did not belong to me. it is the maid's, is all her property, her only patrimony--save yourself. god grant you ne'er have reason to repent of what you've done for her! nathan. impossible! that cannot be. fear not. friar. alas! alas! these patriarchs and templars---- nathan. cannot work such evil as to force me to repent. but are you sure it is a templar who urges the patriarch? friar. it is none else; a templar talked with him just now, and all i hear confirms the rumour. nathan. but there is only one templar in jerusalem, and him i know. he is a friend of mine, a noble, open-hearted youth. friar. the same. but what one is at heart, and what one must appear in active life, are not the same. nathan. alas! 'tis true. and so let every one act as he will, and do his best, or worst. with your book, brother, i defy them all! i'm going straightway with it to the sultan. friar. then god be with you! here i take my leave. nathan. what! without seeing her? but come again, come soon--come often. if the patriarch to-day learns nothing. well! no matter now! tell him the whole to-day, or when you will. friar. not i. farewell! (_exit_.) nathan. do not forget us, brother! o god! i could sink down upon my knees, here on this spot! behold, the knotted skein which has so often troubled me, at last untangles of itself. i feel at ease, since henceforth nothing in this world remains that i need hide. henceforth, i am as free before mankind, as in the sight of god. who only does not need to judge us men by deeds, which oftentimes are not our own. scene v. nathan _and the_ templar. (_the latter advancing towards him from the side_.) templar. hold, nathan, hold! take me along with you. nathan. who calls? you, templar! where can you have been that you could not be met with at the sultan's? templar. we missed each other; do not be displeased. nathan. not i, but saladin. templar. you had just gone. nathan. oh, then, you spoke with him. i'm satisfied. templar. yes; but he wants to talk with us together. nathan. so much the better. come with me; i go direct to him. templar. say, nathan, may i ask who left you even now? nathan. what! don't you know? templar. was it that worthy fellow, the good friar, whom the old patriarch employs at will to work his ends? nathan. the same--the very same. templar. 'tis a prime hit to make simplicity the workman of deceit. nathan. yes, if he use the fool, and not the pious man. templar. this last the patriarch ne'er trusts. nathan. depend on this, that man will not assist the patriarch to a wicked end. templar. well, so i think myself. but has he told you aught of me? nathan. of you? he scarcely knows your name. templar. that's like enough. nathan. he spoke to me about a templar, who---- templar. who what? nathan. but then he never mentioned you. templar. who knows? come tell me, nathan, all he said. nathan. who has accused me to the patriarch? templar. accused you! with his leave, that is untrue. no! hear me, nathan! i am not the man e'er to deny my actions. what i've done i've done--and there's an end. nor am i one who would maintain that all i've done is right. but should one fault condemn me? am i not resolved on better deeds for time to come? and who is ignorant how much the man who wills it may improve? then hear me, nathan: i am the templar talked of by the friar, who has accused--you know what maddened me, what set my blood on fire within my veins-- fool that i was! i had almost resolved to fling myself both soul and body, straight into your arms. but how was i received? how did you meet me, nathan? cold--or worse. lukewarm--far worse than cold. with cautious words, well weighed and measured, nathan, you took care to put me off, and with calm questions, asked about my parentage, and god knows what, you sought to meet my suit. i cannot now dwell on it and be patient. hear me further. while in this ferment, daja suddenly drew near to me and whispered in my ear a secret which cleared up the mystery. nathan. what was it? templar. hear me to the end. i thought the treasure you had from the christians stolen, you would not promptly to a christian yield; and so the project struck me, with good speed, to bring you to extremities. nathan. good speed? good, good? pray where's the good! templar. but hear me out. i own my error; you are free from guilt; that prating daja knows not what she says. she's hostile to you, and she seeks to twine a dangerous snare around you. be it so. i'm but a crazed enthusiast, doubly mad, aiming at far too much, or much too little. that may be also true. forgive me, nathan. nathan. if you conceive thus of me---- templar. well, in short. i saw the patriarch--but named you not. 'twas false to say so, for i only told the case in general terms, to sound his mind. and that i also might have left undone, for knew i not the patriarch to be an arrant, subtle knave? and might i not as well have told you all the case at first? or was it right in me to risk the loss of such a father to the hapless maid? but what has happened now? the patriarch, ever consistent in his villainy, has all at once restored me to myself. for hear me, nathan, hear me! were he now to learn your name, what more could then occur? he cannot seize the maid, if she belong to some one else, and not to you alone. 'tis from your house alone she can be dragged into a convent: grant her, then, i pray, grant her to me! then come the patriarch! he'll hardly dare to take my wife from me. oh! give her to me. be she yours or not-- your daughter--christian--jewess--'tis all one-- or be she nothing--i will ne'er inquire, or in my lifetime ask you what she is, 'tis all alike to me. nathan. do you then think that to conceal the truth i am compelled? templar. no matter. nathan. i have ne'er denied the truth to you, or any one whom it concerned to know the fact, that she's of christian birth, and that the maid is my adopted child. why i have not informed her of the truth, i need explain to none but to herself. templar. nathan; no need of that, it were not well that she should see you in a different light; then spare her the discovery. as yet she's yours alone--no other's--to bestow. then grant her to me, nathan, i implore-- grant her to me: i only, i alone, can rescue her a second time--and will. nathan. yes, you could once have saved her, but alas! 'tis now too late. templar. too late! ah! say not so. nathan. thanks to the patriarch. templar. why, thanks to him? why should we thank the patriarch! for what? nathan. that now we know her relatives, and know into whose hands recha may be restored. templar. let him give thanks who shall have better cause to thank him. nathan. but you must receive her now from other hands than mine. templar. alas, poor maid! o hapless recha! what has chanced to thee, that what to other orphans had appeared a real blessing, is to thee a curse! but, nathan, where are these new relatives? nathan. where are they? templar. ay, both where and who are they? nathan. her brother is discovered, and to him you must address yourself. templar. her brother! ha! and what is he--a soldier or a priest? tell me at once what i've to hope from him. nathan. i hear he's neither--or he's both. as yet i do not know him thoroughly. templar. what more? nathan. he is a gallant fellow, and with him recha may be content. templar. but he's a christian. at times i know not what to make of you. take it not ill, good nathan, that i ask, must she not henceforth play the christian, associate with christians, and at last become the character she long has played? will not the tares at length grow up and choke the pure wheat you have sown? and does not that affect you? yet you say she'll be content when with her brother. nathan. as i think and hope. for should she e'er have need of anything, has she not you and me? templar. what can she need when with her brother. gladly he'll provide his dear new sister with a thousand robes, with dainties, and with toys and finery. and what could any sister wish for more-- unless, perhaps, a husband? and him too, him too the brother, in due time, will find; and the more christian he, the better!--nathan, how sad to think the angel you have formed, should now be marred by others! nathan. be assured he'll always prove deserving of our love. templar. nay speak not so; of my love, speak not so, for it can brook no loss, however small, not e'en a name. but, hold! has she as yet any suspicion of these late events? nathan. 'tis possible, and yet i know not how. templar. it matters not; she must, in either case, first learn from me what fate is threat'ning her. my purpose not to speak with her again, and ne'er to see her more, till i should call your recha mine, is gone. i take my leave. nathan. nay, whither would you go? templar. at once to her, to learn if she be bold enough at heart, to fix upon the only course that now is worthy of her. nathan. name it. templar. it is this: that henceforth she should never care to know aught of her brother or of you. nathan. what more? templar. to follow me--even if it were her fate to wed a mussulman. nathan. stay, templar, stay! you will not find her. she's with sittah now, the sultan's sister. templar. wherefore, and since when? nathan. if you desire to see her brother, come, follow me straight. templar. her brother, say you? whose? recha's, or sittah's? nathan. both--ay, both, perhaps. but come this way, i pray you. come with me. (nathan _leads the_ templar _away_.) scene vi.--sittah's _harem_. sittah _and_ recha _engaged in conversation_. sittah. how i am pleased with you, sweet girl. but, come, shake off these fears, and be no more alarmed, be happy, cheerful. let me hear you talk. recha. princess! sittah. nay, child, not princess! call me friend, or sittah--or your sister--or dear mother, for i might well be so to you--so good, so prudent, and so young! how much you know, how much you must have read! recha. read, sittah! now you're mocking me, for i can scarcely read. sittah. scarce read, you young deceiver! recha. yes, perhaps my father's hand; i thought you spoke of books. sittah. and so i did--of books. recha. they puzzle me to read. sittah. indeed! recha. i speak, in veriest truth. my father hates book-learning, which he says, makes an impression only on the brain with lifeless letters. sittah. well, he's right in that. and so the greater part of what you know---- recha. i've learnt from his own mouth, and i can tell the when, the where, and why he taught it me. sittah. so it clings closer, and the soul drinks in the full instruction. recha. yes, and sittah, too, has not read much. sittah. how so? i am not vain of having read, and yet why say you so? speak boldly. tell the reason. recha. she's so plain-- so free from artifice--so like herself. sittah. well! recha. and my father says 'tis rarely books work that effect. sittah. oh, what a man he is, dear recha! recha. is he not? sittah. he never fails to hit the mark. recha. yes, yes; and yet this father---- sittah. what ails you, love? recha. this father---- sittah. oh my god! you're weeping. recha. and this father--it must forth-- my heart wants room, wants room---- (_throws herself in tears at_ sittah's _feet_.) sittah. what ails you, recha? recha. yes, i must lose this father! sittah. lose him--never! why so? be calm. courage! it must not be. recha. your offer to be friend and sister to me will now not be in vain. sittah. yes, i am both. arise, arise, or i must call for help. recha. o pardon! i forget, through agony, with whom i speak. tears, sobbing, and despair are naught with sittah. reason, calm and cool, is over her alone omnipotent. no other argument avails with her. sittah. well, then? recha. my friend and sister, suffer not another father to be forced on me. sittah. another father to be forced on you! who can do that, or wish to do it, love? recha. who but my good, my evil genius, daja? she can both wish it and perform the deed. you do not know this good, this evil daja. may god forgive her, and reward her, too, for she has done me good and evil, both. sittah. evil? then she has little goodness left. recha. oh, she has much. sittah. who is she? recha. who? a christian, who cared for me in childhood's early years. you cannot know how little she allowed that i should miss a mother's tender cares-- may god reward her for it!--but she has worried and tortured me. sittah. wherefore, and how? recha. poor woman, she's a christian, and from love has tortured me: a warm enthusiast, who thinks she only knows the real road that leads to god. sittah. i understand you now. recha. and one of those who feel in duty bound to point it out to every one who strays from the plain path, to lead, to drag them in. and who can censure them? for if the road they travel is the only one that's safe, they cannot, without pain, behold their friends pursue a path that lead to endless woe, else, at the self-same time, 'twere possible to love and hate another. nor does this alone compel me to complain aloud. her groans, her prayers, her warnings, and her threats i could have borne much longer willingly. they always called up good and wholesome thoughts. who is not flattered to be held so dear, and precious by another, that the thought of parting pierces him with lasting pain? sittah. this is most true. recha. and yet this goes too far, and i have nothing to oppose to it-- patience, reflection, nothing. sittah. how? to what? recha. to what she has disclosed to me. sittah. say, when? recha. 'tis scarce an instant. coming hither we passed a christian temple on our way; she all at once stood still, seemed inly moved, raised her moist eyes to heaven, then looked on me. "come," she exclaimed at length, "come straight on here, through this old fane." she leads, i follow her. my eyes with horror overrun the dim and tottering ruin: all at once she stops by a low ruined altar's sunken steps. o, how i felt, when there, with streaming eyes and wringing hands, down at my feet she fell! sittah. good child! recha. and, by the holy virgin, who had heard so many suppliants' prayers, and had performed full many a wonder there, she begged, implored with looks of heart-felt sympathy and love, that i would now take pity on myself, and pardon her for daring to unfold the nature of the church's claims on me. sittah. i guessed as much. recha. i'm born of christian blood, have been baptised, and am not nathan's child! nathan is not my father! god, o god! he's not my father, sittah! now, behold, i'm once more prostrate at your feet. sittah. arise! recha, arise! behold, my brother comes. scene vii. saladin, sittah, _and_ recha. saladin. what is the matter, sittah? sittah. she has swooned. saladin. who is she? sittah. don't you know? saladin. 'tis nathan's child. what ails her? sittah. look up, recha! 'tis the sultan. recha (_crawling to saladin's feet_). no, i'll not rise--not rise nor even look upon the sultan's countenance, nor wonder at the bright lustre of unchanging truth and goodness on his brow and in his eye, before---- sittah. rise, rise! recha. before he promises---- saladin. come, come! i promise, whatsoe'er your prayer. recha. 'tis only this--to leave my father to me, and me to him. as yet i cannot tell who seeks to be my father: who it is can harbour such a wish i'll ne'er inquire. does blood alone make fathers--blood alone? sittah. who can have been so cruel as to raise this dire suspicion in my recha's breast? say, is it proved? beyond all doubt made clear? recha. 'tis proved, for daja had it from my nurse, whose dying lips entrusted it to her. saladin. dying! she raved. and even were it true, a father is not made by blood alone; scarcely the father of a savage beast-- blood only gives the right to earn the name. then fear no more, but hear me. if there be two fathers who contend for thee, leave both, and claim a third! o! take me for your father! sittah. oh, do so, recha, do so! saladin. i will be a good, kind father to you. but, in truth a better thought occurs. why should you need two fathers? they are mortal, and must die. 'twere better, recha, to look out betimes for one to start with you on equal terms, and stake his life for thine. you understand? sittah. you make her blush! saladin. why that was half my scheme. blushing becomes plain features, and will make a beauteous cheek more beauteous. my commands are giv'n to bring your father, nathan, here. another comes as well. you'll guess his name? hither they come! will you allow it, sittah? sittah. brother! saladin. and when he comes, maid, you must blush to crimson. recha. sittah! wherefore should i blush? saladin. you young dissembler, you will else grow pale! but as thou wilt and canst. (_a female slave enters, and approaches_ sittah.) what, here so soon? sittah. well, let them enter. brother, here they are! scene viii. nathan, _the_ templar, _and the others_. saladin. welcome, my dear good friends! nathan, to you i must first mention, you may send and fetch your moneys when you will. nathan. sultan---- saladin. and now i'm at your service. nathan. sultan---- saladin. for my gold is now arrived; the caravan is safe: these many years i have not been so rich. now, tell me what you wish for, to achieve some splendid speculation? you in trade, like us, have never too much ready cash. nathan. why speak about this trifle first? i see an eye in tears (_going towards_ recha). my recha, you have wept. what have you lost? are you not still my child? recha. my father! nathan. that's enough! we're understood by one another! but look up--be calm, be cheerful! if your heart is still your own, and if no threatened loss disturb your breast, your father is not lost to you! recha. none, none! templar. none! then i'm much deceived. what we don't fear to lose, we ne'er have loved, and ne'er have wished to be possessed of. but 'tis well, 'tis well! nathan, this changes all! at your command, we come here, sultan. you have been misled by me, and i will trouble you no more! saladin. rash, headlong youth! must every temper yield to yours!--and must we all thus guess your mind? templar. but, sultan, you have heard and seen it all. saladin. well, truly, it was awkward to be thus uncertain of your cause! templar. i know my fate. saladin. whoe'er presumes upon a service done, cancels the benefit. what you have saved is, therefore, not your own. or else the thief, urged by mere avarice through flaming halls, were like yourself a hero. (_advancing towards_ recha _to lead her to the_ templar.) come, sweet maid! be not reserved towards him. had he been so, were he less warm, less proud, he had held back, and had not saved you. weigh the former deed against the latter, and you'll make him blush! do what he should have done! confess your love! make him your offer! and if he refuse, or e'er forget how infinitely more you do for him than he has done for you-- for what, in fact, have been his services, save soiling his complexion? a mere sport-- else has he nothing of my assad in him, but only wears his mask. come, lovely maid. sittah. go, dearest, go! this step is not enough for gratitude; it is too little. nathan. hold! hold, saladin! hold, sittah! saladin. what would you? nathan. it is the duty of another now to speak. saladin. who questions that? beyond all doubt a foster--father has a right to vote first, if you will. you see i know the whole. nathan. not quite. i speak not, sultan, of myself. there is another and a different man whom i must first confer with, saladin. saladin. and who is he? nathan. her brother. saladin. recha's brother? nathan. e'en so. recha. my brother! have i then a brother? templar (_starting from his silent and sullen inattention_). where is this brother? not yet here! 'twas here i was to meet him. nathan. patience yet awhile. templar (_bitterly_). he has imposed a father on the girl; he'll find a brother for her now! saladin. indeed, that much was wanting. but this mean rebuke, christian, had ne'er escaped my assad's lips. nathan. forgive him: i forgive him readily. who knows what in his youth and in his place we might ourselves have thought? (_approaching him in a very friendly manner_) suspicion, knight, follows upon reserve. had you at first vouchsafed to me your real name---- templar. how! what! nathan. you are no stauffen. templar. tell me who i am. nathan. conrad of stauffen, not. templar. then what's my name? nathan. leo of filneck. templar. how? nathan. you start! templar. with reason. but who says this? nathan. i, who can tell you more. meanwhile, observe, i tax you not with falsehood. templar. indeed! nathan. it may be both names fit you well. templar. i think so. (_aside_) god inspired him with that thought. nathan. your mother was a stauffen: and her brother (the uncle to whose care you were consigned, when, by the rigour of the climate chased, your parents quitted germany, to seek this land once more) was conrad. he, perhaps, adopted you as his own son and heir. is it long since you travelled hither with him? does he still live? templar. what shall i answer him? he speaks the truth. nathan, 'tis so indeed; but he himself is dead. i journeyed here, with the last troops of knights, to reinforce our order. but inform me how this tale concerns your recha's brother. nathan. well, your father---- templar. what! did you know him too? nathan. he was my friend. templar. your friend! oh, nathan, is it possible? nathan. oluf of filneck did he style himself; but he was not a german. templar. you know that? nathan. he had espoused a german, and he lived for some, time with your mother there. templar. no more of this, i beg. but what of recha's brother? nathan. it is yourself. templar. what, i? am i her brother? recha. he, my brother? saladin. are they so near akin? recha (_approaching the_ templar). my brother! templar (_stepping back_). i, your brother? recha (_stopping and turning to nathan_). no, in truth, it cannot be. his heart makes no response. o god! we are deceivers. saladin (_to the_ templar). say you so? is that your thought? all is deceit in you: the voice, the gesture, and the countenance, nothing of these is yours. how! will you not acknowledge such a sister? then begone! templar (_approaching him humbly_). oh! do not misinterpret my surprise. sultan, you never saw your assad's heart at any time like this. then do not err, mistake not him and me. (_turning to_ nathan.) you give me much, nathan, and also you take much away, and yet you give me more than you withdraw-- ay, infinitely more. my sister, sister! (_embraces_ recha.) nathan. blanda of filneck. templar. blanda, ha! not recha? your recha now no more! have you resigned your child? give her her christian name once more, and for my sake discard her then. oh, nathan, why must she suffer for a fault of mine? nathan. what mean you, oh, my children, both of you? for sure my daughter's brother is my child whenever he shall wish. (_while they embrace_ nathan, saladin _uneasily approaches_ sittah.) saladin. what say you, sister? sittah. sittah. i'm deeply moved---- saladin. and i half tremble when i think of the emotion that must come: prepare yourself to bear it as you may. sittah. what! how! saladin. nathan, a word--one word with you. (_he joins_ nathan, _while_ sittah _approaches the others to express her sympathy, and_ nathan _and_ saladin _converse in a low tone_.) hear, hear me, nathan. said you not just now that he---- nathan. that who? saladin. her father was not born in germany. you know then whence he came? and what he was? nathan. he never told me that. saladin. was he no frank, nor from the western land? nathan. he said as much. he spoke the persian tongue. saladin. the persian! need i more? 'tis he! 'twas he! nathan. who? saladin. assad, my brother assad, beyond doubt. nathan. if you think so, then be assured from this: look in this book (_handing him the breviary_). saladin. oh, 'tis his hand! once more i recognise it. nathan. they know naught of this: it rests with you to tell them all the truth. saladin (_turning over the leaves of the breviary_). they are my brother's children. shall i not acknowledge them and claim them? or shall i abandon them to you? (_speaking aloud_.) sittah, they are the children of my brother and of yours. (_rushes to embrace them_.) sittah (_following his example_). what do i hear? could it be otherwise? saladin (_to the_ templar). proud youth! from this time forward you are bound to love me. (_to_ recha.) and henceforth, without your leave or with it, i am what i vowed to be. sittah. and so am i. saladin (_to the_ templar). my son! my assad's son! templar. i of your blood! then those were more than dreams with which they used to lull my infancy-- (_falls at_ sultan's _feet_.) saladin (_raising him_). there, mark the rascal! though he knew something of what has chanced, he was content that i should have become his murderer! beware. (_the curtain falls whilst they repeatedly embrace each other in silence_.) end of vol. i. * * * * * london: printed by william clowes and sons, stamford street and charing cross. york street, covent garden, _november_, . a classified catalogue of selected works published by george bell and sons. * * * contents: travel and archæology | poetry and drama biography--history , | law and reference philosophy | natural history theology | art and ornament standard prose | young people * * * * * _travel and archeology_. ancient athens; its history, topography, and remains. by t. h. dyer, ll.d. super-royal vo. copiously illustrated. _l_. _s_. 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'mrs. ewing gives us some really charming writing. while her first story most prettily teaches children how much they can do to help their parents, the immediate result will be, we fear, anything but good. for if a child once begins "the brownies," it will get so deeply interested in it, that when bed-time comes it will altogether forget the moral, and will weary its parents with importunities for just a few minutes more to see how everything ends. the frontispiece, by the old friend of our childhood, george cruikshank, is no less pretty than the story.'--_saturday review_. mrs. overtheway's remembrances. illustrated with fine full-page engravings on wood, after drawings by pasquier and wolf, and edition, cloth gilt, _s_. _d_. 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"'melchior's dream' is an exquisite little story, charming by original humour, buoyant spirits, and tender pathos."--_athenæum_. a flat iron for a farthing; or, some passages in the life of an only son. with illustrations by h. allingham. th edition. small vo. _s_. 'let every parent and guardian who wishes to be amused, and at the same time to please a child, purchase "a flat iron for a farthing; or, some passages in the life of an only son," by j. h ewing. we will answer for the delight with which they will read it themselves, and we do not doubt that the young and fortunate recipients will also like it. the story is quaint, original, and altogether delightful.'--_athenæum_. 'a capital book for a present. no child who is fortunate enough to possess it will be in a hurry to put it down, for it is a book of uncommon fascination. the story is good, the principles inculcated admirable, and some of the illustrations simply delicious.'--_john bull_. lob-lie-by-the-fire; or, the luck of lingborough. and other tales. illustrated by george cruikshank. nd edition. imp. mo. _s_. 'a charming tale by another of those clever writers, thanks to whom the children are now really better served than their neighbours.'--_spectator_. 'mrs. ewing has written as good a story as her "brownies," and that is saying a great deal. "lob-lie-by-the-fire" has humour and pathos, and teaches what is right without making children think they are reading a sermon.'--_saturday review_. six to sixteen: a story for girls. with illustrations by mrs. allingham. rd edition. small post vo. _s_. 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'the tone of the book is pleasant and healthy, and singularly free from that sentimental, not to say "mawkish," stain which is apt to disfigure such productions. the illustrations by mrs. allingham add a special attraction to the little volume.'--_times_. 'it is scarcely necessary to say that mrs. ewing's book is one of the best of the year.'--_saturday review_. 'there is in it not only a great deal of common sense, but there is true humour.... we have not met a healthier or breezier tale for girls for a long period.'--_academy_. jan of the windmill; a story of the plains. with illustrations by helen allingham. crown vo. _s_. _d_. 'a capital story, which, like all that mrs. ewing gives us, will be read with pleasure some well-drawn illustrations materially increase the attractiveness of the volume.'--_city press_. _by mrs. o'reilly_. 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'at once a poet and a child lover, full of fun and yet disposed gently to instil what is good, dr. monsell is inimitable in this particular department.'--_john bull_. * * * * * london: george bell & sons, york street, covent garden. the dramatic works of gerhart hauptmann (authorized edition) edited by ludwig lewisohn assistant professor in the ohio state university volume two: social dramas contents introduction _by the editor_. drayman henschel (fuhrmann henschel) _translated by the editor_. rose bernd (rose bernd) _translated by the editor_. the rats (die ratten) _translated by the editor_. introduction the first volume of the present edition of hauptmann's dramatic works is identical in content with the corresponding volume of the german edition. in the second volume _the rats_ has been substituted for two early prose tales which lie outside of the scope of our undertaking. hence these two volumes include that entire group of dramas which hauptmann himself specifically calls social. this term must not, of course, be pressed too rigidly. only in _before dawn_ and in _the weavers_ can the dramatic situation be said to arise wholly from social conditions rather than from the fate of the individual. it is true, however, that in the seven plays thus far presented all characters are viewed primarily as, in a large measure, the results of their social environment. this environment is, in all cases, proportionately stressed. to exhibit it fully hauptmann uses, beyond any other dramatist, passages which, though always dramatic in form, are narrative and, above all, descriptive in intention. the silent burden of these plays, the ceaseless implication of their fables, is the injustice and inhumanity of the social order. hauptmann, however, has very little of the narrow and acrid temper of the special pleader. he is content to show humanity. it is quite conceivable that the future, forgetful of the special social problems and the humanitarian cult of to-day, may view these plays as simply bodying forth the passions and events that are timeless and constant in the inevitable march of human life. the tragedies of _drayman henschel_ and of _rose bernd_, at all events, stand in no need of the label of any decade. they move us by their breadth and energy and fundamental tenderness. no plays of hauptmann produce more surely the impression of having been dipped from the fullness of life. one does not feel that these men and women--hanne schäl and siebenhaar, old bernd and the flamms--are called into a brief existence as foils or props of the protagonists. they led their lives before the plays began: they continue to live in the imagination long after henschel and rose have succumbed. how does christopher flamm, that excellent fellow and most breathing picture of the average man, adjust his affairs? he is fine enough to be permanently stirred by the tragedy he has earned, yet coarse enough to fall back into a merely sensuous life of meaningless pleasures. but at his side sits that exquisite monitor--his wife. the stream of their lives must flow on. and one asks how and whither? to apply such almost inevitable questions to hauptmann's characters is to be struck at once by the exactness and largeness of his vision of men. few other dramatists impress one with an equal sense of life's fullness and continuity, "the flowing, flowing, flowing of the world." the last play in this volume, _the rats_, appeared in , thirteen years after _drayman henschel_, nine years after _rose bernd_. a first reading of the book is apt to provoke disappointment and confusion. upon a closer view, however, the play is seen to be both powerful in itself and important as a document in criticism and _kulturgeschichte_. it stands alone among hauptmann's works in its inclusion of two separate actions or plots--the tragedy of mrs. john and the comedy of the hassenreuter group. nor can the actions be said to be firmly interwoven: they appear, at first sight, merely juxtaposed. hauptmann would undoubtedly assert that, in modern society, the various social classes live in just such juxtaposition and have contacts of just the kind here chronicled. his real purpose in combining the two fables is more significant. following the great example, though not the precise method, of molière, who produced _la critique de l'École des femmes_ on the boards of his theater five months after the hostile reception of _l'École des femmes_, hauptmann gives us a naturalistic tragedy and, at the same time, its criticism and defense. his tenacity to the ideals of his youth is impressively illustrated here. in his own work he has created a new idealism. but let it not be thought that his understanding of tragedy and his sense of human values have changed. the charwoman may, in very truth, be a muse of tragedy, all grief is of an equal sacredness, and even the incomparable hassenreuter--wind-bag, chauvinist and consistent _goetheaner_--is forced by the essential soundness of his heart to blurt out an admission of the basic principle of naturalistic dramaturgy. the group of characters in _the rats_ is unusually large and varied. the phantastic note is somewhat strained perhaps in quaquaro and mrs. knobbe. but the convincingness and earth-rooted humanity of the others is once more beyond cavil or dispute. the hassenreuter family, alice rütterbusch, the spittas, paul john and bruno mechelke, mrs. kielbacke and even the policeman schierke--all are superbly alive, vigorous and racy in speech and action. the language of the plays in this volume is again almost wholly dialectic. the linguistic difficulties are especially great in _the rats_ where the members of the berlin populace speak an extraordinarily degraded jargon. in the translation i have sought, so far as possible, to differentiate the savour and quaintness of the silesian dialect from the coarseness of that of berlin. but all such attempts must, from their very nature, achieve only a partial success. the succeeding volumes of this edition, presenting the plays written in normal literary german, will offer a fairer if not more fascinating field of interpretation. ludwig lewisohn. drayman henschel _list of persons_ drayman henschel. mrs. henschel. hanne schÄl (_later mrs. henschel_). bertha. horse dealer walther. siebenhaar. karlchen. wermelskirch. mrs. wermelskirch. franziska wermelskirch. hauffe. franz. george. fabig. hildebrant. veterinarian grunert. fireman. time: toward the end of the eighteen sixties. scene: the "gray swan" hotel in a silesian watering place. the first act _a room, furnished peasant fashion, in the basement of the "grey swan" hotel. through two windows set high in the left wall, the gloomy light of a late winter afternoon sickers in. under the windows there stands a bed of soft wood, varnished yellow, in which mrs. henschel is lying ill. she is about thirty-six years of age. near the bed her little six-months-old daughter lies in her cradle. a second bed stands against the back wall which, like the other walls, is painted blue with a dark, plain border near the ceiling. in front, toward the right, stands a great tile-oven surrounded by a bench. a plentiful supply of small split kindling wood is piled up in the roomy bin. the wall to the right has a door leading to a smaller room. hanne schÄl, a vigorous, young maid servant is very busy in the room. she has put her wooden pattens aside and walks about in her thick, blue stockings. she takes from the oven an iron pot in which food is cooking and puts it back again. cooking spoons, a twirling stick and a strainer lie on the bench; also a large, thick earthenware jug with a thin, firmly corked neck. beneath the bench stands the water pitcher. hanne's skirts are gathered up in a thick pad; her bodice is dark grey; her muscular arms are bare. around the top of the oven is fastened a square wooden rod, on which long hunting stockings are hung up to dry, as well as swaddling clothes, leathern breeches and a pair of tall, water-tight boots. to the right of the oven stand a clothes press and a chest of drawers--old fashioned, gaily coloured, silesian pieces of furniture. through the open door in the rear wall one looks out upon a dark, broad, underground corridor which ends in a glass door with manicoloured panes. behind this door wooden steps lead upward. these stairs are always illuminated by a jet of gas so that the panes of the door shine brightly. it is in the middle of february; the weather without is stormy._ _franz, a young fellow in sober coachman's livery, ready to drive out, looks in._ franz hanne! hanne eh? franz is the missis asleep? hanne what d'you suppose? don't make so much noise! franz there's doors enough slammin' in this house. if that don't wake her up--! i'm goin' to drive the carriage to waldenburg. hanne who's goin'? franz the madam. she's goin' to buy birthday presents. hanne whose birthday is it? franz little karl's. hanne great goin's on--those. to hitch up the horses on account o' that fool of a kid an' travel to waldenburg in such weather! franz well, i has my fur coat! hanne those people don't know no more how to get rid o' their money! we got to slave instead! _in the passage appears, slowly feeling his may, the veterinarian grunert. he is a small man in a coat of black sheep's fur, cap and tall boots. he taps with the handle of his whip against the door post in order to call attention to his presence._ grunert isn't henschel at home yet? hanne what's wanted of him? grunert i've come to look at the gelding. hanne so you're the doctor from freiburg, eh? henschel, he's not at home. he went to freiburg carryin' freight; seems to me you must ha' met him. grunert in which stall do you keep the gelding? hanne 'tis the chestnut horse with the white star on his face, i believe they put him in the spare stall. [_to franz._] you might go along an' show him the way. franz just go straight across the yard, 's far as you can, under the big hall, right into the coachman's room. then you c'n ask frederic; he'll tell you! [_exit grunert._ hanne well, go along with him. franz haven't you got a few pennies change for me? hanne i s'pose you want me to sell my skin on your account? franz [_tickling her._] i'd buy it right off. hanne franz! don't you--! d'you want the woman to wake up? you don't feel reel well, do you, if you can't wring a few farthings out o' me! i'm fair cleaned out. [_rummaging for the money._] here! [_she presses something into his hand._] now get out! [_the bell rings._ franz [_frightened._] that's the master. good-bye. [_he goes hastily._ mrs. henschel [_has waked up and says weakly._] girl! girl! don't you hear nothin'? hanne [_roughly._] what d'you want? mrs. henschel i want you to listen when a body calls you! hanne i hear all right! but if you don't talk louder i can't hear. i got only just two ears. mrs. henschel are you goin' to cut up rough again? hanne [_surly._] ah, what do i--! mrs. henschel is that right, eh? is it right o' you to talk rough like that to a sick woman? hanne who starts it, i'd like to know! you don't hardly wake up but what you begin to torment me. nothin's done right, no matter how you do it! mrs. henschel that's because you don't mind me! hanne you better be doin' your work yourself. i slaves away all day an' half o' the night! but if things is that way--i'd rather go about my business! [_she lets her skirts fall and runs out._ mrs. henschel girl! girl!--don't do that to me! what is it i said that was so bad? o lord, o lord! what'll happen when the men folks comes home? they wants to eat! no, girl ... girl! [_she sinks back exhausted, moans softly, and begins to rock her baby's cradle by means of a cord which is within her reach._ _through the glass door in the rear karlchen squeezes himself in with some difficulty. he carries a dish full of soup and moves carefully and timidly toward mrs. henschel's bed. there he sets down the dish on a wooden chair._ mrs. henschel eh, karlchen, is that you! do tell me what you're bringin' me there? karlchen soup! mother sends her regards and hopes you'll soon feel better and that you'll like the soup, mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel eh, little lad, you're the best of 'em all. chicken soup! 'tis not possible. well, tell your mother i thank her most kindly. d'you hear? don't go an' forget that! now i'll tell you somethin', karlchen! you c'n do me a favour, will you? see that rag over there? get on this bench, will you, an' pull the pot out a bit. the girl's gone off an' she put it too far in. karlchen [_after he has found the rag mounts the bench cheerfully and looks into the oven. he asks:_] the black pot or the blue one, mrs. henschel? mrs. henschel what's in the blue pot? karlchen sauerkraut. mrs. henschel [_agitated._] pull it out! that'll be boilin' to nothin'!--eh, what a girl, what a girl! karlchen [_has pulled the pot in question forward._] is this right? mrs. henschel you c'n let it stand that way! come here a bit now an' i'll give you a piece o' whip cord. [_she takes the cord from the window-sill and gives it to him._] an' how is your mother? karlchen she's well. she's gone to waldenburg to buy things for my birthday. mrs. henschel i'm not well, myself. i think i'm goin' to die! karlchen oh, no, mrs. henschel! mrs. henschel yes, yes, you c'n believe me; i'm goin' to die. for all i care you can say so to your mother. karlchen i'm goin' to get a bashly cap, mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel yes, yes, you c'n believe me. come over here a bit. keep reel still an' listen. d'you hear how it ticks? d'you hear how it ticks in the rotten wood? karlchen [_whose wrist she holds in her fevered grasp._] i'm afraid, mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel oh, never mind. we all has to die! d'you hear how it ticks? do you? what is that? 'tis the deathwatch that ticks. [_she falls back._] one ... two ... one ...--oh, what a girl, what a girl! _karlchen, released from her grasp, withdraws timidly toward the door. when his hand is on the knob of the glass door a sudden terror overtakes him. he tears the door open and slams it behind him with such force that the panes rattle. immediately thereupon a vigorous cracking of whips is heard without. hearing this noise mrs. henschel starts up violently._ mrs. henschel that's father comin'! henschel [_out in the hallway and yet unseen._] doctor, what are we goin' to do with the beast? [_he and the veterinarian are visible through the doorway._ grunert he won't let you come near him. we'll have to put the twitch on him, i think. henschel [_he is a man of athletic build, about forty-five years old. he wears a fur cap, a jacket of sheep's fur under which his blue carter's blouse is visible, tall boots, green hunting stockings. he carries a whip and a burning lantern._] i don't know no more what's wrong with that beast. i carted some hard coal from the mine yesterday. i came home an' unhitched, an' put the horses in the stable, an'--that very minute--the beast throws hisself down an' begins to kick. [_he puts his long whip in a corner and hangs up his cap._ _hanne returns and takes up her work again, although visibly enraged._ henschel girl, get a light! hanne one thing after another! henschel [_puts out the light in the lantern and hangs it up._] heaven only knows what all this is comin' to. first my wife gets sick! then this here horse drops down! it looks as if somethin' or somebody had it in for me! i bought that gelding christmas time from walther. two weeks after an' the beast's lame. i'll show him. two hundred crowns i paid. mrs. henschel is it rainin' outside? henschel [_in passing._] yes, yes, mother; it's rainin'.--an' it's a man's own brother-in-law that takes him in that way. [_he sits down on the bench._ _hanne has lit a tallow candle and puts it into a candle stick of tin, which she sets on the table._ mrs. henschel you're too good, father. that's what it is. you don't think no evil o' people. grunert [_sitting down at the table and writing a prescription._] i'll write down something for you to get from the chemist. mrs. henschel no, i tell you, if that chestnut dies on top o' everythin' else--! i don't believe god's meanin' to let that happen! henschel [_holding out his leg to hanne._] come, pull off my boots for me! that was a wind that blew down here on the road from freiburg. people tell me it unroofed the church in the lower village more'n half, [_to hanne._] just keep on tuggin'! can't you get it? mrs. henschel [_to hanne._] i don't know! you don't seem to learn nothin'! [_hanne succeeds in pulling off one boot. she puts it aside and starts on the other._ henschel keep still, mother! you don't do it any better! hanne [_pulls off the second boot and puts it aside. then in a surly voice to henschel._] did you bring me my apron from kramsta? henschel all the things i'm axed to keep in my head! i'm content if i c'n keep my own bit of business straight an' get my boxes safe to the railroad. what do i care about women or their apron-strings? grunert no, you're not famous for caring about them. mrs. henschel an' it'd be a bad thing if he was! henschel [_slips on wooden pattens and rises. to hanne._] hurry now! hurry! we got to get our dinner. this very day we still has to go down to the smithy. grunert [_has finished writing his prescription, which he leaves lying on the table. he slips his note book and pencil back into his pocket and says as he is about to go:_] you'll hurry this to the chemist's. i'll look in early in the morning. [_henschel sits down at the table._ _hauffe comes in slowly. he has wooden pattens on and leathern breeches and also carries a lighted lantern._ hauffe that's dirty weather for you again! henschel how's it goin' in the stable? hauffe he's goin' to end by knockin' down the whole stall. [_he blows out the light in the lantern and hangs it up next to henschel's._ grunert good night to all of you. all we can do is to wait. we doctors are only human too. henschel to be sure. we know that without your telling us! good night; i hope you won't overturn. [_grunert goes._] now tell me, mother, how is it with you? mrs. henschel oh. i've been worritin' so much again! henschel what is it that worries you? mrs. henschel because for all i c'n do, i'm not able to lend a hand even. _hanne places a disk of dumplings and one of sauerkraut on the table; she takes forks from the table drawer and puts them on the table._ henschel the girl's here to do the work! mrs. henschel a girl like her is that thoughtless! henschel oh, we gets enough to eat an' everythin' seems to go smoothly.--if you hadn't got up out o' bed too soon the first time, you might be dancin' this day! mrs. henschel o lord, me an' dancin'. what an idea! _hanne has prepared three plates, putting a small piece of pork on each. she now draws up a stool for herself and sits down at the table._ hauffe there's not much left o' the oats, neither. henschel i bought some yesterday; thirty sacks. saturday a load o' hay'll come too. the feed gets dearer all the time. hauffe if the beasts is to work they has to eat. henschel but people thinks they live on air, an' so everybody wants to cut down the carting charges. hauffe he said somethin' like that to me too. mrs. henschel who said that--the inspector? henschel who else but him? but this time he met the wrong man. mrs. henschel well, well, i'm not sayin', but that's the end of everythin'! what's to become of us these hard times? hanne the inspector of roads was here. he wants you to send him teams for the big steam roller, i believe. they're in hinterhartau now. _behind the glass door mr. siebenhaar is seen descending the stairs. he is little over forty. most carefully dressed; black broadcloth coat, white waist-coat, light-coloured, english trousers--an elegance of attire derived from the style of the 'sixties. his hair, already grey, leaves the top of his head bald; his moustache, on the contrary, is thick and dark blond. siebenhaar wears gold-rimmed spectacles. when he desires to see anything with exactness, he must use, in addition, a pair of eye-glasses which he slips in behind the lenses of his spectacles. he represents an intelligent type._ siebenhaar [_approaches the open door of the room. in his right hand he holds a candle-stick of tin with an unlit candle in it and a bunch of keys; with his left hand he shades his sensitive eyes._] has henschel come back yet? henschel yes, mr. siebenhaar. siebenhaar but you're just at your dinner. i have something to do in the cellar. we can talk that matter over later. henschel no, no; you needn't put nothin' off on my account. i'm through! siebenhaar in that case you'd better come up to see me. [_he enters the room and lights his candle by the one which is burning on the table._] i'll only get a light here now. we're more undisturbed in my office.--how are you, mrs. henschel? how did you like the chicken-soup? mrs. henschel oh, goodness, gracious! i clean forgot about it! siebenhaar is that so, indeed? hanne [_discovering the dish of chicken soup._] that's true; there it stands. henschel that's the way that woman is! she'd like to get well an' she forgets to eat and to drink. siebenhaar [_as a violent gust of wind is felt even indoors._] do tell me: what do you think of it? my wife's driven over to waldenburg, and the weather is getting wilder and wilder. i'm really beginning to get worried. what's your opinion? henschel i s'pose it sounds worse than it is. siebenhaar well, well, one shouldn't take such risks. didn't you hear that rattling? the wind broke one of the large windows in the dining-hall looking out over the verandah. you know. it's a tremendous storm! henschel who'd ha' thought it! mrs. henschel that'll be costin' you a good bit again! siebenhaar [_leaving the room by way of the passage to the left._] there's nothing inexpensive except death. henschel he's got his bunch o' troubles like the rest of us. mrs. henschel what do you think he wants o' you again, father? henschel nothin'! how c'n i tell? i'll hear what he says. mrs. henschel i do hope he won't be askin' for money again. henschel don't begin talkin' nonsense, mother. hanne but if them people is as hard up as all that, why does the woman has to have a twenty shillin' hat? henschel you hold your tongue! no one asked you! you poke your nose over your kneadin' board an' not into other folks' affairs! it takes somethin' to keep a hotel like this goin'. two months in the year he makes money. the rest o' the time he has to do the best he can. hauffe an' he had to go an' build atop o' that! mrs. henschel an' 'twas that as got him in worse'n ever. he should ha' let it be. henschel women don't understand nothin' o' such affairs. he had to build; he couldn't do no different. we gets more an' more people who come here for their health nowadays; there wasn't half so many formerly. but in those times they had money; now they wants everythin' for nothin'. get the bottle. i'd like to drink a nip o' whiskey. hauffe [_slowly clasping his knife and getting ready to rise._] forty rooms, three big halls, an' nothin' in 'em excep' rats an' mice. how's he goin' to raise the interest? [_he rises._ _franziska wermelskirch peeps in. she is a pretty, lively girl of sixteen. she wears her long, dark hair open. her costume is slightly eccentric: the skirts white and short, the bodice cut in triangular shape at the neck, the sash long and gay. her arms are bare above the elbows. around her neck she wears a coloured ribbon from which a crucifix hangs down._ franziska [_very vivaciously._] wasn't mr. siebenhaar here just now? i wish you a pleasant meal, ladies and gentlemen! i merely took the liberty of asking whether mr. siebenhaar hadn't been here just now? mrs. henschel [_gruffly._] we don't know nothin'. he wasn't with us! franziska no? i thought he was! [_she puts her foot coquettishly on the bench and ties her shoe strings._ mrs. henschel mr. siebenhaar here an' mr. siebenhaar there! what are you always wantin' of the man? franziska i? nothing! but he's so fond of gooseliver. mama happens to have some and so papa sent me to tell him so.--by the way, mr. henschel, do you know that you might drop in to see us again, too! mrs. henschel you just let father bide where he is! that'd be a fine way! he's not thinkin' about runnin' into taverns these days. franziska we're broaching a new keg to-day, though. henschel [_while hauffe grins and hanne laughs._] mother, you stick to your own affairs. if i should want to go an' drink a glass o' beer i wouldn't be askin' nobody's consent, you c'n be sure. franziska --how are you anyhow, mrs. henschel? mrs. henschel oh, to-morrow i'll be gettin' me a sash too an' take to rope-dancin'. franziska i'll join you. i can do that splendidly. i always practice on the carriage shafts. henschel so that's the reason why all the shafts are bent! franziska do you see, this is the way it's done; this is the way to balance oneself. [_imitating the movements of a tight rope dancer, she prances out by the door._] right leg! left leg! _au revoir!_ [_exit._ hauffe [_taking down his lantern._] she'll go off her head pretty soon if she don't get no husband. [_exit._ mrs. henschel if she had to lend a hand an' work good an' hard, she'd get over that foolishness. hanne she's not allowed to come upstairs. mrs. siebenhaar won't have her. mrs. henschel an' she's right there. i wouldn't bear it neither. hanne she's always chasin' an' sniffin' around mr. siebenhaar. i'm willin' people should please theirselves. but she's goin' it hard. mrs. henschel the siebenhaars ought to put them people out. the goin's on with the men an' the wenches. henschel aw, what are you talkin' about, mother? mrs. henschel well, in the tap room. henschel well, they has to live same as anybody. d'you want to see 'em put in the streets? wermelskirch's not a bad fellow at all. mrs. henschel but the woman's an old witch. henschel if he pays his rent nothin' won't happen to him on that account. an' not on account o' the girl by a long way. [_he has arisen and bends over the cradle._] we've got a little thing like that here too, an' nobody's goin' to put us out for that! mrs. henschel eh, that would be ...! she's asleep all the time; she don't seem to want to wake up! henschel there's not much strength in her.--mother, sure you're not goin' to die!--[_taking his cap from the nail._] hanne, i was just foolin' you a while ago. your apron is lyin' out there in the waggon. hanne [_eagerly._] where is it? henschel in the basket. go an' look for it! [_henschel leaves by way of the middle door; hanne disappears into the small adjacent room._ mrs. henschel so he brought her the apron after all! _hanne runs quickly through the room again and goes out by the middle door._ mrs. henschel an' he brought her the apron after all! _siebenhaar enters carefully, carrying his candle and keys as before and, in addition, two bottles of claret._ siebenhaar all alone, mrs. henschel? mrs. henschel an' he brought the apron ... siebenhaar it's me, mrs. henschel. did you think it was a stranger? mrs. henschel i don't hardly believe ... siebenhaar i hope i didn't wake you up. it's me--siebenhaar. mrs. henschel to be sure. yes. to be sure. siebenhaar and i'm bringing you a little wine which you are to drink. it will do you good.--is it possible you don't recognize me? mrs. henschel well, now, that'd be queer. you are, sure--you are our mr. siebenhaar. things hasn't come to such a pass with me yet. i recognise you all right!--i don't know: has i been dreamin' or what? siebenhaar you may have been. how are you otherwise? mrs. henschel but sure enough you're siebenhaar. siebenhaar perhaps you thought i was your husband! mrs. henschel i don't know ... i reely can't say ... i was feelin' so queer ... siebenhaar seems to me you're not lying comfortably. let me straighten your pillows a bit. does the doctor see you regularly? mrs. henschel [_with tearful excitement._] i don't know how it is--they just leaves me alone. no, no, you're mr. siebenhaar, i know that. an' i know more'n that: you was always good to me an' you has a good heart, even if sometimes you made an angry face. i can tell you: i'm that afraid! i'm always thinkin': it don't go quick enough for him. siebenhaar what doesn't go quick enough? mrs. henschel [_bursting into tears._] i'm livin' too long for him--! but what's to become o' gustel? siebenhaar but, my dear mrs. henschel, what kind of talk is that? mrs. henschel [_sobbing softly to herself._] what's to become o' gustel if i die? siebenhaar mrs. henschel, you're a sensible woman! and so do listen to me! if one has to lie quietly in bed, you see, the way you have had to do unfortunately--week after week--why then one naturally has all kinds of foolish thoughts come into one's head. one has all sorts of sickly fancies. but one must resist all that resolutely, mrs. henschel! why, that would be a fine state of affairs, if that--! such stuff! put it out of your mind, mrs. henschel! it's folly! mrs. henschel dear me, i didn't want to believe it: i know what i says! siebenhaar that's just what you don't know. that's just what, unfortunately, you don't know at present. you will simply laugh when you look back upon, it later. simply laugh! mrs. henschel [_breaking out passionately._] didn't he go an' see her where she sleeps! siebenhaar [_utterly astonished but thoroughly incredulous._] who went to see whom? mrs. henschel henschel! the girl! siebenhaar your husband? and hanne? now look here; whoever persuaded you of that is a rascally liar. mrs. henschel an' when i'm dead he'll marry her anyhow! _henschel appears in the doorway._ siebenhaar you're suffering from hallucinations, mrs. henschel! henschel [_in good-natured astonishment._] what's the matter, malchen? why are you cryin' so? siebenhaar henschel, you mustn't leave your wife alone! henschel [_approaches the bed in kindly fashion._] who's doin' anythin' to you? mrs. henschel [_throws herself in sullen rage on her other side, turning her back to henschel and facing the wall._] ... aw, leave me in peace! henschel what's the meanin' o' this? mrs. henschel [_snarling at him through her sobs._] oh, go away from me! _henschel, visibly taken aback, looks questioningly at siebenhaar, who polishes his glasses and shakes his head._ siebenhaar [_softly._] i wouldn't bother her just now. mrs. henschel [_as before._] you're wishin' me into my grave! siebenhaar [_to henschel, who is about to fly into a rage._] sh! do me the favour to keep still! mrs. henschel a body has eyes. a body's not blind! you don't has to let me know everythin'. i'm no good for nothin' no more; i c'n go! henschel [_controlling himself._] what do you mean by that, malchen? mrs. henschel that's right! go on pretendin'! henschel [_perplexed in the extreme._] now do tell me--anybody ...! mrs. henschel things c'n go any way they wants to ... i won't be deceived, an' you c'n all sneak aroun' all you want to! i c'n see through a stone wall! i c'n see you for all--yes--for all! you thinks: a woman like that is easy to deceive. rot, says i! one thing i tell you now--if i dies, gustel dies along with me! i'll take her with me! i'll strangle her before i'd leave her to a damned wench like that! henschel but mother, what's come over you? mrs. henschel you're wishin' me into my grave! henschel hold on, now, hold on! or i'll be gettin' wild! siebenhaar [_warning him softly._] be calm, henschel. the woman is ill. mrs. henschel [_who has overheard._] ill? an' who was it made me ill? you two--you an' your wench! henschel now i'd like to know who in the world put notions like that into your head? the girl an' i! i don't understand the whole blasted thing! i'm supposed to have dealin's with her? mrs. henschel don't you fetch aprons an' ribands for her? henschel [_with renewed perplexity._] aprons and ribands? mrs. henschel yes, aprons and ribands. henschel well, that's the queerest thing--! mrs. henschel don't you think everythin' she does right an' fine? d'you ever give her a angry word? she's like the missis of the house this very day. henschel mother, keep still: i'm advisin' you! mrs. henschel 'tis you that has to keep still, 'cause there's nothin' you c'n say! siebenhaar [_standing by the bed._] mrs. henschel, you must collect yourself! all this you're saying is the merest fancy! mrs. henschel you're no better'n he; you don't do no different! an' the poor women--they dies of it! [_dissolved in self-pitying tears._] well, let 'em die! _siebenhaar gives a short laugh with an undertone of seriousness, steps up to the table and opens one of the bottles of wine resignedly._ henschel [_sitting on the edge of the bed speaks soothingly_] mother, mother--you turn over now an' i'll say a word to you in kindness. [_he turns her over with kindly violence._] look at it this way, mother: you've been havin' a dream. you dreamed--that's it! our little dog, he dreams queer things too now an' then. you c'n see it. but now wake up, mother! y'understan'? the stuff you been talkin'--if a man wanted to make a load o' that the strongest freight waggon'd break down. my head's fair spinnin' with it. siebenhaar [_having looked for and found a glass which he now fills._] and then you raked me over the coals too! henschel don't take no offence, sir. a woman like that! a man has his troubles with her.--now you hurry up, mother, an' get well, or some fine day you'll be tellin' me i been to bolkenhain an' stole horses. siebenhaar here, drink your wine and try to gain some strength. mrs. henschel if only a body could be sure! _siebenhaar supports her while she drinks._ henschel what's wrong now again? mrs. henschel [_after she has drunk._] could you give me a promise? henschel i'll give you any promise you wants. mrs. henschel if i dies, would you go an' marry her? henschel don't ask such fool questions. mrs. henschel yes or no! henschel marry hanne? [_jestingly._] o' course i would! mrs. henschel i mean it--serious ...! henschel now i just wish you'd listen to this, mr. siebenhaar! what's a man to say? you're not goin' to die! mrs. henschel but if i does? henschel i won't marry her anyhow! now you see? an' now you know it! we can make an end o' this business. mrs. henschel can you promise it? henschel promise what? mrs. henschel that you wouldn't go an' marry the girl! henschel i'll promise, too; i'm willin' to. mrs. henschel an' you'll give me your hand in token? henschel i'm tellin' you: yes. [_he puts his hand into hers._] but now it's all right. now don't worry me no more with such stuff. the curtain falls. the second act _a beautiful forenoon in may._ _the same room as in the first act. the bed, in which mrs. henschel lay, is no longer there. the window which it covered is wide open. hanne, her face toward the window, her sleeves turned up above her elbows, is busy at the washtub._ _franz, his shirt-sleeves and trousers also rolled up, his bare feet in wooden pattens, comes in carrying a pail. he has been washing waggons._ franz [_with awkward merriment._] hanne, i'm comin' to see you! lord a'mighty! has you got such a thing as some warm water? hanne [_angrily throwing the piece of linen which she has on the washboard back into the tub and going over to the oven._] you come in here a sight too often! franz is that so? what's wrong, eh? hanne [_pouring hot water into the pail._] don't stop to ask questions. i got no time. franz i'm washin' waggons; i'm not idlin' neither. hanne [_violently._] you're to leave me alone! that's what you're to do! i've told you that more'n once! franz what am i doin' to you? hanne you're not to keep runnin' after me! franz you've forgotten, maybe, how it is with us? hanne how 'tis with us? no ways; nothin'! you go you way an' i goes mine, an' that's how it is! franz that's somethin' bran' new! hanne it's mighty old to me! franz that's how it seems.--hanne, what's come between us! hanne nothin', nothin'! only just leave me alone! franz has you anythin' to complain of? i been true to you! hanne oh, for all i care! that's none o' my business! carry on with anybody you want to! i got nothin' against it! franz since when has you been feelin' that way? hanne since the beginnin' o' time! franz [_moved and tearful._] aw, you're just lyin', hanne! hanne you don't need to start that way at me. 'twon't do you no good with me! i don't let a feller like you tell me i'm lyin'! an' now i just want you to know how things is. if your skin's that thick that you can't be made to notice nothin' i'll tell you right out to your face: it's all over between us! franz d'you really mean that, hanne? hanne all over--an' i want you to remember that. franz i'll remember it all right! [_more and more excited and finally weeping more than speaking._] you don't need to think i'm such a fool; i noticed it long before to-day. but i kept thinkin' you'd come to your senses. hanne that's just what i've done. franz it's all the way you look at it. i'm a poor devil--that's certain; an' henschel--he's got a chest full o' money. there's one way, come to think of it, in which maybe you has come to your senses. hanne you start at me with such talk an' it just makes things worse an' worse. that's all. franz it's not true, eh? you're not schemin' right on to be mrs. henschel? i'm not right, eh? hanne that's my business. that don't concern you. we all has to look out for ourselves. franz well, now, supposin' i was to look out for myself, an' goes to henschel an' says: hanne, she promised to marry me; we was agreed, an' so.... hanne try it, that's all i says. franz [_almost weeping with pain and rage._] an' i will try it, too! you take care o' yourself an' i'll take care o' myself. if that's the way you're goin' to act, i c'n do the same! [_with a sudden change of front._] but i don't want to have nothin' more to do with you! you c'n throw yourself at his head for all i cares! a crittur like you isn't good enough for me! [_exit hastily._ hanne so it worked at last. an' that's all right. _while hanne continues busy at her washing, wermelskirch appears in the passage at the rear. he is a man in the fifties; the former actor is unmistakable in him. he wears a thread-bare dressing-gown, embroidered slippers, and smokes a very long pipe._ wermelskirch [_having looked in for a while without being noticed by hanne._] did you hear him cough? hanne who? wermelskirch why, a guest--a patient--has arrived upstairs. hanne 'tis time they began to come. we're in the middle of may. wermelskirch [_slowly crosses the threshold and hums throatily._] a pulmonary subject i, tra la la la la, bum bum! it can't last long until i die, tra la la la la, bum bum! [_hanne laughs over her washing._] things like that really do one good. they show that the summer is coming. hanne one swallow don't make no summer, though! wermelskirch [_clears a space for himself on the bench and sits down._] where is henschel? hanne why he went down, to the cemetery to-day. wermelskirch to be sure, it's his wife's birthday. [_pause._] it was a deuce of a blow to him, that's certain.--tell me, when is he coming back? hanne i don't know why he had to go an' drive there at all. we needs the horses like anything an' he took the new coachman with him too. wermelskirch i tell you, hanne, anger spoils one's appetite. hanne well, i can't help bein' angry! he leaves everythin' in a mess. the 'bus is to leave on time! an' the one-horse carriage sticks in the mud out there an' hauffe can't budge it! the old fellow is as stiff as a goat! wermelskirch yes, things are beginning to look busy. the _chef_ upstairs starts in to-day. it's beginning to look up in the tap-room too. hanne [_with a short derisive laugh._] you don't look, though, as if you had much to do! wermelskirch [_taking no offence._] oh, that comes later, at eleven o'clock. but then i'm like a locomotive engine! hanne i believe you. there'll be a lot o' smoke. you won't let your pipe get cold whatever happens. wermelskirch [_smiling a little._] you're pleased to be pointed in your remarks--pointed as a needle.--we've got to-day, for our table music, wait now, let me think--: first of all, a bass violin; secondly, two cellos; thirdly, two first violins and two second violins. three first, two second, three second, two first: i'm getting mixed up now. at all events we have ten men from the public orchestra. what are you laughing at? do you think i'm fooling you? you'll see for yourself. the bass violin alone will eat enough for ten. there'll be work enough to do! hanne [_laughing heartily._] of course: the cook'll have a lot to do! wermelskirch [_simply._] my wife, my daughter, the whole of my family--we have to work honestly and hard.--and when the summer is over we've worked ourselves to the bone--for nothing! hanne i don't see what you has to complain of. you've got the best business in the house. your taproom don't get empty, if it's summer or winter. if i was siebenhaar upstairs, you'd have to whistle a different tune for me. you wouldn't be gettin' off with no three hundred crowns o' rent. there wouldn't be no use comin' around me with less'n a thousand. an' then you'd be doin' well enough for yourself! wermelskirch [_has arisen and walks about whistling._] would you like anything else? you frighten me so that my pipe goes out! _george, a young, alert, neat waiter comes very rapidly down the stairs behind the glass door, carrying a tray with breakfast service. while still behind the door he stops short, opens the door, however, and gazes up and down the passage way._ george confound it all! what's this place here? hanne [_laughing over her tub._] you've lost your way! you has to go back! george it's enough, god knows, to make a feller dizzy, no horse couldn't find his way about this place. hanne you've just taken service here, eh? george well o' course! i came yesterday. but tell me, ladies an' gentlemen! nothin' like this has ever happened to me before. i've been in a good many houses but here you has to take along a kind o' mountain guide to find your way. wermelskirch [_exaggerating the waiter's saxonian accent._] tell me, are you from dresden, maybe? george meissen is my native city. wermelskirch [_as before._] good lord a'mighty, is that so indeed? george how do i get out of here, tell me that! hanne [_alert, mobile, and coquettish in her way in the waiter's presence._] you has to go back up the stairs. we has no use down here for your swallow tails. george this is the first story, eh? best part o' the house? hanne you mean the kennels or somethin' like that? we'll show you--that we will! the very best people live down here! george [_intimately and flirtatiously._] young woman, do you know what? you come along an' show me the way? with you i wouldn't be a bit afraid, no matter where you lead me to. i'd go into the cellar with you or up into the hay loft either. hanne you stay out o' here! you're the right kind you are! we've got enough of your sort without you. george young woman, do you want me to help with the washin'? hanne no! but if you're aimin' at it exackly, i c'n help you to get along! [_half drawing a piece of linen out of the suds._] then you'd be lookin' to see where your starched shirt-front went to! george o dear! you're not goin' to mess me up that way, are you? well, well, that wouldn't do! we'd have to have a talk about that first! that so, young woman? well, o' course! we'll talk about it--when i has time, later. [_he mounts the stairs and disappears._ wermelskirch he won't lose his way very often after this! siebenhaar will see to it that he gets to know the way from the dining hall to the kitchen.--hanne, when is henschel coming back? hanne about noon, i s'pose! d'you want me to give him a message? wermelskirch tell him--don't forget, now--tell him that i--send him my regards. hanne such foolishness. i might ha' thought ...! wermelskirch [_passing her with a slight bow._] thoughts are free ... i wish you a good morning. [_exit._ hanne [_alone, washing vigorously._] if only henschel wasn't such a fool! _above the cellar, outside, the pedlar fabig, kneeling down, looks in at the window._ fabig good mornin', young woman! how are you? how's everythin'? hanne who are you anyhow? fabig why--fabig, from quolsdorf. don't you know me no more? i'm bringin' you a greetin' from your father. an' he wants me to tell you ... or maybe you'd want me to come in? hanne aw, i know. i believe you. he wants money again. well, i has none myself. fabig i told him that myself. he wouldn't believe me. are you all alone, young woman? hanne why d'you ax? fabig [_lowering his voice._] well now you see, there's more'n one thing i has on my heart. an', through the window, people might be hearin' it. hanne oh well, i don't care. you c'n come in! [_fabig disappears from the window._] that that feller had to be comin' to-day ...! [_she dries her hands._ _fabig enters. he is a poorly clad, strangely agile, droll pedlar, with a sparse beard, about thirty-six years old._ fabig a good mornin' to you, young woman. hanne [_fiercely._] first of all, i'm no young woman but a girl. fabig [_with cunning._] maybe so. but from all i hears you'll be married soon. hanne that's nothin' but a pack o' mean lies--that's what it is. fabig well, that's what i heard. it's no fault o' mine. people is sayin' it all over; because mrs. henschel died ... hanne well, they can talk for all i care. i does my work. that's all that concerns me. fabig that's the best way. i does that way myself. there's little that folks hasn't said about me some time ... in altwasser they says i steals pigeons. a little dog ran after me ... o' course, they said i stole it. hanne well now, if you got anythin' to say to me, go ahead an' don't waste words. fabig now you see, there you are. that's what i always says too. people talks a good deal more'n they ought to. they has a few rags to sell an' they talks an' talks as if it was an estate. but i'll say just as little as possible. what i wants to tell you about, young woman--now don't fly up: the word just slipped out!--i meant to say: lass--what i wants to tell you about is your daughter. hanne [_violently._] i has no daughter, if you want to know it. the girl that father is takin' care of, is my sister's child. fabig well now, that's different, that is. we've all been thinkin' the girl was yours. where is your sister? hanne who knows where she is? she's not fool enough to tell us. she thinks, thinks she: they c'n have the trouble an' see how they gets along. fabig well, well, well! there you see again how folks is mistaken. i'd ha' taken any oath ... an' not me, not me alone, but all the folks over in quolsdorf, that you was the mother o' that child. hanne yes, i knows right well who says that o' me. i could call 'em all by name! they'd all like to make a common wench o' me. but if ever i lays my hands on 'em i'll give 'em somethin' to remember me by. fabig well, it's a bad business--all of it! because this is the way it is: the old man, your father, i needn't be tellin' you--things is as they is--he don't hardly get sober. he just drinks in one streak. well, now that your mother's been dead these two years, he can't leave the little thing--the girl i mean--at home no more. the bit o' house is empty. an' so he drags her around in the pubs, in all kinds o' holes, from one village taproom to the next. if you sees that--it's enough to stir a dumb beast with pity. hanne [_with fierce impatience._] is it my fault that he swills? fabig by no means an' not at all. nobody c'n keep your old man from doin' his way! 'tis only on account o' the child, an' it's that makes a body feel sorry. but if that there little one can't be taken away from him an' given in the care o' decent folks, she won't live no ten weeks after this. hanne [_hardening herself._] that don't concern me. i can't take her. i got all i can do to get along! fabig you'd better come over to quolsdorf some time an' look into it all. that'd be best, too. the little girl ... 'tis a purty little thing, with bits o' hands an' feet like that much porcelain, so dainty an' delicate. hanne she's not my child an' she don't concern me. fabig well, you better come over an' see what's to be done. it's hard for people to see such things goin' on. if a man goes into an inn, in the middle of the night or some time like that--i got to do that, you see, in the way o' business--an' sees her sittin' there with the old man in the midst o' tobacco smoke--i tell you it hurts a body's soul. hanne the innkeepers oughtn't to serve him nothin'. if they was to take a stick an' beat him out o' their places, maybe he'd learn some sense.--a waggon's just come into the yard. here you got a sixpence. now you get along an' i'll be thinkin' it all over. i can't do nothin' about it this minute. but if you goes aroun' here in the inns an' talks about it--then it's all over between us. fabig i'll take good care, an' it don't concern me. if it's your child or your sister's child--i'm not goin' to poke my nose in the parish register, nor i'm not goin' to say nothin' neither. but if you want a bit o' good advice,'tis this: tell henschel straight out how 'tis. he won't tear your head off by a long way! hanne [_with increasing excitement as henschel's voice grows more clearly audible._] oh this here jabberin'! it's enough to drive you crazy. [_exit into the adjoining room._ _henschel enters slowly and seriously. he wears a black suit, a top hat and white knitted gloves._ henschel [_remains standing and looks at fabig with an expression of slow recollection. simply and calmly._] who are you? fabig [_alertly._] i buy rags, waste paper, furniture, cast off clothes, anythin' that happens to be aroun'. henschel [_after a long glance, good-naturedly but with decision._] out with the fellow! _fabig withdraws with an embarrassed smile._ henschel [_takes off his top-hat and wipes his forehead and neck with a manicoloured handkerchief. thereupon, he places his hat on the table and speaks toward the door of the next room:_] girl, where are you? hanne i'm with gustel here in the little room. henschel all right. i c'n wait. [_he sits down with a sigh that is almost a groan._] yes, yes, o lord--a man has his troubles. hanne [_enters busily._] the dinner'll be ready this minute. henschel i can't eat; i'm not hungry. hanne eatin' and drinkin' keeps body an' soul together. i was once in service with a shepherd, an' he said to us more'n one time: if a body has a heartache or somethin' like that, even if he feels no hunger, 'tis best to eat. henschel well, cook your dinner an' we'll see. hanne you shouldn't give in to it. not as much as all that. you got to resign yourself some time. henschel was that man horand, the bookbinder, here? hanne everythin's attended to. he made forty new billheads. there they are on the chest. henschel then the work an' the worry begins again. drivin' in to freiburg mornin' after mornin' an' noon after noon haulin' sick people across the hills. hanne you're doin' too much o' the work yourself. old hauffe is too slow by half. i can't help it--if i was you i'd get rid o' him. henschel [_gets up and goes to the window._] i'm sick of it--of the whole haulin' business. it c'n stop for all i care. i got nothin' against it if it does. to-day or to-morrow; it's the same to me. all you got to do is to take the horses to the flayers, to chop up the waggons for kindlin' wood, an' to get a stout, strong bit o' rope for yourself.--i think i'll go up an' see siebenhaar. hanne i was wantin' to say somethin' to you when i got a chance. henschel well, what is it, eh? hanne you see, it's not easy for me. no, indeed. [_elaborately tearful._] but my brother--he needs me that bad. [_weeping._] i'll have to leave--that's sure. henschel [_in extreme consternation._] you're not right in your mind. don't start that kind o' business! _hanne, shedding crocodile tears, holds her apron to her eyes._ henschel well now, look here, lass: you're not goin' to play me that kind of a trick now! that would be fine! who's goin' to manage the house? summer's almost with us now an' you want to leave me in the lurch? hanne [_with the same gesture._] 'tis the little one i feels sorry for! henschel if you don't take care of her, who's goin' to? hanne [_after a space collecting herself apparently by an effort of the will. quietly:_] it can't be done no different. henschel everythin' c'n be done in this world. all you needs is to want to do it.--you never said nothin' about it before. an' now, suddenly, you talk about your brother!--maybe i been offendin' you some way? don't you feel suited with me no more? hanne there's no end to the gossip that's goin' round. henschel what kind o' gossip? hanne oh, i don't know. i'd rather be goin out o' the way of it. henschel i'd like to know just what you mean! hanne i does my work an' i takes my pay! an' i won't have nobody say such things o' me. when the wife was still alive i worked all day; now that she's dead, i don't do no different. people c'n say all they wants to; i'm tryin' to make you think i'm fine, an' i want dead people's shoes. i'd rather go into service some other place. henschel [_relieved._] you needn't say no more if that's all it is! hanne [_takes up some piece of work as an excuse for leaving the room._] no, no, i'll go. i can't never stay! [_exit._ henschel [_talking after her._] you c'n let people talk an' not say much yourself. all them tongues has to wag for an occupation. [_he takes off his black coat and hangs it up. sighing._] the pack o' troubles don't get no smaller. _siebenhaar comes in slowly. he carries a decanter full of water and a glass._ siebenhaar good morning, henschel. henschel good mornin' mr. siebenhaar, siebenhaar am i disturbing you? henschel not a bit; not at all. you're very welcome. siebenhaar [_placing the decanter and the glass on the table._] i've got to drink the medicinal spring water again. i'm having that old trouble with my throat. well, dear me, a man has to die of something! henschel you must just go ahead an' drink the waters. they'll cure you. siebenhaar yes, that's just what i'm doing. henschel an' not from the mill spring nor from the upper spring. ours is the best. siebenhaar well now, to change the subject. [_half lost in thought he has been toying with a sprig of ivy. now he observes this, starts slightly, runs his eyes over the top-hat and henschel himself and says suddenly:_] this was your wife's birthday, wasn't it? henschel she'd ha' been thirty-six years old to-day. siebenhaar is it possible? henschel oh, yes, yes. [_pause._] siebenhaar henschel, i'd better leave you alone now. but when it's agreeable to you--to-morrow maybe, i'd like to talk over some business with you. henschel i'd rather you went ahead right now. siebenhaar it's about the thousand crowns ... henschel before we says any more, mr. siebenhaar. you c'n just keep that money till winter. why should i be lyin' to you? you see? i don't need the money. i don't care exackly when i gets it; an' that it's safe, i'm satisfied o' that. siebenhaar well, henschel, in that case i'm very grateful to you. you're doing me a great favour. during the summer i take in money; you know that. just now it would have been difficult for me. henschel well, you see, so we c'n agree fine. [_pause._] siebenhaar. [_walking to and fro._] yes, yes, i sometimes wonder over myself. i grew up in this house. and yet, to-day, if i could but make a decent closing out, i could leave it quite calmly. henschel i wouldn't like to go, i must say. i wouldn't hardly know where to go to. siebenhaar things have moved ahead with you, henschel. but the same set of conditions that has counted in your favour, has been that against which i've had to struggle to keep my head above water. henschel the shoe pinches one man in this place an' another man in that. who's goin' to say which is worse off? you see, i got a good, hard blow, too. an' if i'm goin' to recover ... well, i don't hardly feel like myself yet. [_pause._] siebenhaar henschel, there's a time for everything! you'll have to conquer that now. you must go out among people, hear things, see things, drink a glass of beer once in a while, plunge into business, perhaps--somehow, put an end to this sad business. it can't be helped, and so--forward! henschel 'tis just as you say! you're quite right! siebenhaar to be sure, your wife was the best, most faithful woman. there's only one opinion about that. but you are in the full current of life, henschel; you're in your best years; you still have a great deal to do in the world: who knows how much. you needn't forget your wife on that account; on the contrary. and that's entirely out of the question in the case of a man like you. but you must honour her memory in a saner way. this kind of brooding does no good. i've been watching you for a good while and i determined, without saying anything, to make a really strong appeal to you one day. you're letting yourself be actually downed. henschel but what's a man to do against it? you're right--that you are; but times i hardly know what to do! you say: plunge into business. but there's somethin' lackin' all around. four eyes sees better'n two; four hands--they c'n do a sight more. now i got all these coaches here in the summer! an' there's no one to see to things at home! 'tis not easy, i c'n tell you that. siebenhaar i thought that hanne was quite a capable girl. henschel well, you see, she's given me notice, too.--'tis too hard for a man to get along without a wife. yon can't depend on no one. that's just it; that's just what i says! siebenhaar why don't you marry, henschel? henschel 'twould be best!--what c'n i do without a wife? a man like me can't get along without one. i was thinking in fact, of goin' upstairs an' askin' the missis if, maybe, she could give me some advice in that direction. she died an' left me alone in the midst of all these worries.--an', also, to tell you the truth, this business of mine's not what it used to be. how long is it goin' to be before the railroad comes here? well, you see, we'd put by a little, an' we wanted to buy a small inn--maybe in two years or so. well, that can't be done without a woman neither. siebenhaar true. you won't be able to get along this way permanently. you can't remain a widower the rest of your life. if for no other reason but for the child's sake. henschel that's what i always says. siebenhaar of course i have no right to interfere in your affairs. still, we're old friends. to wait, henschel, just on account of what people will think--that's sheer nonsense, no more, no less. if you are quite seriously thinking of marrying again, it would be better both for you and for the child if you did it soon. you needn't be overhasty; assuredly not! but if you've quite made up your mind, then--go straight ahead! why should you hesitate? [_after a pause during which henschel scratches his head._] have you any one particular in view? henschel --if i got some one in view? that's what you'd like to know? maybe i has. only i can't marry her. siebenhaar but why not? henschel you know it yourself. siebenhaar i? i know it? how's that? henschel all you got to do is a little thinkin'. siebenhaar [_shaking his head._] i can't say that i recall at this moment. henschel didn't i have to go an' promise my wife ... siebenhaar. ------?--oh, yes!!--you mean the girl--hanne?-- [_pause._] henschel i been thinkin' an' thinkin'. there's no use in denyin' it. when i wakes up during the night, i can't sleep for a couple o' hours sometimes. i got to be thinkin' of it all the time. i can't get over it any way!--the girl's a good girl. she's a bit young for an old fellow like me, but she c'n work enough for four men. an' she's taken very kindly to gustel; no mother could do more'n she. an' the girl's got a head on her, that's sure, better'n mine. she c'n do sums better'n i can. she might go an' be a calculator. she knows a bit o' business to the last farthing, even if six weeks have come an' gone since. i believe she could make a fool o' two lawyers. siebenhaar well, if you're so thoroughly convinced of all that ...! henschel there wouldn't be no better wife for me! an' yet ... an' yet! i can't get over it. [_pause._] siebenhaar i do remember quite dimly now what you mean. it was quite at the end of her life.--but i confess to you quite frankly: i didn't take that matter so very seriously. your wife was in a very excited condition. and that was caused largely by her illness.--i can't think that that is the main question. the real question must finally be whether hanne is really suitable for you! she has her advantageous qualities: no doubt about that. there are things about her that i like less. however: who hasn't some faults. people say that she has a child. henschel that she has. i've inquired. well, even so. i don't care nothin' about that. was she to wait for me, eh? she didn't know nothin' about me when that happened. she's hot-blooded; all right. that'll come out somehow. when the pears is ripe, they falls to the ground. on that account--no, that don't trouble me none. siebenhaar well, then! the other matter is trivial. perhaps not trivial exactly. i can well understand how it's taken hold of you. still, one must get free of it. to be bound by it, in spite of one's saner thought--that's clearly folly, henschel. henschel i've said that to myself ten times over. you see, my wife she didn't never want anythin' but what was for my best good. i mean, in the days when she was well. she wouldn't want to stand in my way. wherever she is, maybe, she'd want to see me get along. siebenhaar assuredly. henschel well, i went out to her grave to-day. the missis had a wreath put there too. i thought to myself i'd better go there, that's what i thought. maybe she'll be sendin' you some message. mother, i said in my thoughts, give me a sign. yes or no! anyway you answers, that way it'll be! an' i stood, there half an hour.--i prayed, too, an' i put it all to her--just to myself, o' course--about the child an' the inn an' that i don't know what to do in my business--but she didn't give me no sign. _hanne enters throwing sidelong glances at the two men, but at once going energetically to work. she puts the washbench and tub aside and busies herself at the stove._ siebenhaar [_to henschel._] god give the dead peace and blessedness. you are a man; you're in the midst of life. why should you need signs and miracles? we can find our way in this world by depending with fair certainty on our reason. you simply go your way. you're captain on your own ship. overboard with all these fancies and sickly notions! the more i think of your plan, the more rational it seems to me ... henschel hanne, what do you say about it? hanne i don't know. how c'n i tell what you're talkin' about? henschel you just wait: i'll tell you later. siebenhaar well, good morning, henschel. i'll see you later. meanwhile--good luck! henschel i'll hope i'll have it. siebenhaar i'm not worried about you. you had a lucky way with you always. [_exit._ henschel yon shouldn't be sayin' it! 'tis bad luck. hanne if you spits three times, it'll take the curse off. [_pause._] hanne i can't help thinkin' as you're too good. henschel what makes you think so? hanne people just robs you: that's what i says. henschel did you think he wanted somethin' of me? hanne well, what else? he ought to be ashamed to come beggin' o' poor people. henschel hanne, you don't know what you're sayin'. hanne i knows well enough. henschel that's what you don't. an' you couldn't know. but some day, later on, you'll come to understand.--now i'll be goin' to the taproom an' buy me a mug o' beer. it'll be the first time these eight weeks. after that we c'n eat, an' after the dinner then--listen to me--then we might say a word to each other. then we c'n see how everythin' c'n be straightened out.--or, maybe, you don't care about it? hanne you was sayin' yourself: we c'n see. henschel an' that's what i says now. we c'n wait. [_exit._ [_pause._] hanne [_works on undisturbed. when henschel is out of hearing, she suddenly ceases, scarcely mastering her joyous excitement, she dries her hands and tears off her apron. in involuntary triumph:_] i'll show you. watch out! the curtain falls. the third act _the same room as tn the two preceding acts._ _it is evening toward the end of november. a fire is burning in the oven; a lighted candle stands on the table. the middle door is closed. muffled dance music penetrates into the room from the upper stories of the house._ _hanne, now mrs. henschel, sits by the table and knits; she is neatly and suitably clad in a dress of blue cotton, and wears a red kerchief across her breast._ _hildebrant, the smith, enters. a small, sinewy person._ hildebrant good evenin', missis, where's your husband? mrs. henschel gone to breslau. he's fetchin' three new horses. hildebrant then i s'pose he won't be comin' home to-day, eh? mrs. henschel not before monday. hildebrant well, this is saturday.--we've brought back the board waggon. it's downstairs in the entry way. we had to renew all the four tires. where's hauffe? mrs. henschel he hasn't been with us this long time. hildebrant so he hasn't. 'tis nonsense i'm talkin'. i mean the new servant. is schwarzer here? mrs. henschel he's gone along to breslau. hildebrant fact is i knows all about hauffe. he comes down to the smithy an' just stands aroun'. he's got nothin' to do yet. mrs. henschel people says he's beginnin' to drink. hildebrant i believes it. that's the way it goes. 'tis bad for an old fellow like that; nobody wants him now.--what's goin' on up there to-day? mrs. henschel dancin'! hildebrant how'd it be if we was to go up there too, missis. why shouldn't we be joinin' in a little waltz too? mrs. henschel they'd open their eyes pretty wide up there if we did.--but what is it you want of henschel? hildebrant his honour, the judge, has a chestnut stallion that don't want to let hisself be shoed. so we wanted to ax henschel to step over. if he can't get any beast to stand still, why then--! well, good evenin', mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel good evenin'. _hildebrant withdraws._ mrs. henschel. [_listens to a dragging noise out in the passage._] what kind of a noise is that there? [_she steps forward and opens the door._] who's makin' all that racket out there? franziska [_comes dancing in._] get out of the way, mrs. henschel! i have no time. [_she whirls about in the room to the measure of the waltz heard from above._] mrs. henschel well, this is a fine way to act! what's the matter with you? did a mad dog bite you, maybe? _franziska dances on and hums the melody of the waltz._ mrs. henschel [_more and more amused._] for heaven's sake! somethin's goin' to happen to you!--no, girl, you're goin' clear out o' your mind! franziska [_sinks exhausted into a chair as the music breaks off._] oh, mrs. henschel, i could dance myself to death! mrs. henschel [_laughing._] at this here rate i believes you! it makes a body feel dizzy just to watch you. franziska don't you dance at all? mrs. henschel me? if i dance? to be sure i do. 'twasn't once or twice only that i got a pair o' new shoes an' danced 'em to pieces in one night! franziska come and dance with me then! mrs. henschel why don't you go upstairs an' dance with the folks there? franziska oh, if only i might! do you know what i'll do? i'll sneak up! i'll sneak into the gallery! have you ever been up there? the bags of prunes stand up there. i go up there quite boldly and look down, and eat prunes. why shouldn't i look down from there? mrs. henschel an' maybe siebenhaar'll send for you to come down. franziska i just stare down as bold as you please. i don't care a bit. and whenever a lady dances with mr. siebenhaar, i pelt her with plum pits. mrs. henschel you're crazy about siebenhaar--that's certain! franziska well, he's a real swell--that's what none of the others are. [_the music is heard again._] ah, they're starting. that's a polka! [_dancing again._] i'd like to dance with mr. siebenhaar this minute. d'you know what i'd do? i'd just kiss him before he knew what was happening. mrs. henschel siebenhaar'd be too old for me! franziska your husband is just as old, mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel look here, girl, i want you to know that my husband is a good five years younger. franziska well, he looks much older anyhow. why, he looks so old and wrinkled. no, i wouldn't care to kiss him. mrs. henschel you better see about getting out o' here, or i'll take a broom an' help you along! don't you abuse my husband! an' where would i get a better one? you wait till you're a few years older an' you'll see what it means in this world to have a husband! franziska i won't marry at all. i'll wait till some fine, rich gentleman comes--some summer--for his health--a russian, by preference--and then i'll let him take me out into the world. i want to see the world--to wander far--i want to go to paris. and then i'll write you about myself, mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel i do believe you'll run off some day! franziska you can wager anything that i will. mr. siebenhaar was in paris, too, you know, during the revolution in 'forty-eight, and he can tell you the most interesting stories! oh, i'd like to see a revolution like that some day too. they build barricades ... wermelskirch's voice franziska! franziska! where are you keeping yourself again? franziska sh! don't say anything! wermelskirch's voice franziska! franziska! franziska sh! keep still! he wants me to serve at the bar. and that's horrid and i won't do it! wermelskirch's voice franziska! franziska it's papa's or mama's place to do that. or they can hire a waiter. i won't be turned into a bar maid. mrs. henschel that's not the worst kind o' thing! franziska oh, if there were real gentlemen to serve! but they're just well--attendants, coachmen and miners. much obliged for such company! i don't care about it! mrs. henschel if i was you, i'd do that reel easy. an' i'd be gettin' good tips. you could save a good many pennies an' put by a nice sum. franziska i won't accept pennies and farthings. and if some time mr. siebenhaar or the architect or dr. valentiner gives me a present, i spend it on sweetmeats right away. mrs. henschel ah, that's just it. you're your father's daughter. an' your mother wasn't much different neither. you people don't take care o' the business you has! if you'd ha' done so you'd have money out at interest this day. franziska we're not as stingy as you, that's all. mrs. henschel i'm not stingy. but you got to keep your substance together. franziska people say you're stingy, though! mrs. henschel people c'n be--! an' you too! hurry now an' get out o' here! i'm sick o' your jabberin' now! an' you don't need to come back here neither! i haven't been longin' for you, exackly! 'tis best not to see or hear anything o' the whole crowd o' you. franziska [_turning once more at the door, with angry malice._] do you know what else people say? mrs. henschel i don't want to know nothin'! get out o' here! you look out that you don't get to hear things about yourself! who knows what's between you an' siebenhaar? you two knows it an' i knows it too. otherwise you'd ha' been kicked out twenty times over with your slovenly management! teach me to know siebenhaar! franziska fy, fy and fy again! [_exit._ mrs. henschel the baggage! _the middle door has remained open. siebenhaar and the waiter george, coming from different directions along the passage way, are seen to meet at the door. george affects the height of vienna fashions--hat, cane, long overcoat, gay tie._ siebenhaar what are you after here? george you'll forgive me but i have some business with drayman henschel. siebenhaar henschel is not at home. you've been told three times now that there is no place for you in my house. if you can't remember that henceforth i shall be compelled to have your memory assisted by--the constable. george i beg your pardon very humbly, mr. siebenhaar, but i begs to submit that i don't come to see you. these people lives in your house. an' you can't prove nothin' as touchin' the question of my honour. siebenhaar very well. only, if i should meet you again i'll have the porter kick you out. so you had better act accordingly. [_exit._ george _[enters the room cursing.]_ i'll take that there risk! we'll see about that later! mrs. henschel [_closes the door, with difficulty mastering her rage toward siebenhaar._] we're here, too, i'd have him know. just let him try it! this here is our room, not his room, an' anybody that comes here comes to us an' not to him! he's got no right to say nothin' about it! george we'll just wait an' see--that's all i says. he might have to pay good an' dear for that. that kind o' thing takes a man to the pen. he got hisself into a nasty mess with alphonse, who was here two years ago. but he'd be gettin' into a worse mess with me. a hundred crowns o' damages'd be too little for me. mrs. henschel an' he hasn't got no hundred crowns in his pocket--the damned bankrupt! he's been borrowing of everybody in the county. he's got nothin' but debts; you hear that on all sides. 'twon't be long before there won't be nothin' left an' he'll have to leave the house hisself instead o' puttin' other people out of it! george [_has recovered his overcoat, hung up his hat, and is now picking off the little feathers from his coat and trousers._] that's right! an' that's no secret to nobody. even the people that come here year in an' out says the same. an' nobody is sorry for him; no, they're willin' it should happen to him. my present boss, he can't stand him neither. he gets reel venomous if you so much as mention siebenhaar's name. [_takes a pocket-mirror and comb from his pocket and smooths his hair._] lord knows, he says, there's more tricks to that man than a few. mrs. henschel i believes that; i s'ppose he's right there. george now then, hanne, has you got somethin' warm for me? mrs. henschel why didn't you come yesterday? george you thinks i c'n get off every day, don't you? 'twas hard enough to get to come here to-day! yesterday i was busy till three o'clock in the mornin'. mrs. henschel: what was it happened? george there was a meetin' o' the fire board. they bought a new engine, an' so they wanted to celebrate the purchase. that's how they came to have a meetin'. mrs. henschel all they wants is an excuse to swill. an' all that while i sat till late at night and waited. once--i don't know, but it must ha' been a bird flyin' against the window--i thought 'twas you, an' so i went to the window an' opened it. after that i was that mad, i couldn't sleep half the night. george oh, pshaw! what's the use o' havin' things like that spoil one's temper. [_he puts his arms around her._] that's nothin'! nothin' at all. mrs. henschel [_frees herself from his embrace._] oh, i don't know! 'tis true--i don't know how it comes--but things seem to go contrary with a body. henschel sits aroun' at home the whole week, an' now that he's gone for a bit, we has to let the time slide away! george well, we got plenty o' time to-day. he don't come back till monday, i thought. mrs. henschel who knows if it's true! george i don't know no reason why it shouldn't be true! mrs. henschel that man is bound to sit aroun' at home. 'twasn't half as bad formerly. he used to go on trips weeks at a time; nowadays he whines if he's got to sleep away from home a single night. an' if he says: i'll stay three days, he mostly comes back on the second--listen ... i believe they've come already! who else'd be crackin' whips like that in the yard? george [_after he has listened, in a restrained tone:_] the devil take 'em all--the whole damned crowd! a man hasn't had time to get warm a bit. i s'pose i'll have to leave right off, eh? i thought it'd be mighty different, i must say! [_he slips his overcoat back on and takes up his hat._ mrs. henschel [_tears his hat from his head._] you stay right here! what d'you want to run off for? d'you think i got to be scared o' henschel. he's got to come to my terms. i don't has to think about him. if you'd come yesterday!--i told you ...! then nobody wouldn't ha' interrupted us, no henschel an' no siebenhaar. to-day the devil's broke loose! _the horse dealer walther enters--a handsome, vigorous fellow of forty. bashly cap, fur jacket, hunting stockings and tall boots; his mits are fastened by cords._ walther missis, your husband is outside in the yard. i'm just comin' in for a minute to bid you good evenin'. i got to ride off again straight way. he's bought some fine flemish horses. an' he's brought along something else, for you too. mrs. henschel i thought he wouldn't be comin' back till monday. walther an' that's the way it would ha' been. but we couldn't ride on horseback no farther'n kanth. there we had to take the train with the horses or they'd ha' broken their necks an' their limbs. travellin' was that bad on account o' the sleet. george you makes better time with the train--that's certain! walther what kind of a feller is that there? why, you're tryin' to be invisible, eh? well, if that isn't little george--i do believe! why, you looks like a natural born baron! george a man earns more over there in the "star" hotel. i has a much more profitable position. here i had to work till my clothes dropped from me in rags. i was most naked in the end; now i'm beginnin' to buy somethin' again. walther now guess, missis, what your husband has brought home for you! mrs. henschel well, what is it? walther i wager you'll be mighty glad of that present! mrs. henschel we'll see. it depends on what it is. walther good luck to you then. i got to hurry or my wife'll get ugly. mrs. henschel good luck to you. george i might as well come along. good night, mrs. henschel. mrs. henschel didn't you want to see henschel about somethin'? george there's plenty o' time for that. there's no hurry. walther if you got somethin' to say to him you'd better wait till to-morrow. he's got different kinds o' things in his mind to-day. d'you know what he's bringin' you, missis? mrs. henschel what should he be bringin' me? don't talk so much nonsense. walther why, he's bringin' you your daughter! mrs. henschel --what's that he's bringin'? i didn't hear right! walther we was in quolsdorf and fetched her. mrs. henschel you're drunk, the two o' ye, eh? walther no, no, i'm tellin' you the truth. mrs. henschel who did you get? walther he didn't tell me nothin' about it. all of a sudden we was in the pub at quolsdorf an' sat down there. mrs. henschel well, an' what then? walther we was sittin' there an' then, after a little while, your father came in with the bit of a girl. mrs. henschel 'tis no girl o' mine! walther i don't know nothin' about that! i knows this much though: he's got the child out there. he went up to your father an' he said: the child's a pretty child.--then he took her in his arms an' petted her. shall i take you with me, he axes her, an' she was willin' right off. mrs. henschel well, an' my father? walther well, your father didn't know who henschel was! mrs. henschel better an' better! an' is that all? walther [_almost addressing george now._] no, there was nothin' more. he just took the little one out an' said to your father: i'll let the lass ride horseback. an' she kept cryin' out: lemme ride! lemme ride! then henschel mounted his great flemish horse an' i had to hand the child up to him. after that he said: good-bye, an' rode off. mrs. henschel an' father just stood there an' looked on? walther what was he goin' to do about it? the whole village might ha' turned out for all the good it would ha' done. when once henschel lays his hands on somethin'--i wouldn't advise nobody to cross him! an' there's no one in the county that likes to pick a quarrel with him neither! your father, he didn't know what was goin' on. then suddenly, o' course, he roared like fury an' cried out an' cursed more'n enough. but the people just laughed. they knew henschel. an' he--henschel--he just said reel quiet: good luck to you, father schäl; i'm takin' her along. the mother is waitin' for her at home. stop drinkin'! he said, an' maybe there'll be a place with us for you some day, too. george good-bye, i think i'll maybe drop in to-morrow. [_exit._ mrs. henschel an' so he thinks i'm goin' to keep her here. i'll never do that--never in the world. she's no child o' mine! how would i be lookin' before people? first in quolsdorf, then here! didn't i work an' worry enough? day an' night, you might say, i was busy with gustel. an' now the weary trouble is to begin all over again. that'd be fine, wouldn't it? he'd better take care! _henschel appears in the middle door. he is also clad in leathern breeches, fur jacket, tall boots, etc., just as he has dismounted. he leads by the hand a little girl of six--ragged and unwashed._ henschel [_almost merrily referring to hanne's last words, which he has overheard._] who's to take care? mrs. henschel --oh, i don't know! henschel look, hanne, look who comes here! [_to the child._] go ahead, berthel, an' say good evenin'. go on an' say it! say: good evenin', mama! _berthel leaving henschel unwillingly and walks, encouraged by friendly little shoves from him, diagonally across the room to where hanne, assuming a disgruntled attitude, sits on the bench._ mrs. henschel [_to the child, who stands helplessly before her._] what do you want here? berthel i rode on such a pitty horsie? _henschel and walther laugh heartily._ henschel well now we'll keep her here. hallo, hanne! are you angry about anythin'? mrs. henschel you are sayin' you wouldn't be back till monday. there's not a bite for supper in the house now. henschel there'll be a bit o' bread an' bacon. [_he hangs up his cap._ mrs. henschel [_pulling ungently at berthel's clothes._] how'd you get this way? henschel you'll soon have to buy her somethin' to put on! she's got hardly nothin' on her little body. 'twas a good thing i had plenty o' blankets along, or she'd ha' been half froze on the way. [_after he has removed his fur jacket and warmed his hands._] best thing would be to put her right straight in a tub. mrs. henschel best thing would ha' been if you'd ha' left her where she was. henschel what did you say? mrs. henschel nothin'. henschel i thought you were sayin' somethin'.--into the tub with her! an' then to bed! an' you might go over her head a bit! i believe she's got a little colony there. [_berthel cries out._] what's the matter? don't tug at her so rough! mrs. henschel oh, don't cry, girl! that'd be the last straw! henschel you must be a bit friendly with her. the lass is thankful for every kind word. be quiet, berthel, be quiet! berthel i want to go to father! henschel you're with mother now! mother is good!--i'm reel satisfied that we has her with us. 'twas the highest time. a bit longer an' we might ha' had to look for her in the graveyard. mrs. henschel that wasn't half as bad as you're tryin' to make out. henschel [_in some consternation but still kindly._] what's the meanin' o' that? [_pause._] walther well, good luck to you all. i'll have to be goin'. henschel wait a bit an' drink a glass o' toddy. mrs. henschel if there were only some rum in the house! henschel well, you can fetch it from wermelskirch's! mrs. henschel i don't want to have nothin' to do with those people! walther no, no. i got to go home. i got no time. i got to be ridin' half an hour yet. [_to hanne._] i don't want to be a bother to you. mrs. henschel who mentioned such a thing? walther [_humorously._] nothin'! i didn't say nothin' at all. god forbid! i won't let myself in for nothin'. you're a hard customer. good-bye an' good luck! henschel good-bye, an' don't forget a greetin' to the wife! walther [_already from outside._] all right! good night! i won't forget nothin'. [_exit._ henschel well, didn't i do the right thing this time? mrs. henschel what is i to say to people? henschel --you're not goin' to be ashamed o' your own daughter! mrs. henschel who's sayin' i is, eh? 'tis all the same to me! you're willin' to have 'em say evil o' me. you force 'em to it! [_harshly to the child._] here, drink this milk! an' then off to bed with you! [_berthel drinks._] henschel are you goin' to go on this way? mrs. henschel go on how? henschel with the child! mrs. henschel i'm not goin' to bite her; there's no fear! [_she takes the still weeping child into the little room to bed._ henschel [_speaking after her._] she's not here to be bitten. i needn't ha' brought her, you know! [_a brief pause, after which hanne returns._ henschel a man can't never know how to please you. there's no gettin' along with women folks. you always acted as if.... mrs. henschel [_with tears of rage._] that's a lie if you want to know it! henschel what's a lie! mrs. henschel [_as above._] i never bothered you about berthel. i never so much as mentioned her to you! henschel i didn't say you had. why d'you howl so? on that account, because you didn't say nothin', i wanted to help you in spite o' your silence. mrs. henschel but couldn't you ha' asked? a man ought to say somethin' before he does a thing like that! henschel well now, i'll tell you somethin': this is saturday night. i hurried all i could so's to be at home again. i thought you'd meet me different! but if it's not to be, it can't be helped. only, leave me in peace! you understand! mrs. henschel nobody's robbin' you o' your peace. henschel d'you hear me? i want my peace an' that's all. you brought me to that point. i didn't think nothin' but what was good doin' this thing. gustel is dead. she won't come back no more. her mother took her to a better place. the bed is empty, an' we're alone. why shouldn't we take care o' the little lass? that's the way i thinks an' i'm not her father! you ought to think so all the more, 'cause you're the child's mother! mrs. henschel there you are! you're beginnin' to throw it up to me this minute! henschel if you don't stop i'll go to wermelskirch an' not come back all night! d'you want to drive me out o' the house?--i'm always hopin' things'll be different, but they gets worse ... worse! i thought maybe if you had your child with you, you'd learn a little sense. if these goin's on don't end soon ... mrs. henschel all i say is this: if she stays in the house an' if you tell people that she's mine ... henschel they all know it! i don't have to tell 'em. mrs. henschel then you c'n take your oath on it--i'll run away! henschel run, run all you can--all you want to! you ought to be ashamed o' yourself to the bottom o' your heart! the curtain falls. the fourth act _the tap room in wermelskirch's public house. a flat, whitewashed room with a door leading to the inner rooms of the house on the left. the rear wall of this room is broken, toward its middle. the opening leads to a second, smaller, oblong room. on the right wall of this second room there is a glass door leading out into the open and, farther forward, a window. on the rear wall of the main room the bar is situated, filled with square whisky-bottles, glasses, etc. the beer is also on draught there. highly varnished tables and chairs of cherry wood are scattered about the room. a red curtain divides the two rooms. in the oblong rear room are also chairs and tables and, in the extreme background, a billiard table. lithographs, representing mainly hunting scenes, are hung on the walls._ _wermelskirch, in a dressing gown and smoking a long pipe, sits on the left, himself playing the piano. three members of the voluntary fire-corps play billiards. in the foreground to the right hauffe sits brooding over a glass of whisky. he is noticeably shabby. mrs. wermelskirch, a gipsy-like, slovenly old woman, is rinsing glasses behind the bar. franziska is crouching on a window ledge at the right playing with a kitten. the waiter george is standing at the bar over a glass of beer. he has an elegant spring suit on, as well as patent-leather shoes, kid-gloves and a top-hat set far back on his head._ wermelskirch [_plays and sings._] "when i was prince in realms arcadian, i lived in splendour and in wealth." george [_who has accompanied the music by dancing gestures._] go on, go on with, that! wermelskirch [_coughing affectedly._] can't be done! quite hoarse! anyhow ... pshaw!... i'll try again. "when i was prince ...." [_he coughs._] "when i was prince in realms arcadian, i lived in splen ... i lived in splen ... "! the devil take it! george aw, why don't you go on? that was quite right! that was fine! wermelskirch i see myself trying! it's all over with me! george i don't understand you! that's the finest kind o' chamber music! wermelskirch [_laughing._] chamber music! george well, maybe not! i don't know the differences so well. hallo, miss franziska, what are you laughin' at? franziska i'm laughing at your beautiful patent-leather boots. george go right ahead! you don't expect me to go barefoot. give that man over there a glass of beer. how would you like a bit o' cordial, miss franziska? you're right, my boots is pretty fine ones. they cost me twenty crowns. why not? i c'n stand the expense; i'm able to do it! in the "sword" hotel a man c'n at least earn somethin'. to be sure, while i was at the "star" i couldn't ha' bought no boots like this. wermelskirch so you like it better at the "sword"? george i should say so! a boss like i got now, a reel good fellow--i never had before long's i've been in the business. we're like old friends--like brothers. i could say most anythin' to him! wermelskirch well, that's very different from siebenhaar. _franziska laughs out._ george an' that just shows you: pride goeth before a fall. two or three weeks an' he'll be under the hammer. then i c'n buy myself his gold watch. wermelskirch you'd better buy the whole house! george not just now. you got to wait for the proper time to do a thing like that. an' anyhow, it's sold. your health, gentlemen!... your health, gentlemen! when you're through, i'll order more! what's the name o' the man that bought the house? exner? eh? he's goin' to bottle the spring water an' export it. he's goin' to rent out the hotel.--i'd rent it this minute if i had the money. hauffe why don't you go to henschel? he'll give it to you. george that wouldn't be as much out o' the question as you thinks. hauffe no, that a fac'! you're on pretty good terms with the wife! [_franziska laughs aloud._] george well, why shouldn't i be. that there woman's not half bad. i tell you, a fellow that knows how, c'n make the women feed out o' his hand! hauffe well, if you know enough to make mrs. henschel feed out o' your hand, you must know your business pretty well. i'll say that for you. _fabig enters, the cord of his pack around his shoulders. he sits down modestly in a corner._ george well, there you are; that's what i'm tellin' you! there's pretty few that could come up to me that way. but a man has to be on the lookout, or he'd get a good beatin' an' that's all! wermelskirch well, you're not through with it yet yourself. [_siebenhaar enters from the left._] where henschel strikes down the grass stops growing. your servant, mr. siebenhaar! siebenhaar [_somewhat pale._] good morning! george i think i'll play a game o' billiards. [_he takes up his glass and disappears behind the curtain in the rear._ siebenhaar [_sitting down at a table near the piano._] weren't you just singing, mr. wermelskirch? don't let me interrupt you, please. wermelskirch what? i? singing? that's hardly possible! you know how deeply this business affects me. but if you say so it must be true. permit me to sit down by you. bring me a glass of beer, too, franziska! siebenhaar when one considers that you were completely hoarse three or four years ago, you must admit that you've recuperated remarkably. wermelskirch you're quite right. but what good does it do me? i've half way crawled out of the slough. but who knows what'll happen now? franziska [_places a glass of beer before siebenhaar; to wermelskirch:_] i'll bring yours at once. siebenhaar [_having drunk._] what do you mean by that, exactly? wermelskirch i don't know that i can tell you very exactly what i do mean. but i feel something in my bones. i believe there'll be a change in the weather. jesting aside--i have all kinds of omens that are familiar to an old actor. when the waters here began to do me so much good, i knew certainly that ten horses couldn't drag me away. and it wasn't a month before my road company had gone to smash. now i suppose i'll have to wander on in the same old way again--who knows whither? siebenhaar who knows whither? that's the way of the world. as for me--i'm not sorry! wermelskirch ah, but you're a man in the prime of life. the world has a place for a man like you everywhere. it's different with an old fellow like me. if i lose my means of making a living, i mean, if i'm given notice, what is there left me, i'd like to know? i might actually get me a hurdy-gurdy and franziska could go about and collect the pennies. franziska that wouldn't embarrass me a bit, papa! wermelskirch not if it were to rain gold pieces! franziska and, anyhow, papa, how you always talk! you could go back on the stage! wermelskirch not even at a monkey-show, girlie! siebenhaar did mr. exner intimate anything to you? according to what he told me he meant to leave everything pretty much as it is. wermelskirch well, i hardly belong to what could be summed up as "everything." mrs. wermelskirch [_approaching the table in great excitement._] i must say, mr. siebenhaar, i must say ... and you can take my word for it! i'm an old woman of fifty and i've seen a good deal of the world, but the way we've been treated here--that's really--i don't know what to call it--but it's just vulgar malice, the lowest kind of scheming, pure meanness. you can take my word for that! wermelskirch oh, mother, are you starting in too? you'd better withdraw, if you don't mind, and retire behind your barricade! mrs. wermelskirch i'd like to know what our little fanny did to that woman! franziska oh, never mind, mama! mrs. wermelskirch on the contrary! are we to put up with everything? isn't one to offer any resistance if that woman robs us of our very bread--if she spreads slander about our daughter? [_to siebenhaar._] did the child ever offend you in any way? wermelskirch mama, mama! come along now, mama, and rest a while. so! you spoke your part very well indeed. you can repeat it to-night. [_he leads her behind the bar where her sobbing is heard for some time after._ wermelskirch [_having resumed his seat._] she's quite right at bottom. i've heard all kinds of rumours too, to the effect that henschel will rent the barroom. and, of course, his wife is behind that! hauffe an' who else'd be back of it i'd like to know? if there's anythin' low happenin' in the village nowadays, you don't has to go an ax who's back of it! that henschel woman's got the devil in her! fabig an' she's had her eye on the barroom this long time. siebenhaar [_to_ hauffe.] one hardly ever sees you any longer, hauffe? where did you land? hauffe where d'you suppose? in misery an' hunger' an' who gave me the shove? that damned crittur of a woman! who else'd do it, i'd like to know! i never had no trouble with henschel! fabig his wife has the breeches on--that's all! hauffe i wasn't quick enough for her no more. i'm not as young as i was--that's a fac'! an' i don't go hangin' aroun' no woman's apron strings neither. an' that there is what she wants. that's what you got to do with her! she's a hot one--you might say--she don't never get enough.--but as for workin': i c'n work! them young fellers that she hires--they're that stinkin' lazy.... i could do as much as any three of 'em. siebenhaar one feels sorry for old henschel. hauffe if he's satisfied, i don't care. but he ought to know why my bones is stiff! they didn't get stiff with lazyin' aroun', an' if that man has a chest full o' money to-day, he knows who it is that helped him earn a good lot of it! siebenhaar i recall very well that you even worked for wilhelm henschel's father. hauffe well, who else but me! that's the way it is! an' i fed wilhelm's horses eighteen years an' more--hitched 'em up an' unhitched 'em--went on trips summer an' winter. i drove 's far's freiburg an' 's far's breslau: i had to drive 'way to bromberg. many a night i had to sleep in the waggon. i got my ears an' my hands frost bitten: i got chilblains on both feet big as pears. an' now he puts me out! now i c'n go! fabig that's all the woman's doin's: he's a good man. hauffe why did he go an' load hisself with that wench! now he can look out for hisself! an' he couldn't hardly wait to do it decent. his first wife--she wasn't hardly cold when he ran to get married to this one! siebenhaar well, no one knew her, of course. fabig i knew her well enough. o lord--that i did! if he'd ha' axed me, i could ha' told him! if he wanted to send gustel after her mother, there wasn't no surer way for him to take: all he had to do was to make hanne the child's step-mother. hauffe ah yes, yes ... well, well ... i'm not sayin' nothin' more. there's many a one has shaken his head about that! but that'll be comin' home to him some day. first people just wondered; now they'd believe anythin' of him. siebenhaar that's undoubtedly mere idle talk. _the horse dealer walther enters in riding boots, hunting jacket and cap. his whip is in his hand. he sits down at one of the tables and beckons franziska to bring him beer._ hauffe you c'n say that. maybe it's true. but if the dead was to come back an' was to say their say--'tis old mrs. henschel that could tell you a thing or two. she couldn't live an' she didn't want to live! an' what's the main thing--she wasn't to live! siebenhaar hauffe, you'd better take care! if henschel were to get wind of that ... hauffe i wouldn't have to take care if he did! i'd say that to anyone's face. old mrs. henschel--she was meant to die! if they pisened her, i couldn't say; i wasn't on the spot. but that thing didn't happen no natural way. she was a well woman; she might ha' lived thirty years. _siebenhaar drinks and rises._ walther i c'n bear witness that she was well. she was my own sister an' i ought to know. she was in the way an' had to go. _siebenhaar leaves quietly._ wermelskirch would you like a little snuff, gentlemen? [_softly and confidentially._] and don't you think, gentlemen, that you're going a little far? it seems so to me. i wish you would watch the man. he sat here till quite late yesterday. the man sighed so pitifully--there was no one else here--that i really felt very sorry for him. hauffe 'tis his bad conscience that's botherin' him! walther don't talk to me about henschel! i'm sick o' hearin' about him. he an' me--we're through with each other this long time. wermelskirch no, no, mr. siebenhaar is right. one ought to feel sorry for him. walther he c'n think about it what he pleases. i don't care. but what i ought to think about henschel--there's nobody that need tell me nothin' about that! _henschel and the smith hildebrant enter at the right. henschel is carrying little bertha, more neatly dressed than formerly, on his arm. a little pause of embarrassment falls upon the men._ wermelskirch welcome, mr. henschel. henschel good mornin', all of ye. franziska well, berthel, how are you? henschel say thank you! well, can't you talk?--we gets along. a body has to be satisfied. good mornin', brother. [_he stretches out his hand carelessly to walther who takes it in the same fashion._] how are you? how's everythin'? walther i gets along as usual. 'twouldn't be bad if it was better! you're a reg'lar nurse girl nowadays! henschel true, true! 'tis almost that! walther you're hardly ever seen without the girl. can't you leave her with her mother? henschel she's always scourin' an' workin'. the little thing is just in her way! [_he sits down on a bench along the wall near the bar, not far from his brother-in-law. he keeps the little girl on his lap. hildebrant sits down opposite him._] how is it, hildebrant, what shall we have? i think we've earned a bumper o' beer? two of 'em, then, an two glasses o' brandy. hildebrant that son of a--actually broke my skin! henschel nothin' but a foal neither an' has the strength o'--... good mornin', hauffe. hauffe mornin'. henschel he's a bit surly. let's not bother him. fabig mr. henschel, won't you buy something o' me? a needle box for the wife, maybe, or a pretty little comb to stick in the hair! [_all laugh._] george, the waiter, he bought one too. henschel [_laughing good-naturedly with the others._] don't you come botherin' me with your trash! [_to wermelskirch._] give him a measure o' beer!--'tis a quaint little chap he is. who is it? hildebrant 'tis fabig from quolsdorf, i think--the most mischievous little scamp in the county. henschel well, i got a little native from quolsdorf here too. fabig [_to bertha._] we're good old friends, eh? bertha [_to fabig._] why don't you dive me some nuts? fabig aha, she knows who i is! i'll look an' see if i c'n find some! bertha outside in the waggon! fabig no, they're here in my pocket! [_he gives them to the child._] you see, you don't get out o' the pubs. long ago your grandfather took you along; now you got to go about with henschel. henschel [_to bertha._] tell him to attend to his bit o' trash! tell him you're bein' looked out for! tell him that! _george comes vivaciously out of the billiard room._ george [_without noticing henschel._] well,--i never saw the likes o' that! that there feller c'n eat glass like anythin'. put it down on the reckoning, miss franziska: a lot o' beer! there's five o' us! franziska [_has taken bertha on her arm. she goes with the child behind the bar._] bertha won't permit it; i can't do it now! george good heavens, mr. henschel, there you are too! henschel [_without noticing george, to hildebrant._] your health, hildebrant! [_they clink their glasses and drink._ fabig [_to george who, a little taken aback, lights his cigar at one of the tables._] tell me this, mister george, you're a kind of a wizard, eh? george well, i do declare! what makes you think so? fabig 'cause a while ago, you was gone like a light that's blown out. george well, what's the use o' huntin' for disagreeable things. siebenhaar an' me--we can't agree, that's all. fabig [_with the gesture of boxing another's ears._] people do say that somethin' happened.--[_passing by, to hauffe._] did you win in the lottery? eh? hauffe you damned vermin! fabig yes, that's just what i am. henschel is it true that you're working down at nentwich's now? hauffe what business is it o' yours? henschel [_laughing and quite even-tempered._] now look at that feller. he pricks like a weasel wherever you touches him. walther i s'pose you'll be our host here pretty soon now? henschel [_after he has glanced at him in astonishment._] that's the first ever i've heard of it! walther oh, i thought! i don't know exackly who 'twas that told me. henschel [_drinking: indifferently._] whoever told you that must ha' been dreamin'! [_pause._] hildebrant in this here house everythin' is bein' turned upside down now. an' what i says is this: you'll be all sighin' to have siebenhaar back some day. henschel [_to hauffe._] you might go over to landeshut. i got two coach horses standin' there. you might ride them in for me. hauffe the hell i will--that's what i'll do for you. henschel [_laughing and calmly._] well, now you c'n sit there till you gets blue in the face. i won't concern myself that much about you! hauffe you c'n keep busy sweepin' before your own door. henschel 'tis well, 'tis well. we'll let that there be. hauffe you got filth enough in your own house! henschel hauffe, i tell you right now: i wouldn't like to do it. but if you're goin' to start trouble here--i tell you that--i'll kick you out! wermelskirch peace, gentlemen! i beg of you: peace! hauffe you're not the host here an' you can't kick nobody out! you has no more right to say anythin' here than me! i don't let you nor nobody tell me to hold my tongue. no, not you an' not your wife, no matter how you scheme, you two! that don't scare me an' don't bother me that much! _without any show of anger, henschel grasps hauffe by the chest and pushes him, struggling in vain, toward the door. just before reaching it he turns slightly, opens the door, puts hauffe out, and closes it again. during this scene the following colloquy takes place:_ hauffe let go, i tell you! i just warn you: let go! wermelskirch mr. henschel, that won't do; i can't permit that! henschel i gave you fair warnin'! there's no help for you now. hauffe are you goin' to choke me? let go, i tell you! you're not the host here! mrs. wermelskirch [_from behind the bar._] what's the meaning of this? that will never do, ludwig! you can't permit yourself to be treated that way! fabig [_while henschel, holding hauffe, is rapidly approaching the door._] you might as well let it be. there's nothin' to be done. that there man--he's like an athlete. he'll bite his teeth into the edge of a table, and he'll lift the table up for you so steady, you won't notice a glass on it shakin'. if he went an' took the notion, i tell you, we'd all be flyin' out into the street different ways! _hauffe has been put out, henschel returns._ henschel [_resuming his seat amid a general silence._] he wouldn't give no rest--he's that stubborn. first fireman [_who has come in out of the billiard room and drunk a glass of whisky at the bar._] i'd like to pay. a man had better go. in the end anybody might be flyin' out o' here, you know. wermelskirch yon take another glass of beer. that would be the last straw. after all, i am still master here. walther if that's the way you're goin' to do, henschel, when you stands behind the bar and runs this here place instead o' wermelskirch--you won't keep many customers, i c'n tell you that! henschel customers like that don't matter. walther you won't be able to pick 'em out, though. hauffe don't pay with counterfeit money neither. henschel he c'n pay anyway he wants to, for all i care. but i tell you again now: don't start that there business over again. i won't be takin' this place at all. if i was goin' to take it, i ought to know better than anybody else. well, then: if i'm ready to buy a pub some day--i'll let you know! afterward you c'n give me your advice. an' if you don't like the place an' don't patronise it--well, then, lord a'mighty, you don't has to! _the fireman goes out slamming the door angrily behind him._ walther i s'pose it's just as well to go.... [_he prepares to pay his score._ wermelskirch mr. henschel, surely that isn't right of you. you drive my customers out. henschel well, my goodness! now tell me: if that man runs out, what has i to do with it? for my part he can stay here till mornin'. walther [_pocketing his money again._] you got no right to put anybody out o' here. you're not the host. henschel anythin' else you know? walther people knows a good deal. only they rather keep still. wermelskirch knows that best of all! wermelskirch why i exactly? now, look here, that's ... henschel [_firmly and collectedly._] what is't you know? out with it! one o' you knows one thing an' another another, an' altogether you don't know that much! [_pause._] walther [_in a changed tone._] if you were only the same man you used to be! but god only knows what's gotten into you! in those days you had a standin' among men. people came from far an' wide to get your advice. an' what you said, that was--you might say--almost like the law o' the land. 'twas like amen in church. an' now there's no gettin' along with you! henschel go right ahead with your preachin'. walther very well, i s'pose you're noticin' it all yourself. formerly, you had nothin' but friends. nowadays nobody comes to you no more; an' even if they did want to come they stay away on account o' your wife. twenty years hauffe served you faithful. then, suddenly, he don't suit your wife, an' you take him by the scruff an' put him out. what's the meanin' o' that! that woman has but to look at you an' you're jumpin' at her beck, instead o' goin' an' takin' a stout rope an' knockin' the wickedness out o' her! henschel if you don't keep still this minute--i'll take you by the scruff too. george [_to henschel._] don't forget yourself, whatever you do, mr. henschel! that man don't know no better, you see. [_exit rapidly into the billiard room._ walther i believe, henschel, if a man comes nowadays an' tells you the truth, you're capable o' flingin' him against the wall. but a feller like that, a worthless windbag like george--he c'n lie to you day an' night. your wife an' he--they c'n compete with each other makin' a fool o' you! if you want to be cheated--all right! but if you got a pair o' eyes left in your head, open 'em once an' look around you an' look at that there feller good an' hard. them two deceive you in broad daylight! henschel [_about to hurl himself upon walther, masters his rage._] what did you say--eh? nothin'! aw, it's all right. [_pause._] fabig it's reg'lar april weather this day. now the sun shines an' now it blows again. hauffe's voice [_from without._] i'll pay you back for this! you watch out! you c'n let it be now! we'll meet again: we'll meet at court--that's where. walther [_finishes his glass._] good-bye. i'm meanin' well by you, henschel. henschel [_lays his hand about walther's wrist._] you stay here! y' understan'? walther what is i to do here? henschel you'll see for yourself. all i says is: you stay! [_to franziska._] go down an' tell my wife she's to come up! _franziska goes._ wermelskirch but, dear mr. henschel, i beg you, for heaven's sake, don't cause a scandal here! the police will be coming at me next, and then ... henschel [_in an outburst of towering, withering rage--bluish-red of face._] i'll beat you all to death if hanne don't come here--now!!! walther [_in helpless perplexity._] wilhelm, wilhelm, don' go an' commit some foolishness now! i wish i hadn't said nothin'. an' it didn't mean nothin'. you know yourself how people will talk! hildebrant wilhelm, you're a good man. come to your senses! my god, how you look! think, man, think! why, you fairly roared! what's the matter with you? that must ha' been heard all over the house! henschel anybody c'n hear me now that wants to. but you stay here an' hanne is to come here. walther why should i be stayin' here? i don't know what for! your affairs--they don't concern me a bit. i don't mingle in 'em an' i don't want to! henschel then you should ha' thought before you spoke! walther everythin' else that's between us'll be settled in court. there we'll see who's in the right. i'll get hold o' my money; never fear! maybe you're wife'll think it over once or twice before she goes an' perjures herself. the rest don't concern me. i tell you to let me go. i has no time. i has to go to hartau, an' i can't be kept waitin' here. _siebenhaar re-enters._ siebenhaar what's happened here? wermelskirch goodness, gracious, i don't know! i don't know what mr. henschel wants! henschel [_who continues to imprison walther's wrist._] hanne is to come here: that's all. mrs. wermelskirch [_to siebenhaar._] the men were drinking their beer quite peacefully. suddenly mr. henschel came in and began a dispute as though he were master here. siebenhaar [_with a deprecating gesture._] all right; all right. [_to henschel._] what's happened to you, henschel? henschel mr. siebenhaar, it's no fault o' mine. i couldn't help things comin' about this way. you may think what you please, mr. siebenhaar. i give you my word--'twasn't my fault. siebenhaar you needn't excuse yourself to me, henschel. i know you're a man of peace. henschel yes. i was in your father's service long ago, an' even if it looks that way a thousand times over--it wasn't my fault that this here has happened. i don't know myself what i has done. i never was quarrelsome--that's certain! but now things has come about ...! they scratch an' they bite at me--all of 'em! an' now this man here has said things o' my wife that he's got to prove--prove!!--or god help him! siebenhaar why don't you let the people gossip? henschel proofs! proofs! or god help him! walther i can prove it an' i will. there are not many people in this room that don't know it as well as i. that there woman is on an evil way. 'tis no fault o' mine, an' i wouldn't ha' mentioned it. but i'm not goin' to let you strike me. i'm no liar. i always speaks the truth! ask it of anybody! ask mr. siebenhaar here on his honour an' conscience! the sparrows is twitterin' it on every roof--an' worse things 'n that! siebenhaar think over what you're saying carefully, walther. walther he forces me to it! why don't he let me go? why is i to suffer for other people? you know it all as well as i? how did you used to stand with henschel in other years when his first wife was alive? d'you think people don't know that? an' now you don't cross his threshold. siebenhaar the relations between us are our private affair. and i will not permit remark or interference. walther all right. but if first his wife dies, though she's as well as anybody, an' when gustel goes an' dies eight weeks later, then, i'm thinkin' it's more'n a private affair! henschel what?--hanne is to come! _mrs. henschel enters suddenly and quickly, just as she has come from her work and still drying her hands._ mrs. henschel what're you roarin' about so? henschel 'tis well that you're here.--this man here says-- mrs. henschel [_makes a movement as if to go._] damned rot that it ... henschel you're to stay here! mrs. henschel are you all drunk together? what're you thinkin' of, anyhow? d'you think i'm goin' to stay here an' play monkey tricks for you? [_she is about to go._ henschel hanne, i advise you ... this man here says ... mrs. henschel aw, he c'n say what he wants to, for all i cares! henschel he says that you deceive me before my face an' behind my back! mrs. henschel what? what? what? what? henschel that's what he says! is he goin' to dare to say that? an' that ... my wife ... mrs. henschel me? lies! damned lies! [_she throws her apron over her face and rushes out._ henschel that i ... that my wife ... that we together ... that our gustel ... 'tis well! 'tis well! [_he releases walther's hand and lets his head sink, moaning, on the table._ walther i won't be made out a liar here. the curtain falls. the fifth act _the same room as in the first three acts. it is night, but the moonlight throws a moderate brightness into the room. it is empty. several days have passed since the occurrences in the fourth act._ _a candle is lit in the small adjoining room; at the end of a few seconds henschel enters, carrying the candle in a candlestick of tin. he wears leathern breeches but his feet are cased in bedroom slippers. slowly he approaches the table, gazes hesitatingly first backward, then toward the window, finally puts the candlestick on the table and sits down by the window. he leans his chin on his hand and stares at the moon._ mrs. henschel [_invisible, from the adjoining chamber, calls:_] husband! husband! what are you doin' out there?--the same mortal foolishness all the time! --[_she looks in, but half-clad._] where are you? come 'n go to bed! 'tis time to sleep! to-morrow you won't be able to go out again! you'll be lyin' like a sack o' meal and everythin' 'll go upside down in the yard. [_she comes out, half-clad as she is, and approaches henschel hesitatingly and fearfully._] what are you doin', eh? henschel --me? mrs. henschel why are you sittin' there an' not sayin' a word? henschel i'm lookin' at the clouds. mrs. henschel oh, no, my goodness; it's enough to confuse a person's head! what's to be seen up there, i'd like to know! the same worry, night after night. there's no rest in the world for nobody no more. what are you starin' at? say somethin', won't you? henschel up there!... that's where they are! mrs. henschel you're dreaming, eh? you, wilhelm, wake up! lay down in your bed an' go to sleep. there's nothin' but clouds up there! henschel anybody that has eyes c'n see what there is! mrs. henschel an' anybody that gets confused in his mind goes crazy. henschel i'm not confused. mrs. henschel i'm not sayin' that you are! but if you go on actin' this way, you will be! [_she shivers, pulls on a jacket, and stirs the ashes in the oven with a poker._ henschel what time is it? mrs. henschel a quarter of two. henschel you've got a watch hangin' to you; it used to hang behind the door. mrs. henschel what fancies is you goin' to have next? 'tis hangin' where it always did. henschel [_rising._] i think i'll go over to the stables a bit. mrs. henschel i tells you to go to bed, or i'll raise an alarm. you got nothin' to do in the stable now! 'tis night, an' in bed is where you belong! henschel [_remains standing quietly and looking at hanne._] where's gustel? mrs. henschel what are you botherin' for? she's lyin' in bed asleep! what are you always worritin' over the girl for? she don't lack for nothin'! i don't do nothin' to her! henschel she don't lack for nothin'. she's gone to bed. she's gone to sleep betimes--gustel has. i don't mean berthel. mrs. henschel [_wailing, stuffs her apron into her mouth._] i'll run away! i won't stay here! henschel --go to bed, go! i'll come too. your cryin' can't help no more now. 'tis our lord alone knows whose fault it is. you can't help it; you don't need to cry.--our lord an' me--we two, we knows. _[he turns the key in the door._ mrs. henschel [_hastily turning it back again._] why d'you lock the door? i won't stand bein' locked in. henschel i don't rightly know why i turned the key. mrs. henschel them people has gone an' addled your brains for you! they'll have to answer some day for the things they've put into your head! i took as good care o' your girl as i did o' my own. she wouldn't ha' died o' that! but i can't wake the dead. if a body is to die, she dies--in this world. there's no holdin' people like that; they has to go. there never was much strength in gustel--you know that as well as i. why do you go axin' me an' lookin' at me as if i done god knows what to her! henschel [_suspiciously._] maybe you did somethin'. 'tis not impossible. mrs. henschel [_beside herself._] oh, if somebody'd foretold this--i'd ha' gone beggin' my bread first. no, no, o my goodness, if i'd ha' known that! to have to listen to things like that! didn't i want to go? an' who kept me back? who held me fast in the house here? i could ha' made my livin' any time! i wasn't afraid; i could always work. but you didn't let up. now i got my reward. now _i_ got to suffer for it! henschel 'tis true, maybe, that you has to suffer for it. things comes _as_ they come. what c'n a body do? [_he locks the door again._ mrs. henschel you're to leave the door open, wilhelm, or i'll cry for help! henschel --sh! keep still! did you hear? there's somethin' runnin' along the passage. d'you hear? now it goes to the washstand. d'you hear the splashin'? she's standin' there an' washin' herself! mrs. henschel you! wilhelm! you're dreamin'! the wash-stand is in here! henschel that's just it! i know very well! they can't deceive me. i know what i know, [_hurriedly._] that's all i say.--come, come, let's go to bed. time'll show. [_while he approaches the door of the next room, mrs. henschel softly unlocks the door to the hall and slips out._ henschel [_taking down a whip from the frame of the door._] why, that's my old triest whip! where does that old thing come from? i haven't seen it for over a year. that was bought in mother's time. [_he listens._] what d'you say? eh?--o' course ... certainly.--nothin'!--well, s'posin'! an' why not? 'tis well!--i know what i has to do!--i won't be stubborn.--you let that be too. _siebenhaar enters by the door which is slightly ajar. by means of gestures he signifies to wermelskirch, who follows him, that the latter is to remain behind, also to mrs. henschel. he is fully clad except that he wears a silk kerchief instead of a collar. wermelskirch is in his dressing-gown._ siebenhaar good evening, mr. henschel! what? are you still up? you're not well, eh? what's the matter with you? henschel [_after he has, for several seconds, regarded him with perplexity; simply:_] i just can't sleep. i don't get sleepy at all! i'd like to take some medicine, if i knew any. i don't know how it comes. god knows! siebenhaar i'll tell you somethin', old friend: you go quietly to bed now, and to-morrow, real early, i'll send the doctor in. you must really take some serious step now. henschel no doctor won't be able to help me. siebenhaar you mustn't say that; we'll see about that! doctor richter knows his business. my wife couldn't sleep for weeks; her head ached as if it would burst. last monday she took a powder, and now she sleeps all night like the dead. henschel yes, yes ... well, well ... 'tis possible! i'd like it well enough if i could sleep.--is the madam reel sick? siebenhaar oh, we're all a little under the weather. when once monday is past, everything will straighten out again. henschel i s'pose you has to turn over the property on monday. siebenhaar yes, i hope it will be possible to arrange it by monday. in the meantime the work is heaping up so--what with writing and making the inventory--that i scarcely get out of my clothes. but come now, henschel, and go to bed. one man has one trouble and another has another. life is no joke and we must all see how we can best fight our way through. and even if many strange thoughts pass through your head--don't take them to heart so! henschel thank you many times, mr. siebenhaar. don't take anythin' in ill part, please. an' good luck to you an' your wife! siebenhaar we'll see each other again to-morrow, henschel. you owe me no thanks for anything. we've done each other many a service in the years that we've lived together here. and those services compensate for each other. we were good friends and, surely, we will remain such. henschel [_silently takes a few steps toward the window and looks out._]--ah, them's queer things here. time don't stand still in this world. little karl, he never came to see us no more ... i can't make no objection. maybe you was right. the lad couldn't ha' learned nothin' good here. 'twas different--once! siebenhaar henschel, i don't know what you mean now! henschel an' you didn't cross my threshold neither. 'tis nine months since you did. siebenhaar i had too much to worry me; that's all. henschel those were the very times you used to come before. no, no, i know. you were right. an' the people are right too--all of 'em. i can't take no pride in myself no more. siebenhaar henschel, you must take some rest now. henschel no, no; we c'n talk about it a bit. you see, i know 'tis all my fault--i know that, an' with that we can let it be. but before i went an' took this woman--hanne, i mean--before that it all began ... slowly it began, slowly--but downhill right along. first thing, a good bonehandled whip broke. after that, i remember it right well, i drove over my dog an' he died. 'twas the best little dog i had. then, one right after another, three o' my horses died; an' one of 'em was the fine stallion that cost me five hundred crowns. an' then, last of all ... my wife died. i noticed it well enough in my own thoughts that fate was against me. but when my wife went away from me, i had a minute in my own mind when i thought to myself: now it's enough. there's not much else that c'n be taken from me. but you see, there was somethin' else.--i don't want to talk about gustel. a man loses first his wife an' then a child--that's common. but no: a snare was laid for me an' i stepped into it. siebenhaar who laid a snare for you? henschel maybe the devil; maybe, too, somebody else. it's throttlin' me--that's certain. [_pause._] siebenhaar that's a most unhappy notion of yours ... henschel an' i'm denyin' nothin'. a bad man i've come to be, only it's no fault o' mine. i just, somehow, stumbled into it all. maybe it's my fault too. you c'n say so if you want to. who knows? i should ha' kept a better watch. but the devil is more cunnin' than me. i just kept on straight ahead. siebenhaar henschel, you're just your own worst enemy. you're fighting phantoms which have no existence at any time or place. the devil has done nothing to you, nor have you stepped into any snare. and no one is throttling you either. that is all nonsense. and such fancies are dangerous. henschel we'll see; we c'n wait an' see. siebenhaar well, tell me something definite. you won't be able to do it, however you try. you are neither bad, as you say, nor are you burdened by any guilt. henschel ah, i know better. siebenhaar well, what is your guilt? henschel here stood the bed. an' she was lyin' in it. an' here i gave her my promise. i gave her my promise an' i've broken it! siebenhaar what promise was that? henschel you know well enough!--i broke it an' when i did that, i was lost. i was done for. the game was up.--an' you see: now she can't find no rest. siebenhaar are you speaking of your dead wife? henschel 'tis of her, of her exackly that i'm speakin'. she can't find no rest in the grave. she comes an' she goes an' she finds no rest.--i curry the horses; there she stands. i take a sieve from the feed-bin, an' i see her sittin' behind the door. i mean to go to bed in the little room; 'tis she that's lyin' in the bed an' lookin' at me.--she's hung a watch aroun' my neck; she knocks at the wall; she scratches on the panes.--she puts her finger on my breast an' i'm that smothered, i has to gasp for air. no, no, i know best. you got to go through a thing like that before you know what it is. you can't tell about it. i've gone through a deal--you c'n believe me. siebenhaar henschel, this is my last word to you: gather all the strength you have in you; plant yourself firmly on both legs. go and consult a physician. tell yourself that you are ill, very ill, but drive these phantoms away. they are mere cobwebs of the brain, mere fancies. henschel that's what you said that there time, too. just so or somethin' like it you said. siebenhaar very likely, and i'm willing to stand by it now. what you did in the matter of your marriage, it was your entire right to do. there was no question of any sin or guilt. _wermelskirch steps forward._ wermelskirch henschel, come over to me. we'll light the gas and play cards. we'll drink beer or whatever you want to and smoke a pipe with it; then the ghosts can come if they want to. in two hours it will be bright daylight. then we can drink some coffee and take a walk. the devil is in this if you can't be made to be your old self again. henschel maybe so; we c'n try it all right. wermelskirch well then, come along. henschel i won't go to your place no more. wermelskirch on account of that little nonsense the other day? that was only a misunderstanding. and all that has been cleared up. i simply won't let hauffe come in any more. the fellow is always drunk; that's a fact. things are often said in heat that simply enter at one ear and pass out at the other. and that's the way to treat such incidents, i always do. henschel an' that'd be best too. you're quite right. but no--i won't be comin' into the barroom no more. i'm goin' to travel about a good bit, i think. maybe they won't follow me all roun'. an' now sleep well. i'm feelin' sleepy too. siebenhaar how would it be, henschel, if you came up with me? there's light upstairs and my office is heated. there we can all three play a little game. i wouldn't lie down to-night anyhow. henschel yes, yes; we could be doin' that together. 'tis long since i've touched a card. mrs. henschel that's right. go on up. you wouldn't be able to sleep nohow. henschel i'm not goin'! y' understand me now? mrs. henschel well, if you're goin' to stay, then i won't. god knows what you'll be up to this night. you'll begin to be playin' aroun' with knives again. yes, that's what he did yesterday. a body's not sure o' her life no more. henschel you won't see me goin' up there. he advised me to do what i did, an' then he was the first one to despise me for doin' it. siebenhaar henschel, i never despised you. you're an honourable fellow, through and through; don't talk nonsense now. there are certain fates that come upon men. and what one has to bear is not easy. you have grown ill, but you have remained a good man. and for that truth i'll put my hand in the fire! henschel maybe that's true too, mr. siebenhaar.--let it be; we'll talk about somethin' else. 'tisn't your fault; i always said that. an' i can't blame my brother-in law neither. he knows where he gets all that from, 'tis she herself goes roun' to people an' tells 'em. she's everywhere--now here an' now there. i s'pose she was with her brother too. wermelskirch who is it that goes about among people? not a soul is thinking of that affair of the other night, that's quite forgotten by this time. henschel it sticks to me--it does--turn it any way you please. _she_ knows how to go about it. she's everywhere, an' she'll persuade folks. an' even, if people was goin' to be silent for my sake an' wasn't after me like so many dogs--nothin' c'n do any good. it'll stick to me. siebenhaar henschel, we won't go away until you've put that, out of your mind. you must calm, yourself entirely. henschel oh, i'm sensible now an' quiet, reel quiet. siebenhaar very well. in that case we can talk quite frankly. you see for yourself how your wife repents. that waiter fellow is gone; he's far away by this time and you'll never set your eyes on him again. anyone may fall into sin--no matter who it is. and so take each other's hands. bury that matter, hide it out of sight and be at peace. henschel i don't has to make no peace with her. [_to hanne._] i c'n give you my hand! i don't mind. that you've gone an' made a mistake--the lord c'n judge that in this world. i won't condemn you on that account.--if only ... about gustel ... if only we could know somethin' ... about that ... for certain! mrs. henschel you c'n both kill me this minute. may i drop dead if i did any harm to gustel!! henschel that's what i've been sayin': it'll stick to me.--well, we c'n talk it over again to-morrow. before we get through talkin' about that, many a drop o' water'll have time to run into the sea, i'm thinkin'. wermelskirch why don't you build a comfortable fire and cook a cup of hot coffee. after rain comes the sunshine. that's the way it is between married people. there will be storms in every marriage. but after the storm everything grows greener. the main thing is: bye, baby, bye--[_he imitates the gesture of one rocking a child in his arms._]--that's the right way. that's the thing that you two must get for yourselves. [_jovially patting henschel's shoulder._] that's what the old man likes. you two must get together and buy a toy like that. confound it, henschel! it would be queer if that weren't easy. a giant of a man like you! good night all. siebenhaar everything changes. one must have courage. wermelskirch just keep cool and dress warmly--that's it! _siebenhaar and wermelskirch withdraw. henschel goes slowly to the door and is about to lock it again._ mrs. henschel you're to leave that open! henschel all right; i don't mind.--what are you doin' there? mrs. henschel [_who has been bending down before the oven, draws herself up quickly._] i'm makin' a fire. don't you see that? henschel [_sitting down, heavily by the table._] for my part you c'n light the lamp too. [_he pulls out the drawer of the table._ mrs. henschel what are you lookin' for? henschel nothin'. mrs. henschel then you c'n push it back in. [_she steps forward and shuts the drawer._] i s'ppose you want to wake berthel up? [_pause._] henschel monday he's goin'. then we'll be alone. mrs. henschel who's goin' on monday? henschel siebenhaar. the lord knows how we'll get along with the new owner. mrs. henschel he's a rich man. he won't borrow money of you at least. henschel --hanne, one of us two'll have to go. one of us two. yes, yes,'tis true. you c'n look at me. that can't be changed. mrs. henschel i'm to go away? you want to drive me away? henschel we'll see about that later--_who_ has to go! maybe 'twill be me, an' maybe 'twill be you. if i was to go ... i know this for sure--you wouldn't be scared about yourself. you're able to look after the business like a man.--but 's i said: it don't matter about me. mrs. henschel if one of us has to go--i'll go. i'm still strong enough. i'll leave an' nobody needn't see me no more. the horses an' the waggons--they're all yours. you got the business from your father an' you can't go an' leave it. i'll go an' then the trouble'll be over. henschel 'tis easy sayin' that. we got to consider one thing at a time. mrs. henschel there's no use in drawin' it out. what's over and done with is over. henschel [_rising heavily and going toward the adjoining room._] an' berthel? what's to become o' the lass? mrs. henschel she'll have to go to father, over in quolsdorf. henschel [_at the door of the bedroom._] let it be. to-morrow is another day. everythin' changes, as siebenhaar says. to-morrow, maybe, everythin' 'll look different. [_pause._] henschel [_invisible in the next room._] berthel is sweating all over again. mrs. henschel that won't do her no harm to be sweatin' a bit. the drops are runnin' down my neck too. oh, what a life--[_she opens a window._]--a body'd rather be dead. henschel what are you talkin' about? i don't understand. mrs. henschel lie down on your side an' leave me alone. henschel are you comin' too? mrs. henschel it's most day now. [_she winds the clock._] henschel who's windin' the clock? mrs. henschel you're to keep still now. if berthel was to wake up it'd be a fine to do. she'd howl for half an hour. [_she sits down at the table and leans both elbows upon it._] 'twould be best if a body got up an' went away, _siebenhaar peers in._ siebenhaar i'm lookin' in once more. is your husband calmer now? mrs. henschel yes, yes, he lay down to sleep. [_she calls._] husband! wilhelm! siebenhaar sh! you'd better be grateful. hurry and go to bed yourself. mrs. henschel there's nothin' else left to do. i'll go an' try. [_she goes to the door of the bedroom, stands still as if spellbound and listens._] wilhelm! you might answer.--[_louder and more frightened._] wilhelm! you're not to frighten me this way! maybe you think i don't know that you're still awake!!--[_in growing terror._]--wilhelm, i tell you!... [_berthel has waked up and wails._] berthel, you look out an' keep still! keep still or i don't know what'll happen!--wilhelm! wilhelm! [_she almost shrieks._ siebenhaar looks in again. siebenhaar what's the matter, mrs. henschel? mrs. henschel i call an' call an' he don't answer! siebenhaar are you crazy? why do you do that? mrs. henschel --'tis so still ... somethin's happened. siebenhaar what?--[_he takes up the candle and goes toward the bedroom door._] henschel, have you fallen asleep? [_he enters the bedroom._ [_pause._] mrs. henschel [_not daring to follow him._] what is it? what is it? what's goin' on? _wermelskirch looks in._ wermelskirch who's in there? mrs. henschel mr. siebenhaar.--'tis so still. nobody don't answer.-- siebenhaar [_very pale and holding berthel on his arm hurries out of the bedroom._] mrs. henschel, take your child and go up to my wife. mrs. henschel [_already with the child in her arms._] for god's sake, what has happened? siebenhaar you'll find that out all too soon. mrs. henschel [_with a voice that is first repressed and at last rises to a scream._] o god, he's done hisself some harm! _[she runs out with the child._ wermelskirch shall i call the doctor? siebenhaar too late! he could give no help here. the curtain falls. rose bernd list of persons bernd. rose bernd. marthel. christopher flamm. mrs. flamm. arthur streckmann. august keil. hahn. heinzel. golisch. kleinert. _field labourers_ old mrs. golisch. the head maid servant. the assistant maid servant. a constable. the first act _a level, fertile landscape. it is a clear, warm, sunny morning in may. diagonally from the middle to the foreground extends a path. the fields on either side are raised slightly above it. in the immediate foreground a small potato patch on which the green shoots are already visible. a shallow ditch, covered with field flowers, separates the path from the fields. to the left of the path on a slope about six feet in height an old cherry tree, to the right hazelnut and whitethorn bushes. nearly parallel with this path, but at some distance in the background, the course of a brook is marked by willows and alder trees. solitary groves of ancient trees add a park-like appearance to the landscape. in the background, left, from among bushes and tree-tops arise the gables and the church steeple of the village. a crucifix stands by the wayside in the foreground, right. it is sunday._ _rose bernd, a beautiful, vigorous peasant girl of twenty-two emerges, excited and blushing, from the bushes at the left and sits down on the slope, after having peered shyly and eagerly in all directions. her skirt is caught up, her feet are bare, as are her arms and neck. she is busily braiding one of her long, blonde tresses. shortly after her appearance a man comes stealthily from the bushes on the other side. it is the landowner and magistrate, christopher flamm. he, too, gives the impression of being embarrassed but at the same time amused. his personality is not undignified; his dress betrays something of the sportsman, nothing of the dandy--laced boots, hunter's hose, a leather bottle slung by a strap across his shoulder. altogether flamm is robust, unspoiled, vivid and broad-shouldered and creates a thoroughly pleasant impression. he sits down on the slope at a carefully considered distance from rose. they look at each other silently and then break out into inextinguishable laughter._ flamm [_with rising boldness and delight sings ever louder and more heartily, beating time like a conductor._] "in heath and under greenwood tree, there is the joy i choose for me! i am a huntsman bold i am a huntsman bold!" rose [_is at first frightened by his singing; then, more and more amused, her embarrassment gives way to laughter._] oh, but mr. flamm ... flamm [_with a touch of jaunty boldness._] sing with me, rosie! rose oh, but i can't sing, mr. flamm. flamm ah, that isn't true, rosie. don't i hear you often and often singing out on the farm: "a huntsman from the rhineland ..." well! "rides through the forest green." rose but i don't know that song a bit, mr. flamm. flamm you're not to say mr. flamm! come now! "girlie, come and move here to my favourite si-i-ide!" rose [_anxiously._] the people will be comin' from church in a minute, mr. flamm. flamm let 'em come! [_he gets up and takes his rifle from the hollow cherry tree to the left._] i'd better hang it around again anyhow. so.--and now my hat and my pipe! good. they can come whenever they please. [_he has slung his gun across his shoulder, straightened his hat which is ornamented with a cock's feather, taken a short pipe out of his pocket and put it between his lips._] look at the wild cherries. they're thick. [_he picks up a handful of them and shows them to rose. with heartfelt conviction:_] rosie, i wish you were my wife! rose goodness, mr. flamm! flamm i do, so help me! rose [_nervously trying to restrain him_] oh no, no! flamm rosie, give me your dear, good, faithful little paw. [_he holds her hand and sits down._] by heaven, rosie! look here, i'm a deucedly queer fellow! i'm damned fond of my dear old woman; that's as true as ... rose [_hiding her face in her arm._] you make me want to die o' shame. flamm damned fond of her i tell you ... but--[_his patience snaps._]--this doesn't concern her a bit! rose [_again tempted to laugh against her will._] oh, but how you talk, mr. flamm! flamm [_filled with hearty admiration of her._] oh, you're a lovely woman! you are lovely! you see: my wife and i ... that's a queer bit of business, that is. not the kind of thing that can be straightened out in a minute. you know henrietta ... she's sick. nine solid years she's been bedridden; at most she creeps around in a wheel chair.--confound it all, what good is that sort o' thing to me? [_he grasps her head and kisses her passionately._ rose [_frightened under his kisses._] the people are comin' from church! flamm they're not thinking of it! why are you so worried about the people in church to-day? rose because august's in church too. flamm that long-faced gentry is always in church! where else should they be? but, rosie, it isn't even half past ten yet; and when the service is over the bells ring. no, and you needn't be worried about my wife either. rose oh, christopher, she keeps lookin' at a body sometimes, so you want to die o' shame. flamm you don't know my old lady; that's it. she's bright; she can look through three board walls! but on that account ...! she's mild and good as a lamb ... even if she knew what there is between us; she wouldn't take our heads off. rose oh, no! for heaven's sake, mr. flamm! flamm nonsense, rosie! have a pinch, eh? [_he takes snuff._] i tell you once more: i don't care about anything! [_indignantly._] what is a man like me to do? what, i ask you? no, don't misunderstand me! surely you know how seriously i think of our affair. let me talk ahead once in a while. rose mr. christie, you're so good to me ...! [_with a sudden ebullition of tenderness, tears in her eyes, she kisses flamm's hand._] so good ... but ... flamm [_moved and surprised._] good to you? no wonder! deuce take me, rosie. that's very little, being good to you. if i were free, i'd marry you. you see, i've lost the ordinary way in life! not to speak of past affairs! i'm fit for ... well, i wonder what i _am_ fit for! i might have been a royal chief forester to-day! and yet, when the governor died, i went straight home and threw over my career. i wasn't born for the higher functions of society. all this even is too civilised for me. a block house, a rifle, bear's ham for supper and a load of lead sent into the breeches of the first comer--that would be ...! rose but that can't be had, mr. flamm! and ... things has got to end sometime. flamm [_half to himself._] confound it all to everlasting perdition! isn't there time enough left for that spindle-shanked hypocrite? won't there be far too much left for that fellow anyway? no> girlie, i'd send him about his business. rose oh, but i've kept him danglin' long enough. two years an' more he's been waitin'. now he's urgent; he won't wait any longer. an' things can't go on this way no more. flamm [_enraged._] that's all nonsense; you understand. first you worked yourself to the bone for your father. you haven't the slightest notion of what life is, and now you want to be that bookbinder's pack horse. i don't see how people can be so vulgar and heartless as to make capital out of another human being in that way! if that's all you're looking forward to, surely there's time enough. rose no, christie ... it's easy to talk that way, mr. flamm! but if you was put into such circumstances, you'd be thinkin' different too.--i know how shaky father's gettin'! an' the landlord has given us notice too. a new tenant is to move in, i believe! an' then it's father's dearest wish that everythin's straightened out. flamm then let your father marry august keil, if he's so crazy about the fellow. why, he's positively obsessed. it's madness the way he's taken with that man! rose you're unjust, mr. flamm; that's all. flamm say rather ... well, what? what was i going to say?... i can't bear that sanctimonious phiz! my gorge rises at the sight of him. god forgive me, rosie, and forgive you especially! why shouldn't i be open with you? it may be that he has his merits. they say, too, that he's saved up a few shillings. but that's no reason why you should go and drown yourself in his paste-pot! rose no, christopher! don't talk that way! i musn't listen to such talk, the dear lord knows!--august, he's been through a lot!--his sickness an' his misfortunes--that goes right to a person's soul ... flamm a man can never understand you women folks. you're an intelligent and determined girl, and suddenly, on one point, your stupidity is simply astonishing--goose-like, silly! it goes straight to your soul, does it? from that point of view you might as well marry an ex-convict, if pity or stupidity are reasons. you ought to raise a bit of a row with your father for once! what's hurting august? he grew up in the orphan house and succeeded in making his way for all that. if you won't have him, his brethren in the lord will find him another. they're expert enough at that! rose [_with decision._] no, that won't do. and--it has got to be, mr. flamm.--i'm not sorry for what's happened, though i've had my share o' sufferin' in quiet. all to myself, i mean. but never mind. an' nothin' can change that now. but it's got to come to an end some day--it can't never an' never go on this way. flamm can't go on? what do you mean by that exactly? rose just ... because things is no different in this world. i can't put him off no longer; an' father wouldn't bear with it. an' he's quite right in that matter. dear lord ha' mercy! 'tis no easier on that account! but when it'll all be off a body's soul ... i don't know--[_she touches her breast._] they calls it, i believe, strain o' the heart, oh, times are when i has real pains in my heart ... an' a person can't feel that way all the time. flamm well, then there's nothing more to be done just now. it's time for me to be getting home. [_he gets up and throws the rifle across his shoulder._] another time then, rosie. good-bye! _rose stares straight in front of her without answering._ flamm what's the matter, rosie? won't there be another time? _rose shakes her head._ flamm what, have i hurt you, rosie? rose there'll never be another time--like this--mr. flamm. flamm [_with despairing passion._] girl, i don't care if it costs me everything ... [_he embraces her and kisses her again and again._ rose [_suddenly in extreme terror._] for the love o' ... some one's comin', mr. flamm! _flamm in consternation, jumps up and disappears behind a bush._ _rose gets up hastily, straightens her hair and her dress and looks anxiously about her. as no one appears she takes up the hoe and begins to weed the potato patch. after a while there approaches, unnoticed by her, the machinist arthur streckmann dressed in his sunday coat. he is what would generally be called a handsome man--large, broad-shouldered, his whole demeanour full of self-importance. he has a blond beard that extends far down his chest. his garments, from his jauntily worn huntsman's hat to his highly polished boots, his walking coat and his embroidered waistcoat, are faultless and serve to show, in connection with his carriage, that streckmann not only thinks very well of himself but is scrupulously careful of his person and quite conscious of his unusual good looks._ streckmann [_as though but now becoming conscious of rose's presence, in an affectedly well-modulated voice._] good day, rosie. rose [_turns frightened._] good day, streckmann. [_in an uncertain voice_] why, where did you come from? from church? streckmann i went away a bit early. rose [_excitedly and reproachfully._] what for? couldn't you put up with the sermon? streckmann [_boldly._] oh, it's such beautiful weather out. an' that's why! i left my wife in the church too. a feller has got to be by himself once in a while. rose i'd rather be in church. streckmann that's where the women folks belongs. rose i shouldn't wonder if you had your little bundle o' sins. you might ha' been prayin' a bit. streckmann i'm on pretty good terms with the lord. he don't keep such very particular accounts o' my sins. rose well, well! streckmann no, he don't bother with me much. rose a vain, fool--that's what you is! _streckmann laughs in a deep and affected tone._ rose if you was a real man, you wouldn't have to go an' beat your wife at home. streckmann [_with a gleam in his eyes._] that shows that i'm a real man! that shows it! that's proper! a man's got to show you women that he's the master. rose don't be fancyin' such foolishness. streckmann that's so, for all you say. right _is_ right. an' i never failed to get what i was wantin' that way. _rose laughs constrainedly._ streckmann people says you're goin' to leave flamm's service. rose i'm not in flamm's service at all. you see now that i'm doin' other things. streckmann you were helpin' at flamm's no later'n yesterday. rose maybe so! maybe i was or maybe i wasn't! look after your own affairs. streckmann is it true that your father has moved? rose where to? streckmann with august over into lachmann's house. rose august hasn't even bought the house yet. those people--they knows more than i. streckmann an' they says too that you'll be celebratin' your weddin' soon. rose they can be talkin' for all i care. streckmann [_after a brief silence approaches her and stands before her with legs wide apart._] right you are! you can marry him any time. a fine girl like you don't need to hurry so; she can have a real good time first! i laughed right in his face when he told me. there's no one believes him. rose [_quickly._] who's been sayin' it? streckmann august keil. rose august himself? an' this is what he gets from his silly talkin'. streckmann [_after a silence._] august he's such a peevish kind.... rose i don't want to hear nothing. leave me alone! your quarrels don't concern me! one o' you is no better'n another. streckmann well, in some things--when it comes to bein' bold. rose oh, heavens! that boldness o' yours. we knows that. go about an' asks the women folks a bit. no, august isn't that kind. streckmann [_laughs with lascivious boastfulness._] i'm not denyin' that. rose an' you couldn't. streckmann [_looking at her sharply through half-closed lids._] it's not comfortable to make a fool o' me. what i wants of a woman--i gets. rose [_jeeringly._] oho! streckmann yes, oho! what would you wager, rosie! you been makin' eyes at me many a time. [_he has approached and offered to put his arms around her._ rose don't be foolish, streckmann! keep your hands off o' me! streckmann if it was.... rose [_thrusts him away._] streckmann! i've been tellin' you! i don't want to have nothin' to do with you men. go your own way. streckmann what am i doin' to you?--[_after a silence with a smile that is half malicious, half embarrassed._] you wait! you'll be comin' to me one o' these days! i'm tellin' you: you'll be comin' to me yourself some day! you can act as much like a saint as you wants to.--d'you see that cross? d'you see that tree? confound it! there's all kinds o' things! i've been no kind o' a saint myself! but ... right under a cross ... you might be sayin' just that ... i'm not so very partic'lar, but i'd take shame at that. what would your father be sayin' or august? now, just f'r instance: this pear tree is hollow. well an' good. there was a rifle in there. rose [_has been listening more and more intently in the course of her work. deadly pale and quivering she bursts out involuntarily:_] what are you sayin'? streckmann nothin'!--i'm sayin' nothin' more.--but when a feller hasn't no notion of nothin' an' is thinkin' no ill, a wench like you acts as high an' mighty! rose [_losing self-control and leaping in front of him in her terror._] what is't you say? streckmann [_calmly returning her terrible gaze._] i said: a wench like you. rose an' what's the meanin' o' that? streckmann that's got no special meanin'. rose [_clenches her fists and pierces him with her eyes in an intense passion of rage, hate, terror and consternation until in the consciousness of her powerlessness she drops her arms and utters almost whiningly the words:_] i'll know how to get my good right about this! [_holding her right arm before her weeping eyes and wiping her face with the left, she returns, sobbing brokenly, to her work._ streckmann [_looks after her with his old expression of malicious coldness and determination. gradually he is seized with a desire to laugh and finally bursts out:_] that's the way things go! don't worry a bit.--what do you take me for anyhow, rose? what's the row about? this kind o' thing don't do no harm! why shouldn't a person fool her neighbours? why not? who made 'em so stupid? them as can do it are the finest women in the world! of course, a man like me knows how things are! you can believe me--i've always known about you. rose [_beside herself._] streckmann! i'll do myself some harm! do you hear? or else go away from our bit o' patch! go ... i ... something awful will happen, i tell you! streckmann [_sits down and claps his flat hands over his knees._] for goodness' sake! don't carry on so! d'you think i'll be goin' about everywhere an' tellin' what i know an' rakin' you over the coals? how does it concern me, i'd like to know, what your goin's on are? rose i'll go home an' hang myself on a beam! that's what mary schubert did too. streckmann that was a different thing with her! that girl had different things on her conscience! an' i didn't have nothin' to do with her.--but if every woman was to go an' hang herself on account o' what you've done--there wouldn't be no more women in this world. that sort o' thing happens wherever you look--everywhere--that's the way things is. o' course, i have to laugh. that father o' yours, he carries himself so high! the way he stares at a feller that's gone a bit off the narrow way. it's enough to make you want to go an' hide your face. well--people ought to begin at home ... rose [_trembling in the terror of her heart._] o dear lord, have mercy! streckmann can you deny that i'm right? you people stick in piety up to the very eyes--your father an' august keil an' you too! a feller like me can't compete with you there. rose [_with a new outburst of despair._] it's a lie ... a lie! you saw nothing! streckmann no? saw nothing? well, i'll be...! then i must ha' been dreamin'. that's what it must ha' been! if that wasn't squire flamm from diessdorf! i haven't had a drop o' anythin' to-day. didn't he play at drivin' you by the braids o' your hair? didn't he throw you into the grass? [_with uncontrollable, hard laughter._] he had a good hold on you! rose streckmann, i'll beat your head in with my hoe! streckmann [_still laughing._] listen to that! what now? you're not goin' to cut up so rough! why shouldn't you ha' done it? i don't blame you. first come, first served: that's the way o' the world. rose [_weeping and moaning in her helpless grief and yet working convulsively._] a feller like that, presumes to ...! streckmann [_enraged and brutally._] it's you that presumes! 'tisn't me that does! not that i'd mind presumin' a good deal. if flamm's good enough, it's certain that i am! rose [_sobbing and crying out in her despair._] i've been a decent girl all my life long! let anybody come an' say somethin' against me if he can! i took care o' three little brothers an' sisters! three o'clock in the mornin' i've gotten up, an' not so much as taken a drop o' milk! an' people knows that! every child knows it! streckmann well, you needn't make such a noise about it! the bells is ringin' and the people is comin' from church. you might be a bit sociable with a feller. you people are just burstin' with pride. maybe it's true ... things look as if it was. i'm not sayin' but what you're a good worker an' a good saver. but otherwise you're no better'n other folks. rose [_gazing into the distance; in extreme fear._] isn't that august that's comin' there? streckmann [_looks in the same direction toward the village. contemptuously_:] where? oh, yes, that's him! there they both are! they're just walkin' around the parson's garden. well, what about it? you think i ought to be gettin' away? i'm not afeard o' them psalm-singin' donkeys. rose [_in quivering fear._] streckmann, i've saved up twelve crowns ... streckmann rosie, you know you've saved more than that. rose all right, i'll give you all my bit o' savin's! i don't care for the money ... i'll bring it to you, to the last farthing. streckmann, only have pity ... [_she seeks to grasp his hands beseechingly, but he draws them away._ streckmann i takes no money. rose streckmann! for the sake o' all good things in the world ... streckmann well now, i can't see why you don't act sensible. rose if one person in the village finds that out.... streckmann it depends on you! nobody needn't know. all you need to do is not to force it on 'em ... [_with sudden passion._] what's at the bottom of it?--i'm crazy about you ... rose where's the woman or girl you're not crazy about! streckmann maybe it's so. i can't change things. a man like me who has to go the round o' all the estates in the country with his threshin' machine--he don't have worry because he's not talked about. i know best how it is with me. before ever flamm came--i'm not mentionin' august--i'd thrown an eye on you. an' nobody knows what it's cost me. [_with iron stubbornness._] but the devil fetch me now! come what may, rosie! there's no more use tryin' to joke with me! i happened to come upon somethin' to-day! rose an' what is it? streckmann you'll see soon enough. _marthel, rose's younger sister, comes skipping along the field-path. she is neatly dressed in her sunday garments and is still pronouncedly child-like._ marthel [_calls out._] rose, is that you? what are you doin' here? rose i've got to finish hoein' the patch. why didn't you stop to finish it o' saturday? marthel oh, dearie me, rosie, if father sees you! streckmann if there's a bit o' profit in it, he won't do nothing very bad. you let old bernd alone for that! marthel who is that, rosie? rose oh, don't ask me! _old bernd and august keil are approaching along the field-path from the village. the old, white-haired man, as well as the other who is about thirty-five years old, is dressed in his sunday coat and each carries a hymn book. old bernd has a white beard; his voice has a certain softness as though he had had and been cured of a severe pulmonary affection. one might imagine him to be a dignified retired family coachman. august keil, who is a bookbinder, has a pale face, thin, dark moustache and pointed beard. his hair is growing notably thin and he suffers from occasional nervous twitching. he is lean, narrow-chested; his whole appearance betrays the man of sedentary employment._ bernd isn't that rosie? august yes, father bernd. bernd you can't nowise make the girl stop that. when the fit takes her, she's got to go an' toil--if it's weekday or holiday. [_he is quite near her by this time._] is there not time enough o' weekdays? august you do too much, rosie! there's no need o' that! bernd if our good pastor saw that, it'd hurt him to the very soul. he wouldn't trust his own eyes. august an' he's been askin' for you again. streckmann [_suggestively._] they say, too, as he wants her to be his housekeeper. bernd [_noticing him for the first time._] why, that's streckmann! streckmann yes, here i am, life-size. that girl, she's as busy as an ant or a bee! she'll be workin' if her sides crack. she's got no time to be sleepin' in the church. bernd it's little sleepin' we does there, i tell you. you might better say that them as are out here do the sleepin' an' don't want no awakenin'. the bridegroom is at hand ... streckmann an' that's certainly true! but the bride, meantime, runs off! august you're in a merry mood this day. streckmann yes, that i am. i could hug a curbstone ... or the handle o' your collection bag. i do feel most uncommonly jolly. i could laugh myself sick. bernd [_to rose._] put up your things an' we'll go home! not that way! that way i'm not goin' home with you! put your hoe in the hollow of the tree! carryin' that o' sunday would give offence. august there's them that even gads about with guns. streckmann an' devils that take no shame carryin' a whisky-bottle. [_he pulls his bottle out of his pocket._ august each man does those things on his own responsibility. streckmann true. an' at his own expense! come, take courage an' have a drink with me for once. [_he holds out the bottle to august who pays no attention to him._ bernd you know well enough that august drinks no spirits!--whereabouts is your threshin' machine now? streckmann but you, father bernd; you can't go an' refuse to take a drop with me! you've been a distiller yourself! my machine is on the great estate down below. bernd [_takes the bottle hesitatingly._] just because it's you, streckmann, otherwise i wouldn't be touchin' it. when i was manager of the estate, i had to do a good many things! but i never liked to distil the drink an' i didn't touch it in them days at all. streckmann [_to august who has placed a spade in the hollow of the cherry tree._] you just look at that tree! piff, paff! all you got to do is to take your aim and let it fly. bernd there's people that goes hunting o' sundays. streckmann squire flamm. bernd just so. we ha' met him. 'tis bad. i'm sorry for them folks. _streckmann throws cock-chafers at rose._ rose [_trembling._] streckmann! bernd what's wrong? august what's the meanin' o' that? streckmann nothin'! we've got a little private quarrel! august you can have your little quarrels. but it'd be better if you had 'em without her. streckmann [_with malicious hostility._] you take care, august! watch out! bernd peace! don't be quarrelsome! in god's name! streckmann the dam' carrion always spits at me! august carrion is a dead beast ...! streckmann august, let's be at peace. father bernd is right; people ought to like each other! an' it isn't christian the way you act sour like! come on now! have a drink! you're not good-lookin', your worst enemy'd have to admit that, but you're fine when it comes to readin' an' writin' an' you've got your affairs pretty well arranged! well, then, here's to your weddin'--an early one an' a merry one! _bernd takes the bottle and drinks since august remains quite unresponsive._ streckmann i take that real kind o' you, father bernd. bernd when it comes to drinkin' to a happy weddin', i makes an exception! streckmann exactly! that's proper! that's right!--it isn't as if i was a horse-boy to-day as in the old times on the estate when you had the whip hand o' me. i've gotten to be a reputable kind o' feller. anybody that's got a head on his shoulders makes his way. bernd god bestows his favours on them he wants to.--[_to august._] drink to a happy weddin'. august [_takes the bottle._] may god grant it! we don't have to drink to it. streckmann [_slapping his thigh._] an' may he give plenty o' little augusts, so that the grandfather can be glad. an' the oldest of 'em all must grow up to be a squire!--but now you ought to let rosie have a drink too. bernd you're weepin', rosie. what's troublin' you? marthel the tears keep runnin' out o' her eyes all the time. august [_to rose._] drink a drop, so's to let him have his will. _rose takes the bottle, overcoming her repugnance by a violent effort._ streckmann right down with it now! let's be jolly! _rose drinks trembling and hands back the bottle to august with undisguised disgust._ bernd [_softly in his paternal pride to streckmann._] there's a girl for you! he'd better keep a good hold o' her. the curtain falls. the second act _the large living room in flamm's house. the large, low room which is on a level with the ground has a door at the right leading to the outer hall. a second door in the rear hall leads into a smaller chamber, filled with hunting implements, etc., which flamm calls his den. when this door is open, garments and rifles and stuffed bird heads are to be seen covering the walls of the smaller room. in it stands, also, the chest of drawers in which flamm stores the documents kept by him as magistrate. the large room with its three windows on the left side, its dark beams and its furnishings creates an impression of home-likeness and comfort. in the left corner stands a large sofa covered with material of an old-fashioned, flowery pattern. before it stands an extension table of oak. above the door of the den hangs a glass case containing a group of stuffed partridges. immediately to the right of this door a key-rack with keys. not far from this stands a bookcase with glass doors which is filled with books. upon this bookcase stands a stuffed owl and next to it hangs a cuckoo clock. a great tile oven of dappled blue occupies the right corner of the room. in all the three windows of the left wall are potted plants in bloom. the window beside the table is open as well as the one farther forward. in front of the latter mrs. flamm is sitting in an invalid's chair. all the windows have mull curtains. not far from the window nearest to the spectator there is an old chest of drawers covered by a lace scarf upon which are to be seen glasses, bric-a-brac and family mementos of various kinds. on the wall above hang family photographs. between the oven and the door that leads to the outer hall stands an old-fashioned grand piano and an embroidered piano-stool. the keyboard of the instrument is turned toward the tile oven. above the piano there are glass cases containing a collection of butterflies. in the foreground, to the right, a brightly polished roller-top desk of oak with a simple chair. several such chairs are set against the mall near the desk. between the windows an old armchair covered with brown leather. above the table a large brass lamp of english manufacture is suspended. above the desk hangs the large photograph of a handsome little boy of five. the picture is in a simple wooden frame wreathed in fresh field flowers. on top of the desk a large globe of glass covers a dish of forget-me-nots. it is eleven o'clock in the forenoon on a magnificent day of late spring._ _mrs. flamm is an attractive, matronly woman of forty. she wears a smooth, black alpaca dress with a bodice of old-fashioned cut, a small cap of white lace on her head, a lace collar and soft lace cuffs which all but cover her emaciated, sensitive hands. a book and a handkerchief of delicate material lie in her lap. mrs. flamm's features are not without magnanimity and impressiveness. her eyes are light blue and piercing, her forehead high, her temples broad. her hair, already gray and thin is plainly parted in the middle. from time to time she strokes it gently with her finger tips. the expression of her face betrays kindliness and seriousness without severity. about her eyes, her nose and her mouth there is a flicker of archness. mrs. flamm [_looks thoughtfully out into the open, sighs, becomes absorbed in her book for a moment, then listens and closes her book after inserting a bookmark. finally she turns toward the door and speaks in a slightly raised, sympathetic voice._] whoever is out there ... come in! [_a tap is heard, the door to the hall is slightly opened and the head of old bernd is seen._] well, who is it? ah, that's father bernd, our deacon and trustee. come right in! i'm not going to bite you. bernd we was wantin' to speak to the squire. [_he enters, followed by august keil. both are once more in their best clothes._ mrs. flamm well, well, you do look solemn. bernd good mornin', missis. mrs. flamm good day to you, father bernd.--my husband was in his den there a minute ago. [_referring to august._] and there is your future son-in-law too. bernd yes, by god's help, mrs. flamm. mrs. flamm well, then, do take a seat. i suppose you want to make official announcement of the marriage? it's to be at last. bernd yes, thanks be to god; everythin' is in readiness now. mrs. flamm i'm glad o' that. this waiting leads to very little. if something is to be, then 'tis better to have it done! so the girl has made up her mind to it at last? bernd yes. an' it's like takin' a stone off my heart. she has kept us all hangin' about this long time. now she wants to hurry of her own free will. she'd rather have the weddin' to-day than to-morrow. mrs. flamm i'm very glad of that, mr. keil! very glad, indeed, bernd. christie! i think my husband will be here presently! so this matter has been adjusted at last! well, father bernd, i think you ought to feel that you're lucky! you must be well content. bernd an' so i am! you're right indeed, mrs. flamm! day before yesterday we talked it all over. an' god has given us an especial blessin' too. for august went to see the lady of gnadau an' she was so extraordinar' kind-hearted as to loan him a thousand crowns. an' with that he can go an' buy the lachmann house now. mrs. flamm is that true? is that possible? now there you see again how life is, father bernd. when your master let you go without a bit o' pension or anything for your old age, you were quite desperate and hopeless. an' 'twas an unfeeling thing to do! but now god has turned everything to good. bernd so it is! but men has too little faith! mrs. flamm well, then! now you're well off! in the first place the house is right opposite the church, an' then it has a good bit o' land that goes with it! and rose, well, i'm sure she knows how to manage. yes, you can really be satisfied. bernd the blessin's that a lady like that can spread! next to god ... it's to her we owe the most. if i'd been in her service an' had ruined my health as i did workin' for my master, i wouldn't ha' had to complain. mrs. flamm you have nothing more to complain of now, bernd. bernd my goodness, no! in one way not! mrs. flamm you can't count on gratitude in this world. my father was chief forester for forty years an' when he died my mother knew want for all that.--you have an excellent son-in-law. you can live in a pleasant house and you'll even have your own land to work on. and that everything goes from better to better--well, you can let your children see to that. bernd an' that's what i hope for too. no, i haven't no doubt o' that at all. a man who has worked himself up in the world that way by carryin' tracts ... mrs. flamm weren't you thinking once of being a missionary? august unfortunately my health was too bad for that. bernd ... an' learned readin' an' writin' an' his trade too the while, an' is so upright an' christian--well, i feel that i can lay down my head in peace if it is to lay it down to my last sleep. mrs. flamm do you know, by the way, father bernd, that my husband is giving up his office as magistrate? he'll hardly marry your girl. bernd they're in a hurry.... mrs. flamm i know, i know. rose is helpin' along too. she was in to see me this morning. if you wouldn't mind, going to look ... right behind the yard ... christie!... there he is.... flamm [_not yet visible, calls:_] presently! in a moment! mrs. flamm it's official business. _flamm, without coat or waistcoat, appears in the door of his den. his gleaming white shirt is open in front. he is busy cleaning the barrels of a shotgun._ flamm here i am. the machinist streckmann was here just now. i'd like to have my threshing done at once, but the machine is down there on the estate and they're far from being done ... dear me! surely that's father bernd. bernd yes, mr. flamm, we have come here. we were wantin' to.... flamm one thing after another! patience! [_he examines the barrels of the gun carefully._] if you have official business for the magistrate, you'd better wait a little while. steckel will be my successor and he will take these matters a deal more solemnly. mrs. flamm [_holding her crocheting needle to her chin and observing her husband attentively._] christie, what silly stuff are you talking? august [_who, pale from the first, has grown paler at the mention of streckmann's name, now arises solemnly and excitedly._] your honour, we want to announce a marriage.--i am ready, by god's help, to enter into the holy state of matrimony. flamm [_stops looking at the gun. lightly._] is it possible? and are you in such a hurry about it? mrs. flamm [_banteringly._] how does that concern you, christie? dear me, let the good folks marry in peace! you're a reg'lar preacher, you are! if that man had his will, father bernd, there wouldn't be hardly anything but single men and women. flamm well, marriage is a risky business,--you're the bookbinder august keil. august at your service. flamm you live over in wandriss? and you've bought the lachmann house? august exactly. flamm and you want to open a book-shop? august a book and stationery shop. yes. probably, bernd he thinks o' sellin' mostly devotional books. flamm there's some land that belongs to the lachmann house, isn't there? it must be there by the big pear tree? bernd _and_ august [_at the same time._] yes. flamm why then our properties adjoin! [_he lays down the barrels of the gun, searches in his pockets for a bunch of keys and then calls out through the door:_] minna! come and wheel your mistress out! [_resignedly though unable to control his disquiet, he sits down at the desk._ mrs. flamm a very chivalrous man! but he's in the right! i'm in the way just now! [_to the neat maid who has come in and stepped behind her._] come, my girl, wheel me into the den. an' you might well pin up your hair more smoothly. _mrs. flamm and the maid disappear in the den._ flamm i'm really sorry for the lachmanns. [_to keil._] you invested your savings in a mortgage on that property, didn't you? [_august coughs excitedly and in embarrassment._] well, that's all the same in the end! whoever owns that property, though, has cause to congratulate himself.--so you want to marry? well, all that's wanting is the lady! how is that? is the lady stubborn? august [_very much wrought up and quite determined._] we're at one entirely, so far as i know. bernd i'll go an' fetch her, mr. flamm. [_exit rapidly._ flamm [_who has opened the desk in obvious absentmindedness, observes bernd's departure too late._] nonsense, there's no such terrible hurry. [_for a few moments he gazes in some consternation at the door through which bernd has disappeared. then he shrugs his shoulders._] do as you please! exactly as you please! i can light a pipe in the meanwhile. [_he gets up, takes a tobacco pouch from the bookcase and a pipe from a rack on the wall, fills the pipe and lights it. to august._] do you smoke? august no. flamm nor take snuff? august no. flamm and you drink no whisky, no beer, no wine? august nothing except the wine in the sacrament. flamm iron principles, i must say! quite exemplary!--come in! i thought someone was knocking. or wasn't there? those confounded ...! you practise a bit of quackery now and then as a diversion, don't you? [_august shakes his head._] i thought you healed by prayer? seems to me i heard something like that. august that would be somethin' very different from quackery. flamm in what respect? august faith can move mountains. and whatever is asked in the right spirit ... there the father is still almighty to-day. flamm come in! surely someone's been knocking again! come in! come in! confound it all! [_old bernd, very pale himself, urges rose to enter. she is pale and resists him. she and flamm look steadfastly into each other's eyes for a moment. thereupon flamm continues:_] very well! just wait one little minute. [_he goes into the den as though to search for something._ _the following colloquy of bernd, rose and august is carried on in eager whispers._ bernd what was streckmann sayin' to you? rose who? but, father ... bernd streckmann was out there, talkin' an' talkin' to her! rose well, what should he ha' been talkin' to me about? bernd that's what i'm askin' you. rose an' i know about nothin'. august you ought to have no dealin's with such a scamp! rose can i help it if he talks to me? bernd you see, you must confess that he's been talkin' to you! rose an' if he has! i didn't listen to him-- bernd i'll have to be givin' notice about that feller streckmann. i'll have to get the help o' the law against him. we was walkin' past there a while ago where they're workin' with that threshin' machine. you hear? they're beginnin' again! [_from afar the humming and rumbling of the machine is heard._] an' then he called out somethin' after us. i couldn't just rightly hear what it was. august if a girl talks as much as two words to that man, her good repute is almost ruined. rose well, go an' get yourself a better girl. flamm [_re-enters. he has put on a collar and a hunting coat. his demeanour is firm and dignified._] good morning, everybody. now what can i do for you? when is this wedding to take place? what's the trouble? you don't seem to be in agreement. well, won't you please say something? well, my good people, it doesn't look as though you were really ready. suppose you take my advice: go home and think it all over once more. and when you've quite made up your minds come in again. august [_dictatorially._] the matter'll be adjusted now. flamm i have surely nothing against it, keil. [_about to make the necessary notes with a pencil._] when is the ceremony to take place? bernd as soon as ever it's possible, we was thinkin'. august yes; in four or five weeks if it could be done. flamm in four or five weeks? so soon as that? august yes, mr. flamm. flamm then i must beg you to name the exact date. it's very difficult to make such arrangements so rapidly and.... rose [_involuntarily from the depth of her painful excitement._] an' it might well wait a bit longer'n that. flamm what do you mean, rosie? i should say miss bernd. we've known, each other all our lives. but one shouldn't--be so familiar with a girl who's betrothed. however, it seems, then, that you are not in agreement.... august [_who has started violently at rose's words, has stared at her uninterruptedly since. now he fights down his emotion and says with unnatural calm:_] very well then. good-bye and good luck to you, father bernd. bernd stay right where you are, august, i tell you! [_to rose._] an' as for you! i'm tellin' you now that you must make up your mind one way or t'other! d'you understand? long enough has i had patience with you, an' august too, more than was need. we went an' took your foolishness upon ourselves. we was thinkin': patience, patience! the almighty will bring the lass to her senses. but things gets worse an' worse with you. three days ago you give me your sacred promise an' plighted your troth to august, an' you yourself was hard put to it to wait. an' to-day comes an' you want to be shirkin'. what's the meanin' o' that? what do you think o' yourself? d'you think you can dare anything because you've been a good, decent lass? because you've had self-respect an' been industrious, an' no man can say evil o' you? is that the reason? ah, you're not the only one o' that kind. that's no more'n our dooty! an' we're not permitted to think anything of ourselves on that account! there's others as don't go gaddin' to the dance! there's others as has taken care o' her brothers an' sisters an' kept house for an old father! they're not all slovens an' gadabouts even though you're a pious, decent lass! an' how would things ha' been if you had been different? the street would ha' been your home! no girl like that could be a daughter o' mine! this man here, august, he has no need o' you! a man like that has but to stretch out his hand ... an' he can have any girl he wants, even if her people are of the best. he might be havin' a very different wife from yourself! truly, a man's patience can't bear everything! it'll snap sometime! pride, arrogance, recklessness--that's what it is in you! either you keep your promise, or.... flamm now, now, father bernd! you must be gentle! bernd your honour, you don't know how it's been! a girl that leads on and makes a fool of an honest man that way--she can't be no daughter o' mine! august [_nearly weeping._] what have you got to reproach me with, rose? why are you so hard toward me? 'tis true, i never had no confidence in my good fortune? an' why should i have? i'm made for misfortune! an' that's what i've always told you, father bernd, in spite of it all i've taken thought an' i've worked an' god has given his blessin' so that i've not fallen by the wayside. but i can weep; these things aren't for me! that would ha' been too much of a blessin'. i grew up in an orphan house! i never knew what it was to have a home! i had no brother an' no sister ... well, a man can still hold fast to his saviour.--it may be i'm not much to look at, lass! but i asked you an' you said yes. 'tis the inner man that counts! god looks upon the heart ... you'll be bitter sorry some day! [_he tries to go but bernd holds him back._ bernd once more! here you stay, august!--d'you understand, rosie! i means these words: this man here ... or ... no, i can't permit that! that man here was my friend an' support long before he asked you to be his wife. when i was down with the sickness an' couldn't earn nothin', an' no one was good to us--he shared his bit o' bread with us! [_august, unable to master his emotion any longer, takes his hat and goes out._] he was like an angel o' the lord to us!--august! rose i'm willin'. can't you give me a little time? bernd he's given you three years! the good pastor has tried to persuade you ... now august is tired out! who's to blame him for't? everything must end somewhere! he's in the right! but now you can look after yourself an' see what becomes o' you ... i can't take no more pride in such a daughter. [_exit._ flamm well, well, well, well! this is the damnedest ...! _rose has become alternately red and deathly pale. it is clear that she is struggling with emotions so violent that she can scarcely hold them in check. after bernd has gone out the girl seems to fall into a state of desperate numbness._ flamm [_closing the public registration book and finding courage to look at rose._] rose! wake up! what's the matter with you? surely you're not going to worry about all that ranting? [_a fever seems to shake her and her great eyes are full of tears._] rose! be sensible! what's the ...? rose i know what i want--and--maybe--i'll be able to put it through! an'--if not--it don't matter--neither! flamm [_walks up and down excitedly, stopping to listen at the door._] naturally. and why not? [_apparently absorbed in the key-rack from which he takes several keys, whispers in feverish haste._] rose! listen! rose, do you hear me? we must meet behind the outbuildings! i must talk it all over with you once more. ssh! mother's in there in the den. it's not possible here! rose [_uttering her words with difficulty but with an iron energy._] never an' never, mr. flamm! flamm i suppose you want to drive us all mad? the devil has gotten into you! i've been running around after you for the better part of a month, trying to say a sensible word to you and you avoid me as if i were a leper! what's the result? things of this kind! rose [_as before._] an' if everythin' gets ten times worse'n it is--_no_! you can all beat down on me; i don't deserve no better! go on an' wipe your boots on me, but ... flamm [_who is standing by the table, turns suddenly with indignant astonishment toward rose. he strives to master his rage. suddenly however he brings down his fist on the table top with resounding violence._] i will be damned to all ...! rose for heaven's sake ... _mrs. flamm, wheeled by a maid servant, appears at the door of the den._ mrs. flamm what is the trouble, christopher? _flamm who has turned deadly pale, pulls himself together energetically, takes his hat and cane from the wall and goes out through the door at the right._ mrs. flamm [_looks at her husband in consternation, shakes her head at his abrupt departure and then turns questioningly to rose._] what has happened? what's the matter with him? rose [_overwhelmed by her profound wretchedness._] oh, dear mrs. flamm, i'm that unhappy! [_she sinks down before mrs. flamm and buries her head in the latter's lap._ mrs. flamm now do tell me!... for pity's sake, lass ... what's come over you! what is it? you're like a different creature. i can't never understand that! [_to the maid who has wheeled her in._] i don't need you now; you can come back later! get everything ready in the kitchen. [_the maid leaves the room._] now then! what is the trouble? what has happened? tell me everything! it'll ease you! what? what is't you say? don't you want to marry that pasty august? or maybe you're carryin' some other fellow around in your thoughts? dear me! one o' them is about as good as another, an' no man is worth a great deal. rose [_controlling herself and rising._] i know what i wants and that's the end o't! mrs. flamm is that true? you see, i was afraid you didn't know! sometimes a woman don't know, especially a young one like you. an' then, maybe, an older woman can help a bit. but if you know what you want,'tis well! you'll be findin' your own way out o' your trouble. [_putting on her spectacles, with a keen glance._] rosie, are you ill maybe? rose [_frightened and confused._] ill? how ...? mrs. flamm why, don't people get ill? you used to be so different formerly. rose but i'm not ill! mrs. flamm i'm not sayin' it. i just ask. i ask because i want to know! but we must understand each other rightly! 'tis true! don't let's talk round about the thing we want to know, or play hide an' seek.--you're not afraid that i don't mean well? [_rose shakes her head vigorously._] an 'twould be strange if you did. that's settled then. you used to play with my little kurt. you two grew up together until it pleased god to take my only child.--an' that very time your mother died too an' i remember--she was lyin' on her deathbed--that she was askin' me that i might, if possible, look after you a bit. rose [_staring straight before her._] the best thing for me would be to jump into the river! if things is that way ... god forgive me the sin! mrs. flamm if things are that way? how? i don't understand you! you might well speak a bit more clearly.--in the first place, i'm a woman myself, an' it won't astonish me. an' then--i've been a mother myself, even if i have no children now. lass, who knows what's wrong with you? i've been watchin' you for weeks an' weeks; maybe you didn't notice anything, but now i want you to come out with the truth.--wheel me over to that chest o' drawers. [_rose obeys her._] so! here in these drawers are old things--a child's clothes an' toys. they were kurt's ... your mother said to me once: my rose, she'll be a mother o' children! but her blood is a bit too hot!--i don't know. maybe she was right. [_she takes a large doll from one of the drawers._] do you see? things may go as they want to in this world, but a mother is not to be despised.--you and kurt used to play with this doll. 'twas you mainly that took care o' her, washed her, fed her, gave her clean linen, an' once--flamm happened to come up--you put her to your breast.--you brought those flowers this morning, didn't you? the forget-me-nots in the little dish yonder? an' you put flowers on kurt's grave o' sunday. children an' graves--they're women's care. [_she has taken a little child's linen shift from the drawer, she unfolds it, holding it by the sleeves, and speaks from behind it._] didn't you, rosie? an' i thank you for it, too. your father, you see, he's busy with his missionary meetin's an' his bible lessons an' such things. all people are sinners here, says he, an' he wants to make angels of 'em. it may be that he's right, but i don't understand those things. i've learned one thing in this world, an' that is what it is to be a mother an' how a mother is blessed with sorrows. _rose overwhelmed and moaning has sunk down beside mrs. flamm and kisses the latter's hands again and again in gratitude and as a sign of confession._ mrs. flamm [_shows by a sudden gleam in her eyes that she understands the truth and has received the confession. but she continues to speak quietly._] you see, lass, that's what i've learned. i've learned that one thing which the world has forgotten. i don't know very much about anything else. as much as most people, maybe, an' that's not any real knowledge. [_she lays down the child's shift carefully on her lap._] well, now you go home an' be of good courage! i'll be thinkin' things over for you. 'tis well so far. i'll ask you no more just now. you're different now ... all's different. an' i'll be doubly careful. i don't want to know anything, but i want you to depend on me. little i care, anyhow, who the father is--if 'tis a councillor or a beggar. it's we who have to bring the children into the world, an' no one can help us there. three things you must think about--how about your father, and about august ... an' something more. but i have time enough! i'll think it all over an' i'll feel that i'm still good for something in this world. rose [_has arisen and passed again into a state of moral numbness._] no, no, mrs. flamm, don't do that! you can't! don't take no interest in me! i've not deserved it of him nor of no one! i know that! i've got to fight it through--alone! there's no help in others for me; it's ... no, i can't tell you no clearer!... you're as good to me as an angel! dear god, you're much too good! but it's no use! i can't take your help. good-bye.... mrs. flamm wait a little! i can't let you go this way. who knows what you may be doin'? rose no, you can be reel quiet about that, mrs. flamm. i'm not that desperate yet. if there's need, i can work for my child. heaven's high an' the world is wide! if it was just me, an' if it wasn't for father an' if august didn't seem so pitiful ... an' then, a child ought to have a father! mrs. flamm good. you just be resolute. you were always a brave girl. an' 'tis better if you can keep your courage up!--but, if i've understood you rightly, i can't see at all why you want to fight against the weddin'. rose [_becomes sullen, pale and fearful._] what can i say? i don't hardly know! an' i don't want to fight against it no more. only ... streckmann.... mrs. flamm be open with me, you understand? for my part you can go home now! but come back to-morrow! an' listen to this thing i say: be glad! a woman ought to be glad of her child.... rose an' god knows that i am! an' i will fight it all through! only--nobody can't help me to do it! [_exit quickly._ mrs. flamm [_alone. she looks after rose, sighs, takes the child's shift from her lap, unfolds it as before and says:_] ah, lass,'tis a good fortune that you have, not an evil! there's none that's greater for a woman! hold it fast! the curtain falls the third act _a fertile landscape. in the foreground, to the right, on a triangular piece of greensward slightly below the level of the fields, there stands an old pear tree, at the foot of which a spring empties into a primitive basin of stone. the middle distance is of meadow land. in the background a pool, bordered by reeds and dotted by water plants, lies in a grove of alder trees and bushes of hazelnut, willow and beech. the meadows extend on either side encircled by immemorial oaks, elms, beeches and birch trees. between the foliage of the trees and bushes the church spires of distant villages are visible. to the left, behind the bushes, arise the thatched roofs of the field barns._ _it is a hot afternoon of early august._ _from afar is heard the hum of the threshing machine. bernd and august keil come from, the right. they are worn out from labour and from the heat. the men are clad only in their shirts, breeches, boots and caps. each carries a hoe across his shoulder, a scythe in his hand, and carries at his belt a cowherd's horn and whetstone._ bernd 'tis hot an' to spare to-day. a man must rest a bit! but a feelin' o' peace comes to you workin' on your own ground. august the trouble is i'm not used to mowin'. bernd you went an' did your share right bravely. august yes, yes! but how long can i do it? all my limbs are twitchin' an' hurtin' me now. bernd you can rest content, my son. a man's got to be used to that kind o' work. an' in your case 'tis only an exception. but, 's i said, you could well go an' be a gard'ner. august for the space of a day. on the second i'd collapse. there's no use; i'm but a broken reed. i went to the county physician again. 'twas the same as always. he just shrugged his shoulders. bernd you're well now an' in god's hands. the most you might do is to put a few rusty nails in water an' drink the rinsings two or three times a week. that purifies the blood an' strengthens the heart.--i only hope the weather'll keep on this way. august the heat's too terrible. when we were mowin', i thought i heard thunder. bernd [_kneeling down on the edge of the basin and drinking from the surface of the spring._] water is the best drink for all they say. august how late is it? bernd 'tis about four o'clock, i'm wonderin' what keeps rose with our evenin' meal. [_he raises his scythe and looks at the blade. august does the same._] will you have to sharpen? mine will do a bit longer. august i can try it this way a while longer. bernd [_throws himself on the grass under the pear tree._] you'd better come an' sit down by me. an' if, maybe, you got your testament with you, we might refresh ourselves with the good word. august [_sitting down exhausted and glad to be free._] all i say is: thanks and praise be to the lord. bernd d'you see, august, i said to you then: let her be! the lass will find her own way! now she's come to her senses! in the old days, before your time, often an' often i worried about her. a kind o' stubbornness used to come over her from time to time. an' 'twas always best to let her be!--sometimes it seemed, as god lives, as if the lass was runnin' against a wall--a strong wall that nobody else couldn't see, an' as if she had to grope her way around it first. august what got into her that day ... i'm thankin' god on my knees ... but that day i didn't know what to make of it! suddenly she--how that came about ...? no, i can't see the rights of it to this day. bernd an' how different did she act this time when we went down to the magistrate. august i'm glad that it's no longer squire flamm. bernd yes, an' this time she didn't say a word an' in four or five minutes everythin' was straight. that's the way she is. 'tis the way o' women. august d'you think it had somethin' to do with streckmann? he called out some words behind you that day, an' first he had talked to her. bernd it may be so, an' it may not be so. i can't tell you. times is when one can't get a word out o' her. 'tis not a good thing. an' on that account i'm glad that she'll be the wife of a man who can influence her an' take that sullen way from her. you two are meant for one another. 'tis well! the girl needs to be led, an' you have a kind hand an' a gentle one. august when i see that streckmann, i feel as if i had to look upon the evil one hisself.... bernd maybe she thought as the feller meant mischief. he's been a sinner from his childhood on! many a time his mother complained of it!... it may be! 'twouldn't surprise no one in him. august when i see that man, i don't seem to be myself no longer. hot an' cold shudders run down my back, an' i come near to accusin' our heavenly father ... because he didn't make me a samson in strength. such times, god forgive me, i have evil thoughts. [_the whizzing of streckmann's engine is heard._] there he is! bernd don't take no notice of him. august i won't. an' when 'tis all over, i'll shut myself up in my four walls an' we can lead a quiet life. bernd a good, quiet life--god grant it! august and i don't want to know nothin' of the world no more! the whole business fills me with horror! i have taken such a disgust to the world and to men, that i ... father, i don't hardly know how to say it ... but when the bitterness o' things rises up into my throat--then i laugh! then i have a feelin' of peace in the thought of death; and i rejoice in it like a child. _a number of thirsty field labourers, an old woman and two young girls, all from the estate of the magistrate flamm, come hurriedly across the fields. they are hahn, heinzel, golisch, old mrs. golisch, old kleinert, the head maid servant and her assistant. the men are clad in trousers, the women have their skirts gathered up, shawls over their breasts and manicoloured kerchiefs on their heads._ hahn [_thirty years old, bronzed and vigorous._] i'm always the first at the fountain! the rest o' ye c'n run all ye want to! ye can't never ketch up with me! [_he kneels down and leans over the spring._] eh, but i'd like to jump right in. the assistant maid don't ye dare! we've got a thirst too. [_to the head maid servant._] have ye a bit of a cup with ye to dip up the water? head maid servant hold on there! i comes first. heinzel [_pulls the two women back by the shoulders and thrusts himself between them up to the spring._] first comes the men, then the women folks. kleinert there's space enough here for us all. eh, father bernd? wish you a good meal. bernd yes, yes. only no meal's been brought for us to eat yet. we're waitin' for it--waitin' in vain. golisch i ... i ... i'm wet enough to be wrung out! my tongue is lyin' in my mouth, dry as a piece o' charred wood. old mrs. golisch water! kleinert here 'tis, enough for us all! _they all drink greedily, some immediately from the surface of the mater, some out of their hollowed hands, others out of their hats or out of little cups and bottles. the sounds of swallowing and of deep relieved breathing are clearly audible._ heinzel [_getting up._] water's a good thing but beer would be a better. hahn an' a bit o' brandy wouldn't come amiss neither. golisch august, you might be treatin' us to a quart. old mrs. golisch he'd better invite us all to the weddin'. golisch we're all comin' to the weddin'. they says it's to be soon. heinzel i'm not comin'. what for? to swill cold water? i needn't go no farther than the spring for that. or for the sake of a little coffee. hahn an' prayin' an' singin' for dessert. an' mebbe, there's no tellin', the parson from jenkau will come over an' see if we know the ten commandments. heinzel or the seven beatitudes on top o' that! that'd be a fine state of affairs. i've long forgot it all. kleinert you folks had better stop teasin' august. i'm tellin' you now, if i had a girl of my own, i wouldn't be wantin' no better son-in-law. he knows his business! you always know where to find him. _the working men and women have scattered themselves at ease in a semicircle and are eating their evening meal; coffee in tin pots and great wedges of bread from which they cut pieces with their clasp-knives._ old mrs. golisch there comes rosie bernd around from behind the farm. golisch look an' see, will you, how that girl can jump. kleinert she can lift a sack o' wheat and drag it to the very top o' the barn. this very mornin' i saw her with a great heavy chest o' drawers on a wheelbarrow, trundlin' it over to the new house. that there girl has got sap an' strength. she'll take care o' her household. hahn if i could get along in the world like august in other respecks, my faith, i wouldn't a bit mind tryin'; i'd see what bein' pious can do for a man. golisch you've got to know how to run after good fortune; then you'll get hold of it. hahn when you consider how he used to go around from village to village with a sack full o' tracts; an' how, after that, he used to be writin' letters for people ... an' now, to-day, he's got the finest bit o' property an' can marry the handsomest girl in the county. _rose bernd approaches. in a basket she is carrying the evening meal for august and old bernd._ rose a good afternoon to you. several voices good evenin'!--good evenin'! many thanks! golisch you're lettin' your sweetheart starve, rosie. rose [_merrily unpacking the food._] don't you worry! he don't starve so easy as that. heinzel you must be feedin' him well, rosie, or he'll put on no flesh. golisch that's true. he'll be a sight too lean for you, lass. bernd where have you been keepin' yourself so long? we've been waitin' this half hour. august [_in a subdued but annoyed voice._] an' now the whole crowd is here again! an' we might have been through this long time. old mrs. golisch let him scold, lass, an' don't mind it. rose who's scoldin'? there's no one here to scold. august wouldn't do it in a lifetime. old mrs. golisch even so! but that's right: you shouldn't care nothin' about it. heinzel 'cause, if he don't scold now, that'll be comin' later. rose i'm not afraid o' that ever comin'. golisch you're mighty friendly, all of a sudden. rose we was always agreed with each other, wasn't we, august? what are you laughin' at? [_she kisses him. laughter is heard among the people._] golisch well, well, and i thought as i might be climbin' into her window some day. kleinert if you did, you'd be carrying home your bones in a handkerchief! the head maid servant [_sarcastically._] o lordy, lordy! i'd try it all the same. you can't never tell. bernd [_sombre but calm._] take care what you're sayin', woman. kleinert hear what he says, i tell you! be careful of what you're sayin'. old bernd, he don't take no jokes. rose she's not sayin' anythin' special. let her be. kleinert [_lighting his pipe._] he may be lookin' real mild now, but when he lets go, you won't hardly believe it. i know how it used to be when he was manager of the estate; the women folks didn't have much cause for laughin' then. he got the upper hand o' ten like you; there wasn't no gaddin 'about with fellers for them! head maid servant who's gaddin' about with fellers, i'd like to know! kleinert you'd better be askin' the machinist, streckmann, head maid servant [_crimson._] for all i care you can ask the lord hisself! [_all present laugh._ _the machinist streckmann appears. he is dusty and comes straight from the threshing machine. he shows the effects of liquor._ streckmann who's talkin' about the machinist streckmann aroun' here? he's right here! he's standin' right here. anybody wantin' to pick a quarrel with him? good day to you all! hope you're havin' a pleasant meal. old mrs. golisch talk of the devil an' he appears. streckmann an' you're the devil's grandmother, i suppose. [_he takes off his cockade and wipes the sweat from his forehead._] i tell you people i can't keep up with this: this kind o' work uses a man up skin and bones!--hello, august! good day to you, rosie! well, father bernd--great god, can't anybody answer? heinzel let him be! some people's better off than they can stand. streckmann the lord lets his own people have an easy time. a feller like me works and works and can't get ahead. [_he has assumed a reclining position and squeezed himself between heinzel and kleinert. he now hands his whisky bottle to heinzel._] let her go aroun'. old mrs. golisch you live the best life of us all, streckmann! what in heaven's name has you to complain about? you drinks your drinks and makes three times over what we do--all for standin' by the machine a bit. streckmann what i want is work for my brain. i got a head on me. that's what you bran-heads can't understand. of course! what does an old woman know about that! an', anyhow--the trouble i got.... golisch lord, streckmann and trouble-- streckmann more than enough!--there's somethin' that sticks into me, i can tell you--sticks into my belly and into my heart. i feel so rotten bad i'd like to be doin' somethin' real crazy. [_to the assistant maid._] lass, shall i lie down with you? assistant maid i'll bang you over the head with a whetstone! golisch that's just what's troublin' him; everythin' gets black before his eyes, he don't see nothin' more, an' sudden like, he's lyin' abed with a lass. [_loud laughter._ streckmann yon can laugh, ye ragamuffins, laugh all ye want to! it's no laughin' matter with me, i can tell ye. [_blustering:_] i'll let the machine squeeze off one of my arms! or ye can run the piston through me if ye want to! kill me, for all i care. hahn or mebbe you'd like to set a barn afire. streckmann by god! there's fire enough inside of me. august there, he's a happy man ... august whether i'm happy or whether i'm unhappy, that don't concern no one in this world. streckmann what am i doin' to you? can't you be sociable with a feller? august i'll look for my society elsewhere. streckmann [_looks at him long with smouldering hatred; represses his rage and grasps the whisky bottle which has been handed back to him._] give it to me! a feller's got to drown his sorrow!--[_to rose._] you needn't be lookin' at me; a bargain's a bargain. [_he gets up._] i'm goin'!--i don't want to come between you. rose you can go or you can stay for all i care. old mrs. golisch [_calling streckmann back._] look here, streckmann, what was that happened t'other day? about three weeks ago at the threshin' machine?... [_men and women burst into laughter._ streckmann that's all over. i don't know nothin' about that. old mrs. golisch an' yet, you swore by all that was good and holy.... kleinert you people stop your gossippin'. old mrs. golisch he needn't be talkin' so big all the time. streckmann [_comes back._] and i tell you what i says, that i puts through. i'll be damned if i don't! let it go at that. i don't say no more. [_exit._ old mrs. golisch it's done just as easy without talkin'. streckmann [_comes back, is about to speak out, but restrains himself._] never mind! i don't walk into no such trap! but if you want to know exactly what it's all about, ask august there or father bernd. bernd what's all this about? what's this we're supposed to know? old mrs. golisch 'twas that time you went to the magistrate's, 'twas that time! an' didn't streckmann pass you on the road an' didn't he cry out somethin' after ye? kleinert it's about time for you to be stoppin'. old mrs. golisch an' why, i'd like to know? that's all nothin' but a joke ... people wonders if that there time you all agreed, or if rosie wasn't so willin' to join in! bernd god almighty forgive you all for your sins! what i wants to ask you is this: why can't the whole crowd o' you leave us in peace? or is it that we ever did any harm to any o' ye? golisch an' we're not doin' any wrong neither. rose an' whether i was willin' on that day or not--you needn't give yourself no concern about that! i'm willin' now an' that settles it, kleinert that's the right way, rosie! august [_who has hitherto been reading, with apparent absorption, in his new testament, now closes the book and arises._] come, father, let's go to work. hahn that takes it out o' you more than pastin' prayer books together or stirrin' the paste in your pot! heinzel and how do you think he'll feel after the weddin'? a girl like rosie--she makes demands! [_laughter._ streckmann [_also laughing._] gee ...! i almost said somethin' i oughtn't to!--[_he steps back among the people._] i'll give you a riddle to guess. shall i? still waters run deep! 'tis bad. you mustn't taste blood--no, no! the thirst only gets worse an' worse--that's all. old mrs. golisch what's that? where did you get the taste o' blood? bernd i suppose he means the taste for whisky! streckmann i'm goin' my way! good-bye! i'm a good feller! good-bye, father bernd! good-bye, august! good-bye, rosie! [_to august._] what's wrong?--august, don't be showin' off. 'tis all well! i'm willin'! you'll not see me again! but you--you've got reason enough to be grateful to me. you've always been an underhanded kind o' crittur! but i've given my consent to let things be! i've given my consent an' everything can go smoothly. [_streckmann goes._ rose [_with violent energy._] let him talk, august; pay no attention to him. kleinert flamm is comin'! [_he looks at his watch._] 'tis over half an hour! [_the whistle of the engine is heard._ hahn [_during the general stir._] forward, prussians! it's misery whistlin' for us! _the workingmen and the maids disappear swiftly with their scythes. rose, old bernd and august remain alone on the scene._ bernd all the evil on earth seems broken loose here' what's all that streckmann is sayin'? tell me, rose, do you understand it? rose no, an' i've got better things to be thinkin' of! [_she gives august a friendly nudge on the head._] isn't it so, august? we have no time for nonsense! we have to hurry these comin' six weeks. [_she gathers up the remnants of the meal in her basket._ august come over to us a bit later. rose i must wash and iron and sew buttonholes. 'tis almost time now. bernd we'll be comin' to our supper after seven. [_exit._ august [_before he goes, earnestly:_] do you care for me, rosie? rose yes, i do care for you. _august disappears and rose is left alone. the hum of the threshing machine is heard as well as the muttering of thunder on the horizon. after rose has replaced bread, butter, the coffee pots and cups into her basket, she straightens herself up and seems to become aware of something in the distance which attracts her and holds her captive. with sudden, determination, she snatches up the head kerchief that has fallen to the ground and hurries off. before she has disappeared from view, however, flamm becomes visible on the scene and calls to her._ flamm rose! wait there! confound it all! [_rose stands still with her face turned away._] you are to give me a drink! i suppose i'm worth a draught of water. rose there's plenty of water here. flamm i see. i'm not blind. but i don't care to drink like the beasts. have you no cups in your basket? [_rose pushes the cover of her basket aside._] well, then! you even have a cup of bunzlauer ware! i like to drink out of that best of all. [_she hands him the cup, still with averted face._] i beg your pardon. you might practise a little politeness! i suppose you'll have to force yourself to it this one more time. [_rose walks over to the spring, rinses the cup, fills it with water, sets it down next to the spring and then returns to her basket. she picks the latter up and waits with her back to flamm._] no, rosie--that won't do at all. you might get rid of some gaol bird in that fashion. i don't know the habits of such persons very exactly. as things are, i'm still the magistrate flamm. am i going to get a drink or am i not? well: one ... two ... three ... and ... there's an end to this, i' beg for some decency! no more nonsense! [_rose has returned to the spring, has picked up the cup and now holds it out to flamm, still refusing to look at him._] so! higher, though, a little higher! i can't get at it yet! rose but you must hold it. flamm how can i drink this way? rose [_amused against her will, turns her face to him._] oh, but.... flamm that's better already!--that's good!--[_apparently unintentionally and as if merely to hold the cup, he puts his own hands upon rose's which support it. his mouth at the rim he lowers himself more and more--until he kneels on one knee._] so! thank you, rosie! now you can let me go. rose [_making gentle efforts to disengage herself._] oh, no! do let me be, mr. flamm! flamm is that so? you think, then, that i ought to let you be? now, when at last i've succeeded in catching you! no, lassie,'tis not so easy as that. it won't do and you needn't ask it of me. you needn't wear yourself out! you can't escape me! first of all, look me square in the eyes once more! i haven't changed! i know; i know about--everything! i've had 'a talk with the magistrate steckel about your having agreed to everything now. i thank god that i'm no longer the official who attends to the matchmaking! another man takes care of the man-traps now. i even know the date of the funeral ... i'll be ... i meant the wedding, of course. and in addition, i've talked to myself, too. rose, 'tis a hard nut! i hope we won't break our teeth on it! rose i dare not stand this way with you here. flamm you must. whether you may or not--i don't care! in fact i don't give a tinker's damn! if this thing is really decreed in the council of god, as the song has it--i want a dismissal in all due form: i refuse to be just coolly shunted off.--rose, is there anything in the past for which i need to ask your forgiveness? rose [_touched, shakes her head with energy._] nothin', nothin' at all, mr. flamm. flamm no? is that honest? [_rose nods a hearty affirmation._] well, i'm glad of that, at least! i hoped it would be so. then at least we can keep something that's harmonious in our memories. ah, rose, it was a good, good time.... rose an' you must go back to your wife.... flamm a good time! and it rushes past ... past! and what do we keep of it? rose you must be kind, very kind to your wife, mr. flamm. she's an angel; 'tis she that saved me! flamm come, let's sit down under the pear tree! very well. but why talk of it? i'm always kind to my wife. our relations are the very friendliest. come, rose! tell me all about that. what d'you mean by that? saved? what did she save you from, rose? i'd naturally like to know that! what was the matter with you? mother did drop all sorts of hints; but i was no wiser for them. rose mr. christopher ... mr. flamm! i can't sit down here. an' it don't matter! it can't lead to anythin'. 'tis all over an' past now--well--'tis all dead an' gone. i know god will forgive me the sin. an' he won't lay it up against the poor, innocent child neither. he's too merciful to do that! flamm [_alluding to the hum of the threshing machine which grows louder and louder._] that confounded buzzing all the time!--what did you say, rose? sit down just a moment. i won't harm you; i won't even touch you! i give you my word, rose. have some confidence in me! i want you to speak out--to tell what's on your heart! rose i don't know ... there's ... there's just nothin' more to say! when once i'm married, you can go an' ask the good missis. maybe she'll tell you then what was the trouble with me. i haven't told august nothin' either. i know he's good. i'm not afraid o' that. he's soft o' heart an' a good christian man. an' now: good-bye, christie--keep well.--we've a long life ahead of us now an', maybe, we can be reel faithful an' do penance an' work hard an' pay off the debt. flamm [_holding rose's hand fast in his._] rose, stay one moment. it's all right and i must be satisfied. i'm not coming to your wedding, god knows! but even if i don't come to your wedding, still i admit that you're right.--but, oh, lass, i've loved you so truly, so honestly.... i can never tell you how much! and it's been, upon my word, as far back as i can think.--you had crept into my heart even in the old days when you were a child and were always so honest ... so frank about a thousand little things--so straight and true, however things were. no sneakiness, no subterfuge--whatever the consequences. i've known women enough in tarant and in eberswalde at the agricultural college and in the army, and i was usually lucky with them--ridiculously so. and yet i never knew true happiness except through you. rose oh, christie, i've loved you too! flamm why you've been in love with me ever since you were a little thing! why you used to make eyes at me.... do you believe you'll ever think of it? and think of the mad, old sinner flamm? rose that i will. i have a pledge.... flamm you mean the ring with the bit of stone? and won't you come to our house some time? rose no, that can't be. that would cut a body too sorely to the heart. that wouldn't be nothin' but double sufferin' an' misery! there's got to be an end to it all. i'll bury myself in the house! there's work an' moil enough for two! 'tis a new life that's beginnin' an' we mustn't look back on the old life. there's nothin' but sorrow an' heart's need on this earth; we has to wait for a better place. flamm and so this is to be our last farewell, rose? rose father an' august will be wonderin' now. flamm and if the little fishes in the river were to stand on their tails in wonderment and the bitterns on the trees did the same--i wouldn't lose one second--now! so it's to be all, all over and done with? and you won't even come to see mother? rose [_shaking her head._] i can't look her in the face no more! maybe some day! maybe in ten years or so! maybe all this'll be conquered then. good-bye, mr. christie! good-bye, mr. flamm! flamm so be it. but, lass, i tell you, if it weren't for mother ... now ... even now ... i wouldn't fool around much ... i wouldn't give you much time.... rose yes, if it wasn't for that little word "if"! if august wasn't livin', an' father wasn't--who knows what i'd do. i'd like to go out into the wide world. flamm and i with you, rose! well, then we know what's in our hearts.--and now you might give me your hand once more.... [_he presses her hand and their glances melt hotly into each other in this last farewell._] so it is. what was to be, must be! i suppose we must leave each other now. [_he turns resolutely and walks away with firm steps and without looking back._ rose [_looking after him, mastering herself, with tense volition:_] what must be, must be!--'tis well now!-- [_she put back the can into her basket and is about to walk in the opposite direction._ _streckmann appears._ streckmann [_with pale, contorted face, creeping and basely hesitant in demeanour._] rose! rose bernd! d'you hear? that was that rascally flamm again! if ever i gets my hand on him ... i'll smash every bone in his carcase!--what's up? what did he want again! but i'm tellin' you this: things don't go that way! i won't bear it! one man is as good as another! i won't let nobody turn me off this way! rose what d'you say? who are you anyhow? streckmann who am i? damn it, you know that well enough! rose who are you? where did i ever see you? streckmann me? where you saw me? _you?_ you can look for somebody else to play your monkey tricks on! rose what do you want? what are you? what business has you with me? streckmann what business? what i wants? nothin' much, y'understand? god ... don't scream so! rose i'll call for all the world to come if you don't get out o' my way this minute! streckmann think o' the cherry tree! think o' the crucifix.... rose who are you! lies! lies! what do you want with me? either you get away from here straightway ... or i'll cry out for some one to come an' help me! streckmann girl, you've lost your senses! rose then i won't have to drag 'em around with me no longer! who are you! lies! you've seen nothin'! i'll cry out! i'll shriek as long as i has breath in my body, if you don't go this very second. streckmann [_frightened._] i'm goin', rosie. it's all right. rose but now! this minute! y'understand! streckmann right away! for all i care! an' why not? [_he makes a farcical gesture as though avoiding a shower of rain._] rose [_half-mad with rage and scorn._] there he runs! the vile scoundrel! when you see a fellow like that from behind, you see the best side o' him! fy, i says! he's all smooth an' spruce on the outside, an' his innards rotten as dirt. a body could die o' disgust! streckmann [_turns, pale and sinister._] ah ...! an' is that so indeed! you don't never mean it!... 'tis not very appetisin' the way you makes it out. why was you so hot after it, then? rose i? hot after you? streckmann maybe you've forgotten already? rose scoundrel! streckmann maybe i am. rose scoundrel! ruffian! why do you go sniffin' around me now! who are you? what has i done? you stuck to my heels! you followed me an' baited me an' snapped at me ... rascal ... worse'n a dog ... streckmann 'twas you that ran after me! rose what ...? streckmann you came to my house an' made things hot for me! rose an' you ... streckmann well, what? rose an' you? an' you? streckmann well, i don't refuse a good thing that's offered. rose streckmann! you has to die some day! d'you hear? think o' your last hour! you has to stand before your judge some day! i ran to you in the awful terror o' my heart! an' i begged you for the love o' god not to put nothin' between me an' august. i crept on my knees before you--an' you say, you, i ran after you! what was it truly? you committed a crime--a crime against me! an' that's worse'n a scoundrel's trick! 'twas a crime--doubly and trebly! an' the lord'll bring it home to you! streckmann listen to that! i'll take my chances! rose is that what you say? you'll take your chances in that court? then a person can spit in your face! streckmann think o' the cherry tree! think o' the crucifix! rose an' you swore to me that you'd never mention it again! you swore by all that's holy. you put that hand o' yours on the cross, an' by the cross you swore--an' now you're beginnin' to persecute me again! what do you want? streckmann i'm as good as flamm. an' i don't want no more goin's on between you an' him! rose i'll jump into his bed, scoundrel! an' it wouldn't concern you that much! streckmann well, we'll see what'll be the end of all that! rose what? 'tis violence that you did to me! you confused me! you broke me down! you pounced on me like a wild beast! i know! i tried to get out by the door! an' you took hold an' you rent my bodice an' my skirt! i bled! i might ha' gotten out by the door! then you shot the latch! that's a crime, a crime! an' i'll denounce.... _bernd and august appear on the scene. after them kleinert and golisch and the other field hands._ bernd [_close to streckmann._] what's all this? what did you do to my lass? august [_pulls bernd back and thrusts himself forward._] 'tis my place, father. what did you do to rosie? streckmann nothin'! bernd [_coming forward again._] what did you do to the lass? streckmann nothin'! august [_approaching streckmann once more._] you'll tell us now what you did to her! streckmann nothin'! the devil! i say nothin'! august you'll either be tellin' us now what you did to her--or ... streckmann or? well, what? what about "or"?--hands off!... take your hands from my throat!! kleinert [_trying to separate them._] hold on, now. streckmann hands off, i tell you! bernd you'll have to take the consequences now! either ... august what did you do to the girl? streckmann [_backing, in sudden fright, toward the pear tree, cries out:_] help! august what did you do to the girl? answer me that! i got to know that! [_he has freed himself and faces streckmann._ streckmann [_lifts his arm and strikes august full in the face._] there's my answer! that's what i did! kleinert streckmann! old mrs. golisch catch hold o' august! he's fallin'! head maid [_supports the falling man._] august! bernd [_paying no attention to august, but addressing streckmann:_] you'll have to account for this! it'll be brought home to you! streckmann what? on account o' that there wench that's common to anybody as wants her.... [_withdraws._ bernd what was that he said ...? kleinert [_who is helping the maid, hahn, golisch and mrs. golisch support august._] his eye is out! old mrs. golisch father bernd, august didn't fare so very well this time.... kleinert 'tis an evil wooin' that he has! bernd what? how? christ in heaven! [_he goes to him._] august! august my left eye hurts that bad! bernd rose, bring some water! old mrs. golisch 'tis a misfortune. bernd rose, fetch some water! d'you hear me? golisch that'll mean a good year o' prison! rose [_suddenly awakening from a dazed condition._] he says ... he says ... what's the meanin' o' ... didn't i get a doll o' christmas.... the maid [_to rose._] are you asleep? rose ... there's no tellin' what ... no, lass: it can't be done! such things don't come to good! ... mebbe a girl can't do without a mother. the curtain falls the fourth act _the same room in flamm's house as in the second act. it is a saturday afternoon toward the beginning of september. flamm is sitting over his accounts at the roller-top desk. not far from the door to the hall stands streckmann._ flamm according to this there is due you the sum of twelve pounds, ten shillings, sixpence. streckmann yes, mr. flamm. flamm what was wrong with the machine? you stopped working one forenoon? streckmann i had a summons to appear in the county court that day. there wasn't nothin' wrong with the machine. flamm was that in connection with the trouble about ... keil? streckmann yes. an' besides that bernd sued me for slanderin' his daughter. flamm [_has taken money from a special pigeon hole and counts it out on the large table._] here are twelve pounds and eleven shillings. so you owe me sixpence. streckmann [_pockets the money and gives flamm a small coin._] an' so i'm to tell the head bailiff that by the end o' december you'll be ready for me again. flamm yes, i want you for two days. say, by the beginning of december. i'd like to empty the big barn at that time. streckmann by the beginnin' o' december. all right, mr. flamm. good-bye. flamm good-bye, streckmann. tell me, though, what's going to be the outcome of that affair? streckmann [_stops and shrugs his shoulders._] it isn't goin' to be much of an outcome for me! flamm why? streckmann i suppose i'll have to suffer for it. flamm what consequences a little thing will sometimes have!--how did it happen that you quarreled? streckmann i can't say as i can remember clearly. that day--i must ha' been off my head--but the truth is i just can't get it straight how it did happen. flamm the bookbinder is known to be a very peaceable man. streckmann an' yet he's always quarrelin' with me! but the thing's just gone from me.--all i know is that they fell on me just like hungry wolves! i thought they was tryin' to kill me right there! if i hadn't been thinkin' that, my hand wouldn't ha' slipped the way it did. flamm and the man's eye couldn't--be saved? streckmann no, an' it makes a feller feel sorry. but ... there's nothin' to be done. the misfortune isn't on my conscience. flamm a thing of that kind is bad enough in itself. and when the courts take a hand in it, that only makes it worse. i'm especially sorry for the girl. streckmann yes; i'm thin an' wasted with the misery of it. it's gone straight to my heart. i tell you, your honour, i don't know what it is to sleep no more. i haven't got nothin' against august really. but, as i said, i just can't account for it. flamm you ought to go over and see bernd some day. if you insulted his daughter and weren't in a clear state of mind, you could simply retract what you said. streckmann that's none o' my business. that's his'n. of course, if he knew what'll come out--he'd take back his accusation. somebody else ought to tell him. he's not doin' the girl no service by it. that's how things is. good-bye, your honour. flamm good-bye. _streckmann leaves the room._ flamm [_excitedly, to himself._] if one could only get at the throat of a creature like that! _mrs. flamm is wheeled in by a maid from flamm's den._ mrs. flamm what are you muttering about again?--[_at a gesture from her the maid retires._]--did you have any annoyance? flamm oh, yes; a little. mrs. flamm wasn't that streckmann? flamm the handsome streckmann. yes, that was the handsome streckmann. mrs. flamm how is that affair getting on now, christie? did you talk about keil? flamm [_scribbling._] oh, pshaw! my head is full of figures. mrs. flamm do i disturb you, christie? flamm no; only you must keep quiet. mrs. flamm if i can't do anything else--you can be sure i can do that. [_silence._] flamm [_bursting out._] i'll be damned and double damned! there are times when one would like to take a gun and simply shoot down a scoundrel like that! there'd be no trouble about taking that on one's conscience. mrs. flamm but, christie, you really frighten me. flamm it isn't my fault! i'm frightened myself!--i tell you, mother, that man is so low, so rotten with evil ... i tell you ... at least he has spells when he's that way ... that a man like myself, who is no saint either, feels as if his very bowels were turning in him! there's no end to that kind of corruption. a man may think he knows life inside out, that he's digested some pretty tough bits himself--but things like that--crimes--i tell you, one never gets beyond the elements in that kind of knowledge! mrs. flamm what has roused you so again? flamm [_writing again._] oh, i'm only speaking in general. mrs. flamm i thought it was somehow connected with streckmann. because, christie, i can't rid myself of the thought of that affair. and when it's convenient to you some day, i'd like to have a good talk with you about it! flamm with me? how does streckmann concern me? mrs. flamm not streckmann exactly--not the man. but surely old bernd and rose. as far as the girl is concerned, 'tis bitter earnest for her--the whole thing! and if i weren't tied down here as i am, i would have gone over to see her long ago. she's never seen here any more. flamm you ... you want to go and see rose? what do you want of her? mrs. flamm but, don't you see, christie--you understand that--she isn't exactly the first comer! i ought to see about setting her affairs to rights a bit! flamm ah well, mother! do what you think is your duty. i hardly think that you'll accomplish much for the girl. mrs. flamm how is that, christie? what do you mean? flamm one shouldn't mix up into other people's affairs. all you get for your pains is ingratitude and worry. mrs. flamm even so! we can bear the worry, an' ingratitude--that's what you expect in this world. an' as far as rose bernd is concerned, i always felt as if she were more than half my own child. you see, christie, as far as i can think back--when father was still chief forester--her mother already came to wash for us. afterward, in the churchyard, at our little kurt's grave--i see the girl standin' as clear as if it was to-day, even though i was myself more dead than alive. except you an' me, i can tell you that, nobody was as inconsolable as the girl. flamm do as you please, as far as i'm concerned! but what are your intentions exactly? i can't think what you're after, child! mrs. flamm first, i'm going to be real curious now. flamm what about? mrs. flamm oh, about nothing you can describe exactly! you know, usually, i don't interfere in your affairs. but now ... i'd like real well to know ... what's come over you this while past? flamm over me? i thought you were talking about rose bernd. mrs. flamm but now i'm talking about you, you see. flamm you can spare yourself the trouble, mother. my affairs are no concern of yours. mrs. flamm you say that! 'tis easily said. but if a person sits still as i have to do and sees a man growing more an' more restless, an' unable to sleep o' nights, an' hears him sighin' an' sighin', and that man happens to be your own husband--why, you have all kinds of thoughts come over you! flamm now, mother, you've gone off your head entirely. you seem to want to make me look utterly foolish! _i_ sigh! am i such an imbecile? i'm not a lovelorn swain. mrs. flamm no, christie, you can't escape me that way! flamm mother, what are you trying to do? do you want, simply, to be tiresome, to bore me? eh? or make the house too disagreeable to stay in? is that your intention? if so, you're going about it the best way possible. mrs. flamm i don't care what you say; you're keeping something secret! flamm [_shrugging his shoulders._] do you think so?--well, perhaps i _am_ keeping something from you! suppose it is so, mother.... you know me.... you know my nature in that respect.... the whole world could turn upside down and not get that much [_he snaps his fingers_] out of me! as for annoyance ... everyone has his share of it in this world! yesterday i had to dismiss one of the brewers; day before yesterday i had to send a distiller to the devil. and, all in all, apart from such incidents, the kind of life one has to live here is really flat and unprofitable enough to make any decent individual as cross as two sticks. mrs. flamm why don't you seek company? drive in to town! flamm oh, yes, to sit in the inn playing at cards with a crowd of philistines or to be stilted with his honour, the prefect of the county! god forbid! i have enough of that nonsense! it couldn't tempt me out of the house! if it weren't for the bit of hunting a man could do--if one couldn't shoulder one's gun occasionally, one would be tempted to run away to sea. mrs. flamm well, you see! there you are! that's what i say! you've just changed entirely! till two, three months ago, you was as merry as the day's long; you shot birds an' stuffed them, increased your botanical collection, hunted birds' eggs--and sang the livelong day! 'twas a joy to see you! an' now, suddenly, you're like another person. flamm if only we had been able to keep kurt! mrs. flamm how would it be if we adopted a child? flamm all of a sudden? no, mother. i don't care about it now. before, you couldn't make up your mind to it; now i've passed that stage too. mrs. flamm 'tis easily said: take a child into the house! first of all it seemed to me like betraying kurt ... yes, like a regular betrayal ... that's what the very thought of it seemed to me. i felt--how shall i say it?--as if we were putting the child away from us utterly--out of the house, out of his little room an' his little bed, an', last of all, out of our hearts.--but the main thing was this: where can you get a child in whom you can hope to have some joy?--but let that rest where it is. let's go back to rose once more!--do you know how it is with her, christopher? flamm oh, well! of course; why not? streckmann has cast a slur upon her conduct and old bernd won't suffer that! 'tis folly, to be sure, to bring suit in such a matter.--because it is the woman who has to bear the brunt of it in the end. mrs. flamm i wrote a couple of letters to rose and asked the lass to come here. in her situation, christopher, she may really not know what to do nor where to turn. flamm why do you think so? mrs. flamm because streckmann is right! flamm [_taken aback and with a show of stupidity._] what, mother? you must express yourself more clearly. mrs. flamm now, christie, don't let your temper get the better of you again! i've kept the truth from you till now because i know you're a bit harsh in such matters. you remember the little maid that you put straight out o' the house, and the trunk-maker to whom you gave a beating! now this lass o' ours made a confession to me long ago--maybe eight weeks. an' we have to consider that 'tis not only rose that's to be considered now, but ... a second being ... the one that's on the way. did you understand me? did you? flamm [_with self-repression._] no! not entirely, mother, i must say frankly. i've got a kind of a ... just to-day ... it comes over me ... the blood, you know ... it seems to go to my head suddenly, once in a while. it's like a ... it's horrible, too ... like an attack of dizziness! i suppose i'll have to ... at least, i think i'll have to take the air a bit. but it's nothing of importance, mother. so don't worry. mrs. flamm [_looking at him through her spectacles._] and where do you want to go with your cartridge belt? flamm nowhere! what did i want to do with the cartridge belt? [_he hurls the belt aside which he has involuntarily picked up._] one learns nothing ... is kept in the dark about everything! and then a point comes where one suddenly feels blind and stupid ... and a stranger ... an utter stranger in this world. mrs. flamm [_suspiciously._] will you tell me, christie, the meanin' of all this? flamm it hasn't any, mother--not the slightest ... none at all, in fact. and i'm quite clear in my head again, too--quite! only now and then a feeling comes over me, a kind of terror, all of a sudden, i don't know how ... and i feel as if there were no solid footing under me any longer, and as if i were going to crash through and break my neck. mrs. flamm 'tis strange things you are saying to-day, christie. [_a knocking is heard at the door._] who's knocking there? come in! august [_still behind the scenes._] 'tis only me, mrs. flamm. _flamm withdraws rapidly into his den._ mrs. flamm oh, 'tis you, mr. keil. just step right in. _august keil appears on the scene. he is paler than formerly, more emaciated and wears dark glasses. his left eye is hidden by a black patch._ august i have come, mrs. flamm, to bring rose's excuses to you. good-day, mrs. flamm. mrs. flamm good-day to you, mr. keil. august my betrothed had to go to the county court to-day, or she would ha' come herself. but she'll be comin' in this evenin'. mrs. flamm i'm real pleased to get a chance to see you. how are you getting on? sit down. august god's ways are mysterious! an' when his hand rests heavy on us, we mustn't complain. on the contrary, we must rejoice. an' i tell you, mrs. flamm, that's almost the way i'm feelin' nowadays. i'm content. the worse things gets, the gladder i am. 'tis layin' up more an' more treasures in heaven. mrs. flamm [_taking a deep and difficult breath._] i trust you are right, mr. keil.--did rose get my letters? august she gave them to me to read. an' i told her, it wouldn't do--that she'd have to go to see you now. mrs. flamm i must tell you, keil, i'm surprised that, after all these recent happenin's, she never once found her way here. she knows that she'll find sympathy here. august she's been reel afraid o' people recently. an', mrs. flamm, if you'll permit me to say so, you mustn't take it ill. first of all she had her hands full with tendin' to me. i was so in need o' care--an' she did a good work by me! an' then, since that man slandered her so terrible, she scarce dared go out o' the room. mrs. flamm i don't take offence, keil. oh, no! but how is she otherwise? an' what does she do? august 'tis hard to say, that's certain. to-day, for instance, when she had to go to court at eleven o'clock--'twas a regular dance she led us! she talked so strange, mrs. flamm, 'twas enough to scare a body out o' his wits.--first of all she didn't want to be goin' at all; next she thought she wanted to take me with her. in the end she was gone like a flash an' cried out to me that i wasn't to follow. times she kept weepin' all day!--naturally, a man has his thoughts. mrs. flamm what kind o' thoughts? august about several things.--firstly, this mishap that came to me! she spoke of it to me many a time. that's cut her straight to the heart! an' about father bernd an' that he has taken that business o' streckmann so serious. mrs. flamm we're all alone here, mr. keil. why shouldn't we speak openly for once. did it never occur to you ... i mean about this streckmann matter ... to you or, maybe to father bernd--that there might be some truth in it? august i don't let myself have no thoughts about that. mrs. flamm that's right! i don't blame you for that in the least. there are times in life when one can't do better than stick one's head in the sand like an ostrich. but that isn't right for a father! august well, mrs. flamm, as far as old bernd goes, his mind is as far as the sky from any suspicion that somethin' mightn't be quite right. his conviction's as firm as a rock. he'd let you chop off his hands for it. nobody wouldn't believe how strictly he thinks about things o' that kind. his honour was there too an' tried to persuade him to withdraw his charge.... mrs. flamm [_excitedly._] who was there? august his honour, mr. flamm. mrs. flamm my husband? august yes! he talked to him a long time. you see, as for me--i've lost an eye, to be sure--but i don't care to have streckmann punished. vengeance is mine, saith the lord. but father--he can't be persuaded to think peaceably about this matter. ask anythin' o' me, says he, but not that! mrs. flamm you say my husband went to see old bernd? august yes, that time he got the summons. mrs. flamm what kind o' summons was that? august to appear before the examining magistrate. mrs. flamm [_with growing excitement._] who? old bernd? august no; mr. flamm. mrs. flamm was my husband examined too? what did he have to do with the affair? august yes, he was examined too. mrs. flamm [_deeply affected._] is that so? that's news to me! i didn't know about that. nor that christie went to see old bernd!... i wonder where my smellin' bottle is?--no, august, you might as well go home now. i'm a bit ... i don't know what to call it! an' any special advice i can't give you, the way it all turns out. there's something that's gone through an' through me. go home an' wait to see how everything goes. but if you love the lass truly, then ... look at me: i could tell you a tale! if a body is made that way: whether 'tis a man that the women run after, or a woman that all the men are mad about--then there's nothin' to do but just to suffer an' suffer and be patient!--i've lived that way twelve long years. [_she pats her hand to her eyes and peers through her fingers._] an' if i want to see things at all, i have to see them from behind my hands. august i can't never believe that, mrs. flamm. mrs. flamm whether you believe me or not. life don't ask us if we want to believe things. an' i feel exactly like you: i can't hardly realise it either. but we have to see how we can reconcile ourselves to it--i made a promise to rose! 'tis easy promisin' an' hard keepin' the promise sometimes in this world. but i'll do the best in my power.--good-bye--i can't expect you to ... god must take pity on us. that's all. _august, deeply moved, grasps the hand which mrs. flamm offers him and withdraws in silence._ mrs. flamm leans her head far back and, lost in thought, looks up. she sighs twice deeply and with difficulty. flamm enters, very pale, looks sidewise at his wife and begins to whistle softly. he opens the book case and pretends to be eagerly hunting for something._ mrs. flamm yes, yes; there it is--you whistle everything down the wind! but this ... this ... i wouldn't ha' thought you capable of. _flamm swings around, falls silent, and looks straight at her. he lifts both hands slightly and shrugs his shoulders very high. then, he relaxes all his muscles and gazes simply and without embarrassment--thoughtfully rather than shamefacedly--at the floor._ mrs. flamm you men take these things very lightly! what's to happen now? flamm [_repeating the same gesture but less pronouncedly._] that's what i don't know.--i want to be quite calm now. i should like to tell you how that came about. it may be that you will be able to judge me less harshly then. if not ... why, then i should be very sorry for myself. mrs. flamm i don't see how a body can fail to judge such recklessness harshly. flamm recklessness? i don't think that it was mere recklessness. what would you rather have it be, mother--recklessness, or something more serious? mrs. flamm to destroy the future of just this girl, for whom we have to bear all the responsibility! we made her come to the house! an' she an' her people had blind confidence in us! 'tis enough to make one perish o' shame! it looks as if one had ... that ... in view! flamm are you done, mother? mrs. flamm far from it! flamm well, then i'll have to wait a bit longer. mrs. flamm christie, what did i tell you that day when you out with it an' said you wanted to marry me? flamm what was it? mrs. flamm i'm much too old for you. a woman can be sixteen years younger than her husband, but not three or four years older. i wish you had listened to me then! flamm isn't it real idle to dish up those old stories now? haven't we something more important to do?--i may be wrong, but it seems to me that we have, mother.--i've had no notion until to-day of what rose means to me. otherwise i'd have acted very differently, of course. now it's got to be seen if there's anything that can be retrieved. and for that very reason, mother, i was going to beg you not to be petty, and i wanted first of all to try to see whether you could gain some comprehension of what really happened. up to the moment when it was agreed that that tottery manikin was to marry rose--our relations were strictly honourable. but when that marriage was determined on--it was all over.--it may be that my ideas are becoming confused. i had seen the girl grow up ... some of our love for little kurt clung to her. first of all i wanted to protect her from misfortune, and finally, one day, all of a sudden, the way such things happen ... even old plato has described that correctly in the passage in phaedrus about the two horses:--the bad horse ran away with me and then ... then the sea burst in and the dykes crashed down. mrs. flamm 'tis a real interesting story that you've told me, an' even tricked out with learned allusions. an' when you men do that--you think there's no more to say. a poor woman can look out then to see how to get even! maybe you did it all just to make rose happy, an' sacrificed yourself into the bargain ... there's no excuse for such things! flamm very well, mother. then we'll adjourn the session. remember though, that when kurt died, i couldn't bear to see the girl around the house. who kept her and persuaded her to come back? mrs. flamm because i didn't want life to become so dead around us. i didn't keep her for my sake. flamm and i have said nothing for your sake. mrs. flamm every tear is wasted that one might shed for you an' your kind. but you can spare me your speeches, flamm. _the maid brings in the afternoon coffee._ the maid rose bernd's out in the kitchen. mrs. flamm come, girl! wheel me out! [_to flamm._] you can help shove me aside. somewhere in the world there'll be a little room for me! i won't be in the way. you can call her in when i'm gone. flamm [_sternly, to the maid._] tell the girl to wait for a moment. [_the maid leaves the room._] mother, you have to say a word to her! i can't.... my hands are tied. mrs. flamm an' what am i to say to her, flamm? flamm mother, you know that better than i! you know very well ... you spoke of it yourself.... for heaven's sake, don't be petty at this moment! she mustn't go from our door in any such fashion! mrs. flamm i can't clean her boots, flamm! flamm and i don't want you to! it isn't a question of that! but you sent for her yourself.--you can't change so completely in a moment as to forget all compassion and sympathy. what did you say to me a while ago? and if the lass goes to the devil ... you know i'm not such a scoundrel that i'd care to drag out my life any longer. it's one thing or the other--don't forget that! mrs. flamm well, christie ... you men are not worth it, to be sure. an' yet, in the end, what is a body to do?--the heart bleeds! 'tis our own fault. why does a woman deceive herself again an' again, when she's old enough an' sensible enough to know better! an' don't deceive yourself about this thing either, christie.... i'm willin'! i can do it! i'll talk to her! not for your sake, but because it's right. but don't imagine that i can make whole what you've broken.--you men are like children in that respect! _the maid comes back._ the maid she don't want to wait no more! mrs. flamm send her in! _the maid withdraws again._ flamm be sensible, mother! on my word of honour.... mrs. flamm you needn't give it! you needn't break it! _flamm leaves the room. mrs. flamm sighs and picks up her crochet work again. thereupon rose bernd enters._ rose [_showily dressed in her sunday clothes. her features are peaked and there is a feverish gleam in her eyes._] good-day, madam. mrs. flamm good-day! sit down. well, rose, i've asked you to come here ... i suppose you've kept in mind what we talked about that time. there's many a thing that's changed since then!... in many respects, anyhow! but that made me want to talk to you all the more. that day, to be sure, you said i couldn't help you, that you wanted to fight it all out alone! an' to-day a good bit has grown clear to me--your strange behaviour that time, an' your unwillingness to let me help you.--but i don't see how you're goin' to get along all alone. come, drink a cup o' coffee. [_rose sits down on the edge of a chair by the table._] august was here to see me a while ago. if i had been in your shoes, lass, i'd have risked it long ago an' told him the truth. [_looking sharply at her._] but now, the way things has gone--i can't even advise you to do it! isn't that true? rose oh, but why, madam? mrs. flamm 'tis true, the older a person gets, the less can she understand mankind an' their ways. we've all come into the world the same way, but there's no mention to be made o' that! from the emperor an' the archbishop down to the stable boy--they've all gotten their bit o' life one way ... one way ... an' 'tis the one thing they can't besmirch enough. an' if the stork but flies past the chimney-top--the confusion of people is great. then they run away in every direction. a guest like that is never welcome! rose oh, madam, all that would ha' been straightened up this long time, if it hadn't ha' been for this criminal an' scoundrel here ... this liar ... this streckmann ... mrs. flamm no, girl. i don't understand that. how can you bear to say that the man lies? 'tis your shape that almost tells the story now! rose he lies! he lies! that's all i know. mrs. flamm but in what respect does he lie? rose in every respeck an' in every way! mrs. flamm i don't believe you've really thought it all out! do you remember who i am? think, lass, think! in the first place you confessed it all to me, and furthermore, i know more than what you said: i know all that you didn't say. rose [_shivering with nervousness but obdurate._] an' if you was to kill me, i couldn't say what i don't know. mrs. flamm is that so? oh! is that your policy now? i must say i didn't take you for a girl of that kind! it comes over me unexpectedly! i hope you talked a little plainer than that when you were questioned in court. rose i said just the same thing there that i'm tellin' you. mrs. flamm girl, come to your senses! you're talking dreadful folly! people don't lie that way before the judge! listen to what i'm tellin' you! drink a bit o' coffee, an' don't be frightened! nobody's pursuing you, an' i won't eat you up either!--you haven't acted very well toward me: no one could say that you had! you might at least have told me the truth that day; maybe an easier way out could ha' been found. 'tis a hard matter now! an' yet, we won't be idle, an' even to-day, maybe, some way o' savin' you can be found! some way it may be possible yet! well then!... an' especially ... this much is certain ... an' you can trust to that surely ... you shan't, either of you, ever suffer any need in this world! even if your father abandons you and august, maybe, goes his own way, i'll provide for you an' for your child. rose i don't hardly know what you mean, madam! mrs. flamm well, girl, then i'll tell you straight out! if you don't know that an' have forgotten it, then it's simply because you have a bad conscience! then you've been guilty of something else! an', if you _has_ another secret, it's connected with nobody but with streckmann. then, he's the fellow that's bringin' trouble upon you! rose [_violently._] no, how can you think such a thing o' me! you say that ... oh, for the good lord's sake ... how has i deserved it o' you!... if only my little kurt ... my dear little fellow ... [_she wrings her hands hysterically in front of the child's picture._ mrs. flamm rose, let that be, i beg o' you! it may be that you've deserved well o' me in other days. we're not arguin' about that now! but you're so changed, so ... i can never understand how you've come to change so! rose why didn't my little mother take me to herself! she said she would when she died. mrs. flamm come to your senses, lass. you're alive. what is your trouble? rose it has nothin' to do with streckmann! that man has lied his soul black. mrs. flamm what did he lie about? did he make his statements under oath? rose oath or no oath! i says he lies, lies ... mrs. flamm an' did you have to take an oath too? rose i don't know.--i'm not such a wicked lass ... if that was true,'twould be a bitter crime!... an' that august lost his eye ... it wasn't i that was the cause o' it. the pains that poor man had to suffer ... they follows me day an' night. an' he might well despise me if they didn't. but you try an' work an' pray to save somethin' from the flames o' the world ... an' men comes an' they breaks your strength. _flamm enters in intense excitement._ flamm who is breaking your strength? look at mother here! on the contrary, we want to save you! rose 'tis too late now! it can't be done no more. flamm what does that mean? rose nothin'!--i can't wait no longer. good-bye, i'll go my ways. flamm here you stay! don't move from this spot! i was at the door and heard everything, and now i want to know the whole truth. rose but i'm tellin' you the truth! flamm about streckmann too? rose there wasn't nothin' between us. he lies! flamm does he say that there was something between you? rose i say nothin' but that he lies! flamm did he swear to that lie? _rose is silent._ flamm [_regards rose long and searchingly. then:_] well, mother, think as charitably of me as you can. try to forgive me as much as possible. i know with the utmost certainty that that matter doesn't concern me in the least any longer! i simply laugh at it! i snap my fingers at it. mrs. flamm [_to rose._] did you deny everything? rose ... flamm i spoke the truth in court, of course. streckmann doesn't lie at such times neither. perjury is a penitentiary crime--a man doesn't lie under such circumstances! mrs. flamm an' didn't you tell the truth, girl? you lied when you were under oath, maybe?--haven't you any idea what that means an' what you've done? how did you happen to do that? how could you think o' such a thing? rose [_cries out brokenly._] i was so ashamed! mrs. flamm but rose ... flamm every word is wasted! why did you lie to the judge? rose i was ashamed, i tell ye!... i was ashamed! flamm and i? and mother? and august? why did you cheat us all? and you probably cheated streckmann in the end too? and i wonder with whom else you carried on!... yes, oh, yes; you have a very honest face. but you did right to be ashamed! rose he baited me an' he hunted me down like a dog! flamm [_laughing._] oh, well, that's what you women make of us--dogs. this man to-day; that man to-morrow! 'tis bitter enough to think! you can do what you please now; follow what ways you want to!--if i so much as raise a finger in this affair again, it'll be to take a rope and beat it about my ass's ears until i can't see out of my eyes! _rose stares at flamm in wide-eyed horror._ mrs. flamm what i said, rose, stands for all that! you two'll always be provided for. rose [_whispering mechanically._] i was so ashamed! i was so ashamed! mrs. flamm do you hear what i say, rose?--[rose _hurries out._] the girl's gone!--'tis enough to make one pray for an angel to come down.... flamm [_stricken to the heart, breaks out in repressed sobbing._] god forgive me, mother, but ... i can't help it. the curtain falls fifth act _the living room in old bernd's cottage. the room is fairly large; it has grey walls and an old-fashioned whitewashed ceiling supported by visible beams. a door in the background leads to the kitchen, one at the left to the outer hall. to the right are two small windows. a yellow chest of drawers stands between the two windows; upon it is set an unlit kerosene lamp; a mirror hangs above it on the wall. in the left corner a great stove; in the right a sofa, covered with oil-cloth, a table with a cloth on it and a hanging lamp above it. over the sofa on the wall hangs a picture with the biblical subject: "suffer little children to come unto me"; beneath it a photograph of bernd, showing him as a conscript, and several of himself and his wife. in the foreground, to the left, stands a china closet, filled with painted cups, glasses, etc. a bible is lying on the chest of drawers; over the door to the hall hangs a chromolithograph of "christ with the crown of thorns." mull curtains hang in front of the windows. each of four or five chairs of yellow wood has its own place. the whole room makes a neat but very chilly impression. several bibles and hymnals lie on the china closet. on the door-post of the door to the hall hangs a collecting-box._ _it is seven o'clock in the evening of the same day on which the events in act four have taken place. the door that leads to the hall as well as the kitchen door stands open. a gloomy dusk fills the house._ _voices are heard outside, and a repeated knocking at the window. thereupon a voice speaks through the window._ the voice bernd! isn't there a soul at home? let's be goin' to the back door! _a silence ensues. soon, however, the back door opens and voices and steps are heard in the hall. in the door that leads to the hall appear kleinert and rose bernd. the latter is obviously exhausted and leans upon him._ rose [_weak and faint._] no one's at home. 'tis all dark. kleinert i can't be leavin' you alone this way now! rose an' why not, kleinert? there's nothin' the matter with me! kleinert somebody else can believe that--that there's nothin' wrong! i wouldn't ha' had to pick you up in that case! rose eh, but i'd only gotten a bit dizzy. truly ... 'tis better now. i really don't need you no more. kleinert no, no, lass; i can't leave you this way! rose oh, yes, father kleinert! i do thank you, but 'tis well! there's nothin' wrong with me! i'm on my feet an' strong again! it comes over me that way sometimes; but 'tis nothin' to worry over. kleinert but you lay half dead yonder behind the willow! an' you writhed like a worm. rose kleinert, go your ways.... i'll be lightin' a light! an' i must light a fire, too ... go your ways ... the folks will be comin' to their supper!... oh, no, kleinert, kleinert! but i'm that tired! oh, i'm so terrible tired! no one wouldn't believe how tired i am. kleinert an' then you want to be lightin' a fire here? that's nothin' for you! bed is the place where you ought to be! rose kleinert, go your ways, go! if father, an' if august ... they mustn't know nothin'! for my sake, go! don't do nothin' that'll only harm me! kleinert i don't want to do nothin' that'll harm you! rose no, no, i know it! you was always good to me! [_she has arisen from the chair at the right on which, she had sunk down, gets a candle from behind the oven and lights it._] oh, yes, yes, i'm well off again.--there's nothin' wrong.--you can be easy in your mind. kleinert you're just sayin' that! rose because 'tis really so! _marthel comes in from the fields with bare arms and feet._ rose an' there's marthel, too! marthel rose, is that you? where have you been all day? rose i dreamed i was at the court. kleinert no, no; she was really at the court! take a bit o' care o' your sister, marthel. look after her at least till your fatter comes back. 'tisn't well with the girl. rose marthel, hurry! light the fire, so's we can start to put on the potatoes.--where's father? marthel on august's land. rose an' august? marthel i don't know where he is. he was out on the field to-day. rose have you got new potatoes? marthel i have an apron full! [_immediately behind the kitchen door she pours out the potatoes on the floor._ rose fetch me a pan and a saucepan, so's i can begin the peelin'. i can't get nothin' for myself. kleinert d'you want me to be givin' a message anywhere? rose to whom? to the grave-digger, maybe?... no, no, godfather, not on my account. 'tis a special bit o' ground where i'll find rest. kleinert well, good-bye! rose good-bye to you! marthel [_cheerily._] come again, godfather! _kleinert as usual with his pipe in his mouth, departs shaking his head._ marthel [_lighting the fire._] don't you feel well, rosie? rose oh, yes; well enough! [_softly wringing her hands, she speaks to the crucifix._] jesus, mary, have mercy on me! marthel rose! rose what? marthel what's the matter with you? rose nothin'. bring me a pan an' the potatoes. marthel [_has started the fire to burning and now brings rose an earthenware bowl of potatoes and a paring knife._] oh, but rosie, i'm that frightened! you look so ...! rose how does i look? tell me that? how? has i got spots on my hands? is it branded over my eyes? everythin's kind o' ghastly to me this day. [_laughing a ghastly laugh._] lord! i can't see the face o' you! now i see one hand! now i see two eyes! just dots now! martha, maybe i'm growin' blind! marthel rosie, did somethin' happen to you? rose god protect you from what's happened to me.... you'd better be wishin' yourself an early death! because, even if a body dies to this world, they do say that he passes into rest. then you don't have to live an' draw breath no more.--how did it go with little kurt flamm? i've clean forgot ... i'm dizzy ... i'm forgettin' ... i've forgotten everythin' ... life's that hard ... if i could only keep on feelin' this way ... an' never wake up again ...! what's the reason o' such things comin' to pass in this world? marthel [_frightened._] if only father would come home! rose martha, come! listen to me! you mustn't tell father that i was here or that i am here ... martha, sure you'll promise me that, won't you?... many a thing i've done for the love o' you ... martha! you haven't forgotten that, nor you mustn't forget it, even if things grows dark around me now. marthel will you drink a bit of coffee? there's a drop left in the oven. rose an' don't be frightened! i'll go upstairs in the room an' lie down a wee bit ... just a bit. otherwise i'm all right ... otherwise there's nothin' that ails me. marthel an' i'm not to say nothin' to father? rose not a word! marthel an' not to august neither? rose not a syllable! lass, you've never known your mother an' i've raised you with fear an' heartache.--many's the night i've watched through in terror because you was ill! i wasn't as old as you when i carried you about on my arm till i was near breakin' in two! here you was--at my breast! an' if you go an' betray me now, 'tis all over between us! marthel rosie, 'tis nothin' bad is it ... nothin' dangerous, i mean? rose i don't believe it is! come, martha, help me a bit, support me a bit!... a body is left too lonely in this world ... too deserted! if only a body wasn't so lonely here ... so lonely on this earth! [_rose and marthel pass out through the hall door._ _for some moments the room remains empty. then old bernd appears in the kitchen. he puts down his basket and the potato hoe and looks about him, earnestly and inquiringly. meanwhile marthel re-enters the living-room from the hall._ marthel is it you, father? bernd is there no hot water! you know i have to have my foot bath! isn't rose here yet? marthel she isn't here yet, father! bernd what? hasn't she come back from court yet? that isn't possible hardly! 'tis eight o'clock. was august here? marthel not yet. bernd not yet either? well, maybe she's with him then.--have you seen that great cloud, marthel, that was comin' over from the mountain about six o'clock, maybe? marthel yes, father; the world got all dark! bernd there'll come a day o' greater darkness than this! light the lamp on the table for me an' put the good book down next to it. the great thing is to be in readiness. marthel, are you sure you keep thinkin' o' the life eternal, so that you can stand up before your judge on that day? few is the souls that think of it here! just now as i was comin' home along the water's edge, i heard some one cryin' out upon me from behind, as they often does. "bloodsucker!" cried he. an' was i a bloodsucker when i was overseer on the domain? nay, i did my duty,--that was all! but the powers of evil is strong! if a man is underhanded, an' closes his eyes to evil, an' looks on quietly upon cheatin'--then his fellows likes him well.--but i leans upon the lord jesus. we human bein's all need that support. 'tisn't enough just to do good works! maybe if rose had given more thought to that, maybe we'd ha' been spared many a visitation an' a deal o' heaviness an' bitterness. [_a constable appears in the doorway._] who's comin' there? constable i have a summons to serve, i must speak to your daughter. bernd my oldest daughter? constable [_reads from the document._] to rose bernd. bernd my daughter hasn't come back from court yet. can i give her the letter? constable no; i've got to make a personal search, too. i'll be back at eight in the mornin'. _august appears hastily._ bernd there's august, too. august isn't rose here? bernd no; an' the sergeant here is askin' after her, too. i thought you an' she was together. constable i has to make a search into one matter an' also to serve this paper. august always an' forever this streckmann business. 'tis not only the loss of my eye--now we has these everlastin' troubles an' annoyances. it seems, god forgive me, to come to no end. constable good evenin'. to-morrow mornin' at eight! [_exit._ august marthel, go into the kitchen a bit of a while.--father, i've got to speak with you. go, marthel; go an' shut the door. but marthel, didn't you see anythin' o' rose? marthel no, nothin'! [_surreptitiously she beckons to him with her hand._] i'll tell you something august. august close the door, lass. i have no time now. [_he himself closes the kitchen door._] father, you'll have to withdraw your suit. bernd anythin' but that, august. i can't do that! august 'tis not christian. yon must withdraw. bernd i don't believe that 'tis not christian!--for why? 'tis a piece of infamy to cut off a girl's honour that way. 'tis a crime that needs to be punished. august i hardly know how to begin, father bernd.... you've been too hasty in this matter.... bernd my wife who's in her grave demands that of me! an' my honour demands it ... the honour o' my house and o' my lass. an' yours, too, if you come to think. august father bernd, father bernd, how am i to speak to you if you're so set on not makin' peace? you've spoke o' so many kinds of honour. but we're not to seek our honour or glory in this world, but god's only an' no other! bernd 'tis otherwise in this matter. here woman's honour is god's too! or have you any complaint to make against rose? august i've said to you: i make no complaint! bernd or is your own conscience troublin' you on her account? august you know me in that respeck, father bernd. before i'd depart from the straight an' narrow way ... bernd well, then. i know that! i always knew that! an' so justice can take its course. august [_wiping the sweat from his forehead._] if only we knew where rose is! bernd maybe she isn't back from the court at striegau yet! august an examination like that don't take very long. she meant to be home by five o'clock. bernd maybe she went to buy some things on the way. wasn't she to get several things yet? i thought you were wantin' one thing or another. august but she didn't take along any money. an' the things we was needin' for the shop--curtains for the windows an' the door--we intended to buy those together. bernd i was thinkin' that she'd come with you! august i went to meet her on the road--more'n a mile, but i heard an' saw nothin' of her. instead o' that, i met streckmann. bernd i calls that meetin' the devil! august ah, father, that man has a wife an' children too! his sins are no fault o' theirs! what good does it do me that he's got to go to gaol? if a man repents ... that's all i asks! bernd that bad man don't know repentance! august it looked very much as if he did. bernd did you speak to him? august he gave me no peace. he ran along next to me an' talked an' talked. there wasn't a soul to be seen far an' wide! in the end i felt sorry for him; i couldn't help it. bernd you answered him! what did he say? august he said you should withdraw your suit. bernd i couldn't rest quiet in my grave if i did! 'twouldn't matter if it concerned me! i can bear it; i can laugh at it! i'm not only a man but a christian! but 'tis a different thing with my child! how could i look you in the face if i let that shameful thing stick to her! an' now, especially, after that terrible misfortune! look, august, that can't be! that mustn't be!--everybody's always been at our heels, because we lived different from the rest o' the world! hypocrites they called us an' bigots, an' sneaks an' such names! an' always they wanted to trump up somethin' against us! what a feast this here thing would be to 'em! an' besides ... how did i bring up the lass? industrious an' with the fear o' god in her heart so that if a christian man marries her, he can set up a christian household! that's the way! that's how i gives her out o' my care! an' am i goin' to let that poison cling to her? rather would i be eatin' bread an' salt all my days than take a penny from you then! august father bernd, god's ways is mysterious! he can send us new trials daily! no man has a right to be self-righteous! an' even if i wanted to be, i couldn't! i can't spare you the knowledge no longer, father. our rose has been but a weak human bein' like others. bernd how do you mean that, august? august father, don't ask me no more, bernd [_has sat down on a chair by the table in such a way that his face is turned to the wall. at august's last words he has looked at him with eyes, wide-open and estranged. then he turns to the table, opens the bible with trembling hands, and turns its leaves hither and thither in growing excitement. he ceases and looks at august again. finally he folds his hands over the book and lets his head sink upon them while his body twitches convulsively. in this posture he remains for a while, then he straightens himself up._] no. i don't understand you rightly! because, you see, if i did understand you rightly ... that'd be really ... an' i wouldn't know ... my god, the room swims with me ... why, i'd have to be deaf an' blind!--nay, august, an' i'm not deaf an' blind! don't let streckmann impose on you! he'll take any means to get out o' the trap that he's in now. it's comin' home to him, an' he wants to sneak out at any cost! an' so he's incitin' you against the lass. no, august, ... truly, august ... not on that bridge ... you mustn't start for to cross that bridge!... anybody can see through his villainy! ... he's laid traps enough for the lass. an' if one way don't succeed, he'll try another!... now he's hit on this here plan.--maybe he'll separate you two! it's happened in this world, more than once or twice that some devil with his evil schemes has tore asunder people that god meant for each other. they always grudged the girl her good fortune. good: i'm willin'! i won't throw rose after you! we've satisfied our hunger up to now! but if you'll heed my word: i'll put my right hand in the fire for.... august but mr. flamm took oath. bernd ten oaths against me ... twenty oaths against me!... then he has sworn falsely an' damned hisself in this world an' in the world to come! august father bernd.... bernd now wait a bit before ever you say another word! here i take the books! here i take my hat! here i take the collecting box o' the missions. an' all these things i puts together here. an' if that's true what you've been sayin'--if there's so much in it as a grain o' truth--then i'll go this minute to the pastor an' i'll say: your reverence, this is how things is: i can't be a deacon no more; i can't take care o' the treasury for missions no more! good-bye! and then nobody would see me no more! no, no, no, for the love o' god! but now go on! say your say! but don't torture me for nothin'. august i had the same thought, too. i want to sell my house an' my land! maybe one could find contentment somewhere else. bernd [_in unspeakable astonishment._] you want to sell your house an' your land, august? how do all these strange things come about all of a sudden! it's enough ... a body might be tempted to make the sign o' the cross, even though we're not catholics.--has the whole world gone mad? or is the day o' judgment at hand? or maybe, 'tis but my last hour that has come. now answer me, august, how is it? as you hope for a life to come, how is it? august however it is, father bernd, i won't desert her. bernd you can do about that as you please. that don't concern me! i don't want to know if a man'd like a wench o' that kind in his house or not. not me! i'm not that kind of a man. well now ...? august i can't say nothin' more than this--somethin' must ha' happened to her! whether 'twas with flamm or with streckmann.... bernd that makes two of 'em ...! august i can't tell exactly ...! bernd well, then i'll be goin' to the pastor! brush me off, august, clean me a bit! i feel as if i had the itch on my body! [_he steps into the hall._ _at the same moment marthel rushes out of the kitchen and speaks to august in intense terror._ marthel i believe a misfortune has happened to rose! she's upstairs! she's been home this long time! bernd [_returns, changed somewhat by a fright which he has felt._] somebody must be upstairs. august marthel is just sayin' that rose is there. marthel i hear her. she's comin' down the stairs. bernd god forgive me the sin! i don't want to see her. _he sits down at the table, as before, holds his thumbs over his ears and bends his head deep over the bible. rose appears in the door. she has her house skirt on and a loose bodice of cotton cloth. she keeps herself erect by sheer force of will. her hair hangs down, partly loose, partly braided. there is in her face an expression of terrible, fatalistic calm and of bitter defiance. for several moments she lets her eyes wander over the room, over old bernd sitting there with his bible, over august who has slowly turned from the door and pretends to be looking intently out of the window. then, groping for some support, she begins to talk with desperate energy._ rose good-evenin' to all o' ye!--?--good evenin'. august [_after some hemming._] the same to you. rose [_with bitter iciness._] if you don't want me, i can go again. august [_simply._] where else do you want to go to? an' where have you been? rose he that asks much, hears much. more sometimes than he'd like to.--marthel, come over here to me a bit. [_marthel goes. rose has seated herself not far from the stove and takes the younger girl's hand. then she says:_] what's the matter with father? marthel [_embarrassed, timid, speaks softly._] i don't know that neither. rose what's the matter with father? you can speak right out! an' with you, august? what is the matter with you?... you've got cause, that you have, august, to despise me. i don't deny that. no.... august i don't despise no one in this world. rose but i do! all of 'em ... all ... all! august those is dark words to me that you're speakin'. rose dark? yes! i know it. the world's dark! an' you hear the roarin' o' wild beasts in it. an' then, later, it gets brighter ... but them are the flames o' hell that make it bright.--martha.... bernd [_who has been listening a little, arises and frees marthel's wrist from rose's grasp._] don't poison the little lass's mind. take your hand away!--march off to bed! [_marthel goes weeping._] a man would like to be deaf, to be blind! a man'd like to be dead. [_he becomes absorbed again in his bible._ rose father!--i'm alive!--i'm sittin' here!--that's somethin'!--yes, that's something when you considers!--i think, father, you might understand that! this is a world ...! nobody can never do nothin' more to me! o jesus, my saviour--! all o' you, all o' you--you live together in a bit o' chamber an' you don't know what goes on outside in the world! i know it now ... i've learned it in bitterness an' wailin'! i had to get out o' that little chamber! an' then--somehow--the walls gave way, one wall an' another ... an' there i stood, outside, in the storm ... an' there--was nothin' under me an' nothin' above me ... nothin'. you're all like children compared to me. august [_frightened._] but, rose, if it's true what streckmann says, then you've committed perjury!... rose [_laughing bitterly._] i don't know. 'tis possible ... i can't just remember this moment. the world is made up o' lies an' deception. bernd [_sighs._] o god ... my refuge evermore. august is it so easy that you take the swearin' o' false oaths? rose that's nothin'! nothin'! how could that be anythin'? there's somethin' that lies, out there, under a willow ... that's ... somethin' ... the rest don't concern me! there ... there ... i wanted to look up at the stars! i wanted to cry out an' to call out! no heavenly father stirred to help me. bernd [_frightened, trembling._] you're blasphemin' our heavenly father? has it gone so far with you? then i don't know you no more! rose [_approaching him on her knees._] 'tis gone so far! but you know me anyhow, father! you cradled me on your knees, an' i've stood by you too many a time.--now somethin' has come over us all--i've fought against it and struggled against it.... bernd [_deeply perplexed._] what is it? rose i don't know ... i don't know! [_trembling and kneeling, she crouches and stares at the floor._ august [_overwhelmed and taken out of himself by the pity of the sight._] rosie, get up! i won't desert you! get up, i can't bear to see you lyin' there! we're all sinners together! an' anyone who repents so deep, is bound to be forgiven. get up, rose, father, raise her up! we're not among them that condemns--not i, at least. there's nothin' in me o' the pharisee! i see how it goes to her heart! come what will, i'll stand by you! i'm no judge ... i don't judge. our saviour in heaven didn't judge neither. truly, he bore our sickness for us, an' we thought he was one that was tortured an' stricken, by god! maybe we've all been guilty of error. i don't want to acquit myself neither. i've been thinkin'. before the lass hardly knew me, she had to say her yea an' amen! what do i care about the world? it don't concern me. rose august, they clung to me like burrs ... i couldn't walk across the street safe ... all the men was after me!... i hid myself ... i was that scared! i was so afraid o' men!... it didn't help! 'twas worse an' worse! after that i fell from one snare into another, till i hardly came to my senses no more. bernd you used to have the strictest notion o' such things. you condemned the leichner girl an' despised the kaiser wench! you boasted--you'd like to see someone come across your path! you struck the miller's journeyman in the face! a girl as does that, you said, don't deserve no pity; she can go an' hang herself! an' now you speak o' snares. rose i know better now. august come what will, i'll stand by you, rose. i'll sell my land! we'll go out into the world! i have an uncle in brazil, across the ocean. we'll get our bit o' livin' somehow--one way or t'other. maybe 'tis only now that we're ripe an' ready to take up our life together. rose o jesus, jesus, what did i do? why did i go an' creep home? why didn't i stay with my little baby? august with whom? rose [_gets up._] august, it's all over with me! first there was a burnin' in my body like flames o' fire! then i fell into a kind o' swoon! then there came one hope: i ran like a mother cat with her kitten in her mouth! but the dogs chased me an' i had to drop it.... bernd do you understand one word, august? august no, not o' this.... bernd do you know how i feel? i feel as if one abyss after another was openin', was yawnin' for us here. what'll we hear before the end? rose a curse! a curse will ye have to hear: i see you! i'll meet you! on the day o' judgment i'll meet you! i'll tear out your gullet an' your jaws together! you'll have to give an accountin'! you'll have to answer me, there! august whom do you mean, rosie? rose _he_ knows ... _he_ knows. [_a great exhaustion overtakes her and, almost swooning, she sinks upon a chair. a silence follows._ august [_busying himself about her._] what is it that's come over you? suddenly you're so.... rose i don't know.--if you'd asked me earlier, long ago, maybe ... to-day i can't tell you!--there wasn't nobody that loved me enough. august who can tell which love is stronger--the happy or the unhappy love. rose oh, i was strong, strong, so strong! now i'm weak! now it's all over with me. _the constable appears._ the constable [_with a quiet voice._] they say your daughter is at home. kleinert said she was here. august it's true. we didn't know it a while ago. the constable then i might as well get through now. there's somethin' to be signed here. [_without noticing rose in the dim room, he lays several documents on the table._ august rose, here's somethin' you're to sign. _rose laughs with horrible and hysterical irony._ the constable if you're the one, miss, it's no laughin' matter.--please! rose you can stay a minute yet. august an' why? rose [_with flaming eyes, a malice against the whole world in her voice._] i've strangled my child. august what are you sayin'? for the love of god, what are you sayin'? the constable [_draws himself up, looks at her searchingly, but continues as though he had not heard._] it'll be somethin' connected with the streckmann 'affair. rose [as before, harshly, almost with a bark.] streckmann? he strangled my child. bernd girl, be still. you're out o' your mind. the constable anyhow, you have no child at all--? rose what? i has none? could i ha' strangled it with my hands?... i strangled my baby with these hands!!! the constable you're possessed! what's wrong with you? rose my mind's clear. i'm not possessed. i woke up clear in my mind, so clear.... [_coldly, mildly, but with cruel firmness._] it _was_ not to live! i didn't want it to live! i didn't want it to suffer my agonies! it was to stay where it belonged. august rose, think! don't torment yourself! you don't know what you're sayin' here! you'll bring down misery on us all. rose you don't know nothin' ... that's it ... you don't see nothin'. you was all blind together with your eyes open. he can go an' look behind the great willow ... by the alder-trees ... behind the parson's field ... by the pool ... there he can see the wee thing.... bernd you've done somethin' so awful? august you've been guilty o' somethin' so unspeakable? _rose faints. the men look upon her confounded and helpless. august supports her._ the constable 'twould be best if she came along with me to headquarters. there she can make a voluntary confession. if what she says isn't just fancies, it'll count a good deal in her favour. august [_from the depth of a great experience._] those are no fancies, sergeant. that girl ... what she must have suffered! the curtain falls the rats a berlin tragi-comedy persons harro hassenreuter, _formerly a theatrical manager._ mrs. harro hassenreuter. walburga, _their daughter._ pastor spitta. erich spitta, _postulant for holy orders, his son._ alice rÜtterbusch, _actress._ nathanael jettel, _court actor._ kÄferstein, dr. kegel, _pupils of hassenreuter._ john, _foreman mason._ mrs. john. bruno mechelke, _her brother._ pauline pipercarcka, _a servant girl._ mrs. sidonie knobbe. selma, _her daughter._ quaquaro, _house-steward._ mrs. kielbacke. policeman schierke. two infants. the first act _the attic of a former cavalry barracks in berlin, a windowless room that receives all its light from a lamp which burns suspended over a round table. from the back wall opens a straight passage which connects the room with the outer door--a door with iron hasps and a primitive signal bell which any one desiring to enter rings by means of a bell rope. a door in the right wall leads to an adjoining room, one in the left wall leads to the stairs into the loft immediately under the roof. into this store room, as well as into the space visible to the spectator, the former theatrical manager, harro hassenreuter has gathered his collection of properties. in the prevalent gloom it is difficult to decide whether the place is the armour room of an old castle, a museum of antiquities or the shop of a costumer. stands with helmets and breast-plates are put up on either side of the passage; a row of similar stands almost covers the two sides of the front room. the stairs wind upward between two mailed figures. at the head of the stairs is a wooden trap-door. in the left foreground, against the wall, is a high desk. ink, pens, old ledgers, a tall stool, as well as several chairs with tall backs and the round table make it clear that the room serves the purposes of an office. on the table is a decanter for water and several glasses; above the desk hang a number of photographs. these photographs represent hassenreuter in the part of karl moor (in schiller's "robbers"), as well as in a number of other parts. one of the mailed dummies wean a huge laurel wreath about its neck. the laurel wreath is tied with a riband which bears, in gilt letters, the following inscription: "to our gifted manager hassenreuter, from his grateful colleagues." a series of enormous red bows shows the inscriptions: "to the inspired presenter of karl moor ... to the incomparable, unforgettable karl moor" ... etc., etc. the room is utilised as far as its space will permit for the storing of costumes. wherever possible, german, spanish and english garments of every age hang on hooks. swedish riding boots, spanish rapiers and german broadswords are scattered about. the door to the left bears the legend: library. the whole room displays picturesque disorder, trumpery of all kinds--weapons, goblets, cups--is scattered about. it is sunday toward the end of may._ _at the table in the middle of the room are sitting, mrs. john (between thirty-five and forty) and a very young servant girl, pauline pipercarcka. pauline, vulgarly overdressed--jacket, hat, sunshade--sits straight upright. her pretty, round little face shows signs of long weeping. her figure betrays the fact that she is approaching motherhood. she draws letters on the floor with the end of her sunshade._ mrs. john well, sure now! that's right! that's what i says, pauline. pauline all right. so i'm goin' to schlachtensee or to halensee. i gotta go and see if i c'n meet him! [_she dries her tears and is about to rise._ mrs. john [_prevents pauline from getting up._] pauline! for god's sake, don't you be doin' that! not that there, for nothin' in the world! that don't do nothin' but raise a row an' cost money an' don't bring you in nothin'. look at the condition you're in! an' that way you want to go an' run after that there low lived feller? pauline then my landlady c'n wait an' wait for me to-day. i'll jump into the landwehr canal an' drownd myself. mrs. john pauline! an' what for? what for, i'd like to know? now you just listen to me for a speck of a minute, just for god's sake, for the teeniest speck of one an' pay attention to what i'm goin' to propose to you! you know yourself how i says to you, out on alexander square, right by the chronomoneter--says i to you right out, as i was comin' out o' the market an' sees your condition with half an eye. he don't want to acknowledge nothin', eh? that's what i axed you right out!--that happens to many gals here, to all of 'em--to millions! an' then i says to you ... what did i say? come along, i says, an' i'll help you! pauline o' course, i don't never dare to show myself at home lookin' this way. mother, she'd cry it out at the first look. an' father, he'd knock my head against the wall an' throw me out in the street. an' i ain't got no more money left neither--nothin' but just two pieces o' gold that i got sewed up in the linin' o' my jacket. that feller didn't leave me no crown an' he didn't leave me no penny. mrs. john miss, my husband, he's a foreman mason. i just wants you to pay attention ... just for heaven's sake, pay attention to the propositions that i'm goin' to make to you. they'll help us both. you'll be helped out an' the same way i'll be. an' what's more, paul, that's my husband, he'll be helped, because he'd like, for all the world, to have a child, an' our only one, little adelbert, he went an' died o' the croup. your child'll be as well taken care of as an own child. then you c'n go an' you c'n look up your sweetheart an' you c'n go back into service an' home to your people, an' the child is well off, an' nobody in the world don't need to know nothin'. pauline i'll do it just outa spite--that's what! an' drownd myself! [_she rises._] an' a note, a note, i'll leave in my jacket, like this: you drove your pauline to her death with your cursed meanness! an' then i'll put down his name in full: alois theophil brunner, instrument-maker. then he c'n see how he'll get along in the world with the murder o' me on his conscience. mrs. john wait a minute, miss! i gotta unlock the door first. _mrs. john acts, as though she were about to conduct pauline to the door._ _before the two women reach the passage, bruno mechelke enters with slow and suspicious demeanour by the door at the left and remains standing in the room. bruno is short rather than tall, but with a powerful bull's neck and athletic shoulders. his forehead is low and receding, his close-clipped hair like a brush, his skull round and small. his face is brutal and his left nostril has been ripped open sometime and imperfectly healed. the fellow is about nineteen years old. he bends forward, and his great, lumpish hands are joined to muscular arms. the pupils of his eyes are small, black and piercing. he is trying to repair a rat trap._ _bruno whistles to his sister as he would to a dog._ mrs. john i'm comin' now, bruno! what d'you want? bruno [_apparently absorbed by the trap._] thought i was goin' to put up traps here. mrs. john did you put the bacon in? [_to pauline._] it's only my brother. don't be scared, miss. bruno [_as before._] i seen the emperor william to-day. i marched along wi' the guard, mrs. john [_to pauline, who stands fearful and moveless in bruno's presence._] 'tain't nothin' but my brother. you c'n stay.--[_to bruno._] boy, what're you lookin' that way for again? the young lady is fair scared o' you. bruno [_as before, without looking up._] brrr-rr-rr! i'm a ghost. mrs. john hurry an' go up in the loft an' set your traps. bruno [_slowly approaching the table._] aw, that business ain't no good 'cept to starve on! when i goes to sell matches, i gets more outa it. pauline good-bye, mrs. john. mrs. john [_raging at her brother._] are you goin' to leave me alone? bruno [_knuckling under._] aw, don' go on so. i'm leavin'. _obediently he withdraws into the adjoining room. mrs. john locks the door behind him with a determined gesture._ pauline that's a feller i wouldn't like to meet in the _tiergarten_. not by night an' not by day neither. mrs. john if i sets bruno on anyone an' he gets at him, god help him! pauline good-bye. i don't like this here place. if you wants to see me again, mrs. john, i'd rather meet you at a bench on the _kreuzberg_. mrs. john pauline, i brought up bruno with sorrow and trouble by day an' by night. an' i'll be twenty times better to your child. so when it's born, pauline, i'll take it, an' i swears to you by my father an' mother what died in the lord an' what i goes to visit the graves of out in rüdersdorf one sunday a year an' puts candles on 'em an' don' let nobody keep me back--i swears to you that little crittur'll live on the fat o' the land just like a born prince nor a born princess couldn't be treated no better. pauline i'm goin' and with my last penny i'm goin' to buy vitriol--i don' care who it hits! an' i'll throw it in the face o' the wench that he goes with ... i don' care who it hits ... right in the middle o' the mug. i don' care! it c'n burn up his fine-lookin' phiz! i don' care! it c'n burn off his beard an' burn out his eyes if he goes with other women! what did he do? cheated me! ruined me! took my money! robbed me o' my honour! that's what the damn' dog did--seduced me an' lied to me an' left me an' kicked me out into the world! i don' care who it hits! i wants him to be blind! i wants the stuff to burn his nose offa his face! i wants it to burn him offa the earth! mrs. john pauline, as i hopes to be happy hereafter, i tells you, from the minute where that there little one is born ... it's goin' to be treated like ... well, i don' know what!... as if it was born to be put in silks an' in satins. all you gotta do is to have some confidence--that's what! you just say: yes. i got it all figgered out. it c'n be done, it c'n be done--that's what i tells you! an' no doctor an' no police an' no landlady don't has to know nothin'. an' then, first of all, you gets paid a hundred an' twenty crowns what i saved scrubbin' an' charrin' here for manager hassenreuter. pauline i might strangle it when it's born, rather 'n sell it! mrs. john who's talkin' about sellin'? pauline look at the frights an' the misery i've stood from october las' to this very day. my intended gives me the go; my landlady puts me out! they gives me notice at a lodgin's. what does i do that i has to be despised an' cursed an' kicked aroun'? mrs. john that's what i says. that's cause the devil is still gettin' the better of our lord jesus. _unnoticed and busy with the trap as before bruno has quietly re-entered by the door._ bruno [_with a strange intonation, sharply and yet carelessly._] lamps! pauline that feller scares me. lemme go! mrs. john [_makes violently for bruno._] is you goin' to go where you belongs? i told you i'd call you! bruno [_in the same tone as before._] well, jette, i jus' said: lamps! mrs. john are you crazy? what's the meanin' o' that--lamps? bruno ain't that a ringin' o' the front bell? mrs. john [_is frightened, listens and restrains pauline, who makes a motion to go._] sh, miss, wait! just wait one little minute! [_bruno continues whittling as the two women stop to listen._ mrs. john [_softly and in a frightened tone to bruno._] i don't hear nothin'! bruno you ol' dried up piece! you better go an' get another pair o' ears! mrs. john that'd be the first time in all the three months that the manager'd be comin' in when it's sunday. bruno if that there theayter feller comes, he c'n engage me right on the spot. mrs. john [_violently._] don' talk rot! bruno [_grinning at pauline._] maybe you don' believe it, miss, but i went an' took the clown's hoss at schumann's circus aroun' the ring three times. them's the kind o' things i does. an' is i goin' to be scared? pauline [_seeming to notice for the first time the fantastic strangeness of the place in which she finds herself. frightened and genuinely perturbed._] mother o' god, what kind o' place is this? mrs. john whoever c'n that be? bruno 'tain't the manager, jette! more like it's a spout what's drippin'! mrs. john miss, you be so kind an' go for two minutes, if you don' mind, up into this here loft. maybe somebody's comin' that just wants some information. _in her growing terror pauline does as she is asked to do. she clambers up the stairs to the loft, the trap door being open. mrs. john has taken up a position in which she can, at need, hide pauline from anyone entering the room. pauline disappears: mrs. john and bruno remain alone._ bruno what business has you with that pious mug? mrs. john that ain't none o' your business, y'understan'? bruno i was just axin' 'cause you was so careful that nobody should see her. otherwise i don't know's i gives a damn. mrs. john an' you ain't supposed to! bruno much obliged. maybe i better toddle along, then. mrs. john d'you know what you owes me, you scamp? bruno [_carelessly._] what are you gettin' excited for? what is i doin' to you? what d'you want? i gotta go to my gal now. i'm sleepy. las' night i slept under a lot o' bushes in the park. an' anyhow, i'm cleaned out--[_he turns his trowsers pockets inside out._] an' in consequence o' that i gotta go an' earn somethin'. mrs. john here you stays! don't you dare move! if you do you c'n whine like a whipped purp an' you'll never be gettin' so much as a penny outa me no more--that's what you won't! bruno, you're goin' ways you hadn't ought to. bruno aw, what d'you think? is i goin' to be a dam' fool? d'you think i ain' goin' when i gets a good livin' offa hulda? [_he pulls out a dirty card-case._] not so much as a measly pawn ticket has i got. tell me what you want an' then lemme go! mrs. john what i wants? of you? what're you good for anyhow? you ain't good for nothin' excep' for your sister who ain't right in her head to feel sorry for you, you loafer an' scamp! bruno maybe you _ain'_ right in your head sometimes! mrs. john our father, he used to say when you was no more'n five an' six years old an' used to do rowdy things, that we couldn't never be proud o' you an' that i might as well let you go hang. an' my husband what's a reel honest decent man ... why, you can't be seen alongside of a good man like him. bruno sure, i knows all that there, jette. but things ain' that easy to straighten out. i knows all right i was born with a kind o' a twist in my back, even if nobody don't see it. no, i wasn't born in no castle. well, i gotta do what i c'n do with my twist. all right. what d'you want? 'tain't for the rats you're keepin' me. you wanta hush up somethin' wi' that whore! mrs. john [_shaking her hand under bruno's nose._] you give away one word o' this an' i'll kill you, i'll make a corpse o' you! bruno well now, looka here! i'm goin', y'understan'? [_he mounts the stairs._] maybe someday i'll be droppin' into good luck without knowin' it. _he disappears through the trap-door, mrs. john hurriedly blows out the lamp and taps her way to the door of the library. she enters it but does--not wholly close the door behind her.--the noise that bruno actually heard was that of a key being turned in a rusty keyhole. a light step is now heard approaching the door. for a moment the street noises of berlin as well as the yelling of children in the outer halls had been audible. strains of a hurdy-gurdy from the yard.--walburga hassenreuter enters with hesitating and embarrassed steps. the girl is not yet sixteen and is pretty and innocent of appearance. sunshade, light-coloured summer dress, not coming below the ankle._ walburga [_halts, listens, then says nervously:_] papa!--isn't any one up here yet? papa! papa! [_she listens long and intently and then says:_] why, what an odour of coal oil there is here! [_she finds matches, lights one, is about to light the lamp and burns her fingers against the hot chimney._] ouch! why, dear me! who is here? [_she has cried out and is about to run away._ _mrs. john reappears._ mrs. john well, miss walburga, who's goin' to go an' kick up a row like that! you c'n be reel quiet. 'tain't nobody but me! walburga dear me, but i've had an awful fright, mrs. john. mrs. john well, then i advise you to be gettin' out o' here to-day--on sunday? walburga [_laying her hand over her heart._] why, my heart is almost standing still yet, mrs. john. mrs. john what's the matter, miss walburga? what's frightenin' you? you oughta know that from your pa that sunday an' week day i gotta be workin' aroun' here with them boxes an' cases, dustin' an' tryin' to get rid o' the moths! an' then, after two or three weeks, when i've gone over the twelve or eighteen hundred theayter rags that're lyin' here--then i gotta start all over again. walburga i was frightened because the chimney of the lamp was still quite hot to the touch. mrs. john that's right. that there lamp was burnin' 'an' i put it out jus' a minute ago. [_she lifts up the chimney._] it don't burn me; my hands is hard. [_she lights the wick._] well, now we has light. now i lit it again. what's the danger here? i don' see nothin'. walburga but you do look like a ghost, mrs. john. mrs. john how do you say i looks? walburga oh, it just seems so when one comes out of the vivid sunlight into the darkness, into these musty holes. it seems as though one were surrounded by ghosts. mrs. john well, you little ghost, why did you come up here? is you alone or has you got somebody with you? maybe papa'll be comin' in yet? walburga no, papa has been granted an important audience out in potsdam to-day. mrs. john all right! what're you lookin' for here then? walburga i? oh, i just came out for a walk! mrs. john well, then i advise you to be gettin out o' here again. no sun don't shine into your papa's lumber-room. walburga you look so grey! you had better go out into the sunlight yourself! mrs. john oh, the sunlight's just for fine folks! all i needs is a couple o' pounds o' dust an' dirt on my lungs.--you just go along, missie! i gotta get to work. i don' need nothin' else. i jus' lives on mildew an' insec'-powder. [_she coughs._ walburga [_nervously._] you needn't tell papa that i was up here. mrs. john me? ain't i got somethin' better to do'n that? walburga [_with assumed carelessness._] and if mr. spitta were to ask after me.... mrs. john who? walburga the young gentleman who gives us private lessons at home.... mrs. john well, s'posin'? walburga then be so kind as to tell him that i've been here but left again at once. mrs. john so i'm to tell mr. spitta but not papa? walburga [_involuntarily._] oh, for heaven's sake, no! mrs. john well, you jus' wait an' see! you jus' look out! there's many a one has looked like you an' has come from your part o' the city an'--has gone to the dogs in the ditch in dragoner street or, even, behind swedish hangin's in barnim street. walburga surely you don't mean to insinuate, mrs. john, and surely you don't believe that there's anything unpermitted or improper in my relations with mr. spitta? mrs. john [_in extreme fright._] shut up!--somebody's put the key into the keyhole. walburga blow out the lamp! [_mrs. john blows out the lamp quickly._ walburga papa! mrs. john miss! up into the loft with you! _mrs. john and walburga both disappear through the trap-door, which closes behind them._ _two gentlemen, the manager harro hassenreuter and the court actor nathanael jettel, appear in the frame of the outer door. the manager is of middle height, clean shaven, fifty years old. he takes long steps and shows a lively temperament in his whole demeanour. the cut of his face is noble, his eyes have a vivid, adventurous expression. his behaviour is somewhat noisy, which accords with his thoroughly fiery nature. he wears a light overcoat, a top-hat thrust back on his head, full dress suit and patent leather boots. the overcoat, which is unbuttoned, reveals the decorations which almost cover his chest--jettel wears a suit of flannels under a very light spring overcoat. in his left hand he holds a straw hat and an elegant cane; he wears tan shoes. he also is clean shaven and over fifty years old. hassenreuter [_calls:_] john! mrs. john!--well, now you see my catacombs, my dear fellow! _sic transit gloria mundi!_ here i've stored everything--_mutatis mutandis_--that was left of my whole theatrical glory--trash, trash! old rags! old tatters!--john! john! she's been here, for the lamp chimney is still quite hot! [_he strikes a match and lights the lamp._] _fiat lux, pereat mundus!_ now you can get a good view of my paradise of moths and rats and fleas! jettel you received my card, didn't you, my dear manager? hassenreuter mrs. john!--i'll see if she is in the loft up there. [_he mounts the stairs and rattles at the trap-door._] locked! and of course the wretched creature has the key tied to her apron. [_he beats enragedly against the trap-door with his fist._] john! john! jettel [_somewhat impatient._] can't we manage without this mrs. john? hassenreuter what? do you think that i, in my dress suit and with all my decorations, just back from his highness, can go through my three hundred boxes and cases just to rout out the wretched rags that you are pleased to need for your engagement here? jettel i beg your pardon. but i'm not wont to appear in rags on my tours. hassenreuter man alive, then play in your drawers for all i care! it wouldn't worry me! only don't quite forget who's standing before you. because the court actor jettel is pleased to emit a whistle--well, that's no reason why the manager harro hassenreuter should begin to dance. confound it, because some comedian wants a shabby turban or two old boots, is that any reason why a _pater familias_ like myself must give up his only spare time at home on sunday afternoon? i suppose you expect me to creep about on all fours into the corners here? no, my good fellow, for that kind of thing you'll have to look elsewhere! jettel [_quite calmly._] would you mind telling me, if possible, who has been treading on your corns? hassenreuter my boy, it's scarcely an hour since i had my legs under the same table with a prince; _post hoc, ergo propter hoc!_--on your account i got into a confounded bus and drove out to this, confounded bole, and so ... if you don't know how to value my kindness, you can get out! jettel you made an appointment with use for four o'clock. then you let me wait one solid hour in this horrible tenement, in these lovely halls with their filthy brats! well, i waited and didn't address the slightest reproach to you. and now you have the good taste and the good manners to use me as a kind of a cuspidor! hassenreuter my boy ... jettel the devil! i'm not your boy! you seem to be kind of a clown that i ought to force to turn sommersaults for pennies! [_highly indignant, he picks up his hat and cane and goes._ hassenreuter [_starts, breaks out into boisterous laughter and then calls out after jettel:_] don't make yourself ridiculous! and, anyhow, i'm not a costumer! _the slamming of the outer door is heard._ hassenreuter [_pulls out his watch._] the confounded idiot! the damned mutton head.--it's a blessing the ridiculous ass went! [_he puts the match back into his pocket, pulls it out again at once and listens. he walks restlessly to and fro, then stops, gases into his top-hat, which contains a mirror, and combs his hair carefully. he walks over to the middle door and opens a few of the letters that lie heaped up there. at the same time he sings in a trilling voice:_ "o strassburg, o strassburg, thou beautiful old town." _once more he looks at his watch. suddenly the doorbell at his head rings._] on the minute! ah, but these little girls can be punctual when they really care about it! [_he hurries out into the hall and is heard to extend a loud and merry welcome to someone. the trumpet notes of his voice are soon accompanied by the bell-like tones of a woman's speaking. very soon he reappears, at his side an elegant young lady, alice rÜtterbusch._]--alice! my little alice! come here where i can see you, little girl! come here into the light! i must see whether you're the same infinitely delightful, mad little alice that you were in the great days of my career in alsace? girl, it was i who taught you to walk! i held your leading strings for your first steps. i taught you how to talk, girl! the things you said! i hope you haven't forgotten! alice rÜtterbusch now, look here! you don't believe that i'm an ungrateful girl? hassenreuter [_draws up her veil._] why, girlie, you've grown younger instead of older. alice rÜtterbusch [_flushed with delight._] well, a person would just have to be like everything to say that you had changed to your disadvantage! but, do you know--it's awful dark up here really and--harro, maybe you wouldn't mind opening a window a little--oh, the air's a bit heavy, too, hassenreuter "pillicock sat on pillicock-hill" "but mice and rats and such small deer have been tom's food for seven long year." in all seriousness i have passed through dark and difficult times! in spite of the fact that i preferred not to write you of it, i have no doubt that you are informed. alice rÜtterbusch but it wasn't extra friendly, you know, for you not to answer one little word to the long, nice letter i wrote you. hassenreuter ha, ha, ha! what's the use of answering a little girl's letter if one has both hands full taking care of oneself and can't possibly be of the slightest use to her? pshaw! _e nihilo nihil fit!_ in the vernacular: you can't get results out of nothing! moth and dust! dust and moths! and that's all my efforts for german culture in the west profited me! alice rÜtterbusch so you didn't turn over your collection of properties to manager kunz. hassenreuter "o strassburg, o strassburg, thou beautiful old town!" no, little one, i didn't leave my properties in strassburg! this ex-waiter, ex-innkeeper and lessee of disreputable dance halls, this idiot, this imbecile who succeeded me, didn't happen to want my stuff. no, i didn't leave my collection of properties there, but what i did have to leave there was forty thousand crowns of hard-earned money left me from my old touring days as an actor, and, in addition, fifty thousand crowns which formed the dowry of my excellent wife. however, it was a piece of good luck, after all, that i kept the properties. ha, ha, ha! these fellows here ... [_he touches one of the mailed figures_] ... surely you remember them? alice rÜtterbusch could i forget my pasteboard knights? hassenreuter very well, then: it was these pasteboard knights and all the other trash that surrounds them, that actually, after his hegira, kept the old rag-picker and costumer, harro eberhard hassenreuter, above water. but let's speak of cheerful things: i saw with pleasure in the paper that his excellency has engaged you for berlin. alice rÜtterbusch i don't care a great deal about it! i'd rather play for you, and you must promise me, whenever you undertake the management of a theatre again--you will promise, won't you?--that you'll let me break my contract right away? [_the manager laughs heartily._] i had to be annoyed quite enough for three long years by the barn-stormers of the provinces. berlin i don't like, and a court theatre least of all. lord, what people and what a profession it is! you know i belong to your collection--i've always belonged to it! [_she stands up primly among the pasteboard knights._ hassenreuter ha, ha, ha, ha! well then, come to my arms, faithful knight! [_he opens his arms wide, she flies into them, and they now salute each other with long, continuous kisses._ alice rÜtterbusch go on, harro. now tell me. how is your wife? hassenreuter teresa gets along very well except that she gets fatter every day in spite of sorrow and worries.--girl, girl, how fragrant you are! [_he presses her to him._] do you know that you're a devilish dangerous person? alice rÜtterbusch d'you think i'm an idiot? of course i'm dangerous! hassenreuter well, i'll be ...! alice rÜtterbusch why, do you think if i didn't know it was dangerous, dangerous for us both, i'd make an appointment with you out here in this lovely neighbourhood, under this stuffy roof? by the way, though, since i'm always bound to have the queerest luck if ever i do go a bit on questionable ways, whom should i meet on the stairs but nathanael jettel? i almost ran into the gentleman's arms! he'll take good care that my visiting you doesn't remain our secret. hassenreuter i must have made a mistake in writing down the date. the fellow insists on asserting--ha, ha, ha!--that i made an engagement with him for this very afternoon. alice rÜtterbusch and that wasn't the only person i met on the six flights. and as for the dear little children that roll about on the stairs here! what they called out after me was unparliamentary to a degree--such vulgarities as i've never heard from such little beggars in my life. hassenreuter [_laughs, then speaks seriously._] ah, yes! but one gets accustomed to that. you could never write down all the life that sweeps down these stairs with its soiled petticoats--the life that cringes and creeps, moans, sighs, sweats, cries out, curses, mutters, hammers, planes, jeers, steals, drives its dark trades up and down these stairs--the sinister creatures that hide here, playing their zither, grinding their accordions, sticking in need and hunger and misery, leading their vicious lives--no, it's beyond one's power of recording. and your old manager, last but not least, runs, groans, sighs, sweats, cries out and curses with the best of them. ha, ha, ha, girlie! i've had a pretty wretched time. alice rÜtterbusch oh, by the way, d'you know whom i ran into just as i was making for the railroad station at the zoological garden? the good old prince statthalter! and straight off, cool as a cucumber--that's my way you know--i tripped along next to him for twenty minutes and got him absorbed in a conversation. and then something happened, harro, upon my honour, just as i'm going to tell you--literally and truly: suddenly on the bridle-path his majesty came riding along with a great suite. i thought i'd sink into the earth with embarrassment. and his majesty laughed right out and threatened his serenity playfully with his finger. but i was delighted, you may believe me. the main thing comes now, however. just think! his serenity asked me whether i'd be glad to go back to strassburg if the manager hassenreuter were to assume direction of the theatre there again. well, you may know that i almost jumped for joy! hassenreuter [_throws off his overcoat and stands with his decorations displayed._] you probably couldn't help noticing that his serenity had had a most excellent breakfast. aha! we had breakfast together! we attended an exquisite little stag party given by prince ruprecht out in potsdam. i don't deny, therefore, that a turn for good may take place in the miserable fate of your friend. alice rÜtterbusch sweetheart, you look like a statesman, like an ambassador! hassenreuter ah, don't you know this breast covered with high and exalted decorations? klärchen and egmont! here you can drink your fill! [_they embrace each other anew._] _carpe diem!_ enjoy the passing hour! ah, my little miss simplicity, champagne is not recorded at present on the repertory of your old manager, inspirer and friend. [_he opens a wooden case and draws forth a bottle of wine._] but this old cloister vintage isn't to be sneezed at either! [_he pulls the cork. at the same moment the door bell rings._] what? sh! i wonder who has the monstrous impudence to ring here on sunday afternoon? [_the bell rings with increased violence._] confound it all--the fellow must be a lunatic. little girl, suppose you withdraw into the library. [_alice hurries into the library. the ringing is repeated. he hurries to the door._] either be patient or go to the devil. [_he is heard opening the door._] who? what? "it is i, miss walburga." what? i am not miss walburga. i am not the daughter. i am the father. oh, it's you, mr. spitta! your very humble servant. i'm only her father--only her father! what is it that you want? _hassenreuter reappears in the passage accompanied by erich spitta, a young man of twenty-one, spectacled, with keen and not undistinguished features, spitta passes as a student of theology and is correspondingly dressed. he does not hold himself erect and his development shows the influence of over-study and underfeeding._ hassenreuter did you intend to give my daughter one of your private lessons here in my storeroom? spitta i was riding past on the tram-car and i really thought i had seen miss walburga hurry into the doorway downstairs. hassenreuter no possibility of such a thing, my dear spitta. at this moment my daughter walburga is attending a ritualistic service with her mother in the anglican church. spitta then perhaps you'll forgive my intrusion. i took the liberty of coming upstairs because i thought that miss walburga might not find it unpleasant or useless to have an escort home through this neighbourhood. hassenreuter very good! very excellent! but she isn't here. i regret it. i'm here myself by the merest chance--on account of the mail. and in addition, i have other pressing engagements. can i do anything else for you? _spitta polishes his glasses and betrays signs of embarrassment._ spitta one doesn't grow used to the darkness at once. hassenreuter perhaps you stand in need of the tuition due you. sorry, but unfortunately i have the habit of going out with only some small change in my waistcoat pocket. so i must ask you to have patience until i am at home again. spitta not the least hurry in the world. hassenreuter yes, it's easy for you to say that. i'm like a hunted animal, my dear fellow ... spitta and yet i would like to beg for a minute of your precious time. i can't but look upon this unexpected meeting as a kind of providential arrangement. in short: may i put a question to you? hassenreuter [_with his eyes on his watch, which he has just been winding._] one minute exactly. by the watch, my good fellow! spitta both my question and your answer need hardly take that long. hassenreuter well, then! spitta have i any talent for the stage? hassenreuter for the love of god, man! have you gone mad?--forgive me, my dear fellow, if a case like this excites me to the point of being discourteous. you have certainly given the lie to the saying: _natura non facit saltus_ by the unnatural leap that you've taken. i must first get my breath after that! and now let's put an end to this at once. believe me, if we were both to discuss the question now we wouldn't come to any conclusion in two or three weeks, or rather, let us say years.--you are a theologian by profession, my good fellow, and you were born in a parsonage. you have all the necessary connections and a smooth road to a comfortable way of life ahead of you. how did you hit upon such a notion as this? spitta that's a long story of the inner life, mr. hassenreuter, of difficult spiritual struggles--a story which, until this moment, has been an absolute secret and known only to myself. but my good fortune led me into your house and from that moment on i felt that i was drawing nearer and nearer to the true aim of my life. hassenreuter [_wildly impatient._] that's very creditable to me; that does honour to my family and myself! [_he puts his hands on spitta's shoulders._] and yet i must make it in the form of an urgent request that, at this moment, you refrain from a further discussion of the question. my affairs cannot wait. spitta then i will only add the expression of my absolutely firm decision. hassenreuter but, my dear spitta, who has put these mad notions into year head? i've taken real pleasure in the thought of you. i've really been quietly envying you the peaceful personage that was to be yours. i've attached no special significance to certain literary ambitions that one is likely to pick up in the metropolis. that's a mere phase, i thought, and will be quite passing in his case! and now you want to become an actor? god help you, were i your father! i'd lock you up on bread and water and not let you out again until the very memory of this folly was gone. _dixi!_ and now, good-bye, my dear man. spitta i'm afraid that locking me op or resorting to force of any kind would not help in my case at all. hassenreuter but, man alive, you want to become an actor--you, with your round shoulders, with your spectacles and, above all, with your hoarse and sharp voice. it's impossible. spitta if such fellows as i exist in real life, why shouldn't they exist on the stage too? and i am of the opinion that a smooth, well-sounding voice, probably combined with the goethe-schiller-weimar school of idealistic artifice, is harmful rather than helpful. the only question is whether you would take me, just as i am, as a pupil? hassenreuter [_hastily draws on his overcoat._] i would not. in the first place my school of acting is only one of the schools of idealistic artifice which you mention. in the second place i wouldn't be responsible to your father for such an action. and in the third place, we quarrel enough as it is--every time you stay to supper at my house after giving your lessons. if you were my pupil, we'd come to blows. and now, spitta, i must catch the car. spitta my father is already informed. in a letter of twelve pages, i have given him a full history of the change that has taken place within me.... hassenreuter i'm sure the old gentleman will feel flattered! and now come along with me or i'll go insane! _hassenreuter forcibly takes spitta out with him. the door is heard to slam. the room grows silent but for the uninterrupted roar of berlin, which can now be clearly heard. the trap-door to the loft is now opened and walburga hassenreuter clambers down in mad haste, followed by mrs. john._ mrs. john [_whispering vehemently._] what's the matter? nothin' ain't happened. walburga mrs. john, i'll scream! i'll have to scream in another second! oh, for heaven's sake, i can't help it much longer, mrs. john! mrs. john stuff a handkerchief between your teeth! there ain't nothin'! why d'you take on so? walburga [_with chattering teeth, making every effort to suppress her sobs._] i'm frightened! oh, i'm frightened to death, mrs. john! mrs. john i'd like to know what you're so scared about! walburga why, didn't you see that horrible man? mrs. john that ain't nothin' so horrible. that's my brother what sometimes helps me clean up your pa's things here. walburga and that girl who sits with her back to the chimney and whines? mrs. john well, your mother didn't act no different when you was expected to come into the world. walburga oh, it's all over with me. i'll die if papa comes back. mrs. john well then hurry and get out an' don' fool roun' no more! [_mrs. john accompanies the horrified girl along the passage, lets her out, and then returns._ mrs. john thank god, that girl don' know but what the moon _is_ made o' cheese! [_she takes the uncorked bottle, pours out a glass full of wine and takes it with her to the loft into which she disappears._ _the room is scarcely empty when hassenreuter returns._ hassenreuter [_still in the door. singing._] "come on down, o madonna teresa!" [_he calls:_] alice! [_still in the door._] come on! help me put up my iron bar with a double lock before the door, alice! [_he comes forward._] any one else who dares to interrupt our sunday quiet--_anathema sit!_ here! you imp! where are you, alice? [_he observes the bottle and lifts it against the light._] what? half empty! the little scamp! [_from behind the door of the library a pleasant woman's voice is heard singing coloratura passages._] ha, ha, ha, ha! heavens and earth! she's tipsy already. the second act _mrs. john's rooms on the second floor of the same house in the attics of which hassenreuter has stored his properties. a high, deep, green-tinted room which betrays its original use as part of a barracks. the rear wall shows a double door which gives on the outer hall. above this door there hangs a bell connected by a wire with the knob outside. to the right of the door a partition, covered with wall-paper, projects into the room. this partition takes a rectangular turn and extends to the right wall. a portion of the room is thus partitioned off and serves as sleeping-chamber. from within the partition, which is about six feet high, cupboards are seen against the wall._ _entering the room from the hall, one observes to the left a sofa covered with oil-cloth. the back of the sofa is pushed against the partition wall. the latter is adorned with small photographs: the foreman-mason john as a soldier, john and his wife in their wedding garb, etc. an oval table, covered with a faded cotton cloth, stands before the sofa. in order to reach the entrance of the sleeping-chamber from the door it is necessary to pass the table and sofa. this entrance is closed by hangings of blue cotton cloth. against the narrow front wall of the partition stands a neatly equipped kitchen cabinet. to the right, against the wall of the main room, the stove. this corner of the room serves the--purposes of kitchen and pantry. sitting on the sofa, one would look straight at the left wall of the room, which is broken by two large windows. a neatly planed board has been fastened to the nearer of the windows to serve as a kind of desk. upon it are lying blue-prints, counter-drawings, an inch-measure, a compass and a square. a small, raised platform is seen beneath the farther window. upon it stands a small table with glasses. an old easy chair of cane and a number of simple wooden chairs complete the frugal equipment of the room, which creates an impression of neatness and orderliness such as is often found in the dwellings of childless couples._ _it is about five o'clock of an afternoon toward the end of may. the warm sunlight shines through the windows._ _the foreman-mason john, a good-natured, bearded man of forty, sits at the desk in the foreground taking notes from the building plans._ _mrs. john sits sewing on the small platform, by the farther window. she is very pale. there is something gentle and pain-touched about her, but her face shows an expression of deep contentment, which is broken only now and then by a momentary gleam of restlessness and suspense. a neat new perambulator stands by her side. in it lies a newborn child._ john [_modestly._] mother, how'd it be if i was to open the window jus' a speck an' was to light my pipe for a bit? mrs. john does you have to smoke? if not, you better let it be! john no, i don't has to, mother. only i'd like to! never mind, though. a quid'll be just as good in the end. [_with comfortable circumstantiality he prepares a new quid._ mrs. john [_after a brief silence._] how's that? you has to go to the public registry office again? john that's what he told me, that i had to come back again an' tell him exackly ... that i had to give the exack place an' time when that little kid was born. mrs. john [_holding a needle in her mouth._] well, why didn't you tell him that right away? john how was i to know it? i didn't know, you see. mrs. john you didn't know that? john well, i wasn't here, was i? mrs. john you wasn't. that's right. if you goes an' leaves me here in berlin an' stays from one year's end to another in hamburg, an' at most comes to see me once a month--how is you to know what happens in your own home? john don't you want me to go where the boss has most work for me? i goes where i c'n make good money. mrs. john i wrote you in my letter as how our little boy was born in this here room. john i knows that an' i told him that. ain't that natural, i axes him, that the child was born in our room? an' he says that ain't natural at all. well then, says i, for all i cares, maybe it was up in the loft with the rats an' mice! i got mad like 'cause he said maybe the child wasn't born here at all. then he yells at me: what kind o' talk is that? what? says i. i takes an interest in wages an' earnin' an' not in talk--not me, mr. registrar! an' now i'm to give him the exack day an' hour ... mrs. john an' didn't i write it all out for you on a bit o' paper? john when a man's mad he's forgetful. i believe if he'd up and axed me: is you paul john, foreman-mason? i'd ha' answered: i don' know. well an' then i'd been a bit jolly too an' taken a drink or two with fritz. an' while we was doin' that who comes along but schubert an' karl an' they says as how i has to set up on account o' bein' a father now. those fellers, they didn't let me go an' they was waitin' downstairs in front o' the public registry. an' so i kept thinkin' o' them standin' there. so when he axes me on what day my wife was delivered, i didn't know nothin' an' just laughed right in his face. mrs. john i wish you'd first attended to what you had to an' left your drinkin' till later. john it's easy to say that! but if you're up to them kind o' tricks in your old age, mother, you can't blame me for bein' reel glad. mrs. john all right. you go on to the registry now an' say that your child was borne by your wife in your dwellin' on the twenty-fifth o' may. john wasn't it on the twenty-sixth? 'cause i said right along the twenty-sixth. then he must ha' noticed that i wasn't quite sober. so he says: if that's a fac', all right; if not, you gotta come back. mrs. john in that case you'd better leave it as it is. _the door is opened and selma knobbe pushes in a wretched perambulator which presents the saddest contrast to mrs. john's. swaddled in pitiful rags a newly born child lies therein._ mrs. john oh, no, selma, comin' into my room with that there sick child--that was all right before. but that can't be done no more. selma he just gasps with that cough o' his'n. over at our place they smokes all the time. mrs. john i told you, selma, that you could come from time to time and get milk or bread. but while my little adelbert is here an' c'n catch maybe consumption or somethin', you just leave that poor little thing at home with his fine mother. selma [_tearfully._] mother ain't been home at all yesterday or to-day. i can't get no sleep with this child. he just moans all night. i gotta get some sleep sometime! i'll jump outa the window first thing or i'll let the baby lie in the middle o' the street an' run away so no policeman can't never find me! john [_looks at the strange child._] looks bad! mother, why don't you try an' do somethin' for the little beggar? mrs. john [_pushing selma and the perambulator out determinedly._] march outa this room. that can't be done, paul. when you got your own you can't be lookin' out for other people's brats. that knobbe woman c'n look after her own affairs. it's different with selma. [_to the girl._] you c'n come in when you want to. you c'n come in here after a while an' take a nap even. [_she locks the door._ john you used to take a good deal o' interest in knobbe's dirty little brats. mrs. john you don' understan' that. i don' want our little adelbert to be catchin' sore eyes or convulsions or somethin' like that. john maybe you're right. only, don't go an' call him adelbert, mother. that ain't a good thing to do, to call a child by the same name as one that was carried off, unbaptised, a week after it was born. let that be, mother. i can't stand for that, mother, _a knocking is heard at the door. john is about to open._ mrs. john what's that? john well, somebody wants to get in! mrs. john [_hastily turning the key in the lock._] i ain't goin' to have everybody runnin' in on me now that i'm sick as this. [_she listens at the door and then calls out:_] i can't open! what d'you want? a woman's voice [_somewhat deep and mannish in tone._] it is mrs. hassenreuter. mrs. john [_surprised._] goodness gracious! [_she opens the door._] i beg your pardon, mrs. hassenreuter! i didn't even know who it was! _mrs. hassenreuter has now entered, followed by walburga. she is a colossal, asthmatic lady aver fifty. walburga is dressed with greater simplicity than in the first act. she carries a rather large package._ mrs. hassenreuter how do you do, mrs. john? although climbing stairs is ... very hard for me ... i wanted to see how everything ... goes with you after the ... yes, the very happy event. mrs. john i'm gettin' along again kind o' half way. mrs. hassenreuter that is probably your husband, mrs. john? well, one must say, one is bound to say, that your dear wife, in the long time of waiting--never complained, was always cheery and merry, and did her work well for my husband upstairs. john that's right. she was mighty glad, too. mrs. hassenreuter well, then we'll have the pleasure--at least, your wife will have the pleasure of seeing you at home oftener than heretofore. mrs. john i has a good husband, mrs. hassenreuter, who takes care o' me an' has good habits. an' because paul was workin' out o town you musn't think there was any danger o' his leavin' me. but a man like that, where his brother has a boy o' twelve in the non-commissioned officers' school ... it's no kind o' life for him havin' no children o' his own. he gets to thinkin' queer thoughts. there he is in hamburg, makin' good money, an' he has the chance every day and--well--then he takes a notion, maybe, he'd like to go to america. john oh, that was never more'n a thought. mrs. john well, you see, with us poor people ... it's hard-earned bread that we eats ... an' yet ... [_lightly she runs her hand through john's hair_] even if there's one more an' you has more cares on that account--you see how the tears is runnin' down his cheeks--well, he's mighty happy anyhow! john that's because three years ago we had a little feller an' when he was a week old he took sick an' died. mrs. hassenreuter my husband has already ... yes, my husband did tell me about that ... how deeply you grieved over that little son of yours. you know how it is ... you know how my good husband has his eyes and his heart open to everything. and if it's a question of people who are about him or who give him their services--then everything good or bad, yes, everything good or bad that happens to them, seems just as though it had happened to himself. mrs. john i mind as if it was this day how he sat in the carridge that time with the little child's coffin on his knees. he wouldn't let the gravedigger so much as touch it. john [_wiping the moisture out of his eyes._] that's the way it was. no. i couldn't let him do that. mrs. hassenreuter just think, to-day at the dinner-table we had to drink wine--suddenly, to drink wine! wine! for years and years the city-water in decanters has been our only table drink ... absolutely the only one. dear children, said my husband.--you know that he had just returned from an eleven or twelve day trip to alsace. let us drink, my husband said, the health of my good and faithful mrs. john, because ... he cried out in his beautiful voice ... because she is a visible proof of the fact that the cry of a mother heart is not indifferent to our lord.--and so we drank your health, clinking our glasses! well, and here i'm bringing you at my husband's special ... at his very special and particular order ... an apparatus for the sterilisation of milk.--walburga, you may unpack the boiler. _hassenreuter enters unceremoniously through the outer door which has stood ajar. he wears a top-hat, spring overcoat, carries a silver-headed cane, in a word, is gotten up in his somewhat shabby meek-day outfit. he speaks hastily and almost without pauses._ hassenreuter [_wiping the sweat from his forehead._] berlin is hot, ladies and gentlemen, hot! and the cholera is as near as st. petersburg! now you've complained to my pupils, spitta and käferstein, mrs. john, that your little one doesn't seem to gain in weight. now, of course, it's one of the symptoms of the general decadence of our age that the majority of mothers are either--unwilling to nurse their offspring or incapable of it. but you've already lost one child on account of diarrhoea, mrs. john. no, there's no help for it: we must call a spade a spade. and so, in order that you do not meet with the same misfortune over again, or fall into the hands of old women whose advice is usually quite deadly for an infant--in order that these things may not happen, i say, i have caused my wife to bring you this apparatus. i've brought up all my--children, walburga included, by the help of such an apparatus ...aha! so one gets a glimpse of you again, mr. john! bravo! the emperor needs soldiers, and you needed a representative of your race! so i congratulate you with all my heart. [_he shakes john's hand vigorously._ mrs. hassenreuter [_leaning over the infant._] how much ... how much did he weigh at birth? mrs. john he weighed exactly eight pounds and ten grams. hassenreuter [_with noisy joviality._] ha, ha, ha! a vigorous product, i must say! eight pounds and ten grams of good healthy, german national flesh! mrs. hassenreuter look at his eyes! and his little nose! his father over again! why, the little fellow is really, really, the very image of you, mr. john. hassenreuter i trust that you will have the boy received into the communion of the christian church. mrs. john [_with happy impressiveness._] oh, he'll be christened properly, right in the parochial church at the font by a clergyman. hassenreuter right! and what are his baptismal names to be? mrs. john well, you know the way men is. that's caused a lot o' talk. i was thinkin' o' "bruno," but he won't have it! hassenreuter surely bruno isn't a bad name. john that may be. i ain't sayin' but what bruno is a good enough name. i don't want to give no opinion about that. mrs. john why don't you say as how i has a brother what's twelve years younger'n me an' what don't always do just right? but that's only 'cause there's so much temptation. that boy's a good boy. only you won't believe it. john [_turns red with sudden rage._] jette ... you know what a cross that feller was to us! what d'you want? you want our little feller to be the namesake of a man what's--i can't help sayin' it--what's under police soopervision? hassenreuter then, for heaven's sake, get him some other patron saint. john lord protect me from sich! i tried to take an interest in bruno! i got him a job in a machine-shop an' didn't get nothin' outa it but annoyance an' disgrace! god forbid that he should come aroun' an' have anythin' to do with this little feller o' mine. [_he clenches his fist._] if that was to happen, jette, i wouldn't be responsible for myself!! mrs. john you needn't go on, paul! bruno ain't comin'. but i c'n tell you this much for certain, that my brother was good an' helpful to me in this hard time. john why didn't you send for me? mrs. john i didn't want no man aroun' that was scared. hassenreuter aren't you an admirer of bismarck, john? john [_scratching the back of his head._] i can't say as to that exackly. my brothers in the masons' union, though, they ain't admirers o' him. hassenreuter then you have no german hearts in your bodies! otto is what i called my eldest son who is in the imperial navy! and believe me [_pointing to the infant_] this coming generation will well know what it owes to that mighty hero, the great forger of german unity! [_he takes the tin boiler of the apparatus which walburga has unpacked into his hands and lifts it high up._] now then: the whole business of this apparatus is mere child's play. this frame which holds all the bottles--each bottle to be filled two-thirds with water and one-third with milk--is sunk into the boiler which is filled with boiling water. by keeping the water at the boiling-point for an hour and a half in this manner, the content--of the bottles becomes free of germs. chemists call this process sterilisation. john jette, at the master-mason's house, the milk that's fed to the twins is sterilised too. _the pupils of hassenreuter, kÄferstein and dr. kegel, two young men between twenty and twenty-five years of age, have knocked at the door and then opened it._ hassenreuter [_noticing his pupils._] patience, gentlemen. i'll be with you directly. at the moment i am busying myself with the problems of the nourishment of infants and the care of children. kÄferstein [_his head bears witness to a sharply defined character: large nose, pale, a serious expression, beardless, about the mouth a flicker of kindly mischievousness. with hollow voice, gentle and suppressed._] you must know that we are the three kings out of the east. hassenreuter [_who still holds the apparatus aloft in his hands._] what are you? kÄferstein [_as before._] we want to adore the babe. hassenreuter ha, ha, ha, ha! if you are the kings out of the east, gentlemen, it seems to me that the third of you is lacking. kÄferstein the third is our new fellow pupil in the field of dramaturgic activity, the _studiosus theologiae_, who is detained at present at the corner of blumen and wallnertheater streets by an accident partly sociological, partly psychological in its nature. dr. kegel we made all possible haste to escape. hassenreuter do you see, a star stands above this house, mrs. john! but do tell me, has our excellent spitta once more made some public application of his quackery for the healing of the so-called sins of the social order? ha, ha, ha, ha! _semper idem!_ why, that fellow is actually becoming a nuisance! kÄferstein a crowd gathered in the street for some reason and it seems that he discovered a friend in the midst of it. hassenreuter according to my unauthoritative opinion this young spitta would have done much better as a surgeon's assistant or salvation army officer. but that's the way of the world: the fellow must needs want to be an actor. mrs. hassenreuter mr. spitta, the children's tutor, wants to become an actor? hassenreuter that is exactly the plan he has proposed to me, mama.--but now, if you bring incense and myrrh, dear käferstein, out with them! you observe what a many sided man your teacher is. now i help my pupils, thirsty after the contents of the muses' breasts, to the nourishment they desire--_nutrimentum spiritus_--again i.... kÄferstein [_rattles a toy bank._] well, i deposit this offering, which is a fire-proof bank, next to the perambulator of this excellent offspring of the mason, with the wish that he will rise to be at least a royal architect. john [_having put cordial glasses on the table, he fetches and opens a fresh bottle._] well, now i'm goin' to uncork the _danziger goldwasser_. hassenreuter to him who hath shall be given, as you observe, mrs. john. john [_filling the glasses._] nobody ain't goin' to say that my child's unprovided for, gentlemen. but i takes it very kindly o' you, gentlemen! [_all except mrs. hassenreuter and walburga lift up their glasses._] to you health! come on, mother, we'll drink together too. [_the action follows the words._ hassenreuter [_in a tone of reproof._] mama, you must, of course, drink with us. john [_having drunk, with jolly expansiveness._] i ain't goin' to hamburg no more now. the boss c'n send some other feller there. i been quarrelin' with him about that these three days. i gotta take up my hat right now an' go there; he axed me to come roun' to his office again at six. if he don' want to give in, he needn't. it won't never do for the father of a family to be forever an' a day away from his family ... i got a friend--why, all i gotta do's to say the word 'n i c'n get work on the layin' o' the foundations o' the new houses o' parliament. twelve years i been workin' for this same boss! i c'n afford to make a change some time. hassenreuter [_pats john's shoulder._] quite of your opinion, quite! our family life is something that neither money nor kind words can buy of us. _erich spitta enters. his hat is soiled; his clothes show traces of mud. his tie is gone. he looks pale and excited and is busy wiping his hands with his handkerchief._ spitta beg pardon, but i wonder if i could brush up here a little, mrs. john? hassenreuter ha, ha, ha! for heaven's sake, what have you been up to, my good spitta? spitta i only escorted a lady home, mr. hassenreuter--nothing else! hassenreuter [_who has joined in the general, outburst of laughter called forth by spitta's explanation._] well now, listen here! you blandly say: nothing else! and you announce it publicly here before all these people? spitta [_in consternation._] why not? the lady in question, was very well dressed; i've often seen her on the stairs of this house, and she unfortunately met with an accident on the street. hassenreuter you don't say so? tell us about it, dear spitta! apparently the lady inflicted spots on your clothes and scratches on your hands. spitta oh, no. that was probably the fault of the mob. the lady had an attack of some kind. the policeman caught hold of her so awkwardly that she slipped down in the middle of the street immediately in front of two omnibus horses. i simply couldn't bear to see that, although i admit that the function of the good samaritan is, as a rule, beneath the dignity of well-dressed people on the public streets. _mrs. john wheels the perambulator behind the partition and reappears with a basin full of water, which she places on a chair._ hassenreuter did the lady, by any chance, belong to that international high society which we either regulate or segregate? spitta i confess that that was quite as indifferent to me in the given instance, as it was to one of the omnibus horses who held his left fore foot suspended in the air for five, six or, perhaps, even eight solid minutes, in order not to trample on the woman who lay immediately beneath it. [_spitta is answered by a round of laughter._] you may laugh! the behaviour of the horse didn't strike me as in the least ludicrous. i could well understand how some people applauded him, clapped their hands, and how others stormed a bakery to buy buns with which to feed him. mrs. john [_fanatically._] i wish he'd trampled all he could! [_mrs. john's remark calls forth another outburst of laughter._] an' anyhow! that there knobbe woman! she oughta be put in some public place, that she ought, publicly strapped to a bench an' then beaten--beaten--that's what! she oughta have the stick taken to her so the blood jus' spurts! spitta exactly, i've never been deluded into thinking that the so-called middle ages were quite over and done with. it isn't so long ago, in the year eighteen hundred and thirty-seven, as a matter of fact, that a widow named mayer was publicly broken on the wheel right here in the city of berlin on hausvogtei square,--[_he displays fragments of the lenses of his spectacles._] by the way, i must hurry to the optician at once. john [_to spitta._] you must excuse us. but didn't you take that there fine lady home on this very floor acrost the way? aha! well, mother she noticed it right off that that couldn't ha' been nobody but that knobbe woman what's known for sendin' girls o' twelve out on the streets! then she stays away herself an' swills liquor an' has all kinds o' dealin's an' takes no care o' her own children. then when she's been drunk an' wakes up she beats 'em with her fists an' with an umbrella. hassenreuter [_pulling himself together and bethinking himself._] hurry, gentlemen! we must proceed to our period of instruction. we're fifteen minutes behind hand as it is and our time is limited. we must close the period quite punctually to-day. i'm sorry. come, mama. see you later, ladies and gentlemen. [_hassenreuter offers his arm to his wife and leaves the room, followed by kÄferstein and dr. kegel. john also picks up his slouch hat._ john [_to his wife._] good-bye. i gotta go an' see the boss. [_he also leaves._ spitta could you possibly lend me a tie? mrs. john i'll see what c'n be found in paul's drawer. [_she opens the drawer of the table and turns pale._] o lord! [_she takes from the drawer a lock of child's hair held together by a riband._] i found a bit of a lock o' hair here that was cut off the head of our little adelbert by his father when he was lyin' in the coffin. [_a profound, grief-stricken sadness suddenly comes over her face, which gives way again, quite as suddenly, to a gleam of triumph._] an' now the crib is full again after all! [_with an expression of strange joyfulness, the lock of hair in her hand, she leads the young people to the door of the partition through which the perambulator projects into the main room by two-thirds of its length. arrived there she holds the lock of hair close to the head of the living child._] come on! come on here! [_with a strangely mysterious air she beckons to walburga and spitta, who take up their stand next to her and to the child._] now look at that there hair an' at this! ain't it the same? wouldn't you say it was the same identical hair? spitta quite right. it's the same to the minutest shade, mrs. john. mrs. john all right! that's all right! that's what i wanted to know. [_together with the child she disappears behind the partition._ walburga doesn't it strike you, erich, that mrs. john's behaviour is rather peculiar? spitta [_taking walburga's hands and kissing them shyly but passionately._] i don't know, i don't know ... or, at least, my opinion musn't count to-day. the sombre state of my own mind colours all the world. did you get the letter? walburga yes. but i couldn't make out why you hadn't been at our house in such a long while. spitta forgive me, walburga, but i couldn't come. walburga and why not? spitta because my mind was not at one with itself. walburga you want to become an actor? is that true? you're going to change professions? spitta what i'll be in the end may be left to god. but never a parson--never a country parson! walburga listen! i've had my fortune told from the cards. spitta that's nonsense, walburga. you mustn't do that. walburga i swear to you, erich, that it isn't nonsense. the woman told me i was betrothed in secret and that my betrothed is an actor. of course i laughed her to scorn. and immediately after that mama told me that you wanted to be an actor. spitta is that a fact? walburga it's true--every bit of it. and in addition the clairvoyant said that we would have a visitor who would cause us much trouble. spitta my father is coming to berlin, walburga, and it's undoubtedly true that the old gentleman will give us not a little trouble. father doesn't know it, but my views and his have been worlds asunder for a long time. it didn't need these letters of his which seem actually to burn in my pocket and by which he answered my confession--it didn't need these letters to tell me that. walburga an evil, envious, venomous star presided over our secret meeting here! oh, how i used to admire my papa! and since that sunday i blush for him every minute. and however much i try, i can't, since that day, look frankly and openly into his eyes. spitta did you have differences with your father too? walburga oh, if it were nothing more than that! i was so proud of papa! and now i tremble to think of even your finding it out. you'd despise us! spitta _i_ despise anyone? dear child, i can't think of anything less fitting for me! look here: i'll set you an example in the matter of frankness. a sister of mine, six years older than i, was governess in a noble family. well, a misfortune happened to her and ... when she sought refuge in the house of her parents, my christian father put her out of doors! i believe he thought that jesus would have done the same. and so my sister gradually sank lower and lower and some day we can go and visit her in the little suicides' graveyard near schildhorn where she finally found rest. walburga [_puts her arms around spitta._] poor boy, you never told me a word of that. spitta circumstances have changed now and i speak of it. i shall speak of it to papa too even if it causes a breach between us.--you're always surprised when i get excited, and that i can't control myself when i see some poor devil being kicked about, or when i see the rabble mistreating some poor fallen girl. i have actual hallucinations sometimes. i seem to see ghosts in bright daylight and my own sister among them! _pauline pipercarcka enters, dressed as before. her little face seems to have grown paler and prettier._ pauline good mornin'. mrs. john [_from behind the partition._] who's that out there? pauline pauline, mrs. john. mrs. john pauline? i don't know no pauline. pauline pauline pipercarcka, mrs. john. mrs. john who? oh, well then you c'n wait a minute, pauline. walburga good-bye, mrs. john. mrs. john [_emerges from behind the partition and carefully draws the hangings._] that's right. i got somethin' to discuss with this here young person. so you young folks c'n see about getting out. _spitta and walburga leave hastily. mrs. john locks the door behind them._ mrs. john so it's you, pauline? an' what is it you want? pauline what should i be wantin'? somethin' jus' drove me here! couldn't wait no longer. i has to see how everythin' goes. mrs. john how what goes? what's everythin'? pauline [_with a somewhat bad conscience._] well, if it's well; if it's gettin' on nicely. mrs. john if what's well? if what's gettin' on nicely? pauline you oughta know that without my tellin'. mrs. john _what_ ought i to know without your tellin' me? pauline i wants to know if anythin's happened to the child! mrs. john what child? an' what could ha' happened? talk plainly, will you? there ain't a word o' your crazy chatter that anybody c'n understand! pauline i ain't sayin' nothin' but what's true, mrs. john. mrs. john well, what is it? pauline my child ... mrs. john [_gives her a terrific box on the ear._] say that again an' i'll bang my boots about your ears so that you'll think you're the mother o' triplets. an now: get outa here! an' don' never dare to show your face here again! pauline [_starts to go. she shakes the door which is locked._] she's beaten me! help! help! i don' has to--stand that! no! [_weeping._] open the door! she's maltreated me, mrs. john has! mrs. john [_utterly transformed, embraces pauline, thus restraining her._] pauline! for god's sake, pauline! i don' know what could ha' gotten into me! you jus' be good now an' quiet down an' i'll beg your pardon. what d'you want me to do? i'll get down _on_ my knees if you wants me to! anythin'! pauline! listen! let me do _some_thin'! pauline why d'you go 'n hit me in the face? i'm goin' to headquarters and say as how you slapped me in the face. i'm goin' to headquarters to give notice! mrs. john [_thrusts her face forward._] here! you c'n hit me back--- right in the face! then it's all right; then it's evened up. pauline i'm goin' to headquarters ... mrs. john yes, then it's evened up. you jus' listen to what i says: don't you see it'll be evened up then all right! what d'you want to do? come on now an' hit me! pauline what's the good o' that when my cheek is swollen? mrs. john [_striking herself a blow on the cheek._] there! now my cheek is swollen too. come on, my girl, hit me an' don' be scared!--- an' then you c'n tell me everythin' you got on your heart. in the meantime i'll go an' i'll cook for you an' me, miss pauline, a good cup o' reel coffee made o' beans--none o' your chicory slop, so help me! pauline [_somewhat conciliated._] why did you has to go an' be so mean an' rough to a poor girl like me, mrs. john? mrs. john that's it'--that's jus' what i'd like to know my own self! come on, pauline, an' sit down! so! it's all right, i tells you! sit down! it's fine o' you to come an' see me! how many beatin's didn't i get from my poor mother because sometimes i jus' seemed to go crazy an' not be the same person no more. she said to me more'n onct: lass, look out! you'll be doin' for yourself some day! an' maybe she was right; maybe it'll be that way. well now, pauline, tell me how you are an' how you're gettin' along? pauline [_laying down bank-notes and handfuls of silver, without counting them, on the table._] here is the money: i don't need it. mrs. john i don' know nothin' about no money, pauline. pauline oh, you'll know about the money all right! it's been jus' burnin' into me, that it has! it was like a snake under my pillow ... mrs. john oh, come now ... pauline like a snake that crept out when i went to sleep. an' it tormented me an' wound itself aroun' me an' squeezed me so that i screamed right out an' my landlady found me lyin' on the bare floor jus' like somebody what's dead. mrs. john you jus' let that be right now, pauline. take a bit of a drink first of all! [_she pours out a small glassful of brandy._] an' then come an' eat a bite. it was my husband's birthday yesterday. [_she gets out some coffee-cake of which she cuts an oblong piece._ pauline oh, no, i don' feel like eatin'. mrs. john that strengthens you; that does you good; you oughta eat that! but i is pleased to see, pauline, how your fine constitootion helped you get back your strength so good. pauline but now i want to have a look at it, mrs. john. mrs. john what's that? what d'you want to have a look at? pauline if i could ha' walked i'd ha' been here long ago. i want to see now what i come to see! _mrs. john, whose almost creeping courtesies have been uttered with lips aquiver with fear, pales ominously and keeps silent. she goes to the kitchen cabinet, wrenches the coffee handmill out and pours beans into it. she sits down, squeezes the mill between her knees, grasps the handle, and stares with a consuming expression of nameless hatred over at pauline._ mrs. john eh? oh, yes! what d'you want to see? what d'you want to see now all of a sudden? that what you wanted to throttle with them two hands o' yours, eh? pauline me? mrs. john d'you want to lie about it? _i'll_ go and give notice about you! pauline now you've tormented me an' jabbed at me an' tortured me enough, mrs. john. you followed me up; you wouldn't leave me no rest where i went. till i brought my child into the world on a heap o' rags up in your loft. you gave me all kinds o' hopes an' you scared me with that rascal of a feller up there! you told my fortune for me outa the cards about my intended an' you baited me an' hounded me till i was most crazy. mrs. john an' that's what you are. yes, you're as crazy as you c'n be. _i_ tormented you, eh? is that what i did? i picked you up outa the gutter! i fetched you outa the midst of a blizzard when you was standin' by the chronometer an' stared at the lamplighter with eyes that was that desperate scared! you oughta seen yourself! an' i hounded you, eh? yes, to prevent the police an' the police-waggon an' the devil hisself from catchin' you! i left you no rest, eh? i tortured you, did i? to keep you from jumpin' into the river with the child in your womb! [_mocking her._] "i'll throw myself into the canal, mother john! i'll choke the child to death! i'll kill the little crittur with my hat pin! i'll go an' run to where its father plays the zither, right in the midst o' the saloon, an' i'll throw the dead child at his feet!" that's what you said; that's the way you talked--all the blessed day long and sometimes half the night too till i put you to bed an' petted you an' stroked you till you went to sleep. an' you didn't wake up again till next day on the stroke o' twelve, when the bells was ringin' from all the churches, yes, that's the way i scared you, an' then gave you hope again, an' didn't give you no peace! you forgot all that there, eh? pauline but it's my child, mrs. john ... mrs. john [_screams._] you go an' get your child outa the canal! [_she jumps up and walks hastily about the room, picking up and throwing aside one object after another._ pauline ain't i goin' to be allowed to see my child even? mrs. john jump into the water an' get it there! then you'll have it! i ain't keepin' you back. god knows! pauline all right! you c'n slap me, you c'n beat me, you c'n throw things at my head if you wants to. before i don' know where my child is an' before i ain't seen it with my own eyes, nothin' an' nobody ain't goin' to get me away from this place. mrs. john [_interrupting her._] pauline, i put it out to nurse! pauline that's a lie! don't i hear it smackin' its lips right behind that there partition. [_the child behind the partition begins to cry. pauline hastens toward it. she exclaims with pathetic tearfulness, obviously forcing the note of motherhood a little._] don' you cry, my poor, poor little boy! little mother's comin' to you now! [_mrs. john, almost beside herself, has sprung in front of the door, thus blocking pauline's way._ pauline [_whining helplessly but with clenched fists._] lemme go in an' see my child! mrs. john [_a terrible change coming over her face._] look at me, girl! come here an' look me in the eye!--d'you think you c'n play tricks on a woman that looks the way i do? [_pauline sits down still moaning._] sit down an' howl an' whine till ... till your throat's swollen so you can't give a groan. but if you gets in here--then you'll be dead or i'll be dead an' the child--he won't be alive no more neither. pauline [_rises with some determination._] then look out for what'll happen. mrs. john [_attempting to pacify the girl once more._] pauline, this business was all settled between us. why d'you want to go an' burden yourself with the child what's my child now an' is in the best hands possible? what d'you want to do with it? why don't you go to your intended? you two'll have somethin' better to do than listen to a child cryin' an' takin' all the care an' trouble he needs! pauline no, that ain't the way it is! he's gotta marry me now! they all says so--mrs. keilbacke, when i had to take treatment, she said so. they says i'm not to give in; he has to marry me. an' the registrar he advised me too. that's what he said, an' he was mad, too, when i told him how i sneaked up into a loft to have my baby! he cried out loud that i wasn't to let up! poor, maltreated crittur--that's what he called me an' he put his hand in his pocket an' gave me three crowns! all right. so we needn't quarrel no more, mrs. john. i jus' come anyhow to tell you to be at home to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock. an' why? because to-morrow an official examiner'll come to look after things here. i don't has to worry myself with you no more.... mrs. john [_moveless and shocked beyond expression._] what? you went an' give notice at the public registry? pauline o' course? does i want to go to gaol? mrs. john an' what did you tell the registrar? pauline nothin' but that i give birth to a boy. an' i was so ashamed! oh my god, i got red all over! i thought i'd just have to go through the floor. mrs. john is that so? well, if you was so ashamed why did you go an' give notice? pauline 'cause my landlady an' mrs. kielbacke, too, what took me there, didn't give me no rest. mrs. john h-m. so they knows it now at the public registry? pauline yes; they had to know, mrs. john! mrs. john didn't i tell you over an' over again? pauline you gotta give notice o' that! d'you want me to be put in gaol for a investergation? mrs. john i told you as how i'd give notice. pauline i axed the registrar right off. nobody hadn't been there. mrs. john an' what did you say exackly? pauline that his name was to be aloysius theophil an' that he was boardin' with you. mrs. john an' to-morrow an officer'll be comin' in. pauline he's a gentlemen from the guardian's office. what's the matter with that? why don't you keep still an' act sensible. you scared me most to death a while ago! mrs. john [_as if absent-minded._] that's right. there ain't nothin' to be, done about that now. an' there ain't so much to that, after all, maybe. pauline all right. an' now c'n i see my child, mrs. john? mrs. john not to-day. wait till to-morrow, pauline. pauline why not to-day? mrs. john because no good'd come of it this day. wait till to-morrow, five o'clock in the afternoon. pauline that's it. my landlady says it was written that way, that a gentleman from the city'll be here to-morrow afternoon five o'clock. mrs. john [_pushing pauline out and herself going out of the room with her, in the same detached tone._] all right. let him come, girl. _mrs. john has gone out into the hall for a moment. she now returns without pauline. she seems strangely changed and absent-minded. she takes a few hasty steps toward the door of the partition; then stands still with an expression of fruitless brooding on her face. she interrupts herself in this brooding and runs to the window. having reached it she turns and on her face there reappears the expression of dull detachment. slowly, like a somnambulist, she walks up to the table and sits down beside it, leaning her chin on her hand. selma knobbe appears in the doorway._ selma mother's asleep, mrs. john, an' i'm that hungry. might i have a bite o' bread? _mrs. john rises mechanically and cuts a slice from the loaf of bread with the air of one under an hypnotic influence._ selma [_observing mrs. john's state of mind._] it's me! what's the matter, mrs. john? whatever you do, don't cut yourself with the bread knife. mrs. john [_lets the loaf and the bread-knife slip involuntarily from her hand to the table. a dry sobbing overwhelms her more and more._] fear!--trouble!--you don' know nothin' about that! [_she trembles and grasps after some support._ the third act _the same decoration as in the first act. the lamp is lit. the dim light of a hanging lamp illuminates the passage._ _hassenreuter is giving his three pupils, spitta, dr. kegel and kÄferstein instruction in the art of acting. he himself is seated at the table, uninterruptedly opening letters and beating time to the rhythm of the verses with a paper cutter. in front of him stand, facing each other, kegel and kÄferstein on one side, spitta on the other, thus representing the two choruses in schiller's "bride of messina." the young men stand in the midst of a diagram drawn with chalk on the floor and separated, like a chess-board, into sixty-four rectangles. on the high stool in front of the office desk walburga is sitting. waiting in the background stands the house steward quaquaro, who might be the manager of a wandering circus and, in the capacity of athlete, its main attraction. his speech is uttered in a guttural tenor. he wears bedroom slippers. his breeches are held up by an embroidered belt. an open shirt, fairly clean, a light jacket, a cap now held in his hand, complete his attire._ dr. kegel and kÄferstein [_mouthing the verses sonorously and with exaggerated dignity._] "thee salute i with reverence, lordliest chamber, thee, my high rulers' princeliest cradle, column-supported, magnificent roof. deep in its scabbard ..." hassenreuter [_cries in a rage._] pause! period! period! pause! period! you're not turning the crank of a hurdy-gurdy! the chorus in the "bride of messina" is no hand-organ tune! "thee salute i with reverence!" start over again from the beginning, gentleman! "thee salute i with reverence, lordliest chamber!" something like that, gentlemen! "deep in its scabbard let the sword rest." period! "magnificent roof." i meant to say: period! but you may go on if you want to. dr. kegel and kÄferstein "deep in its scabbard let the sword rest, fettered fast by your gateway moveless may lie strife's snaky-locked monster. for ..." hassenreuter [_as before._] hold on! don't you know the meaning of a full stop, gentlemen? haven't you any knowledge of the elements? "snaky-haired monster." period! imagine that a pile is driven there! you've got to stop, to pause. there must be silence like the silence of the dead! you've got to imagine yourself wiped out of existence for the moment, käferstein. and then--out with your best trumpeting chest-notes! hold on! don't lisp, for god's sake. "for ..." go on now! start! dr. kegel and kÄferstein "for this hospitable house's inviolable threshold guardeth an oath, the furies' child...." hassenreuter [_jumps up, runs about and roars._] oath, oath, oath, oath!!! don't you know what an oath is, käferstein? "guardeth an oath!!--the furies' child." this oath is said to be the child of the furies, dr. kegel! you've got to use your voice! the audience, to the last usher, has got to be one vast quivering gooseflesh when you say that! one shiver must run through every bone in the house! listen to me: "for this house's ... threshold guardeth an oath!!! the furies' child, the fearfullest of the infernal deities!"--go ahead! don't repeat these verses. but you can stop long enough to observe that an oath and a munich beer radish are, after all, two different things. spitta [_declaims._] "ireful my heart in my bosom burneth...." hassenreuter hold on! [_he runs up to spitta and pushes and nudges the latter's arms and legs in order to produce the desired tragic pose._]--first of all, you lack the requisite statuesqueness of posture, my dear spitta. the dignity of a tragic character is in nowise expressed in you. then you did not, as i expressly desired you to do, advance your right foot from the field marked id into that marked iic! finally, mr. quaquaro is waiting; so let us interrupt ourselves for a moment. so; now i'm at your service, mr. quaquaro. that is to say, i asked you to come up because, in making my inventory, it became clear that several cases and boxes cannot be found or, in other words, have been stolen. now, before lodging information with the authorities which, of course, i am determined to do, i wanted first to get your advice. i wanted to do that all the more because, in place of the lost cases, there was found, in a corner of the attic, a very peculiar mess--a find that could appropriately be sent to dr. virchow. first there was a blue feather-duster, truly prehistoric, and an inexpressible vessel, the use of which, quite harmless in itself, is equally inexpressible. quaquaro well, sir, i can climb up there if you want me to. hassenreuter suppose you do that. up there you'll meet mrs. john, whom the find in question has disquieted even more than it has me. these three gentlemen, who are my pupils, won't be persuaded that something very like a murder didn't take place up there. but, if you please, let's not cause a scandal! kÄferstein when something got lost in my mother's shop in schneidemühl, it was always said that the rats had eaten it. and really, when you consider the number of rats and mice in this house--i very nearly stepped on one on the stairs a while ago--why shouldn't we suppose that the cases of costumes were devoured in the same way. silk is said to be sweet. hassenreuter very excellent! very good! you're relieved from the necessity of indulging in any more notion-shopkeepers' fancies, my good käferstein! ha, ha, ha! it only remains for you to dish up for us the story of the cavalry man sorgenfrei, who, according to your assertion, when this house was still a cavalry barracks, hanged himself--spurred and armed--in my loft. and then the last straw would be for you to direct our suspicions toward him. kÄferstein you can still see the very nail he used. quaquaro there ain't a soul in the house what don't know the story of the soldier sorgenfrei who put an end to hisself with a rope somewhere under the rooftree. kÄferstein the carpenter's wife downstairs and a seamstress in the second story have repeatedly seen him by broad daylight nodding out of the attic window and bowing down with military demeanour. quaquaro a corporal, they says, called the soldier sorgenfrei a windbag an' gave him a blow outa spite. an' the idjit took that to heart. hassenreuter ha, ha, ha! military brutalities and ghost stories! that mixture is original, but hardly to our purpose. i assume that the theft, or whatever it was, took place during those eleven or twelve days that i spent on business in alsace. so look the matter over and have the goodness, later, to report to me. _hassenreuter turns to his pupils. quaquaro mounts the stairs to the loft and disappears behind the trap-door._ hassenreuter all right, my good spitta: fire away! _spitta recites simply according to the sense and without any tragic bombast._ "ireful my heart in my bosom burneth, my hand is ready for sword or lance, for unto me the gorgon turneth my foeman's hateful countenance. scarce i master the rage that assails me. shall i salute him with fair speech? better, perchance, my ire avails me? only the fury me affrighteth, protectress of all within her reach, and god's truce which all foes uniteth." hassenreuter [_who has sat down, supports his head on his hand and listens resignedly. not until spitta has ceased speaking for some moments does he look up, as if coming to himself._] are you quite through, spitta? if so, i'm much obliged!--you see, my dear fellow, i've really gotten into a deuce of a situation as far as you are concerned: either i tell you impudently to your face that i consider your method of elocution excellent--and in that case i'd be guilty of a lie of the most contemptible kind: or else i tell you that i consider it abominable and then we'd get into another beastly row. spitta [_turning pale._] yes, all this stilted, rhetorical stuff is quite foreign to my nature. that's the very reason why i abandoned theology. the preacher's tone is repulsive to me. hassenreuter and so you would like to reel off these tragic choruses as a clerk of court mumbles a document or a waiter a bill of fare? spitta i don't care for the whole sonorous bombast of the "bride of messina." hassenreuter i wish you'd repeat that charming opinion. spitta there's nothing to be done about it, sir. our conceptions of dramatic art diverge utterly, in some respects. hassenreuter man alive, at this particular moment your face is a veritable monogram of megalomania and impudence! i beg your pardon, but you're my pupil now and no longer the tutor of my children. your views and mine! you ridiculous tyro! you and schiller! friedrich schiller! i've told you a hundred times that your puerile little views of art are nothing but an innate striving toward imbecility! spitta you would have to prove that to me, after all. hassenreuter you prove it yourself every time you open your mouth! you deny the whole art of elocution, the value of the voice in acting! you want to substitute for both the art of toneless squeaking! further you deny the importance of action in the drama and assert it to be a worthless accident, a sop for the groundlings! you deny the validity of poetic justice, of guilt and its necessary expiation. you call all that a vulgar invention--an assertion by means of which the whole moral order of the world is abrogated by the learned and crooked understanding of your single magnificent self! of the heights of humanity you know nothing! you asserted the other day that, in certain circumstances, a barber or a scrubwoman might as fittingly be the protagonist of a tragedy as lady macbeth or king lear! spitta [_still pale, polishing his spectacles._] before art as before the law all men are equal, sir. hassenreuter aha? is that so? where did you pick up that banality? spitta [_without permitting himself to be disconcerted._] the truth of that saying has become my second nature. in believing it i probably find myself at variance with schiller and gustav freytag, but not at all with lessing and diderot. i have spent the past two semesters in the study of these two great dramaturgic critics, and the whole stilted french pseudo-classicism is, as far as i'm concerned, utterly destroyed--not only in creative art itself but in such manifestations as the boundless folly of the directions for acting which goethe prescribed in his old age. these are mere superannuated nonsense. hassenreuter you don't mean it? spitta and if the german stage is ever to recuperate it must go back to the young schiller, the young goethe--the author of "götz"--and ever again to gotthold ephraim lessing! there you will find set down principles of dramatic art which are adapted to the rich complexity of life in all its fullness, and which are potent to cope with nature itself! hassenreuter walburga! i'm afraid mr. spitta is taking us for each other. mr. spitta, you're about to give a lesson! walburga, you and your teacher are free to retire to the library.--if human arrogance and especially that of very young people could be crystallised into one formation--humanity would be buried under that rock like an ant under the granite masses of an antediluvian mountain range! spitta but i wouldn't in any wise be refuted thereby. hassenreuter man, i tell you that i've not only passed through two semesters of formal study, but i have grown grey in the practice of the actor's art! and i tell you that goethe's catechism for actors is the alpha and the omega of my artistic convictions! if you don't like that--get another teacher! spitta [_pursuing his argument calmly._] according to my opinion, goethe with his senile regulations for actors denied, in the pettiest way, himself and his whole original nature. what is one to say of his ruling that every actor, irrespective of the quality of the character represented by him, must--these are his very words--show an ogre-like expression of countenance in order that the spectator be at once reminded of the nature of lofty tragedy. actually, these are his very words! _kÄferstein and kegel make an effort to assume ogre-like expressions._ hassenreuter get out your note-book, most excellent spitta, and record your opinion, please, that manager hassenreuter is an ass, that schiller is an ass, goethe an ass, aristotle, too, of course--[_he begins suddenly to laugh like mad_]--and, ha, ha, ha! a certain spitta a--night watchman! spitta i'm glad to see, sir, that, at least, you've recovered your good humour. hassenreuter the devil! i haven't recovered it at all! you're a symptom. so you needn't think yourself very important.--you are a rat, so to speak. one of those rats who are beginning, in the field of politics, to undermine our glorious and recently united german empire! they are trying to cheat us of the reward of our labours! and in the garden of german art these rats are gnawing at the roots of the tree of idealism. they are determined to drag its crown into the mire!--down, down, down into the dust with you! _kÄferstein and kegel try to preserve their gravity but soon break out into loud laughter, which hassenreuter is impelled to join. walburga looks on in wide-eyed astonishment. spitta remains serious._ _mrs. john is now seen descending the stairs of the loft. after a little while quaquaro follows her._ hassenreuter [_perceives mrs. john and points her out to spitta with violent gesticulations as if he had just made an important discovery._] there comes your tragic muse! mrs. john [_approaches, abashed by the laughter of hassenreuter, kegel and kÄferstein._] why, what d'you see about me? hassenreuter nothing but what is good and beautiful, mrs. john! you may thank god that your quiet, withdrawn and peaceful life unfits you for the part of a tragic heroine.--but tell me, have you, by any chance, had an interview with ghosts? mrs. john [_unnaturally pale._] why do you ax that? hassenreuter perhaps you even saw the famous soldier sorgenfrei who closed his career above as a deserter into a better world? mrs. john if it was a livin' soul, maybe you might be right. but i ain't scared o' no dead ghosts. hassenreuter well, mr. quaquaro, how did it look under the roof there? quaquaro [_who has brought down with him a swedish riding-boot._] well, i took a pretty good look aroun' an' i came to the conclusion that, at least, some shelterless ragamuffins has passed the night there; though how they got in i ain't sayin'. an' then i found this here boot.-- [_out of the boot he draws an infant's bottle, topped by a rubber nipple and half filled with milk._ mrs. john that's easily explained. i was up there settin' things to rights an' i had little adelbert along with me. but i don' know nothin' about the rest. hassenreuter nobody has undertaken to assert that you do, mrs. john. mrs. john when you considers how my little adelbert came into the world ... an' when you considers how he died ... nobody c'n come an' tell me nothin' about bein' a reel mother ... but i gotta leave now, sir ... i can't be comin' up here for two three days. good-bye! i has to go to my sister-in-law an' let adelbert enjoy the country air a little. [_she trots off through the door to the outer hall._ hassenreuter can you make anything of her wild talk? quaquaro there's been a screw loose there ever since her first baby came, an' all the more after it took an' died. now since she's got the second one, there's two screws what's wobbly. howsoever, she c'n count--that's a fac'. she's got a good bit o' money loaned out at interest on pawned goods. hassenreuter well, but what is the injured party--namely, myself--to do? quaquaro that depends on where the suspicion falls. hassenreuter in this house?--you'll admit yourself, mr. quaquaro ... quaquaro that's true all right. but it won't be long before we'll have a little cleanin' up aroun' here! the widow knobbe with all her crowd is goin' to be put out! an' then there's a gang in wing b, where there's some tough customers by what policeman schierke tells me. well, they're goin' to come from headquarters pretty soon and blow up that crowd. hassenreuter there must be a glee club somewhere in the house. at least i hear excellent male voices singing from time to time things like "germany, our highest glory," and "who has built thee, noble wood," and "in a cool galley turneth." quaquaro them's the very fellers! that's right! an' they do sing fine! the sayin' is that bad men has no songs, but i wouldn't advise no one to fool with _them_! i wouldn't go into that company my own self without prince. that's my bull dog. you just go an' lay information against 'em an' you won't be doin' no harm, sir. [_quaquaro exit._ hassenreuter [_referring to quaquaro._] the gleam in his eye demands security. his lips demand cash. his fist portends immediate warning. he's a lucky creature who doesn't dream of him at the end of the month. and whoever dreams of him roars for help. a horrible, greasy fellow. but without him the people who rent this old shell would get no money and the army-treasurer could strike the income of these rentals from his books.--[_the door bell rings._]--that is miss alice rütterbusch, the young soubrette with whom, unfortunately, i haven't been able to make a hard and fast contract yet on account of the way the aldermen of strassburg shilly shally about their final decision. after my appointment, which i will secure by god's help, her engagement will be my first managerial act.--walburga and spitta, march up into the loft! count the contents of the six boxes marked "journalists" in order that we may complete our inventory at the proper time.--[_to kÄferstein and dr. kegel._] you may withdraw into the library in the meantime.... [_he steps forward in order to open the door._ _walburga and spitta disappear swiftly and very willingly into the loft; kÄferstein and kegel retire into the library._ hassenreuter [_in the background._] if you please, step right in, my dear lady! i _beg_ your pardon, sir! i was expecting a lady ... i was expecting a young lady ... but, please, come in. _hassenreuter comes forward accompanied by pastor spitta. the latter is sixty years old. a village parson, somewhat countrified. one might equally well take him to be a surveyor or a landowner in a small way. he is of vigorous appearance--short-necked, well-nourished, with a squat, broad face like luther's. he wears a slouch-hat, spectacles and carries a cane and a coat of waterproof cloth over his arm. his clumsy boots and the state of his other garments show that they have long been accustomed to wind and weather._ pastor spitta do you know who i am, mr. hassenreuter? hassenreuter not quite exactly, but i would hazard ... pastor spitta you may, you may! you needn't hesitate to call me pastor spitta from schwoiz in uckermark, whose son erich--yes, that's it--has been employed in your family as private tutor or something like that. erich spitta: that's my son. and i'm obliged to say that with deep sorrow. hassenreuter first of all, i'm very glad, to have the privilege of your acquaintance. i hasten at once to beg you, however, dear pastor, not to be too much worried, not to be too sorrowful concerning the little escapade in which your son is indulging. pastor spitta oh, but i am greatly troubled, i am deeply grieved. [_sitting down on a chair he surveys the strange place in which he finds himself with considerable interest._] it is hard to say; it is extremely difficult to communicate to any one the real depth of anxiety. but forgive me a question, sir: i was in the trophy-chamber.--[_he touches one of the armored dummies with his cane._] what kind of armor is this? hassenreuter these figures are to represent the cuirassiers in schiller's "wallenstein." pastor spitta ah, ah, my idea of schiller was so very different! [_collecting himself._] oh, this city of berlin! it confuses me utterly. you see a man before you, sir, who is not only grieved, whom this sodom of a city has not only stirred to his very depths, but who is actually broken-hearted by the deed of his son. hassenreuter a deed? what deed? pastor spitta is there any need to ask? the son of an honest man desiring to become an ... an ... an actor! hassenreuter [_drawing himself up. with the utmost dignity._] my dear sir, i do not approve of your son's determination. but i am myself--_honi soit qui mal y pense_--the son of an honest man and myself, i trust, a man of honour. and i, whom you see before you, have been an actor, too. no longer than six weeks ago i took part in the luther celebration--for i am no less an apostle of culture in the broadest sense--not only as manager but by ascending the boards on which the world is shadowed forth as an actor! from my point of view, therefore, your son's determination is scarcely open to objection on the score of his social standing or his honourable character. but it is a difficult calling and demands, above all, a high degree of talent. i am also willing to admit that it is a calling not without peculiar dangers to weak characters. and finally i have myself proved the unspeakable hardships of my profession so thoroughly that i would like to guard anyone else from entering it. that is the reason why i box my daughters' ears if the slightest notion of going on the stage seizes them, and why i would rather tie stones about their necks and drown them where the sea is deepest than see them marry actors. pastor spitta i didn't mean to wound any one's feelings. i admit, too, that a simple country parson like myself can't very well have much of a conception of such things. but consider a father now--just such a poor country parson--who has saved and hoarded his pennies in order that his son might have a career at the university. now consider, further, that this son is just about to take his final examinations and that his father and his mother--i have a sick wife at home--are looking forward with anxiety and with longing, whichever you call it, toward the moment in which their son will mount the pulpit and deliver the trial sermon before the congregation of his choice. and then comes this letter. why, the boy is mad! _the emotion of the pastor is not exactly consciously directed; it is controlled. the trembling of the hand with which he searches for the letter in his inner pocket and hands it to the manager is not quite convincing._ hassenreuter young men search after various aims. we mustn't be too much taken by surprise if, once in a while, a crisis of this kind is not to be avoided in a young man's life. pastor spitta well, this crisis _was_ avoidable. it will not be difficult for you to see from this letter who is responsible for this destructive change in the soul of a young, an excellent, and hitherto thoroughly obedient youth. i should never have sent him to berlin. yes, it is this so-called scientific theology, this theology that flirts with all the pagan philosophers, that would change the lord our god into empty smoke and sublimate our blessed saviour into thin air--it is this that i hold responsible for the grievous mistake of my child. and to this may be added other temptations. i tell you, sir, i have seen things which it is impossible for me to speak of! i have circulars in every pocket--"ball of the Élite! smart waitresses!" and so on! i was quietly walking, at half past twelve one night, through the arcade that connects friedrich street with the linden, and a disgusting fellow sidles up to me, wretched, undergrown, and asks me with a kind of greasy, shifty impudence: doesn't the gentleman want something real fetching? and these show windows in which, right by the pictures of noble and exalted personages, naked actresses, dancers, in short the most shocking nudities are displayed! and finally this corso--oh, this corso! where painted and bedizened vice jostles respectable women from the sidewalk! it's simply the end of the world! hassenreuter ah, my dear pastor, the world doesn't so easily come to an end--nor, surely, will it do so on account of the nudities that offend or of the vice which slinks through the streets at night. the world will probably outlive me and the whole scurrilous interlude of humanity. pastor spitta what turns these young people aside from the right path is evil example and easy opportunity. hassenreuter i beg your pardon, pastor, but i have not observed in your son the slightest inclination toward leading a frivolous life. he is simply attracted to literature, and he isn't the first clergyman's son--remember merely lessing and herder--who has taken the road of literary study and creative art. very likely be has manuscript plays in his desk even now. to be sure, i am bound to admit that the opinions which your son defends in the field of literature frighten even me at times! pastor spitta but that's horrible! that's frightful! that far exceeds my worst fears! and so my eyes have been opened.--my dear sir, i have had eight children, of whom erich seemed our fairest hope and his next-oldest sister our heaviest trial. and now, it seems, the same accursed city has demanded them both as its victims. the girl developed prematurely, she was beautiful ... and ... but i must mention another circumstance now, i have, been in berlin for three days and i haven't seen erich yet. when i tried to see him to-day, he was not at home in his rooms. i waited for a while and naturally looked about me in my son's dwelling. and now: look at this picture, sir! [_replacing erich's letter in his pocket he extracts therefrom a small photograph and holds it immediately under hassenreuter's eyes._ hassenreuter [_takes the picture and holds it at varying distances from him. he is disconcerted._] why should i look at this? pastor spitta the silly little face is of no importance. but pray look at the inscription. hassenreuter where? pastor spitta [_reads._] "from walburga to her only sweetheart." hassenreuter permit me!--- what's the meaning of this? pastor spitta it simply means some seamstress if not, what is worse, some shady waitress! hassenreuter h-m. [_he slips the picture into his pocket._] i shall keep this photograph. pastor spitta it is in such filth that my son wallows. and consider the situation in which it puts me: with what feelings, with what front shall i henceforward face my congregation from the pulpit ...? hassenreuter confound it, what business is that of mine? what have i to do with your offspring, with your lost sons and daughters? [_he pulls out the photograph again._] and furthermore, as far as this excellent and sound-hearted young lady is concerned, you're quite mistaken in your ideas about waitresses and such like. i'll say nothing more. all other matters will adjust themselves. good-bye. pastor spitta i confess frankly, i don't understand you. probably this tone is the usual one in your circles, i will go and not annoy you any longer. but as a father i have the right before god, to demand of you that henceforth you refuse to my deluded son this so-called dramatic instruction. i hope i shall not have to look for further ways and means of enforcing this demand. hassenreuter i won't only do that, but i'll actually put him out of doors. [_he accompanies the pastor to the door, slams it behind him and returns alone._ hassenreuter [_waving his arms through the air._] all that one can say here is: plain parson! [_he rushes halfway up the stairs to the loft._] spitta! walburga! come down here, will you? _walburga and spitta come down._ hassenreuter [_to walburga, who looks at him questioningly._] go to your high stool over there and sit down on the humorous part of your anatomy! well, and you, my dear spitta, what do you want? spitta you called us both, sir. hassenreuter exactly. now look me in the eye! spitta certainly. [_he looks straight at hassenreuter._ hassenreuter you two want to make an ass of me. but you won't succeed! silence! not a word! i would have expected something very different from you! this is a striking proof of ingratitude. keep still! furthermore, a gentleman was here just now! that gentleman is afraid in berlin! march! follow him! take him down into the street and try to make it clear to him that i'm neither your bootblack nor his. [_spitta shrugs his shoulders, takes his hat and goes._ hassenreuter [_strides up to walburga energetically and tweaks her ear._] and as for you, my dear, you'll have your ears soundly boxed if ever again without my permission you exchange two words with this rascal of a theologian gone to smash! walburga ouch, papa, ouch! hassenreuter this fellow who is fond of making such an innocent face as if he couldn't harm a fly and whom i was careless enough to admit to my house is, unfortunately, a man behind whose mask the most shameless impudence lies in wait. i and my house are in the service of true propriety. do you want to besmirch the escutcheon of oar honour as the sister of this fellow seems to have done--a girl who disgraced, her parents by coming to an end in the street and the gutter? walburga i don't share your opinion about erich, papa. hassenreuter what's that? well, at least you know my opinion. either you give him his walking papers or else you can look out for yourself and find out what it is to get along, away from your parental roof, in a way of life regardless of honour, duty and decency! in that case you can go! i have no use for daughters of that kind! walburga [_pale and sombre._] you are always saying, papa, that you too had to make your way independently and without your parents. hassenreuter you're not a man. walburga certainly not. but think, for instance, of alice rütterbusch. [_father and daughter look firmly into each other's eyes._ hassenreuter why should i? have you a fever, eh? or have you gone mad? [_he drops the whole discussion, noticeably put out of countenance, and taps at the library door._] where did we leave off? begin at the proper place. _kegel and kÄferstein appear._ kegel _and_ kÄferstein [_declaim:_] "a wiser temper beseemeth age. i, being reasonable, salute him first." _led and directed by spitta appear pauline pipercarcka in street dress and mrs. kielbacke, who carries an infant on a pillow._ hassenreuter what do you want here? what kind of women are you bringing here to annoy me? spitta it isn't my fault, sir. the women insisted on coming to you. mrs. kielbacke no; all we wants is to see mrs. john. pauline an' mrs. john she's always up here with you! hassenreuter true. but i'm beginning to regret the fact, and i must insist, at all events, that she hold her private receptions in her own rooms and not here. otherwise i'll soon equip the door here with patent locks and mantraps.--what's the matter with you, my good spitta? i suppose you'll have to have the goodness to show these ladies the place they really want to go to. pauline but mrs. john ain't to be found in her rooms downstairs. hassenreuter well, she's not to be found up here either. mrs. kielbacke the reason is because this here young lady has her little son boardin' with mrs. john. hassenreuter glad to hear it! please march now without further delay! save me, käferstein! mrs. kielbacke an' now a gentleman's come from the city, from the office of the government guardian office to see how the child is an' if it's well taken care of an' in good condition. an' then he went into mrs. john's room an' we went with him. an' there was the child an' a note pinned to it what said that mrs. john was workin' for you up here. hassenreuter where was the child boarding? mrs. kielbacke with mrs. john. hassenreuter [_impatiently._] that's simply a piece of imbecility. you are quite wrong.--spitta, you would have been much better employed accompanying the old gentleman after whom i sent you than aiding these ladies to come here. spitta i looked for the gentleman you speak of but he was already gone. hassenreuter these ladies don't seem to believe me. will you kindly inform them, gentlemen, that mrs. john has no child in board, and that they are quite obviously mistaken in the name. kÄferstein i am asked to tell you that you are probably mistaken in the name. pauline [_vehemently and tearfully._] she has got my baby! she had my baby boardin' with her. an' the gentleman came from the city an' he said that the child wasn't in no good hands an' that it was neglected. she went an' ruined my baby's health. hassenreuter there is no doubt but what you have mistaken the name of the woman of whom you speak, mrs. john has no child in board. pauline she had my baby in her claws, that's what! an' she let it starve an' get sick! i gotta see her! i gotta tell her right out! she's gotta make my little baby well again! i gotta go to court. the gentleman says as how i gotta go to court an' give notice. hassenreuter i beg of you not to get excited. the fact is that you are mistaken! how did you ever hit on the idea that mrs. john has a child in board? pauline because i gave it to her myself. hassenreuter but mrs. john has her own child and it just occurs to me that she has taken it along with her on a visit to her sister-in-law. pauline she ain't got no child. no, mrs. john ain't got none! she cheats an' she lies. she ain't got none. she took my little alois an' she ruined him. hassenreuter by heaven, ladies, you are mistaken! pauline nobody won't believe me that i had a baby. my intended he wrote me a letter an' he says it ain't true an' that i'm a liar an' a low creature. [_she touches the pillow on which the infant is resting._] it's mine an' i'll prove it in court! i c'n swear it by the holy mother o' god. hassenreuter do uncover the child. [_it is done and hassenreuter observes the infant attentively._]--h-m, the matter will not remain long in obscurity. in the first place ... i know mrs. john. if she had had this child in board it could never look as it does. and that is true quite simply because, where it is a question of children, mrs. john has her heart in the right place. pauline i want to see mrs. john. that's all i says. i don't has to tell my business to everybody in the world. i c'n tell everythin' in court, down to the least thing--the day an' the hour an' jus' exackly the place where it was born! people is goin' to open their eyes; you c'n believe me. hassenreuter what you assert, then, if i understand you rightly, is that mrs. john has no baby of her own at all, and that the one which passes as such is in reality yours. pauline god strike me dead if that ain't the truth! hassenreuter and this is the child in question? i trust that god won't take you at your word this time.--you must know that i, who stand before you, am manager hassenreuter and i have personally had in my own hands the child of mrs. john, my charwoman, on three or four occasions. i even weighed it on the scales and found it to weigh over eight pounds. this poor little creature doesn't weigh over four pounds. and on the basis of this fact i can assure you that this child is not, at least, the child of mrs. john. you may be right in asserting that it is yours. i am in no position to throw doubt on that. but i know mrs. john's child and i am quite sure that it is, in no wise, identical with this. mrs. kielbacke [_respectfully._] no, no; that's right enough. it ain't identical. pauline this baby here is identical enough all right, even if it's a bit underfed an' weakly. this business with the child is all straight enough! i'll take an oath that it's identical all right. hassenreuter i am simply speechless. [_to his pupils._] our lesson is ruled by an evil star to-day, my dear boys. i don't know why, but the error which these ladies are making engrosses me. [_to the women._] you may have entered the wrong door. mrs. kielbacke no, me an' the gentleman from the guardian's office an' the young lady went an' fetched this here child outa the room what has the name plate o' mrs. john on it, an' took it out into the hall. mrs. john wasn't there an' her husband the mason is absent in hamburg. _policeman schierke comes in, fat and good-natured._ hassenreuter ah, there's mr. schierke! what do you want here? schierke i understand, sir, that two women fled up here to you. mrs. kielbacke we ain't fled at all. hassenreuter they were inquiring for mrs. john. schierke may i be permitted to ax somethin' too? hassenreuter if you please. pauline jus' let him ax. we don't has to worry. schierke [_to mrs. kielbacke._] what's your name? mrs. kielbacke i'm mrs. kielbacke. schierke you're connected with the society for raisin' children, eh? where do you live? mrs. kielbacke linien street number nine. schierke is that your child that you have there? mrs. kielbacke that's miss pipercarcka her child. schierke [_to pauline._] an' your name? pauline paula pipercarcka from skorzenin. schierke this woman asserts that the child is yours. do you assert that too? pauline sergeant, i has to ax for your protection because suspicions is cast on me an' i'm innercent. the gentleman from the city did come to me. an' i did get my child outa the room o' mrs. john what i had it in board with ... schierke [_with a searching look._] yes? maybe it was the door across the way where the restaurant keeper's widow knobbe lives. nobody knows what you're up to with that child nor who sent you an' bribed you. you ain't got a good conscience! you took the child an' slipped up here with it while its rightful mother, the widow knobbe, what it's been stolen from, is huntin' all over the stairs an' halls for it an' while a detective is standin' acrost the way. pauline i don't care about no detective. i'm ... hassenreuter you are refuted, my good girl. can't you comprehend that? first you say that mrs. john has no child. next you say--kindly attend to me--that you had taken your child, which has been passing for mrs. john's, out of the latter's room. however; all of us here happen to know mrs. john's child and the one you have here is another. is that clear to you? hence your assertion cannot, in any circumstances, be a correct one!--and now, schierke, you would do me a favour if you would conduct these ladies out so that i can continue giving my lesson. schierke all right, but if i does that we'll get into that knobbe crowd. because her child has been stolen. pauline it ain't me that done it; it's mrs. john. schierke that's all right. [_continuing his account to hassenreuter._] and they says that the child has blue blood in it on its father's side. so mrs. knobbe thinks as how it's a plot of enemies 'cause they grudges her the alimony in some quarters an' a gentleman's eddication for the kid. [_someone is beating at the door with fists._] that's the knobbe woman. there she comes now! hassenreuter mr. schierke, you are responsible to me. if these people trespass on my premises and i suffer any damages thereby, i'll complain to the chief of police. i know mr. maddei very well. don't be afraid, my dear boys. you are my witnesses. schierke [_at the door._] you stay out there! you don't get in here! _a small mob howls outside of the door._ pauline they c'n holler all they wants to but they can't get my child. hassenreuter perhaps this is the better way. you go into the library for the present. [_he escorts pauline, mrs. kielbacke and the child into the library._] and now, mr. schierke, we might risk letting that fury enter in here. schierke [_opening the door slightly._] all right. but only mrs. knobbe! come in here a minute. _mrs. sidonie knobbe appears. she is tall and emaciated and dressed in a badly worn but fashionable summer gown. her face bears the stigma, of a dissolute life but gives evidence of a not ungentle origin. her air is curiously like that of a gentlewoman. she talks affectedly and her eyes show addiction to alcohol and morphine._ mrs. knobbe [_sailing in._] there is no cause for any anxiety, mr. hassenreuter. those without are principally little boys and girls who have come with me because i am fond of children. pray pardon me if i intrude. one of the children told me that two women had sneaked up here with my little boy. i am looking for my little son, named helfgott gundofried, who has actually disappeared from my dwelling. at the same time i do not wish to incommode you. schierke an' you better not do that if i has any say about it. mrs. knobbe [_disregarding these words except by a proud toss of the head._] to my great regret i caused a certain amount of disturbance in the yard. from the yard as a place of vantage it is possible to command every window and i made inquiries of the poor cigar maker in the second story and of the consumptive little seamstress in the third as to whether my selma and my little son were with either of them. but nothing is farther from my intention than to create a scandal. i want you to know--- for i am quite conscious of being in the presence of a distinguished, indeed, of a famous man--you are to know that where helfgott gundofried is concerned i am obliged to be strictly on my guard! [_with quivering voice and an occasional application of her handkerchief to her eyes._] i am an unfortunate woman who is pursued by fate, who has sunk low but who has seen better days. i do not care to bore you with my troubles. but i am being pursued and there are those who would rob me of my last hope. schierke aw, hurry up an' say what you has to! mrs. knobbe [_as before._] it is not enough that i was forced to lay aside my honest name. later i lived in paris and then married a brutal person, a south german inn-keeper, because i had the foolish thought that my affairs might be bettered thereby. o these scoundrels of men! schierke this don't lead to nothin'! you cut it short, i tell you. mrs. knobbe but i am glad of the opportunity of standing, once more, face to face with a man of culture and intellect. i could a tale unfold ... popularly i am known here as "the countess" and god is my witness that in my earlier youth i was not far removed from that estate! for a time i was an actress, too. what did i say! i could unfold a tale from my life, from my past, which would have the advantage of not being invented! schierke maybe not. nobody c'n tell. mrs. knobbe [_with renewed emphasis._] my wretchedness is not invented, although it may seem so when i relate how, one night, sunk in the deepest abysses of my shame, i met on the street a cousin--the playmate of my youth--who is now captain in the horse-guards. he lives in the world: i live in the underworld ever since my father from pride of rank and race disowned me because in my earliest youth i had made a mistake. oh, you have no conception of the dullness, the coarseness, the essential vulgarity that obtains in those circles. i am a trodden worm, sir, and yet not for a moment do i yearn to be there, in that glittering wretchedness.... schierke maybe you don't mind comin' to the point now! hassenreuter if you please, mr. schierke, all that interests me. so suppose you don't interrupt the lady for a while. [_to mrs. knobbe._] you were speaking of your cousin. didn't you say that he is a captain in the horse-guards? mrs. knobbe he was in plain clothes. he is, however, a captain in the horse-guards. he recognised me at once and we dedicated some blessed though painful hours to memories. accompanying him there was--i will not call his name--a very young lieutenant, a fair, sweet boy, delicate and brooding. mr. hassenreuter, i have forgotten what shame is! was i not even, the other day, turned out of church? why should a down-trodden, dishonoured, deserted creature, more than once punished by the laws--why should such an one hesitate to confess that _he_ became the father of helfgott gundofried? hassenreuter of this baby that's been stolen from you? mrs. knobbe yes, stolen! at least it is so asserted! it may be! but though my enemies are mighty and have every means at their command, i am not yet wholly convinced of it. and yet it may be a plot concocted by the parents of the child's father whose name you would be astonished to hear, for they represent one of the oldest and most illustrious families. farewell! whatever you may hear of me, sir, do not think that my better feelings have been wholly extinguished in the mire into which i am forced to cast myself. i need this mire in which i am on terms of equality with the dregs of mankind. here, look! [_she thrusts forward her naked arm._] forgetfulness! insensibility! i achieve it by means of chloral, of opium. or i find it in the abysses of human life. and why not? to whom am i responsible?--there was a time when my dear mama was scolded by my father on my account! the maid had convulsions because of me! mademoiselle and an english governess tore each other's _chignons_ from their heads because each asserted that i loved _her_ best--! now ... schierke aw, i tell you to shut it now! we can't take up people's time an' lock 'em up. [_he opens the library door._] now tell us if this here is your kid? _pauline, staring at mrs. knobbe with eyes full of hatred, comes out first. mrs. kielbacke, carrying the child, comes next. schierke removes the shawl, that has been thrown over the child._ pauline what d'you want o' me? why d'you come chasin' me? i ain' no gypsy! i don' go in people's houses stealin' their children! eh? you're crazy, i wouldn't do no such thing. i ain't hardly got enough to eat for myself an' my own child. d'you s'pose i'm goin' to steal strange children an' feed 'em till they're grown when the one i got is trouble an' worry enough! _mrs. knobbe stares about her inquiringly and as if seeking help. rapidly she draws a little flask from her pocket and pours its contents upon a handkerchief. the latter she carries swiftly to her mouth and nose, inhaling the fragrance of the perfume to keep her from fainting._ hassenreuter well, why don't you speak, mrs. knobbe? this girl asserts that she is the mother of the child--not you. _mrs. knobbe lifts her umbrella in order to strike out with it. she is restrained by those present._ schierke that won't do! you can't practice no discipline like that here! you c'n do that when you're alone in your nursery downstairs.--the main thing is: who does here kid belong to? an' so--now--mrs. knobbe, you just take care an' think so's to tell nothin' but the truth here! well! is it yours or is it her'n? mrs. knobbe [_bursts out_] i swear by the holy mother of god, by jesus christ, father, son and holy ghost that i am the mother of this child. pauline an' i swears by the holy mother o' god ... hassenreuter you'd better not if you want to save your soul! we may have a case here in which the circumstances are complicated in the extreme! it is possible, therefore, that you were about to swear in perfectly good faith. but you will have to admit that, though each of you may well be the mother of twins--two mothers for one child is unthinkable! walburga [_who, like mrs. knobbe, has been staring steadily at the child._] papa, papa, do look at the child a moment first! mrs. kielbacke [_tearfully and horrified._] yes, the poor little crittur's been a-dyin', i believe, ever since i was in the other room there! schierke what? hassenreuter how? [_energetically he strides forward, and now regards the child carefully too._] the child is dead. there's no question about that! it seems that invisible to us, one has been in our midst who has delivered judgment, truly according to the manner of solomon, concerning the poor little passive object of all this strife. pauline [_who has not understood._] what's the matter? schierke keep still!--you come along with me. _mrs. knobbe seems to have lost the power of speech. she puts her handkerchief into her mouth. a moaning sob is heard deep in her chest. schierke, mrs. kielbacke with the dead child, followed by mrs. knobbe and pauline pipercarcka, leave the room. a dull murmur is heard from the outer hall. hassenreuter returns to the foreground after he has locked the door behind those who have left._ hassenreuter _sic eunt fata hominum._ invent something like that, if you can, my good spitta. the fourth act _the dwelling of the foreman-mason john as in the second act. it is eight o'clock on a sunday morning._ _john is invisible behind the partition. from his plashing and snorting it is clear that he is performing his morning ablutions._ _quaquaro has just entered. his hand is still on the knob of the outer door._ quaquaro tell me, paul, is your wife at home? john [_from behind the partition._] not yet, emil. my wife went with the boy out to my married sister's in hangelsberg. but she's goin' to come back this mornin'. [_drying his hands and face, john appears in the door of the partition wall._] good mornin' to you, emil. quaquaro mornin', paul. john well, what's the news? i didn't come from the train till about half an hour ago. quaquaro yes, i saw you goin' into the house an' mountin' the stairs. john [_in a jolly frame of mind._] that's right, emil! you're a reglar old watch-dog, eh? quaquaro tell, me, paul: how long has your wife'n the kid been out in hangelsberg? john oh, that must be somethin' like a week now, emil. d'you want anythin' of her? i guess she paid her rent an' on time all right. by the way, i might as well give you notice right now. we got it all fixed. we're goin' to move on the first of october. i got mother to the point at last that we c'n move outa this here shaky old barracks an' into a better neighbourhood. quaquaro so you ain't goin' back to hamburg no more? john naw. it's a good sayin': stay at home an' make an honest livin'! i'm not goin' outa town no more. not a bit of it! first of all, it's no sort o' life, goin' from one lodgin' to another. an' then--a man don' get no younger neither! the girls, they ain't so hot after you no more ... no, it's a good thing that all this wanderin' about is goin' to end. quaquaro your wife--she's a fine schemer. john [_merrily._] well, this is a brand new household what's jus' had a child born into it. i said to the boss: i'm a newly married man! then he axed me if my first wife was dead. on the contrary an' not a bit of it, i says. she's alive an' kickin', so that she's jus' given birth to a kickin' young citizen o' berlin, that's what! when i was travellin' along from hamburg this mornin' by all the old stations--hamburg, stendal, ultzen--an' got outa the fourth-class coach at the lehrter station with all my duds, the devil take me if i didn't thank god with a sigh. i guess he didn't hear on account o' the noise o' the trains. quaquaro did you hear, paul, that mrs. knobbe's youngest over the way has been taken off again? john no. what chance did i have to hear that? but if it's dead, it's a good thing, emil. when i saw the poor crittur a week ago when it had convulsions an' selma brought it in an' me an' mother gave it a spoonful o' sugar an' water--well, it was pretty near ready for heaven then. quaquaro an' you mean to tell me that you didn't hear nothin' o' the circumstances, about the how an' the why o' that child's death? john naw! [_he fetches a long tobacco pipe from behind the sofa._] wait a minute! i'll light a pipe first! i didn't have no chanct to hear nothin'. quaquaro well, i'm surprised that your wife didn't write you nothin' at all. john aw, since we has a child o' our own, mother's taken no interest in them knobbe brats no more. quaquaro [_observing john with lurking curiosity._] you're wife was reel crazy to have a son, wasn't she? john well, that's natural. d'you think i wasn't? what's a man to work for? what do i slave away for? it's different thing savin' a good lump o' money for your own son from doin' it for your sister's children. quaquaro so you don't know that a strange girl came here an' swore that the knobbe woman's child wasn't hers but belonged to the girl? john is that so? well, mrs. knobbe an' child stealin'--them two things don't go together. now if it'd been mother, that would ha' been more likely. but not that knobbe woman! but tell me, emil, what's all this here business about? quaquaro well, one person says one thing an' another says another. the knobbe woman says that certain people has started a plot with detectives an' such like to get hold o' the brat. an' there ain't no doubt o' this. it's proved that the child was hers. c'n you maybe give me a tip as to where your brother-in-law's been keepin' hisself the past few days? john you mean the butcher in hangelsberg? quaquaro naw, i don' mean the husband o' your sister, but the feller what's brother o' your wife. john it's bruno you mean? quaquaro sure, that's the feller. john how do i know? i'd sooner be watchin' if the dogs still plays on the curb. i don't want to have no dealin's with bruno. quaquaro listen to me, paul. but don't get mad. they knows at the police station that bruno was seen in company o' the polish girl what wanted to claim this here child, first right outside o' the door here an' then at a certain place on shore street where the tanners sometimes looses their soakin' hides. an' now the girl's jus' disappeared. i don' know nothin' o' the particulars, excep' that the police is huntin' for the girl. john [_resolutely putting aside the long pipe which he had lit._] i don' know, but i can't take no enjoyment in it this mornin'. i don' know what's gotten into me. i was as jolly as can be. an' now all of a sudden i feel so dam' mean i'd like to go straight back to hamburg an' hear an' see nothin' more!--why d'you come aroun' with stories like that? quaquaro i jus' thought i'd tell you what happened while you an' your wife was away right here in your own house? john in my own house? quaquaro that's it! yessir! they says that selma pushed the perambulator with her little brother in here where the strange girl an' her friend came an' took him an' carried him off. but upstairs, in the actor's place, they caught her. john what's that? quaquaro so up there the strange girl an' the knobbe woman pretty near tore each other's hair out over the child's body. john what i'd like to know is how all that concerns me? ain't there trouble here over some girl most o' the time? let 'em go on! i don' care! that is to say, emil, if there ain't more to it than you're tellin' me. quaquaro that's why i come to you! there is more. the girl said in front o' witnesses more'n onct that that little crittur o' knobbe's was her own an' that she had expressly given it in board to your wife. john [_first taken aback, then relieved. laughing._] she ain't quite right in her upper story. that's all. _erich spitta enters._ spitta good morning, mr. john. john good mornin', mr. spitta. [_to quaquaro, who is still loitering in the door._] it's all right, emil. i'll take notice o' what you says an' act accordin'. _quaquaro exit._ john now jus' look at a feller like that, mr. spitta. he's more'n half a gaol bird an' yet he knows how to make hisself a favourite with the district commissioner at headquarters! an' then he goes aroun' pokin' his nose into honest folks' affairs. spitta has miss walburga hassenreuter been asking after me, mr. john? john not up to this time; not that i knows of! [_he opens the door to the hall._] selma! excuse me a minute, will you? selma! i gotta know what that there girl c'n tell me. _selma knobbe enters._ selma [_still at the door._] what d'you want? john you shut the door a minute an' come in! an' now tell me, girl, what's all this that happened in this room about your little dead brother and the strange girl? selma [_who has, obviously, a bad conscience, gradually comes forward watchfully. she now answers glibly and volubly._] i pushed the perambulator over into the room here. your wife wasn't in an' so i thinks that maybe here there'd be more quiet, 'cause my little brother, you know, he was sick anyhow an' cryin' all the time. an' then, all of a sudden, a gentleman an' a lady an' another woman all comes in here, an' they picked the little feller right outa the carridge an' put clean clothes on him an' carried him off. john an' then the lady said as how it was her child an' how she'd given it in board with mother, with my old woman? selma [_lies._] naw, not a bit. i'd know about that if it was so. john [_bangs his fist on the table._] well, damn it all, it'd be a idjit's trick to have said that. spitta permit me, but she did say that. i take it you're talking of the incident with the two women that took place upstairs at manager hassenreuter's? john did you see that? was you there when the knobbe woman an' the other one was disputin' about the little crittur? spitta yes, certainly. i was present throughout. selma i tell you all i knows. an' i couldn't say no more if officer schierke or the tall police lieutenant hisself was to examine me for hours an' hours. i don' know nothin'. an' what i don' know i can't tell. john the lieutenant examined you? selma they wanted to take mama to the lock-up because people went an' lied. they said that our little baby was starved to death. john aha! 's that so? well, selma, s'pose you go over there an' cook a little coffee. _selma goes over to the stove where she prepares coffee for john. john himself goes up to his working table, takes up the compass. then he draws lines, using a piece of rail as a ruler._ spitta [_conquering his diffidence and shame._] i really hoped to meet your wife here, mr. john. someone told me that your wife has been in the habit of lending out small sums to students against security. and i am somewhat embarrassed. john maybe that's so. but that's mother's business, mr. spitta. spitta to be quite frank with you, if i don't get hold of some money by to-night, the few books and other possessions i have will be attached for rent by my landlady and i'll be put into the street. john i thought your father was a preacher. spitta so he is. but for that very reason and because i don't want to become a preacher, too, he and i had a terrible quarrel last night. i won't ever accept a farthing from him any more. john [_busy over his drawing._] then it'll serve him right if you starve or break your neck. spitta men like myself don't starve, mr. john. but if, by any chance, i were to go to the dogs--i shouldn't greatly care. john no one wouldn't believe how many half-starved nincompoops there is among you stoodents. but none o' you wants to put your hand to some reel work.--[_the distant sound of thunder is heard. john looks out through the window._]--sultry day. it's thunderin' now. spitta yon can't say that of me, mr. john, that i haven't been willing to do real work. i've given lessons, i've addressed envelopes for business houses! i've been through everything and in all these attempts i've not only toiled away the days but also the nights. and at the same time i've ground away at my studies like anything! john man alive, go to hamburg an' let 'em give you a job as a bricklayer. when i was your age i was makin' as much as twelve crowns a day in hamburg. spitta that may be. but i'm a brain worker. john i know that kind. spitta is that so? i don't think you do know that kind, mr. john. i beg you not to forget that your socialist leaders--your bebels and your liebknechts--are brain workers too. john all right. come on, then! let's have some breakfast first. things look mighty different after a man's had a good bite o' breakfast. i s'pose you ain't had any yet, mr. spitta? spitta no, frankly, not to-day. john well, then the first thing is to get somethin' warm down your throat. spitta there's time enough for that. john i don' know. you're lookin' pretty well done up. an' i passed the night on the train too. [_to selma, who has brought in a little linen bag filed with rolls._] hurry an' bring another cup over here. [_he has seated himself at his ease on the sofa, dips a roll into the coffee and begins to eat and drink._] spitta [_who has not sat down yet._] it's really pleasanter to pass a summer night in the open if one can't sleep anyhow. and i didn't sleep for one minute. john i'd like to see the feller what c'n sleep when he's outa cash. when a man's down in the world he has most company outa doors too. [_he suddenly stops chewing._]--come here, selma, an' tell me exackly just how it was with that there girl an' the child that she took outa our room here. selma i don' know what to do. everybody axes we that. mama keeps axin' me about it all day long; if i seen bruno mechelke; if i know who it was that stole the costumes from the actor's loft up there! if it goes on that way ... john [_energetically._] girl, why didn't you cry out when the gentleman and the young lady took your little brother outa his carridge? selma i didn't think nothin' 'd happen to him excep' that he'd get some clean clothes. john [_grasps selma by the wrist._] well, you come along with me now. we'll go over an' see your mother. _john and selma leave the room. as soon as they are gone spitta begins to eat ravenously. soon thereafter walburga appears. she is in great haste and strongly excited._ walburga are you alone? spitta for the moment, yes. good morning, walburga. walburga am i too late? it was only by the greatest cunning, by the greatest determination, by the most ruthless disregard of everything that i succeeded in getting away from home. my younger sister tried to bar the door. even the servant girl! but i told mama that if they wouldn't let me out through the door, they might just as well bar the window, else i'd reach the street through it, although it's three stories high. i flew. i'm more dead than alive. but i am prepared for anything. how was it with your father, erich? spitta we have parted. he thought that i was going out to eat husks with the swine as the prodigal son did, and told me not to take it into my mind ever again to cross the threshold of my father's house in my future capacity as acrobat or bareback rider, as he was pleased to express it. his door was not open to such scum! well, i'll fight it down! only i'm sorry for my poor, dear mother.--you can't imagine with what abysmal hatred a man of his kind considers the theatre and everything connected with it. the heaviest curse is not strong enough to express his feelings. an actor is, to his mind, _a priori_, the worst, most contemptible scamp imaginable. walburga i've found out, too, how papa discovered our secret. spitta my father gave him your picture. walburga o erich, if you knew with what awful, with what horrible names papa overwhelmed me in his rage. and i had to be silent through it all. i might have said something that would have silenced all his lofty moral discourses and made him quite helpless before me. i was almost on the point of saying it, too. but i felt so ashamed for him! my tongue refused to form the words! i couldn't say it, erich! finally mama had to intervene. he struck me! for eight or nine hours he locked me in a dark alcove--to break my stubbornness, as he put it, erich. well, he won't succeed! he won't break it! spitta [_taking walburga into his arms._] you dear, brave girl! i am beginning to see now what i possess in having your love, what a treasure you are! [_passionately._] and how beautiful you look, walburga! walburga don't! don't!--i trust you, erich; that's all. spitta and you shall not be disappointed, dearest. you see, a man like me in whom everything is still in a ferment, who feels that he was born to achieve something great and significant but something which, for the present, he can make sufficiently clear neither to himself nor to the world--such a man has, at twenty, every man's hand against his and is a burden and a laughing-stock to all the world. but believe me: it will not always be so! the germs of the future lie in us! the soil is being loosened even now by the budding shoots! unseen to-day, _we_ are the harvest of the future! we _are_ the future! and the time will come when all this great and beautiful world will be ours! walburga ah, go on, erich! what you say heals my heart. spitta walburga, i did more, last night! i flung straight out into my father's face, just as i felt it, my accusation of the crime committed against my sister. and that made the break definite and unbridgeable. he said stubbornly: he had no knowledge of such a daughter as i was describing. such a daughter had no existence in his soul, and it seemed to him that his son would also soon cease to exist there. o these christians! o these servants of the good shepherd who took the lost lamb with double tenderness into his arms! o thou good shepherd, how have your words been perverted; how have your eternal truths been falsified into their exact contrary. but to-day when i sat amidst the flash of lightning and the roll of thunder in the _tiergarten_ and certain berlin hyaenas were prowling about me, i felt the crushed and restless soul of my sister close beside me. how many nights, in her poor life, may she not have sat shelterless on such benches, perhaps on this very bench in the _tiergarten_, in order to consider in her loneliness, her degradation, her outcast estate, how, two thousand years after the birth of christ, this most christian world is drenched with christianity and with the love of its fellow-men! but whatever she thought, this is what i think; the poor harlot, the wretched sinner who is yet above the righteous, who is weighed down by the sins of the world, the poor outcast and her terrible accusation shall never die in my soul! and into this flame of our goals we must cast all the wretchedness, all the lamentations of the oppressed and the disinherited! thus shall my sister stay truly alive, walburga, and effect noble ends before the face of god through the ethical impulse that lends wings to my soul, and that will be more powerful than all the evil, heartless parson's morality in the world. walburga you were in the _tiergarten_ all night, erich? is that the reason why your hands are so icy cold, and why you look so utterly worn out? erich, you must take my purse! no, please, you must! oh, i assure you what is mine is yours! if you don't feel that, you don't love me. erich, you're suffering! if you don't take my few pennies, i'll refuse all nourishment at home! by heaven, i'll do it, i'll do it, unless you're sensible about that! spitta [_chokes down his rising tears and sits down._] i'm nervous; i'm overwrought. walburga [_puts her purse into his pocket._] and you see, erich, this is the real reason why i asked you to meet me here. to add to all my misfortunes i received yesterday this summons from the court. spitta [_regards a document which she hands to him._] look here? what's behind this, walburga? walburga i'm quite sure that it must have some connection with the stolen goods upstairs in the loft. but it does disquiet me terribly. if papa were to discover this ... oh, what would i do then? _mrs. john enters, carrying the child in her arms. she is dressed for the street, and looks dusty and harassed._ mrs. john [_frightened, suspicious._] well, what d'you want here? is paul home yet? i jus' went down in the street a little with the baby. [_she carries the child behind the partition._ walburga erich, do mention the summons to mrs. john! mrs. john why, paul's at home. there's his things! spitta miss hassenreuter wanted very much to talk to you. she received a summons to appear in court. it's probably about those things that were stolen from the loft. you know. mrs. john [_emerging from behind the partition._] what's that? you reelly got a summons, miss walburga? well, then you better look out! i ain't jokin'. an' maybe you're thinkin' o' the black man! spitta what you're saying there is quite incomprehensible, mrs. john. mrs. john [_taking up her domestic tasks._] did you hear that 'way out in the lauben settlement, beyond the halle gate, the lightenin' struck a man an' a woman an' a little girl o' seven this mornin'. it was right under a tall poplar tree. spitta no, mrs. john, we didn't hear that. mrs. john the rain's splashin' down again. _one hears a shower of rain beginning to fall._ walburga [_nervously._] come, erich, let's get out into the open anyhow. mrs. john [_speaking louder and louder in her incoherent terror._] an' i tell you another thing: i was talking to the woman what was struck by lightenin' jus' a short time before. an' she says--now listen to me, mr. spitta--if you takes a dead child what's lyin' in its carridge an' pushes it out into the sun ... but it's gotta be summer an' midday ... it'll draw breath, it'll cry, it'll come back to life!--you don't believe that, eh? but i seen that with my own eyes! [_she circles about the room in a strange fashion, apparently becoming quite oblivious of the presence of the two young people._ walburga look, here, mrs. john is positively uncanny! let's go! mrs. john [_speaking still louder._] you don' believe that, that it'll come to life again, eh? i tell you, its mother c'n come an' take it. but it's gotta be nursed right off. spitta good-bye, mrs. john. mrs. john [_in strange excitement accompanies the two young people to the door. speaking still more loudly._] you don' believe that! but it's the solemn truth, mr. spitta! _spitta and walburga leave the room._ mrs. john [_still holding the door in her hand calls out after them._] anybody that don' believe that don' know nothin' o' the whole secret that i discovered. _the foreman-mason john appears in the door and enters at once._ john why, there you are, mother! i'm glad to see you. what's that there secret you're talkin' about? mrs. john [_as though awakening, grasps her head._] me?--did i say somethin' about a secret? john that you did unless i'm hard o' hearin'. an' it's reelly you unless it's a ghost. mrs. john [_surprised and frightened._] why d'you think i might be a ghost? john [_pats his wife good-naturedly on the back._] come now, jette, don't bite me. i'm reel glad, that i am, that you're here again with the little kid! [_he goes behind the partition._] but it's lookin' a little measly. mrs. john the milk didn't agree with him. an' that's because out there in the country the cows is already gettin' green fodder. i got milk here from the dairy company that comes from dry fed cows. john [_reappears in the main room._] that's what i'm sayin'. why did you have to go an' take the child on the train an' outa town. the city is healthier. that's my notion. mrs. john i'm goin' to stay at home now, paul. john in hamburg everythin' is settled, too. to-day at noon i'm goin' to meet karl an' then he'll tell me when i c'n start workin' for the new boss!--look here: i brought somethin' with me, too. [_he takes a small child's rattle from his breeches pocket and shakes it._ mrs. john what's that? john that's somethin' to bring a bit o' life into the place, 'cause it's pretty quiet inside in berlin here! listen how the kid's crowin'. [_the child is heard making happy little noises._] i tell you, mother, when a little kid goes on that way--there ain't nothin' i'd take for it! mrs. john have you seen anybody yet? john no!--leastways only quaquaro early this mornin'. mrs. john [_in timid suspense._] well ...? john oh, never mind! nothin! there was nothin' to it. mrs. john [_as before._] what did he say? john what d'you think he said? but if you're bound to know--'tain't no use talkin' o' such things sunday mornin'--he axed me after bruno again. mrs. john [_pale and speaking hastily._] what do they say bruno has done again? john nothin'. here, come'n drink a little coffee, jette, an' don' get excited! it ain't your fault that you got a brother like that. we don't has to concern ourselves about other people. mrs. john i'd like to know what an old fool like that what spies aroun' all day long has always gotta be talkin' about bruno. john jette, don' bother me about bruno--you see ...aw, what's the use ... might as well keep still!... but if i was goin' to tell you the truth, i'd say that it wouldn't surprise me if some day bruno'd come to a pretty bad end right out in the yard o' the gaol, too--a quick end. [_mrs. john sits down heavily beside the table. she grows grey in the face and breathes with difficulty._] maybe not! maybe not! don't take it to heart so right off!--how's the sister? mrs. john i don' know. john why, i thought you was out there visitin' her? mrs. john [_looks at him absently._] where was i? john well, you see, jette, that's the way it is with you women! you're jus' shakin', but oh no--you don' want to go to no doctor! an' it'll end maybe, by your havin' to take to your bed. that's what comes o' neglectin' nature. mrs. john [_throwing her arms about john's neck._] paul, you're goin' to leave me! for god's sake, tell me right out that it's so! don' fool me aroun' an' cheat me! tell me right out! john what's the matter with you to-day, henrietta? mrs. john [_pulling herself together._] don' attend to my fool talk. i ain't had no rest all night--that's it. an' then i got up reel early, an' anyhow, it ain't nothin' but that i'm a bit weak yet. john then you better lie down flat on your back an' rest a little. [_mrs. john throws herself on the sofa and stares at the ceiling._] maybe you'd better comb yourself a bit afterwards, jette!--it musta been mighty dusty on the train for you to be jus' covered all over with sand the way you are! [_mrs. john does not answer but continues staring at the ceiling._] i must go an' bring that there little feller into the light a bit. [_he goes behind the partition._ mrs. john how long has we been married, paul? john [_plays with the rattle behind the partition. then answers_:] that was in eighteen hundred and seventy-two, jus' as i came back from the war. mrs. john then you came to father, didn't you? an' you assoomed a grand position an' you had the iron cross on the left side o' your chest. john [_appears, swinging the rattle and carrying the child on its pillow. he speaks merrily._] that's so, mother. an' i got it yet. if you want to see it, i'll pin it on. mrs. john [_still stretched out on the sofa._] an' then you came to me an' you said that i wasn't to be so busy all the time ... goin' up an' down, runnin' upstairs an' downstairs ... that i was to be a bit more easy-goin'. john an' i'm still sayin' that same thing to-day. mrs. john an' then you tickled me with your moustache an' kissed me right behind my left ear! an' then ... john then it didn't take long for us to agree, eh? mrs. john yes, an' i laughed an', bit by bit, i looked at myself in every one o' your brass buttons. i was lookin' different then! an' then you said ... john well, mother, you're a great one for rememberin' things, i must say! mrs. john an' then you said: when we has a boy, an' that'll be soon, he c'n follow the flag into the field too "with god for king an' country." john [_sings to the child, playing with the rattle._] "to heaven he turns his glances bold whence gaze the hero sires of old: the rhine, the rhine, the german rhine!"... well, an' now that i has a little feller like that i ain't half so keen on sendin' him to the war to be food for powder. [_he retires with the child behind the partition._ mrs. john [_still staring at the ceiling._] paul, paul! seems as if all that was a hundred years ago! john [_reappears from behind the partition without the child._] not as long ago as all that. mrs. john look here, what d'you think? how would it be if you was to take me an' the child an' go to america? john now listen here, jette! what's gotten into you, anyhow? what is it? looks as if there was nothin' but ghosts aroun' me here! you know i has a good easy temper! when the workmen heave bricks at each other, i don't even get excited. an' what do they say? paul has a comfortable nature. but now: what's this here? the sun's shinin'; it's bright daylight! i can't _see_ nothin'; that's a fac'. but somethin's titterin' an' whisperin' an' creepin' aroun' in here. only when i stretches out my hand i can't lay hold on nothin'! now i wants to know what there is to this here story about the strange girl what came to the room. is it true? mrs. john you heard, paul, that the young lady didn't come back no more. an' that shows you, don't it ... john i hear what you're sayin'. but your lips is fair blue an' your eyes look as if somebody was tormentin' you. mrs. john [_suddenly changing her attitude_] yes. why do you leave me alone year in an' year out, paul? i sits here like in a cave an' i ain't got a soul to who i c'n say what i'm thinkin'. many a time i've sat here an' axed myself why i works an' works, why i skimps an' saves to get together a few crowns, an' find good investments for your earnin's an' try to add to 'em. why? was all that to go to strangers? paul, it's you who's been the ruin o' me! [_she lays her head on the table and bursts out in sobs._ _softly and with feline stealth bruno mechelke enters the room at this moment. he has on his sunday duds, a sprig of lilac in his hat and a great bunch of it in his hand. john drums with his fingers on the window and does not observe him._ mrs. john [_has gradually realised bruno's presence as though he were a ghost._] bruno, is that you? bruno [_who has recognised john in a flash, softly._] sure, it's me, jette. mrs. john where d'you come from? what d'you want? bruno i been dancin' all night, jette! you c'n see, can't you, that i'm dam' jolly? john [_has been staring steadily at bruno. a dangerous pallor has overspread his face. he now goes slowly to a small cupboard, takes out an old army revolver and loads it. mrs. john does not observe this._] you! listen! i'll tell you somethin'--somethin' you forgot, maybe. there ain't no reason on god's earth why i shouldn't pull this here trigger! you scoundrel! you ain't fit to be among human bein's! i told you ... las' fall it was ... that i'd shoot you down if i ever laid eyes on you in my home again! now go ... or i'll ... shoot. y'understan'? bruno aw, i ain't scared o' your jelly squirter. mrs. john [_who observes that john, losing control of himself, is slowly approaching bruno with the weapon and raising it._] then kill me too, paul. 'cause he's my brother. john [_looks at her long, seems to awaken and change his mind._] all right. [_he replaces the revolver carefully in the cupboard._] you're right, anyhow, jette! it's hell, jette, that your name's got to be on the tongue of a crittur like that. all right. the powder'd be too good, too. this here little pistol's tasted the blood o' two french cavalry men! heroes they was! an' i don't want it to drink no dirt. bruno i ain' doubtin' that there's dirt in your head! an' if it hadn't been that you board with my sister here i'd ha' let the light into you long ago, you dirt eater, so you'd ha' bled for weeks. john [_with tense restraint._] tell me again, jette, that it's your brother. mrs. john go, paul, will you? i'll get him away all right! you know's well as i that i can't help it now that bruno's my own brother. john all right. then i'm one too many here. you c'n bill an' coo. [_he is dressed for the street as it is and hence proceeds to go. close by bruno he stands still._] you scamp! you worried your father into his grave. your sister might better ha' let you starve behind some fence rather'n raise you an' litter the earth with another criminal like you. i'll be back in half an hour! but i won't be alone. i'll have the sergeant with me! [_john leaves by the outer door, putting on his slouch hat._ _so soon as john has disappeared bruno turns and spits out after him toward the door._ bruno if i ever gets hold o' you! mrs. john why d'you come, bruno? tell me, what's the matter? bruno tin's what you gotta give me. or i'll go to hell. mrs. john [_locks and latches the outer door._] wait till i close the door! now, what's the matter? where d'you come from? where has you been? bruno oh, i danced about half the night an' then, about sunrise, i went out into the country for a bit. mrs. john did quaquaro see you comin' in, bruno? then you better look out that you ain't walked into no trap. bruno no danger. i crossed the yard an' then went through the cellar o' my friend what deals in junk an' after that up through the loft. mrs. john well, an' what happened? bruno don' fool aroun', jette. i gotta have railroad fare. i gotta take to my heels or i'll go straight to hell. mrs. john an' what did you do with that there girl? bruno oh, i found a way, jette! mrs. john what's the meanin' o' that? bruno oh, i managed to make her a little more accommodatin' all right! mrs. john an' is it a sure thing that she won't come back now? bruno sure. i don' believe that she'll come again! but that wasn't no easy piece of work, jette. but i tell you ... gimme somethin' to drink--quick!... i tell you, you made me thirsty with your damned business--thirsty, an' hot as hell. [_he drains a jug full of water._ mrs. john people saw you outside the door with the girl. bruno i had to make a engagement with arthur. she didn't want to have nothin' to do with me. but arthur, he came dancin' along in his fine clothes an' he managed to drag her along to a bar. she swallowed the bait right down when he told her as how her intended was waitin' for her there. [_he trills out, capering about convulsively._] "all we does in life's to go up an' down an' to an' fro from a tap-room to a show!" mrs. john well, an' then? bruno then she wanted to get away 'cause arthur said that her intended had gone off! then i wanted to go along with her a little bit an' arthur an' adolph, they came along. next we dropped in the ladies' entrance at kalinich's an' what with tastin' a lot o' toddy an' other liquors she got good an' tipsy. an' then she staid all night with a woman what's arthur's sweetheart. all next day there was always two or three of us boys after her, didn't let her go, an' played all kinds o' tricks, an' things got jollier an' jollier. [_the church bells of the sunday morning services begin to ring._ bruno [_goes on._] but the money's gone. i needs crowns an' pennies, jette. mrs. john [_rummaging for money._] how much has you got to have? bruno [_listening to the bells._] what? mrs. john money! bruno the old bag o' bones in the junk shop downstairs was thinkin' as how i'd better get across the russian frontier! listen, jette, how the bells is ringin'. mrs. john why do you has to get acrost the frontier? bruno take a wet towel, jette, an' put a little vinegar on it. i been bothered with this here dam' nosebleed all night. [_he presses his handkerchief to his nose._ mrs. john [_breathing convulsively, brings a towel._] who was it scratched your wrist into shreds that way? bruno [_listening to the bells._] half past three o'clock this mornin' she could ha' heard them bells yet. mrs. john o jesus, my saviour! that ain't true! that can't noways be possible! i didn't tell you nothin' like that, bruno! bruno, i has to sit down. oh! [_she sits down._] that's what our father foretold to me on his dyin' bed. bruno it ain't so easy jokin' with me. if you go to see minna, jus' tell her that i got the trick o' that kind o' thing an' that them goin's on with karl an' with fritz has to stop. mrs. john but, bruno, if they was to catch you! bruno well, then i has to swing, an' out at the charity hospital they got another stiff to dissect. mrs. john [_giving him money._] oh, that ain't true. what did you do, bruno? bruno you're a crazy old crittur, jette.--[_he puts his hand on her not without a tremor of emotion._] you always says as how i ain't good for nothin'. but when things can't go on no more, then you needs me, jette. mrs. john well, but how? did you threaten the girl that she wasn't to let herself be seen no more? that's what you ought to ha' done, bruno! an' did you? bruno i danced with her half the night. an' then we went out on the street. well, a gentleman came along, y'understan'? well, when i told him that i had some little business o' my own to transact with the lady an' pulled my brass-knuckles outa my breeches, o' course he took to his heels.--then i says to her, says i: don't you be scared. if you're peaceable an' don' make no outcry an' don' come no more to my sister axin' after the child--well, we c'n make a reel friendly bargain. so she toddled along with me a ways. mrs. john well, an' then? bruno well, she didn't want to! an' all of a sudden she went for my throat that i thought it'd be the end o' me then an' there! like a dawg she went for me hot an' heavy! an' then ... then i got a little bit excited too--an' then, well ... that's how it come ... mrs. john [_sunk in horror._] what time d'you say it was? bruno it must ha' been somewhere between three an' four. the moon had a big ring aroun' it. out on the square there was a dam' cur behind the planks what got up an' howled. then it began to drip an' soon a thunderstorm came up. mrs. john [_changed and with sudden self-mastery._] it's all right. go on. she don' deserve no better. bruno good-bye. i s'pose we ain't goin' to see each other for years an' years. mrs. john where you goin' to? bruno first of all i gotta lie flat on my back for a couple o' hours. i'm goin' to fritz's. he's got a room for rent in the old police station right acrost from the fisher's bridge. i'm safe there all right. if there's anythin' of a outcry you c'n lemme know. mrs. john don' you want to take a peek at the child onct more? bruno [_trembling._] naw! mrs. john why not? bruno no, jette, not in this here life! good-bye, jette. hol' on a minute: here i got a horseshoe. [_he puts a horseshoe on the table._] i found it. that'll bring you good luck. i don' need it. _stealthily as he has come, bruno mechelke also disappears. mrs. john, her eyes wide with horror, stares at the spot where he stood. then she totters backward a few paces, presses her hands, clenched convulsively as if in prayer, against her mouth, and collapses, still trying in vain to stammer out a prayerful appeal to heaven._ mrs. john i ain't no murderer! i ain't no murderer! i didn't want that to happen! fifth act _john's room. mrs. john is asleep on the sofa. walburga and spitta enter from the outer hall. the loud playing of a military band is heard from the street._ spitta no one is here. walburga oh, yes, there is, erich. mrs. john! she's asleep here. spitta [_approaching the sofa together with walburga._] is she asleep? so she is! i don't understand how anyone can sleep amidst this noise. _the music of the band trails off into silence._ walburga oh, erich, sh! i have a perfect horror of the woman. can you understand anyhow why policemen are guarding the entrance downstairs and why they won't let us go out into the street? i'm so awfully afraid that, maybe, they'll arrest us and take us along to the station. spitta oh, but there's not the slightest danger, walburga! you're seeing ghosts by broad daylight. walburga when the plain clothes man came up to you and looked at us and you asked him who he was and he showed his badge under his coat, i assure you, at that moment, the stairs and the hall suddenly began to go around with me. spitta they're looking for a criminal, walburga. it is a so-called raid that is going on here, a kind of man hunt such as the criminal police is at times obliged to undertake. walburga and you can believe me, too, erich, that i heard papa's voice. he was talking quite loudly to some one. spitta you are nervous. you may have been mistaken. walburga [_frightened at mrs. john, who is speaking in her sleep._] listen to her: do! spitta great drops of sweat are standing on her forehead. come here! just look at the rusty old horseshoe that she is clasping with both hands. walburga [_listens and starts with fright again._] papa! spitta i don't understand you. let him come, walburga. the essential thing is that one knows what one wants and that one has a clean conscience. i am ready. i long for the explanation to come about. _a loud knocking is heard at the door._ spitta [_firmly._] come in! _mrs. hassenreuter enters, more out of breath than usual. an expression of relief comes over her face as she catches sight of her daughter._ mrs. hassenreuter thank god! there you are, children! [_trembling, walburga throws herself into her mother's arms._] girlie, but what a fright you've given your old mother. [_a pause in which only the breathing of mrs. hassenreuter is heard._ walburga forgive me, mama: i couldn't act differently. mrs. hassenreuter oh, no! one doesn't write letters containing such thoughts to one's own mother. and especially not to a mother like me. if your soul is in pain you know very well that you can always count on me for help and counsel. i'm not a monster, and i was young myself once. but to threaten to drown yourself ... and things like that ... no, that's all wrong. you shouldn't have done that. surely you agree with me, mr. spitta. and now this very minute ... heavens, how you both look!... this very minute you must both come home with me!--what's the matter with mrs. john? walburga oh yes, help us! don't forsake us! take us with you, mama! oh, i'm _so_ glad that you're here! i was just paralysed with fright! mrs. hassenreuter very well, then. come along. that would be the last straw if one had to be prepared for such desperate follies from you, mr. spitta, or from this child! at your age one should have courage. if everything doesn't go quite smoothly you have no right to think of expedients by which one has nothing to gain and everything to lose. we live but once, after all. spitta oh, i have courage! and i'm not thinking of putting an end to myself as one who is weary and defeated ... unless walburga is refused to me. in that case, to be sure, my determination is firm. it doesn't in the least undermine my belief in myself or in my future that i am poor for the present and have to take my dinner occasionally in the people's kitchen. and i am sure walburga is equally convinced that a day must come that will indemnify us for all the dark and difficult hours of the present. mrs. hassenreuter life is long; and you're almost children to-day. it's not so very bad for a student to have to take an occasional meal in the people's kitchen. it would be much worse, however, for walburga as a married woman. and i hope for the sake of you both that you'll wait till something in the nature of a hearthstone of your own with the necessary wood and coal can be founded. in the meantime i've succeeded in persuading papa to a kind of truce. it wasn't easy and it might have been impossible had not this morning's mail brought the news of his definitive appointment as manager of the theatre at strassburg. walburga [_joyously._] oh, mama, mama! that is a ray of sunshine, isn't it? mrs. john [_sits up with a start._] bruno! mrs. hassenreuter [_apologising._] oh, we've wakened you, mrs. john. mrs. john is bruno gone? mrs. hassenreuter who? who's bruno? mrs. john why, bruno! don' you know bruno? mrs. hassenreuter ah, yes, yes! that's the name of your brother. mrs. john was i asleep? spitta fast asleep. but you cried out aloud in your sleep just now. mrs. john did you see, mr. spitta, how them boys out in the yard threw stones at my little adelbert's wee grave? but i got after 'em, eh? an' they wasn't no bad slaps neither what i dealt out. mrs. hassenreuter it seems that you've been dreaming of your first little boy who died, mrs. john. mrs. john no, no; all that's fac'! i ain't been dreamin'. an' then i took little adelbert an' i went with him to the registrar's office. mrs. hassenreuter but if your little boy's no longer alive ... how could you ... mrs. john aw, when a little child is onct born, it don't matter if it's dead ... it's still right inside o' its mother. did you hear that dawg howlin' behind the board fence? an' the moon had a big ring aroun' it! bruno, you ain' doin' right! mrs. hassenreuter [_shaking mrs. john._] wake up, my good woman! wake up, mrs. john! you are ill! your husband ought to take you to see a physician. mrs. john bruno, you ain' doin' right! [_the bells are ringing again._] ain't them the bells? mrs. hassenreuter the service is over, mrs. john. mrs. john [_wholly awake now, stares about her._] why does i wake up? why didn't you take an ax when i was asleep an' knock me over the head with it?--what did i say? sh! only don't tell a livin' soul a word, mrs. hassenreuter. [_she jumps up and arranges her hair by the help of many hairpins._ _manager hassenreuter appears in the doorway._ hassenreuter [_starting at the sight of his family._] "behold, behold, timotheus, _here_ are the cranes of ibicus!" didn't you tell me there was a shipping agent's office in the neighbourhood, mrs. john?--[_to walburga._] ah, yes, my child! while, with the frivolousness of youth you have been thinking of your pleasure and nothing but your pleasure, your papa has been running about for three whole hours again purely on business.--[_to spitta._] you wouldn't be in such a hurry to establish a family, young man, if you had the least suspicion how hard it is--a struggle from day to day--to get even the wretched, mouldy necessary bit of daily bread for one's wife and child! i trust it will never be your fate to be suddenly hurled one day, quite penniless, into the underworld of berlin and be obliged to struggle for a naked livelihood for yourself and those dear to you, breast to breast with others equally desperate, in subterranean holes and passages! but you may all congratulate me! a week from now we will be in strassburg. [_mrs. hassenreuter, walburga and spitta all press his hand._] everything else will be adjusted. mrs. hassenreuter you have fought an heroic battle for us during these past years, papa. and you did it without stooping to anything unworthy. hassenreuter it was a fight like that of drowning men who struggle for planks in the water. my noble costumes, made to body forth the dreams of poets, in what dens of vice, on what reeking bodies have they not passed their nights--_odi profanum vulgus_--only that a few pennies of rental might clatter in my cashbox! but let us turn to more cheerful thoughts. the freight waggon, alias the cart of thespis is at the door in order to effect the removal of our penates to happier fields--[_suddenly turning to spitta._] my excellent spitta, i demand your word of honour that, in your so-called despair, you two do not commit some irreparable folly. in return i promise to lend my ear to any utterances of yours characterised by a modicum of good sense.--finally: i've come to you, mrs. john, firstly because the officers bar all the exits and will permit no one to go out; and secondly because i would like exceedingly to know why a man like myself, at the very moment when his triumphant flag is fluttering in the wind again, should have become the object of a malicious newspaper report! mrs. hassenreuter dear harro, mrs. john doesn't understand you. hassenreuter aha! then let us begin _ab ovo_. i have letters here [_he shows a bundle of them_] one, two, three, five--about a dozen! in these letters unknown but malicious individuals congratulate me upon an event which is said to have taken place in my storage loft. i would pay no attention to these communications were they not confirmed by a news item in the papers according to which a newborn infant is said to have been found in the loft of a costumer in the suburbs ... a costumer, forsooth! i would have said nothing, i repeat, if this item had not perplexed me. undoubtedly there is a case of mistaken identity involved here. in spite of that, i don't like to have the report stick to me. especially since this cub of a reporter speaks of the costumer as being a bankrupt manager of barn stormers. read it, mama: "the stork visits costumer." i'll box that fellow's ears! this evening my appointment at strassburg is to be made public in the papers and at the same time i am to be offered as a kind of comic dessert _urbi et orbi_. as if it were not obvious that of all curses that of being made ridiculous is the worst! mrs. john you say there's policemen at the door downstairs, sir? hassenreuter yes, and their watch is so close that the funeral procession of mrs. knobbe's baby has been brought to a standstill. they won't even let the little coffin and the horrid fellow from the burial society who is carrying it go out to the carriage. mrs. john what child's funeral was that? hassenreuter don't you know? it's the little son of mrs. knobbe which was brought up to me in so mysterious a way by two women and died almost under my very eyes, probably of exhaustion. _À propos_ ... mrs. john the knobbe woman's child is dead? hassenreuter _À propos_, mrs. john, i was going to say that you ought really to know how the affair of those two half-crazy women who got hold of the child finally ended? mrs. john well now, tell me, ain't it like the very finger of god that they didn't take my little adelbert an' that he didn't die? hassenreuter just why? i don't understand the logic of that. on the other hand, i have been asking myself whether the confused speeches of the polish girl, the theft committed in my loft, and the milk bottle which quaquaro brought down in a boot--whether all these things had not something to do with the notice in the papers. mrs. john no, there ain't no connection between them things. has you seen paul, sir? hassenreuter paul? ah yes; that's your husband. yes, yes. indeed i saw him in conversation with detective puppe, who visited me too in connection with the theft. _john enters._ john well, jette, wasn't i right? this here thing's happened soon enough! mrs. john what's happened? john d'you want me to go an' earn the thousand crowns' reward what's offered accordin' to placards on the news pillars by the chief o' police's office for denouncin' the criminal? mrs. john how's that? john don't you know that all this manoeuverin' o' police an' detectives is started on account o' bruno? mrs. john how so? where? what is it? what's been started? john the funeral's been stopped an' two o' the mourners--queer customers they is, too--has been taken prisoner. yes, sir! that's the pass things has come to, mr. hassenreuter. i'm a man, sir, what's tied to a women as has a brother what's bein' pursued by the criminal police an' by detectives because he killed a woman not far from the river under a lilac bush. hassenreuter but my dear mr. john: god forbid that that be true! mrs. john that's a lie! my brother don' do nothin' like that. john aw, don' he though, jette? mr. hassenreuter, i was sayin' the other day what kind of a brother that is! [_he notices the bunch of lilacs and takes it from the table._] look at this here! that there monster's been in my home! if he comes back i'll be the first one that'll take him, bound hand an' foot, an' deliver him up to justice! [_he searches through the whole room._ mrs. john you c'n tell dam' fools there's such a thing as justice. there ain't no justice, not even in heaven. there wasn't a soul here. an' that bit o' lilac i brought along from hangelsberg where a big bush of it grows behind your sister's house. john jette, you wasn't at my sister's at all. quaquaro jus' told me that! they proved that at headquarters. you was seen in the park by the river ... mrs. john lies! john an' 'way out in the suburbs where you passed the night in a arbour! mrs. john what? d'you come into your own house to tear everythin' into bits? john all right! i ain't sorry that things has come to this. there ain't no more secrets between us here. i foretold all that. hassenreuter [_tense with interest._] did that polish girl who fought like a lioness for mrs. knobbe's baby the other day ever show herself again? john she's the very one. she's the one what they pulled out o' the water this morning. an' i has to say it without bitin' my tongue off: bruno mechelke took that girl's life. hassenreuter [_quickly._] then she was probably his mistress? john ask mother! i don' know about that! that's what i was scared of; that's the reason i rather didn't come home at all no more, that my own wife was loaded down with a crowd like that an' didn't have the strength to shake it off. hassenreuter come, children! john why so? you jus' stay! mrs. john you don' has to go an' open the windows an' cry out everythin' for all the world to hear! it's bad enough if fate's brought a misfortune like that on us. go on! make a noise about it if you want to. but you won't see me very soon again. hassenreuter and you mean to say that that ... john that's jus' what i'll do! jus' that! i'll call in anybody as wants to know--outa the street, offa the hall, the carpenter outa the yard, the boys an' the girls what takes their confirmation lessons--i'll call 'em all an' i'll tell 'em what a woman got into on account o' her fool love for her brother! hassenreuter and so that good-looking girl who laid claim to the child is actually dead to-day? john maybe she was good-lookin'. i don' know nothin' about that, whether she was pretty or ugly. but it's a fac' that she's lyin' in the morgue this day. mrs. john i c'n tell you what she was! she was a common, low wench! she had dealin's with a tyrolese feller that didn't want to have nothin' more to do with her an' she had a child by him. an' she'd ha' liked to kill that child while it was in her own womb. then she came to fetch it with that kielbacke what's been in prison eighteen months as a professional baby-killer. whether she had any dealin's with bruno, i don' know! maybe so an' maybe not! an' anyhow, i don' see how it concerns me what bruno's gone an' done. hassenreuter so you _did_ know the girl in question, mrs. john? mrs. john how so? i didn't know her a bit! i'm only sayin' what everybody as knows says about that there girl. hassenreuter you're an honourable woman: you're an honourable man, mr. john. this matter with your wayward brother is terrible enough as a fact, but it ought not seriously to undermine your married life. stay honest and ... john not a bit of it! i don't stay with such people; not anywhere near 'em. [_he brings his fist down on the table, taps at the walls, stamps on the floor._] listen to the crackin'! listen, how the plasterin' comes rumblin' down behind the wall-paper! everything rotten here, everythin's worm eaten! everythin's undermined by varmint an' by rats an' by mice. [_he see-saws on a loose plank in the floor._] every thin' totters! any minute the whole business might crash down into the cellar.--[_he opens the door._] selma! selma! i'm goin' to pull outa here before the whole thing just falls together into a heap o' rubbish! mrs. john what do you want o' selma? john selma is goin' to take that child an' i'll go with 'em on the train an' take it out to my sister. mrs. john you'll hear from me if you try that! oh, you jus' try it! john is my child to be brought up in surroundin's like this, an' maybe some day be driven over the roofs with bruno an' maybe end in the penitentiary? mrs. john [_cries out at him._] that ain't your child at all! y'understan'? john 's that so? well, we'll see if an honest man can't be master o' his own child what's got a mother that's gone crazy an' is in the hands of a crowd o' murderers. i'd like to see who's in the right there an' who's the stronger. selma! mrs. john i'll scream! i'll tear open the windows! mrs. hassenreuter, they wants to rob a mother o' her child! that's my right that i'm the mother o' my child! ain't that my right? ain't that so, mrs. hassenreuter? they're surroundin' me! they wants to rob me o' my rights! ain't it goin' to belong to me what i picked up like refuse, what was lyin' on rags half-dead, an' i had to rub it an' knead it all i could before it began to breathe an' come to life slowly? if it wasn't for me, it would ha' been covered with earth these three weeks! hassenreuter mr. john, to play the part of an arbitrator between married people is not ordinarily my function. it's too thankless a task and one's experiences are, as a rule, too unhappy. but you should not permit your feeling of honour, justly wounded as, no doubt, it is, to hurry you into acts that are rash. for, after all, your wife is not responsible for her brother's act. let her have the child! don't increase the misery of it all by such hardness toward your wife as must hurt her most cruelly and unnecessarily. mrs. john paul, that child's like as if it was cut outa my own flesh! i bought that child with my blood. it ain't enough that all the world's after me an' wants to take it away from me; now you gotta join 'em an' do the same! that's the thanks a person gets! why, it's like a pack o' hungry wolves aroun' me. you c'n kill me! but you can't touch my baby! john i comes home, mr. hassenreuter, only this mornin'. i comes home with all my tools on the train, jolly as c'n be. i broke off all my connections in hamburg. even if you don' earn so much, says i to myself, you'd rather be with your family, an' take up your child in your arms a little, or maybe take it on your knee a little! that was about the way i was thinkin'! mrs. john paul! here, paul! [_she goes close up to him._] you c'n tear my heart out if you want to! [_she stares long at him, then runs behind the partition, whence her loud weeping is heard._ _selma enters from the hall. she is dressed in mourning garments and carries a little wreath in her hand._ selma what is i to do? you called me, mr. john. john put on your cloak, selma. ax your mother if you c'n go an' take a trip with me to hangelsberg. you'll earn a bit o' money doin' it. all you gotta do is to take my child on your arm an' come along with me. selma no, i ain' goin' to touch that child no more. john why not? selma no; i'm afraid, mr. john! i'm that scared at the way mama an' the police lieutenant screamed at me. mrs. john [_appears._] why did they scream at you? selma [_crying vociferously._] officer schierke even slapped my face. mrs. john well, i'll see about that ... he oughta try that again. selma i can't tell why that polish girl took my little brother away. if i'd known that my little brother was goin' to die, i'd ha' jumped at her throat first. now little gundofried's coffin stands on the stairs. i believe mama has convulsions an' is lyin' down in quaquaro's alcove. an' me they wants to take to the charity organisation, mrs. john. [_she weeps._ mrs. john then you c'n be reel happy. they can't treat you worse'n you was treated at home. selma an' i gotta go to court! an' maybe they'll take me to gaol! mrs. john on account o' what? selma because they says i took the child what the polish girl had up in the loft an' carried it down to you. hassenreuter so a child actually was born up there. selma certainly. hassenreuter in _whose_ loft? selma why, where them actors lives! it ain't none o' my business! how is i to know anythin' about it? all i c'n say is ... mrs. john you better hurry on about your business now, selma! you got a clean conscience! you don' has to care for what people jabber. selma an' i don' want to betray nothin' neither, mrs. john. john [_grasps selma, who is about to run away, and holds her fast._] naw, you ain't goin'! here you stays! the truth! "i don' want to betray nothin'," you says. you heard that, too, mrs. hassenreuter? an' mr. spitta an' the young lady here heard it too. the truth! you ain't goin' to leave this here spot before i don' know the rights o' this matter about bruno an' his mistress, an' if you people did away with that child! mrs. john paul, i swear before god that i ain't done away with it! john well ...? out with what you know, girl! i been seein' for a long time that there's been some secret scheming between you an' my wife. there ain't no use no more in all that winkin' an' noddin'. is that child dead or alive? selma no, that child is alive all right. hassenreuter the one, you mean, that you carried down here under your apron or in some such way? john if it's dead you c'n be sure that you an' bruno'll both be made a head shorter'n you are! selma i'm tellin' you the child is alive. hassenreuter but you said at first that you hadn't brought down any child at all. john an' you pretend to know nothin' o' that whole business, mother? [_mrs. john stares at him; selma gazes helplessly and confusedly at mrs. john._] mother, you got rid o' the child o' bruno an' that polish wench an' then, when people came after it, you went an' substitooted that little crittur o' knobbe's. walburga [_very pale and conquering her repugnance._] tell me, mrs. john, what happened on that day when i so foolishly took flight up into the loft at papa's coming? i'll explain that to you later, papa. on that occasion, as became clear to me later, i saw the polish girl twice: first with mrs. john and then with her brother. hassenreuter you, walburga? walburga yes, papa. alice rütterbusch was with you that day, and i had made an engagement to meet erich here. he came to see you finally but failed to meet me because i kept hidden. hassenreuter i can't say that i have any recollection of that. mrs. hassenreuter [_to her husband._] the girl has really passed more than one sleepless night on account of this matter. hassenreuter well, mrs. john, if you are inclined to attach any weight to the opinion of a former jurist who exchanged the law for an artistic career only after having been plucked in his bar examination--in that case let me assure you that, under the circumstances, ruthless frankness will prove your best defense. john jette, where did you put that there child? the head detective told me--i jus' remember it now--that they're still huntin' aroun' for the child o' the dead woman! jette, for god's sake, don't you have 'em suspect you o' layin' hands on that there newborn child jus' to get the proofs o' your brother's rascality outa the world! mrs. john _me_ lay hands on little adelbert, paul? john nobody ain't talkin' o' adelbert here. [_to selma._] i'll knock your head off for you if you don' tell me this minute what's become o' the child o' bruno an' the polish girl! selma why, it's behind your own partition, mr. john! john where is it, jette? mrs. john i ain't goin' to tell that. _the child begins to cry._ john [_to selma._] the truth! or i'll turn you over to the police, y'understan'? see this rope? i'll tie you hand and foot! selma [_involuntarily, in the extremity of her fear._] it's cryin' now! you know that child well enough. mr. john. john me? [_utterly at sea he looks first at selma, then at hassenreuter. suddenly a suspicion flashes upon him as he turns his gaze upon his wife. he believes that he is beginning to understand and wavers._ mrs. john don't you let a low down lie like that take you in, paul! it's all invented by the fine mother that girl has outa spite! paul, why d'you look at me so? selma that's low of you, mother john, that you wants to make me out so bad now. then i won't be careful neither not to let nothin' out! you know all right that i carried the young lady's child down here an' put it in the nice, clean bed. i c'n swear to that! i c'n take my oath on that! mrs. john lies! lies! you says that my child ain't my child! selma why, you ain't had no child at all, mrs. john! mrs. john [_embraces her husband's knees._] oh, that ain't true at all! john you leave me alone, henrietta! don' dirty me with your hands! mrs. john paul, i couldn't do no different. i had to do that, i was deceived myself an' then i told you about it in my letter to hamburg an' then you was so happy an' i couldn't disappoint you an' i thought: it's gotta be! we c'n has a child this way too an' then ... john [_with ominous calmness._] lemme think it over, jette. [_he goes to the chest of drawers, opens a drawer and flings the baby linen and baby dresses that he finds therein into the middle of the room._] c'n anybody understan' how week after week, an' month after month, all day long an' half the nights she could ha' worked on this trash till her fingers was bloody? mrs. john [_gathers up the linen and the dresses in insane haste and hides them carefully in the table drawer and elsewhere._] paul, don' do that! you c'n do anythin' else! it's like tearin' the last rag offa my naked body! john [_stops, grasps his forehead and sinks into a chair._] if that's true, mother, i'll be too ashamed to show my face again. [_he seems to sink into himself, crosses his arms over his head and hides his face._ hassenreuter mrs. john, how could you permit yourself to be forced into a course of so much error and deception? you've entangled yourself in the most frightful way! come, children! unhappily there is nothing more for us to do here. john [_gets up._] you might as well take me along with you, sir. mrs. john go on! go on! i don' need you! john [_turning to her, coldly._] so you bargained for that there kid someway an' when its mother wanted it back you got bruno to kill her? mrs. john you ain't no husband o' mine! how could that be! you been bought by the police! you took money to give me up to my death! go on, paul, you ain't human even! you got poison in your eyes an' teeth like wolves'! go on an' whistle so they'll come an' take me! go on, i says! now i see the kind o' man you is an' i'll despise you to the day o' judgment! [_she is about to run from the room when policeman schierke and quaquaro appear._ schierke hold on! nobody can't get outa this room. john come right in, emil! you c'n come in reel quiet, officer. everything in order here an' all right. quaquaro don't get excited, paul! this here don' concern you! john [_with rising rage._] did you laugh, emil? quaquaro man alive, why should i? only mr. schierke is to take that there little one to the orphan house in a cab. schierke yessir! that's right. where is the child? john how is i to know where all the brats offa junk heaps that witches use in their doin's gets to in the end? watch the chimney! maybe it flew outa there on a broomstick. mrs. john paul!--now it _ain't_ to live! no, outa spite! now it don' _has_ to live! now it's gotta go down under the ground with me! [_with lightning-like rapidity she has run behind the partition and reappears at once with the child and makes for the door. hassenreuter and spitta throw themselves in front of the desperate woman, intent on saving the child._ hassenreuter stop! i'll interfere now! i have the right to do so at this point! whomever the little boy may belong to--so much the worse if its mother has been murdered--it was born on my premises! forward, spitta! fight for it, my boy! here your propensities come properly into play! go on! careful! that's it! bravo! be as careful as though it were the christ child! bravo! that's it! you yourself are at liberty, mrs. john. we don't restrain you. you must only leave us the little boy. _mrs. john rushes madly out._ schierke here you stays! mrs. hassenreuter the woman is desperate. stop her! hold her! john [_with a sudden change._] look out for mother! mother! stop her! catch hold o' her! mother! mother! _selma, schierke and john hurry after mrs. john. spitta, hassenreuter, mrs. hassenreuter and walburga busy themselves about the child, which lies on the table._ hassenreuter [_carefully wrapping the infant._] the horrible woman may be desperate for all i care! but for that reason she needn't destroy the child. mrs. hassenreuter but, dearest papa, isn't it quite evident that the woman has pinned her love, silly to the point of madness as it is, to this very infant? thoughtless and harsh words may actually drive the unhappy creature to her death. hassenreuter i used no harsh words, mama. spitta an unmistakable feeling assures me that the child has only now lost its mother. quaquaro that's true. its father ain't aroun' an' don' want to have nothin' to do with it. he got married yesterday to the widow of a man who owned a merry-go-roun'! its mother was no better'n she should be! an' if mrs. kielbacke was to take care of it, it'd die like ten outa every dozen what she boards. the way things has come aroun' now--it'll have to die too. hassenreuter unless our father above who sees all things has differently determined. quaquaro d'you mean paul, the mason? not now! no sir! i knows him! he's a ticklish customer where his honour is concerned. mrs. hassenreuter just look how the child lies there! it's incomprehensible! fine linen--even lace! neat and sweet as a doll! it makes one's heart ache to think how suddenly it has become an utterly forlorn and forsaken orphan. spitta where i judge in israel ... hassenreuter you would erect a monument to mrs. john! it may well be that many an element of the heroic, much that is hiddenly meritorious, lurks in these obscure fates and struggles. but not even kohlhaas of kohlhaasenbrück with his mad passion for justice could fight his way through! let us use practical christianity! perhaps we could permanently befriend the child. quaquaro you better keep your hands offa that! hassenreuter why? quaquaro unless you're crazy to get rid o' money an' are anxious for all the worries an' the troubles you'll have with the public charities an' the police an' the courts. hassenreuter for such things i have no time to spare, i confess. spitta won't you admit that a genuinely tragic fatality has been active here? hassenreuter tragedy is not confined to any class of society. i always told you that! _selma, breathless, opens the outer door._ selma mr. john! mr. john! oh, mr. john! mrs. hassenreuter mr. john isn't here. what do you want, selma? selma mr. john, you're to come out on the street! hassenreuter quiet, quiet now! what is the matter? selma [_breathlessly._] your wife ... your wife ... the whole street's crowded ... 'buses an' tram-cars ... nobody can't get through ... her arms is stretched out ... your wife's lyin' on her face down there. mrs. hassenreuter why, what has happened? selma lord! lord god in heaven! mrs. john has killed herself. the end page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id= punaaaamaaj&printsec magda a play in four acts _by_ hermann sudermann _translated from the german by_ charles edward amory winslow * * * copyright, , by lamson, wolffe and company. assignment of above copyright to emanuel lederer, west d street, new york city, recorded in assignment book v. page , june , , washington, d. c. * * * caution.-professionals and amateurs are hereby notified that this play is fully copyrighted under the existing laws of the united states government, and nobody is allowed to do this play without first having obtained permission of samuel french, west d street, new york city, u. s. a. _copyright, _, by lamson, wolffe, and company. magda characters lieutenant-colonel leopold schwartz. pastor heffterdingt dr. von kellner max major-general von klebs prof. beckmann mrs. schwartz, the stepmother magda schwartz \ > sisters marie schwartz / franziska mrs. general von klebs mrs. justice ellrich mrs. schumann theresa, the schwartzs' maid * * * synopsis scene--the schwartzs' home. act i.--afternoon. act ii.--evening of the same day. act iii.--the next morning. act iv.--the same morning. note. herr hermann sudermann has achieved surprising success in passing from novel-writing to dramatic authorship. he has a style of the utmost distinction, and is well skilled in technique. his masterpiece, "heimat," is absolutely original. no play has ever produced a more impressive effect upon german audiences. when it ceases to be performed, it will still hold a permanent and important place in the libraries of dramatic literature. though a psychological study, there is no concentration of attention upon morbid conditions. all these have passed before the play begins. there is no passion for mere passion's sake. its development proceeds from the energies of circumstances and character. herr sudermann, unlike some of the new dramatists, is not lacking in humor; and the snobbishness, stuffy etiquette, and scandal-mongering of a provincial town are well illustrated by the minor characters. into this atmosphere comes the whirlwind from the outer world with fatal effect. it is scarcely possible to conceive more varied and intense emotions naturally and even inevitably evolved from the action of a single day. the value of the drama lies in the sharp contrasts between the new and the old, alternately commanding, in their strife, the adhesion of the spectator or reader. the preparation for the return of "the prodigal daughter" occupies an entire act, and invests her entrance with an interest which increases until the tremendous climax. yet the proud martinet father commands our respect and sympathy; and the pastor, in his enlightened self-conquest, is the antithesis alike of the narrowness and lawlessness of parent and child, and remains the hero of the swift tragedy. it is not uncommon that the scrupulousness attending circumstances where partiality would be a natural impulse, makes criticism even unusually exacting. it is believed that in this spirit the present translation may be somewhat confidently characterized as being both spirited and faithful. e. w. the oxford. _january_, . persons. schwartze, _lieutenant-colonel on half-pay_. magda, \ > _his children by his first wife_. marie, / augusta, _born_ von wendlowski, _his second wife_. franziska von wendlowski, _her sister_. max von wendlowski, _lieutenant, their nephew_. heffterdingt, _pastor of st. mary's_. dr. von keller, _councillor_. beckmann, _professor emeritus_. von klebs, _major-general on half-pay_. mrs. von klebs. mrs. justice ellrich. mrs. schumann. theresa, _maidservant of the schwartze family_. _place_. the principal city of a province. _time_. the present. magda. act i. scene. _living-room in house of_ lieutenant-colonel schwartze, _furnished in simple and old-fashioned style. left, at back, a glass door with white curtains through which the dining-room is seen. there is also a hall door, through which a staircase to the upper story is visible. right, a corner window, with white curtains, surrounded by ivy. left, a door to the_ lieutenant-colonel's _room. steel engravings of a religious and patriotic character, in tarnished gold frames, photographs of military groups, and cases of butterflies on the walls. right, over the sofa, among other pictures, is the portrait of the first mrs. schwartze, young and charming, in the costume of the sixties. behind the sofa, an old-fashioned desk. before the window, a small table with workbox and hand sewing-machine. at the back, between the doors, an old-fashioned tall clock. in the left-hand corner, a stand with dried grasses; in front, a table with a small aquarium. left, in front, a corner sofa with a small pipe-cupboard behind it. a stove with a stuffed bird on it; and behind, a bookcase with a bust of the old emperor william._ [marie _and_ theresa _discovered_. theresa _at the door_. marie _is occupied with the sewing-machine_.] theresa. miss marie! marie. well! theresa. is your father still lying down? marie. what's the matter? has any one called? theresa. no, but-- there! look at that! [_producing a magnificent mass of flowers_.] marie. good heavens! take it to my room quickly, or papa-- but, theresa, when the first came yesterday, weren't you told not to let any more be left? theresa. i'd have sent the florist's boy away if i could, but i was up on the ladder fixing the flag, and he laid it down and was gone before i could stop him. my, my, though, they're beautiful! and if i might make a guess, the lieutenant-- marie. you may not make a guess. theresa. all right, all right. oh, i know what i wanted to ask. does the flag hang well? [marie _looks out, and nods assent_.] theresa. the whole town is full of flags and flowers, and the most expensive tapestries are hung out of the windows. one would think it was the king's birthday. and all this fuss is about a stupid music festival! what is this music festival, miss marie? is it different from a choral festival? marie. yes, indeed. theresa. is it better? marie. oh, much better! theresa. oh, well, if it's better-- [_a knock_.] marie. come in! _enter_ max. theresa. well, _now_ i suppose i can leave the flowers. [_exit_ theresa, _laughing_. marie. you ought to be ashamed of yourself, max. max. what on earth do you mean? marie. aren't these flowers yours? max. good heavens! i can afford a few pennies for a bunch of violets once in a while, but this-- oh, no! marie. nor yesterday's? max. no, nor yesterday's. [marie _rings_.] _enter_ theresa. marie. please throw these flowers away. theresa. what! throw those beautiful flowers away? marie. you are right. the pastor would say, "if god's gifts do not please us, we must at least take care that they give pleasure to others." wouldn't he? max. probably he would. marie. then you had better take them back to the florist's. did they come from zimmerman's? [theresa _nods_.] well, we'll sell them if we can, and give the money to pastor heffterdingt for his hospital. theresa. shall i go now? marie. after you have made the coffee. i'll serve it myself. [_exit_ theresa.] these flowers are an insult! i need not tell you, max, that i have given no one the shadow of an excuse for such a thing. max. i'm very sure of that. marie. and papa was so angry. he simply stormed. and i was quiet because i suspected it was you. if he got hold of the poor fellow, it would go hard with him. max. do you think it would be any better if i got hold of him? marie. what rights have you in the case? max. marie! [_takes her hand_.] marie. [_gently disengaging herself_.] oh, max, please--not that. you know every corner of my heart. but we must think of the proprieties. max. proprieties! oh, pshaw! marie. well, you know what a world we live in. here, every one is afraid of every one else because each depends upon the good opinion of the other. if a few anonymous flowers can make me talked of, how much more-- max. oh, yes, i know. marie. [_laying her hand on his shoulder_.] max, you'll speak again to aunt frankie, won't you, about the guaranty[ ] of your income? max. i have already. marie. well? max. [_shrugging his shoulders_.] as long as she lives, not a penny. marie. then there's only one person who can help us. max. your father? marie. no. for heaven's sake, don't let him hear of it. he might forbid you the house. max. what has he against me? marie. you know how he has been since our misfortune. he feels that there is a blot to be wiped out; and especially now, when the whole town echoes with music,--when everything recalls magda. max. what if she should come back, some day? marie. after twelve years? she will never come. [_weeps_.] max. marie! marie. you're right, you're right. i will put it away from me. max. but who is the one person who can help us? marie. why, the pastor! max. yes, yes, he might. marie. he can do everything. he stirs your very heart--as if-- and then he seems like a kind of relation. he should have been my brother-in-law. max. yes, but she wouldn't have it so. marie. don't speak angrily, max. she must have made atonement. [_a ring_.] oh, perhaps this is he. max. no, no, i forgot to tell you. councillor von keller asked me to bring him here to-day. marie. what does he want? max. he wants to interest himself in the missions--no, it's in our home work particularly, i think. i don't know-- well, at any rate he wants to come to the committee meeting tomorrow. marie. i'll call father and mother. [_enter_ theresa _with a card_.] show him in. [_exit_ theresa.] entertain him until i come back. [_gives him her hand_.] and we'll talk again about the pastor some other time? max. in spite of the proprieties? marie. oh, max, i've been too forward! haven't i? max. marie! marie. no, no--we won't speak of it. good-by. [_exit_ marie. _enter_ von keller. max. you must content yourself with me for a few minutes, my dear von keller. [_they shake hands_.] von keller. with pleasure, my good sir, with pleasure. [_sits_.] how our little town is changed by the festival! it really seems as if we were in the great world. max. [_laughing_.] i advise you not to say that aloud. von keller. what did i say? i assure you i did not mean anything. if such a misunderstanding got abroad-- max. you have nothing to fear from me! von keller. oh, of course not. ah, how much better it would be to know nothing of the outer world! max. how long were you away? von keller. five years, with examinations and being sent down to commissioners and all that. well, now i am back again. i drink home-brewed beer; i patronize local tailors; i have even, with a noble fearlessness of death, eaten the deer-steak of the season; and this i call pleasure! yes, youth, travel, and women are good things; but the world must be ruled, and sober men are needed. your time will come some day. the years of honor are approaching. yes, yes, especially when one joins the ecclesiastical courts. max. are you going to do that? von keller. i think of it. and to be at one with those of the cloth-- i speak quite openly with you--it is worth my while, in short, to interest myself in religious questions. i have of late in my speeches, as perhaps you know, taken this position; and as for the connections which this household has--let me tell you i am proud of them. max. you might have been proud long ago. von keller. excuse me, am i over-sensitive? or do i read a reproach in your words? max. not quite that, but--if you will pardon me, it has sometimes appeared--and not to me alone--as if you avoided the houses where my uncle's family were to be found. von keller. and my presence here now--does not that prove the contrary? max. exactly. and therefore i too will speak very frankly. you were the last person to meet my lost cousin, magda. von keller. [_confused_.] who says-- max. you yourself have spoken of it, i am told. you met her with my friend heydebrand when he was at the military academy. von keller. yes, yes, it's true. max. it was wrong of me not to ask you about her openly, but you will probably understand my reticence. i feel almost as if i belonged to this family and i feared to learn something which might disgrace it. von keller. oh, not at all, not in the least. it was like this. when i was in berlin for the state examinations, i saw one day on leipsic street a familiar face,--a home face, if i may say so. you know what that is when one is far away. well, we spoke to each other. i learned that she was studying to sing in opera, and that for this purpose she had left her home. max. not exactly. she left home to be companion to an old lady. [_hesitates_.] there was a difference with her father. von keller. a love affair? max. in a way. her father supported the suitor and told her to obey or leave his house. von keller. and she went away? max. yes. then, a year later, when she wrote that she was going on the stage, it made the breach complete. but what else did you hear? von keller. that's all. max. nothing else? von keller. well, well,--i met her once or twice at the opera-house where she had a pass. max. and you know absolutely nothing of her life? von keller. [_with a shrug_.] have you heard nothing from her? max. nothing at all. well, at any rate, i am grateful to you. i beg you, however, not to mention the meeting to my uncle, unless he asks you about it directly. he knows of it, of course, but the name of the lost daughter is never mentioned in this house. von keller. oh, i have tact enough not to do that. max. and what do you think has become of her? von keller. oh, music is a lottery. ten thousand blanks and one prize. a host of beginners and but one who makes a career. if one becomes a patti or a sembrich, or, to come down to our own festival-- _enter_ schwartze _and_ mrs. schwartze. schwartze. [_shaking hands_.] welcome to my house! councillor von keller, my wife. mrs. schwartze. pray sit down. von keller. i should not have dared, madam, to ask the honor of this introduction had i not wished so strongly to share in the good and useful work which centres here. my purpose may excuse my temerity. schwartze. you're very kind; but you do us too much honor. if you seek the centre of the whole movement, pastor heffterdingt is the man. he inspires all; he controls all; he-- mrs. schwartze. do you know our pastor, sir? von keller. i have heard him speak many times, dear lady, and have admired equally the sincerity of his convictions and his naïve faith in human nature. but i cannot comprehend the influence he exerts. mrs. schwartze. you will find it out. he is so plain and simple that one hardly realizes what a man he is. he brings every one round. von keller. i am almost converted already, dear lady. schwartze. as for us here, all i can do is to give these weak and useless hands to help on the great work. it's only right that an old soldier should dedicate the little strength left him by the throne to the service of the altar. those are the two causes to fight for. von keller. that's a great thought! schwartze. thanks, thanks, but no more of this. ah, ten years ago, when they gave me my discharge, i was a devil of a fellow. max, doesn't my old battalion still tremble at my name? max. that they do, uncle. schwartze. ah, that is one thing you escape in the civil service,--being laid on the shelf without any fault of your own,--without the shadow of a fault. then there came a slight stroke of apoplexy. see how my hand trembles now! and what had i to look forward to? it was then that my young friend, heffterdingt, showed me the way, through work and prayer, to a new youth. without him i never should have found it. mrs. schwartze. you mustn't believe all he says, mr. von keller. if he didn't always depreciate himself, he would be better thought of in the highest circles. von keller. high and low, madam, everywhere your husband is known and honored. schwartze. [_lighting up_.] indeed? ah, well, no vanity. no, no, that is the moth that corrupts. mrs. schwartze. is it really so wrong to wish for a little honor? von keller. oh! schwartze. what is honor? you would call it being led up the room by the governor, or being asked to tea at the castle when the royal family is here. mrs. schwartze. you know very well that the latter honor has never fallen to my lot. schwartze. oh, yes, pardon me. i knew your weak spot. i should have avoided it. mrs. schwartze. yes, just think, councillor, mrs. fanny hirschfeld of the children's hospital was invited, and i was not. von keller. [_deprecatingly_.] oh! schwartze. [_laughing, and stroking her head_.] ah, the moth that corrupts, the moth that corrupts! [_enter_ marie _with the coffee. she bows in a friendly way to_ von keller.] herr von keller, my daughter--my only daughter. von keller. i've already had the pleasure. marie. i can't offer you a hand for welcome, dr. von keller, but you may have a cup of coffee instead. von keller. [_helping himself and looking at the others_.] i am very fortunate in being treated like an old acquaintance of the family. schwartze. as far as we are concerned, you shall become not only an acquaintance but a friend. and that is no conventional politeness, councillor; for i know you, and in these times, when all the ties of morality and authority seem strained to bursting, it is doubly necessary that those who stand for the good old patriarchal order should hold together. von keller. very true, very true indeed. one doesn't hear such sentiments as that in the world in general, where modern ideas pass current for small change. schwartze. modern ideas! oh, pshaw! i know them. but come into the quiet homes where are bred brave soldiers and virtuous wives. there you'll hear no talk about heredity, no arguments about individuality, no scandalous gossip. there modern ideas have no foothold, for it is there that the life and strength of the fatherland abide. look at this home! there is no luxury,--hardly even what you call good taste,--faded rugs, birchen chairs, old pictures; and yet when you see the beams of the western sun pour through the white curtains and lie with such a loving touch on the old room, does not something say to you, "here dwells true happiness"? [von keller _nods with conviction_.] schwartze. [_broodingly_.] and here it might have dwelt! marie. [_hurrying to him_.] papa! schwartze. yes, yes, i know. well, in this house rules old-fashioned paternal authority. and it shall rule as long as i live. and am i therefore a tyrant? tell me. you ought to know. marie. you're the best, the dearest-- mrs. schwartze. he is so excitable, you see, councillor. schwartze. have you not been well brought up? and shall we not hold together, we three? but the age goes on planting rebellion in children's hearts, putting mistrust between man and wife [_rises_], and it will never be satisfied till the last roof-tree smokes in ruins, and men wander about the streets, fearful and alone, like homeless curs. [_sinks back exhausted_.] mrs. schwartze. you ought not to get so wrought up, papa. you know it is bad for you. [max _makes a sign to_ von keller.] von keller. shall i go? [max _nods_.] this is an interesting subject to develop, colonel. i must say i think perhaps you are a little severe. but my time-- schwartze. severe? ah, well, don't think ill of an old man for speaking a little too hotly. von keller. ah, sir, heat is the badge of youth. i believe i am a graybeard beside you. schwartze. no, no. [_presses his hand_.] von keller. madam! miss marie! [_exit_. max _follows him_.] schwartze. greet the battalion for me, my boy. max. i will, dear uncle. [_exit_. mrs. schwartze. a very agreeable man. marie. almost too agreeable. schwartze. you are speaking of our guest! [mrs. schwartze _makes_ marie _a sign to be careful_.] marie. will you have your pipe, papa? schwartze. yes, dear. mrs. schwartze. the gentlemen of the card-club will be here soon. how lucky that we didn't eat the haunch of venison sunday! i've ordered some red wine for the general, too. i paid three marks; that's not too dear, is it? schwartze. not if it's good. is your sister coming to-day? mrs. schwartze. i think so. schwartze. she was asked to the governor's yesterday, wasn't she? mrs. schwartze. [_sighing_.] yes. schwartze. and we were not. poor thing! she must look out for me to-day if she boasts. [_aside_] old cat! marie. [_kneels before him, lighting his pipe_.] be good, father dear. what harm does it do you? schwartze. yes, yes, darling. i'll be good. but my heart is sore. [_bell rings_. marie _hurries out_.] mrs. schwartze. here they are. _enter_ major-general von klebs, professor beckmann, _and_ marie. von klebs. my humblest respects to the ladies. ah, my dear madam! [_kisses her hand_.] mrs. schwartze. make yourselves at home, gentlemen. von klebs. ha, my dear colonel, hearty as ever? all ready for the fray, little one? now we are all right. but we were almost too late. we were caught in the music festival crowd. such a confusion! i was bringing the schoolmaster along, and just as we passed by the german house, there was a great crush of people, gaping as if there were a princess at the least. and what do you suppose it was? a singer! these are really what one may call goings-on. all this fuss about a singer! what do they call the person? beckmann. ah, general, we seem to be in a strange land to-day. von klebs. we are under a curse, my dear madam. we are bearing a penance. [_they sit_.] beckmann. but you must know dall' orto, the great italian wagner singer. we are very fortunate in getting her for the festival. if she were not here-- von klebs. well, well, what if she were not? eh? i hoped that our strictly moral circle, at least, would hold itself aloof from all this. but since the governor gives receptions in the lady's honor! and, best of all, to cap the climax, who do you think was standing to-day among the enthusiasts, craning his neck like the rest? you'll never guess. it's too inconceivable. the pastor! schwartze. the pastor? von klebs. yes, our pastor. schwartze. how extraordinary! von klebs. now, i ask you, what did he want there? and what did the others want there? and what good is the whole festival? beckmann. i should think that the cultivation of the faculty of the ideal among the people was an object-- von klebs. the way to cultivate the faculty of the ideal is to found a soldiers' union. schwartze. but, general, every one isn't so lucky as to be a soldier. von klebs. [_sorting his cards_.] well, we have been, colonel. i know no one, i wish to know no one, who has not been a soldier. and all this so-called art,--what good does it do? beckmann. art raises the moral tone of the people. von klebs. there we have it, madam!--we're beaten, beaten by the hero of königgrätz.--i tell you art is a mere invention of those who are afraid to be soldiers to gain an important position for themselves. i pass. schwartze. i pass. beckmann. and will you maintain that art-- i have the nine of spades. [_bell rings. exit_ marie. von klebs _makes an impatient movement_. schwartze _quiets him. they begin to play_.] _enter_ franziska, _followed by the_ pastor. von klebs. ah, miss franziska! [_aside_] that is the end of us! schwartze. no, no, we'll send her into the garden. franziska. [_throwing herself into a chair_.] oh, i am so hot! i must get my breath. pray don't put yourself out, general. beckmann. nine of spades! von klebs. hello, here's the pastor too! heffterdingt. good-day to you! [_he shakes hands with each_.] von klebs. how long have you been running after the singers. pastor? heffterdingt. what? oh, yes. yes, i am running after singers. that's my occupation now. schwartze. you can play with our card party though, can't you? heffterdingt. unfortunately, no. i must, on the contrary, ask for a few serious words with you, my dear sir. von klebs. ah, but you'll put it off, won't you, pastor? franziska. oh, for heaven's sake! it's so important. there must be no delay. schwartze. is my sister-in-law in it too? franziska. very much so. von klebs. oh, well, we can go away again. mrs. schwartze. oh, we shouldn't like that at all. schwartze. if it were not you, dear pastor, who separated us! mrs. schwartze. but perhaps, marie, the gentlemen would be willing to take a turn with you in the garden. von klebs. certainly! that's good! that's famous! that's what we'll do! miss marie, be so good as to lead the way. beckmann. shall we leave the cards as they lie? von klebs. yes, you have the nine of spades. come on. [_exit_ von klebs, beckmann, _and_ marie. schwartze. well? franziska. good lord, don't you see how upset i am? you might at least give me a glass of water. [mrs. schwartze _brings it_.] heffterdingt. will you promise me, my dear sir, that whatever may happen you will preserve your calmness? you may believe me, much depends upon it. schwartze. yes, yes; but what-- heffterdingt. miss franziska will tell you better. franziska. [_after drinking the water_.] this is a day indeed! fate is avenging me. this man has for years outraged my holiest feelings, but today i can heap coals of fire on his head. [_moved_.] brother-in-law, give me your hand. sister, yours. heffterdingt. pardon me, dear miss franziska, i think your news is so important that-- franziska. [_melting_.] don't be angry, don't be angry. i am so upset! well, yesterday i was at the governor's. only the nobility and the most important people were asked. you weren't asked? schwartze. [_angrily_.] no. franziska. i did not mean to offend you. oh, i am so upset! [_suppressing a sob at a sign from the_ pastor.] yes, yes, yes. i had on my yellow silk dress with the brussels lace--you know i've had the train shortened. well, as i stepped into the room--whom do you think i saw? schwartze. well, well, who? franziska. [_sobbing_.] your child! magdalene! [schwartze _staggers, and is supported by the_ pastor. mrs. schwartze _cries out. a pause._] schwartze. pastor? heffterdingt. it is true. schwartze. [_standing up_.] magdalene is no longer my child. franziska. ah, just wait. if you listen, you'll look at it in quite another light. such a child you will welcome with open arms. schwartze. magdalene is no longer my child. heffterdingt. but you may at least hear the circumstances. schwartze. [_dazed_.] yes, i suppose so. franziska. [_at a sign from_ heffterdingt.] well, the great dining-hall was crammed. they were almost all strangers. then i saw his excellency coming down the room. and on his arm was a lady-- mrs. schwartze. on his excellency's arm? franziska. with dark hair, and very proud and tall--and around her a crowd of men just like the circle about royalty--and chatting and laughing. and any one to whom she spoke seemed as happy as if it were the princess. and she wore half a dozen orders, and an orange band with a medal about her neck. i was wondering what royal personage it could be--when she turned half around--and--i knew magda's eyes! schwartze. impossible! franziska. that is what i saw! heffterdingt. my dear colonel, it is true. schwartze. if she-- [_clasping his hands_.] at least she has not fallen! she has not fallen! father in heaven, thou hast kept her safely! mrs. schwartze. and what is she, to have such honor-- heffterdingt. she has become a great singer, and calls herself, in italian, maddalene dall' orto. mrs. schwartze. listen, listen, leopold, the famous singer of whom the papers are so full is our child! schwartze. magda is no longer my child. heffterdingt. is that your fixed resolve? franziska. what sort of a heart have you? you ought to imitate me. she offended me as only she could,--the little wretch! that is, then she was a little wretch. but now--well, she did not look at me; but if she had-- mrs. schwartze. leopold, she was on his excellency's arm! schwartze. i tell you, and you,--and you, too, pastor,--that i would rather have seen her lying in rags and tatters at my feet and begging for forgiveness. for then i should have known that she was still, at heart, my child. but why has she come back here? the world was large enough for her triumph. why should she rob this humble provincial nest of ours? i know why. to show her miserable father how far one can rise in the world by treading filial duty into the dust,--that is her intention. pride and arrogance speak in her, and nothing else. heffterdingt. my dear colonel, i might ask, what speaks in you? a father's love? you could make no pretence to that. your rights? i think rather it would be your right to rejoice in the good fortune of your child. offended custom? i don't know-- your daughter has done so much through her own strength that even offended custom might at least condone it. it appears to me that pride and arrogance speak in you--and nothing else. schwartze. [_angrily_.] pastor! heffterdingt. oh, don't be angry--there is no need of that. when i have something to say, i must say it, mustn't i? i might almost think that it displeased you that she has climbed so high in spite of you. your pride demands something to forgive, and you are angry because there is nothing to be forgiven. and now, let me ask you, do you seriously wish that she had found her way home, lost and ruined? do you dare answer for such a wish before the throne of god? [_a silence_.] no, my dear old friend. you have often, in jest, called me your good angel; let me be so once, in reality. come with me--now--to-day. franziska. if you'd only seen-- [heffterdingt _stops her_.] schwartze. has she made the slightest effort to approach her parents? has she thought of her home with one throb of love? who will vouch for it that my outstretched hand will not be repulsed with scorn? heffterdingt. i will vouch for it. schwartze. you? you, above all, have had a proof of her untamable pride. heffterdingt. [_with embarrassment_.] you should not have reminded me of that. _enter_ marie _with flowers, and_ theresa. marie. papa, papa, listen to what theresa-- oh! am i interrupting? schwartze. [_pulling himself together_.] what is it? marie. to-day i got some more flowers; and when i sent theresa back to the florist's, she found out it was not a man, but a lady, who had ordered them. and she couldn't sell them again; so she brought them back. [_the others exchange glances_.] heffterdingt. tell me, theresa, did they describe this lady to you? theresa. she was tall, with great dark eyes, and there was something very distinguished and foreign about her. heffterdingt. [_leads_ marie _to the back of the stage, and lays his hand on_ schwartze's _arm_.] you asked for a token of love! schwartze. [_staring at the flowers_.] from her! mrs. schwartze. they must have cost a small fortune! marie. theresa has something else very wonderful to tell, too. heffterdingt. what is it, theresa? quick! theresa. if the pastor wishes it. when i came back, the porter told me that last evening in the twilight a carriage stopped before the door; there was a lady inside. she didn't get out, but kept watching all the windows of our house where there were lights. and when he went out to ask what she wanted, she said something to her coachman, and they were gone! [_all show signs of astonishment_.] heffterdingt. that's all, theresa. [_exit_ theresa. heffterdingt. pardon us, dear miss marie, if we treat you once more like a child, and ask you to leave us alone for a moment. marie. i am so frightened at all this, pastor. [_imploringly_.] papa? schwartze. what is it, child? marie. papa, papa, do you know who this lady is? schwartze. i? no. i can only guess. marie. [_bursting out_.] magdalene--magda! magda is here! [_falling on her knees_.] oh, you will forgive her? schwartze. get up, my child. your sister is far above my poor forgiveness. heffterdingt. she is not above your love. marie. magda is here! magda herself is here! [_throws her arms about her mother's neck, weeping_.] franziska. won't any one bring me a glass of water? i am so upset! heffterdingt. are you quite resolved? [schwartze _remains motionless_.] will you let her go on her way without-- schwartze. that would be best. heffterdingt. how will it be with you if in your death-hour a longing for your lost child comes upon you, and all you can say to yourself is, "she stood before my door and i would not open it"? schwartze. [_shaken and half convinced_.] what would you have me do? must i abase myself before my runaway child? heffterdingt. no, you shall not do that. i--i--will go to her. schwartze. you? pastor--you? heffterdingt. this afternoon i waited before her hotel to see if miss franziska had not been mistaken. at a quarter to four she came out of the house and got into her carriage. marie. you saw her? mrs. schwartze. how did she look? what did she have on? heffterdingt. the performance began at four, and must be almost over now. i will wait for her again at the hotel, and will tell her that she will find your arms open to her. may i? marie. yes, yes, papa, won't you let him? mrs. schwartze. just think with whom your daughter-- schwartze. will you swear to me that no weak and personal motives are mixed with your intention,--that you do what you do in the name of our lord and saviour? heffterdingt. i swear it! schwartze. then god's will be done. [marie _gives a cry of joy_. heffterdingt _presses_ schwartze's _hand_.] schwartze. [_holding his hand, speaking softly_.] the way will be hard for you, i know. your lost youth--your pride-- heffterdingt. dear colonel, i begin to think that pride is a very poor sort of thing. it really profits us little to have it always in our mouths. i am giving back a daughter to an old father. i am giving back a home to an erring soul. that, i think, is enough. [_exit_. marie _throws herself on her father's breast, laughing and crying_.] act ii. scene _same as_ act i. _it is evening; only a slight glow of sunset still shines through the windows_. [marie _and_ theresa _discovered_.] theresa. [_bringing in a lighted lamp_.] miss marie! miss marie!--what is she staring at all the time? miss marie! marie [_starting_.] [_from the window_.] what do you want? theresa. shall i lay the supper? marie. not yet. theresa. it's half-past seven. marie. and he left at half-past six. the performance must have been over long ago. she will not come. theresa. who? is any one coming to supper? marie. no, no, no. [_as_ theresa _is going_.] theresa! do you suppose you could pick a couple of bouquets in the garden? theresa. i might try, but i couldn't tell what i was getting. it's almost pitch dark. marie. yes, yes. you may go. theresa. shall i try to pick the flowers, or-- marie. no--thank you, no. theresa. [_aside_.] what is the matter with her? [_exit_. _enter_ mrs. schwartze. mrs. schwartze. well, marie, whatever happens i've put on my other cap,--the one with the ribbons. is it straight? marie. yes, mamma dear, very nice. mrs. schwartze. hasn't aunt frankie come up yet? marie. no. mrs. schwartze. heavens! i forgot the two gentlemen entirely. and papa has locked himself up, and will hear nothing and see nothing. oh, if the general should be offended! it is our most aristocratic connection. that would be a misfortune indeed. marie. oh, mamma dear, when he hears what is the matter! mrs. schwartze. yes, yes, i know. and the pastor has not come either. marie, one minute. if she should ask you-- marie. who? mrs. schwartze. why, magda. marie. magda! mrs. schwartze. what am i to you, marie? they call it stepmother. i'm more than that, am i not? marie. certainly, mamma dear. mrs. schwartze. you see, then i could not get used to having two such big daughters. but it's all right now? [marie _nods_.] and we do love each other? marie. very much, mamma dear. [_she kisses her_.] _enter_ franziska. franziska. [_irritably_.] one's always disturbing these affecting tableaux! mrs. schwartze. what did the general say? franziska. the general? h'm, he was angry enough. "to leave us alone for an hour and a half, that's nice courtesy," he said. and i think myself-- mrs. schwartze. [_to_ marie, _very sadly_.] there, what did i tell you? franziska. well, this time i smoothed the thing over, so that the gentlemen went away in a good humor. mrs. schwartze. really! oh, i thank you, frankie, a thousand times. franziska. yes, i'm good enough to run errands and play the scullery-maid; but when it comes to being one of the family, an old aunt with her heart full of love-- marie. who has offended you, aunt frankie? franziska. yes, that's very fine. but a little while ago, when i was so upset, no one troubled himself about me one bit. to guarantee an income so that our little miss can be married, i am-- marie. aunt frankie! franziska. but as long as i live-- mrs. schwartze. what are you talking about? franziska. we know, we two. and to-day. who brought back your daughter to you? mrs. schwartze. but she hasn't yet-- franziska. i brought back your daughter to you. and who thanks me for it? and who recognizes that i have pardoned her? for i have pardoned her [_weeping_] everything! _enter_ theresa, _in great excitement_. marie. what is it, theresa? theresa. i am so frightened-- marie. what's the matter? theresa. the carriage-- marie. what carriage? theresa. the same as last night. marie. is it there? is it there? [_runs to the window_.] mamma, mamma, come, she's there--the carriage-- mrs. schwartze. why, there _is_ a carriage. marie. [_beating on the door at the left_.] papa, papa! come quickly, be merciful, come quickly! [_exit_ theresa _at a sign from_ franziska.] _enter_ schwartze. schwartze. what's the matter? marie. magda--the carriage! schwartze. good god! [_hurries to the window_.] marie. look--look! she's standing up! she's trying to look into the windows. [_clapping her hands_.] papa! papa! schwartze. what is it you have to say? marie. [_frightened_.] i? nothing. schwartze. perhaps you were going to say, "she stood before your door and you would not open it." eh? marie. yes, yes. schwartze. do you hear, wife? she stands before our door. shall we--in spite of our pride--shall we call her in? mrs. schwartze. oh, leopold, since everybody thinks so much of her-- marie. ah! she's driving away! schwartze. no, no, she's not. come, we will bring her to you. franziska. yes, yes, bring her to me, too. [_exit_ schwartze _and_ mrs. schwartze. marie. she's sitting back again! if only the carriage doesn't-- what a long time they are! they must have got downstairs. [_frightened, almost beside herself_.] there--there--oh, don't go away! magda! magda! franziska. don't scream so! what's the matter? marie. she's looking round. she's seen them. she's stopping. she's bursting open the door. she's jumped out! now! now! she's in father's arms! [_covers her face and sobs_.] oh, aunt frankie! aunt frankie! franziska. what else could a father do? since i have forgiven her, he could not--he could not hold out-- marie. she's between father and mother. oh, how grand she is! she's coming--she's coming. what a homely little thing i shall seem beside her! oh, i am so frightened! [_leans against the wall, left. a pause. voices of_ magda _and her parents are heard outside_.] _enter_ magda, _brilliantly dressed, with a large mantle, and a spanish veil on her head. she embraces_ marie. magda. my puss! my little one! how my little one has grown! my pet--my--[_kissing her passionately_]. but what's the matter? you're dizzy. come, sit down. no, no, please sit down. now. yes, you must. [_places_ marie _in an arm-chair_.] dear little hands, dear little hands! [_kneels before her, kissing and stroking her hands_.] but they're rough and red, and my darling is pale. there are rings round her eyes. schwartze. [_lays his hand lightly on her shoulder_.] magda, we are here too. magda. yes, yes--i'm entirely--[_standing up, affectionately_.] dear old papa! how white you have become! dear papa! [_taking his hand_.] but what's the matter with your hand? it's trembling. schwartze. nothing, my child. don't ask about it. magda. h'm--and you've grown handsomer with the years. i can't look at you enough. i shall be very proud with such a handsome papa. but she must get better [_indicating_ marie]. she's as white as milk. do you take iron? eh? you must take iron? [_tenderly_]. just to think that i am at home! it seems like a fairy tale. it was a capital idea of yours to call me back without any explanations--_senza complimenti_--for we've outgrown those silly misunderstandings long ago. schwartze. misunderstandings! magda. i came near driving away. would not that have been bad of me? but you must acknowledge, i have scratched at the door--very quietly, very modestly--like lady when she had run away. where is lady? her place is empty. [_whistles_.] mrs. schwartze. why, she's been dead seven years! magda. ah, _povera bestia_--yes, i forgot. and, mamma!--yes, mamma! i haven't looked at you yet. how pretty you've grown! you used to have an air of belated youth about you that was not becoming. but now you're a dear, old little mother. one wants to lay one's head quietly in your lap. i will, too. it'll do me good. ah, what fine quarrels we used to have! i was a contrary little beast. and you held up your end. but now we'll smoke the pipe of peace, sha'n't we? mrs. schwartze. you're joking with me, magda. magda. sha'n't i? mayn't i? there, there,--pure love, pure love. we will have nothing but love. we shall be the best of friends. franziska. [_who has for a long time tried to attract attention_.] and we also, eh, my dear magda? magda. _tiens, tiens_! [_examines her critically through her lorgnette_.] same as ever. always active? always, as of old, the centre of the family? franziska. oh-- magda. well, give us your hand! there. i never could bear you, and shall never learn, i'm afraid. that runs in the blood, doesn't it? franziska. i have already forgiven you. magda. really! such magnanimity! i hardly-- do you really forgive everything? from top to bottom? even that you stirred up my mother against me before she ever came into the house? that you made my father--[_puts her hand to her lips_.] _meglio tacere! meglio tacere!_ marie. [_interrupting_.] for heaven's sake, magda! magda. yes, my darling--nothing, not a word. franziska. she has a fine presence! magda. and now let me look about me! ah, everything's just the same. not a speck of dust has moved. mrs. schwartze. i hope, magda, that you won't find any specks of dust. magda. i'm sure of that, _mammina_. that wasn't what i meant. twelve years! without a trace! have i dreamed all that comes between? schwartze. you will have a great deal to tell us, magda. magda. [_starting_.] what? well, we will see, we will see. now i should like-- what would i like? i must sit still for a moment. it all comes over me so. when i think-- from that door to the window, from this table to the old bureau,--that was once my world. schwartze. a world, my child, which one never outgrows, which one never should outgrow--you have always held to that? magda. what do you mean? and what a face you make over it! yes, yes, though--that question came at the right time. i have been a fool! i have been a fool! my dear old papa, this happiness will be short. mrs. schwartze. why? magda. what do you think of me? do you think i am as free as i appear? i'm a weary, worn-out drudge who is only fortunate when the lash is on her back. schwartze. whose drudge? what lash? magda. that i can't explain, dear father. you don't know my life. you probably wouldn't understand it, either. every day, every hour has its work laid out. ah, well, now i must go back to the hotel. marie. no, magda, no. magda. yes, puss, yes. there have been six or seven men there for ever so long, waiting for an audience. but i tell you what, i must have you to-night. can't you sleep with me? schwartze. of course. that is--what do you mean--sleep where? magda. at the hotel. schwartze. what? you won't stay! you'll put such an affront on us? magda. what are you thinking of? i have a whole retinue with me. schwartze. your father's house is the place for this retinue. magda. i don't know. it is rather lively. first, there's bobo, my parrot, a darling,--he wouldn't be bad; then my pet maid, giulietta, a little demon,--i can't live without her; then my courier,--he's a tyrant, and the terror of landlords; and then we mustn't forget my teacher. franziska. he's a very old man, i hope. magda. no, he's a very young man. schwartze. [_after a silence_.] then you must have forgotten your--your _dame d'honneur_. magda. what _dame d'honneur_? schwartze. you can't travel about from country to country with a young man without-- magda. ah! does that disquiet you? i can,--be quite easy,--i can. in my world we don't trouble ourselves about such things. schwartze. what world is that? magda. the world i rule, father dear. i have no other. there, whatever i do is right because i do it. schwartze. that is an enviable position. but you are still young. there must be cases when some direction--in short, whose advice do you follow in your transactions? magda. there is no one who has the right to advise me, papa dear. schwartze. well, my child, from this hour your old father claims that right. theresa! [theresa _answers from outside_.] go to the german house and bring the baggage-- magda. [_entreatingly_.] pardon, father dear, you forget that my orders are necessary. schwartze. what?--yes, yes, i forgot. do what you will, my daughter. marie. magda--oh, magda! magda. [_taking her mantle_.] be patient, darling. we'll have a talk soon all to our two selves. and you'll all come to breakfast with me, won't you? we can have a good chat and love each other!--so much! mrs. schwartze. we--breakfast with you? magda. i want to have you all under my roof. schwartze. the roof of a hotel? magda. yes, papa dear, i have no other home. schwartze. and this? marie. don't you see how you've hurt him? _enter the_ pastor. _he stops, and seems to control strong emotion_. magda _examines him with her lorgnette_. magda. he too! let me see. mrs. schwartze. just think. she is going away again! heffterdingt. i don't know whether i am known to the lady. magda. [_mockingly_.] you're too modest, pastor. and now since i have seen you all--[_puts on her mantle_.] schwartze. [_quickly, aside_.] you must keep her. heffterdingt. i? if you are powerless, how can i-- schwartze. try! heffterdingt. [_constraining himself, with embarrassment_.] pardon me, madam, it seems very officious of me--if i--will you give me a few moments' interview? magda. what have we two to say to each other, my dear pastor? mrs. schwartze. oh, do, please! he knows best about everything. magda. [_ironically_.] indeed! marie. i may never ask you for anything again, but do this one thing for my sake! magda. [_patting her and looking from one to the other_.] well, the child asks so prettily. pastor, i am at your service. [marie _thanks her silently_.] franziska. [_aside to_ mrs. schwartze.] now he'll give her a lecture. come. schwartze. you were once the cause of my sending her from my home. to-day you must see to it that she remains. [heffterdingt _expresses doubt_.] schwartze. marie! marie. yes, papa. [_exit_ schwartze, mrs. schwartze, franziska, _and_ marie. magda. [_sits down and examines him through her lorgnette_.] so this is the man who undertakes by a five minutes' interview entirely and absolutely to break my will. that they believe in your ability to do it shows me that you are a king in your own dominions. i make obeisance. and now let me see you ply your arts. heffterdingt. i understand no arts, madam, and would avail myself of none. if they put some trust in me here, it is because they know that i seek nothing for myself. magda. [_ironically_.] that has always been the case? heffterdingt. no, madam. i had, once in my life, a strong, an intense desire. it was to have you for my wife. i need only look at you to see that i was presumptuous. since then i have put the wish away from me. magda. ah, pastor, i believe you're paying court to me now. heffterdingt. madam, if it were not discourteous-- magda. oh, then even a shepherd of souls may be discourteous! heffterdingt. i should commiserate you on the atmosphere which has surrounded you. magda. [_with mocking superiority_.] really? what do you know about my atmosphere? heffterdingt. it seems to me that it has made you forget that serious men are to be taken seriously. magda. ah! [_rising_.] well, then i will take you seriously; and i will tell you that you have always been unbearable to me, with your well-acted simplicity, your droning mildness, your-- since, however, you condescended to cast your eyes on my worthlessness and drove me from home with your suit,--since then, i have hated you. heffterdingt. it seems to me that according to this i was the foundation of your greatness. magda. you're right there. here i was parched and stifled. no, no, i don't hate you. why should i hate you so much? it's all so far, so very far, behind me. if you only knew how far! you have sat here day after day in this heavy close air, reeking of lavender, tobacco, and cough mixture, while i have felt the storm breaking about my head. pastor, if you had a suspicion of what life really is,--of the trial of strength, of the taste of guilt, of conquest, and of pleasure,--you would find yourself very comical with your clerical shop-talk. ha, ha, ha! pardon me, i don't believe such a laugh has rung through this respectable house for twelve years; for there's no one here who knows how to laugh. is there, eh? heffterdingt. no, i fear not. magda. fear, you say. that sounds as though you deprecated it. but don't you hate laughter? heffterdingt. most of us cannot laugh, madam. magda. and to those who could, laughter is sin. you might laugh yourself. what have you to be solemn about? you need not look at the world with this funereal mien. surely you have a little blond wife at home who knits industriously, and half a dozen curly heads around her, of course. it's always so in parsonages. heffterdingt. i have remained single, madam. magda. ah! [_silence_.] did i hurt you so much, then? heffterdingt. let that be, shall we not? it is so long ago. magda. [_letting her mantle fall_.] and your work,--does not that bring happiness enough? heffterdingt. thank god, it does. but if one takes it really in earnest, one cannot live only for one's self; at least, i cannot. one cannot exult in the fulness of one's personality, as you would call it. and then many hearts are opened to me-- one sees too many wounds there, that one cannot heal, to be quite happy. magda. you're a remarkable man-- i don't know--if i could only get rid of the idea that you're insincere. heffterdingt. will you let me ask you one question before you go? magda. well! heffterdingt. it is about an hour since you entered this house, your home--no, not so much. i could not have been waiting for you nearly as long as that. magda. for me? you? where? heffterdingt. in the corridor outside your room. magda. what did you want there? heffterdingt. my errand was useless, for now you are here. magda. do you mean to say that you came for me--you to whom i-- if any one had an interest in keeping me away, it was you. heffterdingt. are you accustomed to regard everything which those about you do as the result of selfish interest? magda. of course. it's so with me! [_struck by a new thought_.] or perhaps you-- no, i'm not justified in that assumption. [_sharply_.] ah, such nonsense! it is only fit for fairy tales. well, pastor, i'll own that i like you now better, much better than of old when you--what shall i say?--made an honorable proposal. heffterdingt. h'm! magda. if you could only end it all with a laugh--this stony visage of yours is so unfriendly--one is quite _sconcertata_. what do you say? _je ne trouve pas le mot_. heffterdingt. pardon me, may i ask the question now? magda. good lord, how inquisitive the holy man is! and you don't see that i was coquetting with you a little. for, to have been a man's fate,--that flatters us women,--we are grateful for it. you see i have acquired some art meanwhile. well, out with your question! heffterdingt. why--why did you come home? magda. ah! heffterdingt. was it not homesickness? magda. no. well, perhaps a very little. i'll tell you. when i received the invitation to assist at this festival--why they did me the honor, i don't know--a very curious feeling began to seethe within me,--half curiosity and half shyness, half melancholy and half defiance,--which said: "go home incognito. go in the twilight and stand before the paternal house where for seventeen years you lived in bondage. there look upon what you were. but if they recognize you, show them that beyond their narrow virtues there may be something true and good." heffterdingt. only defiance then? magda. at first, perhaps. once on the way, though, my heart beat most wonderfully, as it used to do when i'd learnt my lesson badly. and i always did learn my lessons badly. when i stood before the hotel, the german house,--just think, the german house, where the great officials and the great artists stayed,--there i had again the abject reverence as of old, as if i were unworthy to step on the old threshold. i entirely forgot that i was now myself a so-called great artist. since then, every evening i have stolen by the house,--very quietly, very humbly,--always almost in tears. heffterdingt. and nevertheless you are going away. magda. i must. heffterdingt. but-- magda. don't ask me why. i must. heffterdingt. has any one offended your pride? has any one said a word of your needing forgiveness? magda. not yet--or, yes, if you count the old cat. heffterdingt. what is there in the world which draws you away again after an hour? magda. i will tell you. i felt it the first minute i came. the paternal authority already stretches its net over me again, and the yoke stands ready beneath which i must bow. heffterdingt. but there is neither yoke nor net here. do not fear shadows. here are only wide-opened arms which wait to clasp the lost daughter to the empty breast. magda. oh, i beg you, none of that. i do not intend to furnish a pendant to the prodigal son. if i came back as a daughter, as a lost daughter, i should not hold my head up before you as i do; i should grovel in the dust in full consciousness of all my sins. [_with growing excitement_.] and that i will not do--that i cannot do--for i am what i am, and i cannot be another. [_sadly_.] and therefore i have no home--therefore i must go forth again--therefore-- _enter_ mrs. schwartze. heffterdingt. for heaven's sake, hush! mrs. schwartze. excuse me, pastor, i only wanted to know about supper. [_imploringly to_ magda, _who sits turned away with her hands before her face_.] we happen to have a warm joint to-day. you know, pastor, the gentlemen of the card-club were to be with us. now, magda, whether you're going away or not, can't you eat a mouthful in your father's house? heffterdingt. don't ask now, my dear madam. mrs. schwartze. oh, if i'm interrupting--i only thought-- heffterdingt. later. marie. [_appearing in the doorway_.] will she stay? [magda _shrinks at the sound of the voice_.] mrs. schwartze. 'sh! [_exit_ mrs. schwartze _and_ marie. heffterdingt. you have no home, miss magda? did you hear the old mother beseeching and alluring with the best that she has, though it's only a poor dish? did you hear marie's voice trembling with tears in the fear that i should not prevail? they trust me too much; they think i only need to speak the word. they don't suspect how helpless i stand here before you. look! behind that door are three people in a fever of sorrow and love. if you cross this threshold, you rob each of them of so much life. and you have no home? magda. if i have one, it is not here. heffterdingt. [_embarrassed_.] perhaps-- nevertheless you should not go. only a few days,--just not to take away the idea that you belong here. so much you owe to them! magda. [_sadly_.] i owe nothing now to any one here. heffterdingt. no? really nothing? then i must tell you about a certain day,--eleven years ago now. i was called into this house in haste, for the colonel was dying. when i came, he lay there stiff and motionless, his face drawn and white; one eye was already closed, in the other still flickered a little life. he tried to speak, but his lips only quivered and mumbled. magda. what had happened? heffterdingt. what had happened? i will tell you. he had just received a letter in which his eldest daughter bade him farewell. magda. my god! heffterdingt. it was a long time before he recovered from the apoplectic stroke. only a trembling in the right arm, which you perhaps have noticed, now remains. magda. that is indeed a debt i owe. heffterdingt. ah, if that were all, miss magda! pardon me, i call you by the name i used long ago. it springs to my lips. magda. call me what you like. go on. heffterdingt. the necessary result followed. when he received his discharge,--he will not believe in the cause, don't speak to him of it,--then his mind broke down. magda. yes, yes; that is my debt too. heffterdingt. then you see, miss magda, began my work. if i speak of it, you must not think i am pluming myself on it to you. what good would that do me? for a long, long time i nursed him, and by degrees i saw his mind revive again. first i let him collect slugs from the rose-bushes. magda. [_with a shudder_.] ugh! heffterdingt. yes, so far had it gone; then i gave him charge of some money, and then i made him my assistant in the institutions with whose management i was intrusted. there is a hospital and a soup-kitchen and an infirmary, and it makes a great deal to be done. so he became a man once more. i have tried to influence your step-mother too; not because i was greedy for power. perhaps you'll think that of me. in short, the old tension between her and marie has been slowly smoothed away. love and confidence have descended upon the house. magda. [_staring at him_.] and why did you do all this? heffterdingt. well, first it is my calling. then i did it for his sake, for i love the old man; and above all--for--your sake. [magda _starts, and points to herself interrogatively_.] heffterdingt. yes, for your sake. for this weighed upon me: the day will come when she will turn homeward,--perhaps as victor; but perhaps also as vanquished, broken and ruined in body and soul-- pardon me these thoughts, i had heard nothing of you-- in either case she shall find a home ready for her. that was my work, the work of long years; and now i implore you not to destroy it. magda. [_in anguish_.] if you knew through what i have passed, you would not try to keep me. heffterdingt. that is all shut out. this is home. let it alone; forget it. magda. how can i forget it? how dare i? heffterdingt. why should you resist when all stretch their hands out to you in rejoicing? it's very easy. let your heart speak when you see all around overflowing with love for you. magda. [_in tears_.] you make me a child again. [_a pause_.] heffterdingt. then you will stay? magda. [_springing up_.] but they must not question me! heffterdingt. must not question you? magda. about my life outside there. they wouldn't understand,--none of them; not even you. heffterdingt. well, then, they sha'n't. magda. and you will promise me, for yourself and for the others? heffterdingt. yes, i can promise it. magda. [_in a stifled voice_.] call them, then. heffterdingt. [_opening the door on the left_.] she will stay. _enter_ marie; _then_ mrs. schwartze, franziska, _and_ schwartze. marie _throws herself joyfully into_ magda's _arms_. mrs. schwartze _also embraces her_. schwartze. it was your duty, my child. magda. yes, father. [_she softly takes his right hand in both of hers, and carries it tenderly to her lips_.] franziska. thank heaven! now we can have supper at last! [_opens the sliding door into the dining-room. the supper-table is seen, all set, and lighted brightly by a green-shaded hanging-lamp_.] magda. [_gazing at it_.] oh, look! the dear old lamp! [_the women go slowly out_.] schwartze. [_stretching out his hands_.] this is your greatest work, pastor. heffterdingt. oh, don't, i beg you! and there's a condition attached. schwartze. a condition? heffterdingt. we must not ask about her life. schwartze. [_startled_.] what? what? i must, not-- heffterdingt. no, no; you must not ask--you must not ask--or-- [_struck by a new thought_.] if you do not--yes--i am sure she will confess everything herself. act iii. scene: _the same. morning. on the table at the left, coffee-service and flowers._ [mrs. schwartze _and_ franziska _discovered_.] mrs. schwartze. [_excitedly_.] thank heaven, you've come. such a time we've had this morning! franziska. so? mrs. schwartze. just think, two people have come from the hotel,--a gentleman who looks like a lord, and a young lady like a princess. they're her servants. franziska. what extravagance! mrs. schwartze. and they're calling and talking all over the house, and neither of them knows any german. and her ladyship ordered a warm bath, that was not warm enough; and a cold douche, which was not cold enough; and spirits, which she simply poured out of the window; and toilet vinegar, which we didn't have at all. franziska. what demands! and where is your famous young lady? mrs. schwartze. after her bath she has gone back to bed again. franziska. i would not have such sloth in my house. mrs. schwartze. i shall tell her so. for leopold's sake-- [_enter_ theresa.] what do you want, theresa? theresa. councillor von keller--he has sent his servant here to ask whether the lieutenant has come yet, and what is the young lady's answer. mrs. schwartze. what young lady? theresa. that's what i don't know. mrs. schwartze. then just give our regards, and say that the lieutenant has not come yet. franziska. he is on duty till twelve. after that he'll come. [_exit_ theresa. _as she opens the door, a great noise is heard in the hall,--a man's voice and a woman's disputing in italian_.] mrs. schwartze. listen to that! [_speaking outside_.] just you wait. your signora'll be here soon. [_shuts the door_.] ah! and now, breakfast. what do you think she drinks? franziska. why, coffee. mrs. schwartze. no. franziska. tea, then? mrs. schwartze. no. franziska. then it must be chocolate! mrs. schwartze. no; coffee and chocolate mixed. franziska. horrible! but it must be good. mrs. schwartze. and yesterday half a dozen trunks came from the hotel, and as many more are still there. ah, what there is in them all! one whole trunk for hats! a peignoir of real point, and open-work stockings with gold embroidery, and [_in a whisper_] silk chemises-- franziska. what? silk-- mrs. schwartze. yes. franziska. [_with a gesture of horror_.] it is simply sinful. _enter_ magda, _in brilliant morning toilette, speaking outside as she opens the door_. magda. _ma che cosa volete voi? perche non aspettate, finché vi commando?_ ha? mrs. schwartze. now they are getting their share! magda. no, no; _è tempo_! [_shutting the door_.] _va, bruto_! good-morning, mamma. [_kisses her_.] i'm a late sleeper, eh? ah, good-morning, aunt frankie. in a good humor? so am i. mrs. schwartze. what did the strange gentleman want, magda? magda. stupid beast! he wanted to know when i was going away, the idiot! how can i tell? [_patting her_.] eh, _mamma mia_? oh, children, i slept like the dead. my ear on the pillow, and off! and the douche was so nice and cold. i feel so strong. _allons, cousine_! hop! [_seizes_ franziska _by the waist and jumps her into the air_.] franziska. [_furiously_.] what do you-- magda. [_haughtily_.] eh? franziska. [_cringingly_]. you are so facetious. magda. am i? [_clapping her hands_.] breakfast! _enter_ marie, _with a tray of coffee things_. marie. good-morning. franziska. good-morning, my child. magda. i'm dying of hunger. ah! [_pats her stomach_. marie _kisses_ franziska's _hand_.] magda. [_taking off the cover, with unction_.] delicious! one would know giulietta was in the house. franziska. she has made noise enough, at least. magda. oh, she couldn't live without a good row. and when she gets too excited, she quietly throws a plate at your head. i'm accustomed to it. what is papa doing? mrs. schwartze. he's making his excuses to the members of the committee. magda. is your life still half made up of excuses? what sort of a committee is it? mrs. schwartze. it's the christian aid society. they should have had a meeting here this morning in our house. now we thought it would not do. it would look as if we wanted to introduce you. franziska. but, augusta, now it will look as if your daughter were more important to you-- magda. well, i hope she is! mrs. schwartze. of course! but--oh dear, you don't know what sort of people they are. they are deserving of great respect. for instance, there's mrs. general von klebs. [_proudly_.] we are friends of hers. magda. [_with sham respect_.] really? mrs. schwartze. now, they'll probably come to-morrow. then you'll meet, besides, some other pious and aristocratic ladies whose patronage gains us a great deal of influence. i'm curious to see how they'll like you. magda. how i shall like them, you should say. mrs. schwartze. yes--that is--but we're talking and talking-- marie. [_jumping up_.] oh, excuse me, mamma. magda. no, you must stay here. mrs. schwartze. yes, magda; but about your trunks at the hotel,--i am constantly on the rack for fear something should be left. magda. send for them, then, children. franziska. [_aside to_ mrs. schwartze.] now i'll question her thoroughly, augusta. leave us alone. [_exit_ mrs. schwartze. franziska. [_sitting down, with importance_.] and now, my dear magda, you must tell your old aunt all about it. magda. eh? ah, look here, mamma needs help. go on, quick! make yourself useful. franziska. [_viciously_.] if you command it. magda. oh, i have only to request. franziska. [_rising_.] it seems to me that your requests are somewhat forcible. magda. [_laughing_.] perhaps. [_exit_ franziska _in a rage_. marie. oh, magda! magda. yes, sweet. that's the way to go through the world,--bend or break; that is, i never bend. it's the only way. marie. oh, good heavens! magda. poor child! yes, in this house one learns quite other views. i bent, myself, yesterday disgracefully. ah, how nice our old mamma is! [_earnestly, pointing to the mother's picture_.] and she up there! do you remember her? [marie _shakes her head_.] magda. [_thoughtfully_.] she died too soon! where's papa? i want him. and yet i'm afraid of him too. now, child, while i eat my breakfast, now you must make your confession. marie. oh, i can't. magda. just show me the locket! marie. there! magda. a lieutenant! naturally. with us it's always a tenor. marie. oh. magda, it's no joke. he is my fate. magda. what is the name of this fate? marie. it's cousin max. magda. [_whistles_.] why don't you many the good youth, then? marie. aunt frankie wants a better match for him, and so she won't give him the guaranty he needs. it's abominable! magda. _si! c'est bête, ça!_ and how long have you loved each other? marie. i don't remember when we did not. magda. and where does he meet you? marie. here. magda. i mean elsewhere--alone. marie. we are never alone together. i think this precaution we owe to our own self-respect. magda. come here--close--tell me the truth--has it never entered your mind to cast this whole network of precaution and respect away from you, and to go with the man you love out and away--anywhere--it doesn't matter much--and as you lie quietly on his breast, to hurl back a scornful laugh at the whole world which has sunk behind you? marie. no, magda, i never feel so. magda. but would you die for him? marie. [_standing up with a gesture of enthusiasm_.] i would die a thousand deaths for him! magda. my poor little darling! [_aside_.] they bring everything to naught. the most terrible of all passions becomes in their hands a mere resigned defiance of death. marie. whom are you speaking of? magda. nothing, nothing. see here, how large is this sum you need? marie. sixty thousand marks. magda. when can you be married? must it be now, or will afternoon do? marie. don't mock me, magda. magda. you must give me time to telegraph. one can't carry so much money about with one. marie. [_slowly taking it in, and then, with an outburst of joy, throwing herself at_ magda's _feet_.] magda! magda. [_after a silence_.] be happy, love your husband. and if you hold your first-born on your arm, in the face of the world [_holding out her arms with angry emphasis_]-- so, face to face, then think of one who-- ah! some one's coming. _enter_ heffterdingt _with a portfolio_. magda. [_crossing to him_.] oh, it's you. that's good. i wanted you. heffterdingt. you wanted me? what for? magda. only--i want to talk with you, holy man. heffterdingt. isn't it good, miss magda, to be at home again? magda. oh, yes, except for the old aunt's sneaking about. marie. [_who is collecting the breakfast-things; laughing, but frightened_.] oh, heavens, magda! heffterdingt. good-morning, miss marie. marie. good-morning, pastor. [_exit, with the table_. heffterdingt. heavens, how she beams! magda. she has reason. heffterdingt. isn't your father here? magda. no. heffterdingt. isn't he well? magda. i think so. i haven't seen him yet. yesterday we sat together till late. i told him what i could tell. but i think he was very unhappy; his eyes were always searching and probing. oh, i fear your promise will be badly kept. heffterdingt. that seems like a reproach. i hope you don't regret-- magda. no, my friend, i don't regret it. but i feel very curiously. i seem to be in a tepid bath, i'm so weak and warm. what they call german sentiment is awaking again, and i have been so unused to it. my heart seems like a christmas number of the "gartenlaube,"--moonlight, betrothals, lieutenants, and i don't know what! but the best of it is, i know that i'm playing with myself. i can cast it all off as a child throws away its doll, and be my old self again. heffterdingt. that would be bad for us. magda. oh, don't be angry with me. i seem to be all torn and rooted up. and then i am so afraid-- heffterdingt. of what? magda. i can't--i can't be quite one of you. i am an intruder. [_aside, fearfully_.] if a spectre from without were to appear, this whole idyl would go up in flames. [heffterdingt _suppresses a start of astonishment_.] and i'm confined, hemmed in. i begin to be a coward. heffterdingt. i don't think one should be terrified at feeling filial love. magda. filial love? i should like to take that snow-white head in my lap and say, "you old child!" and nevertheless i must bend my will, i must bend my will. i am not accustomed to that. i must conquer; i must sing down opposition. i sing or i live,--for both are one and the same,--so that men must will as i do. i force them, i compel them to love and mourn and exult and lament as i do. and woe to him who resists! i sing them down,--i sing and sing until they become slaves and playthings in my hands. i know i'm confused, but you understand what i mean. heffterdingt. to work the impress of one's own personality,--that's what you mean, isn't it? magda. _si, si, si, si_! oh, i could tell you everything. your heart has tendrils which twine about other hearts and draw them out. and you don't do it selfishly. you don't know how mighty you are. the men outside there are beasts, whether in love or hate. but you are a man. and one feels like a man when one is near you. just think, when you came in yesterday, you seemed to me so small; but something grows out from you and becomes always greater, almost too great for me. heffterdingt. good heavens, what can it be? magda. what shall i call it,--self-sacrifice, self-abnegation? it is something with self--or rather the reverse. that is what impresses me. and that is why you can do so much with me. heffterdingt. how strange! magda. what? heffterdingt. i must own it to you--it is--it is nonsense; but since i have seen you again, a sort of longing has awakened within me to be like you. magda. ha, ha! you, model of men! like me! heffterdingt. i have had to stifle much in my nature. my peace is the peace of the dead. and as you stood before me yesterday in your freshness, your natural strength, your--your greatness, i said to myself, "that is what you might have been if at the right moment joy had entered into your life." magda. [_in a whisper_.] and one thing more, my friend,-- sin! we must sin if we wish to grow. to become greater than our sins is worth more than all the purity you preach. heffterdingt. [_impressed_.] that would be-- [_voices outside_.] magda. [_starting and listening_.] 'sh! heffterdingt. what's the matter? magda. nothing, it's only my stupid nervousness; not on my own account, believe me, only out of pity for all these. we shall still be friends? heffterdingt. as long as you need me. magda. and when i cease to need you? heffterdingt. there will be no change in me, miss magda. [_as he is going, he meets_ schwartze _in the doorway_.] _enter_ schwartze. schwartze. good-morning, my dear pastor! will you go out on the porch for a moment? i will follow you. [_exit_ heffterdingt.] now, did you sleep well, my child? [_kisses her on the forehead_.] magda. finely. in my old room i found the old sleep of childhood. schwartze. had you lost it? magda. haven't you? schwartze. they say a good conscience-- come to me, my child. magda. gladly, papa! no, let me sit at your feet. there i can see your beautiful white beard. when i look at it, i always think of christmas eve and a quiet snow-covered field. schwartze. my child, you know how to say pretty things. when you speak, one seems to see pictures about one. here we are not so clever; that is why we have nothing to conceal here. magda. we also-- but speak quietly, papa. schwartze. yes, i must. you know what agreement you made with the pastor. magda. which you will keep? schwartze. i am accustomed to keep to what i have promised. but you must see that the suspicion--whatever i may do, the suspicion weighs like a mountain-- magda. what do you suspect? schwartze. i don't know. you have appeared among us as wonderfully as gloriously. but brilliance and worldly honor and all that don't blind a father's eyes. you seem to be warm at heart too. at least, one would think so to hear you speak. but there is something in your eyes which does not please me, and a scornful curl about your lips. magda. dear, good old papa! schwartze. you see! this tenderness is not that of a daughter towards her father. it is so that one pets a child, whether it be a young or an old one. and although i'm only a poor soldier, lame and disabled, i demand your respect, my child. magda. i have never withheld it. [_rising_.] schwartze. that is good, that is good, my daughter. believe me, we are not so simple as we may appear to you. we have eyes to see, and ears to hear, that the spirit of moral revolt is abroad in the world. the seed which should take root in the heart, begins to decay. what were once sins easily become customs to you. my child, soon you will go away. when you return, you may find me in the grave. magda. oh, no, papa! schwartze. it's in god's hand. but i implore you-- come here, my child--nearer--so-- [_he draws her down to him, and takes her head between his hands_.] i implore you--let me be happy in my dying hour. tell me that you have remained pure in body and soul, and then go with my blessing on your way. magda. i have remained--true to myself, dear father. schwartze. how? in good or in ill? magda. in what--for me--was good. schwartze. [_blankly_.] in what--for you--then? magda. [_rising_.] and now don't worry any more. let me enjoy these few days quietly. they will be over soon enough. schwartze. [_broodingly_.] i love you with my whole heart, because i have sorrowed for you--so long. [_threateningly, rising_.] but i must know who you are. magda. father dear-- [_bell rings_. mrs. schwartze _bursts in_.] mrs. schwartze. just think! the ladies of the committee are here! they want to congratulate us in person. do you think we ought to offer them coffee, leopold? schwartze. i will go into the garden, augusta. mrs. schwartze. for heaven's sake--they're just coming--you must receive their congratulations. schwartze. i can't--no--i can't do it! [_exit, left_. mrs. schwartze. what is the matter with your father? _enter_ mrs. general von klebs, mrs. justice ellrich, mrs. schumann, _and_ franziska. franziska. [_as she opens the door_.] my dear, the ladies-- mrs. von klebs. [_giving her hand to_ mrs. schwartze.] what a day for you, my dear! the whole town rejoices in the happy event. mrs. schwartze. permit me--my daughter--mrs. general von klebs, mrs. justice ellrich, mrs. schumann. mrs. schumann. i am only the wife of a simple merchant; but-- mrs. von klebs. my husband will do himself the honor soon-- mrs. schwartze. won't you sit down, ladies? [_they sit_.] franziska. [_with aplomb_.] yes, it is truly a joyful event for the whole family. mrs. von klebs. we have unfortunately not shared the pleasures of the festival, my dear young lady. i must therefore refrain from expressing that admiration to which you are so well accustomed. mrs. schumann. if we had known, we should certainly have ordered tickets. mrs. von klebs. do you expect to remain here for very long? magda. that i really cannot say, madam--or, pardon me--your ladyship? mrs. von klebs. i must beg you--no. magda. oh, pardon me! mrs. von klebs. oh, please! magda. we are such birds of passage, my dear madam, that we can really never plan for the future. mrs. ellrich. but one must have one's real home. magda. why? one must have a vocation. that seems to me enough. franziska. it's all in the point of view, dear magda. mrs. von klebs. ah, we're so far removed from all these ideas, my dear young lady. every now and then some person gives lectures here, but the good families have nothing to do with it. magda. [_politely_.] oh, i can quite understand that. the good families need nothing, as they have plenty to eat. [_a silence_.] mrs. ellrich. but at least you must have some residence? magda. if you call it so,--a place to sleep. yes, i have a villa by the lake of como and an estate at naples. [_sensation_.] mrs. schwartze. but you've said nothing to us about that. magda. i hardly ever make use of them, mamma dear. mrs. ellrich. art must be a very trying occupation? magda. [_in a friendly tone_.] it depends upon how one follows it, my dear madam. mrs. ellrich. my daughter used to take singing-lessons, and it always taxed her very much. magda. [_politely_.] oh, i'm sorry for that. mrs. ellrich. naturally, you only do it for pleasure. magda. oh, it's so much pleasure! [_aside to_ mrs. schwartze, _who sits near her_.] get these women away, or i shall be rude! mrs. von klebs. are you really engaged by a theatre, my dear young lady? magda. [_very sweetly_.] sometimes, my dear madam. mrs. von klebs. then you are out of an engagement at present? magda. [_murmurs_.] oh, come, come! [_aloud_.] yes, i'm a vagabond now. [_the ladies look at each other_.] mrs. von klebs. there are really not many daughters of good families on the stage, are there? magda. [_in a friendly tone_.] no, my dear madam; most of them are too stupid. mrs. schwartze. oh, magda! _enter_ max. magda. oh, that must be max! [_goes to him and shakes hands_.] just think, i had quite forgotten your face. we were great friends, were we not? max. were we? [_astonished_.] magda. well, we can begin now. mrs. ellrich. [_aside_.] do you understand this? [mrs. von klebs _shrugs her shoulder. the ladies rise and take their leave, shaking hands with_ mrs. schwartze _and_ franziska, _and bowing to_ magda.] mrs. schwartze. [_confused_.] must you go already, ladies? my husband will be so sorry-- magda. [_coolly_.] _au revoir_, ladies, _au revoir_! [_exit the ladies in the order of their rank_. mrs. schwartze. [_turning back from the door_.] mrs. von klebs was offended, or she would have stayed. magda, you certainly must have offended mrs. von klebs. franziska. and the other ladies, too, were hurt. magda. mamma dear, won't you see about my trunk? mrs. schwartze. yes, yes, i'll go to the hotel myself. oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! [_exit_. franziska. wait, i'm coming too. [_spitefully_.] i must make myself useful, of course! magda. oh, aunt frankie, a word with you. franziska. now? magda. we're going to celebrate a betrothal to-day. franziska. what betrothal? magda. between him and marie. max. [_joyfully_.] magda! franziska. i think, as i occupy a mother's position towards him, that it is my right-- magda. no; the giver alone has rights, my dear aunt. and now don't fail. franziska. [_furiously_.] i will make you-- [_exit_. max. how shall i thank you, my dear miss-- magda. magda, my dear cousin, magda! max. pardon me, it was my great respect-- magda. not so much respect, my boy,--i don't like it; more weight, more individuality! max. ah, my dear cousin, should a young lieutenant with twenty-five marks' pay, not to speak of debts, have individuality? it would only be a hindrance to him. magda. ah! max. if i manage my men properly, and dance a correct figure at our regimental balls, and am not a coward, that is enough. magda. to make a wife happy, certainly. go and find her. go along! max. [_starts to go, and turns back_.] oh, excuse me, in my happiness i entirely forgot the message i-- early this morning--by-the-by, you can't think what a tumult the whole city is in about you--well, early this morning--i was still in bed--an acquaintance came in who is also an old acquaintance of yours, very pale from excitement, and he asked whether it were all true, and if he might come to see you. magda. yes, let him come. max. he wanted me to ask you first. he would then send in his card this morning. magda. what formalities the men go through here! who is he? max. councillor von keller. magda. [_speaking with difficulty_.] he--what?--he? max. [_laughing_.] pardon me, but you're as white now as he was. magda. [_quietly_.] i? white? _enter_ theresa _with a card_. max. here he is. dr. von keller. magda. let him come up. max. [_smiling_.] i'll only say to you, my dear cousin, that he's a very important man, who has a great career before him, and promises to be a pillar of our religious circle. magda. thank you! _enter_ von keller _with a bouquet_. max. [_crossing to him_.] my dear councillor, here is my cousin, who is delighted to see you. you will excuse me. [_exit, with a bow to each_. [von keller _remains standing at the door_. magda _moves about nervously. silence_.] magda. [_aside_.] here is my spectre! [_indicates a seat at the table, left, and sits down opposite_.] von keller. first, you must allow me to express my warmest and most sincere good wishes. this is a surprise which you happily could not have expected. and as a sign of my interest, allow me, my dearest friend, to present you with these modest flowers. magda. oh, how thoughtful! [_takes the flowers with a laugh, and throws them on the table_.] von keller. [_in embarrassment_.] i--i see with sorrow that you resent this approach on my part. have i in any way been wanting in the necessary delicacy? in these narrow circles a meeting could not have been avoided. i think it is better, my dearest friend, that we should come to an understanding,--that we should know the relations-- magda. [_rising_.] you're right, my friend. i was not at the height of my own nature just now. had i been, i might have played the deserted marguerite to the end. the morals of home had infected me a little. but i am myself again. give me your hand bravely. don't be afraid, i won't harm you. so--tight--so! von keller. you make me happy. magda. i've painted this meeting to myself a thousand times, and have been prepared for it for years. something warned me, too, when i undertook this journey home--though i must say i hardly expected just here to-- yes, how is it that, after what has passed between us, you came into this house? it seems to me a little-- von keller. i tried to avoid it until quite recently; but since we belong to the same circles, and since i agree with the views of this family--that is, at least in theory-- magda. yes, yes. let me look at you, my poor friend. how you have changed! von keller. [_laughing nervously_.] i seem to have the misfortune to make a rather absurd figure in your eyes. magda. no, oh, no! i can see it all. the effort to keep worthy of respect under such difficulties, with a bad conscience, is awkward. you look down from the height of your pure atmosphere on your sinful youth,--for you are called a pillar, my dear friend. von keller. [_looking at the door_.] pardon me--i can hardly accustom myself again to the affectionate terms. and if any one should hear us-- would it not be better-- magda. [_sadly_.] let them hear us. von keller. [_at the door_.] good heavens! well [_sitting down again_], as i was saying, if you knew with what real longing i look back from this height at my gay, discarded youth-- magda. [_half to herself_.] so gay,-- yes, so gay. von keller. well, i felt myself called to higher things. i thought-- why should i undervalue my position? i have become councillor, and that comparatively young. an ordinary ambition might take satisfaction in that. but one sits and waits at home, while others are called to the ministry. and this environment, conventionality, and narrowness, all is so gray,--gray! and the ladies here--for one who cares at all about elegance--i assure you something rejoiced within me when i read this morning that you were the famous singer,--you to whom i was tied by so many dear memories and-- magda. and then you thought whether it might not be possible with the help of these dear memories to bring a little color into the gray background? von keller. [_smiling_.] oh, pray don't-- magda. well, between old friends-- von keller. really, are we that, really? magda. certainly, _sans rancune_. oh, if i took it from the other standpoint, i should have to range the whole gamut,--liar, coward, traitor! but as i look at it, i owe you nothing but thanks, my friend. von keller. [_pleased, but confused_.] this is a view which-- magda. which is very convenient for you. but why should i not make it convenient for you? in the manner in which we met, you had no obligations towards me. i had left my home; i was young and innocent, hot-blooded and careless, and i lived as i saw others live. i gave myself to you because i loved you. i might perhaps have loved any one who came in my way. that--that seemed to be all over. and we were so happy,--weren't we? von keller. ah, when i think of it, my heart seems to stop beating. magda. there in the old attic, five flights up, we three girls lived so merrily in our poverty. two hired pianos, and in the evening bread and dripping. emmy used to warm it herself over the oil-stove. von keller. and katie with her verses! good lord! what has become of them? magda. _chi lo sà_? perhaps they're giving singing-lessons, perhaps they're on the stage. yes, we were a merry set; and when the fun had lasted half a year, one day my lover vanished. von keller. an unlucky chance, i swear to you. my father was ill. i had to travel. i wrote everything to you. magda. h'm! i did not reproach you. and now i will tell you why i owe you thanks. i was a stupid, unsuspecting thing, enjoying freedom like a runaway monkey. through you i became a woman. for whatever i have done in my art, for whatever i have become in myself, i have you to thank. my soul was like--yes, down below there, there used to be an Ã�olian harp which was left mouldering because my father could not bear it. such a silent harp was my soul; and through you it was given to the storm. and it sounded almost to breaking,--the whole scale of passions which bring us women to maturity,--love and hate and revenge and ambition [_springing up_], and need, need, need--three times need--and the highest, the strongest, the holiest of all, the mother's love!-- all i owe to you! von keller. what--what do you say? magda. yes, my friend, you have asked after emmy and katie. but you haven't asked after your child. von keller. [_jumping up and looking about anxiously_.] my child! magda. your child? who calls it so? yours? ha, ha! dare to claim portion in him and i'll kill you with these hands. who are you? you're a strange man who gratified his lust and passed on with a laugh. but i have a child,--my son, my god, my all! for him i lived and starved and froze and walked the streets; for him i sang and danced in concert-halls,--for my child who was crying for his bread! [_breaks out in a convulsive laugh which changes to weeping, and throws herself on a seat, right_.] von keller. [_after a silence_.] i am confounded. if i could have suspected,--yes, if i could have suspected--i will do everything; i will not shrink from any reparation. but now, i beg you to quiet yourself. they know that i am here. if they saw us so, i should be--[_correcting himself_] you would be lost. magda. don't be afraid. i won't compromise you. von keller. oh, i was not speaking for myself, not at all. but just think, if it were to come out, what the town and your father-- magda. poor old man! his peace is destroyed, at any rate. von keller. and think! the more brilliantly you are placed now, the more certain is your ruin. magda. [_madly_.] and if i wish for ruin! if i-- von keller. for heaven's sake, hush! some one's coming. magda. [_springing up_.] let them come! let them all come! i don't care, i don't care! to their faces i'll say what i think of you,--of you and your respectable society. why should i be worse than you, that i must prolong my existence among you by a lie! why should this gold upon my body, and the lustre which surrounds my name, only increase my infamy? have i not worked early and late for ten long years? have i not woven this dress with sleepless nights? have i not built up my career step by step, like thousands of my kind? why should i blush before any one? i am myself, and through myself i have become what i am. von keller. good! you may stand there proudly, but you might at least consider-- magda. whom? [_as he is silent_.] whom? the pillar! ha, ha! the pillar begins to totter! be easy, my dear friend. i am not revengeful. but when i look at you in all your cowardly dignity--unwilling to take upon you the slightest consequence of your doings, and contrast you with myself, who sank through your love to be a pariah and an outcast-- ah, i'm ashamed of you. pah! von keller. for heaven's sake! your father! if he should see you like this! magda. [_in agony_.] my father! [_escapes through the door of the dining-room, with her handkerchief to her face_.] _enter_ schwartze, _happy and excited, through the hall-door_. schwartze. ah, my dear councillor--was that my daughter who just disappeared? von keller. [_in great embarrassment_.] yes, it was-- schwartze. why should she run away from me? magda! von keller. [_trying to block his path_.] had you not better-- the young lady wished to be alone for a little! schwartze. now? why? when one has visitors, one does not-- why should she-- von keller. she was a little--agitated. schwartze. agitated? von keller. yes; that's all. schwartze. who has been here? von keller. no one. at least, as far as i know. schwartze. then, what agitating things could you two have to talk about? von keller. nothing of importance,--nothing at all, i assure you. schwartze. what makes you look so, then? you can scarcely stand. von keller. i? oh, you're mistaken, you're mistaken. schwartze. one question, councillor-- you and my daughter-- please sit down. von keller. my time is unfortunately-- schwartze. [_almost threatening_.] i beg you to sit down. von keller. [_not daring to resist_.] thank you. [_they sit_.] schwartze. you met my daughter some years ago in berlin? von keller. yes. schwartze. councillor von keller, i know you to be as discreet as you are sensible; but there are cases in which silence is a crime. i ask you--and your life-long relations with me give me the right to ask, as well as the mystery--which just now-- in short, i ask you, do you know anything discreditable about my daughter's life there? von keller. oh, for heaven's sake, how can you-- schwartze. do you not know how and where she lived? von keller. no. i am absolutely-- schwartze. have you never visited at her house? von keller. [_more and more confused_.] no, no, never, never. schwartze. not once? von keller. well, i called on her once; but-- schwartze. your relations were friendly? von keller. oh, entirely friendly--of course, only friendly. [_a pause_.] schwartze. [_passes his hand over his forehead, looks earnestly at_ von keller; _then, speaking absently_.] so? then, honestly--if it might be--if--if-- [_gets up, goes to_ von keller, _and sits down again, trying to quiet himself_.] dr. von keller, we both live in a quiet world, where scandals are unknown. but i have grown old, very old. and therefore i can't--can't control my thoughts as i should. and i can't rid myself of an idea which has--suddenly--taken possession of me. i have just had a great joy which i don't want to be embittered. but, to quiet an old man, i beg you--give me your word of honor that-- von keller. [_rising_.] pardon me, this seems almost like a cross-examination. schwartze. you must know, then, what i-- von keller. pardon me, i wish to know nothing. i came here innocently to make a friendly visit, and you have taken me by surprise. i will not be taken by surprise. [_takes his hat_.] schwartze. dr. von keller, have you thought what this refusal means? von keller. pardon me, if you wish to know anything, i beg you to ask your daughter. she will tell you what--what-- and now you must let me go. you know where i live. in case-- i am very sorry it has happened so: but-- good-day, colonel! [_exit_. schwartze. [_after brooding for a time_.] magda! marie. [_running in anxiously_.] for heaven's sake, what's the matter? schwartze. [_chokingly_.] magda,--i want magda. marie. [_goes to the door and opens it_.] she's coming now--down the stairs. schwartze. so! [_pulls himself together with an effort_.] marie. [_clasping her hands_.] don't hurt her! [_pauses with the door open_. magda _is seen descending the stairs. she enters in travelling-dress, hat in hand, very pale, but calm_.] magda. i heard you call, father. schwartze. i have something to say to you. magda. and i to you. schwartze. go in--into my room. magda. yes, father. [_she goes to the door, left_. schwartze _follows her_. marie, _who has drawn back frightened to the dining-room door, makes an unseen gesture of entreaty_.] act iv. scene: _the same_. [mrs. schwartze _and_ marie _discovered_. mrs. schwartze, _in hat and cloak, is knocking on the door at the left_.] mrs. schwartze. leopold! oh, heaven, i dare not go in. marie. no, no, don't! oh, if you'd only seen his face! mrs. schwartze. and they've been in there half an hour, you say? marie. longer, longer! mrs. schwartze. now she's speaking! [_listening, frightened_.] he's threatening her. marie, marie! run into the garden. the pastor's there, in the arbor. tell him everything,--about mr. von keller's being here,--and ask him to come in quickly. marie. yes, mamma. [_hurries to the hall-door_.] mrs. schwartze. wait a minute, marie. has theresa heard anything? if it should get about-- marie. i've already sent her away, mamma. mrs. schwartze. that's right, that's right. [_exit_ marie. mrs. schwartze _knocks again_.] leopold! listen to me, leopold! [_retreating_.] oh, heaven! he's coming! [_enter_ schwartze, _bent and tottering_.] mrs. schwartze. how do you feel, leopold? schwartze. [_sinking into a chair_.] yes, yes,--just like the roses. the knife conies, and cuts the stem, and the wound can never be healed. what am i saying? what? mrs. schwartze. he's out of his mind. schwartze. no, no, i'm not out of my mind. i know quite well-- [magda _appears at the door, left_.] mrs. schwartze. what have you done to him? schwartze. yes, what have you--what have you? that is my daughter. what shall i do with my daughter now? magda. [_humbly, almost beseechingly_.] father, isn't it best, after what has happened, that you should let me go,--that you should drive me into the streets? you must get free of me if this house is to be pure again. schwartze. so, so, so! you think, then, you have only to go--to go away, out there, and all will be as before? and we? what will become of us? i--good god!--i--i have one foot in the grave--soon it will be over--but the mother, and your sister--your sister. magda. marie has the husband she wants-- schwartze. no one will marry a sister of yours. [_with aversion_.] no, no. don't think it! magda. [_aside_.] my god! schwartze. [_to_ mrs. schwartze.] see, she's beginning now to realize what she has done. mrs. schwartze. yes; what-- magda. [_in tender sympathy, but still with a tinge of superiority_.] my poor old father--listen to me--i can't change what has passed. i will give marie half my fortune. i will make up a thousand times all that i have made you suffer to-day. but now, i implore you, let me go my way. schwartze. oho! magda. what do you want of me? what am i to you? yesterday at this time you did not know even whether i still lived; and to-day-- it is madness to demand that i should think and feel again as you do; but i am afraid of you, father, i'm afraid of you all--ah, i am not myself-- [_breaking out in torment_.] i cannot bear the sorrow. schwartze. ha, ha! magda. father dear, i will humble myself before you willingly. i lament with my whole heart that i've brought sorrow to you to-day, for my flesh and blood still belong to you. but i must live out my own life. that i owe to myself,--to myself and mine. good-by! schwartze. [_stopping her_.] where are you going? magda. let me pass, father. schwartze. i'll kill you first. [_seizes her_.] mrs. schwartze. leopold! [_enter_ heffterdingt. _he throws himself between them with a cry of horror_. magda, _freed by the old man, goes slowly back, with her eyes fixed on the_ pastor, _to the seat, left, where she remains motionless_.] heffterdingt. [_after a silence_.] in god's name! schwartze. yes, yes, yes, pastor--it made a fine family group, eh? look at her! she has soiled my name. any scoundrel can break my sword. that is my daughter; that is-- heffterdingt. dear colonel, these are things which i do not understand, and which i do not care to understand. but it seems to me there must be something to do, instead of-- schwartze. yes, to do,--yes, yes,--there's much to do here. i have much to do. i don't see why i'm standing here. the worst of it is--the worst of it is, he can say to me--this man--you are a cripple--with your shaking hand--with such a one i can't fight, even if i have had your daughter for a-- but i will show him-- i will show him-- where is my hat? mrs. schwartze. where are you going, leopold? [magda _rises_.] schwartze. my hat! mrs. schwartze. [_gives him hat and stick_.] here, here! schwartze. so! [_to_ magda.] learn to thank the god, in whom you disbelieve, that he has preserved your father until this hour, for he shall bring you back your honor! magda. [_kneeling, and kissing his hand_.] don't do it, father! i don't deserve this of you. schwartze. [_bends weeping over her head_.] my poor, poor child! magda. [_calling after him_.] father! [_exit_ schwartze _quickly_. mrs. schwartze. my child, whatever happens, we women--we must hold together. magda. thanks, mamma. the play will soon be played out now. heffterdingt. my dear mrs. schwartze, marie is out there, full of sorrow. go and say a kind word to her. mrs. schwartze. what shall i say to comfort her, when all the happiness has gone out of her life? [magda _jumps up in anguish_.] oh, pastor, pastor! [_exit_. magda. [_after a silence_.] oh, i am so tired! heffterdingt. miss magda! magda. [_brooding_,] i think i shall see those glaring bloodshot eyes before me always--wherever i go. heffterdingt. miss magda! magda. how you must despise me! heffterdingt. ah, miss magda, i have long been a stranger to despite. we are all poor sinners-- magda. [_with a bitter laugh_.] truly we are-- oh, i am so tired!--it is crushing me. there is that old man going out to let himself be shot dead for my sake, as if he could atone for all my sins with his single life! oh, i am so tired! heffterdingt. miss magda--i can only conjecture--what all this means--but you have given me the right to speak to you as a friend. and i feel that i am even more. i am your fellow-sinner, miss magda! magda. good heavens! still harping on that! heffterdingt. do you feel the obligation, miss magda, to bring honor and peace back to this house? magda. [_breaking out in anguish_.] you have lived through the sorrow, and ask whether i feel it? heffterdingt. i think your father will obtain from that gentleman the declaration that he is ready for any sort of peaceable satisfaction. magda. ha, ha! the noble soul! but what can i do? heffterdingt. you can--not spurn the hand which he will offer you. magda. what? you don't mean-- this man--this strange man whom i despise--how, how could i-- heffterdingt. dear miss magda, there comes an hour to almost every man when he collects the broken pieces of his life, to form them together into a new design. i have found it so with myself. and now it is your turn. magda. i will not do it--i will not do it. heffterdingt. you will have to. magda. i would rather take my child in my arms and throw myself into the sea. heffterdingt. [_suppresses a violent start; continues after a silence, hoarsely_.] of course, that is the simplest solution. and your father can follow you. magda. oh, have pity on me! i must do whatever you demand. i don't know how you have gained such power over me. oh, man, if the slightest memory of what you once felt, if the least pity for your own youth, still lives within you, you cannot sacrifice me so! heffterdingt. i do not sacrifice you alone, miss magda. magda. [_with awakening perception_.] good god! heffterdingt. there's no other way. i see none. you know yourself that the old man would not survive it. and what would become of your mother, and what would become of your poor sister? miss magda, it is as if with your own hand you set fire to the house and let everything burn that is within. and this house is still your home-- magda. [_in growing agony_.] i will not, i will not. this house is not my home. my home is with my child! heffterdingt. this child, too. he will grow up fatherless, and will be asked, "where is your father?" he will come and ask you, "where is my father?" what can you answer him? and, miss magda, he who has not peace in his heart from the beginning will never win it in the end. magda. all this is not true, and if it were true, have i not a heart too? have i not a life to live also? have i not a right to seek my own happiness? heffterdingt. [_harshly_.] no; no one has that. but do as you will. ruin your home, ruin your father and sister and child, and then see what heart you have to seek your own happiness. [magda _bows her head, sobbing. the_ pastor _crosses to her, and leans over the table pityingly, with his hand on her hair_.] my poor-- magda. [_seizing his hand_.] answer me one question. you have sacrificed your life for my sake. do you think, to-day, in spite of what you know and what you do not know, do you think that i am worth this sacrifice? heffterdingt. [_constrained, as if making a confession_.] i have said already i am your fellow-sinner, miss magda. magda. [_after a pause_.] i will do what you demand. heffterdingt. i thank you. magda. good-by. heffterdingt. good-by. [_exit. he is seen through the open door speaking to_ marie _and sending her in_. magda _remains motionless, with her face in her hands until he has gone_. _enter_ marie. marie. what can i do, magda? magda. where has the pastor gone? marie. into the garden. mamma is with him. magda. if father asks for me, say i shall wait there. [_nods towards left_.] marie. and haven't you a word for me, magda? magda. oh, yes. fear nothing. [_kisses her on the forehead_.] everything will come out well, so well--no, no, no. [_in weary bitterness_.] everything will come out quite well. [_exit, left_. marie _goes into the dining-room_.] _enter_ schwartze. _he takes out a pistol-case and opens it. takes a pistol, cocks it with difficulty, examines the barrel, and aims at a point on the wall. his arm trembles violently. he strikes it angrily, and lets the pistol sink. enter_ max. schwartze. [_without turning_.] who's there? max. it's i, uncle. schwartze. max? ah, you may come in. max. uncle, marie told me-- what are the pistols for, uncle? schwartze. ah, they used to be fine pistols,--beautiful pistols. see, boy, with this i have hit the ace of hearts at twenty paces, or say fifteen. and fifteen would be enough. we ought to have been in the garden already, but--but [_helplessly touches his trembling arm, almost in tears_]--but i can nevermore-- max. [_hurrying to him_.] uncle? [_they embrace each other for a moment_.] schwartze. it's all right,--it's all right. max. uncle, i need not say that i take your place, that i meet any man you point out; it is my right. schwartze. yours,--why? in what capacity? will you marry into a disgraced family? max. uncle! schwartze. are you prepared to strip off the uniform of our regiment? yes, i might set up a gambling-house, and you could play the stool-pigeon for a living. there is no knowing what we might do. what! you, with your beautiful name, your noble name, propose this sacrifice,--and i to profit by it! ha, ha! no, my boy; even if you still were willing, i am not. this house and all within are marked for ruin. go your way from it. with the name of schwartze you have nothing more to do. max. uncle, i demand that you-- schwartze. hush! not now! [_motions to the door_.] soon i may need you as one needs a friend in such affairs, but not now--not now. first i must find the gentleman. he was not at home--the gentleman was not at home. but he shall not think he has escaped me. if he is out a second time, then, my son, your work begins. until then, be patient,--be patient. _enter_ theresa _from hall_. theresa. councillor von keller. [schwartze _starts_.] max. he here! how-- schwartze. let him come in. [_exit_ theresa. max. uncle! [_points to himself in great excitement_. schwartze _shakes his head, and signs to_ max _to leave the room. enter_ von keller. _exit_ max. _they meet in the doorway_. von keller _greets_ max _courteously_. max _restrains himself from insulting him_.] von keller. colonel, i am grieved at having missed you. when i returned from the casino, where i am always to be found at noon,--where, i say, i am always to be found,--your card lay on the table; and as i imagine that there are matters of importance to be discussed between us, i made haste--as i say, i have made haste-- schwartze. councillor, i do not know whether in this house there should be a chair for you, but since you have come here so quickly, you must be tired. i beg you to be seated. von keller. thanks. [_sits down, near the open pistol-case, starts as he sees it, watches the_ colonel _apprehensively_.] h'm! schwartze. now, have you nothing to say to me? von keller. allow me first one question: did your daughter, after our conversation, say anything to you about me? schwartze. councillor, have you nothing to say to me? von keller. oh, certainly, i have a great deal to say to you. i would gladly, for instance, express to you a wish, a request; but i don't quite know whether-- won't you tell me, at least, has your daughter spoken of me at all favorably? schwartze. [_angrily_.] i must know, sir, how we stand, in what light i am to treat you. von keller. oh, pardon me, now i understand-- [_working himself up_.] colonel, you see in me a man who takes life earnestly. the days of a light youth-- [schwartze _looks up angrily_.] pardon me, i meant to say--since early this morning a holier and, if i may say so, a more auspicious resolution has arisen within me. colonel, i am not a man of many words. i have already wandered from the point. as one man of honor to another, or-- in short, colonel, i have the honor to ask you for the hand of your daughter. [schwartze _sits motionless, breathing heavily_.] pardon me, you do not answer--am i perhaps not worthy-- schwartze. [_groping for his hand_.] no, no, no; not that,--not that. i am an old man. these last hours have been a little too much for me. don't mind me. von keller. h'm, h'm! schwartze. [_rising, and closing the lid of the pistol-case_.] give me your hand, my young friend. you have brought heavy sorrow upon me,--heavy sorrow. but you have promptly and bravely made it good. give me the other hand. so, so! and now do you wish to speak to her also? you will have much to say. eh? von keller. if i might be allowed. schwartze. [_opens the hall-door and speaks off, then opens the door, left_.] magda! _enter_ magda. magda. what is it, father? schwartze. magda, this gentleman asks for the honor-- [_as he sees the two together, he looks with sudden anger from one to the other_.] magda. [_anxiously_.] father? schwartze. now everything's arranged. don't make it too long! [_to_ magda.] yes, everything's all right now. [_exit_. von keller. ah, my dearest magda, who could have suspected it? magda. then we are to be married. von keller. above all, i don't want you to entertain the idea that any design of mine has been at the bottom of this development which i welcome so gladly, which i-- magda. i haven't reproached you. von keller. no, you have no reason. magda. none whatever. von keller. let me further say to you that it has always been my strongest wish that providence might bring us together again. magda. then you have really never ceased to love me? von keller. well, as an honorable man and without exaggeration i can scarcely assert that. but since early this morning a holier and a more auspicious resolution has arisen within me-- magda. pardon me, would this holy and auspicious resolution have arisen within you just the same if i had come back to my home in poverty and shame? von keller. my dearest magda, i am neither self-seeking nor a fortune-hunter, but i know what is due to myself and to my position. in other circumstances there would have been no social possibility of making legitimate our old relations-- magda. i must consider myself, then, very happy in these ten long years to have worked up unconsciously towards such a high goal. von keller. i don't know whether i am too sensitive, but that sounds almost like irony. and i hardly think that-- magda. that it is fitting from me? von keller. [_deprecatingly_.] oh! magda. i must ask for your indulgence. the role of a patient and forbearing wife is new to me. let us speak, then, of the future [_sits and motions to him to do the same_]--of our future. what is your idea of what is to come? von keller. you know, my dearest magda, i have great designs. this provincial town is no field for my statesmanship. besides, it is my duty now to find a place which will be worthy of your social talents. for you will give up the stage and concert-hall,--that goes without saying. magda. oh, that goes without saying? von keller. oh, i beseech you--you don't understand the conditions; it would be a fatal handicap for me. i might as well leave the service at once. magda. and if you did? von keller. oh, you can't be in earnest. for a hardworking and ambitious man who sees a brilliant future before him to give up honor and position, and as his wife's husband to play the vagabond,--to live merely as the husband of his wife? shall i turn over your music, or take the tickets at the box-office? no, my dearest friend, you underestimate me, and the position i fill in society. but don't be uneasy. you will have nothing to repent of. i have every respect for your past triumphs, but [_pompously_] the highest reward to which your feminine ambition can aspire will be achieved in the drawing-room. magda. [_aside_.] good heaven, this thing i'm doing is mere madness! von keller. what do you say? [magda _shakes her head_.] and then the wife, the ideal wife, of modern times is the consort, the true, self-sacrificing helper of her husband. for instance, you, by your queenly personality and by the magic of your voice, will overcome my enemies, and knit even my friends more closely to me. and we will be largely hospitable. our house shall be the centre of the most distinguished society, who still keep to the severely gracious manners of our forefathers. gracious and severe may seem contradictory terms, but they are not. magda. you forget that the child on whose account this union is to be consummated will keep the severely inclined away from us. von keller. yes, i know, dear magda, it will be painful for you; but this child must of course remain the deepest secret between us. no one must suspect-- magda. [_astounded and incredulous_.] what--what do you say? von keller. why, it would ruin us. no, no, it is absurd to think of it. but we can make a little journey every year to wherever it is being educated. one can register under a false name; that is not unusual in foreign parts, and is hardly criminal. and when we are fifty years old, and other regular conditions have been fulfilled, [_laughing_], that can be arranged, can't it? then we can, under some pretext, adopt it, can't we? magda. [_breaks into a piercing laugh; then, with clasped hands and staring eyes_.] my sweet! my little one! _mio bambino! mio povero_--_bam_--you--you--i am to--ha, ha, ha! [_tries to open the folding door_.] go! go! _enter_ schwartze. schwartze. what-- magda. good you're here! free me from this man, take this man away from me. schwartze. what? magda. i have done everything you demanded. i have humbled myself, i have surrendered my judgment, i have let myself be carried like a lamb to the slaughter. but my child i will not leave. give up my child to save his career! [_throws herself into a chair_.] schwartze. mr. von keller, will you please-- von keller. i am inconsolable, colonel. but it seems that the conditions which for the interest of both parties i had to propose, do not meet the approbation-- schwartze. my daughter is no longer in the position to choose the conditions under which she-- dr. von keller, i ask your pardon for the scene to which you have just been subjected. wait for me at your home. i will myself bring you my daughter's consent. for that i pledge you my word of honor. [_sensation_. magda _rises quickly_.] von keller. have you considered what-- schwartze. [_holding out his hand_.] i thank you, dr. von keller. von keller. not at all. i have only done my duty. [_exit, with a bow_. magda. [_stretching herself_.] so! now i'm the old magda again. [schwartze _locks the three doors silently_.] do you think, father, that i shall become docile by being shut up? schwartze. so! now we are alone. no one sees us but he who sees us--there [_pointing upward_] quiet yourself, my child. we must talk together. magda. [_sits down_.] good! we can come to an understanding, then,--my home and i. schwartze. do you see that i am now quite calm? magda. certainly. schwartze. quite calm, am i not? even my arm does not tremble. what has happened, has happened. but just now i gave your betrothed-- magda. my betrothed?-- father dear! schwartze. i gave your betrothed my word of honor. and that must be kept, don't you see? magda. but if it is not in your power, my dear father. schwartze. then i must die,--then i must simply die. one cannot live on when one-- you are an officer's daughter. don't you understand that? magda. [_compassionately_.] my god! schwartze. but before i die, i must set my home in order, must i not? every one has something which he holds sacred. what is sacred to your inmost soul? magda. my art. schwartze. no, that is not enough. it must be more sacred. magda. my child. schwartze. good! your child,--your child,--you love it? [magda _nods_.] you wish to see it again? [_she nods_.] and--yes--if you made an oath upon its head [_makes a motion as if he laid his hand upon a child's head_], then you would not perjure yourself? [magda _shakes her head, smiling_.] that's well. [_rising_.] either you swear to me now, as upon his head, that you will become the honorable wife of his father, or--neither of us two shall go out of this room alive. [_sinks back on the seat_.] magda. [_after a short silence_.] my poor, dear papa! why do you torture yourself so? and do you think that i will let myself be constrained by locked doors? you cannot believe it. schwartze. you will see. magda. [_in growing excitement_.] and what do you really want of me? why do you trouble yourself about me? i had almost said, what have you all to do with me? schwartze. that you will see. magda. you blame me for living out my life without asking you and the whole family for permission. and why should i not? was i not without family? did you not send me out into the world to earn my bread, and then disown me because the way in which i earned it was not to your taste? whom did i harm? against whom did i sin? oh, if i had remained the daughter of the house, like marie, who is nothing and does nothing without the sheltering roof of the home, who passes straight from the arms of her father into the arms of her husband; who receives from the family life, thought, character, everything,--yes, then you would have been right. in such a one the slightest error would have ruined everything,--conscience, honor, self-respect. but i? look at me. i was alone. i was as shelterless as a man knocked about in the world, dependent on the work of my own hands. if you give us the right to hunger--and i have hungered--why do you deny us the right to love, as we can find it, and to happiness, as we can understand it? schwartze. you think, my child, because you are free and a great artist, that you can set at naught-- magda. leave art out of the question. consider me nothing more than the seamstress or the servant-maid who seeks, among strangers, the little food and the little love she needs. see how much the family with its morality demand from us! it throws us on our own resources, it gives us neither shelter nor happiness, and yet, in our loneliness, we must live according to the laws which it has planned for itself alone. we must still crouch in the corner, and there wait patiently until a respectful wooer happens to come. yes, wait. and meanwhile the war for existence of body and soul is consuming us. ahead we see nothing but sorrow and despair, and yet shall we not once dare to give what we have of youth and strength to the man for whom our whole being cries? gag us, stupefy us, shut us up in harems or in cloisters--and that perhaps would be best. but if you give us our freedom, do not wonder if we take advantage of it. schwartze. there, there! that is the spirit of rebellion abroad in the world. my child--my dear child--tell me that you were not in earnest--that you--that you--pity me--if-- [_looking for the pistol-case_]. i don't know what may happen--child--have pity on me! magda. father, father, be calm, i cannot bear that. schwartze. i will not do it--i cannot do it-- [_looking still for the pistol-case._] take it from me! take it from me! magda. what, father? schwartze. nothing, nothing, nothing. i ask you for the last time. magda. then you persist in it? schwartze. my child, i warn you. you know i cannot do otherwise. magda. yes, father, you leave me no other way. well, then, are you sure that you ought to force me upon this man--[schwartze _listens_] that, according to your standards, i am altogether worthy of him? [_hesitating, looking into space_.] i mean--that he was the only one in my life? schwartze. [_feels for the pistol-case and takes the pistol out_.] you jade! [_he advances upon her, trying to raise the weapon. at the same moment he falls back on the seat, where he remains motionless, with staring eyes, the pistol grasped in his hand, which hangs down by his side_.] magda. [_with a loud cry_.] father! [_she flies toward the stove for shelter from the weapon, then takes a few steps, with her hands before her face_.] father! [_she sinks, with her knees in a chair, her face on the back. calling and knocking outside. the door is broken open_.] _enter_ max, marie, heffterdingt, and mrs. schwartze. mrs. schwartze. leopold, what's the matter? leopold! [_to the_ pastor.] o my god, he's as he used to be! marie. papa dear! speak, one word! [_throws herself down at his right_.] heffterdingt. get the doctor, max. max. is it a stroke? heffterdingt. i think so. [_exit_ max. _aside to_ magda.] come to him. [_as she hesitates_.] come; it is the end. [_leads her trembling to_ schwartze's _chair_.] mrs. schwartze. [_who has tried to take the pistol_.] let it go, leopold; what do you want with it? see, he's holding the pistol and won't let it go. heffterdingt. [_aside_.] it is the convulsion. he cannot. my dear old friend, can you understand what i'm saying to you? [schwartze _bows his head a little_. magda _sinks down at his left_.] god, the all-merciful one, has called you from on high. you are not her judge. have you no sign of forgiveness for her? [schwartze _shakes his head slowly_.] marie. [_sinking down by_ magda.] papa, give her your blessing, dear papa! [_a smile transfigures his face. the pistol escapes from his hand. he raises his hand slowly to place it on_ marie's _head. in the midst of this motion a spasm goes through his body. his arm falls back, his head sinks_.] mrs. schwartze. [_crying out_.] leopold! heffterdingt. [_taking her hand_.] he has gone home. [_he folds his hands. silent prayer, broken by the sobbing of the women_.] magda. [_springing up and spreading out her arms in agony_.] oh, if i had only never come! [heffterdingt _makes a motion to beg her silence. she misunderstands_.] are you going to drive me away? his life was the cost of my coming. may i not stay now? heffterdingt. [_simply and peacefully_. ] no one will hinder you from praying upon his grave. [_curtain falls slowly_.] the end. footnote: [footnote : without which officers in the german army may not marry.] produced from scanned images of public domain material from the google print project.) transcriber's note in the original book, words were emphasized by adding additional space between letters (gesperrt). in this ebook, the emphasized words are marked with *asterisks*. a few printer errors have also been corrected, which are listed at the end of this ebook. pandora's box a tragedy in three acts by frank wedekind translated by samuel a. eliot, jr. [illustration] boni and liveright new york copyright, by albert and charles boni pandora's box lulu by frank wedekind erdgeist (earth-spirit) $ . pandora's box $ . characters lulu. alva schÖn, _writer_. schigolch. rodrigo quast, _acrobat_. alfred hugenberg, _escaped from a reform-school_. countess geschwitz. bianetta. } ludmilla steinherz. } magelone. } kadidia, _her daughter_. } count casti piani. } in act ii. puntschu, _a banker_. } heilmann, _a journalist_. } bob, _a groom_. } a detective. } mr. hunidei. } kungu poti, _imperial prince of uahubee_. } in act iii. dr. hilti, _tutor_. } jack. } act i _the hall of earth-spirit_, act iv, _feebly lighted by an oil lamp on the centre table. even this is dimmed by a heavy shade. lulu's picture is gone from the easel, which still stands by the foot of the stairs. the fire-screen and the chair by the ottoman are gone too. down left is a small tea-table, with a coffee-pot and a cup of black coffee on it, and an arm-chair next it._ _in this chair, deep in cushions, with a plaid shawl over her knees, sits countess geschwitz in a tight black dress. rodrigo, clad as a servant, sits on the ottoman. at the rear, alva schön is walking up and down before the entrance door._ rodrigo. he lets people wait for him as if he were a concert conductor! geschwitz. i beg of you, don't speak! rodrigo. hold my tongue, with a head as full of thoughts as mine is!--i absolutely can't believe she's changed so awfully much to her advantage there! geschwitz. she is more glorious to look at than i have ever seen her! rodrigo. god preserve me from founding my life-happiness on your taste and judgment! if the sickness has hit her as it has you, i'm smashed and thru! you're leaving the contagious ward like an acrobat-lady who's had an accident after giving herself up to art. you can scarcely blow your nose any more. first you need a quarter-hour to sort your fingers, and then you have to be mighty careful not to break off the tip. geschwitz. what puts *us* under the ground gives *her* health and strength again. rodrigo. that's all right and fine enough. but i don't think i'll be travelling off with her this evening. geschwitz. you will let your bride journey all alone, after all? rodrigo. in the first place, the old fellow's going with her to protect her in case anything serious--. my escort could only be suspicious. and secondly, i must wait here till my costumes are ready. i'll get across the frontier soon enough alright,--and i hope in the meantime she'll put on a little embonpoint, too. then we'll get married, provided i can present her before a respectable public. i love the practical in a woman: what theories they make up for themselves are all the same to me. aren't they to you too, doctor? alva. i haven't heard what you were saying. rodrigo. i'd never have got my person mixed up in this plot if she hadn't kept tickling my bare pate, before her sentence. if only she doesn't start doing too much as soon as she's out of germany! i'd like best to take her to london for six months, and let her fill up on plum-cakes. in london one expands just from the sea air. and then, too, in london one doesn't feel with every swallow of beer as if the hand of fate were at one's throat. alva. i've been asking myself for a week whether a person who'd been sentenced to prison could still be made to go as the chief figure in a modern drama. geschwitz. if the man would only come, now! rodrigo. i've still got to redeem my properties out of the pawn-shop here, too. six hundred kilos of the best iron. the baggage-rate on 'em is always three times as much as my own ticket, so that the whole junket isn't worth a trowser's button. when i went into the pawn-shop with 'em, dripping with sweat, they asked me if the things were genuine!--i'd have really done better to have had the costumes made abroad. in paris, for instance, they see at the first glance where one's best points are, and bravely lay them bare. but you can't learn that with bow-legs; it's got to be studied on classically shaped people. in this country they're as scared of naked skin as they are abroad of dynamite bombs. a couple of years ago i was fined fifty marks at the alhambra theater, because people could see i had a few hairs on my chest, not enough to make a respectable tooth-brush! but the fine arts minister opined that the little school-girls might lose their joy in knitting stockings because of it; and since then i have myself shaved once a month. alva. if i didn't need every bit of my creative power now for the "world-conqueror," i might like to test the problem and see what could be done with it. that's the curse of our young literature: we're so much too literary. we know only such questions and problems as come up among writers and cultured people. we cannot see beyond the limits of our own professional interests. in order to get back on the trail of a great and powerful art we must move as much as possible among men who've never read a book in their lives, whom the simplest animal instincts direct in all they do. i've tried already, with all my might, to work according to those principles--in my "earth-spirit." the woman who was my model for the chief figure in that, breathes to-day--and has for a year--behind barred windows; and on that account for some incomprehensible reason the play was only brought to performance by the society for free literature. as long as my father was alive, all the stages of germany stood open to my creations. that has been vastly changed. rodrigo. i've had a pair of tights made of the tenderest blue-green. if *they* don't make a success abroad, i'll sell mouse-traps! the trunks are so delicate i can't sit on the edge of a table in 'em. the only thing that will disturb the good impression is my awful bald head, which i owe to my active participation in this great conspiracy. to lie in the hospital in perfect health for three months would make a fat pig of the most run-down old hobo. since coming out i've fed on nothing but karlsbad pills. day and night i have orchestra rehearsals in my intestines. i'll be so washed out before i get across the frontier that i won't be able to lift a bottle-cork. geschwitz. how the attendants in the hospital got out of her way yesterday! that was a refreshing sight. the garden was still as the grave: in the loveliest noon sunlight the convalescents didn't venture out of doors. away back by the contagious ward she stepped out under the mulberry trees and swayed on her ankles on the gravel. the door-keeper had recognized me, and a young doctor who met me in the corridor shrunk up as tho a revolver shot had struck him. the sisters vanished into the big rooms or stayed stuck against the walls. when i came back there was not a soul to be seen in the garden or at the gate. no better chance could have been found, if we had had the curséd passports. and now the fellow says he isn't going with her! rodrigo. i understand the poor hospital-brothers. one has a bad foot and another has a swollen cheek, and there appears in the midst of them the incarnate death-insurance-agentess! in the hall of the knights, as the blessed division was called from which i organized my spying, when the news got around there that sister theophila had departed this life, not one of the fellows could be kept in bed. they scrambled up to the window-bars, if they had to drag their pains along with them by the hundred-weight. i never heard such swearing in my life! alva. allow me, fräulein von geschwitz, to come back to my proposition once more. tho my father was shot in this room, still i can see in the murder, as in the punishment, nothing but a horrible misfortune that has befallen *her*; nor do i think that my father, if he had come through alive, would have withdrawn his support from her entirely. whether your plan for freeing her will succeed still seems to me very doubtful, tho i wouldn't like to discourage you; but i can find no words to express the admiration with which your self-sacrifice, your energy, your superhuman scorn of death, inspires me. i don't believe any man ever risked so much for a woman, let alone for a friend. i am not aware, fräulein von geschwitz, how rich you are, but the expenses for what you have accomplished must have exhausted your fortune. may i venture to offer you a loan of , marks--which i should have no trouble raising for you in cash? geschwitz. how we did rejoice when sister theophila was really dead! from that day on we were free from custody. we changed our beds as we liked. i had done my hair like hers, and copied every tone of her voice. when the professor came he called *her* "gnädiges fräulein" and said to me, "it's better living here than in prison!"... when the sister suddenly was missing, we looked at each other in suspense: we had both been sick five days: now was the deciding moment. next morning came the assistant.--"how is sister theophila?"--"dead!"--we communicated behind his back, and when he had gone we sank in each other's arms: "god be thanked! god be thanked!"--what pains it cost me to keep my darling from betraying how well she already was! "you have nine years of prison before you," i cried to her early and late. now they probably won't let her stay in the contagious ward three days more! rodrigo. i lay in the hospital full three months to spy out the ground, after toilfully peddling together the qualities necessary for such a long stay. now i act the valet here with you, dr. schön, so that no strange servants may come into the house. where is the bridegroom who's ever done so much for his bride? *my* fortune has also been destroyed. alva. when you succeed in developing her into a respectable artiste you will have put the world in debt to you. with the temperament and the beauty that she has to give out of the depths of her nature she can make the most blasé public hold its breath. and then, too, she will be protected by *acting* passion from a second time becoming a criminal in reality. rodrigo. i'll soon drive her kiddishness out of her! geschwitz. there he comes! (_steps louden in the gallery. then the curtains part at the head of the stairs and schigolch in a long black coat with a white sun-shade in his right hand comes down. thruout the play his speech is interrupted with frequent yawns._) schigolch. confound the darkness! out-doors the sun burns your eyes out. geschwitz. (_wearily unwrapping herself._) i'm coming! rodrigo. her ladyship has seen no daylight for three days. we live here like in a snuff-box. schigolch. since nine o'clock this morning i've been round to all the old-clothes-men. three brand new trunks stuffed full of old trowsers i've expressed to buenos ayres via bremerhaven. my legs are dangling on me like the tongue of a bell. that's the new life it's going to be from now on! rodrigo. where are you going to get off to-morrow morning? schigolch. i hope not straight into ox-butter hotel again! rodrigo. i can tell you a fine hotel. i lived there with a lady lion-tamer. the people were born in berlin. geschwitz. (_upright in the arm-chair._) come and help me! rodrigo. (_hurries to her and supports her._) and you'll be safer from the police there than on a high tightrope! geschwitz. he means to let you go with her alone this afternoon. schigolch. maybe he's still suffering from his chillblains! rodrigo. do you want me to start my new engagement in bath-robe and slippers? schigolch. hm--sister theophila wouldn't have gone to heaven so promptly either, if she hadn't felt so affectionate towards our patient. rodrigo.. she'll have a different value when one must serve thru a honeymoon with her. anyway, it can't hurt her if she gets a little fresh air beforehand. alva. (_a pocketbook in his hand, to geschwitz who is leaning on a chair-back by the centre table._) this holds , marks. geschwitz. thank you, no. alva. please take it. geschwitz. (_to schigolch._) come along, at last! schigolch. patience, fräulein. it's only a stone's throw across hospital street. i'll be here with her in five minutes. alva. you're bringing her here? schigolch. i'm bringing her here. or do you fear for your health? alva. you see that i fear nothing. rodrigo. according to the latest wire, the doctor is on his way to constantinople to have his "earth-spirit" produced before the sultan by harem-ladies and eunuchs. alva. (_opening the centre door under the gallery._) it's shorter for you thru here. (_exeunt schigolch and countess geschwitz. alva locks the door._) rodrigo. you were going to give more money to the crazy sky-rocket! alva. what has that to do with you? rodrigo. i get paid like a lamp-lighter, tho i had to demoralize all the sisters in the hospital. then came the assistants' and the doctors' turn, and then-- alva. will you seriously inform me that the medical professors let themselves be influenced by you? rodrigo. with the money those gentlemen cost me i could become president of the united states! alva. but fräulein von geschwitz has reimbursed you for every penny that you spent. so far as i know you're getting a monthly salary of five hundred marks from her besides. it is often pretty hard to believe in your love for the unhappy murderess. when i asked fräulein von geschwitz just now to accept my help, it certainly was not to incite your insatiable avarice. the admiration which i have learnt to have for fräulein von geschwitz in this affair, i am far from feeling towards you. it is not at all clear to me what claims of any kind you can make upon me. that you chanced to be present at the murder of my father has not yet created the slightest bond of relationship between you and me. on the contrary, i am firmly convinced that if the heroic undertaking of countess geschwitz had not come your way you would be lying somewhere to-day without a penny, drunken in the gutter. rodrigo. and do you know what would have become of you if you hadn't sold for two millions the tuppeny paper your father ran? you'd have hitched up with the stringiest sort of ballet-girl and been to-day a stable-boy in the humpelmeier circus. what work do you do? you've written a drama of horrors in which my bride's calves are the two chief figures and which no high-class theater will produce. you walking pajamas! you fresh rag-bag you! two years ago i balanced two saddled cavalry-horses on this chest. how that'll go now, after this (_clasping his bald head_), is a question sure enough. the foreign girls will get a fine idea of german art when they see the sweat come beading thru my tights at every fresh kilo-weight! i shall make the whole auditorium stink with my exhalations! alva. you're weak as a dish-clout! rodrigo. would to god you were right! or did you perhaps intend to insult me? if so, i'll set the tip of my toe to your jaw so that your tongue'll crawl along the carpet over there! alva. try it! (_steps and voices outside._) who is that...? rodrigo. you can thank god that i have no public here before me! alva. who can that be! rodrigo. that is my beloved. it's a full year now since we've seen each other. alva. but how should they be back already! who can be coming there? i expect no one. rodrigo. oh the devil, unlock it! alva. hide yourself! rodrigo. i'll get behind the portières. i've stood there once before, a year ago. (_disappears, right. alva opens the rear door, whereupon alfred hugenberg enters, hat in hand._) alva. with whom have i--.... you? aren't you--? hugenberg. alfred hugenberg. alva. what can i do for you? hugenberg. i've come from münsterburg. i ran away this morning. alva. my eyes are bad. i am forced to keep the blinds closed. hugenberg. i need your help. you will not refuse me. i've got a plan ready. can anyone hear us? alva. what do you mean? what sort of a plan? hugenberg. are you alone? alva. yes. what do you want to impart to me? hugenberg. i've had two plans already that i let drop. what i shall tell you now has been worked out to the last possible chance. if i had money i should not confide it to you; i thought about that a long time before coming.... will you not permit me to set forth to you my design? alva. will you kindly tell me just what you are talking about? hugenberg. she cannot possibly be so indifferent to you that i must tell you that. the evidence *you* gave the coroner helped her more than everything the defending counsel said. alva. i beg to decline the supposition. hugenberg. you would say that; i understand that, of course. but all the same you were her best witness. alva. *you* were! you said my father was about to force her to shoot herself. hugenberg. he was, too. but they didn't believe me. i wasn't put on my oath. alva. where have you come from now? hugenberg. from a reform-school i broke out of this morning. alva. and what do you have in view? hugenberg. i'm trying to get into the confidence of a turnkey. alva. what do you mean to live on? hugenberg. i'm living with a girl who's had a child by my father. alva. who is your father? hugenberg. he's a police captain. i know the prison without ever having been inside it; and nobody in it will recognize me as i am now. but i don't count on that at all. i know an iron ladder by which one can get from the first court to the roof and thru an opening there into the attic. there's no way up to it from inside. but in all five wings boards and laths and great heaps of shavings are lying under the roofs, and i'll drag them all together in the middle and set fire to them. my pockets are full of matches and all the things used to make fires. alva. but then you'll burn up there! hugenberg. of course, if i'm not rescued. but to get into the first court i must have the turnkey in my power, and for that i need money. not that i mean to bribe him; that wouldn't go. i must lend him money to send his three children to the country, and then at four o'clock in the morning when the prisoners of respected families are discharged, i'll slip in the door. he'll lock-up behind me and ask me what i'm after, and i'll ask him to let me out again in the evening. and before it gets light, i'm up in the attic. alva. how did you escape from the reform-school? hugenberg. jumped out the window. i need two hundred marks for the rascal to send his family to the country. rodrigo. (_stepping out of the portières, right._) will the herr baron have coffee in the music-room or on the veranda? hugenberg. where does that man come from? out of the same door! he jumped out of the same door! alva. i've taken him into my service. he is dependable. hugenberg. (_grasping his temples._) fool that i am! oh, fool! rodrigo. oh, yah, we've seen each other here before! cut away now to your vice-mamma. your kid brother might like to uncle his brothers and sisters. make your sir-papa the grandfather of his children! you're the only thing we've missed. if you once get into my sight in the next two weeks, i'll beat your bean up for porridge. alva. be quiet, you! hugenberg. i'm a fool! rodrigo. what do you want to do with your fire? don't you know the lady's been dead three weeks? hugenberg. did they cut off her head? rodrigo. no, she's got that still. she was mashed by the cholera. hugenberg. that is not true! rodrigo. what do you know about it! there, read it: here! (_taking out a paper and pointing to the place._) "the murderess of dr. schön...." (_gives hugenberg the paper. he reads:_) hugenberg. "the murderess of dr. schön has in some incomprehensible way fallen ill of the cholera in prison." it doesn't say that she's dead. rodrigo. well, what else do you suppose she is? she's been lying in the churchyard three weeks. back in the left-hand corner behind the rubbish-heap where the little crosses are with no names on them, there she lies under the first one. you'll know the spot because the grass hasn't grown on it. hang a tin wreath there, and then get back to your nursery-school or i'll denounce you to the police. i know the female that beguiles her leisure hours with you! hugenberg. (_to alva._) is it true that she's dead? alva. thank god, yes!--please, do not keep me here any longer. my doctor has forbidden me to receive visitors. hugenberg. my future is worth so little now! i would gladly have given the last scrap of what life is worth to me for her happiness. heigh-ho! one way or another i'll sure go to the devil now! rodrigo. if you dare in any way to approach me or the doctor here or my honorable friend schigolch too near, i'll inform on you for intended arson. you need three good years, to learn where not to stick your fingers in! now get out! hugenberg. fool! rodrigo. get out!! (_throws him out the door. coming down._) i wonder you didn't put your purse at that rogue's disposal, too! alva. i won't stand your damned jabbering! the boy's little finger is worth more than all you! rodrigo. i've had enough of this geschwitz's company! if my bride is to become a corporation with limited liability, somebody else can go in ahead of me. i propose to make a magnificent trapeze-artist out of her, and willingly risk my life to do it. but then i'll be master of the house, and will myself indicate what cavaliers she is to receive! alva. the boy has what our age lacks: a hero-nature; therefore, of course, he is going to ruin. do you remember how before sentence was passed he jumped out of the witness-box and yelled at the justice: "how do you know what would have become of you if you'd had to run around the cafés barefoot every night when you were ten years old?!" rodrigo. if i could only have given him one in the jaw for that right away! thank god, there are jails where scum like that gets some respect for the law pounded into them. alva. one like him might have been my model for my "world-conqueror." for twenty years literature has presented nothing but demi-men: men who can beget no children and women who can bear none. that's called "the modern problem." rodrigo. i've ordered a hippopotamus-whip two inches thick. if that has no success with her, you can fill my cranium with potato-soup. be it love or be it whipping, female flesh never inquires. only give it some amusement, and it stays firm and fresh. she is now in her twentieth year, has been married three times and has satisfied a gigantic horde of lovers, and her heart's desires are at last pretty plain. but the man's got to have the seven deadly sins on his forehead, or she honors him not. if he looks as if a dog-catcher had spat him out on the street, then, with such women-folks, he needn't be afraid of a prince! i'll rent a garage fifty feet high and break her in there; and when she's learnt the first diving-leap without breaking her neck i'll pull on a black coat and not stir a finger the rest of my life. when she's educated practically it doesn't cost a woman half as much trouble to support her husband as the other way round, if only the man takes care of the mental labor for her, and doesn't let the sense of the family go to wreck. alva. i have learnt to rule humanity and drive it in harness before me like a well-broken four-in-hand,--but that boy sticks in my head. really, i can still take private lessons in the scorn of the world from that school-boy! rodrigo. she'll just comfortably let her hide be papered with thousand-mark bills! i'll extract salaries out of the directors with a centrifugal pump. i know their kind. when they don't need a man, let him shine their shoes for them; but when they must have an artiste they cut her down from the very gallows with their own hands and with the most entangling compliments. alva. in my situation there's nothing more in the world to fear--but death. in the realm of sensation i am the poorest beggar. but i can no longer scrape up the moral courage to exchange my established position for the excitements of the wild, adventurous life! rodrigo. she had sent papa schigolch and me together in chase of some strong antidote for sleeplessness. we each got a twenty-mark piece for expenses. there we see the youngster sitting in the night-light café. he was sitting like a criminal on the prisoner's bench. schigolch sniffed at him from all sides, and remarked, "he is still virgin." (_up in the gallery, dragging steps are heard._) there she is! the future magnificent trapeze-artiste of the present age! (_the curtains part at the stair-head, and lulu, supported by schigolch, and in a black dress, slowly and wearily descends._) schigolch. hui, old mold! we've still to get over the frontier to-day. rodrigo. (_glaring stupidly at lulu._) thunder of heaven! death! lulu. (_speaks, to the end of the act, in the gayest tones._) slowly! you're pinching my arm! rodrigo. how did you ever get the shamelessness to break out of prison with such a wolf's face?! schigolch. stop your snout! rodrigo. i'll run for the police! i'll give information! this scarecrow let herself be seen in tights?! the padding alone would cost two months' salary!--you're the most perfidious swindler that ever had lodging in ox-butter hotel! alva. kindly refrain from insulting the lady! rodrigo. insulting you call that?! for this gnawed bone's sake i've worn myself away! i can't earn my own living! i'll be a clown if i can still stand firm under a broom-stick! but let the lightning strike me on the spot if i don't worm ten thousand marks a year for life out of your tricks and frauds! i can tell you that! a pleasant trip! i'm going for the police! (_exit._) schigolch. run, run! lulu. he'll take good care of himself! schigolch. we're rid of *him*!--and now some black coffee for the lady! alva. (_at the table left._) here is coffee, ready to pour. schigolch. i must look after the sleeping-car tickets. lulu. (_brightly._) oh, freedom! thank god for freedom! schigolch. i'll be back for you in half an hour. we'll celebrate our departure in the station-restaurant. i'll order a supper that'll keep us going till to-morrow.--good morning, doctor. alva. good evening. schigolch. pleasant rest!--thanks, i know every door-handle here. so long! have a good time! (_exit._) lulu. i haven't seen a room for a year and a half. curtains, chairs, pictures.... alva. won't you drink it? lulu. i've swallowed enough black coffee these five days. have you any brandy? alva. i've got some elixir de spaa. lulu. that reminds one of old times. (_looks round the hall while alva fills two glasses._) where's my picture gone? alva. i've got it in my room, so no one shall see it here. lulu. bring it down here now. alva. didn't you even lose your vanity in prison? lulu. how anxious at heart one gets when one hasn't seen herself for months! one day i got a brand-new dust-pan. when i swept up at seven in the morning i held the back of it up before my face. tin doesn't flatter, but i took pleasure in it all the same.--bring the picture down from your room. shall i come too? alva. no, heaven's sake! you must spare yourself! lulu. i've been sparing myself long enough now! (_alva goes out, right, to get the picture._) he has heart-trouble; but to have to plague one's self with imagination fourteen months!... he kisses with the fear of death on him, and his two knees shake like a frozen vagabond's. in god's name.... in this room--if only i had not shot his father in the back! alva. (_returns with the picture of lulu in the pierrot-dress._) it's covered with dust. i had leant it against the fire-place, face to the wall. lulu. you didn't look at it all the time i was away? alva. i had so much business to attend to, with the sale of our paper and everything. countess geschwitz would have liked to have hung it up in her house, but she had to be prepared for search-warrants. (_he puts the picture on the easel._) lulu. (_merrily._) now the poor monster is learning the joys of life in hotel ox-butter by her own experience. alva. even now i don't understand how events hang together. lulu. oh, geschwitz arranged it all very cleverly. i must admire her inventiveness. but the cholera must have raged fearfully in hamburg this summer; and on that she founded her plan for freeing me. she took a course in hospital nursing here, and when she had the necessary documents she journeyed to hamburg with them and nursed the cholera patients. at the first opportunity that offered she put on the underclothes in which a sick woman had just died and which really ought to have been burnt. the same morning she traveled back here and came to see me in prison. in my cell, while the wardress was outside, we, as quick as we could, exchanged underclothes. alva. so that was the reason why the countess and you fell sick of the cholera the same day! lulu. exactly, that was it! geschwitz of course was instantly brought from her house to the contagious ward in the hospital. but with me, too, they couldn't think of any other place to take me. so there we lay in one room in the contagious ward behind the hospital, and from the first day geschwitz put forth all her art to make our two faces as like each other as possible. day before yesterday she was let out as cured. just now she came back and said she'd forgotten her watch. i put on her clothes, she slipped into my prison frock, and then i came away. (_with pleasure._) now she's lying over there as the murderess of dr. schön. alva. so far as outward appearance goes you can still agree with the picture as much as ever. lulu. i'm a little peaked in the face, but otherwise i've lost nothing. only one gets incredibly nervous in prison. alva. you looked horribly sick when you came in. lulu. i had to, to get our necks out of the noose.--and you? what have you done in this year and a half? alva. i've had a succès d'estime in literary circles with a play i wrote about you. lulu. who's your sweetheart now? alva. an actress i've rented a house for in karl street. lulu. does she love you? alva. how should i know that? i haven't seen the woman for six weeks. lulu. can you stand that? alva. you will never understand that. with me there's the closest alternation between my sensuality and mental creativeness. so towards you, for example, i have only the choice of regarding you artistically or of loving you. lulu. (_in a fairy-story tone._) i used to dream every other night that i'd fallen into the hands of a sadic.... come, give me a kiss! alva. it's shining in your eyes like the water in a deep well one has just thrown a stone into. lulu. come! alva. (_kisses her._) your lips have got pretty thin, anyway. lulu. come! (_pushes him into a chair and seats herself on his knee._) do you shudder at me?--in hotel ox-butter we all got a luke-warm bath every four weeks. the wardresses took that opportunity to search our pockets as soon as we were in the water. (_she kisses him passionately._) alva. oh, oh! lulu. you're afraid that when i'm away you couldn't write any more poems about me? alva. on the contrary, i shall write a dithyramb upon thy glory. lulu. i'm only sore about the hideous shoes i'm wearing. alva. they do not encroach upon your charms. let us be thankful for the favor of this moment. lulu. i don't feel at all like that to-day.--do you remember the costume ball where i was dressed like a knight's squire? how those wine-full women ran after me that time? geschwitz crawled round, round my feet, and begged me to step on her face with my cloth shoes. alva. come, dear heart! lulu. (_in the tone with which one quiets a restless child._) quietly! i shot your father. alva. i do not love thee less for that. one kiss! lulu. bend your head back. (_she kisses him with deliberation._) alva. you hold back the fire of my soul with the most dexterous art. and your breast breathes so virginly too. yet if it weren't for your two great, dark, childish eyes, i must needs have thought you the cunningest whore that ever hurled a man to destruction. lulu. (_in high spirits._) would god i were! come over the border with us to-day! then we can see each other as often as we will, and we'll get more pleasure from each other than now. alva. through this dress i feel your body like a symphony. these slender ankles, this cantabile. this rapturous crescendo. and these knees, this capriccio. and the powerful andante of lust!--how peacefully these two slim rivals press against each other in the consciousness that neither equals the other in beauty--till their capricious mistress wakes up and the rival lovers separate like the two hostile poles. i shall sing your praises so that your senses shall whirl! lulu. (_merrily._) meanwhile i'll bury my hands in your hair. (_she does so._) but here we'll be disturbed. alva. you have robbed me of my reason! lulu. aren't you coming with me to-day? alva. but the old fellow's going with you! lulu. he won't turn up again.--is not that the divan on which your father bled to death? alva. be still. be still.... curtain. act ii _a spacious salon in white stucco. in the rear-wall, between two high mirrors, a wide folding doorway showing in the rear room a big card-table surrounded by turkish upholstered chairs. in the left wall two doors, the upper one to the entrance-hall, the lower to the dining-room. between them a rococo-console with a white marble top, and above it lulu's pierrot-picture in a narrow gold frame let into the wall. two other doors, right; near the lower one a small table. wide and brightly-covered chairs stand about, with thin legs and fragile arms; and in the middle is a sofa of the same style (louis xv.)._ _a large company is moving about the salon in lively conversation. the men--*alva*, *rodrigo*, marquis *casti-piani*, banker *puntschu*, and journalist *heilmann*--are in evening dress. *lulu* wears a white directoire dress with huge sleeves and white lace falling freely from belt to feet. her arms are in white kid gloves, her hair done high with a little tuft of white feathers. *geschwitz* is in a bright blue hussar-waist trimmed with white fur and laced with silver braid, a tall tight collar with a white bow and stiff cuffs with huge ivory links. *magelone* is in bright rainbow-colored shot silk with very wide sleeves, long narrow waist, and three ruffles of spiral rose-colored ribbons and violet bouquets. her hair is parted in the middle and drawn low over her temples. on her forehead is a mother-of-pearl ornament, held by a fine chain under her hair. *kadidia*, her daughter, twelve years old, has bright-green satin gaiters which yet leave visible the tops of her white silk socks, and a white-lace-covered dress with bright-green narrow sleeves, pearl-gray gloves, and free black hair under a big bright-green hat with white feathers. *bianetta* is in dark-green velvet, the collar sewn with pearls, and a full skirt, its hem embroidered with great false topazes set in silver. *ludmilla steinherz* is in a glaring summer frock striped red and blue._ _rodrigo stands, centre, a full glass in his hand._ rodrigo. ladies and gentlemen--i beg your pardon--please be quiet--i drink--permit me to drink--for this is the birthday party of our amiable hostess--(_taking lulu's arm_) of countess adelaide d'oubra--damned and done for!--i drink therefore----and so forth, go to it, ladies! (_all surround lulu and clink with her. alva presses rodrigo's hand._) alva. i congratulate you. rodrigo. i'm sweating like a roast pig. alva. (_to lulu._) let's see if everything's in order in the card-room. (_alva and lulu exeunt, rear. bianetta speaks to rodrigo._) bianetta. they were telling me just now you were the strongest man in the world. rodrigo. that i am. may i put my strength at your disposal? magelone. i love sharp-shooters better. three months ago a sharp-shooter stepped into the casino and every time he went "bang!" i felt like this. (_she wriggles her hips._) casti-piani. (_who speaks thruout the act in a bored and weary tone, to magelone._) say, dearie, how does it happen we see your nice little princess here for the first time to-night? (_meaning kadidia._) magelone. do you really find her so delightful?--she is still in the convent. she must be back in school again on monday. kadidia. what did you say, mama? magelone. i was just telling the gentleman that you got the highest mark in geometry last week. heilmann. some pretty hair she's got! casti-piani. just look at her feet: the way she walks! puntschu. by god, she's got breeding! magelone. (_smiling._) but my dear sirs, take pity on her! she's nothing but a child still! puntschu. that'd trouble me damned little! (_to heilmann._) i'd give ten years of my life if i could initiate the young lady into the ceremonies of our secret society! magelone. but you won't get me to consent to that for a million. i won't have the child's youth ruined, the way mine was! casti-piani. confessions of a lovely soul! (_to magelone._) would you not agree, either, for a set of real diamonds? magelone. don't brag! you'll give as few real diamonds to me as to my child. you know that quite the best yourself. (_kadidia goes into the rear room._) geschwitz. but is nobody at all going to play, this evening? ludmilla. why, of course, comtesse. i'm counting on it very much, for one! bianetta. then let's take our places right away. the gentlemen will soon come then. geschwitz. may i ask you to excuse me just a second. i must say a word to my friend. casti-piani. (_offering his arm to bianetta._) may i have the honor to be your partner? you always hold such a lucky hand! ludmilla. now just give me your other arm and then lead us into the gambling-hell. (_the three go off so, rear._) magelone. say, mr. puntschu, have you still got a few jungfrau shares for me, maybe? puntschu. jungfrau-shares? (_to heilmann._) the lady means the stock of the funicular railway on the jungfrau. the jungfrau, you know,--the virgin--is a mountain up which they want to build a wire railway. (_to magelone._) you know, just so there may be no confusion;--and how easy that would be in this select circle!--yes, i still have some four thousand jungfrau-shares, but i should like to keep those for myself. there won't be such another chance soon of making a little fortune out of hand. heilmann. i've only one lone share of this jungfrau-stock so far. i should like to have more, too. puntschu. i'll try, mr. heilmann, to look after some for you. but i'll tell you beforehand you'll have to pay drug-store prices for them! magelone. my fortune-teller advised me to look about me in time. all my savings are in jungfrau-shares now. if it doesn't turn out well, mr. puntschu, i'll scratch your eyes out! puntschu. i am perfectly sure of my affairs, my dearie! alva. (_who has come back from the card-room, to magelone._) i can guarantee your fears are absolutely unfounded. i paid very dear for my jungfrau-stock and haven't regretted it a minute. they're going up steadily from day to day. there never was such a thing before. magelone. all the better, if you're right. (_taking puntschu's arm._) come, my friend, let's try our luck now at baccarat. (_all go out, rear, except geschwitz and rodrigo who scribbles something on a piece of paper and folds it up, then notices geschwitz._) rodrigo. hm, madam countess--(_geschwitz starts and shrinks._) do i look as dangerous as that? (_to himself._) i must make a bon mot. (_aloud._) may i perhaps make so bold-- geschwitz. you can go to the devil! casti-piani. (_as he leads lulu in._) permit me a word or two. lulu. (_not noticing rodrigo who presses his note into her hand._) oh, as many as you like. (_rodrigo bows and goes out, rear._) casti-piani. (_to geschwitz._) leave us alone! lulu. (_to casti-piani._) have i hurt you again in any way? casti-piani. (_since geschwitz does not stir._) are you deaf? (_geschwitz, sighing deeply, goes out, rear._) lulu. just say straight out how much you want. casti-piani. with money you can no longer serve me. lulu. what makes you think that we have no more money? casti-piani. you handed out the last bit of it to me yesterday. lulu. if you're sure of that then i suppose it's so. casti-piani. you're down on the bare ground, you and your writer. lulu. then why all the words?--if you want to have me for yourself you need not first threaten me with execution. casti-piani. i know that. but i've told you more than once that you won't be my downfall. i haven't sucked you dry because you loved me, but loved you in order to suck you. bianetta is more to my taste from top to bottom than you. you set out the choicest sweetmeats, and after one has frittered his time away at them he finds he's hungrier than before. you've loved too long, even for our present relations. with a healthy young man, you only ruin his nervous system. but you'll fit all the more perfectly in the position i have sought out for you. lulu. you're crazy! have i commissioned you to find a position for me? casti-piani. i told you, though, that i was an appointments-agent. lulu. you told me you were a police spy. casti-piani. one can't live on that alone. i was an appointments-agent originally, till i blundered over a minister's daughter i'd got a position for in valparaiso. the little darling in her childhood's dreams imagined the life even more intoxicating than it is, and complained of it to mama. on that, they nabbed me; but by reliable demeanor i soon enough won the confidence of the criminal police and they sent me here on a hundred and fifty marks a month, because they were tripling our contingent here on account of these everlasting bomb-explosions. but who can get along on a hundred and fifty marks a month? my colleagues get women to support them; but, of course, i found it more convenient to take up my former calling again; and of the numberless adventuresses of the best families of the entire world, whom chance brings together here, i have already forwarded many a young creature hungry for life to the place of her natural vocation. lulu. (_decisively._) i wouldn't do in that business. casti-piani. your views on that question make no difference whatever to me. the department of justice will pay anyone who delivers the murderess of dr. schön into the hands of the police a thousand marks. i only need to whistle for the constable who's standing down at the corner to have earned a thousand marks. against that, the house of oikonomopulos in cairo bids sixty pounds for you--twelve hundred marks--two hundred more than the attorney general. and, besides, i am still so far a friend of mankind that i prefer to help my loves to happiness, not plunge them into misfortune. lulu. (_as before._) the life in such a house can never make a woman of my stamp happy. when i was fifteen, that might have happened to me. i was desperate then--thought i should never be happy. i bought a revolver, and ran one night bare-foot thru the deep snow over the bridge to the park to shoot myself there. but then by good luck i lay three months in the hospital without setting eyes on a man, and in that time my eyes opened and i got to know myself. night after night in my dreams i saw the man for whom i was created and who was created for me, and then when i was let out on the men again i was no longer a silly goose. since then i can see on a man, in a pitch-dark night and a hundred feet away, whether we're suited to each other; and if i sin against that insight i feel the next day dirtied, body and soul, and need weeks to get over the loathing i have for myself. and now you imagine i'll give myself to every and any tom and harry! casti-piani. toms and harries don't patronize oikonomopulos of cairo. his custom consists of scottish lords, russian dignitaries, indian governors, and our jolly rhineland captains of industry. i must only guarantee that you speak french. with your gift for languages you'll quickly enough learn as much english, besides, as you'll need to get on with. and you'll reside in a royally furnished apartment with an outlook on the minarets of the el azhar mosque, and walk around all day on persian carpets as thick as your fist, and dress every evening in a fabulous paris gown and drink as much champagne as your customers can pay for, and, finally, you'll even remain, up to a certain point, your own mistress. if the man doesn't please you, you needn't bring him any reciprocal feelings. just let him give in his card, and then--(_shrugs, and snaps his fingers._) if the ladies didn't get used to that the whole business would be simply impossible, because every one after the first four weeks would go headlong to the devil. lulu. (_her voice shaking._) i do believe that since yesterday you've got a screw loose somewhere. am i to understand that the egyptian will pay fifteen hundred francs for a person whom he's never seen? casti-piani. i took the liberty of sending him your pictures. lulu. those pictures that i gave you, you've sent to him? casti-piani. you see he can value them better than i. the picture in which you stand before the mirror as eve he'll probably hang up at the house-door, after you've got there.... and then there's one thing more for you to notice: with oikonomopulos in cairo you'll be safer from your blood-hounds than if you crept into a canadian wilderness. it isn't so easy to transport an egyptian courtesan to a german prison,--first, on account of the mere expense, and second, from fear of coming too close to eternal justice. lulu. (_proudly, in a clear voice._) what's your eternal justice to do with me! you can see as plain as your five fingers i shan't let myself be locked up in any such amusement-place! casti-piani. then do you want me to whistle for the policeman? lulu. (_in wonder._) why don't you simply ask me for twelve hundred marks, if you want the money? casti-piani. i want for no money! and i also don't ask for it because you're dead broke. lulu. we still have thirty thousand marks. casti-piani. in jungfrau-stock! i never have anything to do with stock. the attorney-general pays in the national currency, and oikonomopulos pays in english gold. you can be on board early to-morrow. the passage doesn't last much more than five days. in two weeks at most you're in safety. here you are nearer to prison than anywhere. it's a wonder which i, as one of the secret police, cannot understand, that you two have been able to live for a full year unmolested. but just as i came on the track of your antecedents, so any day, with your mighty consumption of men, one of my colleagues may make the happy discovery. then i may just wipe my mouth, and you spend in prison the most enjoyable years of your life. if you will kindly decide quickly. the train goes at . . if we haven't struck a bargain before eleven, i whistle up the policeman. if we have, i pack you, just as you stand, into a carriage, drive you to the station, and to-morrow escort you on board ship. lulu. but is it possible you can be serious in all this? casti-piani. don't you understand that i can act now only for your bodily rescue? lulu. i'll go with you to america or to china, but i can't let myself be sold of my own accord! that is worse than prison! casti-piani. (_drawing a letter from his pocket._) just read this effusion! i'll read it to you. here's the postmark "cairo," so you won't believe i work with forged documents. the girl is a berliner, was married two years and to a man whom you would have envied her, a former comrade of mine. he travels now for the hamburg colonial company.... lulu. (_merrily._) then perhaps he *visits* his wife occasionally? casti-piani. that is not incredible. but hear this impulsive expression of her feelings. my white-slave traffic seems to me absolutely no more honorable than the very best judge would tax it with being, but a cry of joy like this lets me feel a certain moral satisfaction for a moment. i am proud to earn my money by scattering happiness with full hands. (_reads._) "dear mr. meyer"--that's my name as a white-slave trader--"when you go to berlin, please go right away to the conservatory on the potsdamer strasse and ask for gusti von rosenkron--the most beautiful woman that i've ever seen in nature--delightful hands and feet, naturally small waist, straight back, full body, big eyes and short nose--just the sort you like best. i have written to her already. she has no prospects with her singing. her mother hasn't a penny. sorry she's already twenty-two, but she's pining for love. can't marry, because absolutely without means. i have spoken with madame. they'd like to take another german, if she's well educated and musical. italians and frenchwomen can't compete with us, 'cause of too little culture. if you should see fritz"--fritz is the husband; he's getting a divorce, of course,--"tell him it was all a bore. he didn't know any better, nor did i either." now come the exact details-- lulu. (_goaded._) i can not sell the only thing that ever was my own! casti-piani. let me read some more. lulu. (_as before._) this very evening, i'll hand over to you our entire wealth. casti-piani. believe me, for god's sake, i've *got* your last red cent! if we haven't left this house before eleven, you and your lot will be transported to-morrow in a police-car to germany. lulu. you *can't* give me up! casti-piani. do you think that would be the worst thing i can have done in my life?... i must, in case we go to-night, have just a brief word with bianetta. (_he goes into the card-room, leaving the door open behind him. lulu stares before her, mechanically crumpling up the note that rodrigo stuck into her hand, which she has held in her fingers thruout the dialog. alva, behind the card-table, gets up, a bill in his hand, and comes into the salon._) alva. (_to lulu._) brilliantly! it's going brilliantly! geschwitz is wagering her last shirt. puntschu has promised me ten more jungfrau-shares. steinherz is making her little gains and profits. (_exit, lower right._) lulu. i in a bordell?--(_she reads the paper she holds, and laughs madly._) alva. (_coming back with a cash-box in his hand._) aren't you going to play, too? lulu. oh, yes, surely--why not? alva. by the way, it's in the berliner tageblatt to-day that alfred hugenberg has hurled himself over the stairs in prison. lulu. is he too in prison? alva. only in a sort of house of detention. (_exit, rear. lulu is about to follow, but countess geschwitz meets her in the door-way._) geschwitz. you are going because i come? lulu. (_resolutely._) no, god knows. but when you come then i go. geschwitz. you have defrauded me of all the good things of this world that i still possessed. you might at the very least preserve the outward forms of politeness in your intercourse with me. lulu. (_as before._) i am as polite to you as to any other woman. i only beg you to be equally so to me. geschwitz. have you forgotten the passionate endearments by which, while we lay together in the hospital, you seduced me into letting myself be locked into prison for you? lulu. well, why else did you bring me down with the cholera beforehand? i swore very different things to myself, even while it was going on, from what i had to promise you! i am shaken with horror at the thought that that should ever become reality! geschwitz. then you cheated me consciously, deliberately? lulu. (_gaily._) what have you been cheated of, then? your physical advantages have found so enthusiastic an admirer here, that i ask myself if i won't have to give piano lessons once more, to keep alive! no seventeen-year-old child could make a man madder with love than you, a pervert, are making him, poor fellow, by your shrewishness. geschwitz. of whom are you speaking? i don't understand a word. lulu. (_as before._) i'm speaking of your acrobat, of rodrigo quast. he's an athlete: he balances two saddled cavalry horses on his chest. can a woman desire anything more glorious? he told me just now that he'd jump into the water to-night if you did not take pity on him. geschwitz. i do not envy you this cleverness with which you torture the helpless victims sacrificed to you by their inscrutable destiny. my own plight has not yet wrung from me the pity that i feel for you. _i_ feel free as a god when i think to what creatures *you* are enslaved. lulu. who do you mean? geschwitz. casti-piani, upon whose forehead the most degenerate baseness is written in letters of fire! lulu. be silent! i'll kick you, if you speak ill of *him*. he loves me with an uprightness against which your most venturous self-sacrifices are poor as beggary! he gives me such proofs of self-denial as reveal *you* for the first time in all your loathsomeness! you didn't get finished in your mother's womb, neither as woman nor as man. you have no human nature like the rest of us. the stuff didn't go far enough for a man, and for a woman you got too much brain into your skull. that's the reason you're crazy! turn to miss bianetta! she can be had for everything for pay! press a gold-piece into her hand and she'll belong to you. (_all the_ _company save kadidia throng in out of the card-room._) for the lord's sake, what has happened? puntschu. nothing whatever! we're thirsty, that's all. magelone. everybody has won. we can't believe it. bianetta. it seems i have won a whole fortune! ludmilla. don't boast of it, my child. that isn't lucky. magelone. but the bank has won, too! how is that *possible*? alva. it is colossal, where all the money comes from! casti-piani. let us not ask! enough that we need not spare the champagne. heilmann. i can pay for a supper in a respectable restaurant afterwards, anyway! alva. to the buffet, ladies! come to the buffet! (_all exeunt, lower left._) rodrigo. (_holding lulu back._) un momong, my heart. have you read my billet-doux? lulu. threaten me with discovery as much as you like! i have no more twenty thousands to dispose of. rodrigo. don't lie to me, you punk! you've still got forty thousand in jungfrau-stock. your so-called spouse has just been bragging of it himself! lulu. then turn to *him* with your blackmailing! it's all one to me what he does with his money. rodrigo. thank you! with that blockhead i'd need twice twenty-four hours to make him grasp what i was talking about. and then come his explanations, that make one deathly sick; and meanwhile my bride writes me "it's all up!" and i can just hang a hurdy-gurdy over my shoulder. lulu. have you got engaged here, then? rodrigo. maybe i ought to have asked your permission first? what were my thanks here that i freed you from prison at the cost of my health? you abandoned me! i might have had to be a baggage-man if this girl hadn't taken me up! at my very first entrance, right away, they threw a velvet-covered arm-chair at my head! this country is too decadent to value genuine shows of strength any more. if i'd been a boxing kangaroo they'd have interviewed me and put my picture in all the papers. thank heaven, i'd already made the acquaintance of my celestine. she's got the savings of twenty years deposited with the government; and she loves me just for myself. she doesn't aim only at vulgar things, like you. she's had three children by an american bishop--all of the greatest promise. day after to-morrow we'll get married by the registrar. lulu. you have my blessing. rodrigo. your blessing *can* be stolen from me. i've told my bride i had twenty thousand in stock at the bank. lulu. (_amused._) and after that he boasts the person loves him for himself! rodrigo. she honors in me the man of mind, not the man of might as you and all the others have done. that's over now. first they tore the clothes from one's body and then they waltzed around with the chambermaid. i'll be a skeleton before i'll let myself in again for such diversions! lulu. then why the devil do you pursue the unfortunate geschwitz with your attentions? rodrigo. because the creature is of noble blood. i'm a man of the world, and can do distinguished conversation better than any of you. but now (_with a gesture_) my talk is hanging out of my mouth! will you get me the money before to-morrow evening or won't you? lulu. i have no money. rodrigo. i'll have hen-droppings in my head before i'll let myself be put off with that! he'll give you his last cent if you'll only do your damned duty once! you lured the poor lad here, and now he can see where to scare up a suitable engagement for his accomplishments. lulu. what has it to do with you if he wastes his money with women or at cards? rodrigo. do you absolutely *want*, then, to throw the last penny that his father earned by his paper into the jaws of this rapacious pack? you'll make four people happy if you'll not take things too exactly and sacrifice yourself for a beneficent purpose! has it got to be only casti-piani *forever*? lulu. (_lightly._) shall i ask him perhaps to light you down the stairs? rodrigo. as you wish, countess! if i don't get the twenty thousand marks by to-morrow evening, i make a statement to the police and your court has an end. auf wiedersehen! (_heilmann enters, breathless, upper right._) lulu. you're looking for miss magelone? she's not here. heilmann. no, i'm looking for something else-- rodrigo. (_taking him to the entry-door, opposite him._) second door on the left. lulu. (_to rodrigo._) did you learn that from your bride? heilmann. (_bumping into puntschu in the doorway._) excuse me, my angel! puntschu. ah, it's you. miss magelone's waiting for you in the lift. heilmann. you go up with her, please. i'll be right back. (_he hurries out, left. lulu goes out at lower left. rodrigo follows her._) puntschu. some heat, that! if i don't cut off *your* ears, you'll cut 'em off me! if i can't hire out my jehoshaphat, i've just got to help myself with my brains! won't they get wrinkled, my brains! won't they get indisposed! won't they need to bathe in eau de cologne! (_bob, a groom in a red jacket, tight leather breeches, and twinkling riding-boots, years old, brings in a telegram._) bob. mr. puntschu, the banker! puntschu. (_breaks open the telegram and murmurs:_) "jungfrau funicular stock fallen to--" ay, ay, so goes the world! (_to bob._) wait! (_gives him a tip._) tell me--what's your name? bob. well, it's really freddy, but they call me bob, because that's the fashion now. puntschu. how old are you? bob. fifteen. kadidia. (_enters hesitatingly from lower left._) i beg your pardon, can you tell me if mama is here? puntschu. no, my dear. (_aside._) devil, she's got breeding! kadidia. i'm hunting all over for her; i can't find her anywhere. puntschu. your mama will turn up again soon, as true as my name's puntschu! (_looking at bob._) and that pair of breeches! god of justice! it gets uncanny! (_he goes out, upper right._) kadidia. haven't *you* seen my mama, perhaps? bob. no, but you only need to come with me. kadidia. where is she then? bob. she's gone up in the lift. come along. kadidia. no, no, i can't go up with you. bob. we can hide up there in the corridor. kadidia. no, no, i can't come, or i'll be scolded. (_magelone, terribly excited, rushes in, upper left, and possesses herself of kadidia._) magelone. ha, there you are at last, you common creature! kadidia. (_crying._) o mama, mama, i was hunting for you! magelone. hunting for me? did i tell you to hunt for me? what have you had to do with this fellow? (_heilmann, alva, ludmilla, puntschu, geschwitz, and lulu enter, lower left. bob has withdrawn._) now don't bawl before all the people on me; look out, i tell you! lulu. (_as they all surround kadidia._) but you're crying, sweetheart! why are you crying? puntschu. by god, she's really been crying! who's done anything to hurt you, little goddess? ludmilla. (_kneels before her and folds her in her arms._) tell me, cherub, what bad thing has happened. do you want a cookie? do you want some chocolate? magelone. it's just nerves. the child's getting them much too soon. it would be the best thing if no one paid any attention to her! puntschu. that sounds like you! you're a pretty mother! the courts'll yet take the child away from you and appoint me her guardian! (_stroking kadidia's cheeks._) isn't that so, my little goddess? geschwitz. i should be glad if we started the baccarat again at last? (_all go into the card-room. lulu is held back at the door by bob._) lulu. (_when bob has whispered to her._) certainly! let him come in! (_bob opens the door and lets schigolch enter, in evening dress, his patent-leather shoes much worn, and keeping on his shabby opera hat._) schigolch. (_with a look at bob._) where d'd you get him from? lulu. the circus. schigolch. how much does he get? lulu. ask him if it interests you. (_to bob._) shut the doors. (_bob goes out lower left, shutting the door behind him._) schigolch. (_sitting down._) the truth is, i'm in need of money. i've hired a flat for my mistress. lulu. have you taken another mistress here, too? schigolch. she's from frankfort. in her youth she was mistress to the king of naples. she tells me every day she was once very bewitching. lulu. (_outwardly with complete composure._) does she need the money very badly? schigolch. she wants to fit up her own apartments. such sums are of no account to *you*. (_lulu is suddenly overcome with a fit of weeping._) lulu. (_flinging herself at schigolch._) o god omnipotent! schigolch. (_patting her._) well? what is it now? lulu. (_sobbing violently._) it's too horrible! schigolch. (_draws her onto his knee and holds her in his arms like a little child._) hm--you're trying to do too much, child. you must go to bed, now and then, with a story.--cry, that's right, cry it all out. it used to shake you just so fifteen years ago. nobody has screamed since then, the way you could scream! you didn't wear any white tufts on your head then, nor any transparent stockings on your legs: you had neither shoes nor stockings then. lulu. (_crying._) take me home with you! take me home with you to-night! please! we'll find carriages enough downstairs! schigolch. i'll take you with me; i'll take you with me.--what is it? lulu. it's going round my neck! i'm to be shown up! schigolch. by who? who's showing you up? lulu. the acrobat. schigolch. (_with the utmost composure._) i'll look after him. lulu. look after him! *please*, look after him! then do with me what you will! schigolch. if he comes to me, he's done for. my window is over the water. but (_shaking his head_) he won't come; he won't come. lulu. what number do you live at? schigolch. , the last house before the hippodrome. lulu. i'll send him there. he'll come with the crazy person that creeps about my feet. he'll come this very evening. go home and let them find it comfortable. schigolch. just let them come. lulu. to-morrow bring the gold rings he wears in his ears. schigolch. has he got rings in his ears? lulu. you can take them out before you let him down. he doesn't notice anything when he's drunk. schigolch. and then, child--what then? lulu. then i'll give you the money for your mistress. schigolch. i call that pretty stingy. lulu. and whatever else you want! what i have! schigolch. it's pretty near ten years since we knew each other. lulu. is that all?--but you've got a mistress. schigolch. my frankforter is no longer of to-day. lulu. but then swear! schigolch. haven't i always kept my word to you? lulu. swear that you'll look after him! schigolch. i'll look after him. lulu. swear it to me! swear it to me! schigolch. (_puts his hand on her ankle._) by everything that's holy! to-night, if he comes-- lulu. by everything that's holy!--how cool that is! schigolch. how hot this is! lulu. drive straight home. they'll come in half-an-hour! take a carriage! schigolch. i'm going. lulu. quick! please!-- --all-powerful-- schigolch. why do you stare at me so again already? lulu. nothing--.... schigolch. well? is your tongue frozen on you? lulu. my garter's broken. schigolch. what if it is? is that all? lulu. what does that augur? schigolch. what does it? i'll fasten it for you if you'll keep still. lulu. that augurs misfortune! schigolch. (_yawning._) not for you, child. cheer up, i'll look after him! (_exit. lulu puts her left foot on a foot-stool, fastens her garter, and goes out into the card-room. then rodrigo is cuffed in from the dining-room, lower left, by casti-piani._) rodrigo. you can treat me decently anyway! casti-piani. (_still perfectly unemotional._) whatever would induce me to do that? i will know what you said to her here a little while ago. rodrigo. then you can be very fond of me! casti-piani. will you bandy words with me, dog? you demanded that she go up in the lift with you! rodrigo. that's a shameless, perfidious lie! casti-piani. she told me so herself. you threatened to denounce her if she didn't go with you.--shall i shoot you on the spot? rodrigo. the shameless hussy! as if anything like that could occur to me!--even if i should want to have her, god knows i don't first need to threaten her with prison! casti-piani. thank you. that's all i wanted to know. (_exit, upper left._) rodrigo. such a hound! a fellow i could throw up onto the roof so he'd stick like a limburger cheese!--come back here, so i can wind your guts round your neck. that would be even better! lulu. (_enters, lower left; merrily._) where were you? i've been hunting for you like a pin. rodrigo. i've shown *him* what it means to start anything with me! lulu. whom? rodrigo. your casti-piani! what made you tell him, you slut, that i wanted to seduce you?! lulu. did you not ask me to give myself to my deceased husband's son for twenty thousand in jungfrau shares? rodrigo. because it's your duty to take pity on the poor young fellow! you shot away his father before his nose in the very best years of life! but your casti-piani will think it over before he comes into my sight again. i gave him one in the basket that made the tripes fly to heaven like roman candles. if you've got no better substitute for me, then i'm sorry ever to have had your favor! lulu. lady geschwitz is in the fearfullest case. she twists herself up in fits. she's at the point of jumping into the water if you let her wait any longer. rodrigo. what's the beast waiting for? lulu. for you, to take her with you. rodrigo. then give her my regards, and she can jump into the water. lulu. she'll lend me twenty thousand marks to save me from destruction if you will preserve her from it herself. if you'll take her off to-night, i'll deposit twenty thousand marks to-morrow in your name at any bank you say. rodrigo. and if i don't take her off with me? lulu. denounce me! alva and i are dead broke. rodrigo. devil and damnation! lulu. you make four people happy if you don't take things too exactly and sacrifice yourself for a beneficent purpose. rodrigo. that won't go; i know that, beforehand. i've tried that out enough now. who counts on an honorable soul like that in a bag o' bones! what the person had for me was her being an aristocrat. my behavior was as gentleman-like, and more, as you could find among german circus-people. if i'd only just pinched her in the calves once! lulu. (_watchfully._) she is still a virgin. rodrigo. (_sighing._) if there's a god in heaven, you'll get paid for your jokes some day! i prophesy that. lulu. geschwitz waits. what shall i tell her? rodrigo. my very best wishes, and i am perverse. lulu. i will deliver that. rodrigo. wait a sec. is it certain sure i get twenty thousand marks from her? lulu. ask herself! rodrigo. then tell her i'm ready. i await her in the dining-room. i must just first look after a barrel of caviare. (_exit, left. lulu opens the rear door and calls in a clear voice "martha!" countess geschwitz enters, closing the door behind her._) lulu. (_pleased._) dear heart, you can save me from death to-night. geschwitz. how? lulu. by going to a certain house with the acrobat. geschwitz. what for, dear? lulu. he says you must belong to him this very night or he'll denounce me to-morrow. geschwitz. you know i can't belong to any man. my fate has not permitted that. lulu. if you don't please him, that's his own fix. why has he fallen in love with you? geschwitz. but he'll get as brutal as a hangman. he'll revenge himself for his disappointment and beat my head in. i've been thru that already.... can you not possibly spare me this hardest test? lulu. what will you gain by his denouncing me? geschwitz. i have still enough of my fortune to take us to america together in the steerage. there you'd be safe from all your pursuers. lulu. (_pleased and gay._) i want to stay here. i can never be happy in any other city. you must tell him that you can't live without him. then he'll feel flattered and be gentle as a lamb. you must pay the coachman, too: give him this paper with the address on it. is a sixth-class hotel where they're expecting you with him this evening. geschwitz. (_shuddering._) how can such a monstrosity save your life? i don't understand that. you have conjured up to torture me the most terrible fate that can fall upon outlawed me! lulu. (_watchful._) perhaps the encounter will cure you. geschwitz. (_sighing._) o lulu, if an eternal retribution does exist, i hope i may not have to answer then for you. i cannot make myself believe that no god watches over us. yet you are probably right that there is nothing there, for how can an insignificant worm like me have provoked his wrath so as to experience only horror there where all living creation swoons for bliss? lulu. you needn't complain. when you *are* happy you're a hundred thousand times happier than one of us ordinary mortals ever is! geschwitz. i know that too! i envy no one! but i am still waiting. you have deceived me so often already. lulu. i am yours, my darling, if you quiet mr. acrobat till to-morrow. he only wants his vanity placated. you must beseech him to take pity on you. geschwitz. and to-morrow? lulu. i await you, my heart. i shall not open my eyes till you come: see no chambermaid, receive no hair-dresser, not open my eyes before you are with me. geschwitz. then let him come. lulu. but you must throw yourself at his head, dear! have you got the house-number? geschwitz. three-seventy-six. but quick now! lulu. (_calls into the dining-room._) ready, my darling? rodrigo. (_entering._) the ladies will pardon my mouth's being full. geschwitz. (_seizing his hand._) i implore you, have mercy on my need! rodrigo. a la bonne heure! let us mount the scaffold! (_offers her his arm._) lulu. good-night, children! (_accompanies them into the corridor.... then quickly returns with bob._) quick, quick, bob! we must get away this moment! you escort me! but we must change clothes! bob. (_curt and clear._) as the gracious lady bids. lulu. oh what, gracious lady! you give me your clothes and put on mine. come! (_exeunt into the dining-room. noise in the card-room, the doors are torn open, and puntschu, heilmann, alva, bianetta, magelone, kadidia and ludmilla enter, heilmann holding a piece of paper with a glowing alpine peak at its top._) heilmann. (_to puntschu._) will you accept this share of jungfrau-stock, sir? puntschu. but that paper has no exchange, my friend. heilmann. you rascal! you just don't want to give me my revenge! magelone. (_to bianetta._) have you any idea what it's all about? ludmilla. puntschu has taken all his money from him, and now gives up the game. heilmann. now he's got cold feet, the filthy jew! puntschu. how have i given up the game? how have i got cold feet? the gentleman has merely to lay plain cash! is this my banking-office i'm in? he can proffer me his trash to-morrow morning! heilmann. trash you call that? the stock in my knowledge is at ! puntschu. yesterday it was at , you're right. to-day, it's just nowhere. and to-morrow you'll find nothing cheaper or more tasteful to paper your stairs with. alva. but how is that possible? then we *would* be down and out! puntschu. well, what am _i_ to say, who have lost my whole fortune in it! to-morrow morning i shall have the pleasure of taking up the struggle for an assured existence for the thirty-sixth time! magelone. (_passing forward._) am i dreaming or do i really hear the jungfrau-stock has fallen? puntschu. fallen even lower than you! tho you can use 'em for curl-paper. magelone. o god in heaven! ten years' work! (_falls in a faint._) kadidia. wake up, mama! wake up! bianetta. say, mr. puntschu, where will you eat this evening, since you've lost your whole fortune? puntschu. wherever you like, young lady! take me where you will, but quickly! here it's getting frightful. (_exeunt puntschu and bianetta._) heilmann. (_squeezing up his stock and flinging it to the ground._) that is what one gets from this pack! ludmilla. why do you speculate on the jungfrau too? send a few little notices on the company to the german police here, and then you'll still win something in the end. heilmann. i've never tried that in my life, but if you want to help me--? ludmilla. let's go to an all-night restaurant. do you know the five-footed calf? heilmann. i'm very sorry-- ludmilla. or the sucking lamb, or the smoking dog? they're all right near here. we'll be all by ourselves there, and before dawn we'll have a little article ready. heilmann. don't you sleep? ludmilla. oh, of course; but not at night. (_exeunt heilmann and ludmilla._) alva. (_who has been trying to resuscitate magelone._) ice-cold hands! ah, what a splendid woman! we must undo her waist. come, kadidia, undo your mother's waist! she's so fearfully tight-laced. kadidia. (_without stirring._) i'm afraid. (_lulu enters lower left in a jockey-cap, red jacket, white leather breeches and riding boots, a riding cape over her shoulders._) lulu. have you any cash, alva? alva. (_looking up._) have you gone crazy? lulu. in two minutes the police'll be here. we are denounced. you can stay of course, if you're eager to! alva. (_springing up._) merciful heaven! (_exeunt alva and lulu._) kadidia. (_shaking her mother, in tears._) mama, mama! wake up! they've all run away! magelone. (_coming to herself._) and youth gone! and my best days gone! oh, this life! kadidia. but i'm young, mama! why shouldn't i earn any money? i don't want to go back to the convent! please, mama, keep me with you! magelone. god bless you, sweetheart! you don't know what you say--oh, no, i shall look around for an engagement in a varieté, and sing the people my misfortunes with the jungfrau-stock. things like that are always applauded. kadidia. but you've got no voice, mama! magelone. ah, yes, that's true! kadidia. take me with you to the varieté! magelone. no, it would break my heart!--but, well, if it can't be otherwise, and you're so made for it,--i can't change things!--yes, we can go to the olympia together to-morrow! kadidia. o mama, how glad that makes me feel! (_a plain-clothes detective enters, upper left._) detective. in the name of the law--i arrest you! casti-piani. (_following him, bored._) what sort of nonsense is that? *that* isn't the right one! curtain. act iii _an attic room, without windows, but with two sky-lights, under one of which stands a bowl filled with rain-water. down right, a door thru a board partition into a sort of cubicle under the slanting roof. near it, a wobbly flower-table with a bottle and a smoking oil-lamp on it. upper right, a worn-out couch. door centre; near it, a chair without a seat. down left, below the entrance door, a torn gray mattress. none of the doors can shut tight._ _the rain beats on the roof. schigolch in a long gray overcoat lies on the mattress; alva on the couch, wrapped in a plaid whose straps still hang on the wall above him._ schigolch. the rain's drumming for the parade. alva. cheerful weather for her first appearance! i dreamt just now we were dining together at olympia. bianetta was still with us. the table-cloth was dripping on all four sides with champagne. schigolch. ya, ya. and i was dreaming of a christmas pudding. (_lulu appears, back, barefoot, in a torn black dress, but with her hair falling to her shoulders._) where have you been? curling your hair first? alva. she only does that to revive old memories. lulu. if one could only get warmed, just a little, from one of you! alva. will you enter barefoot on your pilgrimage? schigolch. the first step always costs all kinds of moaning and groaning. twenty years ago it was no whit better, and what she has learned since then! the coals only have to be blown. when she's been at it a week, not ten locomotives will hold her in our miserable attic. alva. the bowl is running over. lulu. what shall i do with the water? alva. pour it out the window. (_lulu gets up on the chair and empties the bowl thru the sky-light._) lulu. it looks as if the rain would let up at last. schigolch. your wasting the time when the clerks go home after supper. lulu. would to god i were lying somewhere where no step would wake me any more! alva. would i were, too! why prolong this life? let's rather starve to death together this very evening in peace and concord! is it not the last stage now? lulu. why don't *you* go out and get us something to eat? you've never earned a penny in your whole life! alva. in this weather, when no one would kick a dog from his door? lulu. but me! i, with the little blood i have left in my limbs, i am to stop your mouths! alva. i don't touch a farthing of the money! schigolch. let her go, just! i long for one more christmas pudding; then i've had enough. alva. and i long for one more beefsteak and a cigarette; then die! i was just dreaming of a cigarette, such as has never yet been smoked! schigolch. she'll see us put an end to before her eyes, before doing herself a little pleasure. lulu. the people on the street will sooner leave cloak and coat in my hands than go with me for nothing! if you hadn't sold my clothes, i at least wouldn't need to be afraid of the lamp-light. i'd like to see the woman who could earn anything in the rags i'm wearing on my body! alva. i have left nothing human untried. as long as i had money i spent whole nights making up tables with which one couldn't help winning against the cleverest card-sharps. and yet evening after evening i lost more than if i had shaken out gold by the pailful. then i offered my services to the courtesans; but they don't take anyone without the stamps of the courts, and they see at the first glance if one's related to the guillotine or not. schigolch. ya, ya. alva. i spared myself no disillusionments; but when i made jokes, they laughed at *me*, and when i behaved as respectable as i am, they boxed my ears, and when i tried being smutty, they got so chaste and maidenly that my hair stood up on my head for horror. he who has not prevailed over society, they have no confidence in. schigolch. won't you kindly put on your boots now, child? i don't think i shall grow much older in this lodging. it's months since i had any feeling in the ends of my toes. toward midnight, i'll drink a bit more down in the pub. the lady that keeps it told me yesterday i seemed to really want to be her lover. lulu. in the name of the three devils, i'll go down! (_she puts to her mouth the bottle on the flower-table._) schigolch. so they can smell your stink a half-hour off! lulu. i shan't drink it all. alva. you won't go down. you're my woman. you shan't go down. i forbid it! lulu. what would you forbid your woman when you can't support yourself? alva. whose fault is that? who but my woman has laid me on the sick-bed? lulu. am i sick? alva. who has trailed me thru the dung? who has made me my father's murderer? lulu. did *you* shoot him? he didn't lose much, but when i see you lying there i could hack off both my hands for having sinned so against my judgment! (_she goes out, into her room._) alva. she infected me from her casti-piani. it's a long time since she was susceptible to it herself! schigolch. little devils like her can't begin putting up with it too soon, if angels are ever going to come out of them. alva. she ought to have been born empress of russia. then she'd have been in the right place. a second catherine the second! (_lulu re-enters with a worn-out pair of boots, and sits on the floor to put them on._) lulu. if only i don't go headfirst down the stairs! ugh, how cold! is there anything in the world more dismal than a daughter of joy? schigolch. patience, patience! she's only got to take the right road into the business at the start. lulu. it's all right with me! nothing's wrong with me any more. (_puts the bottle to her lips._) that warms one! o accursed! (_exit._) schigolch. when we hear her coming, we must creep into my cubby-hole awhile. alva. i'm damned sorry for her! when i think back.... i grew up with her in a way, you know. schigolch. she'll hold out as long as i live, anyway. alva. we treated each other at first like brother and sister. mama was still living then. i met her by chance one morning when she was dressing. dr. goll had been called for a consultation. her hair-dresser had read my first poem, that i'd had printed in "society": "follow thy pack far over the mountains; it will return again, covered with sweat and dust--" schigolch. oh, ya! alva. and then she came, in rose-colored muslin, with nothing under it but a white satin slip--for the spanish ambassador's ball. dr. goll seemed to feel his death near. he asked me to dance with her, so she shouldn't cause any mad acts. papa meanwhile never turned his eyes from us, and all thru the waltz she was looking over my shoulder, only at him.... afterwards she shot him. it is unbelievable. schigolch. i've only got a very strong doubt whether anyone will bite any more. alva. i shouldn't like to advise it to anybody! (_schigolch grunts._) at that time, tho she was a fully developed woman, she had the expression of a five-year-old, joyous, utterly healthy child. and she was only three years younger than me then--but how long ago it is now! for all her immense superiority in matters of practical life, she let me explain "tristan and isolde" to her--and how entrancingly she could listen! out of the little sister who at her marriage still felt like a school-girl, came the unhappy, hysterical artist's wife. out of the artist's wife came then the spouse of my blessed father, and out of *her* came, then, my mistress. well, so that is the way of the world. who will prevail against it? schigolch. if only she doesn't skid away from the gentlemen with honorable intentions and bring us up instead some vagabond she's exchanged her heart's secrets with. alva. i kissed her for the first time in her rustling bridal dress. but afterwards she didn't remember it.... all the same, i believe she had thought of me even in my father's arms. it can't have been often with him: he had his best time behind him, and she deceived him with coachman and boot-black; but when she did give herself to him, then _i_ stood before her soul. thru that, too, without my realizing it, she attained this dreadful power over me. schigolch. there they are! (_heavy steps are heard mounting the stairs._) alva. (_starting up._) i will not endure it! i'll throw the fellow out! schigolch. (_wearily picks himself up, takes alva by the collar and cuffs him toward the left._) forward, forward! how is the young man to confess his trouble to her with us two sprawling round here? alva. but if he demands other things--low things--of her? schigolch. if, well, if! what more will he demand of her? he's only a man like the rest of us! alva. we must leave the door open. schigolch. (_pushing alva in, right._) nonsense! lie down! alva. i'll hear it soon enough. heaven spare him! schigolch. (_closing the door, from inside._) shut up! alva. (_faintly._) he'd better look out! (_lulu enters, followed by hunidei, a gigantic figure with a smooth-shaven, rosy face, sky-blue eyes, and a friendly smile. he wears a tall hat and overcoat and carries a dripping umbrella._) lulu. here's where i live. (_hunidei puts his finger to his lips and looks at lulu significantly. then he opens his umbrella and puts it on the floor, rear, to dry._) of course, i know it isn't very comfortable here. (_hunidei comes forward and puts his hand over her mouth._) what do you mean me to understand by that? (_hunidei puts his hand over her mouth, and his finger to his lips._) i don't know what that means. (_hunidei quickly stops her mouth. lulu frees herself._) we're quite alone here. no one will hear us. (_hunidei lays his finger on his lips, shakes his head, points at lulu, opens his mouth as if to speak, points at himself and then at the door._) herr gott, he's a monster! (_hunidei stops her mouth; then goes rear, folds up his overcoat and lays it over the chair near the door; then comes down with a broad smile, takes lulu's head in both his hands and kisses her on the forehead. the door, right, half opens._) schigolch. (_behind the door._) he's got a screw loose. alva. he'd better look out! schigolch. she couldn't have brought up anything drearier! lulu. (_stepping back._) i hope you're going to give me something! (_hunidei stops her mouth and presses a gold-piece in her hand, then looks at her uncertain, questioningly, as she examines it and throws it from one hand to the other._) lulu. all right, it's good. (_puts it into her pocket. hunidei quickly stops her mouth, gives her a few silver coins, and glances at her commandingly._) oh, that's nice of you! (_hunidei leaps madly about the room, brandishing his arms and staring upward in despair. lulu cautiously nears him, throws an arm round him and kisses him on the mouth. laughing soundlessly, he frees himself from her and looks questioningly. she takes up the lamp and opens the door to her room. he goes in smiling, taking off his hat. the stage is dark save for what light comes thru the cracks of the door. alva and schigolch creep out on all fours._) alva. they're gone. schigolch. (_behind him._) wait. alva. one can hear nothing here. schigolch. you've heard that often enough! alva. i will kneel before her door. schigolch. little mother's sonny! (_presses past alva, gropes across the stage to hunidei's coat, and searches the pockets. alva crawls to lulu's door._) gloves, nothing more! (_turns the coat round, searches the inside pockets, pulls a book out that he gives to alva._) just see what that is. (_alva holds the book to the light._) alva. (_wearily deciphering the title-page._) warnings to pious pilgrims and such as wish to be so. very helpful. price, s. d. schigolch. it looks to me as if god had left *him* pretty completely. (_lays the coat over the chair again and makes for the cubby-hole._) there's nothing doing with these people. the country's best time's behind it! alva. life is never as bad as it's painted. (_he, too, creeps back._) schigolch. not even a silk muffler he's got and yet in germany we creep on our bellies before this rabble. alva. come, let's vanish again. schigolch. she only thinks of herself, and takes the first man that runs across her path. hope the dog remembers her the rest of his life! (_they disappear, left, shutting the door behind them. lulu re-enters, setting the lamp on the table. hunidei follows._) lulu. will you come to see me again? (_hunidei stops her mouth. she looks upward in a sort of despair and shakes her head. hunidei, putting his coat on, approaches her grinning; she throws her arms around his neck; he gently frees himself, kisses her hand, and turns to the door. she starts to accompany him, but he signs to her to stay behind and noiselessly leaves the room. schigolch and alva re-enter._) lulu. (_tonelessly._) how he has stirred me up! alva. how much did he give you? lulu. (_as before._) here it is! all! take it! i'm going down again. schigolch. we can still live like princes up here. alva. he's coming back. schigolch. then let's just retire again, quick. alva. he's after his prayer-book. here it is. it must have fallen out of his coat. lulu. (_listening._) no, that isn't he. that's some one else. alva. some one's coming up. i hear it quite plainly. lulu. now there's some one tapping at the door. who may that be? schigolch. probably a good friend he's recommended us to. come in! (_countess geschwitz enters, in poor clothes, with a canvas roll in her hand._) geschwitz. (_to lulu._) if i've come at a bad time, i'll turn around again. the truth is, i haven't spoken to a living soul for ten days. i must just tell you right off, i haven't got any money. my brother never answered me at all. schigolch. your ladyship would now like to stretch her feet out under our table? lulu. (_tonelessly._) i'm going down again. geschwitz. where are you going in this pomp?--however, i come not wholly empty-handed. i bring you something else. on my way here an old-clothes man offered me twelve shillings for it, but i could not force myself to part from it. you can sell it, though, if you want to. schigolch. what is it? alva. let us see it. (_takes the canvas and unrolls it. visibly rejoiced._) oh, by god, it's lulu's portrait! lulu. (_screaming._) monster, you brought that here? get it out of my sight! throw it out of the window! alva. (_suddenly with renewed life, deeply pleased._) why, i should like to know? looking on this picture i regain my self-respect. it makes my fate comprehensible to me. everything we have endured gets clear as day. (_in a somewhat elegiac strain._) let him who feels secure in his middle-class position when he sees these blossoming pouting lips, these child-eyes, big and innocent, this rose-white body abounding in life,--let him cast the first stone at us! schigolch. we must nail it up. it will make an excellent impression on our patrons. alva. (_energetic._) there's a nail sticking all ready for it in the wall. schigolch. but how did you come upon this acquisition? geschwitz. i secretly cut it out of the wall in your house, there, after you were gone. alva. too bad the color's got rubbed off round the edges. you didn't roll it up carefully enough. (_fastens it to a high nail in the wall._) schigolch. it's got to have another one underneath if it's going to hold. it makes the whole flat look more elegant. alva. let me alone; i know how i'll do it. (_he tears several nails out of the wall, pulls off his left boot, and with its heel nails the edges of the picture to the wall._) schigolch. it's just got to hang a while again, to get its proper effect. whoever looks at that'll imagine afterwards he's been in an indian harem. alva. (_putting on his boot again, standing up proudly._) her body was at its highest point of development when that picture was painted. the lamp, kid dear! seems to me it's got extraordinarily dark. geschwitz. he must have been an eminently gifted artist who painted that! lulu. (_perfectly composed again, stepping before the picture with the lamp._) didn't you know him, then? geschwitz. no. it must have been long before my time. i only occasionally heard chance remarks of yours, that he had cut his throat from persecution-mania. alva. (_comparing the picture with lulu._) the child-like expression in the eyes is still absolutely the same in spite of all she has lived thru since. (_in joyous excitement._) the dewy freshness that covered her skin, the sweet-smelling breath from her lips, the rays of light that beam from her white forehead, and this challenging splendor of young flesh in throat and arms-- schigolch. all that's gone with the rubbish wagon. she can say with self-assurance: that was me once! the man she falls into the hands of to-day 'll have no conception of what we were when we were young. alva. (_cheerfully._) god be thanked, we don't notice the continual decline when we see a person all the time. (_lightly._) the woman blooms for us in the moment when she hurls the man to destruction for the rest of his life. that is her nature and her destiny. schigolch. down in the street-lamp's shimmer she's still a match for a dozen walking spectres. the man who still wants to make connections at this hour looks out more for heart-qualities than mere physical good points. he decides for the pair of eyes from which the least thievery sparkles. lulu. (_now as pleased as alva._) i shall see if you're right. adieu. alva. (_in sudden anger._) you shall not go down again, as i live! geschwitz. where do you want to go? alva. down to fetch up a man. geschwitz. lulu! alva. she's done it once to-day already. geschwitz. lulu, lulu, where you go i go too. schigolch. if you want to put your bones up for sale, kindly get a district of your own! geschwitz. lulu, i shall not stir from your side! i have weapons upon me. schigolch. confound it all, her ladyship plots to fish with our bait! lulu. you're killing me. i can't stand it here any more. (_exit._) geschwitz. you need fear nothing. i am with you. (_follows her._) alva. (_whimpering, throws himself on his couch. schigolch swears, loudly and grumbling._) i guess there's not much more good to expect on this side! schigolch. we ought to have held the creature back by the throat. she'll scare away everything that breathes with her aristocratic death's head. alva. she's flung me onto a sick-bed and larded me with thorns outside and in! schigolch. and she's still got enough strength in her body to do the same for ten men alright. alva. no mortally wounded man'll ever find the stab of mercy welcomer than i! schigolch. if she hadn't enticed the acrobat to my place that time, we'd have him round our necks to-day too. alva. i see it swinging above my head as tantalus saw the branch with the golden apples! schigolch. (_on his mattress._) won't you turn up the lamp a little? alva. can a simple, natural man in the wilderness suffer so unspeakably?!--god, god, what have i made of my life! schigolch. what's the beastly weather made of my ulster! when i was five-and-twenty, i knew how to help myself! alva. it has not cost everyone my sunny, glorious youth! schigolch. i guess it'll go out in a minute. till they come back it'll be as dark in here again as in mother's womb. alva. with the clearest consciousness of my purpose i sought intercourse with people who'd never read a book in their lives. with self-denial, with exaltation, i clung to the elements, that i might be carried to the loftiest heights of poetic fame. the reckoning was false. i am the martyr of my calling. since the death of my father i have not written a single line! schigolch. if only they haven't stayed together! nobody but a silly boy will go with two, no matter what. alva. they've not stayed together! schigolch. that's what i hope. if need be, she'll keep the creature off from her with kicks. alva. one, risen from the dregs, is the most celebrated man of his nation; another, born in the purple, lies in the mud and cannot die! schigolch. here they come! alva. and what blessed hours of mutual joy in creation they had lived thru with each other! schigolch. they can do that now, for the first time rightly.--we must hide again. alva. i stay here. schigolch. just what do you pity them for?--who spends his money has his good reasons for it! alva. i have no longer the moral courage to let my comfort be disturbed for a miserable sum of money! (_he wraps himself up in his plaid._) schigolch. noblesse oblige! a respectable man does what he owes his position. (_he hides, left. lulu opens the door, saying "come right in, dearie," and there enters prince kungu poti, heir-apparent of uahubee, in a light suit, white spats, tan button-boots, and a gray tall hat. his speech, interrupted with frequent hiccoughs, abounds with the peculiar african hiss-sounds._) kungu poti. god damn--it's dark on the stairs! lulu. it's lighter here, sweetheart. (_pulling him forward by the hand._) come on! kungu poti. but it's cold here, awful cold! lulu. have some brandy? kungu poti. brandy? you bet--always! brandy's good! lulu. (_giving him the bottle._) i don't know where there's a glass. kungu poti. doesn't matter. (_drinks._) brandy! lots of it! lulu. you're a nice-looking young man. kungu poti. my father's the emperor of uahubee. i've got six wives here, two spanish, two english, two french. well--i don't like my wives. always i must take a bath, take a bath, take a bath.... lulu. how much will you give me? kungu poti. gold! trust me, you shall have gold! one gold-piece. i always give gold-pieces. lulu. you can give it to me later, but show it to me. kungu poti. i never pay beforehand. lulu. but you can show it to me, thoh! kungu poti. don't understand, don't understand! come, ragapsishimulara! (_seizing lulu round the waist._) come on! lulu. (_defending herself with all her strength._) let me be! let me be! (_alva, who has risen painfully from his couch, sneaks up to kungu poti from behind and pulls him back by the collar._) kungu poti. (_whirling round._) oh! oh! this is a murder-hole! come, my friend, i'll put you to sleep! (_strikes him over the head with a loaded cane. alva groans and falls in a heap._) here's a sleeping-draught! here's opium for you! sweet dreams to you! sweet dreams! (_then he gives lulu a kiss; pointing to alva._) he dreams of you, ragapsishimulara! sweet dreams! (_rushing to the door._) here's the door!! (_exit._) lulu. but i'll not stay here?!--who can stand it here now!--rather down onto the street! (_exit. schigolch comes out._) schigolch.--blood!--alva!--he's got to be put away somewhere. hop!--or else our friends 'll get a shock from him--alva! alva!--he that isn't quite clear about it--! one thing or t'other; or it'll soon be too late! i'll give him legs! (_strikes a match and sticks it into alva's collar...._) he will have his rest. but no one sleeps here.--(_drags him by the head into lulu's room. returning, he tries to turn up the light._) it'll be time for me, too, right soon now, or they'll get no more christmas puddings down there in the tavern. god knows when she'll be coming back from her pleasure tour! (_fixing an eye on lulu's picture._) she doesn't understand business! she can't live off love, because her life is love.--there she comes. i'll just talk straight to her once--(_countess geschwitz enters._) ... if you want to lodge with us to-night, kindly take a little care that nothing is stolen here. geschwitz. how dark it is here! schigolch. it gets much darker than this.--the doctor's already gone to rest. geschwitz. she sent me ahead. schigolch. that was sensible.--if anyone asks for me, i'm sitting downstairs in the pub. geschwitz. (_after he has gone._) i will sit behind the door. i will look on at everything and not quiver an eye-lash. (_sits on the broken chair._) men and women don't know themselves--they know not what they are. only one who is neither man nor woman knows them. every word they say is untrue, a lie. and they do not know it, for they are to-day so and to-morrow so, according as they have eaten, drunk, and loved, or not. only the body remains for a time what it is, and only the children have reason. the men and women are like the animals: none knows what it does. when they are happiest they bewail themselves and groan, and in their deepest misery they rejoice over every tiny morsel. it is strange how hunger takes from men and women the strength to withstand misfortune. but when they have fed full they make this world a torture-chamber, they throw away their lives to satisfy a whim, a mood. have there ever once been men and women to whom love brought happiness? and what is their happiness, save that they sleep better and can forget it all? my god, i thank thee that thou hast not made me as these. i am not man nor woman. my body has nothing common with their bodies. have i a human soul? tortured humanity has a little narrow heart; but i know i deserve nothing when i resign all, sacrifice all.... (_lulu opens the door, and dr. hilti enters. geschwitz, unnoticed, remains motionless by the door._) lulu. (_gaily._) come right in! come!--you'll stay with me all night? dr. hilti. (_his accent is very broad and flat._) but i have no more than five shillings on me. i never take more than that when i go out. lulu. that's enough, because it's you! you have such faithful eyes! come, give me a kiss! (_dr. hilti begins to swear, in the broadest north-country vowels._) please, don't say that. dr. hilti. by the de'il, 'tis the first time i've e'er gone with a girrl! you can believe me. mass, i hadn't thought it would be like this! lulu. are you married? dr. hilti. heaven and hail, why do you think i am married?--no, i'm a tutor; i read philosophy at the university. the truth is, i come of a very old country family. as a student, i got just two shillings pocket-money, and i could make better use of that than for girrls! lulu. so you have never been with a woman? dr. hilti. just so, yes! but i want it now. i got engaged this evening to a country-woman of mine. she's a governess here. lulu. is she pretty? dr. hilti. yaw, she's got a hundred thousand.--i am very eager, as it seems to me.... lulu. (_tossing back her hair._) i *am* in luck! (_takes the lamp._) well, if you please, mr. tutor? (_they go into her room. geschwitz draws a small black revolver from her pocket and sets it to her forehead._) geschwitz.--come, come,--beloved! (_dr. hilti tears open the door again.--_) dr. hilti. (_plunging in._) insane seraphs! some one's lying in there! lulu. (_lamp in hand, holds him by the sleeve._) stay with me! dr. hilti. a dead man! a corpse! lulu. stay with me! stay with me! dr. hilti. (_tearing away._) a corpse is lying in there! horrors! hail! heaven! lulu. stay with me! dr. hilti. where d's it go out? (_sees geschwitz._) and there is the devil! lulu. please, stop, stay! dr. hilti. devil, devilled devilry!--oh, thou eternal--(_exit._) lulu. (_rushing after him._) stop! stop! geschwitz. (_alone, lets the revolver sink._) better, hang! if she sees me lie in my blood to-day she'll not weep a tear for me! i have always been to her but the docile tool that could be used for the heaviest labor. from the first day she has abhorred me from the depths of her soul.--shall i not rather jump from the bridge? which could be colder, the water or her heart? i would dream till i was drowned.--better, hang!-- --stab?--hm, there would be no use in that-- --how often have i dreamt that she kissed me! but a minute more; an owl knocks there at the window, and i wake up.-- --better, hang! not water; water is too clean for me. (_starting up._) there!--there! there it is!--quick now, before she comes! (_takes the plaid-straps from the wall, climbs on the chair, fastens them to a hook in the door-post, puts her head thru them, kicks the chair away, and falls to the ground._) accursed life!--accursed life!--could it be before me still??--let me speak just once to thy heart, my angel! but thou art cold!--i am not to go yet! perhaps i am even to have been happy once.--listen to him, lulu! i am not to go yet! (_she drags herself before lulu's picture, sinks to her knees and folds her hands._) my adoréd angel! my love! my star!--have mercy upon me, pity me, pity me, pity me! (_lulu opens the door, and jack enters--a thick-set man of elastic movements, with a pale face, inflamed eyes, arched and heavy brows, a drooping mustache, thin imperial and shaggy whiskers, and fiery red hands with gnawed nails. his eyes are fixed on the ground. he wears a dark overcoat and a little round felt hat. entering, he notices geschwitz._) jack. who is that? lulu. that's my sister. she's crazy. i don't know how to get rid of her. jack. your mouth looks beautiful. lulu. it's my mother's. jack. looks like it. how much do you want? i haven't got much money. lulu. won't you spend the night with me here? jack. no, haven't got the time. i must get home. lulu. you can tell them at home to-morrow that you missed the last 'bus and spent the night with a friend. jack. how much do you want? lulu. i'm not after lumps of gold, but, well, a little something. jack. (_turning._) good night! good night! lulu. (_holds him back._) no, no! stay, for god's sake! jack. (_goes past geschwitz and opens the cubicle._) why should i stay here till morning? sounds suspicious! when i'm asleep they'll turn my pockets out. lulu. no, i won't do that! no one will! don't go away again for that! i beg you! jack. how much do you want? lulu. then give me the half of what i said! jack. no, that's too much. you don't seem to have been at this long? lulu. to-day is the first time. (_she jerks back geschwitz, on her knees still, half turned toward jack, by the straps around her neck._) lie down and be quiet! jack. let her alone! she isn't your sister. she is in love with you. (_strokes geschwitz's head like a dog's._) poor beast! lulu. why do you stare at me so all at once? jack. i got your measure by the way you walked. i said to myself: that girl must have a well-built body. lulu. how can you see things like that? jack. i even saw that you had a pretty mouth. but i've only got a florin on me. lulu. well, what difference does that make! just give that to me! jack. but you'll have to give me half back, so i can take the 'bus to-morrow morning. lulu. i have nothing on me. jack. just look, thoh. hunt thru your pockets!--well, what's that? let's see it! lulu. (_showing him._) that's all i have. jack. give it to me! lulu. i'll change it to-morrow, and then give you half. jack. no, give it all to me. lulu. (_giving it._) in god's name! but now you come! (_takes up the lamp._) jack. we need no light. the moon's out. lulu. (_puts the lamp down._) as you say. (_she falls on his neck._) i won't harm you at all! i love you so! don't let me beg you any longer! jack. alright; i'm with you. (_follows her into the cubby-hole. the lamp goes out. on the floor under the two sky-lights appear two vivid squares of moonlight. everything in the room is clearly seen._) geschwitz. (_as in a dream._) this is the last evening i shall spend with these people. i'm going back to germany. my mother'll send me the money. i'll go to a university. i must fight for woman's rights; study law.... (_lulu shrieks, and tears open the door._) lulu. (_barefoot, in chemise and petticoat, holding the door shut behind her._) help! geschwitz. (_rushes to the door, draws her revolver, and pushing lulu aside, aims it at the door. as lulu again cries "help!"_) let go! (_jack, bent double, tears open the door from inside, and runs a knife into geschwitz's body. she fires one shot, at the roof, and falls with suppressed crying, crumpling up. jack tears her revolver from her and throws himself against the exit-door._) jack. god damn! i never saw a prettier mouth! (_sweat drips from his hairy face. his hands are bloody. he pants, gasping violently, and stares at the floor with eyes popping out of his head. lulu, trembling in every limb, looks wildly round. suddenly she seizes the bottle, smashes it on the table, and with the broken neck in her hand rushes upon jack. he swings up his right foot and throws her onto her back. then he lifts her up._) lulu. no, no!--mercy!--murder!--police! police! jack. be still. you'll never get away from me again. (_carries her in._) lulu. (_within, right._) no!--no!--no!-- --ah!--ah!... (_after a pause, jack re-enters. he puts the bowl on the table._) jack. that *was* a piece of work! (_washing his hands._) i *am* a damned lucky chap! (_looks round for a towel._) not even a towel, these folks here! hell of a wretched hole! (_he dries his hands on geschwitz's petticoat._) this invert is safe enough from me! (_to her._) it'll soon be all up with you, too. (_exit._) geschwitz. (_alone._) lulu!--my angel!--let me see thee once more! i am near thee--stay near thee--forever! (_her elbows give way._) o cursed--!! (_dies._) curtain. transcriber's note the following printer's errors have been corrected: "fäulein" corrected to "fräulein" (page ) "casti-piana" corrected to "casti-piani" (page ) "heilman" corrected to "heilmann" (page ) "schigloch" corrected to "schigolch" (page ) transcriber's note: page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=sf qaaaayaaj&dq * * * * * books by hermann sudermann published by charles scribner's sons the joy of living (_es lebe das leben_). a play in five acts. translated from the german by edith wharton. _net_ $ . roses. four one-act plays. translated from the german by grace frank. _net_ $ . morituri. three one-act plays. translated from the german by archibald alexander. _net_ $ . * * * * * roses roses four one-act plays streaks of light--the last visit --margot--the far-away princess by hermann sudermann translated from the german by grace frank charles scribner's sons new york:::::::::::::::::::::::: copyright, , by charles scribner's sons published september, contents streaks of light margot the last visit the far-away princess i streaks of light a play in one act characters julia. pierre. wittich. the present day _the action takes place at a small pavilion situated in the park belonging to an old castle_. streaks of light _an octagonal pavilion of the rococo period, the three front walls of which are cut off by the proscenium. ceiling and walls are cracked and spotted by rain, and bear the marks of long disuse. at the back, in the centre, a large doorway. the glass door is thrown wide open; the shutters behind are closed. on the right and left, in the oblique walls of the room, are windows, the shutters of which are also closed. through the blinds at the door and the right window, sunbeams in streaks of light penetrate the semi-darkness of the room._ _on the left, in the foreground, a louis sixteenth sofa with table and gilded chairs to match. on the wall above, an old mirror. near the sofa, a tapestried doorway. a chandelier wrapped in a dusty gauze covering is suspended from the ceiling. a four-post bed with hangings of light net takes up the right side of the stage. in the foreground, in front of the bed, a table with plates, glasses, wine-decanters, and provisions on it. a coffee percolator stands under the table. in the middle of the stage, a little to the right, a chaise-longue. at the head of it, a small table. between the large door and the windows, dusty marble busts on dilapidated pedestals. above them, on the walls, a collection of various sorts of weapons. the oriental rugs which are thrown about the floor and over the chaise-longue contrast strangely with the faded splendour of the past._ _the whole room is decorated with roses. on the table at the left is a bronze vessel of antique design overflowing with roses. garlands of roses hang from the chandelier and encircle the bedposts. on the small table near the chaise-longue, a large, flat dish, also filled with roses. in fact wherever there is any place for these flowers, they have been used in profusion._ _part of the table which stands in front of the sofa is covered by a napkin, upon which are seen a bottle of wine and the remains of a luncheon for one. it is a sultry afternoon in midsummer._ julia _lies on the chaise-longue, asleep. she is a beautiful woman, about twenty-five years of age, intractable and passionate, with traces of a bourgeois desire to be "romantic." she is dressed in white, flowing draperies, fantastically arranged._ _a tower clock strikes four. then the bells of the castle are heard ringing. both seem to be at a distance of about two hundred paces._ pierre _enters cautiously through the tapestried doorway at the left. he is a fashionably dressed, aristocratic young fellow who has been petted and spoiled. he is effeminate, cowardly, arrogant, and is trying to play the passionate man, although inwardly cold and nervous._ julia. (_laughs in her sleep. her laughter dies out in groans._) pierre! pierre! help! pierre! pierre (_bending over her_). yes, yes. what is it? julia. nothing-- (_laughs and goes on sleeping_). pierre (_straightening up_). whew how hot it is! (_he stares at_ julia, _his face distorted by fear and anger, and beats his forehead. then indicating the outstretched form of the woman._) beautiful!--you beautiful animal--you! (_kneels_. julia _holds out her arms to him, but he evades her embrace._) stop! wake up! julia (_tearfully_). please let me sleep. pierre. no! wake up! i've only come for a moment. it's tea-time, and i have to go back to the house. julia. please stay! pierre. no, mamma will be asking for me. i have to be there for tea. julia (_pettishly_). i have a headache. i want some black coffee! pierre. then make it yourself. the gardener is cleaning the orchid rooms in the hot-house, and he has no time for you now. julia. he never has time for me!--and the meals that his wife cooks are simply abominable!--and the wine is always warm!--do, for mercy's sake, steal the key to the icehouse! pierre. but you know that i can't!--i always bring you all the ice that i can manage to take from the table. if i insist upon having the key, the housekeeper will tell mamma. julia. but i won't drink warm wine--so there! that's what gives me these headaches. pierre. your headaches, i want to tell you, come from the roses. ugh!--this nasty smell from the withered ones--sour--like stale tobacco smoke--why, it burns the brains out of one's head! julia. see here, dearie, you let the roses alone! that was our agreement, you know--basketsful, every morning! i wish the gardener would bring even more! that's what he's bribed for.--more! more! always more! pierre. see here, if you were only reasonable---- julia. but i'm not reasonable! o you--you-- (_she holds out her arms to him. he comes to her. they kiss._) more!--more!--no end!--ah, to die!---- pierre (_freeing himself_). oh! julia. to die! pierre (_with hidden scorn_). yes--to die. (_yawning nervously._) pardon me!--it's as hot as an oven in here. julia. and the shutters are always closed! for eight long days i've seen nothing of the sun except these streaks of light. do open the shutters--just once! pierre. for heaven's sake! julia. just for a second! pierre. but don't you realize that the pavilion is locked and that not a soul ever crosses the threshold? julia. oh, yes, i know--because your lovely, reckless great-grandmother lost her life here a hundred years ago! that's one of those old-wives' tales that everyone knows.--who can tell? perhaps my fate will be the same as hers.--but do open the shutters! pierre. do be reasonable! you know that in order to come in here by the side door without being seen i have to crawl through the woods for a hundred yards. the same performance twice a day--for a week! now, if i should open the shutters and one of the gardener's men should see it, why, he'd come, and then---- julia. let him come! i'll smile at him--and he's no man if he doesn't keep quiet after that! why, your old gardener would cut his hand off for me any day of his life--just for a bit of wheedling!--it can't be helped--they all love me! pierre (_aside_). beast! julia. what were you muttering then? (pierre _throws himself down before her and weeps._) pierre! crying?--oh!--please don't--or i'll cry too. and my head aches so! pierre (_softly but nervously and with hatred_). do you know what i'd like to do? strangle you! julia. ha! ha! ha!--(_pityingly_) dear me! those soft fingers--so weak!--my little boy has read in a naughty book that people strangle their loves--and so he wants to do some strangling too! pierre (_rising_). well, what's to become of you? how much longer is the game to last in this pavilion? julia. as long as the roses bloom--that was agreed, you know. pierre. and then? julia. bah! then!--why think of it? i'm here now, here under the protection of your lovely, ghostly great-grandmother. no one suspects--no one dreams! my husband is searching for me the whole world over!--that was a clever notion of mine--writing him from brussels--nora, last act, last scene--and then coming straight back again! i'll wager he's in paris now, sitting at the café des anglais, and looking up and down the street--now toward the place de l'opera, now toward the madeleine. will you wager? i'll go you anything you say. well, go on, wager! pierre. on anything else you wish--but not on that! julia. why not? pierre. because your husband was at the castle this morning. julia (_rising hastily_). my husband--was--at the castle----? pierre. what's so surprising about that? he always used to come, you know--our nearest neighbour--and all that sort of thing. julia. did he have a reason for coming? pierre. a special reason?--no. julia. pierre--you're concealing something from me! pierre (_hesitating_). nothing that i know of. no. julia. why didn't you come at once? and now--why have you waited to tell me? pierre (_sullenly_). you're hearing it soon enough. julia. pierre, what happened? tell me, exactly! pierre. well, he came in the little runabout--without a groom--and asked for mamma. i naturally pretended to be going out. but you know how she always insists on my staying with her. julia. and how was he was he--just the same as ever? pierre. oh, no, i wouldn't say that. julia. how did he look? tell me, tell me! pierre. in the first place, he wore black gloves--like a gravedigger. julia. ha! ha! and what else? pierre. in the second place, he was everlastingly twitching his legs. julia. and what else? what else? pierre. oh, he explained that you were at a hungarian watering-place, that you were improving, and that you were expected home soon. (julia _bursts out laughing._) yes, (_gloomily_) it's screamingly funny, isn't it. julia. so i'm at a hungarian watering-place! ha! ha! ha! pierre. but he looked at me so questioningly, so--so mournfully--why, it was really most annoying the way he looked at me. julia. at a hungarian watering-place! pierre. and then, later, mamma said to him, "it's a dreadful pity your dear wife isn't here just now. she does so love the roses." julia. and what did he say? pierre. "our roses are not thriving very well this year," said he. julia. but his turnips!--they always thrive!--and then----? pierre. then a strange thing occurred that i can't help worrying about. suddenly mamma said to him, "something very peculiar is happening on our estate this year. now i can see from where i sit that the whole place is one mass of roses. and yet, if at any time i ask for a few more than usual, there are none to be had!" julia. why, you must have been shaking in your boots! did you do anything to betray us? pierre. oh, i think i know how to take care of myself!--but suddenly he grew absolutely rigid--as if--as if he had been reflecting. he acted like a man who sleeps with his eyes open. mamma asked him a question three times, and he never answered a word! julia. i say, did you come here to frighten me? pierre (_bursting out_). what is your fear compared to what i had to stand! compared to my biting, nauseous shame as i sat there opposite him?--i scorned the man inwardly, and yet i felt as if i ought to lick the dust on his boots. when mamma said to him, "you don't look very well, herr wittich--are you ill?"--her words were like the box on the ear that she gave me when, as a lad of fifteen, i got into mischief with the steward's daughter.--why did you drag me into this loathsome business? i don't like it!--i won't stand it!--i like to feel straight! i want my hands clean!--i want to look down on the people that i meet!--i owe that to myself. julia. reproaches?--i'd like to know who has the guilty conscience in this case, you or i? pierre. how long have you been concerned about your conscience? julia. pierre, you know i had never belonged to any other man--except him. pierre. but you've showered sweet glances right and left. you've flirted with every man who would look at you--even the stable-boy wasn't beneath your notice! julia. and he was better than you!--for he wanted nothing more than to follow me with his eyes. but you, pierre, you were not so easily satisfied. no, the young count was more exacting. corrupt to the core--in spite of his twenty years---- pierre (_proudly_). i am not a bit corrupt. i am a dreamer. my twenty years excuse that! julia. but your dreams are poisonous. you want a woman to be your mistress and yet be chaste--to keep the blush of maidenhood and yet be as passionate as yourself.--and what have you learned from your experience in the world? nothing, except how to scent and track out the sins that lie hidden in one's inmost soul, the secret sins that one dares not admit to oneself.--and when the prey is in reach, then you fire away with your "rights of the modern woman," your "sovereignty of the freed individuality"--and whatever the rest of the phrases may be.--ah! you knew better than i that we all have the scarlet woman's blood in our veins!--blow away the halo--and the saint is gone! pierre. it seems to me you found a great deal of pleasure in your sin! julia. yes--at least that's what one tells oneself--perhaps one feels it, too.--it depends--more in the evening than the morning--more in march than october.--but the dread, the horror of it, is always there.--the weight of such love is like the weight of one's own coffin-lid.--and you soon discovered that, pierre.--then you began softly, gently, to bind me to you with glances and caresses that were like chains of roses!--yes, and that i become maddened by roses as cats by valerian, that, too, you soon found out.--then--then you began to speak to me of the lover's pavilion--all covered with roses--where your ancestors spent happy, pastoral hours in wooing their loves--the pavilion that had been waiting so long for a new mistress. you spoke of adorning it with beautiful hangings--of filling it full of roses. oh you, you pierre, how well you understood!--do have some black coffee made for me! if the gardener can't do it, make it yourself! please, please! pierre. but, i tell you, i have to go back to mamma. julia. nowadays, you always "have to go back to mamma." shall i tell you something--a big secret? you are tired of me! you want to get rid of me--only you don't know how! pierre. your notions are offensive, my dear. julia. pierre, i know my fate. i know i am doomed to the gutter. but not yet! don't leave me yet! care for me a little while longer--so the fall won't be too sudden.--let me stay here as long as the roses bloom--here, where _he_ can't find me! oh, if i leave this place i shall die of fear!--nowhere else am i safe from those two great fists of his!--pierre, pierre, you don't know his fists--they're like two iron bolts!--you, too--beware of him! pierre (_half to himself_). why do you say that to me? julia. he was always jealous of you. when you sent the hothouse roses in april, he became suspicious. ever since then, he has continually had the notion of an admirer in his head. that was the danger-signal! pierre, if he surmised--then you would be the first--and i would come afterward! pierre, if you drive me to desperation, i'll give you up to him!---- pierre. are you mad? julia. i'll write him a letter something like this: "if you want to find the traces of my flight, search the rubbish heap behind the lover's pavilion. search for the faded petals of the roses upon which, night after night, pierre and i celebrated our union. search the highway for the bloody prints of my bare feet after he turned me out. then search the dregs of the brothels where i found a refuge. and then--then avenge me!" pierre. you'll do nothing of the kind, you-- (_seizes her by the wrists._) julia (_laughing_). nonsense! you have no strength! (_disengages herself without difficulty._) pierre. you've taken it out of me, you beast! julia. beast?--you've been muttering that word now for a couple of days. this is the first time that you have flung it in my face.--what have i done that was bestial except to throw my young life at your feet?--and so this is the end of our rose-fête?---- pierre (_in a low voice, breathing with difficulty_). no, not yet--the end is still to come! julia. i dare say. pierre. in fact--you must--leave here. julia. i dare say. pierre. do you understand?--you must leave this place--at once! julia. h'm--just so. pierre. for--you must know--you are no longer safe here. julia (_turning pale_). not here either?--not even here?---- pierre. i didn't tell you everything, before. julia. are you up to some new trick now? pierre. after i had accompanied him down the steps, he asked--very suddenly--to see the park. julia. the park----? pierre. yes. and he seemed to be searching every rose-bush as if to count the number of blossoms that had been cut from it. then--in the linden lane--i kept pushing to the left--he kept pushing to the right, straight for the pavilion. and as it stood before us---- julia (_terrified_). the pavilion? pierre. certainly. julia (_shuddering_). so near! pierre. he said he'd like to see the old thing once, from the inside. julia. good heavens! but he knows that's impossible--he knows your family history! pierre. and you may be sure that's how i put it to him. julia. and what did he----? pierre. he was silent--and went back. julia. went back! but he'll return!---- pierre. you've dumped me into a pretty mess, you have! julia. do, for goodness' sake, stop pitying yourself, and tell me what's to be done. pierre. haven't i told you? julia. i'll not go away! i will not go away! he can't come in here! i will not leave this place! pierre. listen! i'll have a carriage here--at one o'clock in the night--behind the park wall. take it as far as the station.--listen, i tell you! julia. no, no, no! as soon as i step into the street, i'm lost. and you, too! you don't know him! gentle and tractable as he seems, when once he's angry, his blood boils over!--if i hadn't taken the cartridges out of his revolver in those days, he-- why, i've seen him pick up two unmanageable boys on our place and swing them over his shoulder into the mill stream! and they would have been ground to pieces, too, if he hadn't braced himself against the shaft. pierre, pierre, never get into his way again. he's merciless! pierre (_feigning indifference_). oh, nonsense! i can hit the ace of hearts at twenty paces! i'll show him! julia. yes, you'll "show him"! do you suppose that he's going to wait until you take a shot at him?--devilish much he cares about your duels! he'd make a clod of earth out of you before you'd have time to take off your hat!--i tell you, bolt the gate, lock every room in the house, hide behind your mother's chair,--and even there you won't be safe from him! pierre. (_struggling against his growing apprehension._) if that's the case, then--h'm, then the best thing for me to do is to disappear for a time. julia (_trying to cling to him_). yes, let's go away together! pierre (_moving aside_). that might suit you. julia. but, after all, it would do no good. we could hide among crowds of people--in piccadilly or in batignolles--we could go to india or to texas--and yet, if he took it into his head, he would find us none the less. even if we should evade him--some day, sooner or later, you would have to return--and then--you would have to pay the penalty! pierre (_stammering_). i--would--have to---- julia (_wildly_). so stay--stay here! go and shoot him down!--at night--from behind!--it doesn't matter! only--let--me--breathe--again. pierre. do you want to drive me mad? don't you see that i'm trembling all over? julia. because you're a cad and a coward--because---- pierre. yes, yes--anything, for all i care! but go! leave my property! insult me, spit on me,--but go! julia. and what then? what then? pierre. can't you write to him? tell him that you have come back from your little journey--that you have reconsidered--that you can't live without him. tell him to forget--and all shall be as it was before.--now, wouldn't that be splendid? julia. now when he suspects?--when he can follow me, step by step, here to this pavilion and back again? (_contemptuously._) splendid! pierre. then try something else!--oh, now i have it! now i have it! julia. speak, pierre, for god's sake, speak! i'll love you as--! speak! speak! pierre. you know him. his heart is soft? julia. yes, except when he's in a rage, then---- pierre. and you are sure that he loves you deeply? julia. if he didn't love me so much, what need we fear? pierre. good! well then, take a carriage at the station and drive home; throw yourself at his feet and tell him everything. tell him, for all i care, that you hate me--that you loathe me--i don't mind--grovel before him until he raises you. and then all will be well! julia. ah, if it were possible!--it would be deliverance--it would be heaven! i should be safe once more--a human being!--i should see the sun again, instead of these streaks of light!--i should breathe the fresh air, instead of this musty odour of dead roses!--i shouldn't have to sink down, down into the filth!--i shouldn't have to be a bad woman--even if i am one!--there would be a respectable divorce--or perhaps merely a separation. for, i no longer dare hope to live with him as his wife, even if i were satisfied to be no better than his dog for the rest of my days!--ah, but it cannot be! it cannot be! you don't know him. you don't know what he's like when the veins stand out on his forehead!--he would kill me!--rather than that--kill me yourself!--here--now--this moment!--get your duelling pistols. oh no! there--there--there are plenty of weapons! (_she pulls at the weapons on the wall, several of which fall clattering upon the floor._) swords--daggers--here! (_throws an armful on the chaise-longue._) they are rusty--but that doesn't matter.--take one! stab me first--then--do as you please!--live if you can--do!--live as happily as you can! your life is in your hands. pierre. yes--i dare say. live!--but how? where? (_sobs chokingly._) julia. come, then--we'll die together--together! (_they sink into each other's arms and remain motionless in mute despair. after a time_, julia _raises her head cautiously and looks about her._) pierre! pierre (_troubled_). well? julia. has it occurred to you? perhaps it isn't so, after all! pierre. what do you mean? julia. perhaps we've just been talking ourselves into this notion, little by little--think so? pierre. you mean that he really wanted to do nothing but--look at the pavilion? julia. well, it's possible, you know. pierre. yes--at least nothing very unusual occurred. julia. but your naughty, naughty conscience came and asserted itself. ha! ha! what a silly little boy it is! a downright stupid little boy! pierre. my imagination was always rather easily aroused. i---- julia (_laughing without restraint_). such a stupid boy!--pierre, let's make some coffee--for a change, eh? pierre. but you know--i have to---- julia. dear me, mamma has had her tea long ago. tell her you sat down in the shade--and fell asleep--anything! it's growing a bit shady here now. see there! the streaks of light have gone. (_indicates a corner of the room in which the streaks of light have just grown dim._) ah! but how hot it is! (_tears her dress open at the throat, breathing heavily._) will you bring me the coffee-pot, like a good boy? pierre (_listlessly_). oh, well--all right. (_carries the coffee-pot to the table._) julia. pierre, you--you couldn't open the small door just a tiny bit? no one would look into the shrubbery. pierre. well, out there in the shrubbery, it's even hotter than in here. julia. oh, just try it--won't you? pierre. well, you'll see! (_opens the door at the left._) julia. whew! it's like a blast from a furnace! and that disgusting odour--a mixture of perspiration and bad perfume--ugh! pierre. that's from the roses of our by-gone days--they lie out there in great heaps. julia. close the door! hurry--close it! pierre (_does so_). i told you how it would be! julia. well, perhaps you could adjust the shutters at the large door so that we'd get more fresh air in here. pierre. even that would be dangerous. if some one happened to be looking this way and saw the movement---- julia (_going to the door_). one has to do it slowly, ve-ry slow-ly-- (_she starts, uttering a low cry of fear, and retreats to the foreground, her arms outstretched as if she were warding off a ghost._) pierre. what's the matter? julia. sh! sh! (_approaches him cautiously, then softly._) there's a man--out there. pierre. where? julia. hush! come here you can see it against the light. (_they cautiously change places_. pierre _utters a low shriek, then_ julia, _softly, despairingly_) pierre! pierre. it must be the gardener. julia. it's not--the--gardener. pierre. who is it then? julia. creep around--and lock--the glass door. pierre (_weak from fright_). i can't. julia. then i will. (_she has taken but a few steps toward the door when the streaks of light again become visible._) he's gone now! pierre. how--gone? julia. there--there--nothing---- pierre. seize the opportunity--and go. julia. where? pierre. to the gardener's house--quick--before he comes back. julia. in broad daylight--half dressed as i am? pierre. throw on a wrap--anything--hurry! (_knocking at the door on the left. they both stand rooted to the spot. the knocking is repeated. then_ pierre, _in a choking voice_) come in. (wittich _enters. he is a large, burly man of about forty, whose whole appearance betrays neglect; his sandy-coloured hair is pushed back from his forehead in damp strands; his beard is straggling and unkempt; his face is haggard and perspiring, his eyes lustreless. he staggers heavily in walking. he speaks in a stammering, hesitating voice; he gives the impression, in sum, of a man who is deathly ill, but is making an intense effort to hold himself together._) wittich. i beg your pardon if i am disturbing you. (_both stare at him without venturing to move._) pierre (_taking heart_). oh--p-p-please---- wittich. i see you were about to make coffee. really--i don't want to---- pierre (_stammering_). p-p-please--th-there's no--hurry---- wittich. well, then we may as well--settle--our affair--first. (julia, _who has been standing quite still, panting, utters a low groan. at the sound of her voice_, wittich _catches his breath as if suffocating, then sinks into one of the chairs at the left and stares vacantly at the floor._) pierre (_edging up to_ julia _then softly_). can you understand this? julia (_glancing back--aside to_ pierre). keep near the weapons! pierre (_as_ wittich _moves_). hush! wittich. you must forgive me--i only wanted to--look after--my--wife. (_breaks down again._) pierre (_aside to_ julia). why, he's quite out of his mind! julia. keep near the weapons! wittich. i don't care--to settle--this matter--by means of a--so-called--affair of honour. i'm a plain man. i only know about such things from hearsay. and any way--i don't see that they help--m-matters much. (_breaks into tearless sobs._) pierre (_aside_). he won't hurt us. julia (_stammering_). i simply--don't--understand it--at all! pierre (_pointing to_ wittich). try it! go to him! julia. he's not a bit like himself. pierre. go on! go on! julia. (_who has timidly approached her husband, bid has drawn back at a movement of his, suddenly throws herself at his feet with great emotion._) george! george!--i am guilty!--i have sinned before god and you!--i acknowledge my crime!--my life is in your hands!--crush me--grind me to dust!--but god knows, i only obeyed a wretched impulse. my love for you has never left my heart.--my one desire is to die. kill me!--here!--now!--but forgive me! ah, forgive me! wittich (_staring straight ahead_). yes, they always talk like that--in books, at least. julia. forgive me! wittich. there is nothing to forgive. and i am not going to kill any one. what good would it do? (julia _sobs, hiding her face in her hands._) pierre. well, then--don't kneel there--like that--julia, dear! julia. i shall lie here until he raises me. raise me! take me in your arms! oh, george---- wittich. yes, that's what they always say. (_sinks into reverie again._) pierre (_aside to her_). hush! stand up! (_she does so._) well--h'm--i suppose i may assume, herr wittich, that you had some purpose in seeking this interview? wittich. yes--yes. (_looking about him._) i can well imagine that my wife--er--that the lady must find it very pleasant here. pierre. oh, yes--we needn't hesitate to say that, need we, julia, dear? julia (_uncertainly adopting his tone_). no, indeed, pierre, dear. wittich. at least--she seems to have plenty of roses here. julia (_laughing nervously_). oh, yes--plenty. wittich. may i ask whether the lady has made any arrangements for the future? julia (_still timidly_). i was thinking of making my home in paris, wasn't i, pierre? pierre. yes. you see, julia wants to live a life suited to her tastes and inclinations--a life such as she cannot have even here--a life consecrated to beauty and art. wittich. they say that an existence of that sort comes high. has my wife--er--has the lady made any provision for her expenses? pierre (_embarrassed_). from the moment that i become of age i shall be in a position to--h'm--h'm---- wittich. i see. but _until_ that moment--? pierre. i--er---- wittich. well, i consider it my duty--and mine alone--to protect the woman whom--until recently--i called my wife. and to save her from ruin, i am willing to make any sacrifice whatsoever. pierre. oh, as for that, of course---- wittich. i intend to put no obstacle in the way of your desire to legitimize your relations. pierre. very kind of you--really--very thoughtful indeed. wittich. not because--not that i don't dare insist upon _my_ rights in this affair, but because i want to guard _her_ from lifelong misery. pierre. really, you wouldn't believe how often we have discussed this question--would he, julia, dear? julia. but i am never going to grant your wish, pierre, dear. you shall keep your liberty--you shall be free! even as i ask nothing better than to follow my own inclinations. if i am ruined because of them--well, it's no one's concern but my own--no one's! (_tosses her head._) wittich. may i inquire what those inclinations are? julia. it's hard to say--off-hand.--you must feel it--you must-- well, i want to be free!--i want to hold my fate in my own hands!--i want-- oh, why talk about it? what is one poor, human life?--especially a life like mine!--i am branded--doomed to the gutter!--one need use no ceremony with me now! wittich. really! well--h'm--if i had known that you felt that way about it--i should have made you--a different proposition--julia, dear. julia. tell me! please! pierre. yes--tell us--please! wittich. i suppose i may assume that the people at the castle know nothing of this little adventure of the young count's? pierre. you may rest assured, my dear sir, that i know what is due a woman's honour. wittich. ah--really!--well, i'm sure no one saw me coming here. so then, there need be no scandal. pierre. that would certainly be most agreeable to all parties concerned. wittich. but--how did the lady propose to leave here without being seen? pierre. pray, my dear sir, let that be my concern. wittich. that concern, however, i shall share with you--my dear sir. and it seems to me that the best plan would be for the lady to put on a decent dress, walk through the grounds with me, and pay a visit to the countess at the castle. pierre. what!--my mother--? what's the use of that? wittich. it will look as if she'd returned--and we'd--somehow--met here. pierre. do you think any one is going to believe that? wittich (_proudly_). what else should they believe? julia (_frightened anew_). oh, but i don't want to! i don't want to do that! pierre! i want to stay with you! i am under your protection, pierre! pierre. see here, my dear sir, let us suppose that your plan is successful--what then? julia. yes--yes--afterward--what then? wittich. then?--then-- (_looks from one to the other, uncertainly, almost imploringly, and breaks down again._) pierre. well--won't you go on with your proposition? wittich. yes, i suppose that when a man has acted as i have acted here, he must have lost--his sense of pride--and honour--and all the rest of it--long ago.--then nothing is left him but--his duty.--and the thing that seems to me my--duty--i am going to do.--let the count sneer at me--i no longer---- pierre. oh, please--i say! wittich. well, then, let me tell you something, julia. after i had read the letter from brussels, i had two rooms prepared for you--in the left wing--quite apart; so that some day, in case--you ever--came back-- oh, well--it doesn't matter now. but the rooms--are--still there--and if you would like to come home with me now--straight off--well, you might be spared--some annoyance. pierre. h'm--so you're willing--? (_shrugs his shoulders and laughs._) i suppose that sort of thing is all a matter of taste--but i can understand---- wittich. i am speaking to you, julia. julia. oh, i thank you most heartily, george. it's certainly very noble of you--and--i deeply appreciate it. but after--this, i should always feel ashamed before you--i should feel that i was just being tolerated--i-- no. thank you, george--but i couldn't stand it. pierre (_correcting her_). that is--! (_aside to_ julia.) don't be a fool! wittich (_without noticing_ pierre). you shall never hear a word of reproach from my lips, julia, dear. julia. but--if i should actually accept--we never could go on as we did before, you know. i must be free to do exactly as i please--to go away--come back--just as i like. there is such a thing as the sovereignty of the individuality, my dear george--you can't deny that. pierre. herr wittich can't possibly deny that! wittich. you shall have your own way as far as it lies in my power, julia, dear. julia. and then, you must try to bring a little more--more beauty into our life.--i surely have the right to demand that. just look about you here. you know how passionately fond of roses i am. my soul demands something besides--potatoes! well, i insist upon having roses around me. that's not unreasonable, is it? wittich. you shall have roses enough to smother you. pierre (_nervously_). well, then, julia, dear, i see no reason why we should not accept this proposition. wittich. what have you got to say about it? pierre. i beg your pardon, herr wittich. i certainly don't want to offend you. but--as julia and i have found so much in each other--haven't we, julia, dear? julia. yes--so very, very much, pierre, dear.--and to know that we were so near--and yet could never see each other or talk together, or-- i, for my part, couldn't endure it, could you, pierre? pierre. oh--as for that--well, it would be hard, julia, dear. julia. and what would the world say, dear george, if we should suddenly--and apparently without any cause--break off all communication with our neighbors? how would pierre explain it to his mother? why, he simply couldn't! no; if we are to carry out your plan, then everything must remain outwardly the same as before. don't you agree with me, pierre, dear? pierre. (_hesitating, with an apprehensive glance toward_ wittich.) outwardly--yes, julia, dear. wittich (_losing control of himself_). so that's your condition, is it? julia (_with a sort of nervous impudence_). yes, that's our condition--isn't it, pierre, dear? (pierre _does not reply, but looks at_ wittich.) wittich. really?--really!--very well! (_he draws himself to his full height, his face flushes, and he looks around the room wildly, as if searching for something._) julia. what are you looking for, george? wittich. if you-- (_gasps as if suffocating._) julia. george! george! what's the matter? wittich. there--there--there! (_with a loud cry, he falls upon the weapons and snatches one of the daggers._) julia. help! help! pierre! save me! pierre (_at the same time_). help! help! (_he pushes open the door and escapes, screaming_. julia _rushes out through the door at the left_. wittich _dashes after her. a piercing shriek is heard. after a short pause_, julia _appears at the large door in the centre. she tries to go further, fails, supports herself against the door posts for an instant, and then reels into the room. she attempts to lean against the small table in the centre, but falls to the floor, dying. as she falls the small table is upset, burying her beneath a shower of roses._ _through the doorway at the left_, wittich _is heard, sobbing and groaning. in the distance_ pierre _is shouting for help. the sound of many voices, growing louder as the curtain falls._) ii margot a play in one act characters herr ebeling, a lawyer. frau von yburg. margot, her daughter. doctor von tietz. bonath, a secretary. a servant. the present day the scene is laid in a large german city. margot _the richly furnished office of a prosperous lawyer. pictures, bronzes, carved furniture, costly hangings. in the foreground, on the left, a window; turned toward it, a writing-table with a writing-chair behind. near the window, a leather arm-chair. at the narrow side of the table, in the foreground, a low seat. on the right, a sofa, table, and chairs. in the background, a door which, when opened, reveals the clerks working at long tables. to the right, back, another door. the backward projection of the writing-table forms a revolving-stand for reference books. on the writing-table, among documents and writing materials, are photographs in standing frames and a slender vase filled with dark red roses._ _it is winter, about six o'clock in the evening. the lamps are lighted._ ebeling _is seated in the writing-chair. he is a man of about forty, attractive, winning in manner, his clothes betokening wealth and refinement; he wears a short, dark beard, and his hair is slightly gray at the temples_. von tietz, _sitting opposite him in the arm-chair, is about thirty, very smartly dressed--in appearance a type of the ordinary drawing-room devotee._ ebeling (_holding out a box of cigars_). there! now let's chat. will you smoke? v. tietz (_helping himself_). really now--if i'm disturbing you---- ebeling. see here, my dear fellow, if you were disturbing me, i'd make short work of you. but (_looking toward the clock_) my office hours are over. and we'll find out immediately what else there is. (_he rings._) bonath _appears with a bundle of papers_. ebeling. is any one still there? bonath. no, herr ebeling, but a lady is expected. ebeling. yes, i know. well, let me have the papers. (bonath _lays them before him._) ebeling. (_to_ v. tietz.) you can go on speaking. these are only signatures.--have you a light? v. tietz. (_who has stood up and is looking around the room._) yes, thank you. ebeling. see that this decision is delivered to baron von kanoldt at once. bonath. yes, herr ebeling. v. tietz. you've become a collector, i see. ebeling (_signing_). one must have some diversion. v. tietz. what's that? looks like a terburg. is it an original? ebeling (_signing_). would you expect it to be a copy? v. tietz. h'm, your practice is certainly splendid. ebeling. there are a lot of people, though, who think they are cleverer than i--and take great pains to justify their opinion. (_to_ bonath.) will it be necessary to work overtime? bonath. not to-day, herr ebeling. ebeling. then you can announce frau von yburg as soon as she comes. (v. tietz _listens attentively._) bonath. very well, herr ebeling. (_goes out._) v. tietz. the lady you are expecting is frau von yburg? ebeling. of course you know that i've been the yburg's legal adviser for years. v. tietz (_sitting down_). well, really, this is quite a marvellous coincidence. it's on account of the yburgs that i've come to see you. ebeling (_interested_). is that so? what's the matter? v. tietz. my dear friend, if you hadn't so completely drawn away from all society since your wife l---- (_alarmed._) i beg your pardon. ebeling. go on! say it! left me! walked out of the house! you may say it. but then--drop it! even our old fraternity friendship doesn't oblige us to be everlastingly putting each other on the grill. v. tietz. no, really--it escaped me somehow. i'm awfully sorry. ebeling. oh, well, never mind. you know, i speak of it quite disinterestedly. and it's a good many years since then. only--i'd rather not be attacked unawares. v. tietz. don't worry. i'll be on my guard. but--as we've mentioned it--there's something i wanted to ask you before--only i hadn't the courage. tell me, do you always keep her picture on your table? ebeling (_in a hard voice_). yes. v. tietz. then you still love her? ebeling. no. i only keep the picture there to warn me against making a fool of myself again. so many charming women sit there where you're sitting, women just on the point of divorce--and therefore in need of consolation. every now and then one of them undertakes to faint--um--and then i have to-- (_holds out his arms._) v. tietz (_bursting out laughing_). aha! very interesting! very interesting! ebeling. in short, it does no harm to keep the picture there. v. tietz. of course, everyone knows how much courted you are. for instance, no matter when i come to see you, i always find those beautiful roses on your table. they speak for themselves. heavens! what a luxury! roses in january! ebeling. things like that come anonymously. if i knew who the sender was, i wouldn't accept them. v. tietz. let me with all due modesty give you a piece of advice: you ought to marry. ebeling. (_ironically, shaking his finger at him across the table._) thank you. but didn't you want to speak to me about the yburgs? v. tietz. yes. what was i going to say?--oh, yes. well, if you hadn't taken it into your head to live like a hermit, you'd know that, for some time past, i've been a very frequent visitor at the yburgs's. ebeling. oh, yes, i know. i go there myself sometimes--only not when other people are around. v. tietz. well, then, to make a long story short--why should i mince matters with you?--i am courting margot. ebeling (_startled_). ah--you, too? you're also one of the crowd? v. tietz (_conceitedly_). i trust that i stand up a bit above the crowd. ebeling. indeed? i thought perhaps the social glamour of the yburgs was attracting you. a thing like that can't help dazzling one. but that you---- v. tietz. is it so surprising? that girl is so bewitching--so--so entirely unlike these forward, city-bred girls. with her, at least, one knows what one can count on. she's so--so the essence of everything innocent and chaste and pure. ebeling (_quoting_). "be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,"--thy dowry shall not escape me. v. tietz. no, no--don't joke. it's out of place. i won't deny that, as an official without fortune--that would also be very--h'm--but---- ebeling. yes, but what have i got to do with it? v. tietz. see here, my dear friend, we scattered remnants of the old college fraternity have grown so accustomed to ask your help in times of need, to look up to you as a sort of father confessor---- ebeling. do you want me to go and propose for you? v. tietz. we'll talk of that later. but first i'd like to ask you something. see here, what rôle is baron von kanoldt playing in this family? ebeling. so that's it! v. tietz. you're his counsel in his divorce proceedings, aren't you? ebeling. as the affair has become common talk, i need make no secret of it. v. tietz. they say that it is the wife who has been the martyr. and yet, after fifteen years, _he_ begins the divorce proceedings. why should he? ebeling. my dear fellow, you must put that question to some one who's not so well informed as i am. v. tietz. oh, see here, i don't want to be indiscreet about it, but the further the case goes, the more persistent are the rumours that he has designs on margot's hand--and, furthermore, that her mother is encouraging him! ebeling. frau von yburg will be here in a few minutes.--ask her! v. tietz. what do you take me for? ebeling (_shrugging his shoulders_). oh, well then---- v. tietz. but just think! that man--forty, if he's a day, fat, worn out, a roué whose amorous adventures are common gossip to every cabby on the street! ebeling. pardon me, my clients are all virtuous, young, handsome, desirable--of inestimable pulchritude. v. tietz. see here--are you chaffing me? ebeling. i'm only trying to make you understand that you've unwittingly walked into the enemy's camp. v. tietz (_standing up_). very well--if you don't want to---- ebeling. (_also stands up, and puts his hand on_ v. tietz's _shoulder._) my dear fellow, you're ten years younger than i. you're one of your country's young hopefuls. go ahead and do what your heart and pocket-book bid you. v. tietz. i didn't need you to tell me that. (_a knock at the door._) ebeling. come in. bonath. frau von yburg and---- ebeling. ask her in. (bonath _stands aside, opening the door. enter_ frau v. yburg _and_ margot. frau v. yburg _is a woman of about forty, dressed simply but tastefully; her bearing is dignified, self-possessed, refined, and betrays a natural, unaffected knowledge of the demands of convention; but hidden behind her assurance, and scarcely noticeable, are the traces of an old sorrow, a helpless glance, and a forced smile_. margot _is a lovely young girl, extremely well-bred, with a somewhat shy, reserved manner._) v. tietz (_at sight of margot_). ah! frau v. yburg. i brought my little girl along, herr ebeling, to let her catch a glimpse of the lion's den. i hope that you won't mind. ebeling (_kissing her hand_). a thousand times welcome, dear ladies. (_shakes hands with_ margot.) frau v. yburg. good evening, herr von tietz. this is indeed a pleasure. (_gives him her hand._) v. tietz. i'm very happy to meet you both--i hadn't hoped to see fräulein yburg here. but our friend believes in military promptitude. i have just received permission to take my leave. frau v. yburg. i hope that you will come to see us soon, herr von tietz. v. tietz. that's very kind of you. (_bowing to_ margot.) fräulein yburg! ebeling (_accompanying him to the door_). good-bye, my dear fellow. no bad feelings now---- v. tietz. oh, i say! of course not! (_goes out._) ebeling. won't you sit down? frau v. yburg. oh, no. margot is only going to glance around a bit. yes, my little girl, you may well look about. between these four walls many a fate has been shaped. ebeling. let us rather say, has been mended. margot (_softly, suddenly looking up_). mine, too? frau v. yburg. (_looking at her with evident disapproval._) perhaps margot may call for me again in half an hour. you won't mind? ebeling. it will give me great pleasure. frau v. yburg. then run away, dear, pay your visit, and let the carriage bring you back again. (_sits down, right._) margot. (_giving him her hand with social assurance, but a little timidly, none the less._) au revoir, herr ebeling. ebeling. au revoir, fräulein margot. (_accompanies her to the door, and calls._) bonath, see to it that fräulein yburg finds her way out. she is coming back later. _voice of_ bonath. very well, herr ebeling. (ebeling _bows to_ margot, _who is already out of sight, and closes the door._) ebeling. well, frau von yburg, we've brought matters to this point. frau v. yburg (_sighing_). yes. ebeling. the divorce was granted yesterday morning. frau v. yburg. yes, i know. ebeling. well, aren't you pleased? frau v. yburg. my dear herr ebeling, my heart is so full of gratitude--really, i don't know how to thank you--for myself and also for my poor, dear child. but i'm so helpless--so perplexed--i really don't know--i---- ebeling. why, what can be wrong? frau v. yburg. yes--just fancy--well, then--_she won't do it!_ ebeling (_astonished_). what's that? frau v. yburg. think of the monstrosity of it! she won't do it. ebeling. has she been notified that the divorce has been granted? frau v. yburg. yesterday--just after the proceedings--baron von kanoldt--came--with his proposal. ebeling. h'm!--quicker than i had expected. frau v. yburg. my husband, of course, was simply thunderstruck. one can surely sympathise with him--von kanoldt--a man in the forties--divorced--with grown children--and _such_ a reputation! but when he saw that i took the man's part--i had to do that, didn't i? ebeling. that was our only course. frau v. yburg. then his position, his wealth, his connections at court--oh, yes, and naturally our long friendship-- of course, my husband doesn't surmise what this man did to her! in the end, he agreed that margot herself should decide. ebeling. well, and--? what----? frau v. yburg. she came, looked him quietly in the face, and asked for time to think it over. ebeling. it seems to me your husband was very clever. otherwise, he might perhaps have---- frau v. yburg. yes, but when we were alone, just fancy! she declared quite simply: "no, i won't do it." i exclaimed, "why, my dear child, you're out of your mind! you know that we've done everything for the sake of this day!" "yes, i know all about it--but i won't." "you've been wishing it for three years," i said to her. and what do you suppose she answered! "i never wished it. you talked it into me--and he." ebeling. "he?" pardon me, who? frau v. yburg. you, herr ebeling. ebeling (_standing up in his excitement_). my dear lady, it was my duty to carry out what you and fräulein margot desired--and what, in short, the circumstances demanded. frau v. yburg. oh, i know! my god, how well i realise it! and what a task you've accomplished! no--when i remember how much persuasion, how much subtle reasoning, how much-- ah, and how i've suffered these three years! see, my hair is quite gray!--and i still can't understand it! i still look upon the girl as if she were a stranger, a mysterious being who has lost her way and accidentally come to me. i--i who was brought up so strictly, watched, and carefully tended all my life, kept worlds away from any taint of the unconventional-- and she, too-- no, on that point, i can't reproach myself. and yet--this horror! no, i shall never, never understand it! ah, and to have to bear it all alone! oh, yes, i had to do that. my husband, with his long army training, would have forced him to fight--and then we should all have been dragged in the dust. margot's life--our position in society--everything! ah, if you hadn't been here, herr ebeling! do you remember how i came to you? i think i was half dead from wretchedness! with the letter to him in my hand, the letter that i had taken from her as she lay distracted in my arms! do you remember? ebeling. oh, don't speak of it! as i read that handwriting--still so childish--and that helpless, stammering question: "what has happened to me?"--god knows, everything turned black before my eyes! oh! it's too horrible! frau v. yburg. and then you yourself said to me, "you're right--the blackguard _must_. i'll make him." ebeling. i said it in the heat of the first great indignation. please take that into consideration. after i went to work, i religiously kept to my programme to leave all threats and violence out of the question. not only because-- ah, as i've come to feel now, such a calm method of procedure would be impossible. but then i had to keep in mind that a new life--i don't venture to say a happy one--was to be gained through me. to-day, some one is grateful to me--the very one who at first opposed me most violently--that poor, wretched wife. frau v. yburg. and now everything would have been forgiven. i can't understand it. i don't know--i---- ebeling. so she won't do it? frau v. yburg. and that's why i've fled to you in my need! later, when she returns, i want to have gone. you understand? i've arranged it this way so that you could bring her to her senses. a little heart to heart talk, you know. but if your influence doesn't help, then i don't know--then---- ebeling (_walking up and down_). and so she won't do it. frau v. yburg. yes, just explain it to me! the only possible way in which to rehabilitate herself in her own eyes! and she throws it to the winds! what can she be thinking of? what---- ebeling. and so she won't do it! frau v. yburg. what's come over you, herr ebeling? you're not listening! ebeling (_firmly, quietly_). very well, then she _shall_ not. frau v. yburg. for god's sake! you, too! you, too, want---- ebeling. my dear friend, i have done all that lay in my power, often against my own convictions, i can assure you. she knows what she is doing. she will not. very well. i'm not here to bait her to her ruin. i am very sorry, but this time i must refuse my assistance. frau v. yburg. but what will happen? must all our work count for nothing--your work, my work? for i have worked over her with all my powers, i need not hesitate to say it, worked to place her again on those spiritual heights where a young girl of family by right belongs. i have led her back to religion, for whoever has anything to expiate must possess religion. i have read with her only the most carefully selected books, books that could never, never endanger a young girl's imagination. and i have taken special care to see to it that when she was in the company of young people, she should, if possible, be stricter and even more reserved than the most timid of her friends. for her need of such behaviour was double theirs, wasn't it? and you yourself will admit that my efforts have been successful. no one could deny it and look into those clear, steadfast eyes of hers. (ebeling _nods assent._) she has become all soul--all---- ebeling (_doubtingly, sadly_). ah! frau v. yburg. yes, indeed, herr ebeling. no clandestine, no unseemly wish finds its way into her heart. i'll vouch for that. she glides through life like a silent spirit, cleansed and purified. ebeling. and therefore we are to throw her into the jaws of that beast. frau v. yburg. is there any other way? do you know of any? ebeling (_tormented_). h'm! she certainly has suitors enough! frau v. yburg. she'll reject them all--as she has heretofore. she simply says, "i shall not begin my new life with a lie. i think too much of myself for that. and to confess, to tell the man, and have him turn his back on me, or out of pure pity raise me to his own level--i think _entirely_ too much of myself for that." ebeling. i believe one can readily appreciate her feelings. frau v. yburg. but what will become of her? is she to wither and wear away--this heavenly young creature? (ebeling _walks about, growing more and more excited. a pause._) herr ebeling, speak! advise me! ebeling (_firmly_). i know of only one solution: she must choose some one who knows it. frau v. yburg. who could that be--except----? ebeling (_breathing heavily_). except that man, there is only one other. frau v. yburg. (_stares at him uncomprehendingly with her hands clasped, then stammering._) oh! oh, god! what a joy that would be! ebeling. what more can i say? such things come and grow great in a man, one knows not how. she bore _her_ sorrow, _her_ shame, i mine. at first, perhaps, it was no more than a casual fancy--no, an interest, for my inclinations were always involved--but to-day it has become a passion, a passion that, lonely man as i am, gnaws me to the very core of my being. frau v. yburg. but how have you managed through it all to keep so quiet, so deliberate, so----? ebeling. one learns, little by little, to be master of oneself. and five minutes ago there was absolutely no hope, (_bursting out_) but if she no longer wants him--why shouldn't i--oh! (_hides his face in his hand, trembling with emotion._) frau v. yburg. wait! i don't see, after you've led him on to this point, how you'll ever justify all this to baron von kanoldt. ebeling. i don't know! until now, i've led a tolerably respectable life. for, in the disgrace that _she_ (_pointing to the picture of his wife_) brought upon me, i played no part. frau v. yburg. oh, yes, everyone in society knows that. ebeling. but i haven't once asked myself whether what i am now going to do--or should like to do--conforms to the prevailing standards of propriety. one ought to think it over, to let some time elapse--in short, i don't know! all i can say is that if she doesn't want him, if she won't take that--(_checking himself_)--him, well, then, the path is open to any one--to me as well as to another. frau v. yburg (_hesitating_). i feel that i ought to warn you of just one thing more. she has never seemed to consider you as anything more than a fatherly sort of friend. ebeling. h'm! (_laughs bitterly._) even though i'm a couple of years younger than----, i've certainly acted more like a father to her. but you're probably right. (_knocking._) come in. (bonath _enters._) bonath. i've let the clerks go home. have you any further orders, herr ebeling? ebeling. you can go, too, bonath. but tell my man to answer the door. bonath. very well, herr ebeling. good evening. (bonath _goes out._) ebeling. frau von yburg, your daughter will return in a few minutes. meanwhile, the scene has changed not altogether insignificantly. do you still approve of that little private heart to heart talk--or not? frau v. yburg. ah, my dear friend, i have such boundless confidence in you. you've been her good angel for so long. i don't hesitate for a moment to leave her in your hands. and you'll carefully observe all the conventions? of course you will. ebeling. but what can i say to her? frau v. yburg. you're so skilled in reading the heart. you'll have found a way to make her confess something before she's aware of it. only let me beg of you--if you find nothing in what she says that gives you reason to hope, then please don't worry her. she has already suffered so much. ebeling. very well, then, i'll proceed upon the assumption that i have only to comply with the request that brought you to me to-day. frau v. yburg. if you would---- ebeling. hush! (_listens at the door, then pointing to the right._) may i ask you to go out this door? you know your way. frau v. yburg. and please, please, spare her delicacy. you've no idea how pure she is--in spite of---- ebeling. if i didn't know _that_-- (_knocking. he opens the door, right._) good-bye. (frau v. yburg _goes out._) ebeling. come in. the servant. a young lady is outside. she wants to know whether her mother is still here. ebeling. (_hurrying to the centre door--vivaciously._) just fancy fräulein margot, your mother thought you'd no longer be coming, and has only just left. (margot _appears at the centre door, and stands there, hesitating._) but won't you come in for a few moments? margot. gladly, if i may. (_looking about irresolutely._) only i don't know whether i---- ebeling. what, my dear child? margot. it isn't usually mamma's way to go off without me. ebeling. then i'll take you home myself. you need have no fears. margot. oh, i'm not afraid. ebeling (_inviting her to sit down_). won't you----? margot. i'd like to look around a bit first; may i? i couldn't a while ago. ebeling. i'm only too happy to think that you take some interest in my home. margot. dear me, mamma has so often told me about it. of late years her visits to you were our principal topic of conversation. i think i've known every tiny nook here for a long, long time. ebeling. really? margot. oh, there's the stand with the horrible law books! (_sighing._) ah, herr ebeling, everything in life is law--and everything is in books. ebeling. my dear young girl, the hardest laws are never to be found in books. margot. yes, you are right. the laws that drag us down to destruction are the laws that we make for ourselves. and all those beautiful women! i suppose one must be very beautiful to join them? ebeling (_parrying lightly_). most of them are clients who have presented me with their pictures as a token of gratitude. margot. well, but i'm your client, too--and yet i should never dare to offer you my picture in that way. ebeling. if you only---- margot (_startled_). oh, and there's your-- (_looks at him questioningly, confused._) ebeling. yes, that's my former wife. margot. i saw her only once in my life. i was a mere child then. she was very lovely. ebeling. yes, she was lovely. margot. oh, and the wonder--wonderful roses! mamma has told me that you always have such lovely roses. ebeling (_lightly_). yes, i have an agreement with a gardener. he keeps me supplied. margot (_seemingly convinced_). oh! ebeling. may i present them to you, fräulein margot? margot. oh, dear me, no. the gardener who keeps you supplied might be offended. ebeling (_laughing_). as you wish. margot. and this is the inquisitional chair--where the poor secrets are dragged out? ebeling. quite the contrary! the secrets come forth of their own accord. i always have to say "stop." margot. well, then, i needn't hesitate to sit down. (_does so._) _my_ secret you know--(_sighing_)--only too well! ebeling. my dear fräulein margot; the real secret of your life, the law that governs your thoughts and feelings, i believe no one knows--not even your mother. margot (_smiling and shrugging her shoulders_). my good mamma! and i'm here to give you proofs of that fact, am i? ebeling (_evasively_). oh! margot. the reason for my being here isn't the one you've given me. ebeling. indeed! what is it? margot. i wasn't left here alone for nothing! please go ahead, herr ebeling, do your duty and talk me nicely into marrying baron von--(_shudders_). see?--i've never once been able to bring his name to my lips. and yet i'm to pass my whole life with that man! can one picture anything more horrible? (_shudders again._) do you know of any occupation for me, herr ebeling? ebeling. occupation? why? margot. i want to leave home. ebeling is that your earnest intention? margot (_nods_). but, unfortunately, i've learned nothing. and then--it has to be an occupation that wouldn't humiliate me--and that wouldn't spoil my hands (_takes off her gloves_), for i love my hands. i don't care a bit about my face, but my hands--they're like two friends. i can keep up long conversations with them--especially with the left. that one's so weak. so, something that wouldn't spoil the hands--and would leave me time for reading--and--well, i want to be alone. ebeling. i might have suggested nursing, even though it requires the constant use of the hands. but, of course, you'd never be alone. margot. no. i have no love for my fellow-creatures. i don't want to do anything for them. ebeling. those are hard words, fräulein margot. margot. i am hard. what have my fellow-creatures ever done for me? ebeling. and--your parents? margot. you refer to mamma? mamma certainly means well. but mamma has torn my soul from my body. she has made use of the old principle of family rule--which may have had some sense in the stone age--and has turned me into a doll, a doll-creature that moves its eyes and says _ba_ when you press its head.--just watch, herr ebeling!--now haven't i a touching fashion of casting up my eyes when i look at you in this simple, thoughtful, innocent way?--and when i let the lids fall again in all the bashful piety that i still can muster--isn't it simply sweet? ebeling (_earnestly_). my dear young girl, i really believe i must begin to say "stop" now! margot. dear me! you're already disgusted with me! but if you had any idea--do you know what you'd think? "pity that i wasted such pains on a creature like her!" ebeling. i should never think that, my dear child. i should only pity you and love you the more. margot. i don't want to be pitied! and loved? (_shakes her head._) at least not that way--and not the other, either. that's still stupider. when i listen to my friends--this one loves me, and that one loves me, and this one kept my glove, and that one kissed my handkerchief--ugh! it reminds me of the cackling of a lot of hens. herr ebeling, do you believe criminals are scornful? ebeling. why do you ask? margot. please answer. ebeling. it's very often true of born criminals. margot. well, then, i've the criminal nature. ebeling (_laughing against his will_). tut, tut, my dear child, why so--all of a sudden? margot. because i inwardly shrug my shoulders at everything that goes by the name of innocence. i keep thinking to myself, "you silly sheep, what do you know about it?"--ah, and yet, i envy them! at the balls, i see everything as through a veil. the things that the men chatter about sound far, far away--oceans off. i always feel like saying, "don't trouble about me. go to that girl over there. she's stupid enough." and then--after i've come home--i weep, weep from sheer envy and utter boredom, weep until i have to turn my pillow.--and mamma? mamma drags me from ball to ball: i mustn't be unlike the others, you know! ebeling. my dear child, if this goes against your nature, why don't you make some resistance? why don't you show your mother that you have thoughts and feelings of your own which must be respected? margot. ah, my dear herr ebeling, just be a whipped dog yourself, year in year out! the dog doesn't resist either--but suddenly, some day--when he's at the very end of his endurance--he bites his master's hand. i shall bite soon! ebeling. oh, i'll grant you that your mother has probably made some mistakes. but only out of love, or because she knew no better. just ask yourself what would have become of you if you'd been left to yourself all this time? margot. i should have been embittered just the same--you're right--but i should not have let myself fall. ebeling. who knows? margot. never! and i'll tell you something to prove it. severely as i have been watched--and--surely there's nothing coquettish about me? ebeling. certainly not. margot. you can believe me when i say that, in the general moral tone prevailing over our society just now--and of which our mothers naturally know nothing--there lurks a temptation which has over and over again enticed even me. such things are so personal, so secret--one cannot describe them. oh, i could have done whatever i wished! but i said to myself: the first time, you were ignorant, you were sacrificed--or, at least, you can talk it into yourself that you were sacrificed--but if ever again--no, i can't say it after all! ebeling. i understand, my child. margot. if ever again--then you'll be lost--forever! then there can be no more ideals, no more poetry--nothing lofty--nothing for which to work--and, worst of all, nothing of which to dream. for to dream--ah, one must dream, mustn't one? when one no longer has _that_!---- ebeling (_moved_). yes, dear child. margot. but you mustn't think that i'm trying to make myself interesting, or that i stand here before you beautifully whitened and purified! oh, no! what i'm going to say to you now has never been said to any one, to any man before. and you are going to despise me utterly. but i must say it--once, once in my life--and then the old hypocrisy can go on again. well, i don't know what it is, but it's like a fire in me. no, worse, much worse! when i think of that frightful man, my heart fairly shrivels up. and yet--i can never get away from it. there's always a terror, a horror in me; and yet there is always an eternal--an eternal hunger. yes--a restlessness--a search--the whole day long. it's strongest toward twilight. then i want to go out--out into the wide world--to fly to unknown lands. then i think to myself--out there, no one knows you; out there, there is no sin. ah, it's as if i were lashed! and i heap such reproaches upon myself because of it! even now you have not heard the worst. i must tell you the worst, too. well, you know how i hate that man--yet, sometimes it seems to me that i must go to him and say to him--behold, here i am again! ebeling (_jumps up, muttering to himself_). what has he done? the scoundrel! the blackguard! margot. there! now you know on whom you've wasted your sympathy! now i can go. (_stands up, snatches her muff, and prepares to leave._) ebeling. (_who has been silently walking up and down more hotly._) it appears then that you still love that man. margot (_with a short, cutting laugh_). oh, herr ebeling, if you've gathered _that_ from all i've said, then i might just as well have addressed myself to the four walls. i've been hoping for three long years that you would secretly manage the thing in such a way that i'd never have to see him again in all my life--never, never--not even from a distance. ebeling. why did you never confide in me before? why to-day for the first time? margot. _can_ one do such a thing? is one ever allowed to? i'm a well-bred young girl, you know. i must observe the conventions. how i came to do it to-day, i don't know myself. but formerly when you were alone with me, did you ever, at any time, give me to understand, even by a glance, that you--you knew anything--about me? do you think such an attitude gives one courage? ah, and in my need i've prayed so often, "dear god, let him see into my soul! if _he_ doesn't free me, no one will." instead, you've only plunged me the deeper--pushed me before you--always deeper into misery--into the arms of that beast--into the filth. (_sinks into a chair, sobbing._) ebeling. (_regards her confusedly, then approaches her._) dear child! that wasn't my intention! (_laying his hand on her shoulder caressingly._) my dear, dear child! margot. (_grasps his hand, and presses her cheek to it. as he tries to free it, she holds it the more closely._) oh, don't leave me. i'm so lonely! ebeling. my dear, dear child. (_he bends down to her and kisses her on the brow. she throws her arms about his neck and draws herself close to him. he kisses her lips. she lets her head fall heavily upon his shoulder and remains motionless while he caresses her gently. with a sudden impulse she flings him from her, and sinks back in the chair._) margot, my darling. have i hurt you? are you offended at what i did? if i've misunderstood, if i have abused your confidence, i earnestly beg you to forgive me. margot. oh, i've so hungered--so hungered--for this--kiss! ebeling (_turning eagerly toward her_). margot! margot (_warding him off_). no! go away! go away! ebeling. but you don't refuse me? and i'm not too old? margot (_passionately bursting into laughter_). oh! ebeling. i was never free from the fear that you might not see anything in me except an image of that wasted, old creature. (_instead of answering_, margot _stretches out her arms to him with a soft cry of longing_. ebeling _draws the low stool to the writing-chair on which she is sitting, sits down upon it, and embraces her._) margot, my youth, my whole youth that i've squandered and frittered away comes back to me once more through you. and now all will be well with you, too. it was only a nightmare. your true self had nothing to do with it. only--you must take heart again--you must think of yourself now. margot (_ecstatically_). yes, i am equal to anything now. i am not afraid to face the worst. i can even marry that man. i shall send him my acceptance quite calmly.--of course. why not? ebeling (_shocked_). what! margot. why should you be astonished at that? now that i know you love me? only for a year! perhaps for two! yes, two! oh, please, two! then, later, when you've left me, let others come! it's all the same, who! for marriage, of course, i'm entirely spoiled! but i'll be revenged on him! on him and on virtue and on loyalty and on all that stuff with which they've so long tormented me. and the evening before my wedding--then may i--come to you again? toward twilight! it must be on a sunday. i'll arrange for that, so we can be alone. ah, i shall count the days till then! why do you look at me like that? (ebeling _stands up and throws himself on the sofa, burying his face in his hands. a long pause._) what can i have done? (_she stands up. another pause._) surely i haven't done you any wrong by loving you? ebeling. go home now, my child. margot. i wanted to leave some time ago, but you made me stay. (_she buttons her coat, throws on her boa, and is about to go out. then she turns around resolutely, and places herself before him._) oh, i know--i'm disgraced--i'm not worthy of anything better--; but i needn't have had to endure _such_ scorn and contempt! (ebeling _rises, looks at her, groans, buries his face in his hands, and falls back into the chair_. margot _kneels beside him, weeping._) dear--dearest--what is it? what's wrong, my darling? ebeling (_compelling himself to be composed_). stand up! (_she does so._) i am going to tell you. (_stands up himself._) i asked your mother's consent to my marrying you to-day. there, now you know it. good-bye. (_sits down in the writing-chair. a pause._) margot. (_does not move. her face becomes hard and bitter._) and now that you see what sort i am----h'm, yes. ah, well, you'll soon console yourself. there are so many others. why should it be just i? let me suggest one of my friends--a dear--a pretty girl--with white teeth. why take it to heart? it hurts for the moment--but one easily forgets. such girls as i deserve nothing better. to them--one does this! (_plucks the petals from the roses which are standing before her in the vase._) and then one throws them away--like this! (_throws the petals in his face._) ebeling (_brushing away the petals_). what have the roses done to you, my child? margot. i sent them to you. i, too, may destroy them. ebeling (_springing up_). it was you, you who all these years----? margot. good evening, herr ebeling. (_she goes out._) ebeling. (_pauses for a moment irresolutely, struggling with himself, then hurries after her. his voice is heard._) stay here! stay here! come in here! (_he reappears at the centre door, pulling her by the arm._) come in here! come back! margot. what do you want of me? i'll cry for help---- ebeling. come here! (_drags her to the writing-table._) margot. leave me alone! ebeling. be quiet! be quiet! (_picks up one of the pictures standing on the table._) there! that woman dragged my name in the gutter. will you do the same? answer me! (margot _stands motionless, the tears running down her cheeks._) answer, i say. margot (_slowly and heavily_). ah, one thinks and says so much when there's no longer a particle of hope in one's life. ebeling. i understand. (_he throws the picture on the ground; frame and glass are dashed to pieces._) let us go to your parents. we'll arrange with them what's best to be done. (_as she doesn't move._) well? (margot _shakes her head._) you don't want to? margot. not that way! as i am now, humiliated--mortified--disgraced--no, not that way! i am so tired of playing magdalen! no! when i come, i'll come with a free step. i'll be able to look every man in the face! but i must find out first what i am still worth, and (_looking him full in the face_) it must be a great, great deal--to be worthy of you. ebeling (_moved_). give me your hands, dear. margot (_doing so_). when we see each other again, they'll be red and ugly. (ebeling _kisses her hands and presses them to his face._) good-bye. (_she turns to go._) curtain. iii the last visit a play in one act characters the unknown lady. lieutenant von wolters. mulbridge, a horse-trainer. his wife. daisy, their daughter. kellermann. tempski, an orderly. a groom. the present day. _the scene is laid in a large german garrison_. the last visit frau mulbridge. well, now we have seen our poor, dear captain for the last time. mulbridge. yes. he was a good fellow, our captain and--awfully fond of horses. frau mulbridge. why, daisy, what's the matter, dear? you've been standing here all alone, and yet, until now, you wouldn't stir from the coffin. daisy. i saw him quite well from here, mother, dear. mulbridge (_caressing her_). my girlie--my little girl. yes--we all loved him. frau mulbridge. (_to_ tempski, _who is sobbing._) there, there, tempski, hush now. (_a bell rings, right._) there's the bell; go and open the door. (tempski _goes out at the right._) mulbridge (_to the_ groom). and we'll be off to the stables! frau mulbridge. sh! the lieutenant! mulbridge (_to the groom_). go on! (_pushes the_ groom _out, left._) (lieutenant von wolters _enters. he is an attractive young officer, very smart in appearance, wearing the uniform of an uhlan_. kellermann, _a self-possessed, sharp-eyed man, follows him. while they are entering_, tempski _comes in at the right, quietly places a wreath on one of the piles near the columns, and goes out again._) v. wolters. well, herr-- (_he puts his hand to his eyes, overcome for the moment, then stiffly, trying to conceal his emotion._) herr--kellermann was the name, wasn't it? kellermann. at your service, lieutenant. v. wolters. you have done everything very satisfactorily. i am much obliged to you. you understand that the removal of the coffin to the church is to be accomplished as secretly as possible. kellermann. i'm silent as the grave, lieutenant. my business sort of carries that with it, don't you know. v. wolters. it will be dark about half past five. i have ordered the troops that are to accompany the casket to be here at half past six. at the church--the catafalque and the rest--i can confidently leave all that to you? kellermann. most assuredly, lieutenant. i shall see that everything is of the finest. v. wolters. but remember your instructions: all superfluous ostentation is to be rigorously avoided--to-morrow at the funeral procession, also. kellermann. i understand, lieutenant--because of the way he met his death. v. wolters. the reason does not concern you. (_turns to go._) mulbridge. beg pardon, lieutenant, but may i speak to you? i've been in the captain's service seven years. i've been in germany nearly eighteen years--have a german wife and daughter. i'm not as young as i used to be. what's going to become of the horses and the racing-stable, and-- the rest? frau mulbridge. yes, it's really too bad about him, lieutenant. he's so fond of his horses. why, if ever you want to speak to him, you have to go and stay at the stable. that's the only way i can manage to see him. mulbridge. and she's a great help to me, too, lieutenant. v. wolters. i can understand your anxiety, mulbridge. the captain spoke about you on our last journey together. he especially commended you and your family to my care. but, of course, everything will depend upon the heir. frau mulbridge. and who is the heir, lieutenant? v. wolters. no one knows. he had no relatives. but be assured that whoever it is, i will do my best to---- mulbridge. thank you, lieutenant! thank you! (_he says a few words aside to his wife and goes out, left._) v. wolters. have you anything else to do here, herr kellermann? kellermann. yes, indeed, a great many things, lieutenant. (_goes out at the centre, carrying several wreaths, and then returns for more_. frau mulbridge _helps him._) v. wolters. oh, by the way, may i have a word with you, daisy? (daisy _comes forward_, v. wolters _continues aside to her._) my dear child, i know that the captain had a great deal of confidence in you. daisy. yes, he had. v. wolters. well then, listen. some one wishes to come here before the casket is removed some one who must not be seen. daisy. very well. she may. v. wolters (_amazed_). what----? she----? daisy. why, it must be the lady. v. wolters. what lady? daisy. the lady for whom he let himself be shot. v. wolters. what! you know----? daisy. she had to come, of course. who else should it be? v. wolters. h'm! well then, listen carefully. if the undertaker--or any other stranger--should still be here when it begins to grow dark, throw on a wrap and wait at the door downstairs until a carriage stops. will you? daisy. certainly i will. and tempski? v. wolters. yes, tempski, faithful as he is---- daisy. tempski was never around in those days. v. wolters (_looking at her in astonishment_). oh--so tempski--was never--around--in those days! h'm! well then, i'll undertake to get rid of tempski myself. thank you, my child. (_gives her his hand, then aloud._) i have another errand, but i'll be back soon. (_goes out at the right._) frau mulbridge. what did the lieutenant want of you? daisy. nothing in particular--something about the wreaths. kellermann (_coming in from the back_). yes, with all those wreaths, we'll have to have an extra carriage for the flowers. he was a fine man, he was--a highly respected man! and on horseback! why, i've won every time i bet on him! ah, yes, but sooner or later they all have to come to me! frau mulbridge. and he was such a kind master! he was just like a child sometimes--so light-hearted and happy--like a little boy! lately, to be sure, he-- (_the bell rings._) well, daisy! daisy. (_who has stood without moving, lost in thought._) i guess tempski will go. frau mulbridge. yes, yes, you're right. tempski is outside. tempski (_brings in a wreath, sobbing_). f-from--our--major. frau mulbridge. why, tempski, it's perfectly natural that the major---- tempski. from--our--major. frau mulbridge. take the wreath from him, daisy. daisy. yes, mother, dear. (_she does so_. tempski _goes out, crying._) kellermann (_reaching for the wreath_). from his major that must go on the coffin! daisy. i'll do it. kellermann (_in doubt_). don't you think----? frau mulbridge. yes, let her; she looks after everything. kellermann. but nail it tightly, little lady--else it'll fall off when they're carrying him to the church. daisy. yes, yes. (_goes out back with the wreath. during the following conversation, the strokes of a hammer are heard._) frau mulbridge. everything is so well arranged here. i don't see why they've got to take him to the church. kellermann. the official statement is that it will prevent any demonstration in the street. you know, the town folks haven't taken very kindly to this murdering business of late. but, of course, that's not the real reason. the truth of the matter is that several very influential ladies would like to attend the funeral without being seen. h'm!--love never dies, they say. ah, the captain was no saint, i can tell you! frau mulbridge. what do you know about it? kellermann. oh, well, there's a lot of talk about the veiled figures that used to go in and out of here at twilight. and if these mirrors could speak--! that reminds me--i'd almost forgotten--we must cover the mirrors. (daisy _appears in front of the curtain. she is staring into space._) frau mulbridge. but since the casket is to be taken away in less than an hour--what's the use? kellermann. that doesn't make any difference. the mirrors have got to be draped. it would be a blemish on my art--and i wouldn't answer for it. frau mulbridge. daisy! daisy. yes, mother, dear. frau mulbridge. go get a pair of lace curtains to hang over the mirrors. daisy. yes, mother, dear. (_she does not stir._) frau mulbridge. daisy! you're not listening. daisy. yes i am, mother, dear. you asked me to-- (_falters._) frau mulbridge. i asked you to fetch a pair of lace curtains. daisy. yes, mother, dear. (_goes out, left._) frau mulbridge. now that the child isn't here--tell me, herr kellermann, do you know anything about the cause of the duel? we're all groping in the dark here at the house. kellermann. well, they're saying all sorts of things. but the dead are my friends. i never say anything against them. it's a business principle with me. frau mulbridge. yes--but the man who shot him, is he still walking around free as air? kellermann. yes, that's the way with these fine folks. they fall upon one another like highwaymen. your honour or your life! the man who survives can laugh. the man who falls--well, he falls into my arms. but, see here, getting into a duel with that fellow, that baron renoir--why it was nothing short of suicide! i tell you, where that man goes, no grass grows! on the turf, at the card-table, with the women--always the same story. that man shot him down like a rabbit. oh, of course, it's always a fine thing to lay down your life for a woman. that's a phrase that---- frau mulbridge. do you really think that a woman----? kellermann. sh! here comes your little girl. (daisy _enters with two vases, which she is carrying very carefully._) frau mulbridge. what's that you're bringing? daisy. i stopped and filled them first. frau mulbridge. but you were to get a pair of lace curtains! daisy. oh, forgive me, mother, dear. i thought you said vases. i'll go (_exit with the vases._) frau mulbridge. i don't know what's come over the child! why, she's been such a help these days--thought of everything, wanted to do everything herself. kellermann. a nice little girl--how old is she? frau mulbridge. seventeen, her last birthday. kellermann. is she at school? frau mulbridge. she's been going to the art institute. she wants to teach drawing. kellermann. i suppose the captain thought a lot of her? frau mulbridge. oh, dear me, yes. she was always around him from the time that she was a mere child. they used to play together out in the yard like two little kittens! of course, when she grew older, that sort of thing stopped. but lately, when he seemed so worried, i---- kellermann. so he seemed worried, did he? frau mulbridge. yes, indeed. i've had my suspicions for the last two months. well, when he seemed so worried, i used to manage to send her in to him pretty often. she read aloud to him--and so on. (daisy _enters with a couple of curtains, and a dark coat on her arm._) kellermann. thanks, thanks, little lady. (_takes the curtains from her and stands on a chair under one of the mirrors._) what lovely venetian lace! ah, yes, every mirror comes to this sooner or later! daisy. i'd like to get a breath of fresh air, would you mind, mother, dear? i feel so---- frau mulbridge. yes, yes, dear. go out for a little while. (daisy _puts on her coat._) kellermann (_in front of the other mirror_). why, here's a little bunch of flowers! daisy (_eagerly_). oh, please, please, let me have it. kellermann (_blowing off the dust_). if it doesn't fall to pieces. (_hands it to her._) ah, yes, many, many loved him! he had a beautiful life, he had a beautiful death, and, as for a beautiful funeral--just leave that to kellermann! (_takes his hat._) i'll be back again for the procession. good evening, ladies. frau mulbridge. good evening. (_to_ daisy, _seeing her take off her coat._) i thought you said you were going out? daisy. oh, well, i've changed my mind now. frau mulbridge. i'm glad, because one feels so--so alone in here. daisy (_with a glance backward_). but we are not alone yet. frau mulbridge (_shuddering slightly_). that's just it. daisy (_staring straight before her_). i'm not afraid. frau mulbridge. tell me something, daisy, dear. weren't you in there last night? daisy (_alarmed_). last night? i? frau mulbridge. yes, at the coffin. daisy. what should i be doing at the coffin? frau mulbridge. well, i thought i heard some one go past the door. daisy. you must have been dreaming, mother, dear. frau mulbridge. very likely. i haven't been sleeping well these nights. see here, daisy, perhaps he's left us something--you, at least--tell me, haven't you been thinking about that sometimes? daisy (_apart, with a glance at the clock_). if she doesn't come soon----! frau mulbridge. what's that you were saying? (_the bell rings_. daisy _starts._) why, what's the matter with you? (v. wolters _enters._) v. wolters (_calling_). tempski! tempski (_at the threshold, in military attitude_). here, lieutenant! v. wolters. hurry over to the garrison church and see if everything is ready. frau mulbridge. why, kellermann will see---- v. wolters. and then go--or no--stay there until the casket arrives. do you understand? tempski. at your command, lieutenant. (_he goes out._) v. wolters. that's attended to. and now, my dear frau mulbridge, there's something that i want to confide to you. a visitor is coming here presently--a lady. (frau mulbridge _glances anxiously at_ daisy, _who nods._) she is not to be seen by any one--except daisy. daisy, it appears, used to open the door for her sometimes in former days. frau mulbridge. daisy--? what does this mean? daisy. oh, tempski might have gossiped, you know. frau mulbridge. and so he let _you_ open the door? daisy. i never gossip, mother. frau mulbridge. i'm finding things out now! why did i never hear of this before? daisy. oh, you were always in the stables with father in the evening. frau mulbridge. and there i was trying to keep this child from any knowledge of the things that went on in here--and he---- v. wolters. we've no time for that now, frau mulbridge. daisy, you will watch outside, won't you? frau mulbridge (_protesting_). oh, that's too---- daisy (_firmly_). yes, i'll watch. (_the bell rings softly._) should i----? (v. wolters _nods._) frau mulbridge (_calling her back_). daisy! (daisy _goes out without noticing her mother._) v. wolters. may i ask, frau mulbridge, that you---- frau mulbridge. very well. we have served him faithfully, and i'll not start making any trouble now at the end. (_exit, left_. v. wolters _goes to the door at the right, listens, and then opens it cautiously_. the unknown lady _enters. she is heavily veiled, dressed entirely in black, and carries a spray of white roses. as she enters, she staggers slightly and leans against the writing-table for support._) v. wolters (_who has softly locked the door_). may i show you the way, countess? (the lady _shakes her head and motions questioningly toward the back_. v. wolters _nods, and she goes out through the curtained doorway. after a short pause_, v. wolters _opens the door at the right._) v. wolters (_calling_). daisy! (daisy _appears at the threshold._) kindly see that no one enters the house while this lady is here--no one, do you understand? daisy. oh, yes, i understand very well. v. wolters. it may be that she has something else to say to me. if the men should come for the casket before she has left, take them around the other way. keep the main entrance clear. daisy. no, that wouldn't be safe. v. wolters. well, what shall we do? daisy (_breathing heavily_). i'll--think of something. v. wolters. his death grieves you, too, dear child? daisy. me? oh, yes--me too. (_she goes out_. v. wolters _walks to and fro, pauses to listen in front of the curtain, turns on the electric lamp, again walks to and fro, etc. at a slight movement of the curtain, he stops, expectant_. the lady, _still veiled, comes forward slowly until she has reached one of the chairs on the left. a pause._) the lady. ah, herr von wolters--to let them close the coffin before i--i had seen him--i must confess, i had not expected that of you, herr von wolters. v. wolters. i didn't dare prevent it, countess--just because of your coming. it was the only way to have the house to ourselves. the lady. don't call me countess, herr von wolters. i am not a countess here. (_glancing toward the door._) i am only an unhappy woman whom no one in this house knows, whom no one is to know. v. wolters. wouldn't you care to rest for a moment? the lady. are we quite safe here? v. wolters. quite. the little girl who, you say, is not unknown to you, is outside at the entrance. i have told her mother of your visit and she will not enter the house. if you wish, however, we can lock the door. the lady. yes, do. or, no, perhaps it would be better not to--in case any one---- v. wolters. very well. the lady. (_throws back her veil, revealing a very beautiful face, which is deathly pale and wears an expression of the deepest affliction. she sinks into the chair. a pause._) i wanted to lay my roses on his breast. ah, herr von wolters, i loved that man with an infinite love. perhaps grief will give my life a new and holier meaning--who knows? we seek beauty--and find grief. tell me, herr von wolters, you were his best friend, did you never suspect----? v. wolters. never, never. the lady. and when you received my letter early this morning asking you to come at once--not even then? v. wolters. i could draw--various conclusions--from that. the lady. for instance----? v. wolters. oh, please--really, you must excuse me---- the lady. no, herr von wolters. we are here--but why don't you sit down? (_he does so._) we are here together, you and i, to hold the last rites over our sainted dead. his friend and his beloved who else has any right to be here? herr von wolters, i have given you my full confidence--i have made a strange confession to you. you will not betray me? v. wolters. ah! the lady. and so, in this sacred hour, there must be no concealment between us. answer me now. what does the world say? v. wolters (_embarrassed_). the world says so many things, countess. the lady. tell me, to what extent has my name been associated with this affair? v. wolters. i can't conceal the fact from you, countess. your name is mentioned. the lady (_thoughtfully_). yes, that's what my husband says. v. wolters. but please let me add that not a shadow, not the slightest suspicion, has ever---- the lady. but what else can they think? v. wolters. my dear countess, when a woman is as beauti-- i mean, that when a woman is the centre of so much interest, it's not surprising that some notice was taken of the attentions which he-- the lady (_somewhat impatiently_). yes--but----? v. wolters. it naturally was observed that my friend---- the lady. our friend had a--what shall i say--a susceptible heart. we knew that, who knew him so well. this was not the first time he had--been interested in a woman. and that was why i arranged to have him seen in our house as little as possible--lately, not at all. v. wolters. that fact did not escape notice, countess. and as baron renoir was frequently seen with you--instead of---- the lady (_somewhat excited_). don't mention that name, herr von wolters! i can't stand it! what could have possessed that man renoir--? but do tell me the rest. i've heard only the merest details. they've only told me what they thought necessary. v. wolters. no one knows what actually occurred between the two men. he begged me to ask no questions. you know, he was so reserved of late. it may be that certain expressions which passed between them a few days ago--after they had been drinking--had something to do with it--no one knows. perhaps there was some insult which was given in private--and which neither of them would make public. the assurance that the injury, whatever it may have been, was irreparable, must satisfy us. the lady. oh, how i hate that man renoir!--quite apart from the trouble which he has gotten me into! my husband warned me against him long ago. "that scoundrel will compromise you some day," he said, "and then i'll have to fight a duel with him." instead--this! oh, you poor, poor darling! and now, when all was so quiet and peaceful between us! v. wolters. my dear countess, if you think that the change which came over him in the last few months betokened peace and quiet---- the lady (_nervously_). i don't know anything about that! it wasn't my fault! was i to blame if he insisted on having notions? tell me one thing, herr von wolters, did he die easily? v. wolters. no one dies easily, countess. the lady. was he still living when they reached the house? v. wolters. no, he died on the field. the lady. do you know my first name, herr von wolters? v. wolters. certainly. the lady (_hesitating_). did he--by any chance--speak--that name? v. wolters. that would have betrayed his secret, countess. the lady. i only meant--at the very last--when he was no longer--conscious. v. wolters. no, countess. but--pardon me, i don't want to be indelicate--but did he ever call you by some little--little term of endearment--some-- (_stops, embarrassed._) the lady. why do you ask? v. wolters. at the very end, he kept murmuring something that sounded like "girlie"--or---- the lady (_indignantly_). my dear herr von wolters, our intimacy was of a different sort. v. wolters. pardon me, countess, but you yourself asked. (_she nods. a short pause._) the lady. good heavens--these curtains over the mirrors! they make me feel as if i were looking a blind man in the eyes! v. wolters. would you like to have me remove them? the lady. no, no. never mind. i want to ask you something, herr von wolters. tell me, what do you think of me? v. wolters (_confused_). what do you mean, countess? the lady. i want to know what i have done that i should be doomed to bring so much sorrow into the lives of others. i had only just left school when a strange young man shot himself under my window. it was on my account that my husband was transferred here from his former garrison. tell me, what mark of cain do i bear that all men follow me? i dress as simply as i can. i never go out without a double veil. sometimes i have actually been tempted to throw vitriol in my face! v. wolters (_candidly_). oh, that would have been a shame, countess! the lady (_severely_). herr von wolters! v. wolters. yes, countess, to mar that image of divinity would be a sin--and i do not hesitate to repeat it beside the coffin of my friend. the lady. don't! (_reaches him her hand, which he kisses respectfully._) dear me, how strange it seems! yesterday we scarcely knew one another--those few visits at my house don't count. to-day--this short conversation--and here we are, sitting side by side, the guardians of a secret which will be buried forever with him. it will, herr von wolters? v. wolters. ah, my dear countess, please do not offend me. the lady. very well, i shall not worry. did you love him very dearly? v. wolters. i thought a great deal of him, countess. he took care of me when i was a young fellow quite alone in the world. he was so-- really, i don't know how i shall-- (_breaking down._) the lady. courage, dear friend! we must both try to be brave. v. wolters (_firmly_). thank you, countess. you will not have to reprove me again. the lady. you evaded my question before. do you consider me very guilty, herr von wolters? v. wolters. he loved you, countess. that makes you holy in my eyes. the lady. i thank you for that word--little as i deserve it. it has never been my way to undervalue myself. but your opinion meant so much to me---- v. wolters (_puzzled_). what difference could my humble opinion---- the lady. don't say that, my dear friend. there are few people--perhaps not even my own husband--who have ever seen me as you see me at this moment--so weak, so helpless, so--i had almost said--unguarded. remember that--and spare me. v. wolters. i hope that i have not been inconsiderate, countess. the lady. (_putting her hand to her brow, stammering._) no, no, no; it's--it's grieving for him that makes me lose my wits. the world had so long set me on a pedestal that i thought i belonged there. now i feel as if i were torn down. now i lie there-- herr von wolters, pay no attention to me! v. wolters. if i could only help you, countess! the lady (_smiling sorrowfully_). help me--you? and yet, why not? his friend and his beloved! it is we, you and i, who are paying the last honours to the dead. who could know his worth better than we? whose grief could be more eloquent than ours? no, no, no--i must not talk. ah, i see him before me now with his bright, careless smile--his conqueror's smile! i suppose you never were courted by women as he was? v. wolters. my dear countess, i lead a fairly quiet, uneventful life. the lady. but you're not--you're not a puritan, are you? v. wolters. i must let others judge of that, countess. the lady. oh! i should like to cry out my sorrow to the whole world--say to them all, "you sordid souls, you couldn't know how much i loved him! what do i care if you damn me, if you----" (_the bell rings. she starts._) there's the bell! v. wolters (_reassuringly_). probably just a wreath. the lady. and if it's not--a----? v. wolters. why, daisy is outside. but to make sure-- (_listens at the door, then opens it cautiously._) daisy! (the lady _drops her veil_. daisy _appears at the threshold._) daisy. what is it, herr von wolters? v. wolters. who rang? daisy. it was a wreath. v. wolters (_to_ the lady). just as i supposed. the lady (_to_ daisy). come here, dear. (daisy _comes forward._) you used to open the door for me, didn't you? daisy. yes. the lady. but you don't know who i am? daisy. no. the lady. you'll not try to find out? daisy. oh, no. the lady. was he fond of you? daisy. oh, yes. the lady. and have you been crying since he died? daisy. no. the lady. you're a pretty little girl. daisy (_going_). has my lady any more questions? the lady. (_taking out a gold purse, to_ v. wolters.) do you think one might give her anything? (v. wolters _shakes his head._) thank you, dear. we shall see each other again. (_as_ daisy _lingers._) what is it? daisy. very well--since i shall see my lady again. (_goes out._) the lady. it did seem though, as if she were waiting for something. v. wolters. if you will pardon me for the suggestion, it was surely not--not for money. the lady. by the way, this incident reminds me of something i was just about to-- herr von wolters, are you my friend? v. wolters. if you consider me worthy of that distinction, countess. the lady. most assuredly. well, herr von wolters, there is something that troubles me--something that desecrates my grief, if i may use the word. there's the anxiety--the fear that-- yes, yes--i must tell you all. herr von wolters, he has my letters. do you understand? (_he nods._) didn't he give you something for me--a small, sealed package, perhaps--nothing? v. wolters. you are forgetting, countess, that i was ignorant of all this until a short time ago. the lady. yes, that's true. h'm--it's really too bad. who has the keys? v. wolters. why, he gave them to me just before the duel. i have them with me. the lady. you've looked through the writing-table? v. wolters. yes, i had to hand over his papers to the legal authorities. i didn't consider myself entitled to touch his private correspondence at present. the lady. why not? v. wolters. he made a will the day before the duel. the lady. really? in whose favor? v. wolters. i don't know. the lady. what! didn't he make any allusion--nothing----? v. wolters. the only thing he said was that he had named me as executor. the lady. but he had no relatives. who is to inherit his large fortune? v. wolters. as i've said, i don't know. however, he made a remark that i didn't quite understand, and that i--pardon me--would rather not repeat, if you don't mind. the lady. oh, please! v. wolters. it might give you pain, countess. the lady (_sadly_). nothing can give me pain after _this_. v. wolters. well, he said with a decided emphasis--though perhaps he did not intend that i should notice it--he said, "the one who loved me best shall be my heir." the lady. what! he said that? who could have loved him best if not i? (_terrified._) for god's sake, herr von wolters! v. wolters. don't be alarmed, countess. that would be too grotesque. the lady. perhaps this is his revenge. v. wolters. revenge? on you? what for? the lady. no, no--i'm quite out of my senses, i-- but, as you have the keys, you won't mind doing me this slight favour. v. wolters. what favour, countess? the lady. search for the letters with me--now. it seems to me your duty, not only as a friend but as a gentleman. v. wolters. pardon me, my dear countess, you were certainly his last--perhaps his only great love. but his life was varied--and if we were to open his desk now--i really don't know what we might find there. the lady. you mean there would be letters from other----? v. wolters. i must say no more. the lady. well, i'll shut my eyes. i'll only look for my own handwriting. v. wolters. the will is to be opened in a few days, countess. he has doubtless inserted a clause authorising me as executor to return certain papers to their owners--or destroy them. the lady. ah, i see you're a puritan, after all.--no, no, i'll not trouble your conscience. this loyalty which you bear him to the very grave is so beautiful, so poetical, and i feel so near to you because of it--(_putting her hand over her eyes._) oh, those curtains in front of the mirrors! they make me feel as if i were dead myself, (v. wolters _is about to tear them down._) no, no--don't. thanks. tell me, how long will it be before the will is opened? v. wolters. unfortunately, the day is not yet appointed. the lady. i shall not sleep a moment until then. not even my love, my grief, can outweigh this terrible fear. my honour, my future, my life--everything is at stake! v. wolters (_amazed_). countess! the lady. please stop calling me countess. v. wolters. forgive me. what should i----? the lady. call me your friend. i want to be that. from this day you become closer to me than any other being in all the world. are you not the legacy, as it were, that our dear dead has left me?--ah, you and i must become like brother and sister, two beings who have--nothing--to conceal from one another. herr von wolters, will you be my guide, my confidant--my friend? v. wolters. countess! my dear, dear countess! the lady (_softly_). but you're not to---- v. wolters. forgive me. your kindness to me makes me feel so--confused--i---- the lady. why should it? i feel certain that if he could see us at this moment, he himself would join our hands together. v. wolters. countess, if you ever need a man who would let himself be torn to pieces for you---- the lady. no, not that. i only want you to take this great weight from my soul. v. wolters. ah, countess, i am a man of my word. the lady. and that's what you call being torn to pieces for me? v. wolters (_trembling_). whether i can answer for this to him and to my own conscience--whether i can ever again think of him--without shame--will depend upon what we shall find in there. the lady. but you will open it? (_a pause._) herr von wolters, you'll not let me die of fear and distraction? v. wolters. i'll open it. the lady (_laying her hand on his arm_). thanks, thanks! ah, you are good---- v. wolters (_taking out the key_). don't thank me. i feel as if he could hear it in there. the lady (_shuddering involuntarily_). no--no! (v. wolters _turns the key in the keyhole unavailingly._) won't it work?--heavens, why your hand is trembling. let me have it. v. wolters (_with a last attempt at resistance_). the keys were entrusted to _me_, countess. the lady (_coaxingly_). oh, do let me have it. (_sits at the writing-table and opens the drawer. with a low cry of surprise._) empty! v. wolters (_bending over her_). empty? the lady. are you sure that this was----? v. wolters. yes, that was the drawer in which he kept his private papers. i'm sure of it. the lady (_staring straight ahead_). well, how can you explain----? v. wolters. perhaps he burned everything. the lady (_springing to her feet_). and perhaps not!--who knows?--this is the way he played with the honour of the woman who gave him all! this is my thanks! this is the action of a gentleman! v. wolters. no gentleman, countess, can do more than let himself be shot for a woman. the lady. who asked him to do it? was it my fault if jealousy of renoir drove him mad? and perhaps this is really his revenge! perhaps we'll live to see even more interesting disclosures!--this is my reward! this-- (daisy _appears at the door in the centre._) what do you want? daisy. i beg your pardon. my lady is looking for--letters? the lady. so you've been in there eavesdropping, have you? daisy. i brought in a wreath. the lady. well, what do you know about my letters? daisy. here they are. (_takes a small package of letters from her dress and hands it to_ the lady.) i intended to give them to you _secretly_ when you left. the lady. (_snatches the letters from her hand and looks at them._) how do you happen to have these letters? daisy (_wonderingly_). why, how should i happen to have them? he gave them to me. the lady. to you? who are you? why to you? daisy. because he knew that i would do exactly what he told me to do. the lady (_to_ v. wolters). can you understand this? v. wolters (_gently_). what did he tell you to do, daisy? daisy. he said to me, "these letters belong to the lady who used to come to see me sometimes. no one is to know about her--not even herr von wolters.--when i am dead, the lady will---- v. wolters. did he say that? daisy. yes. "when i am dead, the lady will probably come here again. if she does, give her these letters. if she doesn't, then burn them with the others." v. wolters. what others? daisy. those over there in the stove. the lady (_examining the letters_). look at this! unsealed! unwrapped! daisy (_smiling_). he knew that i wouldn't read them. the lady. i suppose from now on i shall be at _your_ mercy! daisy. i don't know you, my lady. and even if i did, you need have no fear. the lady (_to_ v. wolters). isn't she kind! daisy (_always respectfully_). but i should like to ask you a favour, my lady. the lady. by all means. what could i deny you, my dear? daisy. (_goes into the room behind and returns with the flowers that_ the lady _had brought._) oh please, please take these roses--away--with you. the lady. what does this mean? daisy (_imploringly_). oh, please take them! the lady. what right have you to make such a shameless request of me? daisy. i heard--forgive me, i didn't want to--i heard the way you spoke about him before. and it seems to me that your flowers no longer belong upon his coffin. the lady. what do you say to that, herr von wolters? this person acts as if she were the mistress of the house! daisy (_proudly_). i am. the lady. (_stares at her through her lorgnette and smiles._) oh, really! daisy (_her bearing pure and proud_). the night before he died i became--his wife. (_a long pause._) the lady. i hope you'll come and take tea with me in the near future, herr von wolters. v. wolters. pray, excuse me, but official duties will make it impossible for me to---- the lady. (_taken aback, but quickly recovering herself._) thank you just the same. (_a loud ring._) daisy (_starts and looks at the clock_). there are the troops already.--would you be so kind, herr von wolters--? please let no one come in here. (v. wolters _bows and hurries out at the right._) may i take you out the back way, my lady? no one will see you--or at least, only my mother. (_as the heavy steps of the soldiers are heard, to herself, in suppressed agony._) and meanwhile--they will--take the coffin--away! (_regaining possession of herself._) but wouldn't it be better to drop your veil? (the lady _does so._) and your roses--do take them! (the lady _snatches the roses from her hand._) this way, please. (_she opens the door at the left and goes out slowly behind_ the lady, _her eyes turned longingly toward the room behind._) curtain. iv the far-away princess a comedy in one act characters the princess von geldern. baroness von brook, her maid of honour. frau von halldorf. liddy \ > her daughters milly / fritz strübel, a student. frau lindemann. rosa, a waitress. a lackey. the present day. _the scene is laid at an inn situated above a watering-place in central germany._ the far-away princess _the veranda of an inn. the right side of the stage and half of the background represent a framework of glass enclosing the veranda. the left side and the other half of the background represent the stone walls of the house. to the left, in the foreground, a door; another door in the background, at the left. on the left, back, a buffet and serving-table. neat little tables and small iron chairs for visitors are placed about the veranda. on the right, in the centre, a large telescope, standing on a tripod, is directed through an open window_. rosa, _dressed in the costume of the country, is arranging flowers on the small tables_. frau lindemann, _a handsome, stoutish woman in the thirties, hurries in excitedly from the left_. frau lindemann. there! now she can come--curtains, bedding--everything fresh and clean as new! no, this honour, this unexpected honour--! barons and counts have been here often enough. even the russian princes sometimes come up from the springs. i don't bother my head about them--they're just like--that!--but a princess--a real princess! rosa. perhaps it isn't a real princess after all. frau lindemann (_indignantly_). what? what do you mean by that! rosa. i was only thinking that a real princess wouldn't be coming to an inn like this. real princesses won't lie on anything but silks and velvets. you just wait and see; it's a trick! frau lindemann. are you going to pretend that the letter isn't genuine;--that the letter is a forgery? rosa. maybe one of the regular customers is playing a joke. that student, herr strübel, he's always joking. (_giggles._) frau lindemann. when herr strübel makes a joke, he makes a decent joke, a real, genuine joke. oh, of course one has to pretend to be angry sometimes--but as for writing a forged letter--my land!--a letter with a gold crown on it--there! (_she takes a letter from her waist, and reads._) "this afternoon, her highness, the princess von geldern, will stop at the fairview inn, to rest an hour or so before making the descent to the springs. you are requested to have ready a quiet and comfortable room, to guard her highness from any annoying advances, and, above all, to maintain the strictest secrecy regarding this event, as otherwise the royal visit will not be repeated. baroness von brook, maid of honour to her highness." now, what have you got to say? rosa. herr strübel lent me a book once. a maid of honour came into that, too. i'm sure it's a trick! frau lindemann (_looking out toward the back_). dear, dear, isn't that herr strübel now, coming up the hill? to-day of all days! what on earth does he always want up here? rosa (_pointedly_). he's in such favour at the inn.--he won't be leaving here all day. frau lindemann. that won't do at all. he's got to be sent off. if i only knew how i could--oh, ho! i'll be disagreeable to him--that's the only way to manage it! (strübel _enters. he is a handsome young fellow without much polish, but cheerful, unaffected, entirely at his ease, and invariably good-natured._) strübel. good day, everybody. frau lindemann (_sarcastically_). charming day. strübel (_surprised at her coolness_). i say! what's up? who's been rubbing you the wrong way? may i have a glass of beer any way? glass of beer, if you please!--several glasses of beer, if you please.--(_sits down._) pestiferously hot this afternoon. frau lindemann (_after a pause_). h'm, h'm! strübel. landlady linda, dear, why so quiet to-day? frau lindemann. in the first place, herr strübel, i would have you know that my name is frau lindemann. strübel. just so. frau lindemann. and secondly, if you don't stop your familiarity---- strübel. (_singing, as_ rosa _brings him a glass of beer._) "beer--beer!"--heavens and earth, how hot it is! (_drinks._) frau lindemann. if you find it so hot, why don't you stay quietly down there at the springs? strübel. ah, my soul thirsts for the heights--my soul thirsts for the heights every afternoon. just as soon as ever my sallow-faced pupil has thrown himself down on the couch to give his red corpuscles a chance to grow, "i gayly grasp my alpine staff and mount to my beloved." frau lindemann (_scornfully_). bah! strübel. oh, you're thinking that _you_ are my beloved? no, dearest: my beloved stays down there. but to get nearer to her, i have to come up here--up to your telescope. with the aid of your telescope i can look right into her window--see? rosa (_laughing_). oh, so that's why---- frau lindemann. perhaps you think i'm interested in all that?--besides, i've no more time for you.--moreover, i'm going to have this place cleaned right away. good-bye, herr strübel. (_goes out._) strübel (_laughing_). i certainly caught it that time! see here, rosa, what's got into her head? rosa (_mysteriously_). ahem, there are crowned heads and other heads--and--ahem--there are letters _with_ crowns and letters _without_ crowns. strübel. letters--? are you----? rosa. there are maids of honour--and other maids! (_giggles._) strübel. permit me. (_tapping her forehead lightly with his finger._) ow! ow! rosa. what's the matter? strübel. why, your head's on fire! blow! blow! and while you are getting some salve for my burns, i'll just-- (_goes to the telescope._) (_enter_ frau von halldorf, liddy, _and_ milly. frau von halldorf _is an aristocratic woman, somewhat supercilious and affected._) liddy. here's the telescope, mother. now you can see for yourself. frau v. halldorf. what a pity that it's in use just now. strübel (_stepping back_). oh, i beg of you, ladies--i have plenty of time. i can wait. frau v. halldorf (_condescendingly_). ah, thanks so much. (_she goes up to the telescope, while strübel returns to his former place._) waitress! bring us three glasses of milk. liddy (_as_ milly _languidly drops into a chair_). beyond to the right is the road, mother. frau v. halldorf. oh, i have found the road, but i see no carriage--neither a royal carriage nor any other sort. liddy. let me look. frau v. halldorf. please do. liddy. it has disappeared now. frau v. halldorf. are you quite sure that it was a royal carriage? liddy. oh, one has an instinct for that sort of thing, mother. it comes to one in the cradle. frau v. halldorf. (_as_ milly _yawns and sighs aloud._) are you sleepy, dear? milly. no, only tired. i'm always tired. frau v. halldorf. well, that's just why we are at the springs. do as the princess does: take the waters religiously. milly. the princess oughtn't to be climbing up such a steep hill either on a hot day like this. frau v. halldorf (_more softly_). well, you know why we are taking all this trouble. if, by good luck, we should happen to meet the princess---- liddy. (_who has been looking through the telescope._) oh, there it is again! frau v. halldorf (_eagerly_). where? where? (_takes_ liddy's _place._) liddy. it's just coming around the turn at the top. frau v. halldorf. oh, now i see it! why, there's no one inside! liddy. well, then she's coming up on foot. frau v. halldorf (_to_ milly). see, the princess is coming up on foot, too. and she is just as anæmic as you are. milly. if i were going to marry a grand-duke, and if i could have my own carriage driven along beside me, i wouldn't complain of having to walk either. frau v. halldorf. i can't see a thing now. liddy. you have to turn the screw, mother. frau v. halldorf. i have been turning it right along, but the telescope won't move. liddy. let me try. strübel. (_who has been throwing little wads of paper at_ rosa _during the preceding conversation._) what are they up to? liddy. it seems to me that you've turned the screw too far, mother. frau v. halldorf. well, what shall we do about it? strübel (_rising_). permit me to come to your aid, ladies. i've had some experience with these old screws. frau v. halldorf. very kind indeed. (strübel _busies himself with the instrument._) liddy. listen, mother. if the carriage has almost reached the top the princess can't be far off. wouldn't it be best, then, to watch for them on the road? frau v. halldorf. certainly, if you think that would be best, dear liddy. strübel. this is not only an old screw, but it's a regular perverted old screw! frau v. halldorf. ah, really?--(_aside to her daughters._) and if she should actually speak to us at this accidental meeting--and if we could present ourselves as the subjects of her noble fiancé, and tell her that we live at her future home--just imagine what an advantage that would give us over the other women of the court! strübel. there, ladies! we have now rescued the useful instrument to which the far-sightedness of mankind is indebted. frau v. halldorf. thanks, so much.--pardon me, sir, but have you heard anything about the report that the princess is going to make the journey up here to-day? strübel. the princess? the princess of the springs? the princess of the lonely villa? the princess who is expected at the iron spring every morning, but who has never been seen by a living soul? why, i am enormously interested. you wouldn't believe how much interested i am! liddy (_who has looked out, back_). there--there--there--it is! frau v. halldorf. the carriage? liddy. it's reached the top already. it is stopping over there at the edge of the woods. frau v. halldorf. she will surely enter it there, then. come quickly, my dear children, so that it will look quite accidental.--here is your money. (_she throws a coin to_ rosa _and unwraps a small package done up in tissue paper which she has brought with her._) here is a bouquet for you and here's one for you. you are to present these to the princess. milly. so that it will look quite accidental--oh, yes! (_all three go out._) strübel. good heavens! could i--? i don't believe it! surely she sits--well, i'll make sure right away-- (_goes up to the telescope and stops._) oh, i'll go along with them, anyhow. (_exit after them._) frau lindemann (_entering_). have they all gone--all of them? rosa. all of them. frau lindemann (_looking toward the right_). there--there--two ladies and a lackey are coming up the footpath. mercy me! how my heart is beating!--if i had only had the sofa re-covered last spring!--what am i going to say to them?--rosa, don't you know a poem by heart which you could speak to the princess? (rosa _shrugs her shoulders._) they're coming through the court now!--stop putting your arms under your apron that way, you stupid thing!--oh dear, oh dear---- (_the door opens_. a lackey _in plain black livery enters, and remains standing at the door. he precedes_ the princess _and_ frau von brook. the princess _is a pale, sickly, unassuming young girl, wearing a very simple walking costume and a medium-sized leghorn hat trimmed with roses_. frau von brook _is a handsome, stately, stern-looking woman, in the thirties. she is well dressed, but in accordance with the simple tastes of the north german nobility._) frau v. brook. who is the proprietor of this place? frau lindemann. at your command, your highness. frau v. brook (_reprovingly_). i am the maid of honour.--where is the room that has been ordered? frau lindemann (_opens the door, left_). here--at the head of the stairs--my lady. frau v. brook. would your highness care to remain here for a few moments? the princess. very much, dear frau von brook. frau v. brook. edward, order what is needed for her highness and see that a room next to her highness is prepared for me. i may assume that these are your highness's wishes? the princess. why certainly, dear frau von brook. (the lackey, _who is carrying shawls and pillows, goes out with_ rosa, _left._) the princess. mais puisque je te dis, eugenie, que je n'ai pas sommeil. m'envoyer coucher comme une enfant, c'est abominable. frau v. brook. mais je t'implore, chérie, sois sage! tu sais, que c'est le médecin, qui---- the princess. ah, ton médecin! toujours cette corvée. et si je te dis---- frau v. brook. chut! my dear woman, wouldn't it be best for you to superintend the preparations? frau lindemann. i am entirely at your service. (_about to go out, left._) frau v. brook. one thing more. this veranda, leading from the house to the grounds--would it be possible to close it to the public? frau lindemann. oh, certainly. the guests as often as not sit out under the trees. frau v. brook. very well, then do so, please. (frau lindemann _locks the door._) we may be assured that no one will enter this place? frau lindemann. if it is desired, none of us belonging to the house will come in here either. frau v. brook. we should like that. frau lindemann. very well. (_exit._) frau v. brook. really, you must be more careful, darling. if that woman had understood french-- you must be careful! the princess. what would have been so dreadful about it? frau v. brook. oh, my dear child! this mood of yours, which is due to nothing but your illness--that reminds me, you haven't taken your peptonised milk yet--this is a secret which we must keep from everyone, above all from your fiancé. if the grand-duke should discover---- the princess (_shrugging her shoulders_). well, what of it? frau v. brook. a bride's duty is to be a happy bride. otherwise---- the princess. otherwise? frau v. brook. she will be a lonely and an unloved woman. the princess (_with a little smile of resignation_). ah! frau v. brook. what is it, dear? (the princess _shakes her head._) and then think of the strain of those formal presentations awaiting you in the autumn! you must grow strong. remember that you must be equal to the most exacting demands of life. the princess. of life? whose life? frau v. brook. what do you mean by that? the princess. ah, what good does it do to talk about it? frau v. brook. yes, you are right. in my soul, too, there are unhappy and unholy thoughts that i would rather not utter. from my own experience i know that it is best to keep strictly within the narrow path of duty. the princess. and to go to sleep. frau v. brook. ah, it isn't only that. the princess. look out there! see the woods!--ah, to lie down on the moss, to cover oneself with leaves, to watch the clouds pass by high above---- frau v. brook (_softening_). we can do that, too, sometime. the princess (_laughing aloud_). sometime! (the lackey _appears at the door_). frau v. brook. is everything ready? (the lackey _bows._) the princess (_aside to_ frau v. brook). but i simply cannot sleep. frau v. brook. try to, for my sake. (_aloud._) does your highness command---- the princess (_smiling and sighing_). yes, i command. (_they go out, left._) (_the stage remains empty for several moments. then_ strübel _is heard trying the latch of the back door._) strübel's voice. hullo! what's up! why is this locked all of a sudden? rosa!--open up! i've got to look through the telescope! rosa! won't you?--oh, well, i know how to help myself. (_he is seen walking outside of the glass-covered veranda. then he puts his head through the open window at the right._) not a soul inside?-- (_climbs over._) well, here we are. what on earth has happened to these people? (_unlocks the back door and looks out._) everything deserted. well, it's all the same to me. (_locks the door again._) but let's find out right away what the carriage has to do with the case. (_prepares to look through the telescope_. the princess _enters cautiously through the door at the left, her hat in her hand. without noticing_ strübel, _who is standing motionless before the telescope, she goes hurriedly to the door at the back and unlocks it._) strübel. (_startled at the sound of the key, turns around._) why, how do you do? (the princess, _not venturing to move, glances back at the door through which she has entered._) wouldn't you like to look through the telescope a while? please do. (the princess, _undecided as to whether or not she should answer him, takes a few steps back toward the door at the left._) why are you going away? i won't do anything to you. the princess (_reassured_). oh, i'm not going away. strübel. that's right. but--where have you come from? the door was locked. surely you didn't climb through the window as i did? the princess (_frightened_). what?--you came--through the window?---- strübel. of course i did. the princess (_frightened anew_). then i had rather (_about to go back._) strübel. oh, my dear young lady, you just stay right here. why, before i'd drive you away i'd pitch myself headlong over a precipice! the princess (_smiling, reassured_). i only wanted to go out into the woods for half an hour. strübel. oh, then you're a regular guest here at the inn? the princess (_quickly_). yes--yes, of course. strübel. and of course you drink the waters down below? the princess (_in a friendly way_). oh, yes, i drink the waters. and i'm taking the baths, too. strübel. two hundred metres up and down every time! isn't that very hard on you? heavens! and you look so pale! see here, my dear young lady, don't you do it. it would be better for you to go down there--that is-- oh, forgive me! i've been talking without thinking. of course, you have your own reasons-- it's decidedly cheaper up here. _i_ know how to value a thing of that sort. i've never had any money in all my life! the princess (_trying to seem practical_). but when one comes to a watering-place, one must have money. strübel (_slapping himself on the chest_). do i look to you as if i drank iron? thank heaven, i can't afford such luxuries! no; i'm only a poor fellow who earns his miserable pittance during vacation by acting as a private tutor--that's to say, "miserable" is only a figure of speech, for in the morning i lie abed until nine, at noon i eat five, and at night seven, courses; and as for work, i really haven't a thing to do! my pupil is so anæmic--why, compared to him, _you're_ fit for a circus rider! the princess (_laughing unrestrainedly_). oh, well, i'm rather glad i'm not one. strübel. dear me, it's a business like any other. the princess. like any other? really, i didn't think that. strübel. and pray, what did you think then? the princess. oh, i thought that they were--an entirely different sort of people. strübel. my dear young lady, all people are "an entirely different sort." of course _we_ two aren't. we get along real well together, don't we? as poor as church mice, both of us! the princess (_smiling reflectively_). who knows? perhaps that's true. strübel (_kindly_). do you know what? if you want to stay down there--i'll tell you how one can live cheaply. i have a friend, a student like myself. he's here to mend up as you are. i feed him up at the house where i'm staying. (_frightened at a peculiar look of_ the princess's.) oh, but you mustn't be-- no, i shouldn't have said it. it wasn't decent of me. only, let me tell you, i'm so glad to be able to help the poor fellow out of my unexpected earnings, that i'd like to be shouting it from the housetops all the time! of course, you understand that, don't you? the princess. you like to help people, then? strübel. surely--don't you? the princess (_reflecting_). no. there's always so much talk about it, and the whole thing immediately appears in the newspapers. strübel. what? if you help some one, that appears----? the princess (_quickly correcting herself_). i only mean if one takes part in entertainments for charity---- strübel. oh, yes, naturally. in those things they always get some woman of rank to act as patroness, if they can, and she sees to it, you may be sure, that the newspapers make a fuss over it. the princess (_demurely_). oh, not every---- strübel. just try to teach me something i don't know about these titled women! besides, my dear young lady, where is your home--in one of the large cities, or----? the princess. oh, no. in quite a small town--really more like the country. strübel. then, i'm going to show you something that you probably never saw before in all your life. the princess. oh do! what is it? strübel. a princess! h'm--not a make-believe, but a real, true-blue princess! the princess. oh, really? strübel. yes. our princess of the springs. the princess. and who may that be? strübel. why, princess marie louise. the princess. of geldern? strübel. of course. the princess. do you know her? strübel. why, certainly. the princess. really? i thought that she lived in great retirement. strübel. well, that doesn't do her any good. not a bit of it. and because you are such a jolly, good fellow, i'm going to tell you my secret. i'm in love with this princess! the princess. oh! strübel. you can't imagine what a comfort it is. the fact is, every young poet has got to have a princess to love. the princess. are _you_ a poet? strübel. can't you tell that by looking at me? the princess. i never saw a poet before. strübel. never saw a poet--never saw a princess! why, you're learning a heap of things to-day! the princess (_assenting_). h'm--and have you written poems to her? strübel. why, that goes without saying! quantities of 'em! the princess. oh, please recite some little thing--won't you? strübel. no, not yet. everything at the proper time. the princess. ah, yes, first i should like to see the princess. strübel. no, first i am going to tell you the whole story. the princess. oh, yes, yes. please do. (_sits down._) strübel. well, then--i had hardly heard that she was here before i was dead in love with her. it was just as quick as a shot, i tell you. just as if i had waited all my life long to fall in love with her. besides, i also heard about her beauty--and her sorrow. you see, she had an early love affair. the princess (_disconcerted_). what? are they saying that? strübel. yes. it was a young officer who went to africa because of her--and died there. the princess. and they know that, too? strübel. what don't they know?--but that's a mere detail--it doesn't concern me. even the fact that in six months she will become the bride of a grand-duke--even that can make no difference to me. for the present she is _my_ princess.--but you're not listening to me! the princess. oh, yes i am! strübel. do you know what that means--_my_ princess? i'll not give up _my_ princess--not for anything in all the world! the princess. but--if you don't even know her----? strübel. i don't know her? why, i know her as well as i know myself! the princess. have you ever met her, then? strübel. i don't know of any one who has ever met her. and there's not a soul that can tell what she looks like. it is said that there were pictures of her in the shop-windows when she first came, but they were removed immediately. in the morning a great many people are always lurking around the springs trying to catch a glimpse of her. i myself have gotten up at six o'clock a couple of times--on the same errand--and if you knew me better, you'd realise what that meant. but not a sign of her! either she has the stuff brought to her house, or she has the power of making herself invisible. (the princess _turns aside to conceal a smile._) after that, i used to hang around her garden--every day, for hours at a time. until one day the policeman, whom the managers of the springs have stationed at the gates, came up to me and asked me what on earth i was doing there. well, that was the end of those methods of approach! suddenly, however, a happy thought struck me. now i can see her, and have her near to me as often as i wish. the princess. why, that's very interesting. how? strübel. yes, that's just the point. h'm, should i risk it? should i take you into my confidence? the princess. you promised me some time ago that you would show her to me. strübel. wait a second. (_looks through the telescope._) there she is. please look for yourself. the princess. but i am-- (_she, too, looks through the telescope._) actually, there is the garden as plain as if one were in it. strübel. and at the corner window on the left--with the embroidery-frame--that's she. the princess. are you absolutely certain that that is the princess? strübel. why, who else could it be? the princess. oh, 'round about a princess like that--there are such a lot of people. for instance, there is her waiting-woman, there's the seamstress and her assistants, there's---- strübel. but my dear young lady, if you only understood anything about these matters, you would have been certain at the very first glance that it was she--and no one else. observe the nobility in every motion--the queenly grace with which she bends over the embroidery-frame---- the princess. how do you know that it's an embroidery-frame? strübel. why, what should a princess be bending over if not an embroidery-frame? do you expect her to be darning stockings? the princess. it wouldn't hurt her at all! strübel. now, that's just one of those petty, bourgeois notions which we ought to suppress. it's not enough that we have to stick in this misery, but we'd like to drag her down, too--that being far above all earthly care---- the princess. oh, dear me! strübel. what are you sighing about so terribly? the princess tell me, wouldn't you like to have a closer acquaintance with your princess, sometime? strübel. closer? why should i?--isn't she close enough to me, my far-away princess?--for that's what i call her when i talk to myself about her. and to have her _still_ closer? the princess. why, so that you could talk to her and know what she really was like. strübel (_terrified_). talk to her! heaven forbid! goodness gracious, no! just see here--how am i to face a princess? i'm an ordinary fellow, the son of poor folks. i haven't polished manners--i haven't even a decent tailor. a lady like that--why, she'd measure me from top to toe in one glance.--i've had my lessons in the fine houses where i've applied as tutor. a glance from boots to cravat--and you're dismissed! the princess. and you think that i--(_correcting herself_)--that this girl is as superficial as that? strübel. "this girl"! dear me, how that sounds! but, how should i ever succeed in showing her my real self? and even if i should, what would she care?--oh, yes, if she were like you--so nice and simple--and with such a kindhearted, roguish little twinkle in her eye----! the princess. roguish--i? why so? strübel. because you are laughing at me in your sleeve. and really i deserve nothing better. the princess. but your princess deserves something better than your opinion of her. strübel. how do you know that? the princess. you really ought to try to become acquainted with her sometime. strübel. no, no, no--and again no! as long as she remains my far-away princess, she is everything that i want her to be--modest, gracious, loving. she smiles upon me dreamily. yes, she even listens when i recite my poems to her--and that can't be said of many people! and as soon as i have finished, she sighs, takes a rose from her breast, and casts it down to the poet.--i wrote a few verses yesterday about that rose, that flower which represents the pinnacle of my desires, as it were. the princess (_eagerly_). oh, yes. oh, please, please! strübel. well, then, here goes. h'm--"twenty roses nestling close----" the princess. what? are there twenty now? strübel (_severely_). my princess would not have interrupted me. the princess. oh please--forgive me. strübel. i shall begin again. twenty roses nestling close gleam upon thy breast, twenty years of rose-red love upon thy fair cheeks rest. twenty years would i gladly give out of life's brief reign, could i but ask a rose of thee and ask it not in vain. twenty roses thou dost not need --why, pearls and rubies are thine!-- with nineteen thou'dst be just as fair, and _one_ would then be _mine_! and twenty years of rose-wreathed joy would spring to life for me-- yet twenty years could ne'er suffice to worship it--and thee! the princess. how nice that is! i've never had any verses written to me b---- strübel. ah, my dear young lady, ordinary folks like us have to do their own verse-making! the princess. and all for one rose!--dear me, how soon it fades! and then what is left you? strübel. no, my dear friend, a rose like that never fades--even as my love for the gracious giver can never die. the princess. but you haven't even got it yet! strübel. that makes no difference in the end. i'm entirely independent of such externals. when some day i shall be explaining ovid to the beginners, or perhaps even reading horace with the more advanced classes--no, it's better for the present not to think of reaching any such dizzy heights of greatness--well, then i shall always be saying to myself with a smile of satisfaction, "you, too, were one of those confounded artist fellows--why, you once went so far as to love a princess!" the princess. and that will make you happy? strübel. enormously!--for what makes us happy after all? a bit of happiness? great heavens, no! happiness wears out like an old glove. the princess. well, then, what does? strübel. ah, how should i know! any kind of a dream--a fancy--a wish unfulfilled--a sorrow that we coddle--some nothing which suddenly becomes everything to us. i shall always say to my pupils--"young men, if you want to be happy as long as you live, create gods for yourselves in your own image; these gods will take care of your happiness." the princess. and what would the god be like that you would create? strübel. _would be? is, my dear young lady, is!_--a man of the world, a gentleman, well bred, smiling, enjoying life--who looks out upon mankind from under bushy eyebrows, who knows nietzsche and stendhal by heart, and--(_pointing to his shoes_) who isn't down at the heels--a god, in short, worthy of my princess. i know perfectly well that all my life long i shall never do anything but crawl around on the ground like an industrious ant, but i know, too, that the god of my fancy will always take me by the collar when the proper moment comes and pull me up again into the clouds. yes, up there i'm safe.--and your god, or rather your goddess--what would she look like? the princess (_thoughtfully_). that's not easy to say. my goddess would be--a quiet, peaceful woman who would treasure a secret, little joy like the apple of her eye, who would know nothing of the world except what she wanted to know, and who would have the strength to make her own choice when it pleased her. strübel. but that doesn't seem to me a particularly lofty aspiration, my dear young lady. the princess. lofty as the heavens, my friend. strübel. my princess would be of a different opinion. the princess. do you think so? strübel. for that's merely the ideal of every little country girl. the princess. not her ideal--her daily life which she counts as naught. it is my ideal because i can never attain it. strübel. oh. i say, my dear young girl! it can't be as bad as that! a young girl like you--so charming and--i don't want to be forward, but if i could only help you a bit! the princess. have you got to be helping all the time? before, it was only a cheap lunch, now it's actually---- strübel. yes, yes, i'm an awful donkey, i know, but---- the princess (_smiling_). don't say any more about it, dear friend! i like you that way. strübel (_feeling oppressed by her superiority_). really you are an awfully strange person! there's something about you that--that-- the princess. well? strübel. i can't exactly define it.--tell me, weren't you wanting to go into the woods before? it's so--so oppressive in here. the princess. oppressive? i don't find it so at all--quite the contrary. strübel. no, no--i'm restless. i don't know what--at all events, may i not escort you--? one can chat more freely, one can express himself more openly--if one-- (_takes a deep breath._) the princess (_smiling_). and you are leaving your far-away princess with such a light heart? strübel (_carelessly_). oh, she! she won't run away. she'll be sitting there tomorrow again--and the day after, too! the princess. and so that is your great, undying love? strübel. yes, but when a girl like you comes across one's path---- frau v. halldorf. (_hurrying in and then drawing back in feigned astonishment._) oh! liddy and milly (_similarly_). oh! strübel. well, ladies, didn't i tell you that you wouldn't find her? princesses don't grow along the roadside like weeds! frau v. halldorf. (_disregarding him ceremoniously._) the infinite happiness with which this glorious event fills our hearts must excuse in some measure the extraordinary breach of good manners which we are committing in daring to address your highness. but, as the fortunate subjects of your highness's most noble fiancé, we could not refrain from---- strübel. well, well! what's all this? frau v. halldorf. --from offering to our eagerly awaited sovereign a slight token of our future loyalty. liddy! milly! (liddy _and_ milly _come forward, and, with low court bows, offer their bouquets._) my daughters respectfully present these few flowers to the illustrious princess---- strübel. i beg your pardon, but who is doing the joking here, you or----? (frau v. brook _enters_. the princess, _taken unawares, has retreated more and more helplessly toward the door at the left, undecided whether to take flight or remain. she greets the arrival of_ frau v. brook _with a happy sigh of relief._) frau v. brook (_severely_). pardon me, ladies. apparently you have not taken the proper steps toward being presented to her highness. in matters of this sort one must first apply to me. i may be addressed every morning from eleven to twelve, and i shall be happy to consider your desires. frau v. halldorf (_with dignity_). i and my children, madame, were aware of the fact that we were acting contrary to the usual procedure; but the impulse of loyal hearts is guided by no rule. i shall be glad to avail myself of your very kind invitation. (_all three go out with low curtsies to_ the princess.) frau v. brook. what forwardness!--but how could you come down without me?--and what is that young man over there doing? does he belong to those people? (the princess _shakes her head_. strübel, _without a word, goes to get his hat which has been lying on a chair, bows abruptly, and is about to leave._) the princess. oh, no! that wouldn't be nice. not that way---- frau v. brook (_amazed_). what?--what!--why, your highness----! the princess. let me be, eugenie. this young man and i have become far too good friends to part in such an unfriendly, yes, almost hostile, fashion. frau v. brook. your highness, i am _very_ much---- the princess (_to_ strübel). you and i will certainly remember this hour with great pleasure, and i thank you for it with all my heart. if i only had a rose with me so as to give you your dear wish!--eugenie, haven't we any roses with us? frau v. brook. your highness, i am _very_ much---- the princess. (_examining herself and searching among the vases._) well, how are we going to manage it? strübel. i most humbly thank--your highness--for the kind intention. the princess. no, no--wait! (_her glance falls upon the hat which she is holding in her hand with a sudden thought._) i have it!--but don't think that i'm joking.--and we'll have to do without scissors! (_she tears one of the roses from the hat._) i don't know whether there are just twenty (_holding out one of the roses to him._) well?--this rose has the merit of being just as real as the sentiment of which we were speaking before--and just as unfading. strübel. is this--to be--my punishment? (the princess _smilingly shakes her head._) or does your highness mean by it that only the unreal never fades? the princess. that's exactly what i mean--because the unreal must always dwell in the imagination. strübel. so that's it! just as it is only the _far-away_ princesses who are always near to us. frau v. brook. permit me to remark, your highness that it is _high_ time---- the princess. as you see, those who are near must hurry away. (_offering him the rose again._) well? strübel. (_is about to take it, but lets his hand fall._) with the far-away princess there--(_pointing down_) it would have been in harmony, but with the-- (_shakes his head, then softly and with emotion._) no, thanks--i'd rather not. (_he bows and goes out._) the princess. (_smiling pensively, throws away the artificial flower._) i'm going to ask my fiancé to let me send him a rose. frau v. brook. your highness, i am _very_ much--surprised! the princess. well, i told you that i wasn't sleepy. curtain. transcriber's notes: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/moriturithreeone sudeiala . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. . see footnote explaining correction of printing error. * * * * * books by hermann sudermann published by charles scribner's sons the joy of living (_es lebe das leben_). a play in five acts. translated from the german by edith wharton. _net_ $ . roses. four one-act plays. translated from the german by grace frank. _net_ $ . morituri. three one-act plays. translated from the german by archibald alexander. _net_ $ . * * * * * morituri morituri three one-act plays teja--fritzchen--the eternal masculine by hermann sudermann translated from the german by archibald alexander charles scribner's sons new york:::::::::::::::::::::::: copyright, , by charles scribner's sons published september, contents teja fritzchen the eternal masculine i teja a drama in one act persons teja, king of the goths. balthilda, queen. amalaberga, her mother. agila, bishop. euric \ theodemir >lords in the former kingdom of the goths. athanaric / ildibad, spearbearer of the king. haribalt, a warrior. two camp watchers. teja _the scene represents the king's tent. the curtains are open in the background and permit a view through the camp of the gothic warriors, over toward vesuvius, and the distant sea, which shine in the splendour of the setting sun. on the left stands the rudely constructed throne of the king. in the centre, a table with seats around it. on the right, the king's couch, consisting of skins pieced together; above, a rack holding many kinds of weapons. link torches on the right and left._ _first scene_. two camp watchers. first camp watcher. ho thou! art thou fallen asleep? second camp watcher. why should i be fallen asleep? first camp watcher. because thou leanest so limber upon thy spear, bent like the bow of a hun. second camp watcher. i stand so bent, because thus hunger gripes me less. first camp watcher. 'tis of no avail. it availeth as little as thy belt. afterward, in standing upright, it is the more severe. second camp watcher. how long is this to last? first camp watcher. until the ships come--that is simple indeed. second camp watcher. yea, but when are the ships coming? first camp watcher. how can i know that? look toward the heights. there, high upon the milchberg, there standeth the watch, and overlooketh the sea for twenty miles. if he knoweth not! there, behind the misenian hills, there they must be coming. second camp watcher. verily, if the byzantian let them pass. first camp watcher. the byzantian hath no ships. second camp watcher. the byzantian hath so many ships that he can surround the whole italian world with them as with a hedge; as close as the byzantian eunuch hath surrounded us, these seven weeks. first camp watcher. these seven weeks! second camp watcher. knowest thou what i got for nourishment, at noon this day? the same rind of bacon on which i brake my teeth eight days ago. forsooth, i had cut my three crosses, with my knife. that was a meeting again! but to-day, i devoured it ... a noble feast for a king's marriage day! first camp watcher. think'st thou the king had more? second camp watcher. and think'st thou we would suffer ourselves to be beaten to death, suffer ourselves to be broken on the wheel, to be thrust through and put to shame, if he had more than we? think'st thou we would lie here like chained dogs, and watch, did we not know that there is nothing to watch? first camp watcher. there is gold enough. second camp watcher. gold! pah, gold! of gold i have enough myself. in my cellar at canusium, i have buried a treasure--eh! ... thou! the wives behind there in the wagenburg must have meat left ... wine too, they must still have. first camp watcher. yea, the wives are there well enough--thou hast none, i suppose. second camp watcher. a greek dishonoured mine, and i stabbed him to death! (_pauses_.) good! the wives must have meat; they must have wine too. but how long that-- (_noise and clash of weapons, slowly approaching_.) there, the marriage is surely ended. first camp watcher. silence! there cometh the aged ildibad--with the king's shield. (_both put themselves on guard_.) _second scene_. the same. ildibad. ildibad. (_hangs the shield in its place, and puts away the weapons lying about_.) hath any news been sent down? first camp watcher. nay! ildibad. are ye hungry? second camp watcher. oh, yea. ildibad. hunger is for women--mark ye that! and show not such dark faces to our young queen. that becometh not a marriage day. _third scene_. _surrounded by noisy people_, teja _and_ balthilda _have appeared in front of the tent. they enter led by_ bishop agila. _before them, two choir-boys swinging censers. behind them_, amalaberga, euric, athanaric, theodemir, _and other lords and military leaders. the tent covers are let down. exeunt the watchers_. (bishop _lets go the hands of the bridal pair, and turns back to_ amalaberga.) (teja _stands gloomy and brooding_. balthilda _casts a shy imploring look around her. painful silence_.) ildibad (_softly_). now must thou say something, king, to welcome thy young wife. teja (_softly_). must i? (_taking one of the choir-boys by the nape of the neck_.) not so vehemently, boy; the smoke cometh up into our nostrils. what dost thou when thou wieldest not thy censer? boy. i wield my sword, king. teja. that is right. but make ye haste with wielding the sword, or ye may easily be too late. (_softly_.) nothing to be seen of the ships, ildibad? ildibad. nothing, my king. but thou must speak to thy young wife. teja. yea ... so now i have a wife, bishop? bishop. here standeth thy wife. king, and waiteth on thy word. teja. forgive me, queen, if i find not this word. i have been brought up in the midst of battles, and other dwelling-place have i not known. it will be hard for thee to share this with me. balthilda. king ... my mother ... taught me ... (_she stops_.) teja (_with assumed kindness_). and what taught thee thy mother? amalaberga. that a wife belongeth to her husband--above all, in the hour of distress; she taught her that, king. teja. that may indeed be true and holy to ye wives.... if only the husband also belonged to his wife in the hour of distress. and yet one thing, amalaberga. it hath been told me that in the morning, cocks crow near ye wives yonder in the wagenburg. for weeks, the warriors have eaten no meat. i counsel ye, give them the cocks. (amalaberga _bows_.) bishop. my king! teja. heh! thou hast but now spoken so beautifully at the field-altar, bishop. dost thou desire to preach so soon again? bishop. i will speak to thee, because bitterness devoureth thy soul. teja. verily? thou thinkest it? then i give ear. bishop. behold, like the spirit of divine wrath, so hast thou risen up among us, young man.... not thy years did the nation count, only thy deeds.... old men bowed willingly to thy youth, and since thou hadst yet a long time to serve, as one of the humblest, wert thou already our ruler. from the golden throne of theoderic, where mercy had sat in judgment, where totilas bestowed pardon with a smile, rang out sternly thy bloody word ... and woe clave to us as a poisoned wound.... pursued hither and thither beneath the hot outpourings of vesuvius, we are now encamped with women and children; while byzantium, with its hireling soldiers, holdeth us surrounded. teja. that it surely doth, ha, ha! not a mouse can come through. bishop. our gaze wandereth wistfully seaward: for thence hath god promised us bread. teja. no tidings of the ships? ildibad (softly). nothing. bishop. before we armed ourselves for a new war with misery, as free men, true to the ancient law, we determined to choose thee a wife, for in his own body should the king taste why the goth loveth death. teja. found ye that your king loved life overmuch? bishop. my king! teja. nay, that dared ye not, for every hour of this life would hold ye up to mockery.... and even if the ancient law required it, why must ye weld me with this young thing which, trembling for fear before me and ye, hideth in her mother's skirts? and especially on so fitting a day, when hunger doth furnish the marriage music.... look upon me, queen--i must call thee by thy title of a half-hour, for, by god! i hardly yet know thy name. i pray thee, look upon me! dost thou know me? balthilda. thou art the king, sire. teja. yea. but for thee i should be man, not king.... and knowest thou what manner of man standeth here before thee?... behold! these arms have been hitherto plunged in reeking blood, not the blood of men shed in manly strife, i speak not of that, that honoureth the man--blood of unarmed pale children, of--(_shudders_)--thou shalt have great joy, if i come with these arms to wind them about thy neck.... dost thou indeed hear me? have i not a beautiful voice, a sweet voice? only it is a little hoarse. it is weary with screaming loud commands to murder.... peculiar pleasure shall be thine when thou hearest tender words with this bewitching hoarseness. am i not truly a born lover? these wise men knew that; therefore they taught me my calling.... or believe ye, it was your duty to beguile your king in the weariness of camp life; as the great justinian dallied in golden byzantium, and sent forth his eunuchs to slay gothic men? ha, ha, ha! bishop. my king, take heed lest thou be angry. teja. i thank thee, friend. yet that signifieth nothing. it is but my marriage humour.... but now i will speak to ye in earnest--(_ascends to the high seat of the throne_.) on the golden throne of theoderic, where mercy sat in judgment, can i, alas! not take my place; for that is being chopped into firewood at byzantium.... neither smiling like totilas can i pardon, for no one longer desireth our pardon.... from the glorious nation of the goths, there hath sprung a horde of hungry wolves therefore it needeth a wolf as master. thou, bishop, didst call me the spirit of divine wrath, which i am not.... i am but the spirit of your despair. as one who all his life hath hoped for nothing, hath wished for nothing, i stand before you, and so i shall fall before you. that ye knew, and therefore ye are wrong, ye men, to reproach me secretly. contradict me not!... i read it clearly enough between your lowering brows.... because it goeth ill with us, make not a scapegoat of me--that i counsel ye. theodemir. king, wound us not.... the last drop of our blood belongeth to thee. cast us not into the pot with these old men. euric. we old men fight as well as they; and love, young man, as well as they. teja. then let that suffice. your queen shall soon enough learn how, in misfortune, friends quarrel among themselves. and as ye pass through the camp, tell the warriors, the only thing that frets the king this day this day of joy, is it not?--is that he hath not the power to offer them a worthy marriage feast ... or yet perchance-- ildibad. ildibad. (_who on the right has secretly spoken in bewilderment to a watcher who has just entered_.) yea, sire. teja. what have we still in our stores, old man? ildibad (_controlling his emotion_). truly, thou hast given away almost all thy provisions. teja. i ask thee, what remaineth? ildibad. a jar of fermented milk, and two stale crusts of bread. teja. ha, ha, ha! now thou seest, queen, what a poor husband thou hast got. yet if the ships be there, as the people say, then will i do royal honours to every one, even as is his due. yet tell it not, that would mar their joy. but if they hear the trumpets sound, then tell them there will be meat and wine on the long tables, so much as-- (_to_ ildibad, _who glides across the stage to his side_) what is it? ildibad (_softly_). the watch departeth. the ships are lost. teja. (_without the least change of countenance_.) lost--how--in what way? ildibad. treason. teja. yea, verily! yea--meat and wine so much as each one will, at long white tables--i shall have it divided--and sicilian fruits for the women, and sweetmeats from massilia. (_sinks reeling upon the seat of the throne, and gazes absently into the distance_.) the men. what aileth the king? look to the king! balthilda. surely he is hungry, mother. (_approaches him. the men draw back_.) my king! teja. who art thou, woman? what wilt thou, woman? balthilda. can i help thee, sire? teja. ah, it is thou, the queen! pardon me; and pardon me, also, ye men. (_rises_.) bishop. king, thou must husband thy strength. theoderic. yea, king, for the sake of us all. the men. for the sake of us all. teja. in truth, ye warn me rightly. women, i pray ye, return to your encampment. we have to take counsel. do thou, bishop, see well to their safe conduct. amalaberga (_softly_). make thy obeisance, child! balthilda (_softly_). mother, will he speak no more to me? amalaberga. make thy obeisance! (_balthilda obeys_.) teja. fare ye well! (_exeunt_ balthilda, amalaberga, bishop. _shouts of applause without, greet them_.) _fourth scene_. teja. theodemir. euric. ildibad. the watcher. the lords. teja. i have sent away the women and the priest; for what comes now concerneth us warriors alone. where is the watcher? come forth, man. the men (muttering). the watcher from the hill! the watcher! teja. hereby ye know, men: the ships are lost. (_tumult. cries of horror_.) teja. quiet, friends, quiet! thy name is haribalt. watcher. yea, sire! teja. how long hast thou stood at thy post? watcher. since early yesterday, sire. teja. where are thy two companions? watcher. they remain above, as thou hast commanded, sire. teja. good, then what saw ye? watcher. the smoke of vesuvius, sire, descended upon the sea, beyond the promontory of misenum. thus we saw nothing until to-day about the sixth hour of the evening. then suddenly the ships appeared five in number quite near the shore, there where it is said a city of the romans lies buried in ruins.... one of us determined to hasten away, since---- teja. stay! what signal bare the ships? watcher. the foresail bound crosswise and---- teja. and? watcher. a palm branch at the stern. teja. ye saw the palm branch? watcher. as i see thee, sire. teja. good, go on. watcher. then we perceived that the fishing-boats with which the byzantians take their food, closely surrounded the ships, and then---- teja. what then? watcher. verily, sire, they steered quite peaceably toward the camp of the enemy. there they unloaded. (_the men cover their heads. silence_.) teja. (_who looks, smiling, from one to the other_.) it is good.... that is: thou shalt say nothing there without.... from me they should learn it. (_exit watcher_.) _fifth scene_. teja. theodemir. euric. athanaric _and the_ others. lords. teja. your counsel, ye men! theodemir. sire, we have none to give. teja. and thou, euric, with all thy wisdom? euric. sire, i have served the great theoderic. and yet he would have had none to give. teja. come then, i know.... it is easy and quick to be understood: die!... why look ye at me with such mistrust?... do ye not yet understand me? think ye i require ye to wrap yourselves in your mantles, like cowardly greeks, and beg your neighbours for a thrust in the back? be calm: i will protect you against shame, since i can no more lead you to honour.--our place here cannot be taken, so long as thirty of us have power to wield our spears. but the hour shall come--and at no distant time--when the last arm, crippled by hunger, can no more be outstretched to beg quarter of the invading murderers. theodemir. no gothic man doeth that, king! teja. for what thou art, thou canst give surety; for what thou shalt become, thou givest no surety to me. so i counsel and command ye to prepare yourselves for the last conflict. in the first gray of the morning, we shall burst forth from the clefts, and array ourselves against the byzantian in open field. all. sire, that is impossible. theodemir. king, consider, we are one against a hundred. teja. and thou, euric? euric. sire, thou leadest us to destruction. teja. yea, verily. said i anything else? do ye believe me to be so untried in things of war that i know not that? why then halt ye? when totilas led us, we were more than a hundred thousand. now we are but five. they all knew how to die, and can we, a miserable remnant, have forgotten it? all. nay, king, nay! euric. sire, grant us time to accustom ourselves to that horrible thing. teja. horrible? what seemeth horrible to ye? i speak not indeed to romans who reel from the mass to the lupanar, and from the lupanar to the mass. yet there is not one among ye whose breast is not covered with scars like an old stone with moss. these twenty years ye have made sport of death, and now it cometh in earnest, doth a gothic man speak of "horrible"? what will ye? will ye lie and hunger? will ye devour one the other, like rats? good. but i shall not do it with ye! not i! to-morrow, i take spear and shield, and go to gain on my own account the bit of death for which i long and languish like a thief since ye made me leader of your lost cause.--and thou at least, my old companion, thou comest with me--eh? ildibad (_falling down before him_). i thank thee, sire! why ask whether i come! all. we too, king. we all, we all! theodemir. thou shouldst be praised, king, that thou hast pointed to us the way of happiness. and be not angry with us, if we were not able straightway to follow thee. now i perceive clearly thy great thought. from grief and discord and despair, we rise, we do not go down to death.... laughing, treadeth each on the other's corpse, in order laughing to sink down like him.... a light will go forth from us over the wide world.... ah, that will be a draught from golden goblets--that will be a riot of exultant joy. thank thee, my king. often have i envied thee thy crown, now i venture to envy it no more. teja. the thing will come to pass for the most part otherwise than thou dost imagine it, theodemir. yet i am glad that among the goths, such inspiration still abideth. euric. also to me, king, grudge not a word; for i have indeed seen golden days.... thou art not only the boldest, thou art also the wisest of all.... had we now faltered, so should we all have fallen without defence, by the murderer's sword ... and not only we, but the sick--and the children--and the wives. teja. ay, indeed, the wives! of them i had not thought at all. euric. but now to-morrow, we shall stand in battle, and on the second and third day, if we hold out so long, so that astonishment and fear at the miracle will lay hold on the byzantian and all the rabble of huns and suevians which he draggeth after him.... we cannot utterly destroy them, but we can bait them with our blood till they be weary.... and when no one on that side is able to hold spear and bow, then shall the hour come when the eunuch will have it said: "depart in peace." how many of ye are then still left? i fear not many---- teja (_laughing_). we, surely not! all (_with cruel laughter_). nay, we surely not! euric. then shall they take wives and children into the midst of them, and, head high, with naked swords, descend straight through the byzantian camp toward naples, to buy a piece of bread. and i tell ye, with such fear shall they be gazed at, that not even once shall a dog of the huns dare to bark at them. teja. wife and child! wife and child! what have we to do with them? athanaric. king, thou revilest the dearest of our possessions. teja. maybe!--i know only that there were too many mouths in the morning when the rations were divided. otherwise we might have been able to support ourselves. and yet, this one thing i say to ye--and i shall enjoin it on the men without, upon their word as warriors--that none of the women know aught of our purpose. i will not that even one man be softened by the tears and cries of women. athanaric. sire, that is inhuman which thou requirest, to take no leave of our wives. teja. take leave of them, me notwithstanding, but remain dumb as ye do it. he that hath wife and child here, let him go to the wagenburg, and provide himself food and drink, for the women delight to keep a remnant between their fingers. this let him share with the unmarried, and be joyful when he can. euric. and what should they say to their wives, sire, since already thou hast strictly forbidden communication? teja. say ye, it happens because of my marriage! or the ships are there, if that sounds more worthy of belief. say what ye will. only that one thing, keep for yourselves. theodemir. and wilt thou thyself nevermore see thy young wife? teja. eh? nay.... i mark not the least desire to. surely now i shall speak to the people. i would that i had thy tongue, theodemir.--the errand is troublesome to me, for i should speak great words, and i feel them not. come! (_exeunt all, with_ ildibad _slowly following_.) _sixth scene_. _the stage remains unoccupied for a short time. the voice of the king is heard, who is received with acclamation. then after a few seconds, subdued cries of woe_. ildibad _returns and sits down upon a stump near the curtain. then he lights two torches which he puts into the links, and prepares the weapons of the king. outside arises a shout of enthusiasm, which again is subdued_. _seventh scene_. ildibad. bishop agila (_tottering in with exhaustion and excitement_). ildibad. wilt thou not be seated, most worthy lord? bishop. and goest thou not to hear what the king saith? ildibad. that hath naught to do with me, most worthy lord. the king and i--for a long time, we are united in action. bishop. verily, he standeth there like the angel of death. ildibad. whether angel or devil, it is the same for me. (_the shout of enthusiasm rises anew and approaches the tent_.) _eighth scene_. the same. the king (_with flaming eyes, pale yet calm_). teja. are the weapons in order?--ah, 'tis thou, bishop! bishop. king, my king! teja. surely, thou shall now be driven to seek another flock, bishop. wilt thou but give me thy blessing, pray give it quickly.... theodemir is about to come. bishop. and dost thou know thyself to be free, my son, from the trembling of every dying creature? teja. bishop, i have been a good servant of thy church. to dedicate her temples, as once totilas did, have i not been able; but what there was to kill, i have killed for her welfare. shall i perform a posture for the blessed arius? bishop. my son, i understand thee not. teja. for that i am sorry, my father. bishop. and hast thou taken leave? teja. leave--of whom? rather have i a mind to cry "welcome"; but yet nothing is there! bishop (_indignantly_). i speak of thy wife, sire. teja. at this hour, i know only men, bishop. of wives i know nothing. farewell! (_enter_ theodemir _and_ ildibad.) bishop. farewell--and god be gracious to thy soul! teja. i thank thee, bishop.... ah, there art thou, theodemir. (_exit_ bishop agila.) _ninth scene_. teja. theodemir. ildibad (_in the background, occupied with the king's weapons, going noiselessly in and out_). teja. what are the warriors doing? theodemir. they who have their wives here, are gone to the wagenburg.... there they will surely eat and drink and play with their children. teja. and is thy wife here also? theodemir. yea, sire! teja. and thy children? theodemir. two boys, sire! teja. and thou didst not go? theodemir. i waited on thy call, sire. teja. what hour is it? theodemir. the ninth, sire. teja. and what do they who are free--the unmarried, and they whose wives are not here? theodemir. they lie by the fires and are silent. (_exit_ ildibad.) teja. see to it that something is brought to them also. i already ordered it. will they sleep? theodemir. no one will sleep. teja. at midnight, come and fetch me. theodemir. yea, sire. (_makes as if to go_.) teja (_with a shade of anxiety_). theodemir, stay!... thou hast always been my adversary. theodemir. i was, sire. for a long time i have ceased to be. teja (_stretches out his arms_). come! (_they hold each other in a close embrace; then they clasp hands_.) i would fain hold thee here, but truly thou must go to thy wife. (ildibad _again enters_.) and forget not to have food brought to those who are gazing at the fires. they should have occupation. brooding profiteth not in such an hour. theodemir. yea, sire. (_exit_.) _tenth scene_. teja. ildibad. teja. now, my old man, we should have nothing further to do upon this earth. shall we talk? ildibad. sire, if i might beg a favour for myself. teja. still favours, at this time?... i believe thou wouldst flatter me, old companion! ildibad. sire, i am old. my arm would grow weary with bearing a spear, more quickly than is good for thy life. and by my fault shouldst thou not fall, sire.... if no one else sleeps, think not evil of me, and let me sleep away the two hours. teja. (_with a new gleam of deep anxiety_.) go, but not far away. ildibad. surely, sire, i have always lain as a dog before thy tent. in respect of that, on this last night, nothing will be changed.... hast thou orders to give, sire? teja. good-night! (_exit_ ildibad.) _eleventh scene_. teja. _afterward_ balthilda. (teja _left alone, throws himself on his couch, staring straight before him with a bitter, wearied smile_. balthilda _enters shyly. in one hand she carries a basket containing meat, bread, and fruits; in the other, a golden tankard of wine. she advances a few steps toward the table_.) teja (_half rising_). who art thou? balthilda (_feebly and timidly_). knowest thou me not, king? teja (_rising from his couch_). the torches burn dimly.... thy voice i have heard before!... what wilt thou of me? balthilda. i am indeed thy wife, king. teja (_after a silence_). and what wilt thou of me? balthilda. my mother sendeth me. i am to bring thee food and wine. the others eat and drink, and so my mother saith---- (_she stops_.) teja. how didst thou enter here?... did not the watch forbid thee to enter? balthilda (_drawing herself up_). i am the queen, sire. teja. yea, verily. and ildibad, what said he? balthilda. thy old spearbearer lay and slept. i stepped across him, sire. teja. i thank thee, balthilda.... i am not hungry. i thank thee. (_silence_. balthilda _stands and looks tearfully at him_.) teja. i see, thou hast still a request to make of me. i pray thee, speak! balthilda. my king, if i return home with a well-filled basket, then shall i be mocked by all the women.... and the men shall say---- teja (_smiling_). and what shall the men say? balthilda. he esteemeth her so little that--he consenteth not to take food from her hand. teja. on my word, i assure thee, balthilda, the men have other things to think on ... yet nevertheless ... reproach thou shalt not suffer through me. set thy basket there.... have ye still much of such things? balthilda. sire, these two weeks have my mother and i and the women about us put aside the best of our share--flour and fruits--and the fowls have we not killed till this very day. teja. then indeed must ye have been mightily hungry, ye women? balthilda. ah, it hath done us no hurt, sire.... it was for a feast. teja. in truth? ye believed we should celebrate a feast to-day? balthilda. well ... is it then not a feast, sire? teja. (_is silent and bites his nether lip, examining her furtively_.) wilt thou not be seated, balthilda?... i should not yet let thee go home! that too would be a reproach, would it not? (balthilda _is silent and looks down_.) teja. and if i bade thee, wouldst thou wish to stay? balthilda. sire, how should a wife not wish to stay beside her husband? teja. hast thou then the feeling in thy heart, that i--am--thy--husband? balthilda. indeed, how could it be otherwise? the bishop hath joined us together. teja. and wert thou glad when he did it? balthilda. yea.... nay, i was not glad then. teja. why not? balthilda (_with a bright glance_). perhaps because, because ... i was afraid, sire, and i was praying. teja. what didst thou pray? balthilda. that god would grant to me, his humble handmaid, the power to bring thee the happiness which thou needest, and which thou awaitest from me. teja. which i from thee--that didst thou pray? balthilda. sire, may i not offer thee the food, and the wine? teja. nay, nay!... hearken, balthilda: without, by our fires, are warriors--they are hungry--i am not hungry. balthilda. sire, give them what thou pleasest ... give them everything! teja. i thank thee, balthilda. (_raising the curtain_.) ho there, watch! come in, but prudently so as not to wake the old man.... (_watcher enters_.) here, take this basket with food and wine, and divide it honestly.... say your queen sends it. watcher. may i thank the queen, sire? (teja _nods_. watcher _shakes her hand heartily. exit_.) teja. go--and bring me to eat! balthilda (_perplexed_). sire--why--mockest thou--me? teja. dost thou then not understand me? if thou wilt be my wife, thou must offer me my property, not thine! balthilda. is not all of mine thy property, sire? teja. hm! (_silence. he takes her hands._) call me not sire and call me not king.... knowest thou not my name? balthilda. thy name is teja! teja. say it yet once again! balthilda (_softly, turning away_). teja! teja. is the name so strange to thee? (balthilda _shakes her head_.) teja. then why hesitate? balthilda. not for that, sire! since i knew that i was to serve thee as thy wife, i have often named thee by day and in the night. only i never said it aloud.... teja. and before thou knewest it, what was then thy thought? balthilda. sire, why dost thou ask? teja. and why dost thou not answer? balthilda. sire, when i heard of thy bloody commands, and the others feared thee--then i often thought: how unhappy must he be that the destiny of the goths compelleth him to such deeds! teja. that hast thou thought?--that hast thou----? balthilda. sire, was it wrong that i should think it? teja. thou hadst never seen my face, and thou didst understand me? and they who were around me, the wise men and tried soldiers, they understood me not!... who art thou, woman? who hath taught thee to read my heart? thee, thee alone of all? balthilda. sire--i---- teja. all shuddered and muttering hid themselves from me in corners--and saw not the way, the only way which haply might still have saved them. when the butcher's knife was already at their throat, they still told themselves some tale of compromise. and then came the crafty greeks, measured themselves with them, and killed them one by one. thus perished the hundred thousand. and i wrapped myself in grief and anger--i cast hope away from me like a bloody rag, i sprang into the breach with scornful laughter. i sowed horrors about me, when my own heart was convulsed with horror of myself. i have not once been drunk with all the blood. i have killed, killed, and still knew all the while: it is in vain! (_he sinks to his seat overcome with anguish, and stares straight before him_.) balthilda (_with a shy attempt at a caress_). my poor dear king! dear teja! teja. (_raises his head and looks confusedly around him_.) my god, what do i here?... why do i tell all this to thee? thou must not despise me because i am such a babbler.... nor must thou believe that it is aught of remorse that compels me to this confession.... perhaps i feel pity for the victims, but my conscience stands high above all that!... far higher than my poor gothic throne.... look not upon me so.... there is in thy eye something that compels me to reveal my inmost thought to thee.... who hath endued thee with this power over me?... begone!... nay, stay ... stay! i wish to tell thee yet something, quite in secret, before thou goest.... besides, i should not cry out so, otherwise the watch may hear.... incline thine ear to me. never yet have i confessed it to any man, nor have i held it possible that i should ever confess it.... i bear an envy within me which devoureth my heart, whenever i think--knowest thou toward whom?... toward totilas.... yea, toward totilas in his grave.... they called him the "shining" totilas and their affection still cleaveth to him to-day.... their eyes still flash when they even think of him. balthilda. ah, sire, how thou dost fret thyself! teja (_anxiously_). didst thou ever see him? balthilda. never. teja. god be thanked! for hadst thou ever seen him as i saw him on the morning of the battle in which he fell ... arrayed in golden armour ... and the white steed pranced beneath him, and his yellow locks streamed like sunlight about him. and he laughed the foe in the face.... laughed like a child!... ah, laughing to die like him! balthilda. his lot was easy, sire! he went from hence, but left to thee as an inheritance the half-destroyed kingdom.... how shouldst thou then have laughed? teja (_eagerly_). is it not so?--is it not so?--how ... ah, that doeth good! (_stretching himself_.) ah, thou doest me good! balthilda. how proud thou makest me, sire! teja. but hadst thou seen him and compared him to me, thou wouldst spit upon me! balthilda (_fervently_). i should have seen only thee, sire dear, dear sire! (teja _looks askance at her, shyly and distrustfully, then walks silently to the left, sinks down before the seat on the throne, and burying his face in the chair, weeps bitterly_.) balthilda. (_follows him shyly and kneels down beside him_.) teja, beloved, if i hurt thee, pardon me! teja (_rises and grasps her arm_). tell it to no one! balthilda. what, sire? teja. that thou hast seen me weep! swear it to me! balthilda. it hath been told me that i am now even as a piece of thy body--and of thy soul also!... wherefore should i swear? teja. if thou art a piece of my body, then come nearer to me, that thou mayst not see my tears. balthilda. let me dry them for thee! see, for this cause am i here. teja. ah, 'tis well with me.... i must indeed have died of shame, for never yet hath a gothic man been seen to weep. even when we buried totilas, we wept not.... yet i am not ashamed.... if i but knew why suddenly it is so well with me!... balthilda, i will tell thee something. but thou must not laugh me to scorn. balthilda. how should i laugh at thee, beloved? teja. i am hungry. balthilda (_springing up in surprise_). alas, surely thou hast given everything away! teja. oh, by no means! go just over there, wilt thou? (_she obeys_.) behind my couch--seest thou the fireplace? balthilda. here where the ashes lie? teja. there standeth a chest? balthilda. yea. teja. wilt thou open the lid? balthilda. ah, it is heavy! teja. now feel within! deep, deep!... there ildibad the old miser--well? balthilda (_disappointedly_). a couple of bread crusts; is that all, sire? teja. there is indeed nothing more. balthilda. may i not then go quickly over to the wagenburg?... perhaps still ... teja. oh nay.... they themselves need the fragments.... bring that hither! as brothers we shall share it--eh? and then there is sufficient for both. wilt thou? balthilda. yea. (_she sits beside him_.) teja. so, now give to me! ah, that is good to the taste! is it not good to the taste? but ah, thou also must eat. balthilda. i fear there is not enough for thee. teja. nay, that is against the agreement.... so.... is it not good to the taste? balthilda. to me nothing hath ever tasted half so sweet. teja. pray come nearer to me ... i will take the crumbs from thy lap ... so--why is it that suddenly i am hungry? see, now we celebrate our marriage feast. balthilda. and better than those without, with meat and wine--do we not? teja. well, did i not tell thee?... but thou hast a bad seat! balthilda. nay, i am seated well! teja. come, stand up! pray, stand up! balthilda (_rising_). well? teja. sit there, just above! balthilda (_terrified_). upon the throne--for god's sake--how dare i----? teja. art thou not then the queen? balthilda (_decidedly_). if i must sit there in earnest! but in jest--nay! teja. ah, the stupid bit of wood! (_he hurls down the throne_.) at least it should be of use for something!... so now lean against it! balthilda. beloved, doest thou justly? teja (_surprised_). nay! (_he sets the throne up again, leads her to her former place, and places her head against the seat_.) there indeed thou art well seated--yea!... and we trespass not against this trash. if the bishop had seen that--he, ha, ha, ha! wait, i will eat again! balthilda. there, take! teja. still--remain quite still! i shall fetch it for myself. (_he kneels upon the podium beside her_.) now i am quite upon my knees before thee.... what is there that we do not learn!... thou art beautiful!... i never knew my mother! balthilda. never knew! teja. never had a sister.... no one.... never played in my life.... that i am surely learning last not least. balthilda. why last not least? teja. ask not--nay? ah thou, thou! ha, ha, ha! pray eat! bite from mine--yea? obediently--thou knowest what the bishop said? balthilda (_bites and then springs up_). but wilt thou not also drink? teja. ah, surely! bring me only the milk jar! bring me only the milk jar.... thou knowest the one that ildibad told us of. balthilda (_who has walked across_). is this the one? teja (_rising_). that is indeed it. but thou also must drink. balthilda. is it fitting so? teja. i know not. it should be! balthilda. so be it, then. (_she drinks and shakes with laughter_.) ugh! that hath a bad taste. teja. give it to me. (_he drinks_.) nay! (_he drinks again_.) go!... art thou then such a despiser of nourishment?... yea, who art thou then? and how comest thou hither? and just what wilt thou of me? balthilda. i will love thee! teja. thou--my wife! thou ... (_they fly into one another's arms. softly_.) and wilt thou not kiss me? (balthilda _shakes her head, ashamed_.) teja. why not? (balthilda _again shakes her head_.) teja. yet tell me, why not? balthilda. i will tell thee in thine ear. teja. well? balthilda. thou hast a downy beard.[ ] teja. (_wipes his month in terror, then in assumed anger_.) what have i? knowest thou not who i am? how then dost thou suffer thyself to tell thy king he--say it yet once more! i will but see. balthilda (_laughing_). a--downy--beard. teja (_laughing_). now, wait! _twelfth scene_. the same. ildibad. ildibad. sire, thou calledst? (_he stands rigid with astonishment, and is about to retire silently_.) teja. (_collects himself abruptly. he appears to wake out of a dream. his manners and bearing revert to the gloomy energy which previously had the ascendency_.) stop, stay, what happens without? ildibad. the warriors return from the wagenburg, sire, and most of the wives come with them. teja. are the leaders assembled? ildibad. yea, sire. teja. they might have patience for a moment more. ildibad. yea, sire. teja. for i also have a wife. ildibad. yea, verily, sire. [_exit_.] _thirteenth scene_. teja. balthilda. balthilda. teja, beloved, what happeneth to thee? teja. (_remains standing before her and takes her head in his hands_.) to me, it is as if in this hour we had strayed hand in hand through a whole world of joy and sorrow. that disappeareth--all disappeareth. i am again the--i was--nay, i am not he.--but be thou high above all the women, the queen ... wilt thou? balthilda. sire, what dost thou require of me? teja. thou wilt not entreat and wilt not cry out? balthilda. nay, sire. teja. the day draweth nigh. before us standeth death. balthilda. sire, i understand thee not. none can attack us, and until the ships come---- teja. the ships come never more. (balthilda _strokes herself on the cheeks, and then stands motionless_.) teja. but we men are going forth upon the field, to fight. balthilda. that can ye not do--that is surely--impossible. teja. we must. art thou the queen, and perceivest not that we must? balthilda. yea--i--per--ceive--it. teja. the king fights in the foremost rank, and we shall see each other no more alive.... knowest thou that? balthilda. yea, i know it!... (_silence. they look at each other_.) teja. thy blessing will i have upon the way. (_he sinks on his knees before her; she lays her hands upon his head, bends down to him, trembling, and kisses him on the forehead_.) teja. (_springs up and tears back the curtain_.) enter, who waiteth there! _fourteenth scene_. the same. amalaberga, euric, agila, athanaric, theodemir, _and other leaders_. amalaberga. king, i sent my child to thee.... i hear ye men have to act.... give her again to me. teja. here hast thou thy child! (_exeunt_ amalaberga _and_ balthilda.) _fifteenth scene_. the same. _except_ amalaberga _and_ balthilda. teja. (_stares after them, rouses himself, and perceives the bishop_.) bishop, i treated thee basely this evening. forgive me and have my thanks, for surely i also know why the goth loveth death.... (_grasps his sword_.) now be ye ready? have the farewells been said? theodemir. sire, we have disobeyed thy command. which of our wives betrayed it, and which of us told it, that cannot be determined. enough, they all know it. teja. and then have cried ah and woe? theodemir. sire, they have silently kissed the blessing of death upon our brows. teja (_exclaims half to himself_). they also! (_aloud_.) truly we are a nation of kings. it is our misfortune. so come! (_he strides to the background. the others follow. amid the noisy cries of the people greeting the king, the curtain falls_.) ii fritzchen a drama in one act persons herr von drosse, major (retired), lord of the manor. helene, his wife. fritz, their son. agnes, niece of frau von drosse. von hallerpfort, lieutenant. stephan, overseer. wilhelm, servant. fritzchen _the action takes place on herr von drosse's estate. time, the present_. _the scene represents a drawing-room on the ground floor. in the rear are wide glass doors which stand open, and permit a view of the terrace and splendid park lying beyond. windows to the right and left. on the right side, a sofa with table and chairs; on the left, a secretary with writing materials. handsome old-fashioned decorations, pictures of battles, portraits in oval frames, racing prints, etc. the terrace is sheltered by a broad awning which slightly subdues the glare of the bright summer afternoon._ _first scene_. wilhelm (_servant over sixty, in half livery, is engaged in arranging the samovar for the afternoon coffee_). agnes (_extremely slender, nervous, with traces of mental distress--twenty years of age--blonde hair smoothed on the temples, light muslin gown, a garden hat in her hand--enters from the terrace_). agnes. wilhelm, has the postman been here? wilhelm (_sighing_). yes, yes, he was here. agnes. where are the things? wilhelm. they are on the table, fräulein. agnes. (_goes quickly to the table and with feverish haste looks through the small pile of newspapers and letters lying there_.) again, nothing! wilhelm. yes, indeed--and this is the seventh day. ah, it is really heart-breaking. agnes. are your master and mistress still taking their afternoon nap? wilhelm. i have just heard the major. he will be here directly--there he is now! _second scene_. the same. major von drosse (_about fifty, tall, broad-shouldered, rather stout. dark-grayish full beard parted in the middle, waving right and left over his shoulders. in the full, well-browned face with flashing eyes and bushy eyebrows, there are energy and abundant vitality, controlled by the self-command and chivalric manner of an old officer. brief in speech, domineering, but never without a gleam of inner kindness_). major. afternoon, agnes! agnes. afternoon, uncle! major. (_goes to the table, examines the letters, sits down and looks straight before him for a little while_.) wilhelm! wilhelm. what does the major wish? major. stephan is to come at once to the castle. wilhelm. very well, major. (_exit_.) major. agnes, my child, just listen to me ... you are a reasonable creature ... one that i can talk to.... so the rascal has again not written. he should have come to us, day before yesterday. has made no excuses--doesn't write--nothing. that has not happened during the six years that he has been away from home. i ordered him most strictly to send a letter, or at least a card, every day--for with her illness, your aunt must be guarded against the slightest anxiety or excitement. he knows that, and moreover has always observed it conscientiously. i can't any longer be responsible for your aunt and her weakened heart. unless we use every means to keep her in her--visionary life, she will go to pieces. agnes. uncle! major. we must make up our minds to that, agnes. really, i do what i can. yesterday i even forged a telegram to her--you know that, eh! i did intend to write to his intimate friend hallerpfort, but thought better of it. i shall drive into town directly after dark. without your aunt knowing it, of course--for now, during the harvest, that would upset her still more. so you will stay all night with her, and er--well, the rest i will arrange with stephan. agnes. very well, dear uncle. major. just come here, girl, look me in the face ... we two know each other and ... eh? (agnes _casts down her eyes_.) major. now see, i know very well that for two years you have been secretly corresponding with fritz. agnes. uncle! (_presses her hands to her face_.) major. there, that will do, that will do, that will do.... you can well believe, if i had been opposed to it on principle, i should have long since put an end to the business, shouldn't i?... but there are things--well, in short, that you don't understand. well, i should not have begun about the matter to-day, but necessity knows no law, eh? and if i go to see him this evening, i don't wish to grope altogether in the dark.... so--on the basis of what has just been said--have you, perhaps, by any chance had a letter from him? agnes. no, uncle! major. hm! agnes (_hesitating, embarrassed_). for some time we have not corresponded. major. so?--ho, ho ...! who is to blame for that? agnes. ah, let us not talk about that, uncle. but from another quarter, i have had news of him. major. when? agnes. yesterday. major. and that you have----? agnes. (_taking a letter from her pocket_.) please read--and i think you will not reproach me. major (_unfolding the letter_). ah, from the little frohn! now then, what does the little frohn write? (_reads, muttering_.) lanskis--steinhof--met cousin--danced (_aloud_). indeed, then he could dance, but not write, that is a nice business--i should not have believed it of him at all.... (_reads further, muttering_.) eyes for the so-called beautiful frau von lanski ... the whole regiment is talking of it.... hm! eh, what! such a goose! what things such a goose does cackle!... regiment has other things to bother itself about.... but such a regulation goose ... if a young lieutenant like that isn't all the time trotting after them. and when he once shows attention to a lady who doesn't belong to the regiment ... besides, the lanski is nearly forty ... such idiocy! then he might at least--hm--hm--eh, pardon! now then, what is it?... my poor old girl ... yes, yes, jealousy ... you have borne up disgracefully since yesterday. agnes. i think i have controlled myself, uncle? major. yes, very true, girl, no one has noticed anything. _third scene_. the same. wilhelm. _afterward_ stephan, _the overseer_. wilhelm (_entering from the right_). herr stephan is there, major. major. come in! (_enter_ stephan.) very well, my dear stephen, i must drive into town directly after dark. unless i should be detained, i shall be here early to-morrow morning--four and a half and four and a half more miles--nine miles.... the coach horses have been exercised to-day? stephan. yes, indeed, major. major. which are in better condition now, the browns or the whites? stephan. that i don't permit myself to decide, major. they have all had it severely! major. well, i will just go and have a look myself. wilhelm--cap! wilhelm. very well, major. (_exit to the right_.) major. and at half after nine this evening, send a message to my wife and have her told that i must stay all night at the brick kilns--eh, you remember (_softly, looking around at_ agnes) how we managed it the other times when i was out at night. stephan. all right, major. major. where is that fellow stopping with my cap? (_enter_ wilhelm.) where were you hiding, man? (wilhelm _hands him the cap_.) and he is tottering on his old legs! what are you tottering so for? wilhelm. indeed i am not tottering, major. major. well, come on, stephan! (_exeunt_ major, stephan, _through the garden door_.) _fourth scene_. agnes. wilhelm. _afterward_ lieutenant von hallerpfort. wilhelm (_softly_). fräulein, just now as i went out, lieutenant von hallerpfort was standing there and wished to speak with fräulein, privately. neither the master nor the mistress is to know anything of it ... god, fräulein is deadly pale! agnes. ask the lieutenant to come in, and keep a lookout, if my aunt comes. (wilhelm _opens the door on the right, and disappears through the door on the left hand_.) agnes. (_meeting the lieutenant as he enters_.) herr von hallerpfort, what has happened to fritz? hallerpfort. nothing, fräulein, not the least thing.... i am surprised that he is not yet here. agnes (_rising joyfully_). ah! (_with a sigh of relief_.) ha! hallerpfort. i beg pardon a thousand times if i startled you. agnes. will you please take a seat. hallerpfort. thank you, most humbly! (_they are seated_.) your uncle and aunt, i hope, will not---- agnes. uncle has just gone to the stables, and aunt's coming will be announced to us. hallerpfort. how is your aunt? agnes. oh, i thank you, much as usual.--herr von hallerpfort, be frank with me: what is this all about? hallerpfort. oh, absolutely nothing of any consequence. a little surprise--nothing further--nothing further! agnes. to be sure, if he is really on his way here--didn't you ride here together? hallerpfort. no, i came by the way of the levee, and thought to overtake him. he will have ridden by the highway. agnes. then what is the object of this secrecy? hallerpfort. that will soon be cleared up, fräulein.... at this moment, in fritz's interest, i have to ask a great favour of you.... it is now (_takes out his watch_) three forty-five o'clock. at four o'clock let us say five minutes after four--even if we take into account some unforeseen delay--yes--he must be here.... how long does it take to go to the village to braun's inn? agnes. ten minutes--that is, by a short cut through the park, about five. hallerpfort. thank you most humbly. then will you have the great kindness to reckon by your watch a half hour from the moment when he comes in here, and then send me a message to braun's where i am stopping? agnes. at braun's? i think you know, herr von hallerpfort, that this house---- hallerpfort. oh, certainly that i know!... i only made the mistake of putting my horse at the entrance to braun's, and as he doesn't belong to me, it is my duty to look after him. agnes. and all that is the truth? hallerpfort. absolutely. agnes. i should not be so persistent--forgive me for it--but here we have all been so distressed about him. for nearly a week, we have sat and waited for news.... tell me truly. wilhelm (_entering at the left_). fräulein, your aunt. hallerpfort (_springing up_). good-bye, then! and be reassured, it is all about a joke--about---- agnes. if only your face were not so serious. hallerpfort. oh, that--that is deceptive. (_exit quickly to the right_.) _fifth scene_. agnes. frau von drosse (_extremely delicate in appearance, forty, suffering--with girlish complexion--gay, absent smile--dreamy, gentle expression--gliding, careful walk--breathing deeply_). agnes. (_hastens to meet her, to support her_.) forgive me, aunt, that i did not go to fetch you. frau von drosse. no matter, darling ... i could manage.... is there any news? (agnes _shakes her head_.) frau von drosse (_sighing_). ah, yes. agnes. do you know, aunt, i have a sort of presentiment that he will soon be here himself. frau von drosse. yes, if things happened according to presentiments! _sixth scene_. the same. major. wilhelm. major. well, darling, are you in good spirits?... no!... well, what is it then? what is it then? frau von drosse. ah, richard, you surely know. major. oh, nonsense! don't worry yourself uselessly.... a young badger like that--service and casino and what not! i used not to do any better myself ... eh, wilhelm, that you will have remembered even in your booziness? many a time i didn't write for four weeks. wilhelm (_who is handing the coffee_). yes, major. major. and were you at all worried then? wilhelm. yes, major. major. old donkey.... well, you see how it is ... the same old story. frau von drosse. richard, do you know, last night a thought came to me. they all idolise him--that boy. major. yes? frau von drosse. well, with the ladies of the regiment, it is no great wonder.... major. so far as they wish to get married--no. frau von drosse. but there is another who takes a very special interest in him--motherly, as one might say.... no, motherly is not just the right word, but at any rate, purely human, purely spiritual--you know what i mean. at the last ball in wartenstein, she questioned me at length about him, about his childhood, and everything possible. at the time i was really rather indignant, but now it pleases me.... i shall write to her to-day and ask her to keep an eye upon him. for you see, a woman's influence--that is what he needs. major. ah, the poor devil! and for that purpose, one of the kind.... who then is it? frau von drosse. why! you surely know her ... frau von lanski of steinhof. (agnes _winces_.) major. ah, indeed--well, to be sure, hm--that is quite probable. frau von drosse. their estate is quite close to the city ... there he could always go in the evenings ... if only the husband were not so rude. i should be afraid of him. major. well, you are not a lieutenant of hussars, darling. agnes. won't you drink your coffee, aunt? it will be quite cold. frau von drosse. ah, the stupid fig-coffee. to be sure, your health is good, you don't need anything of the kind! (_drinks_) richard, do you know, last night i saw a vision. major. well, what did you see this time, darling? frau von drosse. there was a wide chamber with many mirrors and lights--perhaps it was versailles--perhaps the castle at berlin. and hundreds of generals stood there and waited.... (_excitedly_.) and suddenly the door was opened wide and at the side of the emperor---- agnes. drink, aunt--tell about it later--it excites you. frau von drosse. yes, my sweet one, yes. (_drinks and leans back exhausted_.) you know, richard, perhaps they are to increase his pay. major. surely he has enough, darling. do you wish him to gamble it away? frau von drosse. very well, then, let him gamble it away. i find that in general we pay so little heed to him.... i am obliged to think all the time how he acted in a roundabout way in the matter of foxblaze. he didn't trust himself even to tell it. major (_laughing_). no, child--but just stop.... besides the charger he already has two others ... and one of them is mohammed! such a big stable--it is only a nuisance to him.... just consider! frau von drosse. ah, it is surely only restlessness. ah, i wish he were only---- wilhelm. (_who had gone out, appears excitedly at the door on the right and calls softly_.) major, major! major (_springing up_). what is it? wilhelm (_in a whisper_). the--the--young master! frau von drosse (_turning round suddenly_). what is it about the young master? major (_rushes out. his voice is heard_). boy, boy, boy! (frau von drosse _breaks out in ecstatic laughter_.) agnes. quietly, aunt! quietly! don't excite yourself! _seventh scene_. the same. fritz von drosse (_in hussar uniform, his mother's son, slender, delicate, very youthful, blond to the roots of his closely cropped hair, small curled moustache, erratic person. uneasiness is veiled beneath a noisy cheerfulness_). frau von drosse. (_goes to meet him with outstretched arms_.) my god! there he really is! fritz. i should think he was! (_presses her to his heart and strokes her hair, closes his eyes a moment, as if overcome with faintness_.) but be seated, mamma, be seated. confound it, but i have ridden! and on the way, my horse lost another shoe. major. mohammed? fritz. no, i am riding the spy. major. where did it happen? fritz. thank god! just near gehlsdorf.... i wasted twenty-five minutes at the blacksmith's.... but then--when--you should have seen!... yes, wilhelm, just see to it that the horse is well scraped and rubbed down. and don't let him stand just now--first lead him about properly.... an hour, feeding time--understand, old chap?... there, give me your paw--so!--don't be so agitated.... and now, go on, out with you! (_exit_ wilhelm.) frau von drosse. come here, my fritzchen, sit beside me! fritz. very well, mamma, let us, very well! frau von drosse. you see, agnes she had a presentiment about you. fritz. ah! good-day, agnes! agnes. good-day, fritz! fritz. you are so formal! agnes. i?... ah, no, dear fritz.... would you not like to drink something? (fritz _stares at her, without replying_.) major. fritz! fritz (_starting up_). yes, father! major. you are asked a question. fritz. to be sure, pardon me!... pardon me, dear agnes!... it is the heat ... it makes one quite idiotic.... please bring me anything you like.... no, bring me rather some rhine wine.... bring some of the ' . major (_laughing_). you go eagerly at the stuff, my son.... fritz. forgive me, father, if i was too bold. i don't know how i came to do it. major (_to_ agnes). just bring it, bring it. (agnes _takes the keys from the shelf and goes out to the right_.) frau von drosse. how long have you furlough, my boy? fritz. furlough? ha, ha, furlough ... no furlough at all. sixty precious minutes, i have spared for you (_stretching himself_) then it is over! (_throws himself into a chair standing near the place where his mother is sitting_.) major. it is "over," what does that mean? are you then on duty? fritz. on duty?... well, yes indeed, i am on duty--to be sure--of course. major. what duty can that be? fritz. well, a patrol ride, of course. major. when did you set out? fritz. at noon, father. major. remarkable. in my time, the cavalry rode in patrol service rather about midnight. fritz. yes, the old man[ ] does such things.... it is all one to him. if he can give petty annoyance. yes. major. how do you have time to stop in here? fritz. well, i had to unsaddle, and anyhow have ridden four and a half miles. it was only the question whether i should feed the horse at braun's at the entrance where one gets merely water or---- major. of course you are right about that. frau von drosse (_stroking his hands_). see what brown hands the boy has got.... i wonder how they can be burned through the gloves ... just look, richard, he has the white mark on his forehead, there where it is shaded. the last time, it was not there. my boy, my boy! (_bends down her head and kisses him on the forehead_.) (fritz _closes his eyes and utters a low whimpering exclamation of pain_.) frau von drosse. what was it? did i hurt you, my boy? fritz (_with embarrassed laughter_). oh, no--no! major. control yourself, fritz! fritz. yes, father! frau von drosse. let him alone, richard! remember he has to leave directly. fritz (_staring straight before him_). yes, i must go directly. major (_shaking his head, examines him_). remarkable! agnes (_who returns with a bottle and glasses_). there is the wine, dear fritz. fritz. ah, if only the wine is there! (_hurries to the table and pours the wine_.) does no one touch glasses with me? major. just wait, i will touch glasses with you. fritz. then long life to us, friends! may we live happily.... long may we live.... (_musing_.) may we live as long as possible! major. but you are not drinking. fritz. yes, yes. (_tosses down a glass_.) major. well, i should like to take this occasion to ask you just why you don't write to us any more. frau von drosse. please, richard, please say nothing to him--he telegraphed. fritz (_starting anxiously_). telegraphed? what did i telegraph? (major _makes signals to him behind his mother's back_.) fritz. yes, of course. you see, father, i telegraphed.... and then, not long ago, i fell from the trapeze and sprained my arm a bit. frau von drosse. you see, richard, that is what hurt him just now; and yet you scolded him. fritz. mamma, father is right.... a soldier is not allowed to show signs of pain--he has no pain. that is something which doesn't happen, it is something which doesn't happen at all, does it, agnes? agnes. why do you ask _me_, fritz? major. remarkable!... you know, darling, the boy would like something to eat. in such cases, you always see to it yourself--eh? fritz. no, indeed, mother--stay here, mother. (_he grasps her hands_.) frau von drosse (_imploringly_). richard, the time is just now so short. major. won't do, child! i have to speak to him about something. fritz. what is it, father? there is indeed no question of ... frau von drosse (_standing up and sighing_). don't be too long, richard. remember i wish to have something more of him. (_goes with_ agnes _to the door on the left, where she turns again_.) my boy, don't you look at me any more? fritz. (_who has been standing with averted face, biting his lips, turns suddenly_.) at your service, mother! frau von drosse. now he is on his "at your service" footing, even with me. (_exit_ frau von drosse _with_ agnes.) _eighth scene_. major. fritz. major. well, fritz, my boy, here we are now alone, just out with what you have to say ... exactly what is the matter? fritz. nothing, father, absolutely nothing ... what should be the matter? major. you know, this story about the sprained arm and the patrol ride, that is simply a lie! fritz. how so? major. will you smoke a cigar with me? fritz. if you please ... that is, i should like a glass of water. (_tosses down two glasses of water_.) major (_lights his cigar_). just see, fritz, in your rage you fail to notice that i am insulting you here. fritz. how can a father be said to insult his son? if you don't believe me, then you just don't believe me. major. but we are both officers, my son.... well, let us set that aside--besides that, we are a couple of good friends from time immemorial.... isn't that the case--are we not? fritz. oh, to be sure. major. and when i see you running about here--in ecstasy or despair--i can make nothing out of it. yes, i should like to advise you to put a little more confidence in me.... the affair is surely not so bad that a man of experience cannot put it in order again.... so just sit down here a while.... have you gambled? fritz. yes, i have gambled too. major. have you lost? fritz. no, i have won. major. then, as to women--how is it about women? fritz (_shrugs his shoulders_). ah! major. boy, don't be so hard in the mouth.... do you think i don't know you are in love?... fritz. in love? ah, good god! major. just think, my boy, only a year and a half ago, you came to me one fine day and explained to me that you wished to engage yourself to agnes.... you know that i have not the slightest objection to agnes. she will make an excellent frau von drosse. fritz. indeed? do you believe it? major. but your twenty-one years and, ah, good god!... you still carry about with you most merrily the eggshells on your back--as the infantry carries the knapsack. you hadn't the slightest idea of what are commonly called "women"--of course, i don't count barmaids and such people.... so i said to you: "my boy, let this interview be buried--and above all, so far as agnes is concerned.... do as your father and your grandfather did! get some experience and--then come again." don't you remember that? fritz. i should think i did remember it. major (_smiling_). and now, it seems to me, you have had some experience. fritz. oh, yes, there is no denying that. major (_still smiling_). you have in the end had a so-called "passion," or are stuck in the middle of it; which of the two i don't know. yet to judge from the discontinuance of your letters, the latter is the case.... since we are here together as two men, i will not expostulate with you further.... you know perhaps the story of that abbé who, in society, once excused the absence of his bishop with the words: "monseigneur est en retard à cause d'amour." to a certain extent, this holds good in every case.... but in spite of that, on your mother's account, don't do it again. that is my advice to you.... there! and now we'll enter at once upon the matter itself.... just see, frau von lanski is, it will be admitted, a very charming woman, but---- fritz (_impetuously_). father, how do you come to refer to frau von lanski? major. there, there, there, only take it calmly, only take it calmly.... i know just what there is to know about such affairs, and i don't by any means wish to pry into your secrets ... but so far as the grand passion is concerned, be calm.... i can cure you again ... be quite calm. fritz. that i can well believe, father, if only you have the time necessary to do it. major (_smiling_). well, why haven't i? fritz. because, in twenty-four hours, i shall be a dead man. major. (_springing up, and taking him by the shoulder_.) boy! fritz. father, i did not wish to tell anything. i came here only to take farewell of you in silence. but you have drawn it out of me, father. major (_flying into a passion_). so, there's a scandal.... you had to carry it to the point of making a scandal--you damned fool! (_more calmly_.) lanski has challenged you? (fritz _nods assent_.) major. well, yes--and it is well known--lanski is a dead shot. he is perhaps the best shot anywhere hereabouts.... but still your wrist is in good order. how can one throw the thing away like that? i have fought three duels, and two of them under difficult conditions--eh--and--there, see here! how can one say such a thing? how can one, man? fritz. father, the affair at this moment is in such a state that, after all, i don't know whether i shall be granted a duel! major (_hoarsely_). i don't understand that, fritz. fritz. then don't ask me!... i can't say it, father.... i had rather bite off my tongue. (_pauses_.) major. (_goes to the door on the left, opens it, looks out, and closes it again_.) now speak! (_wildly_.) speak or---- fritz. for me, father, there is no more any "or." ... whether you turn me out or not, it is all the same. major (_softly, grinding his teeth_). do you wish to drive me mad, boy? (fritz _crying out_). he whipped me--across the courtyard--out into the street--whipped me like a beast! major (_after a silence_). where was your sabre? you could have run him through. (fritz _silent, with downcast eyes_.) major. where was your sabre, i ask you? fritz. it was--not--at hand, father. major. it was not at hand.... hm!... now i understand it all. surely there is nothing left to wish! and this catastrophe occurred when? fritz. yesterday evening, father! major. at what time? fritz. it was still--daylight! major. ha, ha! fritz. father, only don't laugh! have pity on me! major. have you had pity on me?... or on your mother? or on--on.... just look, look about you ... all that was made for you!... all that was waiting for you.... for two centuries we drosses have struggled and scraped together and fought with death and devil merely for you.... the house of drosse was resting on your two shoulders, my son.... and you have let it fall into the mire, and now you would like to be pitied! fritz. dear father, listen.... since you have known it, i am quite calm.... what you say is all very true, but i cannot bear the responsibility alone. listen; when i came to you that time, on account of agnes, my whole heart was attached to her. so far as i was concerned, other men's wives could go to the devil. major. did i drive you, then, after other men's wives? fritz. yes, father, otherwise what does that mean: "get some experience, ripen, do as your father and grandfather did"?... in the regiment, they still call you the wild drosse, and tales are still told of your former love adventures.... they tell some such stories even of a late date.... for my part, i had not the least taste for such diversions. i used to see in every woman who did not belong to me, a sort of holy thing.... that may have been a green way of looking at it, but you would have allowed it; and with agnes, i should have quietly---- major. stop! have pity! stop! fritz. see, now you say to me all at once, "have pity"--father, i am a dying man, i did not come here to make reproaches, but do you make none to me! major. (_embracing him, and stroking his hair_.) my son--my all--my boy--i don't permit--i will not---- fritz. silence, silence, father! mother should not hear that. major. yes, forgive me for giving way. it shall not happen again.... so how does the affair stand now? fritz. i reported myself to the old man, that very night. major. my god! whatever did the old frohn say? fritz. spare me that, father.... of course, i obtained the usual furlough at once, until the discharge comes. well, that doesn't matter now.... it does not last long, thus.... this morning, the court of honor had a sitting. after my hearing, i rode away at once, so as to lose no time. i gave mohammed to hallerpfort in order to have him follow me as soon as judgment was pronounced. he may be here at any moment. major. why did you summon a court of honor? fritz. what was i to do, father, after lanski declared to those who delivered my challenge that i was no longer--capable of having satisfaction? major. ah! i will shoot the dog dead for that. fritz. well, i hope they will decide favourably to me. major. if not, the dev-- (_softly_.) and then i will tell you a couple of measures to take so as to have a steady hand. sleep properly, and don't eat a bite, and then tell the doctor---- fritz. enough, enough, father, that is of no further use. major. what does that mean? is it possible that you will--to lanski?---- fritz. lanski will hit me. depend upon it.... major. man, are you--are you----? fritz. lanski will hit me. depend upon it.... major. man, yet have--yet consider---- fritz. i will not, father! and if you had seen the spectacle which the people of wartenstein saw yesterday (_shudders_), you would demand nothing more of life for me than a half-respectable death.... major (_brokenly_). perhaps--they will not--grant you--the duel. fritz. well, if we have got to that last hope, father, then we are indeed in bad straits.... shall i perhaps open a dram-shop in chicago, or a cattle business with my paternal capital? yes? would you have done it? major (_perplexed_). i? fritz. say then say! major (_drawing himself up_). no! (_sinks down in his chair_.) fritz. so you see, father--so or so--your fritz is done for. major (_sunk in gloomy reverie_). my fault!--my---- _ninth scene_. the same. wilhelm. _afterward_ lieutenant von hallerpfort. fritz. what is it? wilhelm. lieutenant von hallerpfort wishes to speak to the young master. fritz. (_hurrying past him to the door_.) well? (hallerpfort _shakes hands with him and the_ major, _and casts a glance at_ wilhelm, _who forthwith disappears_.) fritz. well? hallerpfort. does your father know? major. yes, my dear hallerpfort, i know.--granted? hallerpfort. to-morrow morning, half after four o'clock behind the large drill-ground. fritz. thank god! major. thank god! (_they embrace_.) fritz (_disengaging himself_). conditions? hallerpfort. fifteen paces--advance--five paces barrier--exchange of shots---- fritz. to a finish? hallerpfort. to a finish. fritz. very well! (major _turns toward the door, and presses his hands to his face_.) hallerpfort (_approaching him_). major, as your son's best friend---- major (_grasping his hands_). i thank you, my dear hallerpfort, i thank you.... you will ride away at once, will you not? hallerpfort. unfortunately we must, major. major. then just listen.... i will pass the hours until the duel, with my son.... that you can understand, can't you?... my carriage is hitched up but i cannot go away with you for fear of making my sick wife uneasy. wait for me at the end of half an hour in schrander's inn.... don't fear. we shall be on time.... hallerpfort. it will be as you order, major. major. and now, courage, fritz! fritz. that is understood, father! major. (_holding open the door on the left, in a different tone_.) now, boys, just come quickly in! only think, darling---- _tenth scene_. the same. frau von drosse. frau von drosse. ah--herr von hallerpfort! (_he kisses her hand_.) how does this happen? two lieutenants in the house at the same time--if that doesn't bring luck! fritz (_quickly_). we have orders together, mamma. hallerpfort. and alas, madam, we have to be off this very minute. frau von drosse. how is that? then i don't have my full hour? and now everything is so beautifully arranged.... fritz, my dear hallerpfort--just a bite, won't you?... richard, dear, come to my aid. major. but, dear child, service is service. fritz (_with quick decision_). so, good-bye, mamma! frau von drosse (_embracing him_). my boy--you will soon have furlough, won't you? fritz. yes indeed, mamma! after the man[oe]uvres. then we are free. then we will be merry! frau von drosse. and hallerpfort is coming with you, isn't he? hallerpfort. with your permission, madam. major (_softly, to_ agnes). take leave of him! you will never see him again! fritz. (_stretching out his hand cheerfully to her_.) dear ag-- (_looks into her face, and understands that she knows. softly, earnestly_.) farewell, then. agnes. farewell, fritz! fritz. i love you. agnes. i shall always love you, fritz! fritz. away then, hallerpfort! au revoir, papa! au revoir! revoir! (_starts for the door on the right_.) frau von drosse. go by the park, boys--there i have you longer in sight. fritz. very well, mamma, we will do it! (_passes with_ hallerpfort _through the door at the centre; on the terrace, he turns with a cheerful gesture, and calls once more_.) au revoir! (_his voice is still audible_.) au revoir! (frau von drosse _throws kisses after him, and waves her handkerchief, then presses her hand wearily to her heart and sighs heavily_.) _eleventh scene_. major. frau von drosse. agnes. (agnes _hurries to her, and leads her to a chair, then goes over to the_ major, _who, with heaving breast is lost in thought_.) frau von drosse. thank you, my darling!--already, i am quite well again!... god, the boy! how handsome he looked! and so brown and so healthy.... you see, i saw him exactly like that last night.... no, that is no illusion! and i told you how the emperor led him in among all the generals! and the emperor said (_more softly, looking far away with a beatific smile_.) and the emperor said---- curtain. iii the eternal masculine a play in one act persons the queen. the marshal. the painter. the valet de chambre. the marquis in pink. the marquis in pale blue. the sleepy maid of honour. the deaf maid of honour. a child as cupid. several other marquises and maids of honour. the eternal masculine _the scene represents a state apartment in a royal castle. on the left, a throne in baroque style. on the right, in the background a screen with a table and chairs beside it. in the centre, an easel._ _first scene_. the queen _in a plaited coronation robe, on the throne_. the painter _with palette in hand, painting_. a child _as_ cupid, _suspended by the waist, swings on_ the queen's _left, holding a crown over her head. the background and the right of the stage are occupied by ladies and gentlemen of the court, among them_ the deaf maid of honour, the sleepy maid of honour, the marquis in pink, and marquis in pale blue. song of the maids of honour. (led by the marquis in pale blue.) zephyr rises at the dawn from the budding pillows of the roses. lo, he will cool his hot desire in the silvery dew, since he must console himself that his dream still fans the flame, and that luna's icy kiss does but touch his parched mouth. and aurora's violet passion looks on him with floods of tears. ah! what matters luna's favour?-- she knows not how to kiss. the queen (_yawning_). the pretty verses which you have just sung to sweeten this long posing for me, grieve me slightly. yet--aside from that--accept my thanks. the marquis in pale blue. oh, your majesty! the queen. are you a poet, marquis? the marquis in pale blue. oh, your majesty, up to this time i have not been; but who should not speak in verse where this magic enthrals us, where our hearts are habitually broken, and cupid himself bears the royal crown? (cupid _begins to cry_). first maid of honour. what is the matter with him? second maid of honour. ah, the sweet child! first maid of honour. be good! nice and good! here is a sweetmeat! cupid. i want to get down! my legs are cold. the queen. oh, fie! the word offends my ears. the marquis in pink. pardon him, your majesty, the saucy child surely does not know that in your presence one can speak only of roses, lilies, and such delicate things. the queen. it seems to me that the little fellow lacks education. the marquis in pale blue. hereafter, only children from superior families should be chosen for this purpose. the queen. and you, respected artist, have no word to say? the painter. it is not fitting that every one should speak. i am engaged to paint, not to make speeches. still, may i ask you to send the boy away? (the queen _laughing, makes a sign. two maids of honour set him free_.) the marquis in pink. what a way of speaking! the marquis in pale blue. what a plebeian! the marquis in pink. how self-conscious! the marquis in pale blue. and she dotes on him! the queen. nay, dear master, speak! for rarely do i have the pleasure of finding my thought sympathetically stimulated by the thought of another. i do so like to think--i like to _feel_ perhaps even better--yet these gentlemen talk as if they were in a fever. the marquises. oh, your majesty! the queen. yes, indeed! look for the man who without hope of meretricious gain knows how to devote himself faithfully to noble service, and who without honeyed phrases gracefully pursues what is dear to his soul; as for you--you could borrow for yourselves a little of love's fire merely from the confectioner's kitchen. the marquis in pink. oh, that is severe! the marquis in pale blue. oh, that is almost deadly! the queen. then resist, and do not drag along inoffensively the burden, new every day, of my old contempt which i bestow upon you, because it pleases me to, like the ordinance of god. but let him expect my reward who can say worthily and honourably: behold, oh queen, i am a man! the marquis in pale blue. i am one! the marquis in pink. so am i! the queen. i don't think ill of you! i like you. you don't disturb my repose--yet, dear master, what say you to that? the painter. i pray, your majesty, still a little farther to the right. the queen (_smiling_). and is that all? does nothing which may occur in this room interest you? the painter. pardon me, your majesty, the daylight is scanty, and besides--i am painting. the queen. look at him! a ray of light is of more value to him than all the foolish, gaudy songs of love. is it not true? see, his very silence and bow betoken decided resistance. the painter. madam, forgive me if my words and bearing were an occasion and reason for misunderstanding. i speak now, because you call on me to speak. every ray of light is a ray of love, and if its portrayer were to shut it out, i should like to know what would remain of this poor art which derives its sublimest power from the sources of desire. if our heart does not tremble in our hand, if into the flood of forms which stream from it, no flash of inner lightning shines, how shall we express in these colours life's image, the storm of the passions, the shy play of slight feeling, the desperate vacillation of exhausted hope, and all the rest of our inner life? in these seven blotched colours (_points to the palette_) where the whole wide universe is portrayed, where if our senses are starving for truth, is phantasy to look for food and deliverance? yet if we have to speak with wisdom, elegantly and cleverly, then the mysterious volition is silent and the promised land recedes far away from us. therefore, madam, leave me what belongs to us who are poor, the sacred right to create and to be silent. the queen. you call yourself poor and yet you are rich. you might be equal to the rulers of this earth. yet what avails the kingdom of your vision? the splendid gift of confidence is wanting to you. the painter. how, your majesty? the queen. like a harpagon, you guard the treasures of your soul, lest any of your feelings should be stolen. no one risks it--jean, give me my smelling-bottle. the marquis in pale blue. she inflames him. the marquis in pink. on the contrary, she cools him off. the marquis in pale blue. just to inflame him anew. the marquis in pink. i wonder if she truly loves him? the marquis in pale blue. at any rate, she wishes to excite him. the queen. there, jean, _merci_.... yet what was i about to say, has no one seen anything of our marshal? the marquis in pink (_softly_). is he still missing? the marquis in pale blue. why does she want _him_, too? the queen. i really believe the good marshal is offended. it is three days since i spoke to him graciously at the state reception.... that seems long to me. the painter (_turning to_ the queen). is the marshal back? the marshal here? the marquis in pale blue. may it please your majesty, a gentleman of the court met him to-day. he was standing in a pouring rain, and trying a new sword. the painter (_to himself_). the marshal. the marquis in pink. (_half aloud to_ the painter.) admit, sir, that his coming is inconvenient to you? the queen. do you know him, master? the painter. your majesty, i have never seen him. the queen. yet you would like to make his acquaintance? the painter. that i don't know. the marquis in pink. (_softly to_ the marquis in pale blue.) how the coward betrays himself! the painter. too often i have heard his name spoken in wonder, here with disfavour, there with enthusiasm, yet always as if a miracle was happening to me, too often for me not to view with apprehension the nearness of this powerful man. the marquis in pink. what did i say? he is afraid. the marquis in pale blue. that is splendid! the marquis in pink. we must see to that and profit by it. (_aloud_.) yet i advise you, dear master, hold your own. he has a habit sometimes of running people through. yet---- the painter. as one impales flies--of an afternoon--on the wall? my felicitations, marquis! happily for you, it is plain that he has never been bored. the marquis in pink. how do you intend that? the queen. gentlemen, i must beg you! at court, the master has good company. it amuses me when he meets your insolence with wit and spirit, and gives you a return thrust. only try the experiment! i am waiting.... please, jean, my handkerchief! the marquis in pink. i have a right to be angry! the marquis in pale blue. yes, indeed, you have been insulted! the marquis in pink. ha! fearful is a man in anger! what do you think--can the dauber defend himself? the marquis in pale blue. attack him first from behind, then to his face. the queen. i thank you, jean.... well, now, you dear men, you whisper, sulk, and mutter to each other. what is the use of my kindling your wit? i don't strike even a little spark from the stone. so you are dismissed.... take a holiday. and do you, my children, go home. but in a little while, master, let us talk together, after our hearts' desire! the ladies of the suite--they will not disturb you. the marquis in pink. i believe it. one of them is asleep. the marquis in pale blue. the other can't hear. the queen. good-bye! i wish you to go home to do penance for your sins of love. (_goes to the door on the right_.) one thing more. when you see the good marshal, give him my greetings. (_exit, followed by the ladies. only the sleepy lady remains, sitting_.) the marquis in pale blue. (_softly to the deaf lady_.) pst! wake her! (_she nods to him pleasantly and goes out_.) ah, yes, she is deaf! the marquis in pink. (_pointing at the lady asleep_.) pluck her by the sleeve. the marquis in pale blue. fräulein, allow me? the sleepy maid of honour. (_springs up with a little cry, makes a low curtsey to_ the marquis, _which he returns in kind, then follows the other ladies_.) _second scene_. the marquises. the painter. (the painter _paints, without noticing the others, then takes a buttered roll from his pocket and eats_.) the marquis in pink. ha, now i am going to kill him! the marquis in pale blue. don't you know it is forbidden? the punishment would be severe. they say, too, that he wields a keen blade, and before you know it you are dead as a mouse. the marquis in pink. i am surprised at that. yet whether we love or hate him, one thing is as clear to me as day: he must not be allowed to quit this palace alive. another marquis. pardon me, marquis, why not? the marquis in pink. you don't see deeply into this, marquis. it seems almost as if you were a simpleton. has she not mocked us, and exclaimed at our cooing, rustling, sweet speaking, and whimpering? yet she delights to have him paint her; and as a reward, she loves him. the second marquis. ha, terrible! the third marquis. who told you that? the marquis in pale blue. have pity on us, friend, and give us proofs! the marquis in pink. well, his majesty (_all bow_) is, alas, well on in years! (_all assent sorrowfully_.) whom else does she love? there must at any rate be some one! the marquis in pale blue. for god's sake, be prudent and speak softly! the marquis in pink. what is he doing there? the second marquis. he is eating. the marquis in pink. fie, how vulgar! the marquis in pale blue. what will happen to the marshal? the marquis in pink. that seems to me doubtful. sometimes she is pleasant with him, sometimes ill-humoured. i have tried to get rid of him, but he still stays by me. he causes me the pangs of jealousy. she must love one of us. we are here for that purpose. yet inasmuch as this wandering fellow has stolen her heart, he must die--and that on the spot. the marquis in pale blue. patience, marquis, patience! of all the means of shaking off this insolent fellow, there is one which is really exquisite. without breaking the laws, if we set the marshal on him, instead of being disturbers of the peace, we shall escape scot-free. he dies, of course, and it would be a wonder--yet what am i saying?--he is already as good as a dead sparrow. (_all chuckle_.) the marquis in pink. dead sparrow is excellent! the marquis in pale blue. this murder--listen--is bound to put the other one into disfavour. the king's majesty (_all bow_) will shorten his leave of absence, and we, we shall be freed of him. (_all chuckle_.) the painter. what are they about? alas, if they are glad, perhaps that means the ruin of some man of honour. perhaps they are meditating some ribaldry. but in truth, what matters to me this vermin? the marquis in pale blue. now let us send out a message hastily to the marshal, that we are gathered in the antechamber, and while this poor dead mouse--no, pardon me sparrow!--stammers his love to her, he, driven by us to extremes, will burst in unannounced--and this fellow is detected. the marquis in pink. very good! but if things turn out differently, what then? the marquis in pale blue. never mind! take advantage of the right moment. no more is needed. for she cannot refrain, she must see people kneel to her. the marquis in pink. famous! brilliant! a splendid plan! (_to_ the painter, _with a low bow which all imitate_.) honoured sir, permit us to greet you! the painter (_very politely_). my greeting implies the esteem of which you are aware. the marquis in pale blue. we lay our esteem at your feet! (_after further bows, which_ the painter _good-humouredly returns_, the marquises _depart at the centre_.) (the painter _smiling, continues to paint_.) _third scene_. the painter. the valet de chambre. _then_ the deaf maid of honour. the sleepy maid of honour. the queen. (the valet _entering from the left, greets_ the painter _with condescending nods, and walks over to the throne_.) the painter. eh!--what?... ah, indeed! (_laughs aloud_.) strange world, where the lackey carries his head the highest! (valet _after arranging the cushions, places himself before the easel, and ogles the portrait_.) the painter. what is it? the valet. (_pleasantly, as a connoisseur_.) ah these little furrows in the cheeks! (_benevolently_.) it can't be expected, sir, of you that your brush should do justice to every fine point. yet--aside from that--the likeness is good. the painter (_laughing heartily_). indeed? the valet. (_opening the door on the left, announces_.) her majesty! the painter. i scent trouble in this, and a voice says to me flee! i have already committed many a folly, but i never loved a queen! take heed to yourself! (the two maids of honour _have entered during this soliloquy, and have taken their positions to the right and left of the door_.) the queen. (_nods cordially to_ the painter, _and takes her seat on the throne, as before_.) my dear jean, i must dispense with you now. don't stay too late. (_exit jean_.) _fourth scene_. the queen. the painter. the deaf maid of honour (_who seats herself behind the screen_). the sleepy maid of honour (_who falls asleep directly on a chair near the door on the left_). the queen. well, master, tell me: what is genius doing? the painter. oh, your majesty, he is pursuing beauty. the queen. yet since beauty lingers no more on earth, your genius will soon grow weary. the painter. how so? does your majesty think it roams in the sky? it lingers just at the goal and cries: oh behold! and what thou beholdest, that give to eternity! the queen. i did not know, my dear master, that you were so ready with your compliments. very well! as a man of many travels and of great reputation, you tread continually on the scorn of men; and since we are here chatting in confidence, take heart and tell me without reserve, tell me quite frankly: am i really beautiful? the painter. if i were to speak as a man, every word would be presumptuous. yet you ask the painter only. and he says that his hand is withered with anxiety lest on this canvas there will be found only a pale blotted vapour seen by a blind man. the queen. there spoke the painter. but what says the man? the painter. he has no opinion, your majesty! the queen. what a pity! one hears now and then this thing and that thing, yet that seems to me insipid above all things. and one must be strict and always be suppressing--suppressing. you don't need that. so i tell you discreetly, i can't resist the suspicion that my beauty is leaving me. yes, indeed. and besides that, i am growing old. yes, indeed. i am almost thirty, and the matron has to go to the rear. i indeed do what i can. they take great pains with me. and my late brother used to send me a beauty powder from the holy sepulchre which was good for my complexion. then it is my habit to wash myself with the extract of lilies, and off and on to nibble at arsenic bonbons. that is very good--the eyes flash, and the blood comes to the cheeks.... (_alarmed_.) it seems to me i am confiding in you. the painter. consider me as a thing--as a slave! the queen. and you know how to be silent? tell me--swear! the painter. what you did not will me to hear, that i have not heard. what i did not hear, i cannot keep as a secret. the queen. lofty sentiment and noble will find expression in you. so, in all silence, i may show your heart what favours are granted to you. the painter (_tremulously_). am i worth it? and if you regret it to-morrow? the queen. i do not know a to-morrow nor a to-day. my weary sense with crippled wing never strays into the far future, for ah! i, poor, poor queen, suffer from intense melancholy. i have too much feeling. i have told you that already, and then i am tired of my throne in this world of dreary elegance, where---- the painter. your majesty! remember the ladies there! the queen. ah, the ladies! no chance favours me. that you have perceived already. yet there is no question of the ladies. one doesn't hear a word; the other sleeps, even while standing up. the painter. sure enough.... yet when i consider---- the queen. consider nothing.... give me only a consoling word, which in the sultriness of this perverted nature may penetrate my soul like a breath from the forest. you are a man! the painter (_laughing to himself_). who has lost his head! the queen. so i saw him in my dreams. i feel, too, that you could quite overflow, and i am a little afraid of it. the painter. (_controlling himself with difficulty_.) oh, fear nothing. i know very well the barrier between me and the height of your throne. not a desire, not a thought, rises to you. the queen. and yet you think that i am beautiful? the painter (_impulsively_). yes, you are beautiful! you--(_restraining himself_). your majesty, i beg you to turn a little more to the left. the queen. (_turns her head quite to the left_.) so? the painter. yes. the queen. what are you painting now? the painter. your hand. the queen (_pointing to her face_). and it is for that, that i am to turn to the left? the painter. i meant, just to the centre. the queen. is the hand well posed? the painter. very well. the queen. can you see it from where you sit? the painter. no, yes--(_she laughs_). forgive me if i am talking nonsense. the queen (_spreading out her hand_). here you have it! how the sapphire sparkles! a beautiful stone!... you praised my face, but yet you don't say whether you like my hand. the painter. instead of finding fault with me, look! i have painted it. the queen (_pouting_). you have indeed painted it, but you have not kissed it. from that i conclude that it is not attractive. the painter. and forgive me, if i transgress the rules of your court, more from shyness than from want of intelligence. even so, the sailor knows well the laws of the stars' movements and yet must often sail a false course. the queen. it seems as if you wished to avoid the subject. i was speaking of a hand--you speak of stars. the painter. you were speaking of your hand and that is so far from me that even the eternal will, the might which compels the starry heaven, brings it not one inch nearer to me. the queen. indeed, do you believe that? (_she rises and goes to the easel_.) now pray what happened? you willed nothing and compelled nothing, yet please observe--the hand is there. the painter. madam, where others fell down before you, here it is my duty to warn you. i am not a simple shepherd, and never do i let people make game of me. the queen. ah, now it becomes interesting! you look at me as savagely as if a hatred quite unappeased and unappeasable possessed you. the painter. a hatred? no, what i laughingly veiled from you was not hatred, no--yet _if_ i hate, i hate myself, because, dazzled with splendour, like a drowning man i grasp at the little words which you mockingly deal out to me; because, after the manner of a venal courtier, i quite forgot the pride of the man, and by your favour ate sweetmeats greedily from these hands! yes, just show them--the white fairy[ ] hands laden with the splendid tokens of love: yet stop--think of the end, by the holy god--i recognise myself no more. the queen. never yet did i hear such words. the painter. when did you ever bow yourself to force? when did passion build you a throne on the ruins of the universe, the only throne to win which is more than an idle pastime, on which in splendid grandeur, instead of all the queens, sits woman! and if a drone playing in colours ever indeed won a smile from you, take from me but your crown, for i, oh queen, am--a man! the queen. (_shrinking back to the throne_.) enough, i should not listen to you any longer. the painter. you must. you have so willed it. the queen. i will beg you, sir, i will conjure you. the painter. too late. you offered me love's pay as you would throw a gold piece into the cap of a beggar crouching in the street, and if i, thrilled now by hot desire, employ the only moment of life which commits you into my hands, i will not have you play with me any longer. i will, and you--you--must--before this throne our alliance is ratified. take away the hand. that, others may kiss, but i, queen, will have the mouth. i will---- _fifth scene_. the same. the marshal. the queen. (_who until now has listened, anxious but not altogether unfriendly, collects herself, and draws herself up in sudden anger_.) i deliver this insolent fellow to you, marshal. deal with him as he deserves. (_she goes to the door. there she stops, and gives_ the sleepy maid of honour _two angry little blows with her fan. the latter springs up, bows, and goes out gravely behind_ the queen, _with_ the deaf maid of honour, _who has risen_.) _sixth scene_. the marshal. the painter. the marshal. sir, if you wish to say a paternoster, make haste with it. the painter. your magnanimity affects me deeply, marshal. but my soul carries light baggage. even so, it will journey to heaven. and instead of a last testament, i present this portrait to you, so that, in the confusion, no serious danger may happen to it. the marshal. by your will, it has become mine, and i will gladly keep it. so, draw your sword! the painter. i, sir? the marshal. so, draw! the painter. no, that you will never live to see! the marshal. then why do you wear a sword? the painter. because i choose to. the marshal. you are a coward. the painter. (_controlling himself, with a smiling bow_.) and you are a hero! (_in the meanwhile the door at the centre is opened_. the marquises _put their heads in, listening_. the painter _observes it and takes his sword from the table where he has just laid it_.) see! as the traveller uses the staff to defend himself against dogs, so i must wield it. such people are to be found at all doors where small men work and lie in wait and play the parasite. (the marquises _draw back. the door at the centre is suddenly closed_.) yet ever to bare the sword against you, with whom, out of a timid trustfulness, a bond, a splendid bond of pride, entwined me; whom of all the incompletely great men, i admiringly called the only great man--if ever i were to be guilty of such ignominy, i should not find my small share of peace even in the shade of the most beautiful church-yard lindens. the marshal. are you still young? the painter. i am not exactly old, yet my fortune has been so checkered and various that i joyfully had given seven every-day lives for _one_ surfeit of this. and in the end--however one may work and strive, it is man's destiny: he dies of woman. therefore, instead of passing away slowly by my own, i will quickly find my end by the wife of another. my chariot of victory stops indeed suddenly. i greet its well-appointed driver--and i greet my judge. thrust on! the marshal. i may be a judge, but i am not an executioner. so do me the favour---- the painter. and fighting, let you run me through? no, marshal! that i must refuse. see! each of us two has his art. you employ the sword, i the palette. how would it be if i should say to you now in accordance with the practice of my craft: come, we will paint on a wager? and you do not know the merest precept of light-value, azure, modelling. very well, you are a dead man for me. afterward you might--that is allowed you--come to life into the bargain, if you liked. the marshal. you are mocking me, surely! the painter. surely, no! yet every fight should be a fight on a wager. because in a fight between men you are a complete man, i should like to show that i too can do something. you are laughing. the marshal. one who is so nimble with his tongue has, it is said, a sure hand. perhaps, too, many a device unknown to me is concealed in the wielding of your sword. so be quick, i pray you. i hear the sound of footsteps. do you stare at me in silence? the painter. still a little farther to the right! the marshal. what does that mean? the painter. so!--and that may not be looked at, because one is mouldering away! i cannot get over it. never yet have i found lines like those, never yet a working so gloriously true in the frontal plexus of veins, in the eyebrows, as if one by pure will became a giant. the body delicate--the cheeks thin; for nature when she fashions her best, makes no boast of vigorous strength.... the wish overpowers me--before i die, sir, i must paint you. the marshal. you seem altogether mad. the painter. i beg you to grant me a respite. i shall be glad to let you kill me, yet only after your portrait is finished. the marshal. and by your creation, you hope to obtain all manner of favour, and quietly to escape. you are cunning indeed. the painter. it is the peculiar pleasure of magnanimity to suspect the magnanimity of others. the marshal. are you reading me a lecture? the painter. it seems that i must. i must make an effort to win your heart's esteem, which is worth more to me than any amount of foolish play with briskly wielded swords. the marshal. by heaven, sir, you risk a great deal! the painter. i risk nothing. i am a man of death. the world lies behind me--a many-colored picture which god has bestrewed with crumbs of white bread, where each one snatches up and devours and yet does not satisfy his appetite. only in intoxication can a child of fortune know how the flowers beneath bloom and wither. i have been able to, and my soul with every new work drank to satiety. what matters it if life has deceived me? i asked nothing of it--that was my strength. you see i am pronouncing my obituary. yet i depart gladly.... already the new host approaches and swarms for me in forests and on plains: what matters it that this hand was mortal; for the portraying is as eternal as the image. the marshal. you are mistaken. only the deed is eternal. if with bloody sword it did not teach mankind to remember, i should perish like a seed sown by the wind. the painter. it is you who are mistaken, sir. not your deed has life. it soon follows you into the grave. the portrait of the dead which we give to posterity, in song and form, in parchment and stone, this it is which belongs to immortality. by this you shall be hereafter loved and hated.--so even if achilles destroys the whole world, he has but to let homer live. the marshal. and so i, you? yet no song tells us that homer ever kneeled before helen. the painter. not that. but every child knows why: the poor singer was blind. the marshal. your brush, alas, will not help you at all. yet i should be well disposed toward you. for he who in death seems to remain a trifler, has taken life in earnest. the painter. that is true. the marshal. i am sorry for you. the painter. without cause, i assure you! the marshal. and why could you not be silent? how did you so dare, contrary to good reason to climb to your queen? did nothing within you say: this is a crime? the painter. you call it crime--i call it folly! the marshal. do you pursue your secret pleasures, then, like a sly, cold-hearted thief? the one thing fails which spoke in your favour, the almighty love which disturbs the brain! the painter. marshal, see, love is a tribute which we piously pay to eternal beauty; and since nature in creative pride has poured it forth out of her fulness, how should we in fretful resignation say: "this one i love--not that one"? in my love, i love only the picture which proceeds from the lap of pure forms; even as this queen bestows it as a favour, so it sheds its light far and near; and wherever a picture invites me to a banquet, my heart is present without delay. the marshal. yet i ask you whether _this_ picture invited you to a banquet. speak quickly--by my sword! the painter. you know very well that no gallant man should move an eyelash at such a question. the marshal. you do not love her--only like a faun you make bold to court her madly. (_taking hold of him_.) but i love her, and for this reason, you must die. the painter. forgive me if i am surprised at your logic. it is a great honour for me to know whom you love; moreover, you have already told me repeatedly that i must die; yet that you are confused as to this--is--indeed--only--temper. and see, it is but proper that you love her. the contrary--according to court manners and practice--would be unnatural. yet the more important question seems to be: does she love you? you look away. very well, i will tell you. she has met you with smiles and furtive questions, with sweet glances, half longingly, has promised you a thousand delights and gradually has subdued you and your obstinacy. yet if it involved keeping her promises, she would understand how to wrap herself in her innocence.----it was so--was it not? you are silent, because you are ashamed of the game. pardon me, sir, if i irritate your wounds. the marshal. it seems you set spies at the door! the painter. why spies? eve's old practice, that, marshal, i know well. yet what lies behind it, whether true love or not, for you or me, cannot be deciphered. if i should survive the duel, she would probably love _me_: yet because it is decreed that by your arm, you should be the victor in this absurd quarrel, she will love you, marshal. where woman's glory rules the world, that is the law--so says natural history. do you say nothing? the marshal. a poison is distilled from your words which eats into the very marrow of my soul. the painter. only the truth! i swear it, i promise it! and since against my wish i am still very much alive, because of your favour, be of use to me, sir, in an experiment. the marshal. explain yourself! the painter. in order to know exactly how you are thought of in the highest place, you must perish in the duel. the marshal. in the duel? the painter. understand me rightly: only in appearance. the marshal. and my reputation as a swordsman goes with it into the bargain. the painter. oh, not at all! you will get up again. the marshal (_laughing_). my friend, i am not sorry that you are still alive. i have become reconciled with you, and i who have dared a great deal in toil and strife, am astonished at the extent of your courage. very well, what your cunning mind has devised for your escape, i accept. yet woe to you if this time you do not win! and now to the work! the painter. come on!... yet no, by your leave! so that they may believe the incredible about me, i will arrange the thing in naturalistic fashion. (_he draws his sword_.) is the door locked? (_he walks to the door at the centre, and points his sword at the keyhole_.) eyes away! i am going to thrust! (_a scream is uttered in the antechamber_.) and now look out! i am going to mark horrid pools of spilt blood! (_he mixes colours on the palette, and hands the_ marshal _his sword_.) hold it, i beg you. (_he smears the sword blade with his brush_.) the marshal. my blood! the painter. without doubt! _merci_. (_takes back his sword_.) just one tap upon the breast. yet in case you wish that i spare the waistcoat? the marshal. by no means! that would be too much loss of blood! the painter. just as you please. (_he moves the easel and table to one side. softly_.) and make no mistake, the door will open at the first clash of blades. the marshal. are you ready? (the painter _nods assent. they fence_.) the marshal. famous.... do you know that feint? the painter. it is a good one, is it not? the marshal. who taught you that? the painter. and this!... the marshal. there you missed the quint. the painter. damnation!... the marshal. ah, that was admirable! the painter. yet at painting i do better.... is any one listening? the marshal. they are huddled together in a confused group. the painter. now, if you please! the marshal. only be at it! the painter. be careful of the throne, or you will get a bump if you fall! (_he lunges at_ the marshal, _far under the armpit_. the marshal _falls_. the marquises _who are pressing in at the half-open door, draw back in horror_.) _seventh scene_. the same. the marquis in pink. the marquis in pale blue. the other marquises. the painter. listen to me, gentlemen! what are you about in there? stay and bear witness to what you saw. the marquis in pink (_approaching timidly_). we stand benumbed at such a glorious deed. the marquis in pale blue (_likewise_). and we are almost beside ourself with admiration. the marquis in pink. what? really dead? the painter (_tauntingly_). sir, you seem to be in doubt? the marquis in pink. oh, dear man, how could you think it? i wished only to afford myself the rapture of seeing whether you had altogether freed us. the marquis in pale blue. yes, indeed, freed! for even although you hated him, you can never imagine how, in the chambers of this castle, he has trodden on our dignity. the marquis in pink. he stalked about, puffed up with self-conceit, and when we were rising in the esteem of his or her majesty---- the marquis in pale blue. then came this man with a couple of new triumphs. the painter. how odious! the marquis in pink. if you please, sir, how we have laughed when his dear name rang through all the streets after some brand-new fight! as the clever man is aware, fools advertise fools. and without going too near him, i will---- the marshal. there, wait! (all the marquises _starting with fear_.) the marquis in pink (_trembling_). you said? the painter. i said nothing at all. the marquis in pale blue. yet plainly---- _eighth scene_. the same. the valet de chambre. the queen. the deaf maid of honour. the sleepy maid of honour. the valet (_announces_). her majesty! the queen. i heard a rumour which greatly displeased me and troubled my peace of mind extremely. is it true?... there lies the great hero; and truly, in death he seems even more insignificant than he was--as insignificant as one of the most insignificant. yet mourn with me! we have had a great loss. even if ambition urge you on with a double spur, many a fine day will come and go before his like will be born to us. (the marshal _clears his throat softly_.) the queen. may his courtliness, too, be pleasantly remembered! after his campaign he always brought back to his queen the best of the splendid spoil of his booty. that touched my royal heart and will be cited as a glorious example. and yet now to you ... what did they say to me? it sounds almost untrue and unnatural: are you the david of our goliath? i use the term "goliath" only figuratively. for though we are mourning at his bier, it cannot be said that he was a giant. yet we know his disposition was haughty. (the marquises _eagerly assent_.) surely he broke in upon you in sudden anger? you are silent out of generosity. so i will graciously forgive this fault and another fault too. (the painter _clears his throat softly. she stretches out her hand to him, which he kisses_.) and be not grieved! (_to_ the marquises.) does not what has happened seem almost like a judgment of god? the marquis in pale blue. it is true! here a higher power has been at work. the deaf maid of honour. pardon me, your majesty! the marshal is laughing. the marquises (_muttering in horror_). is he laughing? is he laughing? (_silence_.) the marshal (_rising_). madam, forgive me! in the fight a sudden fainting fit overcame me. the marquis in pale blue. (_pointing at_ the painter's _sword lying on the floor_.) and what is this blood? (_movement by_ the painter.) the marshal. until the return to my senses relieved me (_with emphasis_) of _this_ trouble and _another_ trouble. the queen. (_quickly collecting herself. sharply_.) my congratulations, sir! and my sympathy as well! what has happened to you gives me unspeakable distress. the court atmosphere is indeed rather close, and seems insupportable to great conquerors; which often betrays itself in wrong fancies and swoons. therefore i am obliged to exercise my power as queen, and protect your good health against danger. jean, announce me to his majesty! (_exit_ jean _on the left_. the queen, _punishing_ the painter _with a glance of unspeakable scorn, follows slowly. the two maids of honour go after her_.) _ninth scene_. the marshal. the painter. the marquises (_in the background_). the marshal. i thank you, sir! the mists are dissipated. the eye sees clearly once more; the will has a free hand. the painter. but i was silently executed. did you notice her look? the marshal (_pointing at_ the marquises). of looks, there are sufficient. the painter (_snatching up his sword_). oho! i am always expecting foul play. the marshal. for what reason? get along with you! get along with you! be quick! the painter. it is true. you are right. here, we are ruined. the marshal. and what is to become of you? the painter. that has never troubled me. the world is wide. one can walk about it, and find something to sketch by the way. the marshal. how would it be if you went with me? the painter. where? the marshal. to the camp. the painter. yes, and what is there? the marshal. plenty for you! you will find gay fare, and pastimes and diversions. as much as you want. the painter. and are there fights too? the marshal. indeed, there are! the painter. and will there be a bold reconnoissance by night? the marshal. often. the painter. capital! i will ride with you. in my mind's eye i see already golden moonrise, and silver vapour on the dark alder bush.... are there also songs and notes of the mandolin? the marshal. plenty of them! the painter. hurrah! there is music too! the marshal. and in the story-telling by night at the camp-fire many a tale of human destiny will be unfolded to you. the painter. a world of pictures! (_more softly_.) and love adventures? the marshal. if you choose to call them "adventures." the painter. agreed, sir! and an excess of happiness will flow out of my soul like a prayer.--yet it seems i am forgetting the greatest happiness. i shall be with you. i may paint you. the marshal. take care! _tenth scene_. the same. the valet de chambre. the queen. the two maids of honour. valet. your majesty! (the queen _rustles over from the left to the right, without bestowing a glance on the two men. at the door on the right she gives the_ valet _a scroll with which he advances. then she goes out, followed by the maids of honour_.) the marshal. now the hastily contrived reward of our misdeeds is at hand. (_to_ jean.) my noble sir, bestir yourself. (_to_ the painter.) that is the handsome jean as an angel of justice! (_he unfolds the scroll and reads, laughing_.) the painter. and to me, what do you bring to me? the valet. (_with an expression of awkward contempt_.) you?--nothing! the painter. exquisite! the valet. but yes! your reward shall be meted out to you in the office of the marshal of the court. the painter (_amused_). indeed? the valet. yes! (_behind the scenes on the right are heard cries of "jean! jean!"_) the deaf maid of honour. (_hurries in from the right_.) jean! have you forgotten her majesty? the valet (_sweetly_). oh, no! tell her majesty i am coming directly. the painter and the marshal. (_look at each other, and break out into laughter_.) the marshal. look, look, my friend! he seems to have got into bad habits. the painter (_pointing at him_). it is rightly so. i had almost begged him, at the court where we men are forbidden, proudly to represent the eternal masculine. (_laughing, they both bow to him_.) (_exit_ the valet.) the painter. but we are going into the flowery open, to our merry pursuits. the marshal. and to combat! (_they walk arm in arm, bowing right and left, toward the door, past_ the marquises, _who, without hiding their disrespect, nevertheless recognise them in a not uncourtly fashion_.) curtain. footnote: [footnote : milchbart--literally "milky beard."] [footnote : the colonel.] [footnote : the document is defective here--showing "--iry." i have inserted the word "fairy" based on context.--transcriber] transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://books.google.com/books?id=um aaaamaaj&printsec [illustration: _miss nance o'neil_ _from a sketch by j. j. hazelton_] fires of st. john a drama in four acts from the german of hermann sudermann _author of "magda," "the joy of living," "sodom's end," etc._ as presented for the first time on the american stage in boston on january twenty-first nineteen hundred & translated and adapted by charles swickard boston, john w. luce and company, copyright notice and warning this play is fully protected by the copyright law, all requirements of which have been fully complied with. in its present form it is dedicated to the reading public only, and no performance may be given without the permission of the publishers, owners of the acting rights. ¶ copyright, , by charles swickard. ¶ copyright, , by john w. luce and company. ¶ all rights reserved. publishers' note ¶ this translation and adaptation of "johannisfeuer" was made by special permission from herr sudermann, and is the only authorized english version. * * * * * ¶ by arrangement with the publishers, miss nance o'neil, who first produced this play in english, as here given, will continue to use mr. swickard's adaptation exclusively. fires of st. john was first presented in english, in boston, massachusetts, on january twenty-first, , with the following cast * * * * * mr. brauer mr. george c. staley mrs. brauer mrs. charles w. brooks gertrude miss blanche stoddard george von harten mr. e. j. ratcliffe an old gypsy woman miss ricca allen haffner mr. norwell mcgregor mr. paul mr. frederick sullivan katie miss fannie cannon and marie miss nance o'neil cast of characters mr. brauer proprietor of a large country estate mrs. brauer his wife gertrude their daughter george von harten their nephew an old gypsy woman haffner assistant pastor mr. paul overseer katie housekeeper servant girl _and_ marie a foundling _time of action, about _ _place of action, pomerania_ (_prussia_) the fires of st. john act one _breakfast-room at the brauer residence. the back wall is formed by three glass doors, separated by marble pillars. behind this, the veranda is visible, and balustrade, hung with fine rug, and stairs, leading into the garden. the glass doors have practical, solid wooden shutters, with bars, fastening inside. doors r. and l. large table c. with breakfast laid. front, to the left, sofa, table and easy-chair. to the right, sewing-machine, and basket filled with table-linen. old-fashioned photos and engravings on walls. otherwise, well-to-do family home._ _time of day: morning._ [gertrude _busy at breakfast-table_.] brauer. [_enters with_ paul, _from r_.] confound it! everything seems to go wrong this morning! [_throws his cap on chair, angrily_.] gertrude. [_happily_.] good-morning, papa! brauer. morning, my child. such carelessness! you ought to be ashamed of yourself. if this thing had happened earlier in the season, out on the meadows--but at this time of the year--!!! oh! confound it all, anyway!!!!! it is inexcusable!!! gertrude. what is the matter, papa? brauer. the black cow has been overfed. but of course, when marie is not about to look after everything, things go to rack and ruin. well, man, what excuse are you going to make? paul. none, mr. brauer. brauer. now that's the most sensible thing you have said this morning. here, take a cigar and get to work; but mind! send for the veterinary surgeon at once. have you had breakfast? paul. yes, sir! brauer. then what the devil are you waiting for? paul. i--i--i wanted to excuse myself, and---- brauer. [_impatiently_.] it's all right! it's all right! paul. [_remains--hesitatingly_.] g--good-morning!! brauer. well? paul. i--i have something else to tell you---- brauer. then out with it. paul. [_with a glance at_ gertrude.] but---- brauer. h'm! gertrude, darling, will you please see if it is still threatening rain? gertrude. yes, papa! [_goes out on the veranda_.] brauer. well? paul. [_confidentially_.] the old hag has turned up again. brauer. [_alarmed_.] wha---- the devil you say! h'm! who--who has seen her? paul. she was seen begging in the village--and last night, one of my men observed her creeping stealthily around the sheds yonder. brauer. [_scratching his head_.] yes, yes! i had almost forgotten. she has served her last sentence--fully five years!--we have been free from her annoying presence and now, she has returned. well, what does she want? paul. she has heard her daughter is about to be married, she says. brauer. [_laughs_.] _her_ daughter? ha, ha! i see! no doubt she has learned of gertrude's betrothal. well? and---- paul. and so she has come to get her share of the wedding-cake--so she says; but she dare not venture here. brauer. well, i should advise her to keep a respectful distance. take good care, mr. paul, that she approaches no one of this house. do you hear? no one. i will see the constable myself; and perhaps we'll soon get rid of her again. good-morning. paul. good-morning, mr. brauer. [_exit_.] gertrude. [_enters_.] shall i pour your coffee, papa? brauer. what? my little one looking after the breakfast, eh? can you do all that? gertrude. oh papa! if i couldn't do even that---- brauer. but marie? gertrude. oh, of course--not as well as she--you must have patience with me, papa! brauer. why certainly, my pet! [_embraces her_.] and now, let me see--how many days are you left to me? gertrude. only four more days, papa. brauer. now, you rascal! must you leave me? must you go and marry, eh? must you? gertrude. but papa, dear, it is all your own arrangement! brauer. of course, of course! what is a poor old man to do? have you seen george this morning? [gertrude _shakes her head_.] such sloth! he does nothing but sleep, sleep, sleep. gertrude. he worked until very late last night, papa. at dawn this morning i saw his light still burning; and then it was past three o'clock. brauer. yes, i must admit, he is diligent and industrious--but also stubborn--damned stubborn. [_the last is said almost to himself. aloud_.] has mama been down? gertrude. no, not yet. brauer. and marie? has she returned? gertrude. she arrived by the early morning train. brauer. and how nearly finished is the lover's nest, eh? gertrude. only one more trip to the city, i believe she said. brauer. well, and do you like the arrangement? gertrude. i don't know, papa dear. i am kept entirely in the dark. it is to be a surprise to me. oh, i will like it very much indeed, i think. brauer. and are you happy, my pet? gertrude. oh, papa, dear, i sometimes feel as if i didn't deserve all this happiness. brauer. well, my dear, a housewife who calls these soft-boiled eggs, certainly does not deserve such happiness. gertrude. [_embarrassed_.] i only boiled them about three-quarters of an hour---- brauer. ha, ha, ha, ha! gertrude. oh, i beg your pardon, papa, i will---- brauer. there, there, i was only joking; never mind it. and marie, i suppose, is taking her rest now? gertrude. if she only would do so. papa, you must compel her to take a rest. no one can endure such a strain. one day she is looking after this house, and the next day she is in the city, furnishing our new home; and the nights she passes on the train. i am sure she will break down. brauer. well, well, i will look after that. mrs. brauer. [_enters from l_.] good-morning! brauer. morning! well? gertrude. [_throws her arms around her mother_.] good-morning, mama dear! mrs. brauer. [_caressing her_.] my sweet! my pet! only four more good-mornings, and then---- gertrude. you must come to visit me soon, mama! mrs. brauer. [_crying_.] visit? ah, yes! brauer. no tears now, no tears, i beg of you! tears on an empty stomach--b-r-r-r-r-r, that's poison. mrs. brauer. my darling, who dressed your hair last night? gertrude. the housekeeper. mrs. brauer. there! i knew marie could not have done that. but do you know--marie--a few moments ago i opened her door softly, to see how she was resting, and found her still fully dressed, just as she came from the train, seated at the open window, a book in her lap, and staring out into space. brauer. well, well, well! i thought her passion for novels had passed away long ago. mrs. brauer. i've been thinking--we must watch her more closely. brauer. she needs no one to watch over her! she is well able to take care of herself; but we must spare her---- mrs. brauer. but, henry, just now--three days before the wedding--who could think of sparing one's self? brauer. well, you know--h'm---- mrs. brauer. henry, you know how i love the girl; but, good gracious, she is not our own dear, sweet one---- gertrude. oh, she is more than that, mama dear. mrs. brauer. you are entirely too modest, my darling. gertrude. well, just imagine, mama dear, she was going to be married--and i remained at home---- mrs. brauer. then we would retain our sunshine, our consolation, our---- [_looking at breakfast table with a questioning expression_.] but, children, i can't understand---- gertrude. what, mama dear? mrs. brauer. gracious! everything is so--so-- [_topsy-turvy indicated by action_.] if she is not going to sleep, she may as well come down here---- gertrude. [_laughingly caressing her mama_.] there, you see, mama, dear, not even a single meal can you eat without her. [george von harten _enters_.] brauer. well, at last you have aroused yourself; you---- george. [_interrupts him, tapping his hand_.] there, softly, softly, dear uncle; don't begin scolding so early in the morning. brauer. don't you think it's pretty near time to call me father, my boy? george. not until after the wedding, dear uncle.--good-morning, auntie. [_kissing her hand_.] well, little one? [_kissing her_.] gertrude. [_leans on him lovingly_.] my george. [_laughs suddenly_.] oh, just look! he is simply covered with hay! george. then you may make yourself useful by brushing me off. brauer. the hayloft seems to be your favorite sleeping-place lately. george. sleep? heavens! who could sleep in this weather? i roam about. lord knows where, over meadows and fields. such st. john days!!! it's enough to drive one mad. the days never seem to end. late last night i was sitting in front of my window. said i to myself: "no sleep for me to-night, until that cursed nightingale runs out of melody"--when suddenly a meadow-lark announces the break of day--and there, it's morning. to the left, the twilight: to the right, the dawn, peacefully together. from glow to glow a new day arises. children, i tell you, it was beautiful. give me a cup of coffee. brauer. but, tell me! are you going to remain here now? george. why, certainly, until after the wedding. brauer. but the propriety of such a thing---- gertrude. [_imploringly_.] oh, papa dear---- george. its immaterial to me. under no circumstances do i desire to offend your sense of propriety; but then i will stay down at the inn, as the nearest place. brauer. and in the morning you will bring us the house full of fleas. mrs. brauer. but, henry---- brauer. well, it's so. george. if you will allow me! the wedding was set for the twentieth; therefore i obtained my first furlough from the nineteenth--and i trust you realize that i can't change the dates to suit myself. i arrived on the twentieth--and the wedding, of course--it was postponed. mrs. brauer. but, george dear, neither your home, nor anything else was ready. george. and besides, where am i to go? my own home is broken up; marie has had everything torn up. by the way, has she returned? gertrude. [_nods_.] mrs. brauer. why, what's the matter? have you two had another quarrel? george. no, certainly not; but i should not have allowed the girl to make a drudge of herself for my sake. i almost wish i had remained at home. gertrude. why, she is not doing all this for your sake, but for mine. george. now there, don't be conceited. mrs. brauer. [_caressing her_.] i think she has cause to be conceited. george. as my future wife, she certainly has cause to be that. brauer. there, there, don't you overrate yourself. george. i don't, dear uncle; i am too practical for that. brauer. so, so, you are too practical, eh? then what the devil possessed you to leave this piece of paper on my desk? eh? george. uncle, i beg of you, don't let us begin quarreling so early in the day. brauer. [_angry still_.] very well, but what does it mean? george. it is simply a statement of my affairs. i am a free and independent man, and that is to show you that i am not only willing but also able to properly support my wife. brauer. [_still worked up_.] but i tell you---- marie. [_enters r_.] oh--pardon me, papa--good-morning! gertrude. [_throws arms around her_.] marie! marie. [_kisses her_.] my darling! [_she goes to_ brauer _and kisses his hand_.] brauer. you are back all right, i see! here, here! [_puts hand under her chin_.] head thrown back, i say--why, what's the matter? anything gone wrong with you, eh? marie. [_uncertain_.] n--no! brauer. [_to his wife_.] look at her--she is positively livid. mrs. brauer. what is the matter, my child? marie. mama, dear, i sat up all night in the train and have had no sleep at all. brauer. and how much longer will it take you----? marie. only one more trip to town,--but pardon me, papa, the new assistant pastor is at the gate and---- brauer. who? marie. the new assistant pastor. [gertrude _snickers_.] brauer. [_to_ gertrude.] what are you laughing at? gertrude. [_pulling at_ marie's _skirt and can hardly keep from bursting out laughing_.] i--i--oh, i am not laughing. brauer. [_to_ marie.] but what does he want? marie. he says he does not wish to disturb the ladies so early in the morning, and asks you to please come out---- brauer. nonsense! tell him to come in. marie. yes, papa. george. good-morning, marie. marie. good-morning, george. [_exit_.] brauer. gertrude, come here. now remember, my dear, such conduct is not at all becoming to a full-grown young lady. gertrude. my dear, sweet papa, i am so ashamed of myself--i--i'll never do it again--never. but it's so funny--ha, ha, ha! he is gone on marie---- mrs. brauer. my dear, remember you are now a bride and it would be far more proper to say---- george. smitten with her? mrs. brauer. [_somewhat reproachfully_.] george!!! brauer. sh, sh--silence! [_during following scene_, marie _noiselessly clears off the table_.] pastor. [_enters_.] i should not have dared to annoy the ladies at this early hour, if---- brauer. [_laughingly_.] eight o'clock is not so very early in the country, my dear pastor; you will soon learn that here. mrs. brauer. and how is the good old pastor? pastor. [_doubtfully shrugging his shoulders_.] well! mrs. brauer. [_alarmed_.] he is not worse, i hope? pastor. at the age of eighty, my dear lady, one cannot be said to be growing stronger. brauer. ah, i see, pastor, you are somewhat of a philosopher. will you take something? pastor. you are very kind. a good glass of brandy is half the morning sun. brauer. now that is a manly word, pastor. pastor. oh! thank you! your health! [_drinks_.] brauer. will you take something, george? george. no thank you, uncle, not now. mrs. brauer. when did you arrive, pastor? pastor. just three weeks ago. mrs. brauer. and do you like our town? pastor. very much indeed, thank you. i find the whole world beautiful; but the surroundings here are exceptionally so. yes, this place to me seems doubly attractive, for here every one seems smiling and happy---- pardon me. miss, you have dropped the napkin. [marie _smilingly bows her acknowledgment_.] [gertrude _exits, stifling a laugh_.] brauer. pastor, you will pardon this rudeness, she is still a child. pastor. oh, certainly, certainly; for she is right. i have not yet been able to overcome my old tendency to play the gallant in the presence of ladies--and in this frock--i know--i must look somewhat ridiculous. brauer. tell me. pastor, how did you happen to obtain this position? pastor. well, you see, that, too, is partly connected with this coat. there were four of us, classmates--who, after graduating, were eagerly awaiting the call to save the sinful world--and among them, myself the only one who was, what you might say, in fairly good financial circumstances. we were now and then compelled, first one and then the other, to present ourselves at the board of directors--and as a consequence my coat suffered severely. now it really never fitted any one of my comrades and at my suggestion we finally purchased a coat, that came nearer fitting each of us, striking a happy medium, as it were, to every one's satisfaction. then, about four weeks ago, an ex-fellow-student--the curate of the cathedral--came to us, with this information: "ye holy men, list ye to me. in yon lithuanian mountains lives a minister of the gospel, who, on account of his extreme age and feebleness, is incapacitated from properly performing his duties. and as there are four of you, i propose that you draw straws and leave it to chance who shall be the favored one." at that the others unanimously declared: "no, he who has shared with us his clothing shall be the favored one"--and--well, here i am and, i fear, not half as pious as i look. brauer. ah, courage, pastor, courage---- pastor. pray do not think that i am ashamed of my calling; believe me, like our lord and master, my heart aches for suffering humanity, and therefore it has ever been my desire to follow in his footsteps. besides, it was my father's wish. you must know my father is a well-to-do farmer--there are no really large estates in the lowlands--but he has considerable--yes, i might say, a great deal of money--and owing to my early surroundings, i'm afraid i am much better suited for a farmer than a minister of the gospel. but i will not give up, and continue to struggle and rid myself of all my bad habits. your health! brauer. do you know, pastor, i am beginning to like you! do you wish to remain here and take the old pastor's place? pastor. i really would like---- brauer. very well, my vote you shall have! pastor. you are very kind, indeed. with such a position i should be quite content, and to complete my happiness----but, by-the-bye, the object of my visit was, really, the bridal-sermon. i am afraid our good old pastor will not be able now---- mrs. brauer. ah---- brauer. [_simultaneously_.] will not be equal to the exertion, you mean; ah--i feared as much. pastor. therefore, if you will allow me--unless you desired some one else---- brauer. pastor, if we had not already heard you in the pulpit i would deny your request, point blank, as you are practically a stranger to us. but your ways and sentiments please me, and therefore--what say you, wife? [_she nods_.]--and you, george? george. oh, i don't know; but unless i am very much mistaken, there is already a great deal of sympathy between us, eh, pastor? pastor. now i must confess that is rather meaningless, at least so far as i am concerned; for my sympathy extends towards the whole world. george. at any rate i am glad---- pastor. [_jestingly_.] then will you kindly leave us for awhile? i desire to inquire into your past record. george. [_shakes his finger laughingly_.] with pleasure, if you promise not to be too severe on me. [_exit_.] pastor. now, then, with your kind permission, i will take a few notes---- brauer. certainly, pastor! pastor. this young gentleman, your nephew, is especially close to the family, is he not? brauer. correct! pastor. pardon me, but may i ask in what way? brauer. i will tell you. pastor. it was in the year ' , when we had here in east prussia, a terrible drought--a year of distress and--do you remember anything about it? pastor. very little, as i was then still quite young. brauer. ah, it was terrible! potatoes and fodder rotted before ripening. of wheat and rye hardly a trace. we farmers, i tell you--! then it was, when my brother-in-law, the husband of my sainted sister, whose estates were in the neighboring township yonder, realized one day his financial ruin and with all his aristocratic pride--you understand--he saw no other way--he resorted to the pistol--he committed suicide. pastor. and the--your sister, still lives? brauer. thank god, no! but from that day---- pastor. pardon the interruption; but i have heard your daughter, miss marie, called "the calamity child" by some of the villagers. has that any connection with this year of distress? mrs. brauer. and you didn't know that, pastor--how she came into our house? well, during that same terrible winter, we were returning one night, my husband and myself, from the town, where we had at our own expense erected a soup-kitchen--when suddenly, at the corner of the woods yonder, where the road makes a sharp turn, our horses shied--and there, in the middle of the road, we saw lying, a woman, with a child pressed closely to her bosom. she refused to stir and begged us to put her out of her misery. of course, we took her into the sleigh at once--ah, she was in an awful condition---- brauer. i tell you, pastor, it was months before we could rid the blankets of vermin. mrs. brauer. and the child, the poor little thing----! but after being bathed and fed, and lying there, between the clean white covers, we both stood over its bed--the little thing, with its pinched face, laughed at us and stretched out its tiny hands--my husband said to me: "wife, i believe this is our share of all this sorrow and misery that heaven has sent us." brauer. for you must know. pastor, that our own daughter, gertrude was then not yet born. mrs. brauer. no, not until three years later. well, we bought the child from that miserable, drunken woman, in proper, legal form--determined and glad to get rid of her, for she did smell so of gin, i could not endure it any longer. brauer. that is what the worst drunkards in these parts prefer to brandy. pastor. unfortunately!!! brauer. but to come back to my nephew---- pastor. pardon me, another question. what became of the mother? brauer. ah, that is a bad story--and just to-day---- pastor. yes---- brauer. oh--nothing, nothing. anyway--that woman really did return, and as we did not want the child to see her, we gave her more money. of course she remembered that and so finally she became a positive plague. mrs. brauer. oh, henry, i have often thought since, perhaps a mother's heart prompted her---- brauer. you think so, eh? then perhaps a mother's heart also prompted her to steal at the same time! for every time she honored us with a visit, something or other disappeared, until i grew suspicious, had her watched, she was caught red-handed--and, of course, a long term in prison was the result. pastor. and the girl--does she know or suspect anything at all? mrs. brauer. we told her, her mother was dead. but one day she really did see her. pastor. how did that misfortune happen? mrs. brauer. it was on her confirmation day, just as the girls left the church in a body, when we heard a cry. what had happened? why, that woman had been lying in wait for the procession; when suddenly she appeared, seized her child, and kneeling before her in the road, passionately covered her hands and feet with kisses. pastor. [_shuddering_.] horrible!!!!!! mrs. brauer. i tore the child from her arms, of course, and carried her into the house. we had to make some kind of an explanation; a drunken vagabond, i told her! did she believe it?--h'm?--then she fell ill---- pastor. and how is it now? brauer. [_humorously_.] why, pastor, you seem very much interested. george. [_enters_. gertrude _follows him in_.] i presume i am pretty well done by this time. brauer. we haven't even started with your case. the pastor is interested in something of far greater importance. pastor. [_with meaning and moved_.] you must not believe that, mr. von harten; but there are lives whose fates are surrounded by so much mystery---- [_with a glance at_ marie, _who enters l. with package of linen_.] george. [_who follows his glance_.] yes, yes, you are right. pastor. if you will allow me, i will call again about the sermon. mrs. brauer. [_giving him her hand_.] pastor, you know you are always welcome in this house. brauer. give my regards to our good old pastor. towards evening we will see him, as usual. pastor. oh, i had almost forgotten! he desires me to ask you kindly, should you again favor him with eggnog, to please add a little more sugar, for the last was a trifle tart. mrs. brauer. why, of course, the poor old soul. pastor. do not say that, madame; for when the time has come when all our wishes and hopes and desires are concentrated upon a small quantity of sweets, our sufferings are near the end. and now, adieu. miss marie, adieu. marie. [_preoccupied_.] adieu. [pastor _exits, accompanied by_ brauer.] [gertrude _enters_.] mrs. brauer. don't be afraid dear, no one will scold you. gertrude. oh mama, i'm so ashamed of myself. when he arrived he seemed so jolly--and now--i am sure he is offended. george. he was not offended, dear, only a little grave. mrs. brauer. at any rate, what do you think of him, marie? marie. [_glancing up from her work, sorting linen_.] of whom, mama dear? mrs. brauer. why, the new pastor. marie. oh mama, my mind is so occupied, i hadn't given him a thought. gertrude. [_aside to_ george.] now you tell her, george. marie. gertrude, how about our manzanillo-tree--any blossoms this morning? mrs. brauer. you don't mean to say you haven't looked after that beloved tree of yours this morning? marie. i have had no time, mama dear. gertrude. [_to_ george.] now tell her. george. marie, both gertrude and myself insist, that you cease this endless drudgery for our sakes; it isn't right. [marie, _humming, pays no heed--looks into space_.] gertrude. see, she is not even listening. mrs. brauer. what's that you are singing? marie. i--? was i singing? mrs. brauer. well then, humming. marie. oh yes, last night at the station i heard a strange song--some one in a fourth-class coach was singing. listen. [_sings_.] "zwirio czenay, zwirio tenay--kam'mano bernyczo--rid wid wil dai dai--ne'r mano bernyczo." george. and the lithuanian text--you memorized it just from hearing it? marie. certainly. george. well, where did you learn all that? marie. why, i have always known it. george. and could you translate it readily? marie. oh, it means nothing, really--[_makes one or two attempts_.]--"here"--no! "i look here and i look there--where may be my lover? rid wid will dai dai--nowhere is my lover!" brauer. [_enters during this, unseen by her, puts arms around her. she shrieks_.] there, there--[_caressing her_.] patience, my darling, some day you will have one--perhaps very soon. why, what's the matter, dear? marie. [_leans on him in tearless sobbing_.] oh, you have frightened me so! brauer. what is the matter with you this morning? what has happened? marie. i have already told you, nothing. brauer. tut, tut! something has gone wrong! i can see it--and now, i demand that you tell me the truth. marie. well, then--yes! brauer. what is it? come, come, out with it. marie. some one attacked me. brauer. attacked you? marie. not far from here. brauer. as you came from the station? marie. yes. brauer. well, i never--but everyone around here knows you and your character; how did he look? was it a vagabond? marie. [_hesitatingly._] n--no. it was--a gentleman---- brauer. did he lay hands on you, or even try to touch you? marie. no. brauer. but you say he attacked you? marie. attacked me--yes! brauer. you mean he followed you? marie. yes. brauer. how far? marie. as far as the gate, which i opened quickly and then he disappeared. brauer. [_to the others_.] now, what do you say to that? [george _shrugs his shoulders_.] there is something queer about it all. [_to_ marie.] and that is what upset you so? marie. oh, i am already much composed. brauer. [_raises her head_.] yes--you look it. gertrude. oh, papa, don't torment her so. brauer. now, then, go and take a good nap. marie. not yet, papa dear, i can't. i must speak with george first. about the large bookcase--i really don't know where to place it. brauer. but you can do that later, can't you? marie. i fear i might forget it. brauer. very well; i am going down to look after the cow. will you come, wife? mrs. brauer. [_rising and putting up her handwork_.] yes, dear. brauer. [_to_ marie.] and one thing more,--don't you put your foot outside of the gate without an escort hereafter! understand? not once! marie. but why not, papa dear? brauer. after what has happened? but i never heard of such a thing--never, as long as i---- mrs. brauer. but, henry, in broad daylight, it is hardly necessary---- brauer. no matter; i have my reasons for that; besides--well, i'll tell you later. mrs. brauer. [_in passing taps_ marie _on cheek_.] now, pet, go and take a good rest. [_both exit_.] marie. you must go, too, gertrude! gertrude. [_peevishly_.] but why should i? marie. you know, dear, your future home---- gertrude. ah, yes; those stupid furnishings! do you know, i don't think a wedding half so much fun as christmas. now don't be long, will you? [_exit_.] [_pause_.] george. why so deep in thought, suddenly? marie. i--? oh, i was thinking. i was picturing to myself that cosy little nook, your corner room! george. marie, dear, how can i ever thank you for all the---- marie. don't speak of it, george, for i take great delight in having the furniture moved about; and then, i say to myself: "here is where they will take their tea, and there they will while away their leisure hours"--so---- but, what i meant to tell you! yesterday we had an accident--the large mirror in the parlor was broken. i know it portends ill---- george. what care i, so long as our friendship will not be broken. marie. but why should it? george. it shall never be my fault, marie. marie. certainly never mine. but what i wanted to say,--i had the large mahogany bookcase repolished. is that satisfactory? george. anything you choose to do is satisfactory to me. marie. [_hesitatingly_.] and then--i must tell you, george, something important. when i unpacked the bookcase, i found a blue manuscript. george. [_unsuspecting_.] what kind of a manuscript? marie. george, you must not leave that lying around--not even hidden behind the books, especially now, when you take your wife to your home. george. in heaven's name, what manuscript? marie. i believe--it contains some poems---- george. you believe--it contains some poems. i have missed it since early last winter; i thought i had lost it. marie, now tell me truthfully, have you read its contents? marie. n--no! george. then why do you tell me not to leave it around? marie. well, i read the first part, and had begun on the second, when i concluded to go no further. george. and you really looked no further than the first? absolutely no further? marie. no. george. can you swear to that? marie. i can! george. then swear! marie. i swear! are you satisfied? george. yes, thank heaven! but you must not imagine for a moment that the book contains anything i am ashamed of; on the contrary, i consider it so sacred i would not have it desecrated by a stranger's eye. about four years ago, something occurred within me--within my soul. no one knows--no one could even guess, and no one shall ever know. marie. no one? not even i? george. no, not even you. but where is the book? give it to me! marie. [_turns up stage and takes it from her bosom_.] here it is. george. how shall i ever thank you? marie. i want you to do me one favor. will you promise me? george. if it's in my power, certainly! marie. then i must first confess to you. a few moments ago, when papa questioned me, i deceived him. i was attacked last night--yes--but not by a man, but by a woman--a lithuanian woman. george, that woman was my mother! george. but i understood your mother was dead. marie. no, no; that is not so. not one of you ever told me the truth. on the day of my confirmation i was waylaid by that very same woman--i cannot have been mistaken. george. come, tell me, how did it happen? marie. i was walking along quietly--'twas already dawning--when suddenly a gaunt form arose from the ditch beside the road. i looked, and saw before me a miserable beggarwoman, who called out to me in a trembling voice: "marie--madame--daughter!" i turned cold in fear and horror, and, unable to utter one sound, i began to run; and i ran, ran, ran, and behind me i only heard her agonizing call: "my marie--my daughter!" and so, i ran away from my own mother. and now, after a few hours' thought, i realize i did wrong. i must see her and speak to her, and learn from her own lips who and what i am; and as papa has forbidden me to leave this house--i would go in spite of him, but i have a fear--i beg of you, george, dear, go to her, i implore you, find her for me--she cannot be far away, and---- george. and then? marie. then bring her to me, into the garden, or, better still, into this room towards evening, when papa and mama are calling on the old pastor---- george. marie, i cannot do that! marie. the first time i ask a favor of you--and you say you cannot do it? george. marie, dear, listen to me! you have been so kind to me of late--and that has not always been so; but if you had sacrificed for me even more than your own comfort and rest, i--i could not do it--i could not deceive your father and mother, for i fear the consequences. marie. then can't you understand that, a foundling though i am, a desire might come over me to see my own mother, though she be but a common beggar and an outcast? that i might want to lay my head on her shoulder and be petted and fondled, and cry myself to sleep on mine--on my own mother's breast? george. are you not fondled, are you not petted--has mama not always been kind to you? marie. yes, but it is not the same--not the same. never have i felt the desire, the demand within me for my own flesh and blood, as just now. george. but why just now? marie. [_imploringly_.] because my heart is bursting. oh, george! george. i cannot. i dare not do it! marie. then you refuse me? george. you know i must!! marie. then have you forgotten what took place in there, in your heart, four years ago? [_pause_.] george. marie, you have read my manuscript! marie. yes, i read it. will you do it now? george. marie, you have sworn falsely!!! marie. [_shrugging her shoulders_.] will you do as i ask? george. 'tis well! i will do as you ask!!!! [_curtain_.] end of the first act. act two _the same scene as act i_. [marie, _seated, with some linen in her lap, at the sewing-machine, looking dreamily out of the window_.] housekeeper katie. [_in door r_.] may i come in, miss marie? marie. oh, is that you? yes, come in! katie. i see you are working on miss gertrude's wedding outfit. how beautiful, fit for a princess. but what i wanted to ask you: madame has given me the menu for the wedding feast, and as to fish, it calls for carp. now you know i am economical, but carp--common carp---- marie. why, carp is a very fine fish---- katie. oh yes, and good enough for--say--your wedding feast; but not good enough for miss gertrude. marie. for my wedding feast even carp is too good. katie. oh no; carp is not too good for you, though it may be good enough--and do you know i will prepare a special polish sauce--but miss gertrude--she must have deep sea fish. now will you see madame about that, please? marie. very well, i will speak to mama about it. katie. and you are not offended? marie. oh no! katie. for, after all, you know, you are only a foundling. marie. oh yes, i know. katie. but we all love you, miss marie, and---- marie. thank you. but have you seen mr. von harten this morning? katie. no, i have not! but i have some good news for you--the assistant pastor has fallen deeply in love with you. marie. yes? katie. and he is going to ask for your hand!!! i always said you were a lucky girl. just think, you may be a st. john's-bride. marie. and what is a st. john's-bride? katie. _you_ don't know that, miss marie? well, i'll tell you. it is written in the new seal of solomonis: "whoever shall give or receive their first kiss on st. john's eve, their love is sealed and they will be faithful unto death." so it is written in the new seal of solomonis. gertrude. [_enter c., hands behind her, with bouquet_.] marie, i have something for you. no, first i want katie to leave the room. go now, go!!! katie. oh, i am going--i am going!!!!!!!!! [_exit_.] gertrude. shut your eyes now! [marie _does so, as_ gertrude _holds bouquet to_ marie's _face_.] now what is it? marie. the tulip-tree! the first blossoms from our manzanillo-tree! it blooms--it blooms!!! [_burying her face in the flowers_.] gertrude. are you glad, marie? marie. yes, darling, so glad!!! thank you! gertrude. and do you know who picked them?--george! marie. for me? gertrude. why, of course, for you! marie. he--did this--for me? gertrude. he would do even more than that for me, i am sure! marie. oh yes, certainly! but where is he now? gertrude. i don't know! marie. did he say he had to go somewhere? gertrude. yes, he had to go out on the fields, he said--and that was quite some time ago. i wanted to accompany him, i begged and begged, but he flatly refused to let me go. marie. [_breathing heavily_.] oh!!!!!!!! gertrude. i don't know how it is; but to-day he is acting so strangely. papa has asked for him several times--and do you know, dear, at times he is not at all pleasant to me! marie. but why should he---- gertrude. that's just it! why should he? oh, if i only knew--if i was only certain he loved me--and then, another thing--i don't know if i should tell you--i have a growing fear, some other girl will take him away from me. marie. [_with forced laugh_.] away from you, dear? how could that be possible? gertrude. oh yes, you may laugh; but at times, when he looks at me, i see a strange look come in his eyes. half affection--half pity--and i don't want to be pitied! why should he? am i not happy? marie. [_caressing her_.] yes, dear; you ought to be very, very happy. gertrude. but i cannot rid myself of the fear, perhaps he really loves another and is only taking compassion on me! oh, if i only knew---- marie. but, my darling---- gertrude. for you see, i am still so young--and think, how ill-mannered i was only this morning! i was so sorry afterwards--but i do love to laugh. [_laughs_.] marie. [_with strange y desperate tone of voice_.] and you shall laugh--laugh--laugh--so--so!!!!!!! gertrude. mama, too, insists that my love for him is only that of a child and not of a woman and a bride; but you see she would rather i'd not marry at all and so remain at home with her all my life. but you will be good to her, won't you? you will soon be her only one. marie. i----? gertrude. why yes! marie. i shall soon know whose only one i am! gertrude. what are you saying? marie. [_as_ george _enters_.] there he is! [gertrude _runs towards him_. marie _takes a few steps, then hesitates and stops_.] gertrude. [_pulling him, as she runs towards him_.] oh, george!!! [_then_] confound you! george. [_reproachfully_.] _gertrude!!!!!!_ gertrude. [_crushed_.] why, what did i say? george. [_lovingly_.] now listen to me, little one. such language may be excusable in your papa, but never in my bride. gertrude. [_pouting_.] everything i say seems to displease you. you never find fault with marie! you can go and marry her!!! george. marie does not want to marry me. marie. my very best thanks, george! george. for what? marie. [_picking up bouquet_.] for this! george. oh, don't mention it. marie. were you out in the fields? george. yes. gertrude. yes, papa is angry with you, too. he is looking for you! george. oh yes--i know----! well? marie. in what direction did you go? george. i have been everywhere. marie. and have you found----? gertrude. what was he to find? george. yes, what was i to find? but, children, your tulip-tree is certainly a strange fellow. there he stands, blooming alone, like the last rose of summer---- gertrude. my great-grandfather brought it from south america! george. [_to_ marie.] and that is why you love it so, because it is so foreign and strange? marie. [_busy with linen_.] perhaps! gertrude. no, that is not the reason---- marie. well then, what is it? gertrude. i'm going to tell on you. one day papa took her to the opera, down in the city; there they saw the african---- george. "l'africaine," you mean? gertrude. yes, yes, that's what she called it. marie. gertrude, please don't---- gertrude. in that play occurs a poison-tree--i think---- george. yes, a manzanillo-tree! gertrude. yes, yes; and whosoever inhales the odor of its blossoms must die. and do you know what she did? oh, yes, i did the same--we would go to this tree, smell of its blossoms, and lay down---- george. to die? gertrude. to die. marie. now you can imagine, george, how long ago that must have been. gertrude. yes, it was long, long ago. but about four years ago, one day marie really wanted to die very badly. [marie _casts a frightened glance at_ george, _who returns it thoughtfully_.] gertrude. but we didn't. george. no, no, thank heaven. now, little one, run along and tell papa that i am here. gertrude. marie, will you come, too? marie. no; i think i will remain here a little while longer. gertrude. then i'll stay, too. george. now, little one---- [gertrude _exits with a sigh_.] marie. [_quickly and suppressed_.] did you find her? [george _nods_.] will she come? why don't you answer? george. marie, when you exacted this promise from me this morning, i did not realize what it meant. i had never seen your--i don't want to speak that word--i had never seen this person until to-day. she must not come to this house, secretly--she must not!!! marie. george!!! george. take uncle into your confidence, at least. marie. no, no one--no one but you!! george. what do you want with her? you know you belong to this house. here you have everything your heart desires. here you have love--here you have---- marie. [_interrupts him_.] bread! why don't you say it? yes, here i have bread! george. i did not mean to say that. marie. no; but i did! and do i not earn it, as well as the little love i obtain in this house? i am "the calamity child"--and i do not ask for charity. george. you seem to be possessed of the very devil to-day! marie. perhaps! george. i implore you, do not insist. i fear the consequence. you will see! for whatever is done against nature, punishes itself. marie. and is it against nature when a child cries out for its own mother? george. she is not your mother; your mother is in this house. marie. gertrude's mother is in this house, not mine. a mother must feel for her child, she must see---- george. sh--sh! [_enter_ gertrude.] gertrude. you two are continually talking in whispers; can't you tell _me_? it makes me so unhappy! marie. [_caressing her_.] but darling, it is all done for your sake! [_during this_, george _looks at her disapprovingly, while_ marie _casts a timid glance at him_.] brauer. [_enters_.] at last you have come. where in thunder have you been all day? it almost seemed to me as if you were trying to avoid me! george. but, uncle---- brauer. well, girls, have you prepared the pastor's eggnog? marie. oh, i had entirely forgotten it. brauer. then see to it at once. and don't forget the sugar, you know. marie. yes, papa. brauer. and gertrude dear, you can go and help her. it is time you were learning to do something yourself. gertrude. yes, papa! marie. i hardly think it will be ready in time to take with you and mama. brauer. then bring it later--yourself. marie. [_with a glance at_ george.] could not gertrude bring it, papa? i have so much work to do! gertrude. no, no, papa!!! brauer. yes, yes, you shall!--bring it up when done; and mind, you remain at the pastor's as long as your mother and i, this time. understand? gertrude. oh, papa dear! the last time, the old pastor insisted upon holding my hand in his so long; and they are so cold and clammy, so shriveled and hairy, like the hands of the dead! brauer. come here, my child. those hairy hands once christened you, and at your confirmation the same shriveled hands were laid upon your head and invoked for you the blessings of heaven; and would you, after all that, refuse to hold them in your own warm young hands? my daughter, i do not wish to hear that again. [_kisses her_.] marie. [_slowly has approached_ george. _softly, aside to him_.] you will do as i ask? brauer. and now, leave us. [marie _and_ gertrude _exit_.] "now, then, comes your turn," says the stork to the worm. george. [_looking after the girls, turns_.] i suppose so, but take a care, uncle, i am not so easily digested. brauer. we shall see! we shall see! george. what do you want with me? my financial condition is satisfactory. i have a good position, and my future is assured. i desire to enjoy the results of my own labors, not those of yours. brauer. so, so! george. yes, dear uncle. if you were so determined upon giving a large dowry, you should have found another husband for gertrude than myself. brauer. [_riled_.] oh, hang you and your confounded pride! george. yes, i am proud; and because of my pride and determination, and, i may say, defiance, i have become what i am! brauer. [_rather arrogantly_.] and was there no diligence? george. that, also, was nothing but defiance. brauer. i almost believe you are determined to create another rumpus, as you did twelve years ago. george. if necessary, yes! brauer. and was it necessary, even then? george. you ask me that question? when one day i came here, during vacation from college, you insisted upon my attending your church. i refused. you gave me my choice, either to do as you asked, or have my allowance cut off. then i resolved in my mind never to comply with your command, in spite of everything. oh, it is no pleasure to hunger, as i was forced to do then; but you may believe me, as i stand before you now, a free and independent man, i owe all of it to my stubborn confidence in myself, looking neither to right nor left, but straight ahead, without concessions, without falsehoods, always able to look every man straight in the face. and this good conscience is my proudest possession. from it do i draw all my strength, and i will never give it up. brauer. well, who the devil asked you to give it up? george. and one thing more. of course, i belong to this house; fate has made it my lot. therefore it has ever been far from my mind to seek a wife elsewhere, so strongly attached do i feel myself to this house; and that would have been impossible, had i not from that day been a free man. and now, dear uncle, you are at heart a good and kind man; but your hand is heavy, and it must not lie upon me again as that of the master. for that reason do i refuse to touch even one penny of the dowry, now or any other time. brauer. so, so! then you are really afraid of me? george. afraid of you? bah!!! brauer. and at heart you are nothing but a coward!! george. uncle, i forbid you---- brauer. _you_ forbid me? ha! this is my house, and here i am the master! [george _shrugs his shoulders_.] brauer. yes, yes; it seems to annoy you to have any one keep an eye on you and your conduct---- george. my life has been as an open book to this day. brauer. but after to-day--what about that? who can look into the future? who can look into your heart and read your thoughts? who knows what may happen over night, eh? george. uncle, these are insults i will not endure, even from you---- brauer. _well_! what then! come on! [_jumps up, facing him, ready to fight_.] mrs. brauer. [_enters, ready to go out, dressed_.] henry, what on earth have you done to gertrude? she is in her room, crying as if her heart would break. [marie _has also come in with_ mrs. brauer.] brauer. how is the eggnog getting on, marie? marie. it is not quite done, papa! brauer. then let her have her cry; she can bring it up later. marie. yes, papa. mrs. brauer. and are you ready? brauer. ready for what? mrs. brauer. are you ready to go now? brauer. well, wait for me out on the veranda; we have something to settle first, we two! mrs. brauer. what's the matter with george? brauer. oh, i have just asked him for an explanation, and that does not seem to please him. mrs. brauer. [_caressing him_.] don't you mind him, george dear. after the wedding you can laugh at him. brauer. well, we shall see about that!!! [mrs. brauer _and_ marie _exit_.] brauer. we can't go on like this, for i fear the consequences; but, nevertheless, i shall handle you without gloves. george. well? brauer. my child loves you. you are her ideal, her all, and the wedding must take place. but tell me, what right have you to all this pride--i might even say arrogance? george. must i perhaps ask your permission----? brauer. that is the same old defiance, the same unreasonable stubbornness of your father's!!!!! george. [_starts_.] my father has been dead these twenty years--what do you want of him now? brauer. what do i want of him? that he left you to me, to bring up from childhood, i will hardly mention; although that ought to be sufficient to temper your untamable pride--at least towards me; but---- george. uncle, you may abuse me as much as you please, but my father i will not have disturbed! my father--you shall let him rest in peace! brauer. and who was it--who took care--who made it possible, that he could rest in peace? george. uncle, what do you mean? brauer. well then, who was it, when he laid there, dead, before us, who paid his debts of honor and saved your father's name from disgrace? [_pause_.] george. uncle, you should not have said that! [_sinks in chair and covers his face with his hands_.] brauer. my boy----[_emotion stops him from saying more--walks about_.] see here----[_again the same--tries to light a cigar, breaks it and throws it away_.] george. you should not have said that, uncle! no, no---- brauer. my god, you knew of it? george. yes, i knew of it, and yet you should not have said it; you should not have repeated it. twelve years ago, in our quarrel, when you raised your whip to me--and i reached for the carving-knife--no, no--i should not have done that. you should not have raised your whip, nor i the knife. that is the reason i refused anything from you at all. now you know it. from that day i swore to scratch the gold from the ground with my finger nails and fling it in your face. from that day i hated you--and rightly so! brauer. and all that because i saved your and your father's name from dishonor and disgrace? george. _no!_ but because you turned that same deed into a weapon to crush my youthful pride. brauer. my boy, one uses the weapon nearest to hand. george. [_bitterly_.] even if it is only a whip. but then, i see my mistake. i have no right to pride; my fatherly inheritance does not permit it. give me your gold! i'll take it! all--all! brauer. no, no; in your present state of mind i will force nothing on you. you might again turn to hating me. george. ah no, dear uncle, that is past. hereafter, i will swallow my pride. brauer. my boy---- marie. [_enters_.] pardon me papa, but mama asks, if you are not yet ready to go? brauer. [_with a glance at_ george.] well, as far as i am concerned, i am ready now! [_takes his hat_.] marie, give him a glass of brandy to brace him up. [_goes to door and returns_.]. george? george. uncle? [brauer _offers his hand_.] my hand i cannot refuse you. brauer. [_goes to door. in door_.] yes, and your heart, too, i will win again--or i'll be damned!!!! [_exits, slamming door_.] marie. what did he say to you, george? george. do not ask me, do not ask me! [_walks about_.] all these years i have struggled and deprived myself with only one thing in view--to be free--free--and yet i must bow--i must bow. if it were not for the sake of this beautiful child, who is innocent of it all, i would be tempted to---- but the die is cast, the yoke is ready--and so am i!!!!!!! marie. [_softly and hesitating_.] but, george, dear, here in this house, i see nothing for you but love--the yoke seems so light---- george. how pious and tame you have suddenly become! marie. i am not pious. george. what was that you said a few moments ago? "i am the calamity child. i am the child of misery; but i do not ask for charity." that is what you said of yourself, and it is also true of me. i, too, am a child of misery, a calamity child; but i am a subject of charity. i accept all they have to give--all--all--ha, ha, ha----! marie. you, george, a calamity child? george. yes! was i not picked up from the street, as my uncle so kindly informed me for the second time--like yourself? do i not belong to this house, and am i not smothered with the damnable charity of my benefactors, like yourself? marie. i receive my share with thanks. george. and you enjoy serving---- marie. i enjoy serving!! george. but i--i wish to rule--to command!!! marie. and you shall rule--you shall command---- george. [_walking about and ironically_.] ah yes!!! marie. [_timidly_.] george? george. well? marie. [_the same_.] pardon me; but have you forgotten--? george. oh, i see! marie. i know it is wrong in me to annoy you at this time, when you are so occupied with affairs of your own---- besides, you have already refused me once---- george. wha--yes, now in spite of them all, i am my own master. i am responsible to no one. i have promised you--i shall keep my word!!!!! marie. thank you, george! george. oh, don't thank me---- marie. where is she now? george. she is waiting, behind yonder garden hedge. marie. my god! do not keep her waiting any longer; call her in here. george. gertrude is still in the house. marie. i will get her out of the way. when i appear out there on the veranda, the coast is clear!! george. marie, for your own sake, i warn you for the last time; discovery means certain disaster. marie. one disaster more or less, it matters little! george. is that your last word? very well, i will bring her to you. [_gets his hat and goes out centre door_.] marie. [_opens door l. and calls out_.] gertrude! gertrude! [_a door is heard to open_.] gertrude. [_outside with crying voice_.] what is it? marie. come quickly, or papa will be angry! gertrude. [_after a moment's pause_.] i am coming! [_another short pause and she appears in door_.] marie. how red your eyes are! you have been crying! what's the matter, dear? [_caressing her_.] gertrude. where is george? marie. [_lightly_.] he went out again a few moments ago. gertrude. and he didn't ask to see me? marie. he heard you were crying and did not want to disturb you. gertrude. but, marie, what is the matter with your own eyes? and you look so queerly---- marie. my pet, they are the eyes that god has given me and---- gertrude. [_suspiciously_.] what? [_a knock at door is heard_.] marie. come in! maid servant. [_enters with basket_.] here are the eggnog and cakes, for the pastor. now be careful and don't crush them! marie. very well! [_exit_ servant.] gertrude. [_taking basket_.] good-bye, marie! marie. good-bye, gertie dear! [gertrude _starts towards centre door_.] marie. [_frightened_.] where are you going? gertrude. i am going through the garden across the fields; perhaps i will meet george. marie. [_concerned_.] no, no; you must not walk across the fields alone. papa has forbidden it. gertrude. but i may meet george. marie. but if you shouldn't, what then? no, no, i will not allow it! i will not! i had such a fright last night. gertrude. [_goes up to the other door and turns back once more_.] marie, you are not angry with me? marie. [_embracing her_.] my darling!!! gertrude. then i will go that way! [_looks all around_.] give my love to george! marie. but i won't see him, dear---- gertrude. well, perhaps you may! marie. in that case, i will tell him---- gertrude. very well. [_exit r_.] [marie _goes out on veranda--gives sign--returns--locks doors r. and l.--then at c. door--in terror, with searching eyes, she slowly retreats backwards, her eyes glued on the outer darkness--until she finally covers her face with her hands, and is standing against the wall_.] george. [_enters_.] here she is!! gypsy. [_enters_. george _goes out on veranda, looking off_.] mine lady, mine daughter--yes--don't be afraid. oh, you are such a fine lady--you have lover--you marry, they say----? marie. [_forcing herself to speak_.] no; i'm not to be married! it is gertrude, my foster sister. gypsy. you no marry, eh? never mind--you marry some day--some day [_examining_ marie's _dress with her fingers_.] what a fine dress you have, and all wool---- [_same with apron_.] oh, and a silk apron--all silk! give me, give me? [marie _takes it off and gives it to her_.] gypsy. thank you--thank you!!! [_kisses_ marie's _sleeve and dress, but when she would kiss her hand_, marie _withdraws it quickly_.] marie. no, no! _ne dosu ranka!_ gypsy. all right, all right! you are fine lady. [_looks about_.] is the old man home, eh? marie. no, he is out. gypsy. that is good, that is good! he is an old devil--is the old man! all prussians are devils. but he have fine house, he have! like a prince!!! [_rubs her hand over table cover_.] ah, nice shawl that would make---- [_sees linen_.] and what fine linen--[_motions to_ marie.] come here! marie. [_approaching her_.] what do you want? gypsy. [_pointing with thumb_.] give me an drink--just an little drink! [_indicates with finger and thumb_.] [_while_ marie _turns to sideboard, she quickly takes two or three pieces of linen and with left hand holds them hidden under her apron_.] gypsy. [_after taking drink from marie_.] thanks, mine daughter, thanks! [_after drinking, rubs her stomach_.] ah, that's good, that's good!--give me another! [marie _fills another glass for her--she drinks it_.] thank you, thank you!! but now i must be going! [_in her anxiety to get out she drops one piece, while going to the door_.] marie. [_horrified_.] mo--mo--what were you trying to do? gypsy. [_pretending surprise_.] my, my--just see! i found this out on the field. [_picks it up and puts it under her arm_.] marie. put that down, it is not yours. gypsy. [_doing so_.] all right, all right--my--my--my---- marie. put down all you have! gypsy. i have no more, no, no more, i swear! marie. [_goes quickly to door and calls_.] george! george. [_enters._] well? marie. give me some money! [_he gives her a gold piece_.] [marie _to her mother_.] here, here is money; now give me the linen---- gypsy. [_takes the money as she gives up the linen, greedily_.] a ducat! a whole ducat! a golden ducat! mine daughter, thank you! marie. and now, go! gypsy. [_goes anxiously to the door_.] alright, alright!!! [_throws a kiss to_ marie, _and quick exit_.] marie. [_quickly takes key from board_.] george, take this key and lock the garden gate after her, so she does not return. [george _exits_. marie _looks after them, then slowly returns to the table, leans against same, and stares vacantly. knock is heard at door l_.] marie. [_mechanically_.] come in! servant. [_trying the door from the outside_.] the door is locked! [marie _opens the door_.] servant. [_enters with dishes_.] it is time to lay the table for supper--will you help me, please? why, what's the matter? you are not listening to me---- marie. never mind, lena, i will set the table myself! servant. will you? very well!!! [_exit_ servant.] george. [_enters. to_ marie, _who does not stir_.] remember what i told you. but come, come, this will never do! don't stare at me like that---- marie. [_leaning on him and weeping_.] oh, george! george. [_stroking her hair_.] that's it, dear, the tears will relieve you! ah, i well know the anguish of an aching heart! marie. yes, you know, you know all! now i have no one in this whole world but you--you alone. [_as she bursts out crying she throws herself on his breast_.] george. [_stroking her hair_.] yes, yes; we two understand each other. we two were meant, were intended for each other. were we not, dear? marie. my god! yes!! george. and we will ever remember this day--the day that brought us together. it is the day before st. john's eve. will you remember it, dear? [_short pause_. marie _silent, then struggles to free herself_.] marie. don't, george! go away! please don't! george. [_embarrassed_.] but why should i suddenly go away, marie? marie. go, george, i beg of you! i must lay the table!! now go! george. marie, you said yourself you had no one but me! marie. if you do not want to despise me, please go---- george. [_with forced laugh_.] i despise you? very well--i'll go---- [_turns once more in the door and hesitatingly exits_.] [marie _breaks down, weeping_.] [_curtain_.] end of the second act. act three _same setting. above the centre table a lighted hanging-lamp. another lamp on table, l. the glass doors to garden are open. full moonshine falls partly into the room. at rise of curtain, at table, l., are_ brauer, mrs. brauer _and_ pastor. _at centre table_, gertrude _and_ george. _it is evening_. brauer. now, then, tell marie to bring the bowl! pastor. ah! you are going to have a bowl? mrs. brauer. why, of course, pastor. this is st. john's eve. the villagers will set off tar-barrels and bonfires, and we will celebrate it with a bowl. brauer. [_mischievously_.] but perhaps this festival is too heathenish for the clergy---- pastor. bless you, that all depends. if you have not the clergy's sanction, then it is wicked and heathenish---- brauer. but if they are invited, then it is christianly and good? ha, ha----! pastor. well, i did not say that. you had better apply to the consistory, they are better able to decide that point. brauer. ah, pastor, you are a diplomat. well, what are you two doing over there? you are not saying a word. gertrude. george is too lazy. he is drawing little men, and i am writing. brauer. in his place i think i would prefer to draw little women. eh, pastor? george. just as you say, uncle! brauer. [_aside_.] what the devil is the matter with him to-day? come, children, be jolly, this is st. john's eve! ah, here is the punch! now, then, gertrude, lend a hand! [marie _has entered with the bowl and glasses_.] gertrude. yes, papa. brauer. [_drinks_.] excellent, marie! superb! i tell you, pastor, whoever gets her for a wife will be a lucky man indeed. gertrude. [_with a glass to_ george, _who has gone back and is looking out_.] don't you want some, george? george. [_caressing her, with a shy glance at_ marie.] why, yes, little one, thank you! look, how bright and beautiful the moon shines to-night! everything wrapped as in silvery spider web! how beautiful! marie. [_oppressed_.] they will soon set off the bonfires. brauer. see, see--at last you have spoken; i feared you had lost your tongue. come here, my child. get your glasses, all of you---- your health! the pastor shall give us a toast; yes, yes, pastor!--a genuine pagan toast, well suited to this night! now, tell me, my child, are you obliged to go to the city again to-night? marie. yes, papa dear. brauer. but if i will not allow it? marie. you gave your permission quite two weeks ago, papa dear! brauer. but not to go in the middle of the night! marie. i must go, papa. the men are to be there at seven in the morning, and if i am not there to give instructions the house will never be finished in time. mrs. brauer. never mind, henry, there is no help for it. brauer. but look at her! marie. why, papa, there is nothing the matter with me. i am well and merry---- brauer. you are merry, eh? let me hear you laugh! marie. [_tries to laugh_.] ha, ha, ha----! brauer. [_imitating her_.] yes, yes--ha, ha, ha----! mrs. brauer. come here, my child. [_strokes her hair_.] did you sleep well last night? marie. yes, mama. brauer. but if this stranger should attack you again? pastor. pardon me, but what do i hear? brauer. oh, nothing of importance, pastor. [_to_ marie.] you will take the one o'clock train---- marie. yes, papa. brauer. there is another--at four--t'will be daylight then---- marie. but i would not reach the city in time. brauer. very well, you needn't go to bed, then. george can take you to the depot. marie. [_startled_.] george? george. [_startled and simultaneously_.] what--i? brauer. certainly! why not? pastor. pray do not think me obtrusive; but i am at your service. brauer. no, no, thank you. pastor; your time will come some other day. [_aside_.] it will at least give him something to do. [_meaning_ george.] gertrude. i want to go too, papa! i love moonshine promenades. brauer. no, no, my pet. in the first place, it is very improper for lovers to be out so late at night, without a chaperon. marie. i would much prefer to go alone. i am not at all afraid--and i do not wish to trouble george--or any one else---- brauer. any one else is out of the question, for in this house every one rises at five in the morning. [_to_ george.] now, then, what excuse have you to offer? george. excuse? i? why, none at all, except that she does not want me to go. you heard it yourself! brauer. have you two been quarreling again? mrs. brauer. don't insist, henry, if they don't want to---- brauer. by the way, send for mr. paul--i wish to speak to him. pastor, your health! [_drinks_.] [_at this_ marie _and_ gertrude _go to door c., and speak to some one outside in pantomime. a voice is heard_.] voice. mr. paul! mr. paul! paul. [_from behind scene_.] i am coming in one moment! [_short pause. he enters_.] here i am! brauer. ah, there you are! give him a glass of punch! paul. thank you, i have just had a glass of beer. brauer. very well! now, don't let us disturb you, children! pastor, this is the time to prepare your toast. [_aside to_ paul.] well, have you learned anything of this stranger? paul. not a sign of one, excepting two tramps at the inn, the gendarme placed under arrest; but that was the day before yesterday. brauer. h'm! if i had ever had the slightest reason to doubt her word---- marie, my child, come here to me. marie. yes, papa! brauer. [_looks at her sharply_.] never mind, now. paul. [_aside to_ brauer.] by the way, i saw the old woman again! brauer. sh! not so loud! where? paul. she had money, too---- brauer. i wonder where she stole it? paul. i wonder! the innkeeper said she had a gold piece. but don't you worry, mr. brauer. she will soon give us cause to have her locked up again. she is incorrigible! brauer. does she sleep at the inn? paul. no, sir! at night she leaves there, only to reappear in the morning. brauer. h'm! that would almost be sufficient reason---- george! george. uncle? brauer. i have changed my mind. you must accompany marie! george. just as you say, uncle! brauer. and no quarreling this time, marie! marie. yes, papa. gertrude. [_on the veranda_.] there, there, look! the first bonfire!! [_singing and laughter is heard in distance. a red glow is seen_.] mrs. brauer. have you taken care, mr. paul, to keep them far enough away from the sheds? paul. yes, mrs. brauer! mrs. brauer. for you must know. pastor, last year the sparks came very near setting fire to the straw roofs. gertrude. there is a second one now, and there on the hill, another. see, george, see! how beautiful! george. yes, yes, darling, i see! gertrude. [_pulls him forward softly_.] why do you call me darling to-day? george. well, shan't i? gertrude. oh, of course; but do you love me more to-day? george. i love you always, my pet! gertrude. [_softly and with emotion_.] but you usually call me "little one," and to-day nothing but "darling." brauer. now, then, pastor, we are ready for the toast! take up your glass, and fire away! pastor. i am afraid it will be hardly as wicked and heathenish as you seem to expect. brauer. come, come, pastor, don't keep us waiting! pastor. well, what shall i say? i am not going to preach you a sermon! brauer. no, no, pastor; we are content to wait for that till sunday. pastor. well, then, you see, on a beautiful and dreamy night like this--may i say dreamy? brauer. you may, pastor, you may! pastor. for we all dream at times, more or less, both young and old! brauer. ah, yes! that is a failing we all have!!! pastor. on such a dreamy night, different emotions are aroused within us. we seem to be able to look into the future, and imagine ourselves able to fathom all mystery and heal all wounds. the common becomes elevated, our wishes become fate; and now we ask ourselves: what is it that causes all this within us--all these desires and wishes? it is _love_, brotherly love, that has been planted in our souls, that fills our lives; and, it is life itself. am i not right? and now, with one bound, i will come to the point. in the revelation you will find: "god is love." yes, god is love; and that is the most beautiful trait of our religion--that the best, the most beautiful within us, has been granted us by _him_ above. then how could i, this very evening, so overcome with feeling for my fellow-man--how could i pass _him_ by? therefore, mr. brauer, no matter, whether pastor or layman, i must confess my inability to grant your wish, and decline to give you a genuine pagan toast---- brauer. [_grasps his hand_.] that was well spoken, pastor! pardon me, i was only jesting! george. no, no, dear uncle, not altogether. there i must defend you against yourself. a devout and pious man like yourself, t'was not entire wantonness, your desire to hear something other than religious, and since the pastor has so eloquently withdrawn, i will give you a toast. for, you see, my dear pastor, something of the old pagan, a spark of heathenism, is still glowing somewhere within us all. it has outlived century after century, from the time of the old teutons. once every year that spark is fanned into flame--it flames up high, and then it is called "the fires of st. john." once every year we have "free night." then the witches ride upon their brooms--the same brooms with which their witchcraft was once driven out of them--with scornful laughter the wild hordes sweep across the tree-tops, up, up, high upon the blocksberg! then it is, when in our hearts awake those wild desires which our fates could not fulfill--and, understand me well, dared not fulfill--then, no matter what may be the name of the law that governs the world on that day, in order that that one single wish may become a reality, by whose grace we prolong our miserable existence, thousand others must miserably perish. part because they were never attainable; but the others, yes, the others, because we allowed them to escape us like wild birds, which, though already in our hands, but too listless to profit by opportunity, we failed to grasp at the right moment. but no matter. once every year we have "free night." and yonder tongues of fire shooting up towards the heavens--do you know what they are? they are the spirits of our dead and perished wishes! that is the red plumage of our birds of paradise we might have petted and nursed through our entire lives, but have escaped us! that is the old chaos, the heathenism within us; and though we be happy in sunshine and according to law, to-night is st. john's night. to its ancient pagan fires i empty this glass. to-night they shall burn and flame up high--high--and again high! will no one drink to my toast? [_pause_.] marie. [_trembling_.] i will! [_they look into each other's eyes and clink glasses_.] gertrude. [_hesitatingly_.] i, too, george! george. [_stroking her hair sadly, patronizing_.] yes, yes; you, too. brauer. [_suddenly bursting out_.] you--you idiots! what do you know about it, anyway? i--i didn't understand it myself, but i have a presentiment there is something sinful about it all! pastor. my dear mr. von harten, above all your heathenism watches our good old god, our father, and therefore i fearlessly drink to your toast. brauer. well, well, i'll not be the only exception. [_drinks also. a glow much nearer, behind the trees. louder yelling and laughter_.] well, what is it now? paul. they are dangerously near the sheds now. brauer. didn't i tell you to take the proper precautions? paul. i did. they had only three tar-barrels early this evening. where they got the fourth from, i don't know. brauer. i'll wager they found the barrel of axle-grease! why didn't you lock it up? paul. you know yourself, on this day no lock or key is of any avail. brauer. don't talk nonsense, but see what's to be done. i will be there myself, presently. be quick! [paul _exits_.] i can't depend on anybody these days! where is my hat? [marie _gets it_.] gertrude. can't we go, too, papa? brauer. will you come, wife? mrs. brauer. yes, gladly, but stop scolding. there isn't a breath of air stirring, and therefore no danger. brauer. come along, pastor! [_exit_ brauer, george, gertrude _and_ mrs. brauer.] pastor. won't you accompany us, miss marie? marie. no, thank you, pastor! pastor. then may i remain with you for a while? several voices. [_outside, calling_.] pastor, pastor! pastor. [_speaks through door_.] i will be with you in a moment! [_to_ marie.] well, may i! marie. why, certainly, if it gives you pleasure! pastor. pleasure is hardly the proper word. i wanted to thank you for insisting upon my writing the bridal-poem. it has been a work of pleasure, i assure you. do you like it? marie. it is very nice. pastor! pastor. have you memorized it already? marie. i think so! pastor. then would you mind reciting it for me? come, i will assist you: "the flowers, the beautiful blossoms"---- well?---- "are a maiden's----" marie. no, pastor! pastor. you are acting so strangely to-day! you are so shy--so---- marie. the st. john's night oppresses me! pastor. that will soon be over. marie. would that it were over now! pastor. perhaps the thought of traveling alone at night has something to do with it? marie. oh! [_recovering herself--lightly_.] you are right, pastor; but it can't be helped! pastor. shall i come with you? oh, i'll find something to be done in the city. i won't even have to ask permission. anyway, i am longing for a glimpse of the good old town. i will inform the old pastor--i don't think he has retired as yet---- marie. then please tell him---- i usually visit him myself every day, but now, just before the wedding, it's impossible for me to call. will you please tell him that? i am so fond of him! tell him that, and in thought i kiss his hand. pastor. certainly. and may i accompany you! marie. no, thank you. pastor! pastor. now let us speak openly, miss marie. i have been watching you all the evening. you appear to me--what shall i call it--like a mouse before a cat! you need a protector; some one in whom you can confide, some one---- marie. and so you would like to be my father confessor! eh, pastor? pastor. you know very well we do not have that institution in the protestant church, though at times it might prove a blessing---- marie. [_mischievously_.] and then again it might not? pastor. you are quite right. we should all rely more upon ourselves---- marie. [_with emphasis_.] i do that, pastor, i do! pastor. yes, my dear marie--pardon me, i should not have said that--and yet i must speak frankly with you; you seem to have a fear--a dread---- marie. of the cat? pastor. i wish i knew!!! marie. but supposing i were the cat, who would then be the mouse? pastor. that would be sinful and wicked in you!!! marie. but one cannot be the cat and the mouse at the same time? pastor. yes, one can! but he who does, plays with his own destruction! marie. and if one destroys one's self, who cares? pastor. you should not talk like that, miss marie. marie. oh, it is all nonsense, all nonsense, for to-night is st. john's night. do you see that fire yonder. pastor? they had to put it out! but there, on the hill--look, there, there! how beautiful! how wild! pastor. yes, and when you look closely, it is nothing more than a mass of dirty lumber. marie. for shame, pastor! pastor. like everything that blazes, except the sun---- marie. you should not have said that, pastor--you should not. i don't want it! i will not have you slander my st. john's fires! i want to enjoy it once--only once--then nevermore!!! pastor. [_disturbed_.] my dear miss marie, i do not understand the reason for your agitation, and i will not question you! but of your struggles--you shall know that you have a friend near you, on whom you can rely, now and for all time to come. marie, i don't know how to express myself; but i desire to shield and protect you all your life--i will worship you---- marie. pastor, do you know who and what i am? pastor. i do! marie. and who my mother is? pastor. i know all! marie. pastor, how am i to understand this? pastor. marie, i know i should not have spoken, at least not now. i should have waited--it was stupid of me, i know; but i have such a fear--a fear for you. you are going to the city to-night and i don't know what may happen! but you shall know before you go, where you belong and that your future is assured! marie. [_with a sigh of relief--almost a sob_.] ah--ah--ah----! pastor. marie, i do not want an answer now. besides, i must first notify my father. though he is but a simple farmer, he shall not be slighted-- marie---- marie. [_shrinking--dully_.] yes, that is--perhaps--what i need--ah! [_sinks in chair_.] pastor. why, what is the matter? shall i get you a glass of water? or would you prefer wine? marie. [_with an effort_.] wine--wine--there--in the bowl! [_he helps her--she drinks_.] thank you! [_stirred_.] no one has ever waited on me before! pastor. i will carry you upon my hands marie. very well, pastor; but no one must know before the wedding! pastor. perhaps on the wedding day--at the wedding feast? papa might make the announcement; that would be such a fitting occasion! marie. no, no! i will have to much to do then. pastor. then, when the happy pair have gone? marie. [_with sudden, impulsive decision_.] yes, when they have gone! pastor. [_takes her hand_.] thank you. miss marie. [_voices are heard outside_.] marie. sh--[_withdrawing her hand_.] gertrude. [_enters_.] ah, here you are, pastor; we have been looking for you everywhere! pastor. i am coming now, miss gertrude. gertrude. it's too late, pastor, they are all returning! pastor. impossible! well, well, how the time passes, and one hardly knows how! [_exit_ pastor.] marie. [_embracing_ gertrude.] will you forgive me, darling? gertrude. [_timidly_.] i have nothing to forgive! marie. do not say that! i have done everything--everything--you must---- [_enter all_.] brauer. well, my dear pastor, time stands still for no one; so you had better stop excusing yourself and empty your glass. 'twill all come out right in the end. pastor. i think i had better go now; for here every one is making fun of me. brauer. pastor, i need hardly tell you, that you are always welcome in this house. pastor. i am sure of it, mr. brauer! if i did not think so, i would not take that matter so lightly---- brauer. [_jokingly threatens him with finger_.] pastor---- pastor. [_with a happy glance at_ marie.] good-night. [_shakes hands with all_.] brauer. good-night! pastor. good-night, miss marie! marie. [_shaking his hand_.] good-night, pastor! [george, _with a questioning glance, advances a step or two_.] brauer. george, see the pastor to the gate! george. [_as though awakening_.] yes, uncle. [_both exit_.] mrs. brauer. well, henry, everything has quieted down! brauer. it's about time, too! why, its eleven o'clock! come, let's to bed. gertrude. good-night, papa! brauer. [_affectionately_.] good-night, my pet! marie. good-night! brauer. by the bye--when will you be back? marie. to-morrow, about ten, papa! brauer. now be careful; no unnecessary exertions--understand? the day of the wedding will be hard enough on all of us. marie. yes, papa dear! [_kisses him_.] george. [_enters at this moment_.] we have still an hour and a quarter till train time. i will wait for you here, marie. mrs. brauer. you might help each other pass away the time. gertrude. i want to sit up, too. brauer. tut, tut, ray pet; you go to bed, you need the rest. gertrude. [_whiningly_.] well then, good-night. marie. [_in silent fear_.] i can't stay here---- mama, i want to ask you about something---- george. then you will come down in time for the train? marie. yes, in time for the train. mrs. brauer. good-night, george. george. good-night, auntie! [_exit_ mrs. brauer, gertrude _and_ marie.] brauer. you know where my cigars are? george. yes! brauer. and if you need anything to keep you awake--i have left the key---- george. [_in monosyllables_.] thank you! brauer. well, what in---- george. what's the matter---- oh, my dear uncle, if i have failed to pay you the necessary respect, i beg your pardon. brauer. respect? oh, damn you and your respect! george. uncle---- brauer. see here, perhaps i did wrong? george. you--wrong? how? brauer. have you forgotten what passed between us yesterday? george. my dear uncle, that seems to me so far, far away! brauer. it strikes me you are going at a pretty fast gait! george. at any rate, uncle, do not worry about it. it will all come out right in the end. [_as he is listening towards the door, gives a sudden start_.] brauer. what's the matter? george. i thought i heard some one---- brauer. some one of the family perhaps, upstairs. very well, then all is well, my boy! good-night, my son. george. good-night, uncle! [brauer _exits, shaking his head_.] george. [_sits at table--tries to read--listens, goes to door c.--calls out softly into the garden_.] who is there? [_still softer_.] is that you, marie? gertrude. [_whining outside_.] it's only me! george. [_surprised_.] gertrude, what do you want? gertrude. [gertrude _enters in nightgown and flowing hair_.] i am so uneasy, george dear; i just wanted to look at you once more before going to sleep. george. but, little one, if papa should see you like this---- quick, go back to your room. gertrude. i cannot, my heart is so heavy. george. how so, dear? gertrude. george, i have been thinking; i really am not good enough to be your wife. george. wha--what nonsense---- gertrude. i am too silly--oh, yes; i never know what to say to you! i am so stupid. george. why, my child--darling--pet---- gertrude. a while ago, out in the garden, and the moon shining so brightly, you walked by my side in deep silence---- george. why, mama was with us---- gertrude. george, it is yet time. if you love some one else---- george. in heaven's name, child, have you ever mentioned this to any one? gertrude. only to papa; he was very angry and scolded me dreadfully. george. h'm! now listen to me, my pet---- gertrude. rather than make you unhappy, i would jump into the river---- george. in the first place, your presence here in this condition is decidedly improper---- gertrude. but we are to be married in three days---- george. so much more reason. [_stroking her hair_.] what beautiful hair you have, dear! gertrude. [_happily_.] do you like it? george. and in the second place, i will have none other than you. we will love each other very much. at first you will be my playmate--and then--later, perhaps--my real mate. are you satisfied? gertrude. yes, dear! george. and now, you must go to bed! gertrude. then i will wrap myself in my hair--and i will dream of you and what you said--that it is beautiful--and so i will fall asleep. good-night, george dear! george. [_kisses her on the forehead_.] good-night! [_he gloomily takes position at table with a sigh when_ gertrude _exits, covering his face with his hands_. marie _enters softly_.] george. marie, you have come---- marie. it is early yet, is it not? george. we have a full hour more. have they all gone to bed? marie. i think so. all the lights are out. george. come, sit here---- marie. i--i--i think i will go back upstairs! george. no, no; here is something to read! you see, i'm reading myself. marie. very well. [_sits_.] but, george, i would really prefer to go to the depot alone. george. [_softly_.] marie! [_she shuts her eyes_.] are you tired? [_she shakes her head_.] one whole hour i will have you all to myself! marie. george---- george. marie!!! marie. the fires have all gone out, i suppose? george. ah, yes; a small pyre of wood--it is soon burned down! marie. and then it's as dark as ever!!! but, george, how beautifully you spoke this evening! i have never heard anything like it before. george. you were the only one who understood me. marie. no wonder! it was as though i spoke the words myself--that is, i don't mean to say---- george. what, dear? marie. oh, you know! george. but i don't know! marie. [_after a pause_.] george, i have something to confess to you. in fact, that is why i came down here so soon. you shall know it, you alone. i have this day given my hand---- george. [_with a start_.] _marie!!!!_ marie. [_astonished_.] well? george. to whom? marie. why, to the pastor! who else could it be? there is no one else! george. [_reproachfully_.] why did you do that? why did you? marie. i have my whole life before me, and the fires [_pointing to fields and to heart_] will not burn forever---- george. [_bitterly_.] you should not have done it--you--it is a---- marie. sh--not so loud! george. but you do not love him at all!!!! marie. how do you know? george. [_bitterly_,] how? of course, how should i? i don't know! pardon me! well, i congratulate you! marie. [_quietly_.] thank you! george. but why am i the first one to be taken into your confidence? why not uncle? we two have not been so intimate as---- marie. no, we two have not been very intimate--i only thought---- george. so, then, we have both our burden; and we soon will have to part. therefore we can now safely speak of the past. my manuscript you read! you even went so far as to perjure yourself on account of it. oh, you don't mind a little thing like that! i wish i were the same! you know the subject of my verses, and we must now understand each other fully. now, tell me openly, why, why did you treat me so unkindly, to say nothing worse, in former days? marie. did i, george? george. 'tis hardly necessary to remind you of all the indignities you heaped upon me. it almost seemed to me as if you purposely intended to drive me mad. do you remember the day when i followed you into the cellar, and you turned and ran out and locked the door, and compelled me to remain there all night? marie. [_smiling_.] yes, i remember! george. why did you do that? marie. that is very simple. you are count von harten--and i?--i am but a poor lithuanian foundling--aye, worse than that. if you follow such a one into the cellar, she knows, or at least thinks she knows, your purpose. george. so, that was the reason! and at the same time you went under your manzanillo-tree to die? marie. [_nods_.] george. and did you never realize the real state of things? gertrude was then still a child--and because i could not win you, i took her. did that thought never occur to you? marie. how could i ever dare to think that? george. but later? marie. the day before yesterday, when i read your book, i felt it for the first time. george. and now, it is too late---- marie. yes, now it is too late! had i felt then as i do now, i would not have resisted you---- george. marie, do you know what you are saying? marie. [_breaking out_.] oh i don't care, i don't care! it is my fate. you must rule and govern--and i--i must serve; and in the end--we both must die---- george. marie, you should be loved, you must be loved--beyond all senses--loved beyond all measure! marie. [_pointing towards r_.] he loves me! george. he?--bah!!! marie. don't be angry, george dear; you don't dare love me yourself. you can never be anything to me! george. no, never; for this house must be kept clean. no, no, this house must not be soiled. we would both suffocate in our shame. but we can think of what might have been; that is not sin, is it? marie. what were your words? "they are the wild birds of paradise, that have escaped us." that was it, was it not? how beautiful! george. i don't remember! marie. but i am not a wild bird, george; i am tame--so tame---- george. you are tame? marie. for you, george dear, only for you!!! george. _marie_, my love! [_strokes her hair affectionally, then moves away_.] no, no, we must be strong! only a few minutes ago, gertrude came softly down those stairs; if she should come again--my god----! marie. what did she want? george. you can imagine---- marie. the poor thing! but you will love her? george. as well as possible! but then i must not think of you. marie. but you must not think of me--and i will try and not think of you! george. never, marie? marie. only occasionally--on holidays---- george. only then? marie. and on st. john's eve---- george. when the fires are burning? marie. yes, and when the fires are out, then i shall cry---- george. marie!!!! marie. no, no, george, sit still--i will sit here. some one might be in the garden, after all. george. they are all sound asleep! marie. even so! we must be brave; not for mine--but for your sake, george. george. why did you say that? what do you think of me? marie. i think you are hard-hearted. george. and yet you love me? marie. yes, i love you, for your own sake. for you have had to struggle and fight--and that is what made you what you are. i have also fought and struggled; but i have lost faith in myself--lost faith in everything. if you only knew!! sometimes i am afraid of myself--sometimes i would commit murder, so restless and without peace i am. george. with me you would have found peace. we would have worked together and planned through half the nights--and you know how ambitious i am. marie. and so am i, for you! you should be the first and greatest. they all shall bow before you--i myself will kneel before you and say to you: "you love to rule and command? now rule--now command!!!!!!" [_throws herself before him--her arms around his knees, looking up_.] george. marie, in heaven's name rise! if any one should see you so---- marie. let them see me---- george. _marie!!_ marie. [_rising_.] you are right. it was low in me. but he who originates where i do, is low--so low---- george. don't think of it, marie! think of this house and all the love it has given you! marie. how quiet everything is--not a sound to be heard--as silent as the grave---- george. then be content, for they have buried us together! marie. if they only had----! george. and see the pale moon--how it throws its silvery rays over the garden--and yonder is your manzanillo-tree. marie. yes, yes, do you see it? george. and its white, trembling leaves; see, see, each one seems alive--though not a breath of air is stirring. come, let us go to it. marie. [_cowering_.] no, no, i think it is time--we must---- george. sh!--sh!---- marie. what is it? george. there--something moved. it must be gertrude. [_goes to door c. and calls_.] "gertrude!!!" [_short pause_.] marie. you must have been mistaken! george. no, no; i saw a shadow. "gertrude!" remain here, i'll go see! [_exit into garden_.] marie. oh, i'm so afraid, george--so afraid----! [_pause_.] [george _returns, pale and agitated, trying to control himself_.] marie. who was it? who was it? george. oh, no one--no one---- marie. yes, there was--i can see it in your face!! was it gertrude? george. no. marie. then it was papa? george. no, no. marie. george, you are as pale as death; what has happened? tell me! george. nothing, nothing! there was a stranger in the garden--i sent him away. marie. what stranger? george. [_pained_.] do not ask me! marie. [_dully_.] oh, i know--i know! it was--my mother---- george. well, since you have said it---- marie. what did she want? but why do i ask? [_covers her face with her hands_.] oh, my god--my god!!!! george. _marie_! marie. [_suddenly_.] close the blinds--i have a fear--tight--so!! now put up the bars--so--and here, so--so---- george. [_embracing her_.] _marie_! my darling!!!! marie. hold me tight!!! george. like this? marie. yes, like that! [_she moves close to him_.] here i want to sit still---- george. [_looks at watch_.] if we only have time to catch that train---- [_the whistle of a locomotive is heard in the distance. he starts_.] did you hear that? marie. [_smilingly_.] yes! george. what was it? marie. it was the train! george. can you hear it this far? marie. at night you can! george. [_sinks into chair l. of table, back to audience_.] my god! what shall we do now? marie. [_softly_.] i will tell you what we will do! we will sit still here--quietly--till the next train--till four o'clock!!!! [_throws herself upon george, passionately kissing him_.] george. marie! my love, my all! [_kisses her_.] marie. kiss me again! now, then, do you understand me? i am my own master, and care not for myself---- to-night is st. john's night!!!!!!! george. and the fires are burning low---- marie. no, no; let them burn---- george. yes, yes; let them burn--they shall burn!!!!! [marie _disengages herself_.] marie. kiss me no more--let me kiss you--i will take all upon myself--i will take all the consequences--_my mother is a thief, and so am i! george_-- [_throws herself into his arms with complete abandon_.] [_lights out. curtain_.] end of the third act. act four _same setting. morning. centre table is decorated with flowers_. brauer, george _and_ gertrude _are on veranda at rise of curtain. in open door, c._, mrs. brauer. _all listening to quartet, singing, "this is the day of our lord" by kreutzer. as curtain rises_, katie _enters, l., listens also, and dries her eyes. at the end of the serenade_, brauer _starts to make an address, and with_ george _and_ gertrude _leaves the veranda_. katie. mrs. brauer, i would like to speak to you a moment. mrs. brauer. [_wiping her eyes_.] what is it, katie? katie. [_sniveling_.] oh, i'm so happy---- [_church bells are heard softly in the distance_.] mrs. brauer. there go the church bells. have you put plenty of wine and luncheon in the arbor? katie. yes, ma'am! miss marie and i have prepared a lot! mrs. brauer. what did you want to see me about? katie. i wanted to ask you about the roast; shall we put it in the oven now, and just warm it up for dinner? miss marie thinks---- mrs. brauer. never mind! i'll be down in the kitchen in a moment! katie. and another thing, mrs. brauer; won't you please try and get miss marie to take a little rest? she has been hard at work since two o'clock this morning, and all day yesterday she was in the city. she can't stand it. mrs. brauer. oh, on a day like this, we must all put our shoulders to the wheel. katie. ah, mrs. brauer, you and i are old, and not much good for anything but work; but we must spare our young people. why, at times she almost gives out. mrs. brauer. well, i will come and see for myself. katie. thank you!!! oh, such a day!!! i am so happy---- [_exit both l_.] brauer. [_enters with_ george _and_ gertrude.] thank goodness, that's over. let me see: first it was the old soldiers, then the turners, and now the singing society---- but do you know, i am so sick of all this wine--give me a brandy. gertrude. [_gets drink from sideboard_.] yes, papa! brauer. [_to_ george.] and what's the matter with you? george. [_with a sigh_.] nothing! brauer. [_imitating him_.] nothing!!! i can't quite make you out---- here, have a drink? george. no, thank you! brauer. well, then, don't! your health, my pet! gertrude. drink hearty, papa! brauer. [_rises_.] the carriage will arrive here sharply at ten! understand? george. yes! brauer. and your friend from the city--we will find him at the station? george. yes; he arrives quarter to ten. brauer. for we must have two witnesses.--do you know what i would like? [_tapping him on breast_.] i would like to be able to look in there. gertrude. oh, let him alone, papa! he is now my george. if i am satisfied with him---- brauer. you are right! he who gets my child can laugh--but he also shall laugh. understand? [_exit r_.] gertrude. never mind him, george dear. you need not laugh if you don't want to. not on my account. [_bells_.] do you hear, george? the church bells, ringing softly, singing, like human voices!!!! that is for you and me!! george. why for us? gertrude. it is the old pastor's desire; half an hour this morning, and then again this afternoon, when we exchange rings. do you know, george, mama says a bride's dream the night before her wedding is surely an omen. do you believe that? george. [_preoccupied_.] yes. gertrude. i dreamed last night of a large, yellow wheat-field, in which a poor little rabbit had hidden itself; and high above, in the air, i saw a large hawk. then it appeared to me that i was the little rabbit, and in fear and dread i called out "george! george!" when suddenly it shot down upon me!--just think---- george. and then? gertrude. then i awoke. the cold perspiration stood thickly upon my brow---- oh, george dear, you will protect me? you won't let any one hurt me, will you? for i am only a poor little rabbit, after all---- george. [_staring before him_.] my god! gertrude. george, i wanted to ask you something. george. well? gertrude. you don't love some one else, do you? george. [_disturbed_.] but, my child---- gertrude. well, you know that if a bride cannot laugh on her wedding day, she loves another---- george. why, nonsense---- gertrude. [_unshaken_.] oh, yes, george; i read it myself. and even if you do, george, i feel so--my love for you is so great, it could move mountains. i love you so dearly---- she will surely learn to forget you, i will love you so much. george. but, my pet---- gertrude. no, no, george. you see, i don't blame you so much. how could i? for what am i, compared to other women?--george, does she love you so very much? george. who? gertrude. oh, you know. but don't worry, george dear; she will forget you in time! don't you remember robert, our neighbor's son? he threatened to kill himself if i didn't marry him, and he has already forgotten me! and to-day, when we stand at the altar, at the doxology and the exchange of rings, i will nudge you softly, and then we will both pray to our good father in heaven to make it easy for her; for no one shall be unhappy on this day! why, george, you are crying!!!! george. crying--i? gertrude. why, yes! here are two large tears running down your cheek. [_wipes his eyes with her handkerchief_.] so there---- george. tell me, my pet; and if we should be parted, after all? gertrude. how could that be possible? george. if i should die--or---- gertrude. [_embracing him_.] no, no! don't say that! don't say that!!! [marie _appears in door, seeing embrace_.] george. [_startled_.] some one is here---- gertrude. it is only marie. marie. [_pointedly_.] you seem to be particularly affectionate to-day. gertrude. [_miffed_.] we always love each other. oh, perhaps that doesn't please you---- marie. it is nothing to me! gertrude. [_half jesting_.] besides, what do you want here? isn't there anything to do in the kitchen? marie. [_stung, but controlling herself_.] mama has sent me---- gertrude. yes, yes, dear; you are just in time to dress my hair. have you hairpins? marie. [_shaking her head_.] i will get some. [_reels_.] gertrude. [_affectionately_.] what's the matter, dear? oh, you must be tired! marie. i am not tired. gertrude. yes, yes, you are. now you sit down here. i will fetch them myself. [_quick exit_.] marie. [_full of fear_.] gertrude!!! george. i must speak with you! marie. speak; i am listening. george. why this tone? does it perhaps mean that between us all is over? marie. if it is or is not, it matters little. george. am i, then, to understand---- marie. my god! have you not gertrude? but now i saw her in your arms! what do you want with me? george. i must speak with you---- marie. not now---- gertrude. [_re-enters_.] here are the hairpins. [marie _takes them_.] i have also brought my dressing-sacque and combs. now we will excuse you for a little while, george dear. you can give your judgment later. george. [_with a glance at_ marie.] may i not remain? gertrude. no, no. you would criticise and find fault, and embarrass marie, and me, too. now be good, george, and go into the garden. [george _exits_.] marie. [_holding sacque_.] will you put this on? gertrude. no, i will put it around me. marie. as you please. how do you want your hair dressed, high or low? gertrude. but marie, we had decided upon that! have you forgotten? marie. oh, pardon me--i--of course we had! gertrude. then give me a kiss! [marie _suddenly takes her head in both hands and stares at her_.] gertrude. [_frightened_.] why do you look at me so strangely? marie. [_embraces her fiercely_] my darling!!!! gertrude. oh, you hurt me! marie. perhaps you hurt me, too---- gertrude. i? how so? marie. [_has begun to comb_.] how can you ask? you are about to be married--and--and--i--i am jealous of you! gertrude. just wait, marie, dear. [_sings_.] "in a year, in a year, when the nightingale comes----" marie. [_intensely_.] when the nightingale comes? gertrude. you will be pastor's wife. [_laughs_.] [marie, _with one braid in her hand, bending back, laughing loudly and forced_.] gertrude. [_in pain_.] oh, you are pulling my hair---- marie. any one as happy as you should be able to bear a little pain. there! i will braid it into your hair--for you are happy, are you not? very happy? gertrude. yes! i am--that is--i would like to be--but george--he is so sad. marie. _george_? gertrude. yes! marie. [_lurkingly_.] perhaps you were right! perhaps he _does_ love another! gertrude. [_softly groaning_.] oh, why did you say that? marie. because---- no, no--how could he? that was wicked in me, wasn't it? how could he think of another, when he looks at you? gertrude. no, no, marie, you are right! i told him so myself! marie. [_slowly and marked_.] and what did he say? gertrude. he?--he said nothing! and then--he cried---- marie. [_triumphantly_.] he cried? george cried? have you ever seen him do that before? gertrude. no, never! marie. [_to herself_.] he cried---- gertrude. and then he said: "what if we should be parted, after all?" marie. if who should be parted--you and he? gertrude. yes--if he should die---- marie. if he--oh, that is what he meant! oh, well, he just wanted to say something. [_with forced lightness_.] gertrude. of course he did. but what about the other woman? oh, i didn't let him see that i cared--and for the time i didn't care, really; but now, when i think of it! my god!--if it were really so! if i only knew!!!!!!! marie. of course, he would not tell you! gertrude. do you think he would tell any one else? marie. yes, sooner than tell you. gertrude. yes! i suppose so! marie. shall i ask him? gertrude. oh, if you would do that for me---- marie. there now, it is done. here is the comb and the rest of the hairpins. now go! gertrude. and do you really think he would tell you? marie. i am sure he will. gertrude. oh, marie, how grateful i shall be to you---- marie. [_pushes her out of the door_.] go now, go! [_stretches herself_.] ah--ah--ah---- [_calls softly_.] george! [_there is a knock at the door_.] come in! paul. [_enters_.] pardon me, miss marie; is mr. brauer in? marie. no, mr. paul! paul. the assistant pastor would like to speak to him--but here he is, himself. pastor. [_enters_.] good-morning, miss marie! marie. [_offers her hand hesitatingly_.] good-morning! pastor. i will wait here, mr. paul! paul. then, miss marie, will you please give me the key to the cellar? i want to put the beer on the ice. marie. [_gets key from keyboard_.] here it is. paul. thank you! [_exit_.] [_pause_.] pastor. and have you nothing to say to me? marie. what shall i say, pastor? pastor. are you not happy this day? marie. [_hard_.] no! pastor. not even on account of our betrothal? marie. we will have no betrothal, pastor! pastor. what are you saying? marie. i shall leave this place---- pastor. _you_---- marie. to-day, i leave this house! pastor. pardon me, if i have forced my attentions upon you---- marie. no! you have not! pastor. my attentions were honorable, i assure you---- marie. thank you, pastor, i know that; but---- pastor. then it is not on my account you are leaving? marie. certainly not! pastor. does any one here know of your intention? marie. no one! pastor. miss marie, i am still a young man; if i should mention such a word as "life's happiness," it would, perhaps, sound absurd. therefore, i will not speak of myself. my fate is in my own hands. but if you realize this moment what you owe to this house--and i say this not for mine, nor for their sake, i say it for yours and yours alone; though i am but a poor mortal--it pains me--but be that as it may--marie, if you cause a discord in this house, the blame will rest upon yourself. marie. perhaps! pastor. pardon me--i will not question you. i wish to know nothing; that, in the end, is always the best. did i not love you as well as myself, i would not speak another word; but as matters stand now, i will say one--aye, one more word--i would not have dared to say otherwise. the greatest, the highest thing one possesses in this world, is his life's _melody_--a certain strain that ever vibrates, that his soul forever sings--waking or dreaming, loudly or softly, internally or externally. others may say: "his temperament or his character is so, or so." he only smiles, for he knows his melody and he knows it alone. you see, miss marie, my life's happiness you have destroyed, but my life's melody you can not take from me. that is pure and will always remain so. and now i say to you, miss marie, if you fill this house, where you have obtained everything you possess--honor, bread, and love--if you fill this house with sorrow--if you dare to sin against your father and your mother---- marie. one moment, pastor. my father and my mother--what do you know about them? my father i don't know myself, but my mother? ah yes, i know her well; and from her i have inherited my life's melody. this melody has a beautiful text. do you want to know what it is, pastor? it is, "_thou shalt steal_. steal everything for thyself--thy life's happiness--thy love--all--all. only others will enjoy it in the end." yes, pastor, my mother is a thief. on st. john's eve she came stealthily over yonder garden hedge; and as my mother, so am i! and now, pastor, ask me no more; i need all my senses, for to-day my entire happiness is at stake! there--now you know all! pastor. yes, now i know! farewell, miss marie. i will forget this day, perhaps; _you_--never---- [_exit_.] gertrude. [_enters door l._] was that george, who just now left? marie. were you at that door, listening? gertrude. _marie_!--for shame!!!!! marie. now go and dress yourself; i will call george. go now, go! gertrude. and will you come and tell me at once? marie. at once! yes!! [gertrude _exits_.] [marie _calling softly_.] george! george! george. [_enters from veranda_.] are you alone? marie. [_nods_.] george. have you arranged it so? marie. you wished to speak to me, so i have arranged it! george. marie, i wished to tell you. one hour more i am a free man--and my mind is made up. it is yet time to change our fates. what will you answer me? marie. answer you? why, i don't know what you want. george. you know it well enough. i want _you_! do you hear me? _you_, who belong to me for life--i want you! marie. [_softly--happily_.] i thought the fires were out--and you had forgotten me--and now you want me? george. [_softly_.] are you not mine? are you not my wife in the eyes of heaven? marie. yes, but in the eyes of the world it is _gertrude_! george. must it, then, be so? marie. [_doubtingly_.] go--go--you love her---- george. yes, i do love her. how could i help that? do you not also love her? marie. [_bitterly_.] ah, i don't know. a few moments ago, when i saw her in your arms--and you wept, too--only, because you love her!! oh, but i can bear it!! i will bear it like--like--ah!---- but there--that is no one's affair but mine---- george. so, so, that is no one's affair but yours, eh? you might have invented a sweeter torture. i meant to remain an honorable man all my life; if unable--well, there are plenty of bullets left. marie. and do you wish to die? george. i do not want to, i must! marie. _george_, then take me with you? [_he shakes his head_.] for years i have carried the wish in my heart--to kill you! then i would kiss and love you like mad--and then follow you into eternity---- george. nonsense, girl, nonsense! can't you see, how one turns round and round and round in a circle, till at last to find no other escape than death? marie. i am not afraid to die; though with you, i'd rather live---- george. to live, dear, will require more courage for both of us. marie. how so? george. can you ask? here in this house, to which we owe everything--both you and i? where they gave us food, shelter and love? after all that, would you have the courage to destroy their happiness? marie. the good old pastor used to say: "you must have the courage to do everything, except to do wrong." i would even have the courage to do wrong. george. shall i put you to the test? marie. if you will give me your hand now and say to me: "come, we will run away, through yonder garden gate--just as we are--now, this very moment"--you shall see how i will run! george. what?--secretly--without telling any one? is that what you mean? marie. don't you? george. [_laughs bitterly_.] no, no! marie. well, what then? george. face to face, like a man. there he stands--i here. if he will give me back my word, 'tis well. if he refuses [_determined_], 'tis also well. marie. my god! you know his temper! he will kill us--he will kill us both! george. 'tis death either way---- marie. george--think---- george. oh, i have thought of it for two days and two nights. one is madness and the other insanity. there is no other way. [_pained_.] only the thought of the child gives me pain---- marie. of course, if your feelings for gertrude---- george. then it is your desire? [_she nods assent_.] very well! so be it! but remember, it is a question of life and death!--and, therefore, you yourself must be present. marie. [_in terror_.] i?--i be present when you ask him? george. what?--you, who wish to become my helpmate and partner in life, and share all my life's troubles--you would desert me now--desert me in this hour?--and i very much fear, not the worst in store for us? marie. no, no, george; it's not that--not that! but you know how we have feared him and have trembled for years--and now i should---- george. if you can't even do that---- marie. if necessary--yes i--i will do it. george. then--as soon as he returns. [brauer _is heard breathing heavily_.] ah, here he is! brauer. [_enters_.] why, that is almost an old-time biblical miracle. just think, children, think of it---- but where is gertrude? well? can't you speak? marie. [_trembling_.] i think she is dressing! brauer. well, it will interest you also, so listen: i met the assistant pastor as he came from the house here, and he told me, rather piqued, that our good old pastor had suddenly risen from his bed and limpingly insisted upon delivering the wedding discourse himself. well--what's the matter? aren't you glad? george. h'm---- brauer. of course, you are a perfect heathen! but i say, our assistant pastor must have been terribly put out. he had been preparing for that same address for days. he looked rather crestfallen; but then, there is no help for it. george. pardon me, uncle; in order to save time, i must ask you for an interview. brauer. what, again? can't you wait till afternoon? george. no! before the ceremony, if you please. brauer. [_startled_.] wha--oh, i see. i suppose now you will demand more than i am willing to give? marie, leave us [paul _enters_.] well, what now? paul. [_gives him a sign_.] brauer. there, look at him! well, have you lost your tongue, man? why don't you speak? paul. no, no, mr. brauer, i have something to say to you--alone. brauer. then why don't you come nearer? paul. [_whispering_.] we have just now caught the old woman. brauer. [_with a glance at_ marie.] what? marie, you may remain and chat with george for awhile; he is a very interesting young man. [_softly, to_ paul.] where? paul. down in the cellar; just as i wanted to put the beer on the ice, i found her there in a dark corner, loaded down with plunder! brauer. is she there now? paul. yes, struggling like a demon. brauer. undoubtedly this offense will earn her a good long term in prison and we will be rid of her for a long time! but how to get her out of the house? paul. leave that to me mr. brauer; i know a way to keep her quiet. brauer. yes, yes, and in the meantime i will make out the papers and we will hand her over to the gendarme; that will be the best. children, i will be busy for a moment! wait here until i return. george. don't forget, uncle! brauer. no, no. i'll be back in a moment. come, mr. paul! [_both exit_.] george. you are trembling---- marie. am i? george. marie dear, i am with you. no one shall harm you! marie. oh, it is not that. george. what, then? marie. oh, i don't know. it has suddenly come over me so---- [_starts_.] sh! he's coming! [_noise. scuffling of feet and smothered cries are heard_.] george. what is it? marie. in god's name, be still! gypsy. [_calling for help_.] mine daughter! mine mamie! my mamie!! marie. hear? hear? _my mother_! they are taking her away--to prison! sh! be still! no, no; don't open the door! be quiet! be quiet! gypsy. [_not as loud as before_.] oh, mine daughter! my mamie--my mamie----! [_dying out_.] george. will you not go out to her, no matter what she has done? marie. how can i? how can i? i am afraid--afraid---- george. then shall i go? marie. [_frightened_.] no, no; don't leave me!! sh! be quiet! so, quiet! now they have gone! thank heaven! [_again wailing, but very distant_.] hear? hear? let her shriek! let her call! i cannot help her! i am a thief, the same as she. i, too, have come to this house, and i have stolen. but oh, my god, what have i stolen? what have i stolen? george. come, marie, control yourself! think of what we have before us! marie. yes, yes--i'll be quiet! what have we before us? no, no; i will not--i cannot--i---- george. do you mean to---- brauer. [_in door_.] did you hear anything, children? any noise? george. we heard screams and a scuffle. what was the matter? brauer. oh, nothing of any consequence. don't mind it. an old vagabond of a woman, that's all. i have only to sign the papers now, then i'll be back. [_exit_.] george. _marie_! marie. hush, not a word, not a word! she out there must go her way, and i must go mine! george. what do you mean? marie. you said it yourself. 'tis madness! yes, yes; 'tis madness! _all_--_all_! what we do--what we desire--all--all! george. marie! marie. or do you imagine for one moment we could be happy together? no, i know you too well. i know the certain result. you would never forgive yourself nor me, and in the end life would become a burden to me, if only because i was in your way. yes, yes, that would be the end of it all---- george. _marie_, i will be faithful to you forever, let come what may, be it good or bad; you know that! marie. yes, thank god!--yes! george. if there was only the slightest possibility of a chance to escape from all this whirl--then we might be free, we might---- but no matter what we begin, we cannot shake off nor disregard our obligations to this house; never, as long as we live! marie. therefore, what more can you desire? everything on earth we possess, all that was beautiful, all the love, all--all, we gave to each other. there is nothing more to give, for either one of us. st. john's night is past, the fires are out, are dead---- george. and what shall become of us? marie. of you? that i can't tell. perhaps you will be happy, perhaps not; that must all rest with yourself. and i? oh, be content. i will take care of myself. as soon as possible i shall leave this house. not to-day, as i would like--it might create suspicion---- george. and where will you go? marie. ah, the world is large. i shall go far, far away, where no one will ever find me. no, no, not even you, george. george. and if you should go to ruin out there? marie. do not fear. i am the calamity child, the foundling. my hands are hard and callous--see, see! just like my heart is, now. i will work and work, and toil, until i fall exhausted--then i will sleep and rest, until it is time for work again; and thus i will perhaps maintain a miserable existence. george. you say you are a calamity child! well, so am i. but our accounts do not harmonize. you are going out into the world and misery, and it was i who drove you to it. even did i not love you as i do, that thought would follow me forever and embitter my entire life. but, be it so. we are both children of misery! therefore let us grit our teeth, shake each other by the hand--and say farewell! marie. [_softly_.] good-bye, georgie dear--and--don't be afraid--he is not yet coming--and forgive me--do you hear? from to-day--you understand? did i not love you as much as i do, this would not have been quite so hard; but there--there--'tis all right now--i know; i can never be entirely poor now; for once, at least, the fires of st. john have burned for me--once--just once---- george. marie---- marie. [_glancing around_.] don't--don't---- mrs. brauer. [_enters, followed by_ gertrude.] hasn't the carriage arrived yet, children? and where is papa? it is time to go. marie. he is coming now, i believe. brauer. [_enters_.] so there, i am ready to go! but, that is, you wanted to speak to me first? george. [_with a glance at_ marie.] it is all settled now, thank you. brauer. then come, wife, my coat, quick! [_she helps him with frocks after he has divested himself of jacket_.] gertrude. [_aside to_ marie.] did you ask him? marie. [_nods_.] gertrude. and what did he say? marie. it was all nonsense, my pet. he loves you and only you. he never has loved any one else--he says--and he will be very happy--so he says---- gertrude. [_embraces him joyfully_.] my darling george---- brauer. come, come, my child--time enough for that after the ceremony. come! [_all follow him to the door. when_ george _reaches door he turns, and as he takes one parting glance at_ marie, brauer _pushes him off_. marie _stands motionless, looking after them, handkerchief in mouth, nervously forcing it between her teeth_.] [_curtain_.] end of play. transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/honoraplayinfou baukgoog honor a play in four acts by hermann sudermann translated by hilmar r. baukhage with a preface by barrett h. clark * * * copyright, , by samuel french * * * new york | london samuel french | samuel french, ltd. publisher | southampton street - west th street | strand honor the french expression, a "man of the theater," is best exemplified in the person of the german dramatist hermann sudermann. the term is intended to convey the idea of a playwright who is interesting and effective, one who is, in short, master of his trade. the author of "die ehre," which is here presented for the first time to english readers, was for many years a man of the theater in the strictest acceptance of the term. hermann sudermann was born at matziken, prussia, in . after receiving his preliminary scholastic training in his native province, he attended the universities of konigsberg and berlin and immediately after his graduation from the latter institution entered the field of journalism. his first works were short stories and novels, of which "dame care," "regina," and "the song of songs" are the best known. german critics and the german reading public are inclined, of late years, in view of sudermann's repeated failures in the field of drama, to place his fiction on a distinctly higher plane than his plays, and it is true that much of the finer intelligence of the man has gone to the making of his better novels. however, the earlier plays exerted an influence so widespread and are of such unquestioned intrinsic value, that there is some question as to the ultimate disposition of the laurels. "honor" was published in book form in , the year before the founding of the famous "freie buhne," or "free theater," which was to usher in and nourish modern german realism. it was first produced in . while sudermann was not properly speaking a member of the new movement, his early works, "honor" in particular, were shaped by and served partially to create the ideas which the founders of the "freie buhne," arno holz and johannes schlaf, had formulated. but a closer inspection of "honor," of "the destruction of sodom," "magda," and "the joy of living," leads us to the conclusion that sudermann was playing with the naturalistic formula, using it as a means rather than an end. one example will suffice: arno holz invented the phrase "sequential realism," by which he meant the chronological setting down of life in as minute and truthful a manner as possible. he aimed at the photographic reproduction of life; that process he called "art re-making nature." in his own plays, above all in "die familie selicke," written in collaboration with schlaf, his skill in noting details, his quest for truth at all costs, lent a decided air of actuality to the work, and the _appearance_ was what sudermann, who was more of an artist than the pair of young revolutionists, strove to imitate. after all, sudermann is little more than a surface realist, for he incorporated only what seemed to him valuable in the new formulas. sudermann is the lineal descendant of augier, dumas fils and sardou; he introduced into germany a new manner of combining much that was good of the conventional and some that would prove beneficial of the realistic ideas. the long speeches of trast, the numerous asides, the more or less conventional exposition, the rather rhetorical style of the dialog, are reminiscent of the mid-century french dramatists, while the carefully observed types, the attention paid to detail, the occasionally realistic language, are indicative of the new spirit which was about to manifest itself in so concrete a form as the "freie buhne." "honor" is clearly a thesis play: it aims at the presentation and consideration of an idea, a problem, and the problem is that which arises when one's individual principles are at variance with those laid down in a conventional society. in germany "honor" is not so much a personal matter as a fixed code applicable to situations, and an individual who finds himself in a certain situation must have recourse to the code, not his own convictions. sudermann in this play sets himself the task of opposing the current conception of honor, and in trast's mouth he places what arguments he wishes to have advanced. trast is what the french call the "raisonneur": he who reasons. this method is a very direct but rather bald one, as the audience is likely, nowadays at least, to resent a preacher who is only too obviously doing his duty. it prefers the method followed by another very skilful writer of thesis plays, brieux, who in his "red robe" allows the thesis to unfold itself before the eyes of the spectators rather than permit a "raisonneur" to expound his personal ideas. but in sudermann's day the technic of the drama was not so far advanced as it was twelve years later, when the french dramatist was able to employ means to his end which were artistic in the highest degree. yet sudermann always lacked the sincerity and earnestness of brieux, for he considered the play primarily as a means to tell a story in as effective a manner as possible. brieux's purpose has always been to expose a state of affairs and argue about it. as a consequence, sudermann never fell into the error of allowing the thesis to overshadow the play. as a matter of fact, he became with years less and less didactic, and took good care that his later plays should be free of encumbering theses, so that now his desire to please the unthinking public has brought him near to artistic bankruptcy. sudermann is clearly a man whose best work is over. "honor" led dramatists to treat the theater more seriously, it taught them to construct plays with a story, and showed that a thesis play is not necessarily a "conversation"; his attention to detail instilled a desire for greater truthfulness in the delineation of character. "honor" and its immediate successors present a series of pictures of lower, middle, and upper class german society of the day which are and will in the future prove of great value for the student of the times and of the drama. barrett h. clark. persons represented. councillor of commerce muhlingk amalie _his wife_ kurt \ > _their children_ leonore / lothar brandt hugo stengel count von trast-saarberg robert heinecke old heinecke his wife auguste \ > _their daughters_ alma / michalski _a joiner, auguste's husband_ frau hebenstreit _the_ \ _gardener's wife_ \ > _in muhlingk's service_ wilhelm _a servant_ / johann _coachman_ / indian servant of count trast _the action takes place in the vicinity of charlottenburg, now a part of berlin_. honor act i. scene:--_a room in_ heinecke's _house--the cheap, lower middle-class decorations and tawdry furnishings are in sharp contrast with two silk-upholstered arm-chairs, which are covered during the first part of the act--and a large gilded mirror. a chest of drawers and several shelves are covered with various worn articles of household use. to the right of the spectator, below the traditional german sofa, is a table with a coffee service. to the left is a long, rough-hewn work-table; upon it are pieces of cardboard, a pile of cardboard boxes and a large paste-pot. beside the table is a workstool._ (frau heinecke _is busily engaged in cleaning the room_. frau hebenstreit _stands on the threshold of the door to the left_.) frau hebenstreit. so it's really true?--your son is home? frau heinecke. sh! sh!--for the lord's sake--he's asleep! frau hebenstreit. there is alma's bedroom? frau heinecke. yes!--i don't know what i'm about!--i'm actually dizzy from joy! (_drops into_ the work-stool) frau hebenstreit. do the folks on the avenue know about it yet?[ ] frau heinecke. he had to report to 'em to-day because they're his boss. to-morrow he'll make the visit. frau hebenstreit. how long has he been gone, anyway? frau heinecke. seven--eight--nine and a half years. it's as long as that since i've seen my boy! (_she sobs_) frau hebenstreit. and did you recognize him right off? frau heinecke. well, how should i? last night about eight--heinecke was half asleep over the lokal anzeiger.[ ] and i'm sitting there sewing a lace hem on alma's underwaist,--that girl's always got to have something new for her underwear!--well, all of a sudden there was a knock, and a man come in, and lord save us if there didn't stand a gentleman, a fine gentleman in a beaver coat--there it hangs!--just feel that beaverskin once!--i thought to myself: it's one of alma's swell acquaintances, one of young herr kurt's friends---- frau hebenstreit. (_listening attentively_) ah---- frau heinecke. for they ain't too stuck up to come around and see us poor folks on the alley--well, as i was saying, he throws his hat and coat on the floor--a real top hat--right down on the floor, mind you!--and he gets right down on his knees in front of me--well, i thought i was losing my mind, but when he calls out; "mother, father, don't you know me?--it's me, robert, your son robert"--well, frau hebenstreit, it was just too good to be true! i'll never get over it! (_she cries_) frau hebenstreit. don't get excited, neighbor; the pleasure won't last! every rat has a head and tail--and a rat's tail is poison, they do say. frau heinecke. how can you say a thing like that! my son is a good son, a fine son. frau hebenstreit. too fine, frau heinecke! when a person's been traveling around in all them foreign lands and living in silks and satins---- frau heinecke. he can have all that here--(_indicating the silk upholstered chairs_) frau hebenstreit. (_with a grimace_) yes, yes,--but whether he will or not---- frau heinecke. whether he will or not, frau hebenstreit! a mother's heart don't reckon with rank and society!--and--good lord! here i am a-standing--where on earth can heinecke be? have you seen heinecke?--the way he has to hobble along with his lame leg! frau hebenstreit. i saw him standing outside with a sign as big as all outdoors, drying his sign he said--and the thermometer at thirty above zero! frau heinecke. let the old man enjoy himself. he was working on that sign half the night. couldn't sleep a wink--neither of us--we was so happy---- (heinecke _enters, limping, with a huge placard. one of his arms is stiff. _) heinecke. hurrah! now we've---- frau heinecke. will you be still! heinecke. (_reading the placard_) "welcome, beloved son, to your father's house." fine, eh? frau hebenstreit. looks for all the world like a target! heinecke. with a heart in the middle! you old--! frau heinecke. hold your tongue!--(_to_ frau hebenstreit) you know how he is! (heinecke _takes a hammer and tacks and climbs on chair to tack up the placard. _) frau hebenstreit. i wonder where your son got all his fine manners anyway? not from _his_ family, did he? frau heinecke. no, nor mine either. it was seventeen years ago, when our boss on the avenue got his title of councillor of commerce--there was a great time: carriages and fireworkings and free beer for all the workmen in the factory. well, my husband was a little bit full--and why not?--pa, quit pounding! when it didn't cost nothing? well, one of the carriages run over him,--broke his leg and his arm! heinecke. (_standing on the stool_) talking about me? yes, that wasn't no joke, neither! (_whistles_) frau heinecke. don't whistle! the folks in front can hear that from the balcony, and they'll send round to find out what's the matter with our family affairs!--and the boss was so tickled over his new title, that he was feelin' free with his pocket-book and he promised to take care of us and give our oldest an education. frau hebenstreit. and did he stick to it? heinecke. (_working_) ah, there! frau heinecke. couldn't 've done better! they gave us a place here on the alley, where, thank god, we still are, and they sent robert off to the school where he got his learning. and when he came back home on his vacations, he was always invited over on the avenue to drink chocolate with whip-cream,--on purpose to play with the little miss. young herr kurt was still sucking a rubber nipple then. frau hebenstreit. that was all before alma--? frau heinecke. (_more quietly_) what do you mean by that? frau hebenstreit. aw, nothing, i---- frau heinecke. and then afterwards they sent him to hamburg to learn about the foreign business, you know--and when he was seventeen off he goes to india, where they say it's so outlandish hot! the councillor's nephew is out there. he's got a big coffee and tea plantation! heinecke. it grows out there just like daisies do around here! (_gets down from the stool_) fine, eh? frau heinecke. and he got along pretty well out there, and, lord, here he is home again and i stand around and---- frau hebenstreit. i'm a-going. good-bye, and don't forget the poison in the rat's tail! (_aside_) it's a pretty kettle of fish! (_she goes out_) heinecke. she's an old poison-toad herself! frau heinecke. jealousy--jealousy--jealousy! heinecke. well! where did you get the pound-cake! frau heinecke. the cook brought it, with the compliments of the miss. heinecke. (_turning away_) what comes from the avenue don't interest me! the boy must have had enough sleep by this time. the factory whistle will blow for the second lunch[ ] in a minute! (_looking lovingly at the placard_) "welcome, beloved son----" frau heinecke. (_suddenly_) father, he's here! heinecke. who? frau heinecke. our boy! heinecke. (_pointing to placard_) we're ready for him! frau heinecke. shh! i heard something! (_listening_) yes, i told you! he's putting on his shoes. when i think of it! there he is a-sitting putting on his shoes, and in a minute he'll come through this door---- heinecke. all i'll say is: "welcome, beloved"--did you put some of that swell soap of alma's on his washstand? frau heinecke. and how many times have i set here and thought to myself: has he even got a decent bed under him?--and--and--have the savages eaten him up already? and now all of a sudden here he is, father--father we've got him again! may the luck keep up! heinecke. look here a minute--does this look all right? frau heinecke. quiet!--he's coming. your tie's slipped up again! i'm ashamed of you! (_smoothes the cover of the arm-chair_) lord, how nervous i am! (robert _bursts into the room and runs to his parents, who stand stiffly before him, embarrassed._) robert. good morning. father!--good morning, mother i (_he embraces his mother and repeatedly kisses her hand_) i am--absolutely--inhumanly--happy! heinecke. "welcome, beloved son"--(_as_ robert _bows over his hand he rubs it on his trousers_) you're going to kiss my hand?!! robert. certainly, if you'll let me! heinecke. (_extending his hand_) now you can see what a good son he is! robert. (_looking about_) and here is where i once--i hardly know--is it really possible?--or am i actually dreaming still? that would be too bad--oh,--and the homesickness!--lord in heaven, that homesickness!--just think! you sit out there at night in some corner, and everything you have left appears about you, living;--mother, father,--the court, the garden, the factory--and then all of a sudden you see the long palm branches waving over you, or a parrot screams in the distance and you come to yourself and realise that you are all alone at the other end of the world! brrr! heinecke. parrots? that must be nice! here only the rich folks can have 'em! robert. yes, and if you only knew how i worried these last years, and even on the journey home, for fear i shouldn't find everything the way my longing had painted it! heinecke. why? robert. there was a man--otherwise a dear friend, my best friend, too--who tried to prepare me for disappointment. you have become foreign, he said, and you shouldn't try to put together what fate has separated so long ago--heaven knows what else he said--and i was almost afraid of him, and you, and myself too! thank god that doesn't bother me any more; every single thing has come out as i hoped! everything i had imagined for ten years is exactly as i expected--there is father--there's mother, sweet and simple and (_tenderly_) a bit of a chatterbox! (_stretching himself_) but what are these two young arms for? just watch! they've learned to make money!---and the sisters will soon be ready too! just see!--and here is father's old paste-pot--(_strokes the paste-pot_) and my confirmation certificate--framed! and the machinery makes the same, dear old noise! frau heinecke. you never slept a wink on account of that old machine--eh? it bumps and bangs the whole night! robert. i was never sung to sleep by a sweeter lullaby, mother. when i was almost asleep i kept saying: snort if you want, puff if you like, you old horse! keep at it, but work as you will while i am lying here in bed, _you_ can't do anything for the glory of the house of muhlingk. _here_ is a lever that must be reckoned with! wasn't that a proud thought?--and then my heart warmed for our benefactor. heinecke. huh! robert. what, father? heinecke. aw, nuthin'! robert. and i have sworn that i won't slacken in his service until i've drawn my last breath! heinecke. i should think by this time you'd have done about enough for them! frau heinecke. you've scraped and slaved for them for ten years! robert. oh, it wasn't as bad as that, mother. but now let's not talk about them this way any more. every day we have one reason or other for thanking the muhlingks. the letters i had from the councillor, and from kurt especially,--he's a partner now,--were like letters from a close friend. heinecke. kurt--oh, he's a fine young gentleman! but as for the rest--"the moor has paid his debt"[ ] as the berliner says--show me the rabble! (robert _swallows his answer and turns away, frowning_) but, bobby, look around! don't you notice anything? he don't see anything, mother! frau heinecke. oh, stop your chatter! heinecke. chatter! ho! when i try to welcome my dear son back to his father's house, then it's chatter! (_leads_ robert _to the placard_) w--what do you say to that, eh? robert. did you make that, father, you with your lame arm? heinecke. ah! i make lots of things. if the poor old cripple didn't take a hand this fine family would have starved long ago!--(_rather roughly_) what are you standing there staring at. mother? where's the coffee? frau heinecke. well, well! (_starts to go_) robert. (_hurrying after her_) oh, mother, he didn't mean anything! frau heinecke. mean anything? ha! ha! he's only talking that way to make you think he's the man of the house! (_she goes out_) robert. (_after a pause, he tries to soothe over the unpleasantness_) you still paste boxes. father? heinecke. still at it! robert. and the arm doesn't bother you? heinecke. my arm, ha! ha! ha! my arm! do you want to see how i do it! first the pasteboard--so--then the fold--so! (_with great speed he sweeps the pastebrush across two sheets of cardboard, pressing them into place with his left elbow_) who could beat your old cripple at that? robert. you are a regular juggler. heinecke. that's what! but who admits it? who appreciates me? who appreciates me? nobody! how could the daughters--one of 'em already a missus--respect me when their own mother gives 'em such a bad example! robert. (_indignantly_) father! heinecke. yes, you're a long way from her lap--far away cows have long horns--there, it's "dear little mother! sweet little sister!"--but if you knew what i've had to stand! not once does she give me horse-car-fare when i want to go to town for a glass of beer! robert. are you quite fair to her? doesn't she cherish you as the apple of her eye? heinecke. lord, i didn't mean to say anything against her--shh!--here she comes! (_enter_ frau heinecke _with a steaming coffee-pot_) sit down, bobby,--no, here in the arm-chair! wait a minute! (_pulls off the covering from the chair_) such a fine gentleman ought to sit on pure silk! frau heinecke. yes, and the other's just the same! two pieces we've got! and have you seen the pier-glass? all gold creepers, and the glass in one piece! augusta's husband says it cost at least two hundred marks! robert. where did all these wonderful things come from. frau heinecke. from the councillor! robert. he gives you things like this? heinecke. naw, only---- frau heinecke. (_aside_) ssh! don't you know that herr kurt doesn't want it known? (_to_ robert) yes, last christmas he gave us the mirror, and this christmas the two chairs. father, quit boring holes in the pound cake! robert. really, i don't like this sort of generosity! frau heinecke (_pouring out coffee_) this furniture 'd be too good for some people! but when we have such fine visitors and such a distinguished gentleman for a son, and such an awful talented daughter---- robert. alma? heinecke. yessir! we did everything for our girl we were able to do. frau heinecke. and you always sent money---- robert. so that she should have a proper schooling, and learn millinery and bookkeeping. that's what we agreed on. frau heinecke. yes--that was before--! robert. before? hasn't she the same position now? frau heinecke. not for the last six months. robert. what is she doing now? heinecke. (_proudly_) she is cultivating her voice! robert. why, i never heard she was musical! heinecke. awful musical! (_they drink the coffee._) frau heinecke. she was examined by some italian singer--seenyora or something--she said she had never heard anything like it before and she would take it as an honor to develop alma's voice herself at her own cost. robert. but why did you keep that from me? frau heinecke. oh, it was such a long way, clear out to india, you forget such things--and then, we wanted to give you a surprise! robert. (_gets up and walks excitedly up and down_) auguste really takes good care of her? frau heinecke. certainly. she never lets her eye off her. alma eats at her house and practises at her house and when she stays too late to catch the horsecar she sleeps there--same as she did last night. robert. and when she stays away all night, doesn't that worry you? heinecke. huh! big girl like that! frau heinecke. no, not when we've brought her up so well--and she's with auguste, too! she ought to be here soon. the milk-man took the letter over early. how surprised she'll be! robert. and auguste is happy? frau heinecke. oh, so--so. her husband boozes a little, and when it comes to working, he ain't much, but---- heinecke. but when it comes to sulking and raising cain, he's right at home! frau heinecke. but, all in all, they get along all right. auguste has furnished up two swell rooms, and rented 'em to a gentleman from potsdam that ain't there half the time, but pays for the whole month! that brings in many a pretty penny. he pays a whole mark just for his coffee in the morning, (_goes to the window_) there she comes! and she's brought her husband along, too! robert. what? isn't alma with her? (auguste _and_ michalski _come in._) auguste. well, well, here you are! (_they kiss each other_) everything has been going fine with you, hasn't it? what's the use of asking? when a man goes around in clothes like those!--of course everything ain't gold that glitters--here's my husband! robert. well, brother-in-law, give me your hand,--one of the family! michalski. honored! don't often happen that a horny hand like this is so honored! robert. that doesn't sound very brotherly. (_to auguste_) where's alma? auguste. our princess was afraid she wasn't beautiful enough for the foreign brother! she had to stay and burn her bangs first. (robert _is deeply concerned_) she'll probably come by the next car. where did you get the pound-cake? (frau heinecke _passes the cake around and_ michalski _and_ auguste _eat_) frau heinecke. eat another piece, bobby! (robert _refuses, but the others eat._) heinecke. (_after a pause_) what do you say to that, michalski, "welcome, beloved son." michalski. (_eating_) nonsense! robert. (_surprised_) brother-in-law! heinecke. what? what i did with this noble heart and this lame arm! (robert _pacifies him._) michalski. i'm a simple man and i ain't afraid to say what i think! i've got no use for that kind of rot and nonsense! when a man has got to work the way we do with his stomach empty and a whip at his back---- heinecke. 'specially when a man goes walking at eleven o'clock and eats pound-cake to boot! auguste. are you two at it again? (_to_ michalski) will you never shut up? can't you see he's in his second childhood? heinecke. i'm in--good!--now you see! that's the way i'm treated by my own children! robert. (_aside to_ auguste) really, sister, i never thought you would say a thing like that! auguste. what are you talking about? (_enter_ wilhelm.) all. (_except_ robert) it's wilhelm! good morning, wilhelm! (heinecke _and_ michalski _shake hands with him_) frau heinecke. who is the pretty bouquet for? that must be for somebody in the city. wilhelm. no, it's for you ... you are the young gentleman? (robert _nods--cordially_) awful glad to know you! (_about to offer his hand_) robert. (_smiling_) very kind of you. wilhelm. the honorable family sends you a hearty welcome and these flowers. they are the rarest in the conservatory. but, between you and me, the flowers came from the gnadiges fraulein. and the gnadiges fraulein was pretty anxious to---- robert. were you commissioned to say that, too? (_controlling his feelings_) wilhelm. no, not---- robert. then keep it to yourself! (_the servant starts to go._) frau heinecke. wouldn't you like to have a piece of pound-cake with us, wilhelm? there's plenty left! robert. please, mother! (_gives_ wilhelm _a gold-piece_) the man has his pay--tell the councillor that the count von trast-saarburg and i beg the honor of a meeting with him at three o'clock! you may go! (wilhelm _goes_) frau heinecke. a count! what sort of a count? robert. a friend of mine, mother, to whom i am under great obligation. auguste. (_softly to_ michalski) he pretends to have a count for a friend! frau heinecke. wait, i'll put the flowers in water. but you oughtn't to have been so harsh with wilhelm, bobby! he's a good friend of ours. auguste. us common folks don't have counts for friends! michalski. we have to be contented with servants! frau heinecke. yes, you must be nice to wilhelm, robert, for our sakes; he can do a lot for us! how many pieces of roasts and how many bottles of wine has he slipped us! robert. and you accepted them, mother? frau heinecke. why not, my boy! we're poor folks--we ought to be glad to get things like that for nothing! robert. mother, i'll double my efforts; i'll give you what i can spare for my bare living expenses. but promise me you won't take anything more from that servant, will you? frau heinecke. oh, that would be foolish pride and waste! you should not look a gift-horse in the mouth! and he only wanted to do you a favor, when he told you that about the gnadiges fraulein! that's something special! whenever i met her in the court, there wasn't a single time when she didn't stop me and ask if there was any news from you, and how you got on with the hot weather and all! and at the same time she smiled so friendly--if you were a smart boy, robert---- robert. for heaven's sake. mother, stop! heinecke. that wouldn't be so bad--two millions! michalski. would you lend me a little then, eh, brother-in-law? robert. (_to himself_) how much longer must i be tortured? (alma _appears at the half-open door. she wears a yellow jacket and a coquettish little hat. she wears suede gloves and many bracelets. she carries a fancy parasol._) alma. good morning, everybody. robert. (_runs to her and embraces her_) alma! thank god! michalski. (_to_ auguste) the two swells of the family! auguste. (_lovingly_) listen: little sister, if you were as ugly as you are pretty, you wouldn't take long to find out that your brother hated you. alma. auguste, that's mean. robert. oh, she didn't mean anything. now be good again! alma. (_affected_) my own dear brother! auguste. (_aside_) lord, ain't it touching! (frau heinecke _helps_ alma _off with her jacket._) heinecke. now what do you say? (_stroking her cheek_) are you my little treasure or not, eh? alma. (_trilling_) "oui, cher papa! c'est girofla!" heinecke. do you hear how she sings? real italian! robert. now what's this i hear: you want to be a great singer? alma. well, i'd not object to that! frau heinecke. won't you cat a little piece of pound-cake, alma? alma. merci beaucoup! (_goes about in front of the mirror, eating_) robert. and you are studying hard? alma. (_her mouth full of cake_) i have lessons every afternoon--do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si--si, la, sol,--fa--oh, those scales! terrible bore! and practice--eternal practice!--my nerves are ruined already! frau heinecke. poor child! alma. "oh, yes. ma!"[ ] i've been studying english, too! i'm awfully cultured.--oh, what i've learned! heinecke. yes sir! d'ye see! alma. and above all--we only live once--have a good time, that's the main thing! are you happy, too, brother? robert. certainly, when i have reason to be. alma. the great art is to be happy without any reason. why are we young? oh, it's good to live! every day something new!--and berlin is so lovely! you know--the linden!--and the electric light! have you seen it yet? that's what i like the best of all. everybody is so pretty and pale, so interesting!--and the restaurants have all got electric lights now, too. grand!--i saw a chandelier in a cafe in the donhoffplatz--it was a great big wreath of flowers and every flower had a light in it! robert. were you in the cafe? alma. i? how could i be? through the window it was! you don't have things like that in india? do you? robert. no, we certainty don't. alma. we're pretty far advanced in culture here. somebody told me that berlin was almost as beautiful as paris. is that so? robert. i don't know paris, dear. alma. ugh! that's a shame! every young man ought to know paris. robert. (_charmed, yet shocked by her vulgarity_) you little silly! alma. ha i ha! ha! i'm a funny one! don't you think? ha! ha! yes, that's the way! (_she goes about laughing, and rocks back and forth. she takes a little handkerchief, which she carries folded in triangular form in her belt; and holds it under_ auguste's _nose_) smell it? auguste. (_aside_) fine! what's that? alma. (_aside_) ixora, the very latest from paris--got it to-day! auguste. coming out to-night? alma. don't know! he'll send me word--but to-morrow evening we're going to the masked ball! ha! ha! robert. now let's be sensible again, little one. come here--sit down--here! here! alma. heavens! how you act! this is going to be a regular cross-examination! robert. i'm going to ask you a lot of questions. (frau _and_ herr heinecke _group themselves about_ alma's _chair_. michalski _sits on the work table_, auguste _beside him on the stool._) alma. go ahead! s'il vous plait. monsieur! michalski. (_aside to_ auguste) this will be a nice mess! robert. how did you happen to discover this talent? alma. it comes like love--can't tell how! robert. (_unpleasantly affected_) hum--but someone must have told you about it! (alma _shrugs her shoulders._) frau heinecke. don't you remember, child? it was herr kurt that---- robert. the young manager? heinecke. certainly. robert. but how did he know----? frau heinecke. he heard her singing--through the window on the court. and the next thing, he said it was a sin and a shame that a voice like hers---- robert. but why do you let mother tell everything, alma? auguste. (_to_ michalski) she's so modest. alma. that a voice like mine should be wasted here in the alley--and that _i_ should not be wasted here in the alley, for that matter! it's really an imposition on you, gnadiges fraulein, he said! frau heinecke. i heard that myself: "gnadiges fraulein!" heinecke. my daughter, yes sir! robert. go ahead. alma! alma. my parents took care of your brother, he said,--i'll take care of you!--well, and then he found a teacher for me who held a _cercle musical_--that means a musical circle--made up of young ladies of the best families.--one is engaged to a lieutenant of the hussars. robert. and what is the teacher's name? alma. (_suspiciously_) what do you want to know for? robert. because it can't be any secret! alma. her name is signora paulucci. heinecke. (_enthusiastically_) real italian! robert. (_taking out his note-book_) and her address? alma. (_quickly_) you don't need to go there. it's true! robert. of course it's true. but i'd like to hear the teacher's own opinion about your voice. (alma _looks quickly toward_ auguste) auguste. you can go to her lesson with her tomorrow. alma. yes, to-morrow! robert. good! (_gets up and walks back and forth excitedly_) i don't want to make you feel badly, dear, but i must admit i don't share your great hopes. heinecke. eh? robert. how many a young girl is enticed into these things purely through ambition and vanity! and it's dangerous! more dangerous than you realize--of course i am sure that the young manager has the highest and the noblest of motives, but--well, however that may be, to-morrow i'll hear myself what the teacher says, and if my doubts are groundless, i promise to take care of you myself, and we shan't rest a moment until you have reached the climax of your art! (alma _takes the vase from the table and buries her face in the flowers_) wouldn't it be strange if we were to owe everything--even this piece of good fortune--to the house of muhlingk! (michalski _laughs mockingly._) alma. mama, who sent me this bouquet? frau heinecke. that's a welcome to--(_indicates_ robert) from the gnadiges fraulein! alma. oh, from her! (_she puts down the vase_) robert. wait a minute! one question! it seems that every time i mention the "avenue" or any of the family, someone bursts out laughing, or makes some disapproving remark. herr muhlingk junior is the only one who seems to meet with your approval. now, frankly, what have you against our benefactor? what has he done to offend you? (_a pause_) you, for instance. brother-in-law, what made you laugh so scornfully? (_silence_) or you. alma, that you won't have anything to do with the flowers that came from miss muhlingk! mother just told me how kind she has always been! alma. kind, is she? she's a stuck-up thing, that can't poke her nose high enough in the air when she meets me!--never says a word to me; why, it's all she can do to return my bow! oh, she----! auguste. she's the same way to me. robert. (_sorrowfully, to himself_) that isn't like her! frau heinecke. (_tenderly_) just wait till she marries my boy! robert. (_shocked,--interrupting her_) mother! but i'd forgotten: i've brought some presents for my sisters, and you, too, brother-in-law. auguste. (_jumping up greedily_) what have you got? where is it? robert. in the bed-room. there's a card with each one's name on it. (_the three_, auguste _ahead, hurry into the bedroom._) heinecke. and you've got nothing for us? robert. there wasn't anything out there good enough for you, dear parents. tell me what you want? frau heinecke. if i should see the day when i had a sofa to match them arm-chairs--(_she sees that_ robert _is staring ahead without listening to her_) but you ain't listening! robert. (_sadly reproving_) no, mother, i wasn't listening! heinecke. (_defiantly_) and i want a new paste-pot--you ought to be able to afford that! (_the three come back from the bedroom_. auguste _carries a colored shawl_, alma _a jewel-case_, michalski _a turkish pipe. they surround_ robert _and thank him_) auguste. what a pity they don't wear indian shawls any more! michalski. (_puffing at the stem of his pipe_) course it don't draw! robert. (_to_ alma, _who is playing with her jewels_) are you satisfied, alma? look at the three blue stones, they are indian sapphire. alma. very pretty! but to tell the truth, i like the dark-blue sapphires more! they have such beautiful brilliancy! robert. how do you know so much about such things? alma. oh--from the shop windows! people of our sort like to look in windows! robert. and what's that shining in your ear? alma. paste, that's all! two marks a pair! robert. dear, you mustn't wear things like that!--promise me you'll take them off this minute--and i'll show you another special surprise that i've brought you. alma. (_sullenly, taking off the ear-rings_) as you please! robert. it's the dress of a hindoo princess--looted on a military invasion undertaken by a friend of mine. think of it! pink and gold! alma. (_joyfully_) oh, how heavenly! michalski. (_laughing_) and i s'pose you hung her up stark naked on a tree! (robert _stares at him._) alma. (_lovingly_) you're a dear, sweet, old brother! (_a coachman in livery knocks at the window._) frau heinecke. go, see what johann wants, father. alma. (_to_ auguste) oh, but they'll all turn green with envy when i wear this to the masked ball to-morrow. auguste. shh! heinecke. (_from the window_) johann says herr kurt is going to drive to the city at three, and he wants to know if you'd like to go along. (alma _and_ auguste _exchange glances._) robert. what does that mean? auguste. simple enough! herr kurt has his carriage, and since he's an obliging young man he gave alma a standing invitation to ride to the city with him. robert. what? she allowed that? you, sister, you accepted that? alma. a poor girl ought to be glad enough to ride in a carriage once in a while! frau heinecke. and you save car-fare! robert. good heavens! and what do the ladies on the avenue say to that? alma. oh, they don't know anything about it! when i ride with him he stops the carriage at the back doorway where only the tradespeople go in. robert. so much the worse! what a disgusting implication in all this secrecy! alma, haven't you felt that yourself?--alma, come here!--look me in the eyes. alma. (_staring at him_) well? robert. (_takes her head in both his_) you are pure!--you are--(_he kisses her cheeks and forehead_) heinecke. decide, now! johann is waiting! robert. tell johann, father, that i'll speak to his master about it first. alma. what for? it's all been arranged already. robert. you won't use herr muhlingk's carriage any more! for a girl of your--our position, there is always the street-car! (alma _begins to cry defiantly._) frau heinecke. the poor child! auguste. you seem to want to turn everything in this house upside down! (_children's voices are heard in the court._) heinecke. come here!--quick!--a moor!--in a turban! all. (_except_ robert, _who remains, troubled, rush to the window_) that's not a moor! alma. (_still sobbing_) robert--is that--a moor? robert. (_darkly_) no, that's my friend's indian servant. frau heinecke. your friend?--is that the count? robert. yes. (_the servant comes in, and they crowd about him._) robert. ragharita, your master is welcome in the house of my father! (_servant goes out. great excitement_. frau heinecke _draws out the arm-chairs and polishes the mirror_.) alma. (_from the mirror_) is your count young or old? (robert _makes no answer_) my eyes are red!--red as fire, aren't they, auguste? and he may be young! (_she goes out, left_) michalski. come, auguste, we won't disturb the great gentlemen! heinecke. herr count, i'll say, take a seat in this arm-chair, i'll say! oh, we know how to act with the nobility! frau heinecke. there was a baron here once--a gentleman friend of herr kurt. don't you remember, father? he came to ask after alma--but a count! we never had a count! robert. who did you say had been here, mother? (_enter_ count trast, _a man between forty and fifty, with gray hair and a long, blond beard. he is dressed with careless foreign elegance_. robert _rushes to him and takes his hand._) trast. (_aside to_ robert) how is this? hasn't the home fever abated yet! (_aloud_) so here we have the long-expected son! (_shakes his hand_) do you know, my fine people, that a sort of foster-son of yours is standing here? the friendship with this dear old comrade of mine gives me almost a right to that title! (heinecke _tiptoes out of the door._) frau heinecke. wouldn't the count like a piece of pound-cake? there is still some there. trast. thanks, i shall be glad--i certainly shall! (frau heinecke _curtseys out of the room._) trast. you're pale, my boy, and your hands are shaking--what's wrong? robert. oh, nothing! the happiness--the excitement! it's only natural! trast. naturally! (_aside_) he's lying! (_to_ robert) tell me, how long do you intend to stay here? i want to regulate my stay in this great europe by that! robert. that's impossible, my friend! our ways will have to part! trast. nonsense! robert. i shall ask my employer to give me a position here. the climate in india--you understand----? trast. that's pleasant! he doesn't want to leave his mother's apron-strings again, eh? robert. don't make fun of me. since we're going to part--i have to say it some time--i thank you, you kind old wicked fellow, for all you've done for me. it was the most fortunate moment of my life when you saw me standing feverishly behind my young employer in the club at buitenzorg, when he was throwing one hundred-gulden note after the other onto the green cloth. trast. why was i such a fool? if you're going to--ugh! it isn't decent! robert. trast! don't hurt me. see, i owe everything to you. when i heard your name then--the name of trast and company that is known from yokohama to aden, i felt as though i were standing before the kaiser himself! trast. kaiser, by the grace of coffee! robert. muhlingk's undertaking in batavia was on the road to ruin that minute. trast. no wonder, when it had the worst good-for-nothing in the archipelago for its head. robert. there was nothing ahead of me but failure and discharge. and then you took the poor home-sick clerk under your pinion, your name opened a hundred doors for me and i grew up into manhood under your care! and herr benno muhlingk led his merry life as he pleased, and i ran the entire business. trast. and the end of the story is that the firm of muhlingk, along with its clever representative, is a few thousands richer because of us. it's a shame! you ought to have profited by it yourself. well, i'll open your employer's eyes to the kind of a man you've been! if he doesn't at least make you a partner, i shall declare such a corner in coffee, in my righteous wrath, that the noble german oak-leaf[ ] shall be valued as never before. but, seriously, why do you insist on this caprice of remaining with the muhlingks? i offer you a tremendous salary and a pair of trousers every christmas. (robert _shakes his head_) it isn't only gratitude that makes a man cling to such an insane idea! of course if the inventory of the firm included a fair german maiden--(_aside_) aha! (_to_ robert) speaking of maidens, just listen to what happened to me last night. after we had left each other i wandered aimlessly along the street. a friendly poster invited into a masked ball. a hundred indian dancers were to present their exciting dance according to the advertisement--well, that is my specialty--i went in. everything seemed arranged to lead a young monk to forget his oath. and then suddenly there came before me a young girl, tender and fresh as a half-ripe peach. she seemed to be without a partner. i presented myself. not at all bashful, she begged for a little plaything that hung on my watch-chain, in a little baby voice. it was my patron saint ganesa, god of success, who rides on a little rat. and i smelled a rat myself. what do you suppose i found beneath her childish innocence? naif depravity! robert. (_nervously_) are such things possible? trast. listen. my heart always beats according to the tempo required by the custom of the land whose hospitality i am enjoying. i always keep a harem in the orient; in italy i climb the garden wall by moonlight, in france i pay the dressmaker's bills, and--lord!--in germany--well, i know the return journey from virtue, too! all according to rule! in the orient one loves with his senses, in italy with his imagination, in france with his pocketbook, in germany with his conscience! so i tried to change this sinning child to a repentant magdalen. before i could get started, however, the champagne had to be uncorked--then came a gentleman, half demon and half fool, and claimed the lady as his own. i respected the ancient law of precedence, and went to bed the poorer by one good act. but i would give a good deal to know how it happened that a sweet little thing like--(robert _covers his face with his hands_) good lord!--what is it?--shh! (_enter_ frau heinecke.) frau heinecke. bobby! robert. mother! frau heinecke. have you got a corkscrew by you? (_to_ trast) my daughter would like to offer you a bottle of wine. it's no ordinary wine, either, it's the best there is! robert. comes from the avenue, i suppose? frau heinecke. (_proudly_) it does indeed. robert. there! (_throws down his knife on the table_) frau heinecke. how you _do_ act! robert. yes, i forgot!--forgive me! (frau heinecke _goes out._) trast. now confess, my boy! trust in me! robert. oh, if i had only never seen my home again! trast. ha! so that's where the wind blows from. robert. i am ashamed of the position i was born in. my own people have become nothing to me. my whole being shudders from contact with them. i can't trust my mind, one mad suspicion follows the other! trast! i almost believe i don't even respect the breast that nursed me! trast. that's simply rot! robert. if i could only explain what i have suffered! every serious word strikes me like a blow! and every pleasantry like a slap in the face! it seems as though they could talk of nothing but what hurts me--i thought i was coming back to a home,--instead of that it's a strange world where i dare hardly breathe!--advise me what to do! trast. pack your trunk! robert. that would be a cowardly and heartless retreat! do they deserve that--my own parents! trast. listen--drop the pathetic note--the matter is simple enough for us. we've studied caste in its native wilds. the same castes exist here. they aren't established by food-laws, or marriage-rules and religious etiquette; those were simple. the chasm that can't be bridged is the difference of feeling--each caste has its own sense of honor, its own nice distinctions, its own ideas, yes, even its own speech. unhappy is the man who has fallen out of his own caste and hasn't the courage to cut himself off from it entirely. just such a declasse are you!--and you know, i was the same thing myself! just what you are feeling now, i went through years ago. how do you suppose i felt, _chic_ young cavalry officer, when i woke one morning to the realization that i had gambled away ninety thousand talers that had to be paid in twenty-four hours. what good did it do me to ride home and throw myself at my father's feet? he would have put his head in pawn to save the honor of our name--but he had already done so! and, since he had nothing else to give me, he gave me at least his curse! robert. (_brooding_) how you had the courage to live after that! trast. do you know what happened then? robert. (_absently, tortured by his own thoughts_) i know nothing--nothing--nothing! trast. then listen to me! perhaps it may be of use to you. when my comrades said farewell to me they did me the last favor of placing a cocked revolver on my table. i looked at the matter from all sides. i took for granted that, without my honor i could not live. then, as i pointed the thing to my forehead the thought came to me--this is brutal, this is silly! how different are you to-day from what you were three days ago? perhaps you deserved punishment for having promised money that you didn't have; but not death! for thousands of years men have enjoyed the light of the sun without letting the phantom of honor darken it. to-day nine hundred and ninety thousands of people belong to that same class, live as they did, and work as they did, and enjoy the sun as they did! twelve years later--of course my debt was long since cancelled--when i came back to europe a sort of reconciliation took place between my father and me. but it was only an outward reconciliation. if he had found me, like a prodigal son, lying on his doorstep, he would have lifted me up from the dirt with trembling hands and pressed me to his bosom. since i carried my head a little defiantly and was in a position to help him out with half a million or so he couldn't forgive me. a few weeks later i left. the rich coffee seller and the poor cavalier had nothing in common. robert. and now he's dead! trast. may he find peace in the heaven he believed in! now the moral: leave your parents their point of view. you can't change that. give where there is need--give all you have, and then--come with me! robert. i can't! listen, i'll tell you why. i didn't tell you before because i was ashamed. i have a little sister, she was a baby when i left. oh, how i longed to see her and looked forward to the meeting! and i wasn't disappointed, for she was prettier and sweeter than i had hoped! but my love for her before a thousand fears i am afraid to mention! for what she does and lets others do with her--in perfect innocence, of course--goes against every feeling of honor i possess! just now when you were telling about that girl in the dance-hall; a cold shiver went through me! because--no, no, a thousand times no! here is my place! i must stay here, to stand or fall! trast. i admit you have reasons that are at least worth considering. but you are excited. i'll wager you are looking at the dark side! robert. would to god! (_he sits down_) (_enter_ alma, _with a tea-tray, upon which is a bottle of wine and three glasses. the count makes a start_, alma _cries out. the tea-tray almost falls_) trast. (_quickly seizing the situation, steps to her aid_) came near being a catastrophe, fraulein! (_aside_) it is a catastrophe! robert. see, trast, this is she! isn't she an angel? there, give him your hand, and tell him he's welcome! alma. (_aside_) don't tell on me--eh? trast. (_aside_) poor devil! how can i get him out of it? curtain. act ii. scene:--_the drawing-room in the_ muhlingk's _house_ (_the "vorderhaus"_). _the furnishings are rich but rather stiff. at the back, a wide door hung with portieres opens into the dining-room. on the left, beside a fire-place is a sofa and an oval table. beside it a rocking-chair. in the dining-room the richly set table can be seen. dinner is over and a servant is clearing away the things_. herr muhlingk, frau muhlingk, kurt _and_ leonore _are drinking coffee in the drawing-room. the servant who has passed the cups goes out_. kurt. as i remarked before, the black horse is fine! kurt. expensive it certainly is! frau muhlingk. i shall make up the rest of the money, just to stop the argument. kurt. (_kisses her hand_) my best thanks, mama;--now i can show myself to berlin mounted and spurred!--you can admire me, too, lori! leonore. (_without looking up from her book_) yes, my dear. kurt. lothar brandt and hugo stengel wanted to come out to see the beast. perhaps that doesn't interest you either, lori? leonore. they will probably come often. they haven't anything else to do. (_looking at the clock--aside_) oh, how the time drags! (_the servant goes out_) frau muhlingk. you must not speak so harshly about these gentlemen, my child. you know lothar wants to pay court to you. leonore. really? frau muhlingk. haven't you noticed it? leonore. i haven't paid any particular attention. frau muhlingk. (_to her husband_) it's unbearable, theodore! muhlingk. we've had enough of this tone, my child. even the pride in your paternal bank account has its limits. leonore. (_looking at him_) pride in the paternal bank account? muhlingk. well, how can we explain this manner you have assumed for the last ten years, sending home every rich and respected man who has proposed to you?--i am a simple, middle-class man. i made my own way with my own help---- kurt. that is to say, he married a rich wife. muhlingk. what's that, kurt? kurt. an exclamation of admiration, father; nothing else. muhlingk. no, i didn't have it as easy as you, my boy. you might well follow my example. i don't like to play the spender and i don't care to see it in my children, either. that is the only way one can live tastefully! kurt. --and cheap, too! leonore. your accusation doesn't apply to me, papa. frau muhlingk. will you condescend to give us an explanation then? leonore. mama! frau muhlingk. (_nervously_) well? leonore. (_rising_) oh, why can't you let me work out my own salvation? i am modest enough--i only ask to be allowed to live my own life. muhlingk. you call that modest? if that is modest, what is to become of the sanctity of family ties? frau muhlingk. (_to her husband_) do you hear that? i haven't slept for nights and nights! leonore. because of me, mama? frau muhlingk. every day these mad ideas, these unconventional acts! now what does it mean this time, when you plunder the hothouse to send flowers to a clerk! leonore. you mean robert? frau muhlingk. the young herr heinecke, i mean. leonore. he isn't a clerk. he is almost a member of the family! kurt. oh, thank you. frau muhlingk. (_mildly_) that is, we brought him up out of the gutter. muhlingk. (_as the servant enters_) eh? wilhelm. the young herr heinecke from the alley sends word that he will take the liberty of---- (leonore _looks at the clock involuntarily._) muhlingk. well, well--just like a noble gentleman! that is good! wilhelm. --calling, with your permission. he named another gentleman. count trast, or someone---- muhlingk. (_jumping up_) what! count trast! trast and company, kurt! the coffee king. (_motions the servant off_) kurt. what luck that clerk has! muhlingk. oh, we must invite him to the house, amalie. frau muhlingk. very good,--to-morrow morning. leonore. what! and not invite robert heinecke too? kurt. (_aside_) better and better! muhlingk. well, perhaps you are right. when one descends to the level of these people one really unites their interests with the interests of the firm. a thing like that often brings in thousands, kurt. the young fellow did very well under benno's direction and inasmuch as i'm thinking of sending him for ten years into the antilles, i---- leonore. (_indignantly_) oh, i did not mean it that way, papa! muhlingk. oh, that's all right. frau muhlingk. and, kurt, you must take care that the young fellow doesn't make any _faux pas_. he comes from the alley, you know. a thing like that might spoil the whole affair. kurt. (_standing up_) pardon me, did you expect i would invite my friends? muhlingk. certainly, your friends, too! bachelors always have plenty of time. kurt. (_standing up_) pardon me, i should like to ask to be excused from doing that. i can't be expected to introduce gentlemen of good family to the son of (_indicating the alley_) herr heinecke. leonore. (_aside_) would you rather have the brother of miss heinecke here? kurt. (_shocked, then gathering himself together_) what do you mean? leonore. be thankful i don't insist on an answer. kurt. really! leonore. shall i? kurt. so you're threatening me, are you? muhlingk. my dear children, in this house we won't have any scenes, please. frau muhlingk. don't let's pay any attention to it, theodore. i'll lie down now and rest for a minute or two--won't you? (muhlingk _kisses her ceremoniously on the forehead._) kurt. (_aside_) the good old days! goodbye! (frau muhlingk _goes towards door_. muhlingk _rings_) leonore. (_hurrying after_ frau muhlingk) mother! frau muhlingk. (_turns around, speaks nervously, but in a friendly tone_) never mind! it's all right! (_she goes out_) muhlingk. ask any visitors to come into my office. (muhlingk _and the_ servant _go out_. kurt _also starts to go._) leonore. it seems to me we have something to say to each other. kurt. we? oh, no! leonore. you don't want to draw me into an argument, perhaps? kurt. it doesn't seem to suit you when i take a notion to see a little of the world. because you are four years older than i, and because you taught me to walk, you'd still like to have me tied to your apron-strings. you--but i can go--alone now. there are ladies who have said i go too far. let me find heaven in my own way. leonore. i have never interfered with you. go on, play the man-of-the world as much as you like, but have the courage to admit it. kurt. what good would that do? leonore. you play the dutiful son and then make fun of your parents behind their backs. believe me, kurt; you are ruining your character. kurt. (_laughing_) no! leonore. there is just one thing i ask of you--at least keep this house and its surroundings sacred. kurt. we'll do that with the help of the lord! leonore. do you know what they are whispering around the factory? that you are paying far too much attention to robert heinecke's sister--that you---- kurt. (_shrugging his shoulders_) yes, and you allow yourself to carry the gossip of the backstairs about---- leonore. kurt, not that tone! i defended you from mama and papa to-day. the next time i shan't do it. and remember one thing: robert has come back.--if he finds his sister guilty--don't worry, i wouldn't dare think it!--but the girl is frivolous and vain! if it _were_ so--and you were to blame, kurt, take care! he would break you in pieces! kurt. who? my clerk?--with his sample-case? leonore. and you stoop to steal this from your clerk. kurt. what's that? steal--steal what? leonore. his position in the world! his good name! kurt, the good name of heinecke--bah! (_enter a servant with two visiting cards which he hands to_ leonore.) leonore. visitors for you. kurt. who? leonore. read! kurt. lothar brandt.--hugo stengel.--show them in. (_throws the cards on the table_, servant _goes out_) (leonore _drops into the rocking-chair._) kurt. signs and miracles! you didn't run away. (_enter_ hugo stengel _and_ lothar brandt.) lothar. 'morning, old fellow. kurt. (_going to him_) you've come to see my horse. this is very good of you! hugo. (_bowing to_ leonore) we took the liberty! lothar. (_bowing to_ leonore) if we aren't disturbing the gnadiges fraulein. leonore. (_politely_) certainly not. i seldom go into the stables. (brandt _and_ stengel _clear their throats._) kurt. won't you sit down? lothar. we await the permission of fraulein leonore. leonore. (_coolly_) oh, please! (_she takes a book and begins turning the leaves_. kurt _throws her a look. they sit down_) kurt. well, where were you yesterday? lothar. (_affectedly_) ah, by jove, you make an awful demand on a man's memory. what was i doing yesterday? first i went riding, then i had a conference with father.--coffee is sinking again. hugo. alarmingly-- and a half. lothar. alarmingly, is not the right word. it _is_ sinking. we'll make a fight. then i made some visits, then i dined at the officers' association---- leonore. (_looking up_) ah, you are an officer? lothar. (_insulted_) i thought you knew, gnadiges fraulein?--i am a reserve lieutenant in the "crown prince" cuirassier regiment. leonore. (_smiling, looking toward the table_) ah, yes! note visiting card! kurt. (_slapping him on the back_) and besides that, boots and saddles astride papa's desk chair. lothar. (_sharply_) oh i say, old fellow! leonore. the desk chair isn't the slowest horse in the race for fortune you know, herr lieutenant. hugo. oh, that was good! kurt. but i looked for you last evening. lothar. the evening.--we were invited somewhere? where? it isn't quite clear in my memory now. we won't discuss the matter. you seem to be amused, gnadiges fraulein? leonore. is that forbidden? lothar. but really, you know, you in your pride and seclusion, have hardly an idea what the word _saison_ means in our good german tongue. hugo. it is quite two months, gnadiges fraulein, that i have done what you might really call sleeping. kurt. and that was on a billiard table. lothar. oh, our respected kurt meant that as a joke! but if you knew what it meant to be a martyr to amusement, you would understand what we mean. leonore. i have made such an effort to understand you that i already begin to feel sorry for you. hugo. (_aside to_ lothar) i believe the girl is making fun of us. lothar. (_aside, arrogantly_) every woman tries to be a coquette. kurt. (_who has gone over to_ lenore, _aside_) you don't need to be so disagreeable. leonore. (_rocking_) hm? (_goes on reading_) lothar. might i ask what it is that takes so much of the gnadiges fraulein's attention. kurt. (_to himself_) if he would only let her be! leonore. something that would hardly be of interest to the martyrs of amusement--for it concerns the martyrs of labor. lothar. ah, i see. hugo. (_getting up_) but weren't we going to see the horse? lothar. ah yes! you two go ahead--the martyrs of labor interest me more than the gnadiges fraulein believes. kurt. (_to himself_) oh, the poor devil! hugo. good heavens! kurt. come, stengel, come! (_they go out_) leonore. (_looking impatiently at the clock_) in what way can i be of service to you, herr brandt? lothar. gnadiges fraulein, i very much regret that you quite misunderstand me, for although i admit that i---- leonore. and in order to prove that, you are willing to waste---- lothar. a moment, please! leonore. (_aside_) a proposal! lothar. my faults may be without number, but, gnadiges fraulein, i am a man of honor. leonore. i should think that that was to be taken for granted from the son of a respectable family, herr brandt, and as little worthy of praise as the fact that he wears a well-cut coat. lothar. then you respect honor no more? leonore. pardon me. i meant no disrespect to the ill-clad. but one doesn't bring them into the parlor. but i interrupted you, herr brandt. perhaps i do misunderstand you. please continue. lothar. i must admit, gnadiges fraulein, you have intimidated me. and that is something! for what is a man without courage? leonore. ah, that is another thing. courage, i can respect! but what have you done so far that has shown your courage? lothar. ask my friends. that at least is above reproach. leonore. in other words, you have fought a duel. lothar. one doesn't discuss such things before ladies. leonore. but we hear about them just the same. we are here to offer the victor his laurels. did you ever break a lance in defence of a conviction which you know in your heart you yourself have violated? lothar. (_indignantly_) how can you ask that? such a thing could never occur to me! leonore. or have you never silently borne an unworthy suspicion? lothar. i? silently? on the contrary. leonore. never? lothar. never, fraulein. leonore. then one can't be absolutely certain about your courage, herr--may i say lieutenant?--(_she rises_) first the test, and then perhaps we can discuss the matter further. lothar. (_trying to hold her back_) fraulein-- (_enter_ wilhelm.) wilhelm. will the gentlemen step in here a moment? leonore. at last! (robert _and the_ count _enter_; lenore _runs to meet_ robert.) trast. (_to himself_) so that's the story! (_to the servant who is about to go out_) here, come here! (_he takes one of the cards from the tray and puts it in his pocket_) lothar. (_looking at_ robert _and_ leonore) what does that mean? trast. my card is enough. (_the servant goes out._) robert. leonore, i've brought count trast, my benefactor and my best friend. leonore. (_remembering_ lothar) the gentlemen will permit me to introduce herr lothar brandt? herr count von trast--herr robert heinecke, a playmate of my childhood. lothar. (_to himself_) she introduces me to alma's brother--that is fine!--the gentlemen will pardon me, but my friends--(_stutters and clears his throat_) trast. are waiting for you, eh? lothar. (_staring at him_) exactly! (_as he goes_) what sort of a count is he? (_turns at the door and bows stiffly, clicking his heels and goes out_) leonore. you have been away from home a long time, herr count? trast. i have inhabited the tropics for a quarter century. leonore. for pleasure? trast. as much as possible. meanwhile i have been speculator in coffee, cloves and ivory, and elephant-hunter. leonore. (_laughing_) in which of your many capacities am i to welcome you then, you many-gifted man? trast. you may take your choice, gnadiges fraulein. wilhelm. (_at the door_) the herr councillor is at your disposal. robert. i must---- trast. (_to_ robert) stay where you are. i have something to say to the manager first. (_to_ leonore) for ten years, he has been singing your praises; shouldn't you take the trouble to listen to ten minutes' praise of me? leonore. (_shaking her finger at_ trast) you are an old rogue! trast. a rogue in your own service! (_he goes out_) leonore. (_taking_ robert's _hand_) at last i have you here again! robert. i thank you from the bottom of my heart for those words. leonore. oh, how polite we are!--my words aren't alms! come here, (_leads him to the fireplace_) sit down--here by the fire--beside me. you mustn't freeze in cold germany!--wait, i'll start up the fire! (_she blows with the bellows_) these fireplaces are--impractical things--most impractical, but anyway we can chat in front of it. in india you don't need fireplaces, do you? (_to herself_) i'm so happy!--oh, i'm glad to see you again. and now, out with the "but" that you have up your sleeve. i'll parry it. robert. don't make my heart too heavy. leonore. that's the last thing i want to do. robert. but that's what you're doing when you conjure up this ghost of a happiness that is now forever buried. leonore. oh, if you were only as you used to be. robert. so i am. heaven knows!--but there is a gulf between us! leonore. then there was--yes! robert. god!--you must understand me! i cana't say what's in my heart--do you remember what you said to me when we parted? leonore. well? robert. you said: "be true to me, robert." leonore. is that what i said? exactly that? robert. such a thing one doesn't forget. leonore. they had forbidden us to call each other by our first names. robert. but you did it just the same. leonore. and why don't we do it any more? robert. you are playing with me. leonore. you are right, my friend. and i must not do it. it would look like coquetry, although it is nothing but the joy of seeing you again. you have shown me plainly enough that the dream of our childhood is over. robert. it must be. your father lifted me out of the gutter in a moment of overflowing generosity. everything that i think and know and feel i must thank him for. and for that very reason i have lost the right of independent action. i am a dependent of this house, and have not the right to approach its young mistress--in any way whatever. leonore. your own pride punishes your lying words! robert. perhaps it is my pride that forces me to accept this position! leonore. and you are not willing to sacrifice a little of it for my sake? robert. don't torture me! it isn't that alone! only think what i am suffering. for the first time, this moment, when i sit opposite you, do i realize anything like a home-coming! but i would be terribly selfish if i allowed myself to admit this feeling. back there in the alley is my family!--father, mother, sister--and this family--is my family! oh, i tell you things have happened back there that you in your goodness can't even imagine. leonore. my dear friend, one doesn't have to go to india to become estranged from one's family. robert. you, too? leonore. it is better not to speak of it. i am ashamed of myself. i am even more of an outcast than you. i have lost all sense of duty. a sort of gloomy ill-will has come over me and now it is almost arrogance--towards my own people and all the others about them--and i'm not arrogant or proud by nature! tell me, what is it that----? robert. shh! (trast _and_ muhlingk _enter at the right._) muhlingk. (_to_ trast) well, until to-morrow then. count.--ah, there is the young man. (_extending his hand_) welcome, welcome, do you want to go over the report at once? robert. i only came to present my respects, herr councillor, my papers aren't unpacked yet. muhlingk. well, well, there's no hurry. but what are you doing here, leonore? leonore. i simply wanted to say how d'ye do to robert. muhlingk. mm--but you know that mama has been asking for you. come, young man, i have plans for you; plans. you know, count, we have no secrets from you. trast. you can get to know him better if you are alone with him. (_to_ robert) i'll wait for you here. leonore. (_shaking_ robert's _hand_) au revoir, robert. muhlingk. hm! (_reprovingly. he goes out with_ robert) leonore. count, you heard--? i must go. trast. gnadiges fraulein! (leonore _goes to door, he watches her, she turns and he shakes his finger at her_) leonore. (_surprised_) what do you mean, count? trast. hm--i mean! (_he claps his hands_) leonore. and what does that mean? trast. that means--(_through his hands_) bravo! leonore. (_dignified_) i don't understand you. count--ah! (_she bursts out laughing and goes up frankly and puts out her hand_) yes, i do understand. trast. (_taking her hand in both his_) that's better. leonore. count! trast. fraulein! (leonore _goes out_) she's a splendid specimen--that girl! i'll let her have him. he must have her. (_enter_ kurt.) kurt. (_to_ stengel _who is coming in_) courage, courage, my boy! come in. trast. (_recognising_ kurt _as he comes in with_ brandt) he--here! kurt. (_sees_ trast; _startled, goes up to him, in a low voice_) you wished to see me, sir? trast. no, but i'm glad to see you. kurt. with whom have i the honor----? trast. count trast. kurt. (_astonished and very polite_) ah, we may thank--thank--our employe--er--our--a traveling acquaintanceship, i suppose--for this visit? trast. you are the son of the house? kurt. i beg your pardon, yes! at your service! naturally--ah, count, we are both men-of-the world enough to forget the affair of last night. trast. you think so? kurt. the girl is nice, i ought to know if anyone does. all honor to your good taste. but you must admit that i was in the right. i hope there will be no rivalry? trast. especially, as the girl's brother is the best friend i have? kurt. (_frightened, controls himself, then, after a pause_) what do you intend to do? trast. i have not decided as yet. if i can dissuade him from his imaginary duties to your house, and if i find you prepared to break off all further relationship, then perhaps i can remain silent. kurt. and otherwise? trast. that would be a matter for herr heinecke to settle. kurt. do you think i would accept a challenge from my clerk? trast. your what?--oh, i see. kurt. count, do what you please. trast. that is a habit of mine. herr heinecke is at this moment in your father's office. permit me to remain here a few minutes in order that i may shorten your meeting. i should like to prevent you two from shaking hands. kurt. the room is yours, count. trast. i thank you. (_they separate, and_ trast _looks at the pictures_. kurt _walks excitedly away from the others_) lothar. (_to_ hugo) what happened between those two? if i remember rightly there was a count trast in our regiment who came to a bad end. wait a moment. hugo. (_nervously_) you aren't going to start a quarrel? lothar. why not? the other fellow has some scheme. (_he approaches_ trast) the count seems to like solitude. trast. (_turning_) decidedly! lothar. that is rather impolite. trast. (_looking at him squarely_) ah! you seem to be carrying your sense of honor on your shoulder, herr--er--pardon! lothar. my name is lothar brandt and i feel that it is necessary to add that i am lieutenant of the reserves in the cuirassier regiment "crown prince." trast. (_politely_) is that all? lothar. (_threateningly_) is that all, count? trast. pardon me! one serves in the reserves during war time only. when i came back i hoped that i could live in peace. lothar. you are mistaken, count, one serves in the reserves during the rifle practice, as well. trast. do you need me for rifle practice? lothar. permit me, count, to ask you a question. trast. with pleasure. lothar. in the regiment to which it is my great honor to belong there was formerly a young fellow who bore the same name as yours. trast. ah? then it was probably i. lothar. (_sharply_) the man left the army under a cloud. trast. exactly! exactly! (_very polite_) and if you wish to say in other words, that when we meet on the street you don't care to recognize me--i release you from the necessity of greeting--i can do without it. (_bows and picks up a portfolio which he examines_) hugo. (_enthusiastically_) well, _i_ was never despatched as elegantly as that, (_he approaches_ trast _and bows deeply_)--permit me--my name is stengel! trast. (_turning_) charmed! hugo. stengel! (trast _bows--they talk_) kurt. (_comes forward and joins_ lothar) man, what are you trying to do. that's the almighty firm of trast and company.--do you want to ruin your father's business? lothar. (_dismayed_) why didn't you tell me before? kurt. whatever happens we must straighten the matter out lothar. if you can do it in perfectly good form. kurt. pardon me. count--my friend regrets---- lothar. regrets is hardly the word, kurt. kurt. (_stuttering_) well--er--er---- trast. perhaps our friend would like to consider our little conversation as not having taken place? lothar. we can go as far as that at least, kurt. trast. i must keep pace with his generosity, and--express the same desire. kurt. then the matter is settled. lothar. and i take the liberty to express my pleasure at meeting personally, the man whose work i have respected for so many years. trast. (_very politely_) you see, lieutenant, that it was not entirely superfluous when i asked "is that all?" as business men, we can understand each other perfectly. gentlemen, herr brandt junior, heir to the worthy firm of importers, brandt and stengel, with which i am pleased to have business relations, has just given me a little statement in private on the theme of "honor." permit me to make the answer public. (_they sit down_) in confidence, there is no such thing as honor, (_all are astonished_) don't be frightened. it won't hurt you. lothar. and what we call honor? trast. what we commonly call honor is nothing more than the shadow we throw in the sunlight of publicity. but the worst part of it is that we have as many kinds of honor as we have business circles and strata. how can one find his way among them? lothar. (_sharply_) you are mistaken. count. there is only one honor, just as there is only one sun and one god. one must feel that--or he is no gentleman. trast. hm!--permit me to tell you a little tale. in a journey through central asia i stopped at the house of a thibetan chief. i was dusty and footsore. he received me, sitting on his throne. beside him was his charming little wife. "rest yourself, traveler," he said to me, "my wife will prepare you a bath and then we men shall dine together." and he gave me over to his young wife.--gentlemen, if ever in my life my self-control was put to test it was in that hour--and when i returned to the hall, what did i find? the attendants under arms, threatening voices and half-drawn swords. "you must die!" cried my host, "you have given a deadly insult to the honor of my house. you have scorned to accept the most sacred thing i could offer you."--you see, gentlemen, i am still living, for eventually the deficient sense of honor of the barbaric european was forgiven. (_they laugh_) if you happen to know any of our modern writers on the theme of adultery you might tell them this story. (_all laugh, and move gradually towards the left._) trast. (_continuing_) gentlemen, i don't want to be considered immoral. the study of the puzzles of civilization is a thing apart.--you see it lies in the nature of your so-called honor, that it may only be possessed by the certain few, the demi-gods; for it is an emotional luxury that loses value in direct proportion as it is appropriated by the rabble. kurt. but that is a paradox. count. is it not permitted to everyone to be a man of honor? trast. on the contrary. then the poorest devil in the alley might dispute the honor of a gentleman. (kurt _is perplexed_) lothar. if he acts according to honor, then he must be a gentleman. trast. hm! really? may i tell you another, a shorter story?--but i am afraid i'm boring you. lothar _and_ hugo. (_laughing_) no!--no! trast. it took place somewhere in south america--the spaniards are the aristocrats there,--the population is a mixture of negroes, indians, and a sort of white trash. a product of this mixed race,--his name was--hm--pepe--had the opportunity of being transported to the spanish mother country where he (_breathes on his left elbow_) absorbed a little of the pure castillan sense of honor. (robert _enters without being heard and listens_) when he came back, after several years, he found his little sister on all too intimate terms with a young aristocrat--gentleman, we mustn't get angry, considering her origin it was the girl's destiny. but the young fellow dared to attempt to avenge his sister's honor, not as a mestizo but as a hidalgo! kurt. (_in a hurt voice_) listen, that means me! trast. you see, gentlemen, that was madness and he was treated as a madman. then the fellow showed his real nature. like a thug he waited for the young nobleman and he shot him down. he was sentenced, and even under the very gallows the fool declared,--his name was pepe--that he was dying for his honor. gentlemen, isn't that absurd? robert. (_who has made his appearance unobserved_) you are mistaken, my friend! this fool was right. i should have acted exactly the same way. trast. oh, oh, it's you! (_going quickly to him_) you don't know these people! don't look around. come with me. (_draws him toward the door_) robert. isn't that kurt? trast. they are strangers.--come. you will excuse me, gentlemen? we are in a hurry. goodbye. lothar. (_to_ kurt) now, i'll settle him. (_to_ trast) permit me just one more question, count. (_affectedly_) if you intend to do away with honor entirely; what do you expect gentlemen of honor to put in its place? trast. (_straightening up_) duty, young man--(_to himself_) this is certainly unpleasant, gentlemen---- kurt. (_as_ trast _and_ robert _are about to leave_) it was a great honor to our house, count. robert. pardon me, but you are herr kurt muhlingk? kurt. that is my name? robert. (_confused_) but--aren't--? of course, you don't recognize me! i am--(_he is about to offer his hand to_ kurt) trast. (_stepping between_) you don't shake hands with this man. robert. (_looks about confused, stares at_ kurt, _then at_ trast, _then at_ kurt _again, gives a little cry, then controls himself_) i should like to have a word with you--herr muhlingk--in private. kurt. as you see, i have some guests here now, but in an hour i shall be at your service. robert. in an hour, herr muhlingk! trast. (_to himself_) he found out quickly enough! (trast _and_ robert _go to the door as_ the curtain falls.) act iii. scene:--_the same as in act i. a lamp is burning on the table. daylight is coming through the window. up-stage to the left is a bed, turned down. it has not been slept in_. robert _sits at the table his face in his hands_. (_enter_ frau heinecke _in night-cap and wearing a woollen under-skirt._) frau heinecke. good-morning, my son! (_he does not answer_) poor thing! he ain't even been to bed! (_goes to him, wiping her eyes_) bobby! robert. (_starts up_) what is it? what do you want? frau heinecke. lord, how you yell at me! and your teeth are chattering with cold! won't you drink some coffee? (_he shakes his head decisively_) take a little piece of advice from your old mother, bobby; even if a person is in trouble, he's got to sleep. sleep puts marrow in the bones. (_puts out the lamp_) robert. mother, mother, what have you done? frau heinecke. (_crying_) we aren't to blame, my boy! robert. not to blame! frau heinecke. i brought her up honorably. there has never been a bad example in this house. i kept her at her schooling and i had her confirmed, though that ain't even necessary any more. she went up to the altar in a new black pleated dress. i bought it myself at a bargain, and i put my own wedding handkerchief into her hand, and the preacher spoke so movin', so movin'. robert. but how could you allow her to have anything to do with that--fellow! frau heinecke. perhaps it wasn't really so bad---- robert. what further proof do you want? didn't he admit everything to me with the most brutal frankness? or did alma try to lie about it? and to cap the climax, last evening i was in michalski's house. everything was beautifully arranged. your dear daughter auguste had prepared a secret nest, with curtains and carpets and red hanging lamps. she kept watch at the door herself and was--paid, paid for it! the cur was in my hands yesterday. if i had only finished him then! frau heinecke. why, robert---- robert. be still! he promised satisfaction. i accomplished that much at least. he saw i was ready for anything. he said he would find means of giving me satisfaction by to-day. i thought of the poor little girl's future and let him go. frau heinecke. well, i never suspected anything wrong. robert. you must have seen it coming. what did you think when he brought her home so late at night? frau heinecke. when a person is asleep, he's glad enough he don't have to think. besides, she had a latchkey. robert. but you couldn't neglect the fact that if he brought her home he must have met her somewhere in the city. frau heinecke. well, yes. i thought she was going with him. robert. i don't know what you mean. frau heinecke. she was _going_ with him. robert. so you said, but i---- frau heinecke. just like any young girl goes with a young gentleman. robert. goes? where? frau heinecke. to concerts, to restaurants--if he's got money, to the theater, and in summer to grunewald[ ] or treptow.[ ] robert. alone? frau heinecke. alone? (_clacks her tongue_) no! with the young man! robert. i meant: without her parents? frau heinecke. certainly. or do you expect the old mother is going to toddle after the young ones on her weak legs. robert. mm! so you knew she "went" with him? frau heinecke. no, i just thought so. robert. and when you asked her? frau heinecke. why should i ask? that would only be wasting breath. a girl ought to know herself what's good for her. robert. oh! frau heinecke. but that she--oh, who'd have thought it! lord, how you tremble. i must get this room warm for you. (_goes to stove_) robert. (_to himself_) no way out! no way to save things! shame!--a life of shame! frau heinecke. (_into the kitchen_) father, bring in some coke! (_kneels and shakes down the fire_) robert. (_to himself_) what sort of satisfaction can he have meant? marriage? (_he laughs_) and if it came to that, i'm not sure whether i should want marriage for her. at least there is the chance of a duel. if he shoots me down, then i'm saved. but--what will become of these? (_gesture_) (_enter_ heinecke _in a torn dressing-gown, and large felt slippers, he carries a basket of coke._) heinecke. (_gruffly_) good-morning. robert. good-morning, father. heinecke. (_muttering_) yes, yes---- frau heinecke. quit grumbling, father. help me make a fire. heinecke. yes--yes, we'll make a fire, (_they both kneel before the stove_) robert. (_to himself_) and if i kill him? i'll admit that would be a relief! but the question remains: what will become of them? (_looking toward his parents_) i'm afraid that i can't afford the luxury of a sense of honor. (_crying out_) oh, how vile i am! heinecke. something wrong, my boy? frau heinecke. it's because of alma. he hasn't even been to bed. heinecke. yes, alma! that's what a man grows gray in honor for. but i always said it: the avenue'll bring us trouble some day. frau heinecke. (_to_ heinecke) father, don't cry! (_they embrace_) robert. (_to himself_) but someone's heart must break! heinecke. oh, i'm not crying! i'm master of this house! i know what i've got to do! poor cripple has his honor, too. think i'll stand for it! my daughter! she'll see! (_swinging the poker_) i'll give her my curse! my paternal curse! frau heinecke. (_arranging the bed_) now, now, now---- heinecke. yes, you! you don't understand anything about honor. (_strikes his breast_) there lies honor! out into the streets she'll go! out into the night and the storm! robert. do you want her to be absolutely ruined? frau heinecke. let him talk, he don't mean anything. robert. won't you see where she is? i suppose she's ashamed to show herself. frau heinecke. she wanted to sleep. robert. oh! frau heinecke. (_she goes to the bed-room door_) alma! (_no answer_) robert. oh, she never should have been left alone. frau heinecke. (_opens the door_) just as i said, she's asleep. robert. she can sleep! frau heinecke. will you get up, you worthless girl? heinecke. come, get up, or there'll be trouble. robert. father, mother, quick, before she comes! don't be too hard with her. it will only make her more stubborn. frau heinecke. you are a good deal more clever than your old mother, but just the same i know how to take care of my children. i'll keep her like in a reform-school if it breaks my heart:--cleaning boots, peeling potatoes, cleaning floors, scrubbing steps, she's got to do it all. robert. and suppose she runs away some night? heinecke. pah, she'll be locked up. i'll have the key in my pocket. how'll she run away then? robert. but think, she is only a child! and the rest are more to blame than she. her own sister--ah, if you want to be severe you ought to be severe with that damned procuress!--i hope i can demand once for all that alma be taken absolutely away from under the influence of her sister and that you'll show auguste and her husband the door! heinecke. certainly, we'll make a clean sweep of that outfit. i've had enough of michalski. now you see. mother, robert has to come all the way from india to say it! you haven't any respect for me, poor old man! robert. i beg your pardon. father--this doesn't concern you. heinecke. just the same---- frau heinecke. (_her apron over her face_) but she is my child, too! and i love all my children the same! robert. even if they aren't worthy of your love? frau heinecke. then all the more. robert. shh! (alma _appears in the bed-room door dressed in a nightgown and a while underskirt, her hair is down and she looks fearfully from one to the other._) heinecke. hoho! frau heinecke. (_wringing her hands_) child! child, is this our reward? haven't i done everything in the world for you? haven't i kept you like a princess? but now it's over. what are you standing there for? get a broom! sweep the room! (alma _slips past her with her elbows up, as if fearing a blow, into the kitchen._) heinecke. (_walking excitedly up and down_) i'm your poor old father and i tell you i brought you into the world!--yes, an honest old man! that i am! (alma _appears in the kitchen door with broom and dustpan._) robert. (_to himself_) how sweet she looks in her penitence! and she---- frau heinecke. well, are you going to begin? heinecke. (_ceremoniously_) alma, my daughter, come here--close! alma. please, please, don't strike me. heinecke. that is the least i'll do! i'm an honest old man! yes, here lies honor! do you know what i'm going to do with you now? i'm going to curse you! what do you say to that? alma. go away--let me alone. heinecke. you defy me, do you?--you don't know me yet! you! frau heinecke. father, be still! she's got to work. heinecke. what! i can't be allowed to curse my own disobedient child. frau heinecke. oh, that only happens in books! heinecke. hey? robert. my dear parents! you mustn't go on like this! please leave me alone with her a moment. meanwhile, dress. i daresay there will be visitors. heinecke. and i'm not allowed to curse my--hmm, wait! (frau heinecke _pulls him out of the room._) robert. (_to himself_) now i'll see what she really thinks, and what i have to do! (_softly_) come here, sister. alma. mother said i had to clean the room. robert. that can wait! (_takes her hand_) you don't need to be afraid i won't strike you! and i won't curse you, either. you may be sure you have one good friend who is willing to keep watch over you--a true and considerate friend. alma. you are too good--much too good! (_she sinks down before him weeping_) robert. there, there--get up! sit on the footstool!--there--(_she sits on the stool_) and straighten up, so i can see your eyes. (_tries to lift her head, but she hides it in her lap_) you won't! well, cry then! i won't send you away from here--and you will cry for many a day and many a night when you really understand what you have done! tell me, you realize, don't you, that all the rest of your life must be repentance? alma. yes, i know. robert. (_takes her head in his hands_) yes, yes, sister, and this is what a man works ten years in a foreign country to build up a fortune for--ten long years! and twenty will hardly be enough to make us forget this disgrace---- alma. in twenty years i'll be old. robert. old?--what difference does that make? for us two there is no more youth. alma. oh, god! robert. (_springing up in excitement_) don't be afraid, we'll stay together! we'll find some hiding place; like hunted animals! yes, that's what we are! we've been hunted and mangled! (alma _sinks down, her face in the empty chair_) only we two can heal each other's wounds! you mine, and i yours. (_to himself_) oh, how she lies there! god in heaven, there is only one thing to do!--the pure little child-soul he has trampled into the dirt, he can never give back--other satisfaction i don't need!--alma! alma. (_sitting up_) what? robert. you really love him? alma. whom? robert. whom? him! alma. oh, yes. robert. and if you lost him entirely, would you feel that you could not bear it at all? alma. oh no! robert. good!--you are a brave little girl!--one can learn to forget!--one can learn--(_he sits down_) above all, you must work! the singing nonsense is over, of course! you have learned dressmaking, you can begin that again! but you mustn't go back into a shop. there are too many temptations and bad examples there! alma. yes, yes, the girls are bad. robert. let him among you who is without sin--you know! and least of all, you! where we shall go i can't say as yet. i couldn't think of uprooting our old parents; otherwise i should take them along. it doesn't matter where--only a long, long way, where you will belong only to me and your work--for you can take my word for it all--tired is half-happy!--mother and father would live with us, and you shall help me to take care of them. besides your dressmaking, you'll have to wash and cook. will you do that and be patient with father and mother? alma. if you want me to. robert. no, you must want to with a good will, otherwise it is useless. i ask you again, will you? alma. yes, from to-morrow on, i'll do everything. robert. that's right--but why from to-morrow and not from to-day? alma. because to-day i was---- robert. well, well? alma. oh, please---- robert. (_kindly_) out with it! alma. i wanted--to--go--so bad--to the masked ball! (_there is a long pause_, robert _gets up and paces the room_) may i? alma. may i? robert. call father and mother. alma. why not? (_whining_) just once! can't a person have just one good time, if it's to be the last of everything. robert. do you know what you're saying?--you---- alma. (_arrogantly_) yes, i do know what i'm saying! i'm not such a little fool! i know a few things about life myself--what are you so excited about, anyway? isn't it a pretty hard lot when a person has to sit here for nothing? the sun never shines in an old hole like this, nor the moon either, and all you hear on every side is jabbering and scolding!--and nobody with any decent manners. father scolds, and mother scolds--and you sew your fingers bloody!--and you get fifty pfennigs a day and that don't even pay for the kerosene!--and when you are young and pretty--and you want to have a good time and go in decent society a little--i was always in favor of something higher--i always liked to read about it in the stories. and as for getting married? who should i marry, then? such plebeians as those that work down there in the factory don't interest me! no siree! all they can do is drink up their pay and come home and beat you!--i want a gentleman and if i can't have one i don't want anybody! and kurt has always treated me decently--i never learned any dirty words from him, i'll tell you--i've picked them up right here at home! and i'm not going to stay here, either! and i don't need you to take care of me, either! girls like me don't starve to death! robert. (_starts to speak then stops_) call father and mother! alma. and now i'm going to ask father if i--(_as he threatens her_) yes, yes, i'm going! (_she goes out_) robert. so that is the way it stands?--that's my sister! ah, what a weak fool i was!--began to sugar this indecency with poetry and sorrow!--that wasn't seduction--it was in the blood!--well, i must act, now! rough if need be, otherwise everything is lost. (_enter_ frau heinecke, _pushing_ alma _before her_, heinecke _follows, his mouth full._) heinecke. this impudence! frau heinecke. masked balls cost money. now, you'll stay at home. heinecke. do you deserve my curse or not? i curse you again, you toad! robert. alma, go into the other room! i have something to say to father and mother. frau heinecke. and don't slop around so! dress yourself! the gray dress with the patches! alma. that old thing! heinecke. get out! frau heinecke. and you won't drink any coffee, either! now, now, don't cry! (_aside_) it's on the back of the stove. (alma _goes out._) robert. father, mother,--don't be angry with me--i--you--there must be a great change in your life. heinecke. what's the matter? robert. i am certain that alma will be absolutely ruined if she is not brought into surroundings that make it impossible for her to return to her previous life.--but what will become of you? you can't stay here, if you did, you would soon be a prey to the michalskis. so the long and short of it is--you must come with me. frau heinecke. (_frightened_) to india? robert. it makes no difference where. perhaps even as far as india. trast's influence reaches a long way. we are in a position to choose. heinecke. (_defiantly_) oh yes, choose india! frau heinecke. i don't know which end i'm on! robert. it will be hard for you! i realize that. but don't worry; it's not as bad as it seems. you can live a thousand times more comfortably in the tropics than here. you can have as many servants as you like! heinecke. thousands! robert. and your own house! heinecke. and palms? robert. more than you can use. heinecke. and you can pick the fruit right off the trees. robert. it picks itself. heinecke. and it costs nothing. robert. almost nothing. heinecke. and the parrots fly around--and the apes? like out at the zoo? robert. so you will come? frau heinecke. what do you think. father? heinecke. well--'s far's i'm concerned, we'll come. robert. thank you, thank you! (_aside_) thank god, i didn't have to force them! and now we mustn't lost a moment. where is paper and pen? (heinecke _meditatively scratches his head._) frau heinecke. alma has some. (_she goes into bedroom_) heinecke. of course, she's always writing letters. (_he shuts the stove door_) robert. (_to himself with a sigh of relief_) oh, now i'm doubly curious to know what satisfaction he'll offer--and i shall have to refuse! refuse a duel!--they'll call me a coward and i'll be dishonored! oh, well, i don't need their honor, i have to earn my bread. frau heinecke. (_entering_) everything is laid out on the table--or do you want to write here? robert. no, no, i shan't be disturbed in there. frau heinecke. you look tired. you must rest a little! robert. (_shakes his head_) if herr muhlingk, junior, sends word, or comes himself, call me. (_he goes off_) frau heinecke. (_sinking to the chair_) india! heinecke. drag us old folks half round the world! frau heinecke. lord almighty! heinecke. what is it? frau heinecke. michalskis! heinecke. what? them! (_buttons his coat_) they'd better come! (_a knock is heard._) both. (_quietly_) come in! (_enter_ michalski _and_ auguste.) michalski. morning! frau heinecke. shh! heinecke. (_threatening with his fist_) you--you two--get out of here! auguste. (_sitting down_) it's right cold this morning! michalski. (_sits down and uncorks a bottle_) here's a bottle of liqueur i've brought you. extra fine--get me a corkscrew. frau heinecke. some other time! we have orders to throw you out the door! auguste. who said so? frau heinecke. shh! robert! auguste. what? you let him order you around in your own house. heinecke. (_in an undertone_) shh! he's in the bedroom there. auguste. (_pityingly_) poor father! he's trembling with fear! michalski. the idea of frightening two honest people like that! the scoundrel! frau heinecke. he ain't a scoundrel! he's a good boy and he's going to take care of us! heinecke. even if he does want us to go to india! both. what! where? frau heinecke. to india. auguste. what for? frau heinecke. just because alma wanted to go to a masked ball. michalski. crazy! frau heinecke. the few pieces of furniture that made the home so friendly we've got to leave 'em all behind. auguste. (_sentimentally_) and poor me, are you going to leave me, too?--are you going to sell 'em? frau heinecke. the furniture? (auguste _nods_) we'll have to. auguste. the mirror and chairs, too? (frau heinecke _nods--with feeling_) if i was in your place, instead of selling them for a song, i'd give them to your daughter you're leaving behind. then you'd be sure they'd be in good hands! frau heinecke. (_looking at her suspiciously, then confidentially, to her husband_) father! she wants the arm-chairs already. auguste. (_returning to the subject_) or if you will sell 'em, we would always be the ones to pay the highest, just to keep them in the family. heinecke. but we ain't gone yet. michalski. if i was in your place---- frau heinecke. what'll we do? now, we're absolutely dependent on him! when he orders, we've got to obey, or else we're put on your hands. auguste. we haven't enough to eat for ourselves. (_a knock is heard. enter_ councillor muhlingk. _all start up frightened._) muhlingk. good-morning, my people. is your son at home? heinecke. (_humbly_) yes, sir. frau heinecke, (_opening the door_) robert! (_tenderly_) oh, the dear boy, he's fallen asleep in his chair! he didn't sleep a wink all night--bobby! the herr councillor--he's sound asleep! muhlingk. (_kindly_) ah? so much the better! don't wake him. heinecke. shut the door! frau heinecke. but didn't he say---- heinecke.--if the young herr muhlingk came, he said--(_he shuts the door quietly_) auguste. (_to_ michalski, _with gesture of counting money_) watch! muhlingk. (_who has been looking around the room_) you seem to be living in a very comfortable place, my good people. heinecke. (_deferentially_) would the herr councillor be so kind as to sit down? muhlingk. ha! ha! real silk. frau heinecke. yes, it is silk. muhlingk. a present, perhaps? frau heinecke. (_hesitatingly_) well, yes, you might say---- muhlingk. (_innocently_) from my son? heinecke. yes, sir. \ > (_together_) frau heinecke. sh! / muhlingk. (_aside_) rascal! (_aloud_) by the way, your good son has not acted in a very dutiful manner toward mine. frankly, i expected a little more gratitude. you can tell him that he is discharged and that i shall give him until four this afternoon to settle his accounts. frau heinecke. oh, that will make him feel bad. heinecke. he loved the herr councillor like his own father! muhlingk. really! i'm glad to hear it! but that is not what brought me here, good people; you have a daughter. auguste. (_advancing_) at your service! muhlingk, what can i do for you? auguste. (_deferentially_) i am the daughter. muhlingk. ah! very good, very good. but i was not referring to you. the girl's name is alma. frau heinecke. that's it. and a mighty pretty girl, if i do say it myself. muhlingk. ah! it is always pleasing to see children who make their parents happy. but there is one thing that i don't like--your daughter has taken advantage of the fact that i have allowed you to occupy my house, and has established illicit relations with my son. frankly, i expected a little more gratitude. frau heinecke. oh, herr councillor! muhlingk. in order to sever all connection whatsoever between your house and mine, i offer you a cash compensation--which you, my dear heinecke, and your daughter alma, may divide, with the understanding that half will go to her as a dowry, as soon as she finds someone who--(_laughs discreetly_) well, you understand! until then, the entire sum will be at your disposal. do you agree? auguste. (_behind_ heinecke) say yes! heinecke. i--i---- muhlingk. i have offered an unusually large amount in order to free myself of a promise extracted yesterday by your son from my son.--it amounts to--a--fifty thousand marks. heinecke. (_with an exclamation_) god! herr councillor, are you in earnest? frau heinecke. i'm getting dizzy! (_sinks into a chair_) muhlingk. (_aside_) i made it too high!--i put the question again, will you be satisfied with forty thousand marks? auguste. (_nudging her father_) say yes, quick--or he'll come down again. heinecke. i can't believe it, herr councillor! even the forty--there isn't that much money--it's nonsense--show me the money. muhlingk. it is at the office, waiting for you. heinecke. and the cashier won't say: put the fellow out--he's drunk!--oh, he can be right sharp with the poor people when he wants to--that cashier! (muhlingk _draws out a check and fills it; hands it to_ heinecke: _they all study the writing_) forty thousand marks! always the generous gentleman, herr councillor. give me your hand! muhlingk. (_putting his hand in his pocket_) one thing more: to-morrow evening a moving van will be in front of your door; within two hours you will be good enough to leave my property,--and i hope that will be the last i hear of you. heinecke. don't say that, herr councillor! if the visit of an honest old man isn't disagreeable to you, i'll take the liberty of calling now and then. yes, i'm an honest old man! muhlingk. certainly! good-day, my good people! (_aside_) pah! (_he goes out_) heinecke. mother! forty thousand! (michalski _tries to embrace him_) three paces to the rear, my son! (_takes out an old handkerchief and carefully does up the check in it, then puts it in breast pocket_) now you can be as tender as you like. frau heinecke. i'm half sick with joy! (_the two embrace and weep_) when i think! i don't need to go to market without money any more. and when i'm cold in the afternoons, i can make a fire without having a bad conscience--a good fire--and in the evening cold meat! heinecke. and in the evening i can take the horse-car whenever i want! michalski. exactly four hundred thousand times, at ten pfennigs per! frau heinecke. and you'll buy me a sofa. auguste. now you won't be going to india. frau heinecke. for the lord's sake. heinecke. are you crazy? auguste. and what will herr robert have to say to that? frau heinecke. (_happily_) yes--robert! (_goes to bedroom door_) auguste. (_holding her back_) i advise you to let him sleep. he'll hear about it soon enough. frau heinecke. (_startled_) what d'you mean by that? heinecke. (_pulling at_ frau heinecke's _dress and pointing to kitchen door_) he! he! her! in there! frau heinecke. oh, the poor, dear child! heinecke. (_mysteriously_) well give her a little surprise!--shh! (_all tiptoe to the kitchen door_--heinecke, _who is leading the way, opens the door suddenly, then with a cry, starts back_) wha--wh--mother! what's that? frau heinecke. (_clasping her hands above her head_) good lord! michalski. (_looking over their shoulders_) the devil! heinecke. (_with pretended severity_) you come here! alma. (_outside_) oh, please--no! heinecke. are you coming? (_enter_ alma _dressed in the robe of the indian princess, her hands covering her face for shame. all laugh and exclaim in surprise at the costume_. auguste _feels the material._) auguste. the indian dress. michalski. from the stark-naked princess! alma. i--just--wanted--to try it on! i'll take it right off! frau heinecke. ach! what a little angel! alma. aren't you angry with me any more? heinecke. angry! (_then recalling his severity_) that is--yes--very. but for once we'll allow mercy to take the place of justice. (_turning around_) that was pretty good, eh? frau heinecke. (_strokes_ alma's _hair and leads her toward the left_) come, sit down. no, here on the arm-chair! alma. what is it--what's happened? heinecke. ha! ha! (all _take their places about him._) alma. and i can go to the masked ball? heinecke. ha--ha! yes, you can go to the masked ball. auguste. (_ironically_) the poor child! heinecke. (_jumping up_) i must go this minute to the bank! michalski. (_opening bottle of liqueur_) wait! we'll wet up our luck so it'll stick! alma, some glasses. frau heinecke. (_getting up_) let the poor child sit still! i'll 'tend to that myself! (_she goes to the washstand and brings a set of liqueur glasses. to_ auguste) what did you mean before about robert? auguste. you'll see quick enough. frau heinecke. he won't grudge us old folks a little good luck, will he? michalski. (_sings_) "_so leben wir, so leben wir!_" (_the moving of a chair is heard in bedroom._) michalski. ladies and gentlemen, i drink to fraulein alma heinecke, our lucky-child, and above all, the house that has always shown itself, generous---- heinecke. the house of muhlingk! long live the house of muhlingk! hurrah! (robert _appears at the bedroom door._) all. hurrah! hurrah! frau heinecke. (_startled_) there he is! (_embarrassed silence._) michalski. morning, brother-in-law. robert. will you kindly explain, mother, how these two happen to be sitting at the table of respectable people? michalski. oh! heinecke. don't be so inhospitable! frau heinecke. (_going toward him_) bobby, you mustn't be proud, specially to your own flesh and blood. robert. hm--alma, what is that? who gave you permission----? heinecke. and you may as well know now as any time, there's no use having any hopes about india. i prefer to spend my money in germany. robert. (_confused_) what has happened? frau heinecke. you tell him, father, you're the one that got the check! robert. what check? heinecke. (_assuming a pose_) my son!--one doesn't often seem what one really is--such things are deeper--for that reason one must always be respectful--you can never tell what is hidden under tattered clothes. anyone can wear a fur-lined coat. robert. will you please explain what--- heinecke. explain?--what is there to explain--don't look at me like that! what are you looking at me that way for. mother, i won't stand it! frau heinecke. go on! go on! heinecke. well, as i said, it's simple enough. the herr councillor was here. robert. he? why didn't you call me. heinecke. ah--in the first place because it was not the young muhlingk--when _your_ friend comes, then you can receive him. the old gentleman is my friend--we've promised to call on each other. and second: because i don't have to ask my son what is right for me to do--now you know--see? frau heinecke. oh, father! heinecke. don't interrupt me when i'm giving my son a little admonition. from now on i'm not going to be fooled with. michalski. (_behind him_) that's the way to talk. robert. was the discussion about alma? heinecke. in the first place the discussion was about you. you have been discharged from his service, because of insubordination. frankly, i expected more gratitude. robert. you? heinecke. (_sternly_) yes, me! your honest old father!--it isn't pleasant for me to have my son wander around as a clerk out of a job. now you've got till four to settle your accounts or it will go hard with you. robert. (_about to break out--controls himself_) let's talk about alma! did he offer satisfaction? heinecke. certainly, absolute. robert. (_hesitating, as if saying something foolish _) ah--marriage? heinecke. what marriage? robert. with his son---- heinecke. you must be crazy. robert. (_anxiously_) well, what else? heinecke. (_slyly in his ear_) forty thousand marks! (_aloud_) fine, eh? robert. (_with a cry_) money! frau heinecke. (_frightened_) lord! i thought so! heinecke. yes, sir! here it is, good as gold! robert. what! you took it? heinecke. (_wonderingly_) well? robert. he offered you money and you took it! (_against his will he springs toward his father_) michalski. (_stepping between them_) i advise you to leave the old man alone! robert. (_reeling back without noticing him_) mother, you took it! frau heinecke. (_folding her hands_) we're poor folks, my boy! (robert _sinks down with a strange laugh on the work-stool_. michalski _and_ auguste _gather about_ heinecke _and_ frau heinecke; alma _sits smiling, with folded hands_) god have mercy on us! there's something wrong with him! (_puts her hand on his shoulder_) my boy, take a little advice from your poor old mother. don't step on your good fortune's toes, for pride dies on the straw. robert. straw wouldn't be the worst. mother--i shall die on the grave's edge, or in the gutter like a street cur! only do give the money back--(_desperately_) see, i am talking perfectly calmly, perfectly sensibly, i'll show you as plain as day what you must do. that fellow has brought us into disgrace--but we are innocent--we needn't be ashamed before anyone. a man can steal honor just the same as he can steal a purse. no one can prevent that!--but if we let someone buy our honor with cold money, then we have no honor at all--and it serves us right--(heinecke _turns to_ michalski, _touching his forehead_) heaven knows i understand it all! i'm not critcizing--really i'm not.--you are poor and you've always been poor. such a miserable existence! nothing but worry for daily bread destroys all judgment and all dignity. and now you let yourselves be blinded by a little money!--but believe me, it will never give you pleasure. nothing will be left but disgust! (_choking_) ah, the disgust! it chokes---- frau heinecke. that kind of talk is enough to turn you cold---- heinecke. so _that_ is my son! robert. and don't imagine that you will lose by taking my advice. look at me! i have learned a few things, haven't i? i'm healthy, i can be trusted, can't i--the few remaining years you can trust to me, can't you?--can't you see. i want nothing better than to work for you--i'll make you rich! rich! you can do what you like with me! i'll be your slave! your pack-horse--only give back that money! heinecke. that's all very well! but a bird in the hand--let me tell you! michalski. you're right there, father! heinecke. i certainly am right!--you run along and chase your sparrows, my boy. i'll keep the bird i've got. michalski. bravo! robert. and you, mother?--(_she turns away_) you too?--god, what have i left?--alma, what about you? i offer you everything. only help me! (_he takes her hand. she struggles a little. he draws her toward the center_) you've given yourself away. well, perhaps that's your right. but you won't _sell_ yourself--you can't sell your love in the public market. alma, tell them that! alma. (_angrily_) let me go! auguste. he's breaking the kid's arm. alma. you've got nothing to say to me any more. (_she breaks away_) robert. little sister! alma. and i'm going to the masked ball, too! ask mother if i ain't. robert. mother! frau heinecke. why shouldn't the poor child have a little fun once in a while? robert. (_overcome_) so we've gone that far? michalski. (_sitting in chair, mockingly_) yes, we've gone that far! robert. you--_procuror_! get out of that chair! (michalski _remains seated_, robert _takes hold of the back of the chair_) get up, i say, and get out of here, both of you! michalski. (_threateningly_) now that's a little too fresh! robert. (_who has seized the chair_) dare to lay a hand on me! frau heinecke. (_throwing herself between them_) you'll break my arm-chair. robert. i suppose that comes from our friends on the avenue whom you hold in such high esteem! frau heinecke. of course it does! robert. from our dear herr kurt, i suppose? frau heinecke. well, yes! robert. (_with a wild laugh_) there it is, then! (_he throws the chair to the floor, breaking it and kicking the pieces away from him_) frau heinecke. (_weeping_) my beautiful arm-chair! (_she picks up the pieces carrying them to the left--then she sinks down on stool_) heinecke. this is getting uncomfortable! (_he starts to go out, right_) robert. (_standing in his way_) will you give that blood-money back? yes or no? heinecke. give it back? (_contemptuously_) huh! robert. then i'm through with you! and you, too, mother. is a man brought into the world for that! to wear dishonor like a birthmark? very good! if i had to be born, why didn't you leave me in the dirt when i first saw the day? where i've got to wallow for the rest of my life because my worthy family desires it! auguste. do you hear that, mother, and he was always your favorite. robert. no, no, mother, don't listen to me! (_kneeling beside her_) i said nothing! if i said anything, it was only madness. to-day i feel as though i were cut loose from everything that is human--or natural! mother, have pity on me! you can save me! come with me! frau heinecke. (_sobbing_) how do i know you won't break the mirror, too! in your blind fits. robert. (_looks wildly at mirror, then rises_) we speak different languages--we can't understand each other. michalski. (_who has been quietly talking to_ heinecke. _he slaps_ robert _on the shoulder_) now you've raised enough hell! get out of here! robert. (_pushing him out of the way_) back! (_as his parents and sisters surround him with angry cries. breaks out in hollow laughter_) ah, so that's it! you throw me out? michalski. (_opens door_) get out! (count trast _appears on threshold._) trast. (_slapping_ michalski _on shoulder_) thank you humbly for the friendly welcome! robert. (_recognizing_ trast, _cries out, then extends his arms as if to urge him away_) what do you want here?--in this dive?--do you know who we are?--we sell ourselves!--(_he laughs_) look at me! no, i can't bear it! (_he covers his face with hands_) (_at the sight of_ trast, alma _shamefacedly slinks away_. michalski _and_ auguste _follow her into kitchen._) trast. pull yourself together! what has happened? heinecke. (_hat in hand_) he acted very undutifully, count! first he wanted to take us off to india, now he wants to take our money away. i'm just going to the bank--whole forty thousand marks, count, i have the honor--(_bowing_) count! (_he goes out_) trast. yes, i understand. (_lays his hand on_ robert's _shoulder_) was herr muhlingk here? robert. my friend! thank you--i had forgotten! trast. what is it? robert. he wants my accounts. he shall have them. (_hurries to trunk which he opens and feverishly looks for something_) frau heinecke. (_weeping_) you can thank the lord, count, you're not married! there are right ungrateful sons in this world! trast. (_to himself_) you talk like a mother--(_realising what he has said_) pah! trast, that wasn't nice! frau heinecke. ain't i right? trast. (_takes her hands in his_) a mother is always right. she has suffered and loved too much to be anything else. (_shakes her hand_) frau heinecke. but, count! you shake hands with a poor old woman! trast. i have sinned against the mothers, and i must beg forgiveness. and my own not the least. there are worse sons, than yours, my dear woman. (robert _takes out a leather portfolio, looks through it, and lays it aside. then he takes out a revolver which he tests._) trast. (_aside_) ah, a revolver! this is how he's going to settle accounts! (robert, _seeing he is observed, quickly hides the revolver in his breast pocket. he takes his hat and portfolio and comes forward._) robert. now i'm ready! trast. i'll go with you. robert. you? trast. have i the right? robert. (_hesitatingly_) good, come! frau heinecke. (_tenderly, in tears_) robert! robert. (_tries to conceal his excitement_) i--shall come--again--to say--good-bye! now i have something important to do. (_he goes towards the door_) frau heinecke. (_at the door, wringing her hands_) herr kurt and him! oh, there'll be trouble! trast. (_aside_) shh! ssh!--well, are we off? robert. (_to his mother, in great excitement, tenderly_) and if we--don't see each other--(_controlling himself_) good! we'll go! (_both go out as_ the curtain falls.) act iv. scene:--_same as in act ii_. (trast, wilhelm _and_ robert _discovered_. robert _carries a portfolio under his arm._) wilhelm. (_aside to_ trast) i have strict orders not to let herr heinecke in. trast. nor me? wilhelm. oh, with the count it is a different matter. trast. thank you for the trust you put in me. herr heinecke is accompanied by me. i shall be responsible for his presence here. we shall wait for the herr councillor. wilhelm. but---- trast. which do you prefer--specie or paper? (_looking for money in his pocket-book_) is the whole house empty? wilhelm. the herr councillor has gone to the factory, the gnadige frau has a headache, the gnadiges fraulein has gone to the city--herr kurt likewise. trast. together? wilhelm. oh, they never go together--herr kurt wanted to countermand the invitation--because--(_indicates_ robert) trast. (_gives him money_) good! that's all! wilhelm. nothing further, sir? trast. go. (wilhelm _bows and goes out_) trast. come here, my boy. robert. what do you want? trast. what do i want? you know i never want anything. these things don't affect me. but the question is: what do you want here--in this house? robert. i want to settle my account. trast. of course--we know that--but, inasmuch as you are willing to forego the generous handshake that the workman usually gets at this proud moment, i should think you would send the accounts to the office--and--(_with gesture of finality_) robert. that would be simple enough. trast. my dear man, let me talk to you as a friend! robert. go ahead, talk! trast. you are pursuing a phantom! robert. really? trast. no one has touched your honor. robert. really! trast. because nobody in the world could do it. robert. really, really! trast. this thing that you call honor--this mixture of shame, and "tempo," and--honesty and pride, things you have acquired through a civilized existence and as a result of your own loyalty, why this can no more be taken away from you by a piece of treachery than your generosity or your judgment! either it is a part of yourself or else it doesn't exist at all. the sort of honor that can be destroyed by a blow from a fop's glove has nothing to do with you! that is nothing but a mirror for the dandies, a plaything for the indolent and a perfume to the boulevardier. robert. you talk like someone trying to make a virtue out of necessity. trast. perhaps--because every virtue is a direct result of necessity. robert. and my family? trast. i didn't think you had a family now! (robert _buries his face in his hands_) i understand--it's a contraction of the nerves after the limb is amputated.--don't deceive yourself! even though the foot still pains you, the leg is gone! robert. you never had a sister! trast.--tell me, must i, the aristocrat, learn what abasement means from you, a plebeian? my boy, don't forswear your parents. don't say that they are worse than you or i.--they are different, that's all. their sensations are sensations that are strange to you, the point of view they hold is simply beyond your comprehension. therefore to criticize them is not only narrow-minded, but presumptuous--and you may as well know soon as late: in your struggle with your people you have been wrong from beginning to end! robert. trast, you say that! trast. i take the liberty--you come back from a foreign country where you have been associating with triple-plated gentlemen, and then you expect your people, in order to please you, to change the very skins they live in; although they've fitted perfectly all these years! that is immodest, my boy! and your sister has really received back her honor from the family muhlingk; the honor which she can make use of. for everything on this earth has its price and value. the honor of the avenue may be paid for with blood--may be, i said. the honor of the alley is restituted with a little capital, _in integrum_. (_as_ robert _steps towards him angrily_) don't eat me up! i haven't finished! yes--what other significance has a girl's honor--and that's what we're concerned with now--than to bring a sort of dowry of pure-heartedness and honesty to her husband. she is there for one purpose and that is marriage! just be so good as to make a few inquiries in the society from which you come and see if your sister, with the money that has dropped into her lap, can't make a much better match than she otherwise could! robert. trast, you are cruel, you are crude! trast. crude like nature, cruel like truth! only the indolent and the cowardly surround themselves a _tout prix_ with idyllics--but you have nothing to do with them now. come, give me your hand, shake the dust of home off your feet and don't look back! robert. first i must have personal satisfaction. trast. so you insist on fighting a duel with him? robert. yes. trast. don't be so old-fashioned. robert. old-fashioned--i may be. perhaps because i came into the world as a plebeian and because my conception of honor was acquired. i haven't the strength to rise to the heights of your standpoint. let me go down in my own narrowness if i must. trast. but suppose he won't give satisfaction? robert. i shall find some way to force him. trast. aha! (_aside_) the revolver!--one thing more, my boy; if you have made up your mind to let herr kurt put a bullet through you, you must take away every pretext for his refusing. robert. heavens, yes! you are right! trast. (_drawing out his pocket-book_) does that embarrass you? robert. no, you have done too much for me, for me to ask---- trast. (_filling out a check_) there! robert. and if i can never pay that back? trast. then i'll write it in the largest ledger, where the accounts of friendships are kept (_stroking his head_) it won't be as bad as that! hm--my boy--one thing you've forgotten. robert. what? trast. leonore. robert. (_shuddering_) don't speak of her! trast. you love her. robert. oh!--i shan't answer! trast. would you like to have her think of you as the murderer of her brother. robert. better than if she had to think of me as a man without honor. trast. (_straightening up_) am i not a so-called "man without honor?" and haven't you found me a good fellow? and don't i carry my head as high as anyone in the world? shame on you! robert. (_after a pause_) trast--forgive me! trast. forgive--nonsense, i like you!--that's enough! robert. trast--i--won't fight--the duel! trast. your word? robert. my word! trast. come, then. robert. where? trast. how do i know? into the world. robert. forgive me--shall i? (_enter_ wilhelm.) wilhelm. the herr councillor has just come into his office. trast. (_aside_) kurt not home!--that's good. robert. i'll go in. (_he takes his portfolio_) trast. good! wait for me! robert. what do you want here? trast. never mind about that. come here. (_aside to_ robert) before you go, give me your revolver. robert. (_startled_) you know? trast. anyone could see it inside your coat robert. please--let me keep it--or can't you trust me? trast. i'm afraid that story of pepe will go to your head. robert. hasn't a word of honor between two dishonored men any value? trast. good! keep it, (robert _goes out followed by_ wilhelm. trast _is about to follow him, but stops_)--perhaps it was imprudent after all?--but if the youngster comes home, i'll keep them apart. now there is something else to attend to. if this girl here is what i think she is--(_enter_ leonore l. _wearing a winter costume_) ah, this is very fortunate. leonore. (_giving him her hand. excitedly_) count, do you know where i've been? to your apartment! (_takes her coat and hat off_) are you shocked at my boldness? but you were the only one to whom i could go to find out what has happened. i was afraid my brother was on the way to ruin that young girl. i suspected it. has your friend found out? trast. if that were all! leonore. what else could there be---- trast. i admit, i really can't find words to---- leonore. please tell me! trast. very well! your parents have considered it necessary to make those poor people forget their trouble--so they appealed to them on their weakest side--namely, by their poverty. leonore. do you mean to say that?--that--they--bought my brother's--(_as_ trast _nods_) oh, god! trast. it goes without saying that personally i offer no criticism of them whatever. that is the customary means of ending such relationships. but i am afraid for my friend. leonore. (_her face in her hands_) how can i ever make it up to him? trast. do you feel that it is your duty? leonore. my duty? my whole being revolts against this disgusting practice of my home!--pay!--always pay! pay for honor, pay for love, pay for justice! we can afford it, we have the money. (_throws herself into a chair. then springing up_) forgive me! i don't know what i'm doing! i spoke of my family as though they were strangers. trast. perhaps they are more strangers to you than you think! leonore. (_confused_) if you were only right! (_as he appears to listen to something outside_) what is it? trast. isn't that your brother's voice? leonore. (_at the door_) yes, with some of his friends. trast. (_aside_) i shouldn't have let him keep the revolver. (_taking his hat_) is he going to the office? leonore. no, i think they are coming here. trast. (_putting his hat down again_) good, i will wait for him--one thing, fraulein--my friend leaves this house to-day; he leaves the city to-morrow and perhaps europe in a short time. leonore. (_to herself_) oh, god! trast. but to-day i should like to prevent a meeting between him and your brother. if that meeting does occur, without my being able to prevent it, i should like you to remain in the vicinity. leonore. (_she nods; voices are heard at the door. she hurries to the left, then turns_) what shall i do. count? trast. be true to him! leonore. i will! (_she goes_) trast. now--the brother! (_enter_ kurt, lothar _and_ hugo.) kurt. (_surprised_) count! lothar. (_aside_) good thing we came with you! trast. i should like a few words with you, herr muhlingk. kurt. sorry, but i am very pressed for time; my father is waiting for me! trast. (_aside_) oho!--(_to_ kurt) it's a personal favor. kurt. i have no secrets from my friends, count. (_they sit down_) trast. someone, a great friend of mine, has suffered deeply because of his honor. on my advice and as a favor to me he has foregone sending you a challenge. kurt. you are mistaken, count; herr heinecke received satisfaction. lothar. we could allow no other satisfaction. trast. (_looks at him from head to foot_) we won't go into that any further, herr muhlingk. my friend at this moment is with your father, settling his accounts in person. kurt, well, that is his privilege. trast. he is to have an interview with him at the same time. kurt. that is also his privilege. count. trast. in an hour my friend will have left this establishment. in consideration of the strain of excitement under which he is probably suffering at present, it would be to the advantage of both sides if a meeting between you could be avoided. lothar. that---- trast, (_quietly_) herr lieutenant, i have not as yet taken the liberty of addressing you! herr muhlingk, let us consider this seriously. you are speaking with some one who has your material welfare at heart--not out of sympathy, i am free to admit--therefore, i may speak to you almost as a friend, don't let these gentlemen intimidate you. hugo. no, don't let us intimidate you! trast. and consider this! i don't dare think of the wrong i have done that man--you will--you'll do me this favor? lothar. (_behind_ kurt) now show him! kurt. i have nothing to say, count, because i find it impossible to choose words to express my astonishment at your extraordinary request. (_all rise._) lothar. (_to_ kurt, _aside_) fine! fine! kurt. and furthermore, i should like to know by what right you dare make such a request to me in my own house? trast. you refuse? kurt. do you still doubt it, count? lothar. (_aside to him_) more cutting, more cutting. trast. (_aside_) force--yes, i doubted it, for i still cherished the slight hope that i was dealing with a man of honor--i beg your pardon--i made a mistake. kurt. sir--that is---- trast. an insult--yes. kurt. which will be properly dealt with. trast. i ask for nothing better. kurt. you will hear from me to-morrow. trast. to-morrow--so you sleep on a thing like that? i am accustomed to settling such matters at once. kurt. (_chokingly_) immediately. trast. (_aside_) thank god! (_aloud_) then we'll go! lothar. (_stepping between_) always correct, kurt. you, as principal, have nothing further to do with the gentleman. (_sharply_) in the first place, count, the code of honor permits the challenged as well as the challenger twenty-four hours in which to arrange his affairs. we, my principal and i--shall make use of this rule, unless--and now i come to the second point--we shall be prevented from enjoying that privilege--for you. sir, have not insulted us---- trast. ah! lothar. you belong to those who _cannot_ insult us. trast. (_merrily_) ah, yes! lothar. will you be kind enough to recall, that the count von trast-saarberg, as we can still see in the register,--on the twenty-fifth of june, , was released, under a cloud, from his regiment, because of unpaid gambling debts. that is all. (_bows negligently_) trast. (_breaking out into laughter_) gentlemen, i thank you heartily for the little lesson--i certainly deserved it--for the worst crime under heaven is to be illogical! and one thing i see above everything else. no matter how much a man is elevated above the modern honor he must still remain her slave, even if it is only when he wants to help a poor devil of a friend out of a hole--gentlemen, i have the honor-- pardon! i _haven't_ the honor! you have denied me that; so nothing remains but the pleasure--the pleasure of saying "good-day," but that is better still! (_he goes out laughing_) hugo. here we are with our honor and still we've made ourselves ridiculous. lothar. we acted quite correctly. hugo. but, lothar, the coffee, the coffee. lothar. one must be willing to sacrifice for the sake of his honor, my friend. i am glad i could do you this service, kurt--what would you have done without me? well, until to-night. kurt. are you going back to town already? lothar. yes. kurt. i'll go with you. lothar. oh, that will look as though you wanted to get away from the noble brother. kurt. what do you mean? lothar. do you want the count to laugh in his sleeve? now it has become almost a duty to stay. kurt. hardly that. lothar. your duty, unless you want it thought you are a coward. (_enter_ muhlingk _in a fur coat and hat_, wilhelm _follows him._) muhlingk. (_throwing his coat to_ wilhelm) what is that fellow thinking of to try and get into my office?--good-day, gentlemen--let him send the books to me, then tell him to go to the devil--(wilhelm _leaves_) kurt, why are you sneaking away? we've got a little bone to pick, eh? kurt. (_aside to his friends_) now i'm in for it--get out now! before the storm! hugo. herr councillor, we haven't much time---- muhlingk. good-day, gentlemen, i regret exceedingly. good-day. lothar. (_aside_) you tell us how the thing comes out. (lothar _and_ hugo _go out._) muhlingk. this time i've cleaned the matter up satisfactorily, and the sacrifice, god knows, will be put down to your debit. now for the moral side of the question. (_enter_ frau muhlingk.) kurt. (_aside_) here comes the old lady, this will be great. frau muhlingk. oh, kurt! kurt! kurt. yes, mother? frau muhlingk. (_sitting_) you have brought a great deal of trouble to your parents. you forced your father to bargain with that rabble. (leonore _enters left_) oh, how disgusting! what humiliation for us! (_to_ leonore) what do you want? leonore. i have something to say to you. muhlingk. we haven't time now, go to your room. leonore. no, father. i can't play the part of the silent daughter any longer. if i am a member of the family i want to take part in this conversation. muhlingk. what is the meaning of all this ceremony? leonore. something very unfortunate has taken place in our family. muhlingk. i don't know anything----! leonore. you needn't try to hide it from me. according to the rules of modern hypocrisy which are applied to the so-called young ladies, i ought to go about with downcast eyes and play the part of innocent ignorance. under the circumstances that doesn't work. i have heard about the whole affair. frau muhlingk. and you aren't ashamed of yourself? leonore. (_bitterly_) i am ashamed of myself. muhlingk. do you know whom you are speaking to? are you mad? leonore. if my tone was impertinent, please forgive me. i want to soften you, not to quarrel with you. perhaps i have been a bad daughter--perhaps i really haven't the right to have my own thoughts as long as i do not eat my own bread--if that is true, try to pardon me--i will make up for it a thousand times. but understand--give him back his honor---- muhlingk. i won't ask you again what the fellow is to you?--what do you mean by "giving him back his honor?" leonore. heavens, you must first at least have the good will to make up for what has happened. then we can find the means later. muhlingk. you think so? sit down, my child--i shall let my customary mildness still govern me and try to bring you to reason, although perhaps a stricter method would be more in place--look at this old gray head. a great deal of honor has been piled up there and still in my whole life i have never meddled with this so-called sense of honor--ah, what a person has to endure without even saying "hum" when he expects to succeed in life. here is a young man from whom you say, i have taken his honor. taking for granted that you are right--where does a young fellow like that get his honor? from his family? or from my business? my clerks are no knights. you say he had honor, and i'm supposed to give it back to him. how? by taking his sister as a daughter-in-law? frau muhlingk. really, theodore, you mustn't say these things even as a joke. muhlingk. if i did that, i should disgrace myself and my family. on the other hand, this young man has the chance of getting out of the trouble. if he refuses, and it comes back to me, who shall be made unhappy, we or he? my answer is; he shall, i have no desire to be, myself--that's the way i've always done, and everyone knows me as a man of honor. leonore. (_rising_) father, is that your last word? muhlingk. my last! now, come, give me a kiss and beg your mother's pardon. leonore. (_shrinks back with a shudder_) let me go! i can't deceive you! muhlingk. what do you mean? leonore. father, i feel i am in the wrong, that i am asking the impossible from you. i shall have to know the world differently from--(_stops suddenly and listens. there are voices in the hall_) muhlingk. and----? leonore. (_aside_) it's he!--oh, i can't stand it any longer! (_enter_ wilhelm.) wilhelm. the young herr heinecke from the alley is there again. (kurt _starts._) muhlingk. did you tell him what i told you to say? wilhelm. yes, herr councillor, but he followed me here from the office. muhlingk. what impertinence!--if he doesn't leave this----! kurt. pardon me. father. perhaps he only wants to thank you! i believe he has reasons. muhlingk. such people never give you thanks. kurt. has he money to give you? muhlingk. certainly. kurt. there must be something back of it--get it over and we'll be done with him. muhlingk. as far as i'm concerned--let him come. (wilhelm _goes out._) frau muhlingk. we'll go, leonore, leonore. (_aside_) kurt! kurt. well? leonore. be on your guard! kurt. bah! (_trying to hide his fear_) (frau muhlingk _and_ leonore _go out. enter_ robert, _apparently calm, respectful in manner--he carries a portfolio._) muhlingk. you were a little insistant, young man--well, i never criticize a man in the discharge of duty; least of all when he is about to leave his employer, at the eleventh hour. take a seat! robert. if you don't mind, i'll remain standing. muhlingk. just as you like--i had word from my nephew yesterday. he is getting on well--having a good time--a little too much according to count trast--well, a little pleasure is always in the blood of gentlemen of good family--you have brought the annual report with you, i hope? robert. yes. muhlingk. and---- robert. (_to_ muhlingk) there, sir, (_takes a sheet and hands it to the_ councillor) kurt. (_playing the part of indifference_) may i see, father? muhlingk. yes, yes--or perhaps you have a copy? robert. yes, i have. muhlingk. please give it to my son. (robert _hands it to_ kurt. _the two stand, measuring each other with their eyes_) as far as i can see at the first glance that is exceedingly good. the net gain is---- robert. , gulden. muhlingk. the dutch gulden is one mark seventy--kurt figure it with me. robert. , marks. muhlingk. -- -- -- -- . right-- , marks and pfennigs. kurt, are you figuring it up? kurt. and ninety pfennig. yes, father. muhlingk. ha--and in the coffee "a small profit?" what does that mean? robert. (_handing him a sheet_) here is the special account. i was in a position to foresee the crisis caused by the competition in brazil and i had five-sixths of the area planted with tea. muhlingk. you? robert. yes, herr councillor, i---- kurt. strange! muhlingk. and how is the "quinquina?" robert. here is the report. (_hands him the paper_) muhlingk. not much, either! where does the profit come in that brings up the average? robert. the chief source of gain was sumatra tobacco and the tea--especially the tea. (_handing another sheet_) muhlingk. you made this trial on the strength of your own judgment, too? robert. not entirely, i followed a suggestion that my friend, count trast, gave me. muhlingk. and my nephew approved of it? robert. afterwards--yes. muhlingk. you are right, kurt--it is strange! robert. have the gentlemen any further questions? muhlingk. judging from the manner in which you behave here, one might think that you had been running my business in java yourself. what do you imply by that? robert. that i had the authority, herr councillor. muhlingk. and where was my nephew, meanwhile? robert. that is a question too general to answer, herr councillor. muhlingk. didn't he come to the office every day? robert. no, herr councillor. muhlingk. (_with increasing anger_) when did he come? robert. when the post from hamburg came, and when he had need of money. muhlingk. do you imply by that that my nephew neglected his duty? robert. i don't wish to imply anything that i have not said. muhlingk. then kindly explain to me. robert. i don't feel myself called upon to discuss the private life of my former manager. kurt. but to paint him as black as you can--that suits you better! robert. (_starts forward toward him, but controls himself_) have the gentlemen any further questions? muhlingk. what monies have you brought with you? robert. i have notes from different banks amounting to about , gulden--here they are. muhlingk. kurt, check that up. (kurt _rises and takes each paper from_ robert _in turn and looks it through_) robert. have you finished, herr councillor? muhlingk. just a minute. (_pause_) kurt. correct. muhlingk. well, my dear herr--heinecke, i wish you success in your future enterprises. be an industrious fellow and don't forget what you owe to this house. robert. no, herr councillor, i shan't forget! here is the forty thousand marks that you had the kindness to give to my father. muhlingk. this forty thousand was a gift, not a loan. robert. nevertheless, i consider myself responsible for its return. muhlingk. has your father given his authority for the return of the money? robert. no, he has not. muhlingk. then the money is your own? robert. yes. muhlingk. hmm! kurt. don't you think it interesting, father, that herr heinecke has saved so much money? robert. (_thinks a moment, then realizes the meaning of_ kurt's _insinuation, cries out, and steps forward drawing his revolver. he seizes_ kurt _by the throat_) cur! take that back!--back! muhlingk. help! help! (leonore _enters_.) leonore. have pity! robert! robert. (_lets the revolver fall and drops back, his face in his hands_. kurt _struggling for breath sinks to sofa_) oh! (_enter_ frau muhlingk.) frau muhlingk. what is it? kurt? (_rushing to him_) help! murder! murder! ring, theodore! muhlingk. quiet! there is no further danger! what more do you want? get out! robert. leave as a thief, eh? (_at a movement from_ leonore) yes, leonore, you may as well know i've saved money, i'm a thief! leonore. father, what is it?--what have you done! robert. good. this is a day of reckoning. we might as well settle all accounts. the account between the avenue and the alley. we work for you. we give you sweat and blood. as a reward you ruin our daughter and pay for the disgrace with the money we've earned for you. that is what you call doing a kindness. i have fought tooth and nail for your business and never asked pay. i have looked up to you as a person looks up to something holy! you were my faith and my religion! and what did you do for me? you stole the honor of my house, for it was honorable even if it was in the alley. you stole my heart and my people and even if they were poor beggars, i love them just the same. you stole the very pillow on which i might rest when i was worn out working for you! you stole my home and my trust in god and man! you stole my sense of shame, my peace, my good conscience!--you have stolen the very sun out of my heaven!--you are the thieves--you!! muhlingk. (_after a pause_) shall i have the servants put you out? leonore. (_stepping between_) that you won't do, father. muhlingk. what! you? leonore. he will leave of his own free will, unmolested, or father, you can put me out, too. robert. leonore, what are you doing? leonore. haven't you a word of apology for him?--not a single word? muhlingk. you are mad! robert. stop, leonore! i will think of you with--gratitude--as long as i live. when i leave you i leave the only thing that i can call home--god bless you! and farewell! (_he goes to door_) leonore. (_embracing him_) don't go! don't go!--or take me with you! robert. leonore! muhlingk. what!!! leonore. don't leave me alone! my soul is frozen between these walls! you are my home, too! you have always been! see, i've thrown myself into your arms! muhlingk. oh! what a disgraceful scene! leonore. father dear, we needn't get angry with each other. i love this man. for that which you have taken from him i offer that which i have. (_half to_ robert) i only have myself--if he wants that---- robert. leonore! (_enter_ trast.) trast. what has happened? leonore. i thank you, my good friend, for showing me the right way. robert, let us make a new home, new duties. robert. (_bitterly, with a look at_ kurt _who is sitting as though dumb_) and a new honor! (_he takes her in his arms_) frau muhlingk. so that is our thanks, father! leonore. father, mother, i ask your forgiveness, but what i am doing now i must do! i am sure that it can't be wrong. but i beg of you, think kindly of me--sometimes. muhlingk. ah, and you think you'll leave my house without my curse! (_he lifts his arm as though to curse her_) you---- trast. (_stepping up to him_) no, herr councillor, what's the use of wearing yourself out with curses? (_quietly_) and furthermore, in confidence, your daughter isn't making a bad match. the young fellow will have my station and, since i have no heirs, my fortune. muhlingk. but, count--why didn't you explain! trast. (_quickly stepping back and raising his hand as if to bless him_) please submit your worthy blessing in writing! (_follows the two to the door as_ the curtain falls.) footnotes: [footnote : certain german houses are divided into two parts the so-called "hinterhaus" and "vorderhaus." the "vorderhaus" (_translated roughly "on the avenue"_) is the larger part and usually belongs to the owner. the "hinterhaus" (_rendered "on the alley"_) is a few rooms opening on an alleyway or court whose occupants sometimes act in the capacity of caretakers, but who often have nothing to do with the people in the vorderhaus and hardly consider themselves on a plane with the richer family's servants.--tr.] [footnote : a newspaper.--tr.] [footnote : the german workman is allowed time in the middle of the morning for a light lunch which tides him over from his coffee and rolls to the more substantial dinner at noon.--tr.] [footnote : a well known quotation from schiller's "die rauber."] [footnote : thus in the original.--tr.] [footnote : the poor people in germany drink an infusion of oak-leaves in place of coffee.] [footnote : suburbs of berlin.--tr.] [footnote : suburbs of berlin.--tr.] (images generously made available by the internet archive.) such is life a play in five acts by frank wedekind author of "the awakening of spring," etc. english version by francis j. ziegler philadelphia brown brothers mcmxii characters nicola, king of umbria. princess alma, his daughter. pietro folchi, master butcher. } filipo folchi, his soil. } andrea valori } citizens of perugia. benedetto nardi } pandolfo, master tailor. } a soldier. a farmer. a vagabond. michele } battista } journeymen tailors. noe } the presiding judge. the king's attorney general. the advocate. the clerk of the court, the jailer. a circus rider. an actor. a procuress. first theatre manager. second theatre manager. a page. first servant. second servant. artisans, judges, townspeople, strollers, theatre audience, theatre servants, soldiers and halberdiers. act i such is life scene one--the throne room. first servant. (_leaning out of the window._) they are coming! it will overtake us like the day of judgment! second servant. (rushing in through the opposite door.) do you know that the king is taken? first servant. our king a captive? second servant. since early yesterday! the dogs have thrown him into prison! first servant. then we had better scamper away, or they will treat us as if we were the beds upon which he has debauched their children! (_the servants rush out. the room becomes filled with armed workmen of various trades, heated and blood-splashed from combat._) pietro folchi. (_steps from their midst_.) fellow-citizens!--the byways of perugia are strewn with the corpses of our children and our brothers. many of you have a pious wish to give your beloved dead a fitting resting place.--fellow-citizens! first we must fulfill a higher duty. let us do our part as quickly as possible, so that the dead shall have perished, not solely for their bravery, but for the lasting welfare of their native-land! let us seize the moment! let us give our state a constitution which, in future, will protect her children from the assassin's weapons and insure her citizens the just reward of their labors! the citizens. long live pietro folchi! andrea valori. fellow-citizens! unless we decide at once upon our future form of government, we shall only be holding this dearly captured place for our enemies until we lose it again. we are holding the former king in custody in prison; the patricians, who supported themselves in idleness by the sweat of our brows, are in flight toward neighboring states. now, i ask you, fellow-citizens, shall we proclaim our state the umbrian republic, as has been done in florence, in parma, and in siena? the citizens. long live freedom! long live perugia! long live the umbrian republic! pietro folchi. let us proceed without delay to elect a podesta! here are tables and styles in plenty. let each one write the name of the man whom he considers best fitted to guide the destiny of the state and to defend the power we have gained from our enemies. the citizens. long live our podesta, pietro folchi! long live the republic of perugia! andrea valori. fellow-citizens! let there be no precipitate haste at this hour! it is necessary to strengthen so the power we have won that they cannot prevail against us as long as we live. would we succeed if we made umbria a republic? under the shelter of republican liberty, the sons of the banished nobles would use the vanity of our daughters to bind us again in chains while we slept unsuspectingly at night! look at florence! look at siena! is not liberty in those states only the cloak of the most dissolute despotism, which is turning their citizens to beggars? perugia grew in power and prosperity under her kings, until the sceptre passed into the hands of a fool and a wastrel. let us raise the worthiest of us up to his throne. then we who stand here exhausted from the conflict, will become the future aristocracy and the lords of the land; only then can we enjoy in lasting peace our hard won prerogatives. the citizens. long live the king! long live pietro folchi! a few voices. long live freedom! the citizens. (louder.) long live our king, pietro folchi! long live king pietro! a few citizens. (_leaving the room angrily._) we did not shed our blood for this. down with slavery! long live freedom! the citizens. hurrah for king pietro! pietro folchi. (_mounting the throne._) called to it by your choice, i mount this throne and name myself king of umbria! the dissatisfied who have separated from our midst with the cry of "freedom" are no less our enemies than the idle nobles who have turned their backs to our walls. i shall keep a watchful eye on them, as they fought on our side only in the hope of plundering in the ruins of our beloved city. where is my son filipo? filipo folchi. (_stepping from out the press._) what is your will, my father? king pietro. from the wounds above your eyes, i see that you did not shun death yesterday or today! i name you commander of our war forces. post our loyal soldiers at the ten gates of the city, and order the drum to beat in the market place for recruits. perugia must be armed for an expedition to its frontiers in the shortest possible time. you will be answerable to me for the life of every citizen and responsible for the inviolate safety of all property. now bring the former king of umbria forth from his prison. it is proper that none save i announce to him his sentence. filipo. your commands shall be observed punctually. long live king pietro! (_exit._) king pietro. where is my son-in-law, andrea valori? andrea valori. (_stepping forward._) here, my king, at your command! king pietro. i name you treasurer of the kingdom of umbria. you and my cousin, giullio diaceto, together with our celebrated jurist, bernardo ruccellai, whose persuasive words abroad have more than once preserved our city from bloodshed; you three shall be my advisors in the discharge of affairs of state. (_after the three summoned have come forward._) seat yourselves beside me. (_they do so._) i can only fulfill the high duty of ruling others if the most able men in the state will enlist their lives in my service. and now, let the others go to bury the victims of this two days' conflict. to show that they did not die in vain for the welfare of their brothers and children, let this be a day of mourning and earnest vigilance. (_all leave the room save king pietro, the councillors and several guards. then the captive king is led in by filipo folchi and several armed men._) the king. who is bold enough to dare bring us here at the bidding of these disloyal knaves?! king pietro. according to the provision of our laws, the royal power in umbria fell to you as eldest son of king giovanni. you have used your power to degrade the name of a king with roisterers and courtesans. you chose banquets, masquerades and hunting parties, by which you have dissipated the treasures of the state and made the country poor and defenseless, in preference to every princely duty. you have robbed us of our daughters, and your deeds have been the most corrupting example to our sons. you have lived as little for the state's welfare as for your own. you accomplished only the downfall of your own and our native land. the king. to whom is the butcher speaking? filipo folchi. silence! the king. give me back my sword! andrea valori. put him in chains! he is raving! the king. let the butcher speak further. king pietro. your life is forfeited and lies in my hands. but i will suspend sentence of death if in legal document you will relinquish in my favor, and in favor of my heirs, your claim and that of your kin to the throne, and acknowledge me as your lord, your rightful successor and as the ruler of umbria. the king. (_laughs boisterously._) ha, ha, ha! ask of a carp lying in the pan to cease to be a fish! that this worm has our life in his power proves indeed that princes are not gods, because, like other men, they are mortal. the lightning, too, can kill; but he who is born a king does not die like an ordinary mortal! let one of these artisans lay hands upon us, if his blood does not first chill in his veins. then he shall see how a king dies! king pietro. you are a greater enemy to yourself than your deadliest foes can possibly be. although you will not abdicate, we will be mild, in thankful remembrance of the blessed rule of king giovanni, whose own son you are, and banish you now and forever from the confines of the umbrian states, under penalty of death. the king. banish! ha, ha, ha! who in the world will banish the king! shall fear of death keep him from the land of which heaven appointed him the ruler? only an artisan could hold life so dear and a crown so cheap!----ha, ha, ha! these pitiable fools seem to imagine that when a crown is placed upon a butcher he becomes a king! see how the paunch-belly grows pale and shivers up there, like a cheese flung against the wall! ha, ha, ha! how they stare at us, the stupid blockheads, with their moist dogs' eyes, as if the sun had fallen at their feet! princess alma. (_rushes in, breaking through the guards at the door. she is fifteen years old, is clad in rich but torn garments and her hair is disheveled._) let me pass! let me go to my father! where is my father? (_sinking down before the king and embracing his knees._) father! have i you again, my dearly beloved father? the king. (_raising her._) so i hold you unharmed in my arms once more, my dearest treasure! why must you come to me with your heartrending grief just at this moment when i had almost stamped these bloodthirsty hounds beneath my feet again! alma. then let me die with you! to share death with you would be the greatest happiness, after what i have lived through in the streets of perugia these last two days! they would not let me come to you in prison, but now you are mine again! remember, my father, i have no one else in the world but you! the king. my child, my dear child, why do you compel me to confess before my murderers how weak i am! go! i have brought my fate upon myself, let me bear it alone. these men will confirm it that you may expect more compassion and better fortune from my bitterest enemies than if you cling now to your father, broken by fate. alma. (_with greatest intensity._) no, do not say that! i beseech you do not speak so again! (_caressingly._) only remember that it is not yet decided that they murder us. and if we had rather die together than be parted who in the world can harm us then! king pietro. (_who during this scene has quietly come to an agreement with his councillors, turning to the king._) the city of perugia will give your daughter the most careful education until her majority; and then bestow upon her a princely dower; if she will promise to give her hand in marriage to my son, filipo folchi, who will be my successor upon this throne. the king. you have heard, my child? the throne of your father is open to you! alma. o my god, how can you so scoff at your poor child! king pietro. (_to the king._) as for you, armed men under the command of my son shall conduct you, within this hour, to the confines of this country. have a care that you do not take so much as a step within our land hereafter, or your head shall fall by the hand of the executioner in the market place of perugia! (_filipo folchi has the king and the princess, clinging close to her father, led off by men-at-arms. he is about to follow them, when his arm is seized by benedetto nardi, who rushes in breathless with rage._) benedetto nardi. have i caught you, scoundrel! (_to king pietro._) this son of yours, pietro folchi, in company with his drunken comrades, chased my helpless child through the streets of the city yesterday evening, and was about to lay hands on her when two of my journeymen, attracted by her cries, put the scoundrels to flight with their clubs. the wretch still carries the bloody mark above his eyes! king pietro. (_in anger._) defend yourself, my son! filipo folchi. he speaks the truth. king pietro. back to the shop with you! must i see my rule disgraced on its first day by my own son in most impious fashion! the law shall work its greatest hardship upon you! afterward you shall stay in the butcher shop until the citizens of perugia kneel before me and beg me to have pity on you! put him in chains! (_the mercenaries who led out the king return with alma. their leader throws himself on his knees before the throne._) the mercenary. o sire, do not punish your servants for this frightful misfortune! as we were leading the king just here before the portal across the bridge of san margherita, a company of our comrades marched past and pressed us against the coping. the prisoner seized that opportunity to leap into the flood swollen by the rain. we needed all our strength to prevent this maiden from doing likewise, and when i was about to leap after the prisoner, the raging waves had long engulfed him. king pietro. his life is not the most regrettable sacrifice of these bloody days! hundreds of better men have fallen for him. (_to the councillors._) let the child be taken to the urseline nuns and kept under most careful guard. (_rising._) the sitting of the counsel is closed. all present. long live king pietro! second scene _a highway along the edge of a forest._ (_the king and princess alma, both clad as beggars._) the king. how long have i been dragging you from place to place while you begged for me? alma. rest yourself, father; you will be in better spirits afterward. the king. (_sits down by the wayside._) why did not the raging waves swallow me that evening! then everything would have been over long ago! alma. did you leap over the side of the bridge to put an end to your life? i thought what strength resided in your arms and that the rushing waters would help you to liberty. without this faith how should i have had the courage to escape from the convent and from the city? the king. below us here lies the rich hunting grounds where i have often ridden hawking with my court. you were too young to accompany us. alma. why will you not leave this little land of umbria, my father! the world is so large! in siena, in modena, your friends dwell. they would welcome you with joy, and at last your dear head would be safe. the king. you offer me much, my child! still, i beg of you not to keep repeating this question. just in this lies my fate: if i were able to leave this land, i should not have lost my crown. but my soul is ruled by desires which i cannot relinquish, even to save my life. as king, i believed myself safe enough from the world to live my dreams without danger. i forgot that the king, the peasant and every other man, must live only to preserve his station and to defend his estate, unless he would lose both. alma. now you are scoffing at yourself, my father! the king. that is the way of the world!----you think i am scoffing at myself?----that, at least, might be something for which men would contribute to our support. as i offer myself to them now i am of no use. either i offend them by my arrogance and pride, which are in ridiculous contrast to my beggar's rags, or my courteous demeanor makes them mistrustful, as none of them succeeds by simple modesty. how my spirit has debased itself during these six months, in order to fit itself to their ways and methods! but everything i learned as hereditary prince of umbria is valueless in their world, and everything which is of worth in their world i did not learn as a prince. but if i succeed in jesting at my past, my child, who knows but what we may find again a place at a richly decked table! when the pork butcher is raised to the throne there remains no calling for the king save that of court fool. alma. do not enrage yourself so in your fatigue, my father. see, you must take a little nap! i will look for fresh water to quench your thirst and cool your fevered brow. the king. (_laying down his head._) thank you, my child. alma. (_kissing him._) my dear father! (_exit._) the king. (_rises._) how i have grown to love this beautiful land since i have slunk about it at the risk of my life! ----even the worst disaster always brings good with it. had i not cared so little for my brave people of perugia and umbria, had i not shown myself to them only at carnivals and in fancy dress, god knows, but i might have been recognized long ago! here comes one of them now! (_a landed proprietor comes up the road._) the king. god greet you, sir! can you not give me work on your estate? the landed proprietor. you might find much to recompense your work on my estate, but, thank god, my house is guarded by fierce wolf hounds. and here, you see, i carry a hunting knife, which i can use so well that i should not advise you to come a step nearer me! the king. sir, you have no guarantee from heaven that you may not be compelled at some time to beg for work in order not to go hungry. the landed proprietor. ha, ha, ha! he who works in order not to go hungry, he is the right kind of worker for me! first comes work and then the hunger. let him who can live without work starve rather today than tomorrow! the king. sir, you must have had wiser teachers than i! the landed proprietor. i should hope so! what have you learned? the king. the trade of war. the landed proprietor. thank god, under the rule of king pietro, whom heaven long preserve to us, there is little use for that in umbria any longer. city and country enjoy peace, and at last we live in concord with neighboring states. the king. sir, you will find me of use for any work on your estate. the landed proprietor. i will think over the matter. you appear a harmless fellow. i am on my way to my nephew, who has a large house and family at todi. i am coming back this afternoon. wait for me here at this spot. possibly i will take you with me then. (_exit._) the king. "let him who can live without work starve." what old saws this vermin cherished to endure his miserable existence! and i?----i cannot even feed my child! a lordship was given me by heaven such as only one in a million can have! and i cannot even give my child food!----my kind father made every hour of the day a festival for me by means of joyous companions, by the wisest, teachers, by a host of devoted servants, and my child must shiver with cold and sleep under the hedges by the highway! have pity on her, o god, and blot her love for miserable me out of her heart! let happen to me then whatever will, i will bear it lightly! alma. (_rushes out of the bushes with her hair tumbling down._) father! jesu maria! my father! help! the king. (_clasping her in his arms._) what is it, child? a vagabond. (_who has followed the maiden, comes forward and stops._) ah!--how could i know another had her! the king. (_rushes upon him with uplifted stick._) hence, you dirty dog! the vagabond. i a dirty dog! what are you, then? the king. (_striking him._) that am i!--and that!--and that! (_the vagabond seeks refuge in flight._) alma. (_trembling in her father's arms._) o father, i was leaning over the spring when that man sprang at me! the king. (_breathing hard._) calm yourself, my child alma. my poor father! that i, instead of being able to help you, must still need your help! the king. today i shall take you back to perugia. will throw you at king pietro's feet---- alma. oh, do not let me hear of that again! can i leave you when death threatens you daily? the king. it would be better for you to wear man's clothes, instead of a woman's dress, in the future. it is marvel enough that providence has protected you until today from the horrors that threaten you in our wanderings! you will be safer in man's clothes. a countryman just passed this way. when he comes back he will take me with him and give me work on his place. alma. will you really seek again to put yourself in the service of those so abyssmally beneath you? the king. what are you saying, my child! why are they below me?----besides, it is not quite certain that he will find me worthy of his work. if he asks me to go with him, then follow us, so that i can turn my place under his roof over to you at night. alma. no, no! you must not suffer hardship on my account. have i deserved that of you? the king. do you know, my child, that if i had not had you with me, my treasure, as guardian angel, i should very probably be hanging today on a high gallows for highway robbery?----(_he sits down again by the road-side._) and now, let us tarry here in patient expectation of the all-powerful man whose return will decide whether our desire to live in communion with mankind is to be fulfilled. act ii scene one. the workshop of a ladies' tailor. (_the king, in journeyman's clothes, sits cross-legged on a table, working on a woman's gown of rich material. master pandolfo bustles into the room._) master pandolfo. early to work, gigi! early to work! bravo, gigi! the king. the cock has crowed, master! master pandolfo. now shake me the other fellows awake. one can work better in company than alone, gigi! (_takes the dress out of his hands._) see here, gigi! (_he tears the dress._) rip! what's the use of early to bed and early to rise if the stitches don't hold? and the button-holes, gigi! did the rats help you with them? i worked for her majesty queen amelia when her husband was still making mortadella and salmi. am i to lose her custom now because of your botching? hey, gigi? the king. if my work shames you, turn me out! master pandolfo. how rude, gigi! do you think you are still tending pigs at baschi? forty years on your back and nothing learned! go packing out of my house and see where you will find your food, then, you vagabond! the king. (_rises and collects the scraps._) i'll take you at your word, master! master pandolfo. what the devil, madcap; can't you take a joke? can i show more love toward my 'prentice than i do when i give him the work which usually the master does? since you have been with me haven't i allowed you to cut all the garments? the devil take me that i cannot catch the knack of your cutting! but the ladies of perugia say, "master pandolfo, since the old apprentice has been working for you, your work has a genteel cut." but what's the use of a genteel cut if the young ladies tear the stitches out as they dance? you'll never be a journeyman, gigi, unless you learn to sew. my dear, sweet gigi, don't you see that i only want what's best for you? the king. good, master pandolfo, i'll stay with you if from now on, in addition to my keep, you will pay me thirty soldi more a week. master pandolfo. i'll promise you that, gigi! as true as i stand here, i'll promise you that!----thirty soldi you want?----yes, yes! the gown for her majesty, the queen, must be ready sewed by noon. therefore, be industrious, gigi! always industrious! (_exit._) (_the king dimes a long breath after master pandolfo leaves the room, and then sits down to his work again. after a while, princess alma puts her head in through the window._) alma. are you alone, father? the king. (_springing up joyfully._) my treasure! (_alma vanishes and immediately after comes in through the door. she is dressed as a boy in a dark, neat suit of clothes._) the king. the master is upstairs with his morning dram, and the journeymen are still asleep. the moments i have with you, my child, indemnify my soul for the days of dull routine. what affectionate conversations i hold with you, and how lovingly and understandingly you answer me! do not forsake me! it is a new crime i commit in asking this of you; but see, i am a weak man! alma. things will soon be better with us now, father. the old notary, whose errand-boy i became two months ago, already lets me copy all his documents. next week he is going to take me to court with him, in order that i may take down the case instead of him.----o my father, if only the death sentence which, now that we are in perugia again, places you in greater danger than ever before, could be lifted from your head!----my feminine ignorance of politics prevents me conjecturing whether they will raise you to the throne again. but they should honor you as more than a king. there must be something godlike about you when, in spite of your degradation, you are able to fill one with happiness as you do me! what a wealth of happiness you would have to give if your fetters were removed. thousands then would contend for you, and you would no longer envy any king the weight of his crown! the king. do not talk further about me. i must wait in obscurity until my hour is come.----but you, my child, do you not feel deadly unhappy under the burden of your work?----isn't your master disagreeable when he needs someone upon whom to vent his bad temper? alma. but don't you see what good spirits i am in, father? the people i serve know how to value education and culture. you, on the contrary, must live with a brood of men whose daily habits must torment your soul, even without their knowledge or desire. i see you grind your teeth at this or that retort. i see how your throat contracts with disgust at mealtimes. oh, forgive my words! they are unmindful of your smarting wounds. the king. (_whimsically._) only think, my child, the result of these unusual circumstances is that i am cherished by master pandolfo as his most industrious worker. at baschi, where i tended cattle, i made a shed behind the stables my sleeping place. i used to lie there every morning on my back, following my dreams until the sun stood over me in the zenith. that's the reason the farmer discharged me. here i sleep with three common fellows, and, therefore, am the first to rise and the last to go to bed. personally, i do not sleep as well in the company of men as i do in the company of beasts. i never dreamed such an industrious worker was concealed within me! work serves me as a kind of refuge. and then the beautiful lines of the heavy velvet, the sheen of the gold brocade! they refresh my soul and i long for them as for a vivifying drink. and then master pandolfo's insight discovered in me at once a gift which astonishes me highly, and which, to be can-did, i could not give up lightly. he found i was better able than any of his workmen, better able than himself even, to cut the stuff for the ladies' dresses so as to bring out the figure to the best advantage. for example, that doublet you wear i should have cut quite differently than did that miserable botcher whose shears were not worthy to touch such splendid cloth. alma. oh, silence, father! how can you jest so callously at your unhappy fate! the king. (_passionately._) do not mock me with flattery, my child! fate jests at me and not i at it! alma. (_soothingly._) beloved father, you remain a king, no matter what you must do in this world. the king. in your loving heart, yes! and, therefore, your father, with loving despotism, opposes your life's happiness by crowding out of your heart that longing for a man which must be awakening in you at your age. your father's egotistical folly has lost you rank and property, now it deprives you of the highest rights of life--those which the creatures of the wilderness share with mankind and which may make existence in a hut, as well as on a throne, a gift of the gods! what madness made me test my strength against the flood of the san margherita brook, instead of invading umbria by war, setting the city on fire at its four corners and snatching the crown with my own hands from the glowing ruins!----but that was only the continuation of past folly! alma. (_weeping._) heaven have mercy on my foolish soul! how was it possible for me so to grieve you! the king. in misfortune people hurt each other without knowledge or desire, just as truly as in happiness each one brings joy to the other unwittingly. do not make him who is judged suffer for it. you must go, my child; i hear the workmen shouting and tramping about upstairs. alma. (_kissing him._) tomorrow morning early! (_exit._) (_the king takes up his work. then the three journeymen come in, and, sitting down on separate tables on the other side of the room, prepare for work._) michele. gigi, if you get up before cockcrow again i'll break your nose the next night while you sleep. then go to the women and see if you can succeed with them! the king. it would please you well to attack a sleeping man. but take care of your own bones at it, or perhaps you might not rise at all the next day! noe. well said, gigi! tell us quickly more of your war-like deeds, that we may be afraid of you. the king. i haven't time. if your ears itch for tales of heroic deeds, tell how you stole the parson's geese at bavagna. battista. our patron saint defend us! usually, you are as tame and sneaking as if your nail had never crushed a louse, and today you would like to spit all three of us at once on your needle. the king. let me be in peace, then! a hollow tooth is hurting me. that's the reason i left the sleeping room so early. noe. tell the truth, gigi! wasn't the page here just now who brings you the glowing love letters from the lady for whom you cut the yellow silk dress? the king. do i concern myself with your love letters? michele. you concern yourself with entirely different things! you get up right after midnight to practice being a lickspittle and a trimmer! you get the master to give you the journeymen's work and divide the apprentice's work among us! you are a pest in the house! battista. apprentice, bring us the morning soup! (_the king leaves the workroom._) noe. he's lacking in the upper story; i am sorry for him. he must have been some sort of bootcleaner for a gentleman of quality. that moved his brain out of place in his skull. battista. did you ever see a soldier who would let himself be kicked about so by journeymen tailors? noe. my mother was a country girl; i tell that to anybody who asks me; i don't act as if i had been bed servant to the holy father! michele. i'll tell you why the lad is so stupid. each of us has knocked about the world, often with not enough to eat. but if he opens his mouth out comes a stream of curses profane enough to turn one's stomach. earth is ashamed at having brought forth such a monster; then heaven is ashamed to have let its light fall upon him; then hell is ashamed that it has not yet swallowed him! you will see! (_the king returns with four wooden, spoons and a pot of soup, which he sets before the journeymen._) michele. get out, you beast! you can lick our spoons when we have had enough! the king. (_strives with himself, seeking to master his anger, then strikes his brow._) oh, a curse upon this king who hinders me from allowing myself to be thrashed by this rascal! oh, a curse upon the king who hinders me crushing this rascal, whom i understand better than he understands me! oh, a curse upon the king who hinders me from being a man like other men! oh a triple curse upon the king! (_the journeymen spring up in horror._) michele. did you hear? he cursed the king! he cursed the king! battista and noe. (_together._) he has cursed the king! michele. seize him! hold him fast!----master pandolfo!----master pandolfo!----knock in his teeth! master pandolfo. (_rushing in._) get to work, lads! why are you fighting so early in the morning? are you mad? the journeymen. (_holding the king by the arms._) he has cursed the king!----"curse the king!" he cried! "a triple curse upon the king!" the king. (_submitting indifferently to force._) a triple curse upon the king! then let the king's head fall under the headsman's axe. the journeymen. listen to him, master pandolfo! the king. (_to himself._) my poor child! master pandolfo. bind his hands behind his back! cursing our dear, good king pietro! "let king pietro's head fall under the headsman's axe!" bring ropes! take the dog to court! this vagabond will lose me by best customers! the head of king pietro, who pays his bills more promptly than any king before him! scene two. the court room. (_the presiding judge and two associates sit at the middle table; the attorney-general for the crown occupies a raised seat to the right; the counsel for the defense occupies a similar seat to the left. further forward, to the right, is the clerk of the court, with princess alma as his amanuensis. she has the court records in front of her. forward, on the left, are halberdiers guarding the door to the adjoining room. the back of the hall is filled with spectators._) the presiding judge. i open the session in the name of his exalted majesty, the king.----according to his request, i grant the privilege of speaking first to the counsel for the prosecution, signor silvio andrevitti, doctor of canonical and civil law and attorney-general for the crown. the attorney-general. under the rule of our sublime and beloved king pietro, it has become the custom in our city of perugia to permit the citizen to be present in court during a trial, in order to strengthen his confidence in the unshakable incorruptibility of our judgments. in view of the offence which is to be tried here today, i venture to suggest to the court that the spectators here assembled be excluded from our session, in order that they may be protected from looking too deeply into the degradation of human nature. the presiding judge. the well-considered suggestion of the honorable attorney-general shall be followed. (_the halberdiers, with crossed pikes, force the spectators quietly out of the hall._) the presiding judge. our sublime king pietro has made the wise and just provision that any poor defendant, no matter what his nationality, be supplied with an advocate at the cost of the state. the worthy signor corrado ezzelino, master and doctor of both civil and canonical law, has declared himself ready to serve in this capacity today. now, i grant the privilege of speaking, at his special request, to our worthy clerk of the court, signor matteo nerli. the clerk of the court. honorable and wise judges, a cramp which lames my right hand, the result of long years of untiring industry in the service of the law, does not permit me the honor of taking down the minutes of to-day's session unassisted. by my side you see my apprenticed clerk, a lad who has awakened my affection, and who, despite his youth, has shown an unusual love of the law. i ask that he be permitted to keep the minutes, under the direction and supervision of his master. the presiding judge. your wish is granted, blaster matteo. the witnesses who were called for to-day's session have all appeared in person. conduct the defendant thither. (_the halberdiers bring in the king from the neighboring room. princess alma startles at sight of him, but collects herself and arranges her writing materials._) the presiding judge. you call yourself ludovicus and were employed formerly in tending cattle at baschi. you are accused of the _crimen læsæ majestatis_, which was visited with severe penalties in the imperishable code of our great predecessors, the ancient romans; the crime of injuring majesty, or, in other words, the insult to the holy person of the king. do you acknowledge yourself guilty of this offence? the king. yes. the clerk of the court. (_to alma._) he said "yes." write it down, my lad; write it down accurately! the presiding judge. according to the unanimous testimony of four unprejudiced witnesses, your words were, "a triple curse upon the king! let the king's head fall under the headsman's axe!" the king. those were my words. the clerk of the court. "those were my words!" joseph and mary, a blot! lad, has the devil gotten into you today? the presiding judge. what have you to advance in your own behalf? the king. nothing. michele. he has nothing to advance! did you hear? he has nothing to advance! master pandolfo. he spat out his terrible curse in miserable revenge against me! he wanted to bring my business and my whole family into disrepute. the presiding judge. silence on the witness bench!----now, what have you to say in your own defense? the king. nothing.----next to the majesty of god, the majesty of the king stands highest in this world. the majesty of god suffers as little from human curses as the majesty of the king. can the majesty of god be dimmed by vulgar humanity saying, "we believe in you no longer"? can the majesty of the king be dimmed by people saying, "we will obey no longer"? who would assert that as possible?----god wandered in lowly form upon this earth, and the rabble believed it had put him to death. and so the rabble may believe it has banished the king; he remains where he was. if they call to him, "let your head fall under the headsman's axe," it does him no harm. therefore, although next to blaspheming against god, blaspheming against the king is the most execrable crime--a crime of which my words have made me guilty, as i acknowledge openly----it appears to me that the matter should be such an indifferent and trifling affair to the king that he should not need to revenge it. at the same time, it seems to me too frightful for the rabble to presume to be able ever to atone for it. the rabble, indeed, possesses no higher power than that over life and death, and, indeed, cannot know whether the miserable sinner would not welcome death, no matter how painful, as a liberation from a thousand sorrows. these, therefore, are the reasons why i hold that the judges before whom i now stand can execute no punishment upon me for my crime. (_general murmur of dissent._) now, let me, wise and honorable judges, name the grounds which make it your holy duty to judge me according to the greatest severity of the law. noe. i told you the fellow was completely crazy! the presiding judge. (_to the witness bench._) silence! (_to the king._) speak further. the king. the majesty of the king, as i have proved commensurate to human reason, can receive no injury from my words. but, unfortunately, next to faith in the all-goodness of providence, faith in the majesty of the king is the highest and holiest possession of the common people. that which the sons of earth have known since all time as eternal truths, against which none, be he master or slave, sins unpunished, that stands under god's holy protection. everything which they value, everything that affects their property and the prosperity of their daily work, that they enjoy with childish confidence in their king's protection. in their king the common people recognize the likeness of their own fortune, and who smirches this likeness robs them of the courage to work and of peace by night. i am far more guilty of this crime than human justice fathoms. it is impossible for the punishment hanging over me to approach the weight of my crime. even should it cost my life, let it be what you will, i shall accept it from the hands of you judges as a grace of god. the presiding judge. the grace of your lord, our dear and blessed king, has placed a learned advocate at your side. the honorable signor corrado ezzelino, master and doctor of civil and canonical law, may address the court. the advocate for the defense. (_rising._) my exalted, righteous, worthy and honorable judges, permit me first to speak a word concerning our brave and honest fellow-citizen, the master-tailor casare pandolfo. we see him here today on the witness bench deeply bowed down as the result of the abominable crime which has taken place under his roof. we all of us recognize the staunchness of his principles; we all--all of us here assembled--know the excellence of his work. i believe myself able, therefore, to assure master pandolfo, in the name of all of us, that not one of us would think of associating him, even in the slightest degree, with the frightful crime which happened under his roof.----now, concerning the defendant, whom it is my sad duty to defend: apparently, he is an entirely disreputable scamp, more worthy of our deepest scorn than of being judged in the normal fashion according to the wise provision of the roman code. permit, o judges, the words of the text, "thou shalt not cast thy pearls before swine," to be followed in the case of this outcast from our dear commonweal. because of his unexampled spiritual and moral degeneracy, it would be impossible for the defendant to know how to appreciate at its true worth the honor done him by weighing his case in the scales of justice; therefore, i request you, wise and honorable judges, in order not to belittle the dignity of our calling, to let the punishment rest at flogging. should punishment by flogging appear inadequate, wise and honorable judges, possibly punishment by flogging might be augmented by three days' exposure in the pillory in the market place of perugia. the presiding judge. i grant the floor to the attorney-general, our worthy signor silvio andreotti, doctor of civil and canonical law. the attorney-general. (_who during the whole proceedings has been groaning, yawning and wriggling about in his seat._) honorable judges! as the worthy signor corrado ezzelino has rightly and forcibly expressed it in his excellent defence, the defendant is a disreputable scamp, an outcast from our dear human community, an individual of unexampled moral degeneracy, in whom i cannot deny there is a certain mental craftiness, or, to speak more plainly, a certain peasant's cunning. his own words which he has spoken here are evidence of this peasant's cunning, as is also the fact that, with the intention of confusing our power of judgment, by creating a favorable impression, he has not attempted to deny his deed. when, however, an individual from the lowest depths of human degeneracy commits a crime such as this, which cries to heaven, then that individual must be looked upon no longer as a human being, but as a wild beast; and such a one, as the defendant, himself cleverly has shown, with the intention of tricking our judgment, is the most pernicious enemy of our commonwealth, for the protection of which i and you, you judges, have been placed here. such a wild beast, by reason of his baseness, as well as on account of the danger he is to the community, deserves that he be destroyed by death and that his tracks be obliterated from the earth! the presiding judge. defendant ludovicus, what more have you to say? the king. nothing. the presiding judge. the witnesses are excused!----the court stands adjourned until the passing of sentence. (_the witnesses, the judges and the attorney-general leave the chamber._) the clerk of the court. (_beating his head, to alma, who sits bathed in tears over the minutes._) help me, holy mary, mother of god! the booby, with his foolishness, has blubbered all over the minutes! not a letter can be read! the leaves are all stuck together! alma. (_sobbing._) o my god, he is innocent! i know that he is innocent! the clerk of the court. why should it worry you whether he is innocent or guilty? is it your head or his head they are going to cut off? the king. (_who stands alone in the middle of the room, aside, but with emphasis._) my words were, "and so at last the king's head shall fall under the headsman's axe in the market place of perugia!" the clerk of the court. there, you see how innocent he is! alma. (_who has risen and prays earnestly, with hands folded across her breast._) lord god in heaven, thou who hast compassion upon all the poor and miserable, preserve us from this! the clerk of the court. see now, you are a brave lad and have your heart in the right place! i shall certainly not bring you again soon to a sitting of the court. you must rewrite the whole minutes from memory at home. you will learn more from that than if you studied through the whole _corpus juris_! the advocate for the defense. (_who, after the judges have left the chamber, has taken a package of bread and butter, a flask and a glass from his robe. re places the flask and glass in front of him, and then comes forward, busy with his breakfast._) now, gigi, wasn't that a ciceronian defence that i made for you? but what do you know about cicero! you will allow me to breakfast, of course. at first, i had the intention of sprinkling my defence with a little _curiculum vitæ_, a moving description of your cattle tending, etc. but, to be frank, gigi, i don't believe that either would have helped you much with those (_pointing_) dunderheads out there! the king. you have my thanks for your pains, worthy doctor ezzelino. (_the judges return from the council-chamber and resume their places._) the presiding judge. (_reading from his notes._) the defendant, ludovicus, recently a tailor's apprentice in perugia, and formerly employed in the tending of cattle in the village of baschi, is accused of the crime of blasphemy against the holy person of the king, and is found guilty of this crime upon the evidence of unanimous testimony, as well as by his own admission. in consideration of his previous good character, as well as in consideration of his free confession, the defendant is sentenced to two years' incarceration---- alma. (_gives a muffled cry._) the clerk of the court. young fellow, will you hold your tongue while the judge is speaking! the presiding judge. ----and, furthermore, to ten years' deprivation of all the rights and honors of citizenship, as well as to banishment from the city of perugia for the whole term of his life, under pain of death in case of his return. the clerk of the court. (_to alma._) write, my lad! write! this is the most important of all! the presiding judge. (_continuing his reading._) in view of the important fact that the defendant has not shown the least trace of regret for his deed, the sentence provides that he shall spend his two years' incarceration in the most rigid solitary confinement.----given in the name of the king, on the third day of the month of august, in the year of our lord one thousand four hundred and ninety-nine. (_turning to the guards._) take away the prisoner! (_rising. to the court._) i hereby declare to-day's session closed. act iii scene one. a prison. (_to the left, the cell door. to the right, a barred window. at the back, a folding bench, fastened against the wall._) the king. (_sings to a lute._) with an ivy wreath my brow was dressed, in my locks there sparkled the dew; a pair of falcons above my crest wove circles in the blue. from the balcony, in joyous vein, my mother beckoned and smiled; at e'en thy father will come again, in victor's garb, my child. (_he leans the lute against the wall, sinks down upon a stool at the back of the cell and plaits a straw mat._)----i am thirsty.----is it really so late in the day?----how time passes here! (_he rises and looks curiously upward through the window._) by the lord, the sun is beginning to glide along the south wall of the tower!----time for the water jug! (_he fetches an earthen jug from the corner and stands expectantly before the door._)----he will soon come!----did i ever enjoy a drink while i was king as i do the fresh draught of water which i have received daily at this hour for the last twelfthmonth? i believe it's a stroke of good fortune that i was never in jail during my own reign. (_the door opens noisily and a rough voice outside calls, "water jug!" the king hastily sets the jug outside the door and returns inside the cell. the door slams shut, but is reopened immediately and the jailer enters._) the jailer. zounds and death, gigi, how did you smash the jug? silence, you dog! there's a hole in the jug. it was sound yesterday. i'll pitch into you so that your face will bleed! you take me for your servant because lately i haven't watched you so closely. you'll get it now so that your hair will turn white! show your work! (_the king produces the unfinished straw mat._) the jailer. that your day's work! you won't get a bit of bread until you finish five times that amount! (throwing the mat down at his feet.) there!----now i'll inspect your cell. look out for yourself! i won't let you out of this hole alive! (_putting his hands behind him, he goes step by step along the wall from door to window, examining it from top to bottom, and turning around now and then at the prisoner, who stands motionless in the middle of the cell._) what does that spider web mean up there? the fourth disciplinary punishment for eight days! (_turning around._) you still know the seven disciplinary punishments by heart?----hey, gigi? the king. i know them by heart. the jailer. first disciplinary punishment? the king. deprivation of privileges. the jailer. i'll smash that lute of yours to bits; you fritter away your working hours with it!----second disciplinary punishment? the king. deprivation of work. the jailer. then see how you will spend your time! in eight days you won't be able to stand on your legs!----third disciplinary punishment? the king. deprivation of a soft bed at nights.----my bed is as hard as if it were stuffed with pebbles! the jailer. silence! this rascal would like to sleep in the hay. ----fourth disciplinary punishment? the king. reduction of rations. the jailer. bread and water from to-day for eight days!----do your hear?!----fifth disciplinary punishment? the king. imprisonment in darkness. the jailer. sixth disciplinary punishment? the king. imprisonment in fetters. the jailer. by that you must understand you are chained all awry, so that after the first hour all the devils you have in your body say good-bye to you! seventh disciplinary punishment? the king. flogging. the jailer. (_having reached the window._) you shall shed your hide here yet! you, you thief, shall clamber up and down the jacob's ladder until you fall dead. (_he passes in front of the king, leaves the cell and shuts the door from the outside._) the king. (_looks after him in surprise. then quite calmly, with quiet deliberation, he turns toward the door._) what does it mean? where have i made a mistake? for a whole year i believed that in the course of a year i had educated this beast into a human being. suddenly, after all that trouble, he drops back again into the animal kingdom.----or did i dream?----it is impossible entirely that the jug should have been broken. i drank out of it this morning. he will break it now outside and then show me the pieces. will he let me go thirsty today? will he let me thirst?----i fear worse!----at any rate i shall receive him with a look that will make his eyes sink to the ground. (_bracing himself._) help me, kingly majesty, in order that the fellow may realize his baseness of his own accord!----(_listening._) he's coming!----a duel without weapons, man against man! (_the door opens noisily. princess alma enters, clad as in the preceding act and carrying a jug with both her hands. the door closes loudly behind her._) the king. (_with the fright of immoderate joy._) alma?! my child!----oh, beastly spite! alma. o father, i cannot embrace you now! i bring you this jug of wine. the king. (_struggling for breath, with both hands at his breast._) oh, satanic cruelty!----(_takes the jug from her and sets it to one side._) whence come you, my child? for twelve months i've thirsted for a sight of you! you are living yet, you are whole and well. speak, how is it with you among miserable mankind? alma. we have only a few minutes! at last i have been able to bribe the jailer, and from now on he will let me visit you once a week. tell me quickly how i can lighten your sufferings. the king. my sufferings?----yes! what a father i am to throw my child unprotected upon the world! that is my sorrow!----otherwise, i thank god daily that he has separated me from mankind by these six-foot walls, so that i am safe from them! alma. you can see from my appearance, father, how good people are to me. i am still in the service of the notary. only tell me what i may bring you to strengthen you! what frightful torments you must have endured here! the king. no, no, my child! do not bring me anything unfamiliar into this solitude! you don't know how time passes here with the speed of the wind. in the beginning i scratched seven hundred and thirty marks on that wall, to have the daily joy of rubbing one of them out. but soon i had to blot them out by the week or by the month. and now i see with dread how quickly they grow less and less, so that the last will soon be gone and i will have to seek refuge once more under overhanging rocks and contend with wolves for their booty!----but do not let my words sadden you! you cannot guess how the jailer prepared me for your coming! alma. i think with silent horror of how fiendishly he will torment you! the king. how you imagine things! to do that he would have to be more than the weak earthworm he is. no cruelty can keep pace with my callousness. do you know, he has shed tears of compassion here without having heard the least complaint from me! who could so degenerate as not to be thankful when his better self finds unexpected recognition!----he could not help begrudging me the joy of seeing you again, my child. but the cowardly anxiety which springs from his calling is responsible for that. the poor man is so jealous of the ridiculous little authority vested in him by his bunch of keys that the kindness he has shown me to-day makes him afraid of becoming entirely superfluous. but didn't you suffer need in order to buy the good will of this rascal? alma. speak not of me, father. time is passing and i don't know how i can help you! the king. really, i don't know either! were i an abler man, my fate might perhaps seem more pitiable to me. poor as i am, i only tremble at the moment when those iron doors shall protect me no longer, when those barred windows shall prevent them reaching me, when i shall stand again among people with whom i have no mutual understanding and from whose activities i am excluded more than ever by the sentence of the law.----if you only knew how painlessly this solitude heals the gaping wounds of the soul. the judge thought he was adding to my punishment when he sentenced me to solitary confinement. how deeply i have thanked him that i do not have to live here in association with other men! alma. (_bursting into tears._) lord god in heaven! then you don't want to see me here again! the king. (_caressingly._) i repay your sacrifice with discontent and ill humor. thoughts become heavy and sluggish when a man continues talking to himself day in and day out.----only this i ask of you; when freedom is restored to me, leave me to my fate--not forever, only until i show myself worthy of your greatness of soul. alma. oh nevermore! do not ask me ever to leave you! it is impossible that the future should be as bad as the past! the king. not for you. i believe that gladly. alma. melancholy has mastered you in this gloom. your proud heart is almost ready to break. nothing can be read in your face of the quiet peace you pretend to feel. the king. i have not seen my face for a year, but i can imagine how ugly it has grown. how my looks must wound your feelings! alma. oh, do not talk like that, father! the king. but you know my imperturbable nature. and now you come in, the only thing to make my happiness complete. it is only to reward you richly and splendidly that i would become a king again. alma. i hear the jailer! tell me how i can lighten your sufferings! the king. (_sinks down on the stool exhausted, half to himself_:) what do i lack? how frightful this prison would become if the pleasures of life were admitted here! how can i desire here a beautiful woman, where i cannot even conjure up a recollection of beauty! my couch there is shut during the day. there is no other resting-place, and i lie down there at night as weary as if i had ploughed an acre. and in the morning the clanging bell wakes me from dreams more serene than those i dreamed as a child. (_as the door is opened._) when you see me again, my child, you will hear no more complaints. you shall feel as happy with me as if you were outside in your sunny world. farewell! alma. farewell, father! (_she leaves the cell. the door clangs behind her._) the king. a whole long year vet!----(_he goes toward the wall._) i will just count the marks again and see how many remain to be rubbed out. second scene. night. a waste. (_enter the king, princess alma, with her father's lute on her back, and a circus rider._) the king. have we much further to go, brother, before we come to the place where the beggars' fair is to be held? the circus rider. we shall be there by midnight, at the latest. the real fair does not begin until then. this must be the first time you have made this pilgrimage to the gallows? the king. it is only a few moons since we joined the strollers, but, nevertheless, we have danced at many a witches' sabbath. the circus rider. it seems to me, brother, somewhere you have unlearned marching. otherwise you are a robust enough fellow. the king. (_sitting down on a boulder._) my heart beats against my ribs like a caged bird of prey. the road leads up-hill, that takes my breath! the circus rider. we have plenty of time.----your boy, brother, is very much better on his legs. it's a pity about him! with me he could learn something more profitable than singing street ballads to the lute. everywhere, that's considered not much better than begging. let him go with me, brother, if only for half a year! at any rate, it would not be worse for him than following in your footsteps, and i'll make a rider out of him after whom the circus managers will break their necks! the king. don't take me for an ass, dear brother; how can you make my boy succeed as a circus rider when you yourself must trudge afoot! the circus rider. you are as suspicious as if you had kegs full of gold at home, while from all appearances you don't remember when you had warm food last! you won't get anywhere that, way! to-night at the beggars' fair we shall meet at least half a dozen circus managers. they gather there to look for artists to appear with them. then you will see, you poor devil, how they will contend for me and how one will outbid the other! thank god, i am not so unknown as you, you gutter singers! and if i get my job again, i shall have horses enough for your merry boy to break his neck the first day, if he has the mind! the king. tell me, brother, does one find theatre managers too at the beggars' fair? the circus rider. theatre managers too, certainly. the theatre managers come there from all over the country. where else would they get their dancers and their clowns! frankly, brother, it seems very doubtful to me your getting an engagement. you don't look as if you could act a farce. the king. but there is a higher art, called tragedy! the circus rider. tragedy, yes, i have heard that name!----i understand nothing about that art, dear brother. i only know that it is miserable poor pay.----(_to alma._) now, my brave lad, doesn't your mouth water for better fodder?----do you want to learn circus riding with me? the king. (_getting up._) forward, brother, do not let us miss the beggars' fair. fortune only offers us her hand once a year! (_exeunt._) scene three. (_night. the gallows looms in the background. forward, to the left, is a gigantic boulder, beneath a gnarled oak, which serves the performers as a stage. in front of it flickers a huge bonfire, about which are gathered the spectators, men, women and children, in fantastic raiment._) (chorus) [illustration: music] both in town and country beds, with their windows tightly fastened, honest folk are drowsing. those with no home for their heads dance with merry spectres 'neath the gallows tree carousing. exiles from the sun's bright light, fortune's tracks we still can follow in the dark obscurely, and are lords in our own sight while in heaven the friendly stars twinkle quite demurely. a theatre manager. (_in a bass voice to an actor._) show me what you have learned, my worthy young friend. _hic rhodus hic salta_! what is your act? the actor. i act the fool, honored master. the theatre manager. then act the fool, young friend, but act him well! difficile est satiram non scribere! my public is used only to the best! the actor. i will give you a sample of my art at once. the theatre manager. if you find favor in my eyes, young friend, you shall have a hundred soldi a month. _pacta exacta----boni amici_! go, young friend, and give your proof. (_the actor mounts the rock. he is received with hand-clapping and cries of "bravo" by the spectators._) the actor. (_breaks first into laughter, then speaks the following lines, accompanying each couplet with a different kind of titter._) count onofrio was a man as stupid as a ram, and he had daughters seven he wanted paired up even. their way no suitor bent his legs. rotten eggs! rotten eggs! the auditors. (_have interrupted this effort several times with hisses and whistles. at the last words they pelt the actor with clumps of earth, while with shrill whistling they repeat the words._) rotten eggs! rotten eggs! the theatre manager. (_blaring out above the rest of the noise._) down with the rascal! a page! the lord god created him in wrath! _alea est jacta_! (_the actor leaves the rock._) (_chorus._) nor believe not, human brood, that pursuit of idle dreams fills our whole existence; lovers' ways are somewhat crude when the night wind dead men's bones rattles with persistence! (_the king, princess alma and a procuress appear on the scene._) the procuress. now, ballad singer, how much will you take for that pretty boy of yours?----listen to the pleasant clang of the goldpieces in my pocket! the king. just now a circus rider wanted to buy him from me. leave me and my boy in peace! i didn't come to the beggars' fair for this. besides, what can you want with my boy! the procuress. don't think i am so stupid, ballad singer, that i can't see that your boy is a girl! the sweet child will find a mother in me, more full of love for her than any one in the wide, wide world. (_to alma_.) don't tremble so, my pretty little dove! i won't eat you! when one grows up with such a pretty figure and such a round, rosy face, with fresh cherry lips and dark glowing eyes, one sleeps beneath silken covers and not in the open fields. you will not have to play the lute with me. only to be charming. what pleasanter life can sprightly young blood desire? you will meet ministers of state and barons at my house; you will only have to chose. have you ever been kissed by a real baron? that tastes better than a tramp's unshaven face!----look here, ballad singer! here are two undipped ducats. the girl belongs to me! it's a bargain! the king. go snick up, you and your gold!----(_to alma._) that fool woman, in her stupidity, really takes you for a girl in boy's clothes! why aren't you? if you were a girl, there would be no better opportunity than this to rid yourself of the bristly ballad singer! there is nothing worse than passing 'round the hat for pennies. perhaps you have already gathered pennies thrown you by the compassionate foster-daughters of this worthy dame?! they always have a chance of being forced again into the exalted ranks of burghers' society as worthy members. our star is not in the ascendant. the procuress. (_to alma._) don't allow this vagabond to set your head whirling, for heaven's sake, my dear! you don't know how cozy my house is! the whole day you can amuse yourself with a band of the liveliest companions. if the ballad singer won't sell you to me, let's run away from him. don't be afraid of him! you will be as safe under my protection as if you were surrounded by a whole army corps. alma. (_wrenching herself from the procuress grasp._) i will speak to him. (_goes from her to the king. with trembling voice._) do you remember, my father, why we came to this beggars' fair? the king. i know, my child. (_he mounts the rock and is received until dry coughs. then he speaks in a clear tone, but with inward emotion._) i am the ruler over all this land, by god anointed, but by no one known! and should i shriek until the mountains bent that i am ruler over all this land, the very birds would chirp a mock at me! what profit then is this, my kingly thought when hungering i snap with eager teeth, as in the winter months the starving beasts? but not to make a plaint of all my woes come i, my folk, to you! the spectators. (_break into shrill laughter, applaud stormily and cry loudly._) da capo! da capo! the king. (_anxiously and with embarrassment._) kind audience! my specialty on the stage is great and serious tragedy! the spectators. (_laughing loudly._) bravo! bravo! the king. (_with all the force of his soul._) what i have just told you is to me the dearest, the holiest thing that i have kept in the depths of my soul until now! the spectators. (_give vent to a new storm of approval, from out of which the words can be plainly heard_:) a remarkable comedian! an unusual character actor! the theatre manager. (_who has mounted a rock back of the crowd in order to hear better._) finish your monologue, my dear young friend! or does your poor brain harbor only these few crumbs?----_si tacuisses, philosophus mansisses!_ the king. very well, then! but i ask you from my heart, kind audience, to give my words the earnest meaning which belongs to them! how shall i succeed in moving your hearts, if you do not believe the plaints which come from my mouth! the spectators. (_laugh and applaud enthusiastically._) what a pose he assumes!----and such droll grimaces!----go on with your farce! the theatre manager. (_hissing._) children! children! nothing is worse for the actor than applause! if you succeed in making him overvalue himself, the poor rogue will be capable only of the lowest kind of trash! _odi profanum vulgus et arceo!_ (_to the king._) continue, my son! it seems to me as if your parodies might amuse my enlightened public! the king. (_seeking by every means to invest his speech with earnestness._) i am the ruler! to your knees with you! what mean these bursts of mad, indecent mirth! 'tis my own fault that here, in this my realm, none knows me more. my sentinels slumber, my doughty warriors serve another's wage. i lack that highest earthly might, the gold! still, ever yet, was there a rightful king who spent his time in counting out his coin? that task he graciously accords to slaves! the farthing, soiled with sweat of tradesmen's toil was never struck with an intent to smirch the hands of those anointed of the lord! the spectators. (_breaking out into the wildest laughter._) _da capo!_ ----bravo!----_da capo!_ a theatre manager. this man is a brilliant satirist! a second juvenal! the king. (_as before._) i am the ruler!----he of you who doubts let him stand forth!----i'll prove my claim to him! i was not wont before to praise myself, but now the world has robbed me of that pride. to him who wears a dagger at his hip i'll teach the art of sinking it with grace into his foeman's breast; so that the duel, from a rude spectacle of sweat and blood, becomes as pleasant as an el fen dance and even death puts on a sweeter garb!---- i am the ruler!----from the herd of barbs bring me the wildest of unbroken steeds; nor trouble you with saddle nor with bit; let him but feel my heels press in his flanks he'll pant beneath me in the spanish gait and from that time be tractable to ride. i am the ruler! come unto the feast! the world is distant with its petty ills, the evening star illuminates our meal, from distant arcades mellow songs arise. the guest may wander through the twilight green where, from the shelter of a plashing fall, the sportive nymphs will lure him with their wiles. i am the king! go fetch a maiden here! let her be chaste as is the morning dew! i'll not awake her innocent alarms; i come a beggar with an empty scrip; six steps away from her i'll stand. warn her 'gainst wiles of satan! 'ere a star grows pale i'll move, not only body, but her son! bring me the truest wife among them all! she soon shall doubt if loathing or if faith is greater pander to the lusts of flesh and, doubtingly, shall offer me her lips. i am the king! what child is here as small in hands and feet, or even in his joints! with scorn i look upon you as you laugh, your feet may jig, your hands may fan the air, the brains within your skulls are very stale! so be it!----will the slimmest maiden here venture to dance with me in trial of skill? she never knew the bloody task of war and all her joints are quite as small as mine. (_as nobody offers, to alma._) reach me a torch, my child! (_alma takes a glowing brand from the bonfire and hands it to the king. then, standing at the foot of the rock, she plays a melody on her lute._) (_the king gracefully and with dignity dances a few steps of a courtly torch dance, then throws the glowing brand back into the fire._) (_the spectators give vent to prolonged applause._) the actor. (_rising from amid the spectators, in a tone of parody._) i am the monarch over all this land---- the spectators. down with the barber's assistant. he has no appreciation! strike him to earth! the theatre manager. quod licet jovi, non licet bovi!----(_to the king, who has left the rock._) i will engage you as ballet master and character actor and offer you a hundred soldi a month. another theatre manager. (_speaking in a falsetto voice._) hundred soldi, hi, hi, hi? a hundred soldi will the skinflint give you?----i wave a hundred and fifty in your face, you rascal! what do you say, hi, hi, hi?----will you now or won't you? the king. (_to the first theatre manager._) don't you think, honored master, that i am rather a tragedian than a comedian? the first theatre manager. you haven't the least trace of talent as a tragedian; as character actor, on the contrary, there is no chance of it going ill with you again in this world. believe me, my dear friend, i know these kings. i have eaten dinner with two of them at once! your king's monologue is the caricature of a real king and will be valued as such. the second theatre manager. don't let yourself be hoodwinked by this horse dealer, you rascal! what does he know about comedy! i have studied my profession at the universities of rome and bologna. how about two hundred soldi, hi, hi, hi? the first theatre manager. (_clapping the king on the shoulder._) i'll give you three hundred soldi, my dear young friend! the second theatre manager. i'll give you four hundred soldi, you dirty rogue, hi, hi, hi! the first theatre manager. (_giving the king his purse._) here is my purse! put it in your pocket and keep it as a souvenir of me! the king. (_pocketing the purse._) will you engage my boy, too? the first theatre manager. your boy? what has he learned? alma. i play punchinello, honored master. the first theatre manager. let me see him at once, your punchinello. alma. (_mounts the rock and speaks in fresh, lively tones._) fortune's pranks are so astounding that her whims none can foresee; sure, i find them so confounding smiles nor tears come not to me. heaven itself is scarcely steady, o'er our heads it's turning yet, mankind then had best be ready for a daily somerset. mischief, when his legs can trip it when his arms are pliant still is so lovable a snippet that he's sure of your good will! the spectators. (_show their approval._) the first theatre manager. i'll engage this puppy as the youngest punchinello in the business.----we will wander to-night _per pedes apostulorum_ to siena, where my company presents tragedy, farce and tragic-comedy. from thence to modena, to perugia---- the king. before we reach perugia, i shall have to break my contract. i am banished that city under pain of death. the first theatre manager. under what name did that happen to you, my young friend? the king. i am called ludovicus. the first theatre manager. i name you epaminondas alexandrion! that was the name of a wonderfully talented comedian who eloped with my wife a short time ago. _nomen est omen!_----come, my children. (_leaves with the king and alma._) chorus. soon the sun will rise in state, us to scatter for a year; here and there upon the wind, driven by relentless fate, to hunt illusive phantoms none of us can ever find. act iv [illustration] market place at perugia. (_in the midst of the market place is a simple stage, from which a flight of steps leads to the spectators' seats, as shown in the above plan. a rope separates the auditorium from the rest of the market place. the back of the stage is curtained off. to the left, a small stairway leads from the stage to a space which serves as a dressing room. the king is kneeling in this space, before a little mirror, making up his face to resemble a majestic kingly mask. he is smooth shaven, is in his shirt sleeves and is clad simply, but richly. princess alma sits near him, on an upturned box, with her left foot over her right knee, tuning her lute. she wears a tasteful punchinello's dress, all of white, composed of tights, a close-fitting jacket, trimmed with fur, and a high pointed hat._) the king. have you chanced to hear, my child, how the advance sale is today? alma. how can you have any doubts about that? the announcement that you were to appear sold all the seats for to-day's performance by sundown yesterday. indeed, all perugia knows already that your art far exceeds anything they saw in epaminondas alexandrion hitherto. the king. at the bottom of my soul, i was never pained before that my laurels increased the fame of another. the assumed name protected me from too mortifying a contact with humanity. even in my most daring dreams i cannot imagine how i would look today upon a throne. perhaps, after all, i am fit for something higher in this world than dishing out, day by day, the recollections of vanished pomp to the childish rabble as the copy of real majesty. alma. in how happy a mood you have been wherever we have played! it even seems to me as if you found our stormy success some slight reward for all the long years of sorrow. the king. don't listen to me any longer, my child, or you will lose your joyousness and appear before the public not as a punchinello, but as a spectre from the grave! alma. of course, here in the market place of perugia you must feel uncomfortable. a page. (_enters the dressing room carrying an autograph album under his arm._) my mistress, the noble spouse of the honorable doctor silvio andreotti, attorney general to his majesty the king, sends me thither. my mistress desires the celebrated artist epaminondas alexandrion to place his autograph in this book. my mistress bids me say that the book contains only the autographs of the greatest men. (_he hands the book and writing materials to the king._) the king. (_takes the goose quill and writes, speaking the words aloud as he does so._) "only simplicity can fathom wisdom," epaminondas alexandrion the second. (_giving back the album._) present my respects to your noble mistress, the spouse of the attorney general to the king. (_exit the page._) the king. (_making himself ready._) another wrinkle here, so! ----you, my treasure, indeed, appear to have found happiness in our present calling. alma. yes, father! a thousand times, yes! my heart is full of the joy of living, since i see my acting received daily with crowded benches! the king. it astonishes me how little our environment affects you, although you allow all to believe that they are your equals by birth. you are a lamb among a pack of wolves, each of which has sworn to protect you, because each one grudges you to the others. but wolves remain wolves! and if the lamb does not want to be torn to pieces finally, it must, sooner or later, become a wolf itself.----but don't listen to me! i do not understand what evil spirit influences me today to call down misfortune upon our heads! alma. do not believe me capable of such base ingratitude, father, as to think that the pleasure i find in my work as a punchinello prevents me recollecting with joy the noble pomp in which i passed my childhood! the king. (_rising with forced composure._) at any rate, i am ready for the very worst! (_as he speaks these words the theatre servants place two golden seats in front of the first row of benches. immediately after, the theatre manager rushes into the dressing room in the greatest excitement._) the theatre manager. alexandrion! brother! let me clasp you in my arms! (_he embraces and hisses him._) you pearl of dramatic art! shall i make you speechless with pride!----his majesty the king is coming to the performance! his majesty the king of umbria and his royal highness the crown prince filipo! have you words?! i have had two golden chairs put in front of the first row. the moment their highnesses seat themselves punchinello must appear on the stage with a deep bow! so be ready, children!----and you, alexandrion, apple of my eye, bring to light today all the richest treasures hidden in the depths of your soul! as i (_gesture_) turn this glove inside out, so do you turn your inside outside! let our royal auditors hear things such as have not been heard in any theatre since the time of plautus and of terence. the king. (_putting on his jacket._) i was just asking myself whether it might not be better for me to present my royal visitors with something different from my king's farce; perhaps the morning dreams of the old tailor's apprentice, or those of the swineherd. the old tailor's apprentice would give our guests plenty of material for laughter and that is all they expect, while the king's farce might hurt their feelings. the theatre manager. ha, ha! you are afraid of being locked up again for _lèse majesté_! nonsense! give your king's farce! make it stronger than you have ever played it! if royalty honors us, it is because it wants to see the king's farce! what harm can they do us? _ultra posse nemo tenetur!_ well, what did i prophesy to you when i picked you from the scum of the land there at the beggars' fair! today we perform before crowned heads! _per aspera ad astra!_----(_exit._) (_during this scene the spectators' seats have become filled with an aristocratic public; outside the ropes the crowd gathers thickly. during the following words the king dons a royal black beard, puts on his wig, sets the golden crown on his head and throws a heavy purple mantle across his shoulders._) the king. my head was to fall beneath the headsman's axe in this market place if ever i dared return to perugia without foreswearing my right to the crown.----instead of that, how much have i had to foreswear to tread my native soil for the second time! the delight of satisfied revenge; the manly duty of preserving my inheritance for my family; all the good things of earth which fortune lavished on me in my cradle, and now even the naked dignity of human nature which forbids even the slave from offering himself as an entertainment to those condemned along with him! alma. and a thousand voices praise you as an artist the like of which never spoke to his folk before. how many king's names are forgotten! the king. i do not value that! only a day laborer or a place hunter can wear with pride the laurels which spring from earthly misery! but do you know what pride is possible to me in this existence? called to an inscrutable trial, i struggle here as only one of a million beings. but king nicola, as king, met death! no one doubts but that he is long beyond the reach of human humiliation. no one asks him now to renounce the dignity conferred on him by god. no shadow disturbs his kingly remembrance! i owe it to this illusion that i am still alive under god's sun. and until the hour of my death no storm shall deprive me of this possession, which, perhaps, i can still dispose of to your advantage! my sceptre! my orb! (_he takes both from the property chest._) and now--the--ki-ki-king's farce! (_seized by a sudden pain in the heart, he strives painfully for breath._) alma. (_rushing to his side._) jesu, maria, my father; i can see how marble white you are through your make-up! the king. a shortness of breath!----it is over.----i have been subject to it since i was in prison---- (_king pietro and prince filipo enter the auditorium and take their places in the golden chairs._) the theatre manager. (_calling behind the scenes._) on the stage, punchinello! the king. (_springing up._) go! go! i feel entirely well! alma. (_seizing a fool's bauble, rushes on the stage, bows, and then declaims in a light, jesting tone._) i here appear to herald unto you the coming of a king, who, verily, was never king.---- groom of the bedchamber is my post to him. i laud him as a demigod, a hero; give admiration to his wit; praise his clothes; my profit great in offices and gifts. i earnestly desire him length of days; but, should he die and his successor rule---- i trust god's grace will spare me from that blow!---- why then, obsequiously, with raptured mien to the newcomer i shall play my rôle, as is a valet courtier's pious way. but i must cease, for lo, the king is here! the king. (_enters._) my slumbers have been light throughout the night. alma. (_bowing, with crossed arms._) tour people should be made to smart for that! the king. my people? made to suffer? when my mind fears i alone should carry all the blame? what more have i achieved than other men that i am called to rule it o'er my kind! away from off the steps unto my throne! slumber forsook my weary eyes last night because i, driven by the power of law, signed a death warrant when the hour was late! avaunt, you worm! and never venture more your head within the limits of my wrath! alma. (_turning to the audience._) you see, respected auditors, how hard it may be candidly to make one's way! in lack of fitting words for my defence, my plight with resignation i accept. dejected is my exit through this door, but by another i shall soon return. (_she comes down the stairway toward the audience backward, then sits down, on the steps facing the public._) the king. (_to himself._) half my lifetime i have striven now to make my eyes more sharp, to clear my wits, that my dear folk might reap the benefit! alma. (_speaking to the public._) instead of that he might do something wise. who gives him thanks? his people whisper low, his mind is lacking quite in brilliancy, and his sublime example serves as jest! the king. (_with uplifted hands._) illuminate me with thy light, o god, that i depart not from thy chosen way, that good and evil i may quickly learn! if thy reflected splendor shine from me the people cannot blindly mock my rule; nor inefficiency mislead my steps! alma. (_springing up._) i can, however! (_she steps upon the stage._) as you see me now, i am a woman, decked with all the charms to fan your kingly thoughts into a blaze! the flower of innocence remains unplucked to gratify you with its purity. groaning beneath the weight of majesty, with sublime chastity your wedded bride, you yet may enter pleasure's magic path. be ruler! learn to blush as other men, and do not join the devil's league with death, in profanation of creation's work. 'tis fit the hero and the anchorite should pray with deep humility to god to sanctify and make them holy beings. before the lord shall call you to himself may not some earthly bliss be yours by right; do you not fear to come from egypt land without a good view of the pyramids! the king. and should i riot in luxurious ease, who would protect my folk? who hear their cry? alma. that task i willingly would undertake. since childhood it has been my constant use to ride a horse unbroken to the bit, to crush his wildness in a frenzied gait. thy folk shall grow to know no higher law than to administer thy joy and gain. the king. depart from out my house, you brazen trull, before i stamp a mark upon your brow with glowing iron! alma. once more the lightning! my looks do not find favor in his sight! (_going up to the last step._) my honored hearers, can you tell me now where lies the weakness of this curious king? else, from his wrathful gestures, much i fear our farce is apt to change to tragedy! king pietro. (_to alma._) you must approach him as minister, or chancellor, and inform him that it is just his wisdom which brings misery upon the land. if he listens to your words, he is nothing but a fool; if he does not listen, you can boldly call him a tyrant! alma. (_bowing._) i'll do as you suggest. with all my heart i thank you for your counsel, gracious lord! (_she mounts the stage once more; to the king._) with deep dismay, i see your majesty's august rule in danger. from every side the mob comes streaming to the palace walls. to me, your loyal chancellor, 'tis clear, instead of shooting down this threatening herd, no better means can now be found to quell their spirit than to send them forth to fight against the neighboring principalities. the mob grows weary of the golden hours and frets against the long continued peace; it thirsts for blood, like the wild beast it is. its drunken lust will crown you conqueror amid the corpses fallen from its ranks! heaven itself bestows this last respite. seize, then, the sword! else, even in this hour, yourself may fall with many deadly wounds. king pietro. excellently spoken! (_turning to the crown prince._) do you remember, my son, to what frightful expedients bernardo ruccellai wanted to force me when i forbade the citizens to extend the carnival a week? the pretty boy spoke as if he had been there. (_after these words the audience gives vent to short, but energetic, applause._) prince filipo. the actors are exceptionally good. let us hear them further, my honored father. king pietro. i am most keen to learn what rejoinder my able spokesman will meet up there. the king. my life!----take that!----the people's uproar frights me not! before they suffer by my fault, why let them in their madness slaughter me! in time to come, ensanguined with my blood, they will become a dread unto themselves, and, worshipful, return to reason's shrine. my death will serve its purpose thousand fold! as payment for your spiteful plan of war, i here dismiss you as my chancellor. be happy you have 'scaped the headsman's axe! king pietro. kingly words that i should like to have spoken myself! if only one could find a better chancellor so easily! (_to alma._) i am sorry, my young diplomat, that my advice served you so ill. (_another outburst of applause from the spectators._) alma. (_turning to the public._) once more my well-laid plan has gone astray!---- before, dear sirs, i yet proceed to show how i can bring this hero to his knees, so that he cries beneath my scornful lash, and whining drags himself unto my feet, a sorry object, broken to his soul, begging that i shall lift him up again and dampening all the dust about with tears,---- before i show my skill in this respect, i ask you to unlace your purses' strings and to bestow a little of your wealth with open hands upon my humble self. (_she takes two white plates and comes down the steps._) merely a pause, respected auditors, a little contribution's all i ask! (_she passes among the rows of spectators, collecting from them, but does not approach the royal entourage. the king wanders about the stage speaking a monologue._) the king. conflict on conflict! should my strength be spent, death, like a living flame, would rush unchecked throughout the confines of the realm! (_to the public._) an obolus will serve, most honored sirs! alma. (_to a spectator who puts his arm about her waist and attempts to kiss her._) oh, fie, good sir, you scarcely are polite! besides, i'm not a girl; pray keep your place! the spectator. i never yet saw boyish hand so slim! the king. (_to the public._) an obolus is quite enough, good sirs! (_to himself._) would it were over!----beyond betterment; i yet await what store of future ills malicious fortune still may deal to me! (_to the public._) only an obolus, good sirs, i ask! (_king pietro beckons alma to him and lays a gold piece upon her plate._) the king. (_bowing his thanks to the audience._) what is more happy than the artist's soul! misfortune is a spring of joy to him; he shapes a pleasure from a wild lament. adversity indeed, may clip his wings, but at the sound of gold he soon recalls his inborn kinship to humanity. (_alma returns to the stage and' empties the plates into the king's hand. he estimates the sum quickly, thrusts the money into his purple mantle, then, turning to his daughter, continues._) the king. once more, deceptive shape, you dare to tread before my eyes. who are you? let me know! alma. i am yourself! the king. myself! but i am that! alma. which of us two is right will soon appear! before you, mangled by a beast of prey, there lies a corpse. the blame belongs to you! the king. i murdered him! how know you of such things? alma. and do you see the stakes all round about? the king. that, too, is known to you? alma. 'tis living flesh, encased in tow and tar! the king. his cry of pain was music to my ear! it cost me much! alma. the living entrails on the altar red, even today are used by you to move the innocent to choice of peace or war! the king. how came you by such store of frightful facts? in deep repentance now i tear my hair! my royal might seductive proved! alma. a jest, you're clasping at your quickly beating heart, the while your eyes still shadow forth their greed! the king. 'tis not a jest! alma. it is! the king. nevertheless, spare me worse! alma. childish bodies, glowing pure, are made a sacrifice unto your lust, that you may see their tender limbs contort. the king. no! nevermore! alma. you see, you must give way. that shows that you are weak and i am strong! the king. (_sinking to his knees._) have mercy! alma. have you ever yet obtained victory in strife with me? the king. (_weeping._) behold my head is bent unto the earth by pains of hell! alma. then pluck up heart again, torture of innocents will calm your own! the king. (_with trembling voice._) you beast, you are the stronger of us twain, but grant a brief respite before i heap new cruelties upon forgotten ones. i crawl like any worm upon the dust. my better self, which i have lost to you, begs that you do not press your might too far. new victims soon will fall within my clutch; the tongue which has already tasted blood beseeches you to save them from its rage. king pietro. (_rising from his chair._) you carry your jests somewhat too far up there! what will the foolish multitude think when it sees royal majesty so brought to dust! alma. (_to the public._) folly can show the naked truth beneath the glittering facts on history's page. (_to the king._) i'll spare you, then.--but first take solemn oath to cherish good always within your heart! the king. i swear! (_looking up in tears._) you ask me that!----i'm in a maze! who are you? alma. i am your dream! your dæmon! awake to higher efforts from my ban, i call on you to rise above yourself! the king. (_rises and runs anxiously up and down._) and if methuselah i should outlive that frightful error i shall ne'er forget! under the cover of the shamed night the torch flares out: blazing in wild array, consuming flames run through the heated limbs; vice sings its victory; lecherous hell is jubilant; the rising flood of crime o'erflows its banks; and deeds the gray-haired wastrel, tortured by flames of lust, could not achieve, stagger in kinship to the drunken thought! ----oh, take my praise, thou golden light of day! alma. (_to the public._) with this i make an ending to our play. your pardon, if its setting troubled you. my sole desire was merely to exploit that ancient, well-liked acrobatic trick (gesture) by which a man climbs up on his own head. king pietro. (_to the king._) and you call that a farce, my dear friend?! see, you have brought the tears to my eyes! the king. (_after he has laid aside the crown._) will your majesty believe it, our piece has been received everywhere as a harmless farce? king pietro. i cannot believe that! are my subjects so stupid? otherwise, how can you explain it to me? the king. i cannot inform your majesty as to that. such is life! king pietro. very well, then, if such is life, my people shall not hear you again, until they understand you, for otherwise your play would only undermine the power of my throne. lay aside your mantle and stand forth before me! (_the king lays aside mantle, beard and wig and descends the steps._) king pietro. i cannot appoint a man who has made his living collecting pennies to any office of state. but my royalty shall never prevent me from making a companion of the man whose gifts have moved me to tears. there is a post vacant close to the throne, which i have left unfilled until now, because i did not wish to make a place for folly in a position where even the greatest amount of wisdom is too small. but you shall fill this position. you shall be powerless against the meanest citizen of my state. but your high mental power shall stand between me and my people, between me and the royal chancellors; it shall be allowed to expend itself unpunished upon me and my son. as there on the stage, your soul stood between the ruler and his dark desires, so shall it check my innermost self! i appoint you my court fool! ----follow me! (_he starts to go._) the theatre manager. (_wringing his hands and with tears in his eyes, throws himself on his knees before king pietro._) _moriturus te salutat!_ your gracious majesty's unworthy theatre manager, who single-handed plucked this exceptional tragedian from the gallows, now has his life blighted by your majesty's gracious choice! king pietro. we bestow upon you the privilege of giving performances untaxed for twenty years! the king. may i inform your majesty that i am the father of this young girl and that the father will appreciate your goodness even more than the actor if he may hope that his child will no longer need to conceal her true nature. king pietro. was i so deceived! (_to alma._) i do not want to hear your audacious speeches again from a woman's mouth. (_to the king._) let your child follow you! (_he leaves the theatre in company with the prince._) act v the throne room. (_the king in court costume. his office of court fool is shown discreetly by a suitable head covering. in his languid hand he holds a short bauble. he appears strangely altered: his pale face is deeply lined and his eyes seem twice as large as formerly._) the king. how strange is life! during many years of hardship of every description i felt my bodily strength increase daily. each sunrise found me brighter in spirits, stronger in muscle. no mishap caused me to doubt the sturdiness of my constitution. and since i have been living here in peace and plenty i am shriveling like an apple in springtime. i feel life going from me step by step and the doctors agree in shrugging their shoulders and saying with long faces that they cannot foresee the outcome.----did i ever reign in these halls? every day since i came here i have asked myself the same question, and every day it seems more nonsensical. it is as hard for me to believe as it would be for me to credit anyone who told me that i had lived on another planet. king pietro is the worthiest prince who ever had a throne, and i am the last person in his realm who would want to change places with him. that is my last word each evening, a word which does not make me dream of the thick prison air, but of the dripping, stormbent, rustling trees, of the gloomy heaths, of the virgin dew on the thick grass, of my journeys from place to place on the stroller's vans, on the tailboards of which i made all hearts waver between pity and respect.----i have noticed an unusual cramp in my left arm for the last few days. it is not gout, it is not the weakness of old age. but before my failing members give way, i have a work to accomplish. let me complete it, o fate, so that we may part in friendship! i have cultivated it with all possible care, as the only thing profitable in my life. or shall i be the dupe again? perhaps, the eager young hearts really do not need my help? does egotism make me overestimate by importance in furthering their union? who will open my eyes to my true merits? blind i came, must i go so? i go and listen! later i shall not have to think about the answers. (_exit._) (_enter king pietro and crown prince filipo._) king pietro. i have made inquiries among the medici in florence if they are willing that a daughter of their house should become your wife. i have just received word that the medici, confident in the permanency of our rule, would welcome such an alliance. filipo. before you did that, my respected father, i had distinctly told you that i shall never marry any one but donna alma, alexandrion's daughter! king pietro. (_in anger._) the daughter of my court fool! you belong back in the shop whence you came! filipo. then send me back to the shop, respected father! king pietro. although there can be no doubt of this maiden's virtues, the general welfare of the state demands that you wed a prince's daughter. if you desired to court the daughter of a citizen of perugia, i might be able to countenance your mesalliance without slapping our own origin in the face. even then, your choice would be an offense against the state, which would result in party strife and violence among the citizens. but if you chose a queen of obscurist origin for your people, then you show at once that you undervalue the duties of a prince. who can tell what heirs may spring from such a marriage! instead of looking forward to your reign with confidence, they will await it with sullen dread, anxiety and insubordination. did i overcome king nicola and drive him to an early death that my son should indulge in madness such as cost that monarch his life and throne?! that is the reason i brought alexandrion here, because he has meditated upon just such serious questions! (_lifting a portière._) call the fool! now he shall show me if his wisdom can withstand the call of blood! now he shall show me if he can follow his own sermons as i do, or if he is only an empty chatterer! the king. (_entering._) what does my dear lord desire? king pietro. i have been beholden to you for advice in the hours of the most frightful danger. had i not followed freely your advice, so full of watchful and crafty shrewdness, in difficult situations we might today be under foreign rule. now, however, i require of you a sacrifice which, as the father of your child, you owe the state and our dynasty. without restraint i allowed your intelligence to rule between me and my own blood, never suspecting how soon i should have to ask you to put it between yourself and your child. the prince asks me to give him your daughter for his wife! the king. my child is so far above me that her feet never touch the ground without the seed of happiness blossoming beneath her tread. king pietro. i can believe that, but will you order your daughter to reject every offer of the prince! filipo. donna alma will never obey that order! king pietro. silence! the king. i can order nothing in this country. king pietro. that is true! but you must obey! the king. that is true! but my daughter need not obey! king pietro. enough of your jests! i am sorry i overprized your wisdom. you understand that your refusal ends your stay here at my court. i am pained to see your calm deliberation forsake you at this pass. you are a bad father, alexandrion, in not fearing to deprive your child of my good will! in order to protect myself against the reproach of ingratitude, i shall have your salary continued---- the king. thank you, brother, i need your bounty no longer. king pietro. are you out of your senses?! the king. i see more clearly than you. you no more than i can prevent the wonderful fulfilment of mighty fate. king pietro. stop your idle babble! i ask you for the last time, will you obey my order? if not, fear my wrath! the king. it is beyond your power as well as mine! king pietro. very well. my son if he wants may run after you. i banish you and your child for life from this day forth from the land of umbria, under pain of death in case you return to it! the king. (_breaks forth in merry laughter._) filipo. holy virgin, what's the matter with him! king pietro. (_disconcerted._) it is the laughter of a madman. the king. (_laughing._) surely, dear friends, you will permit me to laugh since i have been paid for being foolish. king pietro. give us some explanation of what is passing within you, alexandrion! the king. (_raising himself to his full height._) do you know that you banished me once before, in this very room, from umbria under pain of death?! king pietro. it is impossible fur me to remember all the judgments i have passed! the king. you passed your first judgment against king nicola, and i am he! king pietro. (_shaken._) it was long to be foreseen that he would come to such an end! (_to the king._) do you want to act a tragic scene for us out of your former occupation? the king. i, here before you, am king nicola! king pietro. (_with apparent anger._) i have nothing to do with imposters. do you really expect to gain your ends by such thieves' tricks? the king. i am king nicola! i am king nicola! king pietro. (_to filipo._) he has had a stroke! god have mercy on his soul! filipo. his poor child! merciful heaven, when she hears of it! the king. (_in the greatest astonishment._) why are you not overcome with astonishment?----you do not believe me?!----are you going to ask me to prove what since my downfall i have kept secret only by supernatural strength of soul! filipo. we believe you, alexandrion! let me conduct you to your room. we believe you! king pietro. if only your poor heart would grow quiet! the king. (_anxiously._) no, no, i shall not grow quiet! you do not trust my words! you doubt my reason!----almighty god, where shall i get witnesses to confirm the truth!----let my daughter be called!----it is high time; i shall not see the light much longer!----let my daughter be called!----i am too weak to fetch her myself.----let my child be called!----my child! filipo. i beseech you, father, do not gratify his wish! the girl will go crazy from anguish if unprepared she sees him in his mind's darkness! the king. let my child be called! i have nothing to leave her but her princely ancestry, and now she is about to be cheated of this last possession through my stupendous folly! who will believe the girl when my eyes are closed! indeed, there is nothing in me to recall a king! and my pictures, my statues are destroyed! and even if a picture were found, who would accept a resemblance as proof of my monstrous statement! a resemblance in which time has destroyed every trace! help me, heavenly father, in this anguish worse than death! king pietro. have you quite forgotten, my dear alexandrion, that king nicola is dead?! the king. dead?----how kindly you speak because you think i am mad! dead?----where is he buried? i fought against the flood and escaped to land beyond the city walls. but who will believe me! call my child here! she will advise me, as she has done a hundred thousand times before, with her wisdom. filipo. i'll hurry and call your own physician, my respected father! the king. call my child! my child! princess alma. (_rushing in._) my father! almighty god, i heard your agonizing voice throughout the house! the king. am i king nicola, or am i not? alma. you are king nicola, my father. do not worry! what more can they do to us today? the king. so you too have gone mad or you are a miserable pretender! they don't believe us! what can we do to prove it to them, so that i may lay my head on the block and thereby give you attestation of your birth?! send to the prison! there they have the record of the scars on my body. i blasphemed against the king. "curse the king!" i cried. i was that king!----but where is a man with a normal reason who will believe such adventures! i never thought of that during all these years! who would carry documents with him when his head had been twice forfeited to the executioner! and have i fathomed the ways of almighty god more than anyone only to be considered mad in the end!----but such is life! such is life! king pietro. the sight of your sufferings is heartrending, alexandrion! but your assertion is ridiculous! alma. he is king nicola! filipo. think what you say, donna alma! alma. he is king nicola! the king. search your brain, my dear, clever child, and see if you cannot find a means of making the truth shine before their eyes like a ray of sunshine! alma. i will bring a host of witnesses, father, as soon as the penalty is taken off your head. filipo. was not the name of king nicola's daughter alma? king pietro. thousands of children are baptized with princely names! the king. do you hear, my child? an infallible proof! otherwise, i shall yet end my unhappy war with the world in a madhouse and burden your life with the most gruesome of curses, the curse of the ridiculous! alma. lead us to the urselines! filipo. can it be possible! the king in his victor's service! ----speak, my father!----pardon him! king pietro. be you who you may, i lift every penalty which may hang over you. the king. and now the proofs, my child! quick, the proofs! even if their testimony is as clear as day, it will do as little after my death to help the recognition of your birth as my vain words do now! alma. the mother superior of the urselines will testify (_frightened._) my father! jesu, maria, your look! what are you seeking so helplessly? for god's sake, speak! filipo. (_who has hurried to aid the king._) go, donna alma! the strength begins to leave his limbs. the king. (_struggling against death, while filipo and alma support him upon the steps of the throne._) i seek proofs!----proofs! who can prove by his corpse that he was a king!----it is the last chance!----i am not mad!----hurry, my child!----proofs!----too late! too late!----such is life! alma. (_bending over him, lamenting._) my father! don't you hear me? look me in the eye, my father! what is your hand seeking? your child is kneeling beside you! the king. ----i thank you, bu--but not as a king----only----as----a man---- alma. oh, oh, his eyes!----father! move your hand! oh, woe is me, is there no help? oh, pity me, he no longer hears my voice! his cheeks are cold! how can i warm his heart? your mighty soul, my father, where is it, that it save you! don't leave me alone, my father! don't leave me alone! oh, woe is me, woe is me, he has left me! king pietro. (_to himself._) i stand here like an outlaw! filipo. quiet your sorrow, donna alma! king pietro. i will seek to make amends for her loss to the best of my power, if she is willing to become my child through you. filipo. god bless you for that, my father! king pietro. we will give him princely burial; whoever he may be! but nobody must hear a word of what we three have passed through here during this hour. history shall never tell of me that i made a king my court fool! _curtain._ transcriber's note: . page scan source: http://www.archive.org/details/joyoflivingthe suderich . the diphthong oe is represented by [oe]. the joy of living (_es lebe das leben_) a play in five acts by hermann sudermann translated from the german by edith wharton charles scribner's sons new york::::::::::::::::: _copyright, , by charles scribner's sons_ published, november, trow directory printing and bookbinding company new york _translator's note_ _the translation of dramatic dialogue is attended with special difficulties, and these are peculiarly marked in translating from german into english. the german sentence carries more ballast than english readers are accustomed to, and while in translating narrative one may, by means of subordinate clauses, follow the conformation of the original, it is hard to do so in rendering conversation, and virtually impossible when the conversation is meant to be spoken on the stage. to english and american spectators the long german speeches are a severe strain on the attention, and even in a translation intended only for the "closet" a too faithful adherence to german construction is not the best way of doing justice to the original._ _herr sudermann's dialogue is more concise than that of many other german dramatists; yet in translation his sentences and speeches need to be divided and recast: to preserve the spirit, the letter must be modified. this is true not only of the construction of his dialogue but also of his forms of expression. wherever it has been possible, his analogies, his allusions, his "tours de phrase," have been scrupulously followed; but where they seemed to obscure his meaning to english readers some adaptation has been necessary. apart from these trifling changes, the original has been closely followed; and such modifications as have been made were suggested solely by the wish to reproduce herr sudermann's meaning more closely than a literal translation would have allowed._ characters count michael von kellinghausen. beata, his wife. ellen, their daughter. baron richard von völkerlingk. leonie, his wife. norbert, their son, reading for the bar. baron ludwig von völkerlingk (_secretary of state, richard's step-brother_). prince usingen. baron von brachtmann. herr von berkelwitz-grünhof. dr. kahlenberg (_privy councillor at the board of physicians_). holtzmann (_candidate for holy orders, private secretary to baron richard von völkerlingk_). meixner. a physician. conrad, servant at count kellinghausen's. george, baron richard's servant. another servant. _the scene is laid in berlin--the first three and the fifth acts at the house of count kellinghausen; the fourth act at baron richard völkerlingk's._ _period: about _. act i the joy of living act i _a drawing-room in the empire style in_ count kellinghausen's _house. in front, on the left, a fireplace; to the left, in the background, a door to the inner apartments; to the right, back, a door into the front passage; in the foreground, on the right, a window. in the centre of back wall a wide opening between two columns, partly closed by an old gobelins tapestry. on the right a sofa, table and chairs. on the left, in front of the fireplace, several low seats. near the middle, placed diagonally, a writing-table with shelves; beside the table two seats with low backs and a comfortable arm-chair. old portraits and coloured prints on the walls._ holtzmann _is seated at the back of the room, a portfolio on his lap_. conrad _ushers in_ baron ludwig. conrad (_in the doorway_). if your excellency will kindly come this way--the doctor is with madame von kellinghausen. baron ludwig. ah? in that case perhaps i had better---- conrad. madame von kellinghausen will be here in a moment, your excellency. the other gentleman has already been announced. (_indicating_ holtzmann.) baron ludwig. very well. (conrad _goes out_.) holtzmann (_rises and makes a deep bow_). baron ludwig. (_bowing slightly in return wanders about the room and at last pauses before_ holtzmann.) i beg your pardon but--surely i know your face. holtzmann. very likely, your excellency. my name is holtzmann, private secretary to baron richard von völkerlingk. baron ludwig. indeed? i am so seldom at my brother's. the fact is--er, well. yesterday was election-day at lengenfeld, by the way. the papers were full of it this morning. it seems to cause a good deal of surprise that count kellinghausen should not only have withdrawn in favour of my brother, but should actually have gone about canvassing for him. i daresay that's an exaggeration, though? holtzmann. on the contrary, your excellency. the count has been down in the country electioneering for weeks. baron ludwig. really? and you were with him, i suppose? holtzmann (_with a dry smile_). very much so, your excellency. i should be sorry to be answerable for all the nonsense i've had to talk and write! baron ludwig. h'm--just so. nonsense always wins. who said that, by the way? julian the apostate, wasn't it? holtzmann. no, your excellency. talbot. baron ludwig. julian might have said it. the losing side always philosophises. holtzmann. i hope we sha'n't be on the losing side. baron ludwig. h'm. what is your profession? holtzmann. theology, your excellency. baron ludwig. and how long do you think it will be before it lands you in socialism? holtzmann (_offended_). excellency! baron ludwig. my dear sir, look at the examples! i remember a predecessor of yours at my brother's--a theological student also, i believe. well, he landed with both feet in the middle of the socialist camp. holtzmann. yes, i know, your excellency. you mean meixner. baron ludwig. that reminds me--i hear the fellow has actually been taking a leading hand in the fight against my brother. holtzmann. the report is true. baron ludwig. well, i hope you hit back hard. holtzmann. that is what i was there for, your excellency. _enter_ beata _and_ dr. kahlenberg. beata. i hadn't dared to hope that your excellency would answer my summons so promptly. baron ludwig (_kissing her hand_). my dear countess, your summons was a command--and one i was only too happy to obey. (beata _turns to_ holtzmann.) ah, good-morning, my dear doctor. kahlenberg. good-morning, your excellency. how is it you haven't been in lately to let me look you over? a guilty conscience, eh? baron ludwig. lack of time, doctor. give me a day of twenty-five hours, and i'll devote one of them to consulting my physician. kahlenberg. who will order you to rest during the other twenty-four. baron ludwig. we all get that order sooner or later, doctor--and from a chief we have to obey. (_in a low voice_.) how is the countess? kahlenberg (_same tone_). no worse. (_to_ beata.) and now, my dear lady, i must be off--but what's the matter? beata (_joyously excited, a paper in her hand_). oh, nothing--nothing--nothing---- kahlenberg (_in a tone of friendly reproach_). you know i've warned you---- beata. not to feel, not to think, not to laugh, not to cry--not to live, in short, dear doctor! kahlenberg. well, i don't object to the laughing. beata. it's just as well you don't, for it's a habit you couldn't break me of. there is so much to laugh at in this vale of tears! well, good-bye, doctor! (kahlenberg _goes out_.) beata (_to_ baron ludwig). this will interest you too. herr holtzmann--you know herr holtzmann?--has just brought me the returns from lengenfeld. only fancy, your brother has a majority of a hundred and thirty-one! think of that! baron ludwig. don't let us be too sanguine. beata. oh---- holtzmann. six districts are still to be heard from, countess, and we know that four of these belong to the socialists. it is still doubtful if we can gain a majority. beata (_concealing her disappointment_). and when do you expect to hear the final result? holtzmann. at any moment now. beata. and when you _do_ hear---- holtzmann. i will jump into a cab and bring you the news instantly. beata. thank you so 'much. (_gives him her hand_.) is baron völkerlingk at home? holtzmann. he went for a ride. i daresay i shall find him on my return. beata. remember me to him, won't you? (holtzmann _takes leave with a bow_.) baron ludwig. what do you hear from kellinghausen? he is still at lengenfeld, i hear. beata. i have just had a letter. now that the elections are over he means to take a day's shooting, and then he is coming home--free from his party-duties for the first time in years! baron ludwig. and what does the egeria of the party say to such a state of things? beata. do you mean _me_, your excellency? baron ludwig. i mean the woman at whose delightful dinner-table the fate of more than one important bill has been decided. now that kellinghausen has retired into private life, do you mean to keep up the little political dinners we've always been so much afraid of? beata. i hope so, your excellency. and if you care to beard the lion in his den, i shall be charmed to send you an invitation. you haven't dined with us in an age. i've always fancied that the estrangement between your brother and yourself might be the cause of our seeing so little of you. baron ludwig. my dear countess, those eyes of yours see through everything; and i read in them all the answers i might make to that question. ah, well--richard had the good luck, the unspeakable good luck, to win your friendship, and under your influence, to develop into the man he is! beata. i know how to listen when clever men are talking. that is the secret of what you call my influence. baron ludwig. you think so?--well--there was richard, dabbling in poetry and politics, in archæology and explorations, like the typical noble amateur. he had a fortune from his mother, while i was poor. but in one respect i was richer than he; for he married a fool who dragged him down to the level of her own silly snobbishness. but then you came--and lifted him up again. then all his dormant powers awoke--he discovered his gift as a speaker, he became the mouthpiece of the party, he got into the reichstag, and---- beata. and dropped out again. baron ludwig. exactly. and the estrangement between us dates from that time. it was reported that government had left him in the lurch, and i was thought to be more or less responsible. beata. at all events, his career was cut short. and he failed again at the next election. baron ludwig. and now your friendship has helped him to success. beata. my husband's friendship, you mean. baron ludwig. in my loveless household i know too little of the power of woman to pronounce definitely on that point. beata. you do well to suspend your judgment. baron ludwig. ah, now you are displeased with me. i am sorry. i might be of use to you. beata. if you wish to be of use to me you can do so by becoming your brother's friend. it was to ask you this that i sent for you. baron ludwig. countess, i wonder at your faith in human nature! beata. human nature has never deceived me. baron ludwig. one would adore you for saying that if one hadn't so many other reasons for doing so! beata (_laughing_). pretty speeches at our age? baron ludwig. you may talk of my age, but not of yours. beata. look at the grey hair--here, on my temples; and my medicine-bottles over there. i never stir without them now. baron ludwig. i have been distressed to hear of your illness. beata. yes, my heart bothers me--an old story. my heart is tired--and i--i'm not. and when i drive it too hard it grows a little restive now and then. but it doesn't matter! (_enter_ ellen.) is that you, ellen? come in, dear. ellen (_in skating dress_). mother, dear, i didn't know you had a visitor. how do you do, your excellency? baron ludwig. how do you do, young lady? dear me dear me what have you been growing into? ellen. into life, your excellency! baron ludwig. ha--very good--very neat. so many people just grow past it. beata. and how was the skating, dear? ellen. oh, heavenly. norbert and i simply flew. poor miss mansborough--we left her miles behind! beata. well, run away now. take off your fur jacket--you're too warm. ellen. good-bye, your excellency. baron ludwig. _au revoir_, little countess. (ellen _goes out_.) baron ludwig. what a little wonder you've made of her! beata. she _is_ developing, isn't she? baron ludwig. and my nephew norbert--you have developed him too. a very comprehensive piece of work. (beata _laughs_.) baron ludwig. if only he doesn't stray from the path you've marked out for him. beata. ah--you are thinking of that pamphlet of his? baron ludwig (_nods_). an attack on duelling, i understand? well, it's no business of mine. beata. he is not as immature as you think. baron ludwig. indeed? _enter_ conrad. conrad (_announcing_). baron von brachtmann, his highness prince usingen. baron ludwig. the pillars of the state! brachtmann especially. this is something for me to remember, countess. _enter_ brachtmann _and_ prince. conrad _goes out_. brachtmann. my dear countess---- beata. i am so glad to see you. and you, prince. always faithful to the cause? prince. yes, countess; as far as fidelity is consonant with perfect inactivity. glad to shake hands between two rounds, your excellency. baron ludwig. our encounters are not sanguinary, your highness. prince. no although one adversary occasionally cuts another. (_laughter_.) brachtmann. we ventured to call, countess, because we fancied that völkerlingk would keep you posted as to the news from lengenfeld. beata. baron völkerlingk has done me no such honour. but--by the merest accident--his secretary was here just now. here are the latest returns. (_hands him the paper_.) brachtmann (_bending over the paper_). h'm, h'm---- prince. let me see. brachtmann. well, we'll hope for the best. kellinghausen's personal popularity has secured a conservative majority till now; but now that he has withdrawn in favour of another man--even though that man is völkerlingk--the result is more than doubtful. baron ludwig. i confess, countess, that even if kellinghausen looked upon his politics merely as a branch of sport, i don't quite understand his sacrificing his career to my brother. beata. my husband is very easy-going. he has no ambition. they had bothered him dreadfully at their committee-meetings about things he didn't understand--at least he said he didn't. the truth is, it probably bored him. brachtmann. but how about his fanatical devotion to the party? if we are all monomaniacs on that subject, he is certainly the worst. he felt more keenly than any of us what the party lost in losing your brother (_to_ baron ludwig)--he realised our need of völkerlingk's efficiency and energy. he saw what a great power was lying idle. doesn't that explain his action? baron ludwig. i needn't tell you, herr von brachtmann, how pleasant it is to hear my brother praised. i quite realise how much you need him at this particular moment with the debate on the civil code pending, and the serious questions likely to come up in connection with it. (_to_ beata.) but that kellinghausen should have consented to withdraw, even in such an emergency-- i have so often heard him say, countess, that it was the duty of a landed proprietor to represent the district in which his property lay. he said it was the only justification of a representative government. beata. but you know you, all say that! prince. my dear countess, the revolutionary spirit has entered into our traditions, and the modern idea of making a revolution is to gird at existing institutions. why deprive us of such an innocent amusement? baron ludwig. really, prince--pardon me--but since, by birth and political affiliations, you are a supporter of existing institutions, would it not be well to speak of them less flippantly? prince. why, my dear baron?--countess, shall i show you the attitude of the modern state toward its citizens? here we are: the state with its hand in its pocket, the citizen with his fist clenched. and the only way to unclench the citizen's fist is for the state to pull something out of its pocket. there's the situation in a nutshell. it's a matter of taste whether one respects such an institution or not. brachtmann. you know. baron, he is the spoiled child of the party. prince. its prodigal son, you mean. i squandered all my original ideas long ago, and am living on the husks of the feudal tradition. but we are boring madame von kellinghausen. (_the three men rise_.) beata. good-bye, prince--herr von brachtmann. (_to_ baron ludwig.) whenever your solitude weighs on you, come in and let me give you a cup of tea. baron ludwig. you are very good. but i am afraid it is too late to begin. beata. it is never too late to renew an old friendship. baron ludwig. thank you. (_goes out with the two other men_.) ellen _enters_. ellen. (_throwing her arms about her mother's neck_.) mother! you dear little mamma! beata. well, madcap--what is it now? ellen. oh, nothing, nothing. i'm so happy, that's all. beata. what are you happy about, dear? ellen. i don't know--does one ever? beata. has anything in particular happened? ellen. no; nothing. that is--norbert said-- oh, yes to be sure; we met uncle richard. beata. ah--where? ellen. in the zoo. on horseback. he sent his love and said he would be in before dinner. norbert is coming too. mother, is it true that uncle richard is such a wonderful speaker? norbert says he can do what he likes with people. beata. some people--but only those whose thoughts he can turn into feelings, or whose feelings he can turn into thoughts. do you understand? ellen. oh, yes! you mean, one can give only to those who have something to give in return? beata. yes. ellen. but he must have great power--i am sure of it! he's always so quiet, and says so little--yet one feels there's a great fire inside--and sometimes it blazes up. beata (_laughing_). what do you know about it? ellen. oh, i know. it's just the same with-- mother, how can people _bear_ life sometimes? it's so beautiful one simply can't breathe! beata (_with emotion_). yes, it _is_ beautiful. and even when it's nothing but pain and fear and renunciation, even then it's still beautiful, ellen. ellen (_alarmed_). mother--what is the matter? beata. nothing, dear. i'm only a little tired. (_she goes to the door_.) conrad _enters_. conrad. baron norbert. (_goes out_.) norbert _enters_. norbert. how d'ye do, aunt beata? how are you to-day? beata (_wearily_). very well, thanks. ellen (_anxiously_). no, not very well. (beata _signs her to be silent_.) norbert. this is thursday. ellen and i were to read _i promessi sposi_ together; but if i might say a word to you first---- beata. presently, norbert. wait for me here. ellen. don't you want me, mother? beata. no, dear. stay with norbert. i shall be back in a moment. (_she goes out_.) ellen (_looking after her_). oh, norbert! norbert. is she really worse? ellen. no, she is just the same as usual. but at night--oh, norbert, she's never in bed. all night she wanders, wanders. when i hear her coming, i lie quite still. if she knew i was awake she might not come any more. she never touches me, but just bends over and strokes my pillow, oh, so softly! and she breathes so hard, as if it hurt her--and then gradually she grows quiet again. when you see her in the daytime, so gay and dear and busy, so full of other people's pleasures, you'd never guess the misery she endures. oh, norbert, you _do_ love her, don't you? norbert. i believe i love her better than my own mother. ellen. no, no, norbert, that's wicked. you mustn't say that. norbert. perhaps not, but i can't help feeling it. and why shouldn't i, after all? when i was a boy my father was everything to me--after that he was always travelling, and i was left to my own devices. there are so many things that puzzle a chap when there's no one to talk them over with. it's different with girls, i suppose. at first i used to go to my mother: _she's_ always found life simple enough. visits, and parties, and church--she looks upon church-going as another kind of visiting--well, do you know what _she_ said to me? "in the first place, my dear boy, your trousers are shocking. what you need is a good tailor. then you ought to take up lawn tennis--and after that, we'll see." well, that didn't help me much. and then your mother took pity on me. again and again she's let me sit up half the night, talking things over with her. ellen. and now you and she have got something to say to each other again. what is it, norbert? do tell me! why can't _i_ help you as well as mother? norbert. perhaps you'd like to do my examination papers for me? ellen. nonsense; it's not that.--but you don't care for me any more. norbert. you silly child! ellen. you told me you did once--long ago--but since then--you've never once---- norbert. listen, dear. i made an awful ass of myself that day. do you know what i did? i called on your father to ask his permission to marry you. ellen. and you never told me? norbert. luckily your father was out--and as for your mother--well, she simply laughed at me! ellen. oh! norbert. oh, you know how your mother laughs at one. it doesn't hurt. "dear boy," she said, in the kindest way, "it's too soon to talk of such things to ellen. you must give her time to grow up." and i gave her my word i would; and you see i've kept it. ellen. and if mother should---- beata _enters_. beata. ellen, dear, go to miss mansborough. it's time for your reading. norbert will come in a moment. ellen. yes, mother. (_goes out_.) beata (_who has been watching them closely_). by the way, norbert--what about that promise you made me? norbert. i've kept it, aunt beata. beata. then you want to talk to me about something else? norbert. yes. the storm-signals are up. my college club has turned on me: one, two, three, and out you go! beata. not in disgrace? norbert. i'm not so sure. i got an official letter yesterday from the committee, asking me if i was the author of a pamphlet called "the ordeal." beata. why did you write it under an assumed name? norbert. only on my father's account. beata. if you disguised yourself at all, you ought to have done so more thoroughly. norbert. why, aunt beata! haven't you often told me that every reformer must have the courage of his convictions? beata. yes; but i've no sympathy with unnecessary martyrdom. keep a cool head, dear boy, and don't be drawn into controversy just yet. haven't i often told you that this college duelling you rail against is only a preparation for the real battle of life--the battle of ideas and beliefs? you'll come to that later--ask your father how it is! norbert. oh, father--of course he's only interested in big things. beata. what does he say to your article? norbert. immature. beata. was he vexed? norbert. when i asked him if it annoyed him, he laughed and said:--"i know the world too well to agree with you. but you must work out the problem for yourself. i sha'n't interfere." beata. well, what more do you want? did you expect him to go into raptures? norbert. wait and see, aunt beata! i mean to suffer for my convictions. i mean to brave persecution. is that a laughing matter? beata. come! come! no bragging--not even about persecution. it's intoxicating at first, but the after-taste is bitter. norbert. don't make fun of me, aunt beata. beata. heaven forbid! you know _i_ don't disapprove of your article. norbert. how could you? isn't it all yours? beata. i don't understand anything about duelling. norbert. no, but my ideas are yours--every one of them. all i've said about self-restraint--about striving toward an harmonious whole--about the greek ideal of freedom--and how posterity will smile at our struggles--it's all yours, aunt beata, every word of it. beata. don't tell your father! and besides, it isn't. my ideas have got twisted in that wild young brain of yours. and it might annoy him to think that i had put them there---- norbert. oh, aunt beata, _i_ know what you really think. but, of course, if you don't want me to, i---- _enter_ conrad. conrad (_announcing_). baron völkerlingk. _enter_ richard. conrad _goes out_. richard. well, dear friend? what sort of a night have you had? not good, i'm afraid. beata. there's no use in trying to deceive you. have you just come from your own house? richard. yes. beata. well? telegrams? richard. none for the last two hours. well, norbert, you here, as usual? (_to_ beata.) so you have the younger generation on your hands too? beata (_laughing_). so much the better, since the older shows itself so seldom nowadays. richard. ah, well---- beata. good-bye, norbert dear. norbert (_kissing_ beata's _hand_). good-bye, father. (richard _nods to him_. norbert goes out.) beata. will you dine with me to-day, richard? (richard _shakes his head_.) beata. just we two? richard. i can't: my wife has a dinner: an ambassador and his wife, two lights of the church, and others of the same feather. i must show myself on such occasions, to keep up appearances. beata. i'm sorry. i should have liked to have you with me--to-day. how do you stand the suspense? perhaps i don't show it--but i'm in a fever. richard. it's telling on me too. the fact is, any poor devil of a mountebank is a king compared to one of us. he does his trick and gets his pay.--oh, this last fortnight! if you'd seen me driven about from village to village like a travelling quack! freedom and hot words, free beer and hot sausages! and, to cap the climax, a fellow who used to be my private secretary leading the campaign against me! bah--it was horrible. as for michael, with his olympian calm, he saw only the humorous side of it. (_laughing_.) beata. i wonder he let you leave before the election. richard. he thought i ought not to make myself too cheap. i quite agreed with him, and took myself off. hang the democracy! beata. if only the noblemen who want to rule could get on without it! richard. they could, if the spirit of the age hadn't turned them into demagogues. beata. did holtzmann do as well as you expected? richard. admirably. but he's been going about with such a long face lately that he's rather got on my nerves.--i heard you had told him to come back when the returns are in--may i wait for him here?--when one thinks that something will come in at that door presently--something dressed like holtzmann, looking like holtzmann--and that that something will be fate--nothing more or less than fate! beata. and if he comes in and says--or rather, if he doesn't say anything? remember, richard, even if _that_ happens, you've got to go on living! richard. of course. why not? it's all in the day's work. an indian penitent was once asked: "why do you go on living?" and his answer was: "because i am dead."--oh, i don't mean to be ungrateful. as long as i have you, dear--as long as you are here to live my life with me, to give it colour and meaning and purpose--let come what may, nothing else matters. beata. don't say that--don't---- richard. am i exaggerating? why, ever since we-- how long ago is it that we met for the first time, in the wood at tarasp? fifteen years? beata. it seems like yesterday. richard. you passed between the dark pine-trunks like an apparition. you wore a pink dress and had ellen by the hand. beata. she was tired and had begun to cry. richard. i saw that she wanted to be carried. beata. and i was just recovering from an illness, and was too weak to lift her. you raised your hat--no, it was the white cap you wore---- richard. do you remember that? beata. good heavens, what was i then, and what have you made of me? my own--let me call you that just once, richard, as i used to do--just once, on this great day--my own! (richard _looks nervously toward the door_.) beata. there is no one coming. richard. _let_ you! beata. what a quiet happy little woman i was! that "happy" is not meant as a reproach, dearest! i have a boundless capacity for happiness, and it kept me company even in the loneliness of my early married life--for in those days michael didn't take much notice of me. it was you who showed him that i was worth noticing. and so you built up my new life--a hard life to carry, at times, a life bowed under its own wealth as the vine is bowed under its fruit--but how it has grown under your hand, dearest, how it has spread and strengthened!--now you're laughing at me, richard. richard. beata--no one knows as you do how i have blundered and struggled. what are you trying to do? do you want to give me more faith in myself, or do you really think i've done all that for you? beata. i know every line in your forehead, i watch every look in your eye, i read every thought in your soul--there are some i could wish away, for they only make you miserable--but no one knows as i do what you are, and what you have been to me! richard. when will michael be here? beata. how suddenly you ask that! you are tormenting yourself again. dear--dearest--don't look like that! why, it never really happened--it's been dead and buried for years--dead and buried, every trace of it. no one knows what we were to each other, no one even dreams it. and we're old people now--you and i. only think, i shall soon be forty! who is going to ask two old mummies what follies they committed in the year one? richard. you are pretending not to care, beata. don't do that! beata. don't weigh every word i say--just look into my wicked heart. your conscience has nothing to do with that! and if you're fond of michael--if we're both fond of him--and why shouldn't we both be fond of him--that dear, good, cheery michael of ours?--why, that needn't make you probe the depths of your soul for fresh wickedness. i tell you we've paid for everything, even to the uttermost farthing! richard. do you think so? it seems to me that when a man and a woman have found everything in each other, as we have, when they have been to each other the strength and the meaning and the object of life--when they've resolved to die fighting back to back, together to the last, as you used to say it seems to me that in such a case there isn't much room for expiation. if purgatory is like that it must be fairly habitable. (beata _laughs_.) ah, now you are flippant. beata. be thankful that one of us is, dear! richard. i remember when i lost my seat, six years ago--it was a hard knock, i can tell you--everything went under at once--well, i said to myself: this is my punishment. and the idea never left me. while i was wandering about the world, or vegetating down in the country, i actually used to get a kind of comfort out of it. and now? do you know, i sometimes fancy you wouldn't be altogether sorry if i lost my election again. beata (_laughingly_). really? do you think that? richard. in fact i'm not at all sure you hold with the party any longer. beata. what--i, its egeria? an elderly party-nymph gone wrong? what a shocking idea! richard. i'm sure of one thing you enjoy looking over our heads. beata. don't say _our_ heads--don't include yourself with the rest. you think of your duty; they think of their rights. you use the masses in order to serve them. the others think only of power. richard. oh, as to that--we all want power. beata. yes: the question is, for whose benefit?--ah, well, i see i shall have to tell you--you ought to know--the sooner the better, i suppose! richard. tell me what? beata. dear--did you really think it was michael's fondest wish to resign his seat in parliament, and live only for his horses? richard. i've heard him say so often enough. beata. and so you leaped into the breach--in the interests of the party? richard (_hesitating_). and because--(_suddenly_) beata--there's been some deception? (beata _nods_.) some one has been working against me----? beata. or for you--as you please.--sit down beside me, dear; give me both your hands--so! and now listen. i couldn't bear to see your disappointment--your suffering--i suffered with you too intensely! and so--don't look so startled, or i shall lose heart and be afraid to go on.--how shall i tell you?--it's taken me a year a whole year's work. by degrees i persuaded him that he was unsuited to parliamentary life--gradually i turned him against the pottering routine-work which is the only thing he can do--little by little i made him see what a boon it would be for the country and the party if he would only let you take his place. till at last he did---- richard (_rising_). ah---- beata. can you say _now_ that i didn't want you elected? (richard _is silent_.) i should never have told you this if i hadn't known that his pride in his heroic feat would make him betray himself sooner or later. (_a pause_.) after all, think how little he's given up! to him it was only a--pastime--to you it is life. i had no choice, had i? you do see that, don't you? (_a pause_.) richard, i may be a very wicked woman, but at least i deserve one look from you! richard. beata! beata! what can i say? what can i say? you know how i've always tried to keep our feeling for each other within the bounds--the bounds of-- you know how it was twelve years ago--when i found myself gradually slipping into intimacy with him, i came to you and said: "either this thing ends here, or i tell him everything. i won't take his hand and play the sneak. if i do, we shall lose our respect for each other as well as our self-respect." and then we hit on this friendship as a way out of it--a way of not losing each other altogether. it wasn't a very honourable solution--but this--this new sacrifice--if i accept this--god! if holtzmann were to come in now and tell me the other man has won, what a load he would take off my mind! beata. richard--how can you? richard. think of it: to-morrow i shall have to make that speech. my position, my convictions, compel me to appear as the spokesman of the highest ideals--and all the while i shall owe my seat to the friend whose holiest ties i have trampled on---- beata. and if they were not the holiest----? richard (_startled_). beata! beata. don't turn from me. i've loved you so long! richard (_clasps her hands_). one thing more. listen to me. you played too reckless a game. such things are avenged. no one knows what happened in the past. twelve years have covered it; but it's ill disturbing the dead. such things are avenged. remember that. beata. well--and what of it? richard. what of it? beata. i shouldn't care--except for norbert and ellen. for i mean them to have all the happiness we have missed. nothing must ever come between-- hush! that is holtzmann's voice. (_she presses her left hand to her heart_.) quite steady. (_she holds out her right hand to_ richard.) feel my pulse it's perfectly steady. conrad _enters_. conrad. herr holtzmann---- _enter_ holtzmann. conrad _goes out_. holtzmann (_bowing quietly_). we have a majority of twenty votes, baron. here are the final returns. (_hands telegram to_ richard.) richard. official? holtzmann. virtually. as your co-worker, baron, allow me to offer my congratulations. (richard _turns away without speaking_.) beata. you see how overcome he is, dear herr holtzmann. thank you with all my heart. (_gives him her hand_.) holtzmann (_turning to leave the room_). good-afternoon, countess. richard. holtzmann! (holtzmann _pauses_.) you've fought a good fight. holtzmann. oh, as to that---- richard. thank you. (_shakes his hand_.) holtzmann. don't mention it. i did my duty, that's all. (_bows and goes out_.) beata. richard! isn't the struggle over yet? richard. beata--you have made me believe--in spite of myself--that--even now--i may be of use to the cause. i shall stick to my work, and try not to think. beata. it may not be as hard as you imagine. richard. perhaps not. but when the blow falls--if it falls---- beata. we'll laugh---- richard. and meanwhile---- beata. we'll live! (_they clasp each other's hands_.) curtain. act ii act ii _the same scenery as in the first act. the drawing-room is brightly lit, the curtain in the opening at back of stage drawn back, showing two other apartments, also brilliantly lit. in the nearest one a group of gentlemen are at the billiard-table. in the third room the rest of the guests have just left the table. for some minutes_ beata _is seen among them_. brachtmann, prince usingen _and_ von berkelwitz-grünhof _are just coming out of the billiard-room, talking together._ brachtmann. (_coming forward with_ usingen.) prince, i want a word with you later--an important matter. prince. and i want a word with you. brachtmann. on the same subject, probably. prince. perhaps. von berkelwitz (_looking about him_). deuced fine--magnificent! you've got to come up to town to see this kind of thing. brachtmann. how is it we never see you in the reichstag nowadays, my dear fellow? von berkelwitz. what's a man to do? i'm a country squire--i've got to work--and besides i'm too poor to live in town. a man has got to make a show here--keep up appearances--i--hang it, that champagne's gone to my head--what was i going to say? oh, yes: well, you see, i've got four boys growing up; one is in the rathenow hussars--crack regiment, you know--i always look out for that sort of thing--but costs like the devil! the second is with the pacific squadron on board the princess william. _he_ doesn't cost as much except when he's ashore. the third is to study forestry, and just now he's with his rifle-corps. the fourth is at college--bonn--belongs to all the most expensive clubs--but smart, deuced smart! that's the chief thing. i expect all four to make their living out of the state, but meanwhile they're a confounded expense to me. you've no idea what it costs to keep oscar alone in white gloves! prince (_to_ brachtmann). and these are the sources of german statesmanship! von berkelwitz. what did you say, prince? prince. nothing, nothing. von berkelwitz. not that we can't give you as good a dinner as you'll get here. but as to keeping up a countryseat and a town house and a shooting-box and a racing-stable--why, it's out of the question. i've had to mortgage my place--and the men's wages--coming round every saturday! well--well--i tell my boys--rich marriages--_that's_ the cure. and they _ought_ to, by gad! good-looking fellows, you understand. what the deuce are we prussian noblemen for, if the state doesn't provide for us? just answer me that! prince (_who has been studying the pictures_). you ought to ask the socialists that, herr von berkelwitz--ask it in the reichstag, you know. it would be rather effective. (_turns back to the pictures_.) a capital sustermans. brachtmann (_smiling_). after all, we're all looking out for ourselves. von berkelwitz. and how have we succeeded? what have we landed proprietors accomplished? oh, we can all talk loud enough; but when it comes to action, there we stand with our hands in our pockets. prince. (_who is turning over photograph-albums on the table_.) other people's pockets. brachtmann (_laughing_). prince--prince! von berkelwitz. (_in a low tone, to_ brachtmann.) i say, is that fellow making fun of us? brachtmann. he's ten times more of a conservative than either of us. von berkelwitz. he talks like a radical. prince (_in a startled tone_). oh, the devil! brachtmann. what's the matter? prince. isn't this the countess's writing-table? brachtmann. yes. prince. come here a moment, will you, and just glance discreetly over these papers. do you notice anything? (brachtmann _shrugs his shoulders_.) i mean among the newspapers. brachtmann (_in a low voice, much agitated_). the devil!--that was what i wanted to speak to you about. (_he points to one of the papers_.) prince. ah--they've sent you one too? brachtmann. in the same wrapper, addressed in the same hand. an hour ago, just as i left the house. i suppose they haven't had time to look at the last post here. prince. (_taking up the paper and looking at the wrapper_.) do you know, i've half a mind---- brachtmann. no, no, prince--can't be done. prince. i know it can't, my dear baron. that's the very reason.--don't our political opponents say that property is theft? why not reverse the axiom, and---- von berkelwitz. what the deuce----? prince. why, instead of putting our hands into other people's pockets, we might put other people's property into ours. brachtmann. prince, we all know your way---- von berkelwitz. if your highness has made yourself sufficiently witty at our expense, perhaps you'll explain what this is? (_pointing to the paper_.) prince. this, my dear herr von berkelwitz, is a copy of the "lengenfeld news," the socialist organ---- von berkelwitz. faugh! how can you touch it? prince. well, it touches _us_, and rather nearly, as you'll see. von berkelwitz. why, what's up? prince. (_taking a newspaper out of his pocket_.) look here---- von berkelwitz. that's the same as the other? prince. precisely. i brought it with me on your account. you will find in it an interesting report of a meeting of socialist electors. do me the favour to read the passage which they have thoughtfully marked for our benefit. von berkelwitz (_reading_). "it is seldom that the honourable gentlemen of the right, the self-constituted guardians of public morality, give us an opportunity to see what goes on behind the scenes, in the gilded saloons to which the man in the street may not presume to penetrate"--confound their insolence!--"it is not often that we get a hint of what goes on behind their silken bed-curtains"--h'm, i wish they could see what i sleep on! prince. go on. von berkelwitz (_reading_). "but now and then a happy accident yields us an edifying glimpse of their private histories. and, if i might venture to speak openly, i could give you such a glimpse into the private life of the honourable member from lengenfeld, and into his relations with the friend whose seat in the reichstag he has taken--the confiding friend who, instead of keeping watch in his own house, has been travelling from place to place, canvassing for the honourable member. (laughter. prolonged cheering.)" lengenfeld? lengen--why, that is völkerlingk's district. (brachtmann _nods affirmatively_.) von berkelwitz. and the friend--the friend who----? (_he breaks off, and points vaguely to the room_. brachtmann _nods again_.) the deuce! brachtmann. on account of the party i suppose we shall have to take some notice of this. prince. kellinghausen evidently doesn't know of it yet. but völkerlingk does. i watched him. brachtmann. the countess is not well. who is the proper person to take that paper away before she sees it? prince (_smiling_). well, frankly, i should say völkerlingk---- brachtmann. you don't mean---- prince (_still smiling_). i don't mean anything. von berkelwitz. gentlemen, i'm only a plain country squire, but i should like to suggest that the morals of our hostess are hardly a subject for discussion. prince. morals? morals? what do morals signify? they were only invented for the preservation of the race. von berkelwitz. that's over my head, your highness. prince. it's simple enough. mankind is bound to go on reproducing itself--that's its fundamental instinct. morality was invented to keep the strain pure. if it ceases to accomplish that purpose, it had better abdicate in favour of immorality. that's all. von berkelwitz. i'll be hanged if i understand a single word. prince. we all know the old families wouldn't have survived till now if the stock hadn't been renewed--surreptitiously, so to speak--by---- brachtmann. really, prince--really---- prince. my dear brachtmann, it's all very well for you to look shocked. your family hasn't had to resort to such expedients: your patent of nobility isn't more than two hundred years old. but my people have been misbehaving since the time of lewis the pious. look at the result--look at _me_. jaw prognathous--frontal bone asymmetrical--ears abnormal--all the symptoms of a decaying race. thanks to several centuries of inbreeding, i must go through life a degenerate, and i assure you i haven't any talent for it. if only i could marry a healthy dairy-maid! under such circumstances, do you wonder one loses one's respect for morality? what if two people in this house have followed the dictates of their temperament? brachtmann. prince, von berkelwitz is right. as long as we're in the house ourselves, we'll postpone any discussion of its inmates. prince. as you please. (richard völkerlingk _is seen approaching. the_ prince _glances toward him_.) which won't prevent my feeling the sincerest sympathy for our friend there. his phenomenal self-possession is enough to confirm my suspicions. _enter_ richard. richard. i've been looking for you every where, brachtmann. i want to shake hands and tell you how glad i am to be under your orders again. brachtmann. we won't talk of being under my orders, my dear völkerlingk. you know how badly we need you, and how anxious we are to have you take the lead in the coming debate. (richard _bows_.) i suppose we may count on your speaking on the divorce bill next friday? richard (_hesitating_). why--i had hardly expected---- brachtmann. it's the very thing we want of you. according to the socialists, a man and his wife are no more bound to each other than a pair of cuckoos. we need a speaker of your eloquence and your convictions to proclaim the sanctity of the marriage-bond. richard. but i hardly know if i should have time to get my facts together. and besides-- (_he draws_ brachtmann _aside and continues in a low tone_.) an hour or two ago i received a copy of a speech that a fellow called meixner has been making against me. the man is a former secretary of mine, turned socialist---- brachtmann. ah--meixner was your secretary? richard. you knew of this? brachtmann. my dear völkerlingk, don't you see that after such an attack it's doubly important that you should speak on this very question? as for the party, i think i may say in its name that our asking you to do so is equivalent to a vote of confidence. richard. thanks, brachtmann. i believe you're right. my refusal might be misinterpreted. brachtmann (_turning toward the others_). we were speaking of this when you joined us. we have all received copies of the paper. richard (_to the group_). then i must apologise for not having mentioned the matter; but i was waiting to bring it before you in committee. it seems to be a question of personal spite, for my son has received the paper too. brachtmann. and madame von völkerlingk? richard. my wife? why do you ask? brachtmann. look at this. (_leads_ richard _to the writing-table and points to the paper_. richard _starts, but controls himself instantly_.) prince. we were just wondering how we could get rid of the thing before it is discovered, and we had reluctantly decided that none of us is sufficiently intimate here to tamper with the countess's papers. now, if _you_, my dear baron--as an old friend of the family--knowing how important it is to spare her any excitement---- richard (_looking at him sharply_). there is only one person entitled to remove that paper, and that is count kellinghausen. i will speak to him at once. prince (_aside_). irreproachable! brachtmann. my dear völkerlingk, for heaven's sake leave kellinghausen out of the question! richard. how can i? brachtmann. i have been in politics long enough to take such incidents philosophically. but kellinghausen, easy-going as he is, strikes me as the kind of man who might make an ass of himself in such an emergency. if he loses his head he may do the party an incalculable amount of harm; whereas, if we can keep this thing from him, it will blow over in a week, and nobody be any the worse for it. richard. but you forget that i am as much involved in this as kellinghausen. it is impossible that i should stand aside and allow any reflection to be cast on--er---- brachtmann. you are quite right. but wait a moment. you said you meant to bring the matter up in committee, which is undoubtedly the proper way of dealing with it. the committee meets the day after to-morrow; and all i ask is that you should say nothing till then. richard. and suppose i agree to that what becomes of this paper? (_pointing to the writing-table_.) what if the countess finds it? von berkelwitz. gentlemen, i'm only a plain country squire, and i haven't your refinements of conscience. (_he takes the paper, tears it up and throws it into the wastepaper basket_. brachtmann _and the_ prince _laugh_.) von berkelwitz. after which act of felony i suppose i had better make my escape. (_shakes hands with the others and goes out_.) brachtmann. then it's understood that, in the interests of the party, you will---- prince. 'sh. here is our host. kellinghausen _enters_. kellinghausen. ah, there you are, richard! my dear fellow, i've been hunting for you high and low. i was actually reduced to asking madame von völkerlingk where you were. "my dear count," she said, "it's fifteen years since i've known where my husband was." nice reputation you've got! well, now i've run you to earth, sit down and let's have a talk. (_to the others_.) i haven't had a chance to say two words to him yet. prince. my dear brachtmann, shall we----? kellinghausen. no, no; don't run off. richard and i have no secrets. let us take possession of this quiet corner. (_to_ conrad, _who is passing with a tray of refreshments_.) conrad, what have you got there? lion brew from the wood, eh? conrad. yes, your excellency. kellinghausen. that's what we always had at bismarck's. h'm--in those days there was a power in the land. it weighed on us rather heavily at times, but we were none the worse for it. your health, richard, my dear fellow! gentlemen, your healths! how deuced quiet you all are! you look as if i'd invited you to my own funeral. good lord, if you knew how glad i am to have got the reichstag off my shoulders!--the other day, down at the polls, i said to one of our lengenfeld peasants: "my dear friend--" (they're all our dear friends at election-time; we even have to put up with being _their_ dear friends). "my dear friend," said i, "i hope you're going to vote for my successor?"--"what will he give me for it?" says he. "what will the socialist give you?" said i. "the socialist will call you all names, and i like to hear you called names. it makes me laugh," the fellow answered. and he was right. we must amuse the masses and they'll love us. circus-riding, my dear friends that's all the nobility are good for! brachtmann. we shall miss your cheerful view of life, my dear kellinghausen. kellinghausen. h'm--that's about the only epitaph i can hope for. ha! ha!--well--i say, richard, what sort of a fellow is that meixner? (_the others look up quickly_.) wasn't he your secretary at one time? richard. yes. kellinghausen. how long ago? richard. it must be ten or twelve years. kellinghausen. well, he has certainly profited by the training you gave him. he's raving against you like a madman. richard. did you happen to run across him? kellinghausen. heaven forbid! richard. did you hear what he said? kellinghausen. yes; holtzmann told me about him. and i've had a lot of his speeches and proclamations sent to me. capital stuff for lighting the fire. well, thank the lord, it's all over. richard. i wish i knew how to thank you, michael---- kellinghausen. nonsense. none of that. by the way, i picked up a pamphlet in the train to-day--"the ordeal" or some such name. holtzmann tells me that norbert wrote it. is that true? (richard _nods_.) brachtmann. ah, indeed--your son wrote----? kellinghausen. i say, richard, you give him a long rein, don't you? richard. my dear michael, the chief thing i have to thank my father for is that he gave _me_ one. i vowed long ago that norbert should have as much freedom as i had. kellinghausen. well, we shall have to take the young scamp in hand before long. richard. i wish you would. i should like to know who has put him up to this. he won't tell me. _enter_ beata, _with_ baron ludwig von völkerlingk. beata. may we join you? don't let us break up your party. baron ludwig. (_advancing toward the other men_.) will you allow me? beata (_to_ michael, _in a low tone_). well, are you enjoying yourself? kellinghausen. immensely, dear, immensely. beata. did you like the way i arranged the seats at table? kellinghausen. couldn't have been better. the brothers not too close together, yet near enough to talk. now you must follow it up, and get them to make friends--eh? beata. that is what i've come for. (_to_ richard.) my dear völkerlingk, i want to speak to you. kellinghausen. (_to_ richard, _as he approaches_.) mind you obey orders, now! (_joins the others_.) richard. i am glad you are not too tired, beata. beata. i've been growing stronger every day since the elections. but you must take some notice of leonie, richard. she is saying things. richard. let her. it's her specialty. beata. every one knows that she never comes here, and her being here to-night is making people talk. baron ludwig. (_approaching his brother, evidently at_ kellinghausen's _instigation_.) ah, here are the two friends talking together. beata. (_looking from one brother to the other_.) and the two enemies, too--thank heaven! baron ludwig. the countess is right, richard. it was foolish of us not to speak to each other. richard. my dear ludwig, perhaps we hadn't enough to say. baron ludwig. or too much! richard. possibly. (_to_ beata.) but, countess---- beata (_turning to join the others_). no, no. i am going to leave you two together. (_she moves away_.) richard. why do you look at her so strangely? baron ludwig. strangely? what do you mean? richard. you begrudge me this friendship, ludwig. baron ludwig. do i? perhaps. you must remember that i am very lonely. i had hoped that your house might---- richard. my house? with leonie----? baron ludwig. yes--your friend is different from leonie. richard. you needn't envy me, ludwig. my friend is a dying woman. every day i ask myself if i shall ever see her again. baron ludwig. my dear richard, the woman lives in a thousand energies. she will survive us both. richard. god grant it! baron ludwig. but--be on your guard. richard. what do you mean? baron ludwig. (_glancing at_ kellinghausen.) can we find a quiet corner somewhere? (_he takes_ richard's _arm and they go toward the other room_.) _enter_ leonie, _on_ norbert's _arm_. leonie (_meeting the brothers_). what a touching spectacle! look, norbert! baron ludwig. don't detain us, leonie. we're going to have our photograph taken. (_he and_ richard _go out_.) leonie (_advancing toward the front_). how enchanting! and beata as the angel of peace! quite a new rôle for you, isn't it, dear? but you're _so_ versatile! beata. dear leonie, find fault with me when i sow discord, but praise me when i make peace. leonie. do you care so much for praise? beata. don't you? leonie. oh, no one ever praises me. i suppose i don't know how to play my cards. norbert, please have the carriage called. norbert. very well, mother. (_goes out_.) leonie. ah, prince--good-evening! (_he kisses her hand_.) how is it we never see you at our missionary meetings? her royal highness wished me to say that she counts on your help. isn't that flattering? (_to the others_.) the prince is one of us, you know. he serves the cause of religion faithfully---- prince. and in poverty of spirit. that's my special merit, you know, baroness. brachtmann (_aside to the_ prince). you reprobate! leonie. but pray don't let me disturb you, for i must really be off. my carriage is waiting, and my coachman is so cross. we're all the slaves of our carriages. (_to_ kellinghausen.) it has been so delightful--dear beata is such a wonderful hostess. our great stateswoman knows so well how to keep her party in hand. willingly or unwillingly, she makes them all come into line; don't you, beata, dear? beata. i'm afraid you are among the unwilling to-night, leonie. leonie. oh, i'm not as adaptable as some of your friends. brachtmann (_aside to the_ prince). do you hear those amenities? prince (_to_ brachtmann). the baroness is dispensing christian charity sprinkled with arsenic. let's efface ourselves. (_they move quietly into the background_.) leonie. (_to_ kellinghausen, _with whom she has been talking_.) no, no, my dear count you mustn't think of it. norbert will put me in my carriage. and meanwhile, i want to have a little chat with dear beata. we always have so many things to say to each other. kellinghausen (_kissing her hand_). at your orders, my dear friend. i'll draw the curtain to protect your _tête-à-tête_. (_he draws the curtain between the columns and goes out_.) leonie. how wonderfully well you look to-night, beata! not in the least like a prospective grandmother. beata. why, as to that, leonie, it looks as though you and i were to be made grandmothers on the same day. leonie. ah, really? well, ellen is a delightful child. where is she, by the way? you don't seem to care to let her be seen in your neighbourhood on such occasions. beata. seen? in my neighbourhood? you have an odd way of putting things. but i believe you had something to say to me. leonie. i know i oughtn't to keep you from your other guests, but it's such a pleasure to have you to myself. i wonder what has become of norbert?--i must say, beata, i can't help admiring your self-possession. i don't see how you can be so unconcerned. beata. what should i be concerned about? leonie. why, you don't mean--? i should almost think you-- but i don't know how to express myself. it's so very painful.--there are such dreadful people in the world. beata. are there? leonie. this former secretary of richard's, for instance, who has made such a shocking speech against him. you've received a copy, of course? beata. not that i know of. leonie (_drawing a paper from her pocket_). ah--i brought mine with me. perhaps it might interest you. beata. not in the least, my dear. leonie. you are mentioned in it, too. beata (_smiling_). really? leonie. only between the lines, of course. beata. between the lines? what do you mean? leonie. this is the paragraph; the one marked with a blue pencil. don't be horrified. it will make you laugh, of course. i laughed over it myself. (beata _takes the paper, looking firmly at_ leonie _as she does so. she reads the paper, throws it aside, and looks at_ leonie _again, without speaking_.) good heavens, how pale you are! i didn't realise-- shall i get you a glass of water? beata. no, thanks. (_controlling herself with an effort_.) does richard know of this? leonie. oh, yes. doesn't michael? beata. certainly not.--he would have-- will you let me have this paper? leonie. to show michael? beata. naturally. in a matter involving his honour---- leonie. you don't mean to make a scandal? beata. what do you call a scandal? haven't you made one in bringing me this? leonie. i mean that your husband might---- beata. my husband will do as he sees fit. leonie. you are very sure of yourself. beata. my dear leonie, remember that you are in my house. leonie. my dear beata, we are always in each other's houses; we can't meet at the street corners, like servants. beata. you are right. say what you were going to say. leonie. oh, i have held my tongue so long! beata. why have you, if you had anything to say? leonie. listen, beata. i am not going to discuss the relations between my husband and yourself. it's a subject that no longer interests me. but it was you who took him away from me, and when i found you had taken him, i turned to my boy instead. then you took him too. now i have nothing left--nothing but my position in society, which i have built up slowly, year by year, by my own efforts, as you know. i am in the princess agnes's most intimate set, i am patroness of--but all this doesn't interest you. but how have i accomplished it? simply by keeping my eyes shut and appearing to sanction your friendship with richard.--and now, if you persist in dragging your husband in, there will be a scandal, and i shall have to sue for a divorce; and that will be excessively unpleasant for us all. don't you agree with me? beata. i might say so many things in reply.--in the first place, whatever i have taken was never really yours.--but no matter. i will only ask you one thing: have you thought of ellen and norbert? leonie. oh, ellen and norbert! i've no objection to the match, none whatever--but it's _your_ scheme, not mine, and you can't expect me to be particularly enthusiastic about it. but i should think it would be one more reason for _you_ to keep quiet. beata. then--if you don't mean to do anything--why did you bring me this? leonie (_with irrepressible triumph_). why did i bring it? because i--(_relapses into her usual amiability_)--i thought it might interest you, and you see i was not mistaken. ah, here comes norbert! _enter_ norbert. norbert. i'm sorry to have kept you, mother. the carriage was-- (_startled_.) why, aunt beata, what's the matter? beata (_making an effort to smile_). nothing, norbert, dear. leonie. well, good-bye, beata. do be careful of yourself! i should be so sorry to think i had done anything to excite you. come, norbert, you must put me in the carriage, and then you can come back to your dear aunt. norbert. i beg your pardon, mother, but i think aunt beata needs me now. if you'll wait for me a moment downstairs---- leonie. what did i say? i congratulate you, beata! (_she goes out alone_.) norbert. what has she been saying to you? beata. oh, she was right--so right! norbert (_alarmed_). aunt beata! beata (_with an effort_). norbert--my son--take me to ellen. in a few minutes i shall be quite---- norbert. come, come-- (_leads her gently out. sounds of talk and laughter come from the inner room_.) _enter_ kellinghausen. kellinghausen. (_putting his head through the curtains_.) ha! no one there? have our wives made way with each other? (_to_ richard, _who has followed him_.) they're not so deuced fond of one another. i say, old man, just now, when i was talking about the elections, why did you all put on that air of statesmanlike reserve? did i say anything out of the way? richard. what an absurd idea! kellinghausen. one is always liable to make an ass of one's self. i'm not conscious of having blundered, but--oh, well, i sha'n't get anything out of you. (_raising the curtain and calling out_--) brachtmann--usingen--come here a moment. richard. michael, if you take my advice we'll drop the election for the present. i give you my word that if anything occurs that reflects on you---- kellinghausen. on me? reflects on me? what on earth do you mean? i'm thinking of the party. our business is to look out for the party. _enter_ brachtmann _and the_ prince, _followed a moment or two later by_ norbert. brachtmann. hear, hear! but what are you talking about? kellinghausen (_to_ norbert). aha, young man, where have you come from? tea in the school-room, eh? norbert. aunt beata was not very well, uncle michael. (richard _starts_.) kellinghausen. ah? norbert. she is feeling better now. she will be here in a few minutes. kellinghausen. that's good--that's good. by the way, master norbert, we're going to put you through your paces. how about this so-called "ordeal," eh? do you own up to it? norbert. i'm proud to, uncle. at least, no--not so very proud; for i've found out lately that it's all been said before, a thousand times better than i've said it. brachtmann. and also by a member of the conservative party? norbert. well--no--not exactly. brachtmann. ah--but that's the point. norbert. i beg your pardon, herr von brachtmann, i thought truth was truth, no matter who uttered it. prince. what is truth? said pilate. norbert. and washed his hands. we also wash our hands of many things, your highness. i have even heard it said that the use of soap and water is the only thing that distinguishes us from the masses. but no matter how much washing we do, we can't wash off the blood we have shed in the abuse of our class-privileges. prince (_to_ richard). very neatly parried. he has a good wrist. richard. my dear norbert, will you give your venerable parent a hearing? we have left far behind us many of what you call our "class-privileges"; but their traditional spirit still survives. and that spirit, whether the modern world condemns it, or the middle-classes make it ridiculous by aping it--that spirit is the safeguard of our order. believe me, norbert, we must stand or fall by it. norbert. then we must fall, father. richard. possibly--even probably. but meanwhile the one distinction we have left is the right to dispose of our lives. when a nobleman of the italian renaissance, or a young blade of the court of louis xiii., crossed the threshold of his house, he was never sure of re-entering it alive. that was what gave him his audacity, his splendid indifference to danger. today we no longer stake our lives so lightly; but the fact that they are ours to stake still gives its keenest edge to living. the others. hear! hear! norbert. my dear father, you have given us an admirable explanation of the personal view of death. but life is not a personal matter at all. you have said so often enough. our lives belong to the ideals for which we fight, they belong to the state or to the race---- kellinghausen. and how about our personal sense of honour? what of that, norbert? are we to be forbidden to defend with our lives the few things we hold sacred on earth? may we no longer fall upon the scoundrel who assails them? you will hardly convince us of that, norbert. richard. then again, norbert, there may be cases--you are too young to have foreseen them, but they exist--where an honourable man may have done irreparable injury to another's honour. if he admits his guilt, and satisfaction is demanded of him, what is he to do? is he to run away, or to shelter himself behind the law? the law, which was made to protect the honour of serfs! should you expect that of him, norbert? norbert. if your man of honour admits his guilt, and is ready to pay the penalty, let him be his own judge. richard. h'm---- norbert. but i beg your pardon, father; that is hardly the point. it was all very well for the aristocracy to make its own laws when it had the power to enforce them; but what is to become of its precious "class-privileges" when the modern world laughs at them and the mob refuses to recognise them? when that day comes, i don't see what we can do but take shelter behind the law. kellinghausen. i don't understand you, norbert. give us an instance. norbert. nothing easier, uncle michael. what do you propose to do with the scoundrel who has been insulting you in his electioneering speeches? (_there is a startled movement among his listeners_.) you don't mean to challenge _him_, i suppose? kellinghausen. what do you----? norbert. unless you treat the whole matter with silent contempt and i fancy you'll hardly do that it seems to me that a libel suit is the only alternative. kellinghausen. norbert--are you dreaming--or---- norbert. why--uncle michael--didn't you know? prince. _now_ you've done it, young man! kellinghausen. do any of you know what he's driving at? brachtmann. yes. kellinghausen. richard, what does this mean? what is going on behind my back? you call yourself my friend--why have you kept me in the dark? richard (_very quietly_). in the first place, dear michael, we only heard of the business an hour or two ago; in the second place (_as he speaks_, beata _enters from behind_), i am mixed up in it myself. kellinghausen. you? in a slander that concerns me? (richard _nods without speaking_.) then there was all the more reason---- brachtmann. my dear kellinghausen, the fault is mine. for the sake of the party, i asked völkerlingk not to-- prince (_suddenly noticing_ beata). h'm. perhaps we had better-- (_he advances toward_ beata). my dear countess---- beata _enters quietly_. beata. don't be afraid. i know what you are speaking of. i know all about it. michael, if these gentlemen would allow us to talk the matter over by ourselves---- kellinghausen. thank you, my dear. but i think you had better keep out of it. richard--brachtmann--if you'll come to my study---- (_they both assent_.) richard (_approaching_ beata). i will say good-night, countess. beata. good-night, my dear völkerlingk. (_rapidly, in a low voice, as he bends above her hand_.) does he know? richard (_in the same tone_). not yet. beata (_aloud, with conventional cordiality_). i shall see you to-morrow? (richard _bows, and follows the other men toward the door_.) curtain. act iii act iii _the same scene: in the afternoon_. holtzmann _is waiting. enter_ kellinghausen _in hat and fur-lined coat_. kellinghausen. ah, holtzmann--this is very good of you. i'm extremely obliged to you for coming. (_shakes hands with him_.) sorry to have kept you waiting. (_takes off his hat and coat_.) sit down--sit down.--that is,--perhaps we'd better-- oh, well, my wife's not likely to come in just now.--a cigarette? holtzmann. thanks. i don't smoke. kellinghausen (_lighting a cigarette_). you remember meixner the fellow who gave us such a lot of trouble during the elections? i believe you and he have crossed swords once or twice in public; and didn't you tell me that you knew him personally? when was it that you ran across him? holtzmann. there was only one inn in the village, and his room and mine were on the same landing. the meeting was over at eleven, and i went to bed soon after. about midnight in walks meixner, as cool as you please, and sits down on my bed. "we haven't finished that argument yet. let's have it out now," he said. and there he sat till six in the morning. kellinghausen. (_takes a copy of the_ "_lengenfeld news_" _out of his pocket and glances at it_.) did that happen before or after the twelfth of january? holtzmann. it happened before he made that speech. kellinghausen (_startled_). what? you knew----? holtzmann. why--naturally. kellinghausen. herr holtzmann, we were in the train together for hours. we drove together for miles. i have always treated you as a friend. why did you never speak of this? (holtzmann _remains silent_.) let me tell you one thing: you can't put me off with a shrug. if you think you can, you don't know me. holtzmann. i beg your pardon, count kellinghausen--but i must remind you that i am not in your service. kellinghausen. my dear herr holtzmann, you are known as one of the most zealous supporters of our party. probably you attach some importance to that fact. your silence in this matter surprises me, and i shall not fail to draw my own conclusions. holtzmann (_rising_). you must draw what conclusions you please, sir. personally i have nothing to gain by serving your party. i might have a living at any moment, and if i have preferred, for the present, to devote myself to politics, it was only because i thought i could be of use to the cause. kellinghausen (_after a pause_). i have offended you. you must make allowances for my excitement--this business has unnerved me. (_holds out his hand_.) sit down again and let me ask you a question. has this meixner any recognised standing in his party, or is he merely a hanger-on? holtzmann. he must have a certain standing, since he is their candidate for the next election. kellinghausen. ha! ha! a nice lot they are! well, the gentleman has given us his measure by sending copies of this paper to the wives of the men he attacks. holtzmann. if he has done that, sir, can you guess his reasons? kellinghausen. no. can you? holtzmann. perhaps---- kellinghausen. well----? holtzmann. i'm sorry, sir--but i can't say anything more just now. kellinghausen (_rising_). good-day, then, herr holtzmann. holtzmann. my respects to you, sir. (_goes out_.) kellinghausen (_giving way to his rage_). hounds! brigands! damn them! all tarred with the same brush---- beata _enters_. beata (_quietly_). flying into a passion won't mend matters, michael. kellinghausen. and i can't make you out, either. here they are, throwing mud at us--calling you i won't say what--and you stand there like--like--haven't you got any blood in your veins? don't you realise what it all means? beata. i haven't much strength to spare, and i have to economise my emotions. kellinghausen. good god--how white you are! don't mind me--i'll pull myself together. we won't talk of the damned thing any more. beata. it will be the first time in twenty years that we haven't talked over what you had on your mind. kellinghausen. i wish to heaven i'd never told you of it. the devil take leonie! she can't hold her cursed meddling tongue; richard ought to muzzle her. by the way, it's strange he hasn't shown himself to-day. beata. i have had a note from him. he asked me to tell you that he is deep in his speech. he is coming as soon as he has a moment to spare. kellinghausen. there you are again! just when the man needs a clear head for the great work that's before him, he finds himself involved in this filthy-- ah, well, i'll have the dogs by the throat yet! i'll have them howling for mercy! beata. do calm yourself, michael. look--your face is all on fire. you know it's bad for you to excite yourself. kellinghausen. there, there--i'm quiet again. don't i always do what you tell me? ah, if i hadn't had _you_ all these years, the lord knows what would have become of me! beata. then, on the whole, i've been--satisfactory? kellinghausen (_laughing_). that sounds as if you were asking for a reference. beata. perhaps i am. i want to have one to show in case of need. kellinghausen. and when do you expect to need it? beata. who knows? _enter_ conrad. conrad (_announcing_). baron brachtmann. kellinghausen (_to_ beata). do you wish to see him? beata. yes. _enter_ brachtmann. conrad _goes out_. brachtmann. (_bows to_ kellinghausen _and kisses_ beata's _hand_.) i am sorry we were not on our guard yesterday, countess. even if you had to know of this stupid business, you needn't have heard of it till it had blown over. beata. don't reproach yourself, baron. i should have been sorry to miss such a chance of enlarging my knowledge of human nature. brachtmann. well, at all events, i beg of you both not to take it too seriously. and as for you, my dear kellinghausen, i say again as i've said before: for god's sake, keep out of the courts. kellinghausen. ah----? brachtmann. why, my dear man, haven't i been accused of arson and forgery? haven't i been charged with bribing my constituents to perjure themselves--not to speak of my dodging my taxes, and other sleight-of-hand performances? that's merely the political way of poking fun. kellinghausen. h'm--your digestion must be stronger than mine. but those charges concerned no one but yourself; if i stood alone in this business, i might see the humour of it. but let them beware how they attack my family! besides, i've taken steps already---- brachtmann. what have you done? kellinghausen. i got hold of my counsel this morning. he has made out a retraction which the scoundrel is to sign. if he won't sign it, we'll take other means. he is to be at my lawyer's at three o'clock. beata (_starting up_). what? to-day? kellinghausen. to-day. the sooner the better. by the way, what time is it? i must be on hand myself. brachtmann, will you come with me? brachtmann. i was going to propose it. (_while_ kellinghausen _puts on his coat, he turns to_ beata.) if you have any influence over him, for heaven's sake---- beata (_in a low voice_). i can do nothing. kellinghausen. well, dear, good-bye. if richard turns up, be sure you make him wait. i shall be back in an hour. (kellinghausen _and_ brachtmann _go out_.) beata. (_closing her eyes, with a miserable smile_.) in an hour! _enter_ ellen. ellen (_in the doorway_). mother! beata. come in, dear child. ellen (_kneeling down beside her_). mother, mother dear, what has happened? what is it? papa is so excited and talks to himself so strangely--and you--oh, mother! beata (_smiling_). well what have i done? ellen. if i tell you, you won't--won't stay away? you'll come and lean over my bed every night--just as you've always done? beata (_surprised_). then you're awake--when i come? ellen. always, always. i never go to sleep till i've heard you. beata. dearest! and yet you never stirred! ellen. oh, i prided myself on that! but last night it was so hard to keep quiet. i could feel your tears on my face--oh, how you were crying! and i did so want to cry with you. but i held my breath and lay as still as i could.--mother, what has happened? won't you tell me? i'm not a child any longer. beata. listen, dear. i want to ask you a question. is there any one in the world--besides your father and me--that you're very fond of? ellen (_softly_). you know, mother. i don't have to tell you things---- beata. some one you're so fond of that you could live for him--or even die for him? ellen. there's nothing in the world i wouldn't do for him! beata. (_softly stroking her hair and cheeks_.) h'm---- _enter_ conrad. conrad (_announcing_). dr. kahlenberg. beata (_to ellen_). go, dear. that is all i wanted to know. ellen. mother! (_goes out_.) _enter_ dr. kahlenberg. conrad _goes out_. dr. kahlenberg. you sent for me, countess? nothing wrong, i hope? beata. why, this is your hour for consultations, isn't it? dr. kahlenberg. oh, there was no one there but two or three whining women. the kind that can be cured by the atmosphere of a fashionable doctor's waiting-room; so i'm letting them wait. beata. (_listening, as though to make sure that they are alone_.) i sha'n't keep you long. doctor you know how often i have said to you: "my dear friend, i've got to live--i've simply got to live; show me how--" and how you've always answered: "the only way is to avoid excitement." well--i've borne that in mind--i've schooled myself to look at life through a tombstone, as it were--my own tombstone, doctor! i've done that. but now--now there are storms ahead, perhaps disasters. if they come, my judgment and energy are equal to them--but my valves are not. i found that out last night--it was only those drops of yours that saved me. but i can't live on those drops--you've warned me not to take them too often. and i don't want to die of this. doctor, you must help me! dr. kahlenberg. why, what's the meaning of all this? h'm. you're right. strophanthus and digitalis are not meant for human nature's daily food. besides, the effect might wear off.--my dear countess, take your courage in both hands and run away. turn your back on all these emotions. human life is simply a process of molecular adjustment complicated by moral idiosyncrasies. beata (_laughing_). i'm so glad to know it, doctor. (_growing serious_.) but there is no time to run away. the storm may break in an hour. dr. kahlenberg. child, what has happened? ah, well, i never ask questions.--in an hour?--i am going home to despatch my whining women, and then i'll drop in again and see what has happened in the interval. beata. and if to-day is only the prelude? dr. kahlenberg. so much the better. then we shall have time to look the thing in the face. meanwhile i'll give you something new to take--something that your system hasn't got used to. we physicians have a supply of such remedies to tide us over bad places. beata. thank you. dr. kahlenberg. give me both hands, countess. you and i know death too well to be much afraid of it. but if you want to live i'll do my best to help you. and now i'll go and assure my other patients that they're really ill. good-bye. (_he goes out. in the hall he is heard greeting_ norbert.) _enter_ norbert. norbert. aunt beata, i'm so glad to see you looking so well. i was almost afraid---- beata. it always cheers me to see you, norbert. and to-day especially---- norbert. to-day? beata. 'sh--to-day is a lucky day. norbert. lucky? in what way? beata. wait and see! wait and see! norbert. i say, aunt beata, you're not making fun of me? i don't half like the way you're smiling to yourself. beata. well, you must make the best of it, dear boy! norbert. aunt beata--you're _not_ the same since yesterday. i knew it all along. what a beastly business life is! you--you--of all women!--that they should dare attack you! the scoundrels--the miserable sneaking scoundrels! beata. norbert, dear, you must see that this is a matter we can't discuss. besides, i have something else to talk to you about. can you tell me what time it is? norbert. half-past four. beata. will you ring for the lamps, please? ring twice. (norbert _rings_.) i have only a few minutes to spare, but it won't take long to-- (conrad _brings in two lamps, and draws the curtains_) to tell you what i-- (_she hesitates, constrained by_ conrad's _presence_.) this is miss mansborough's afternoon. she has probably gone out. (conrad _leaves the room_.) you will find ellen alone in her sitting-room--go and look for her--and when you find her, put your arms about her, and say to her, "i love you, and i shall always love you, in this world and the next"--provided there is any next! norbert. aunt beata! (_falls on his knees before her and hides his face in her lap_.) beata (_struggling with her tears_). and then sit down in the twilight, you and ellen, quietly, side by side, and talk of all the happiness that is coming to you and of all the good you mean to do. let it be your hour of consecration. and i shall be with you all the while--feeling your happiness, thinking your thoughts--all through this next hour of my life.--now go, norbert. i hear some one coming--it must be your father. i will tell him--go, dear, go. norbert. aunt beata! (_kisses her hand_.) beata. your hour of consecration remember that, norbert. (norbert _goes out_.) _enter_ richard. richard. what has happened? you look radiant. beata. (_taking his hand and holding it fast_.) i have settled the future of our children. no matter what happens to us-- why, richard, aren't you the least bit pleased?--oh, how ill you look! richard. what sort of a night did you have, beata? beata. not so bad.--and how goes the speech? are you in sight of land? richard. beata--i don't know if i shall be able to speak to-morrow. beata (_alarmed_). but you must. you must. they all count on you. dear, you _must_. is it because of that wretched business last night? richard. partly, i suppose. this new danger has stirred up the whole past. beata. and your conscience is bothering you again? richard. you call it conscience, beata; i call it consistency. how dare i speak on this bill, how dare i take such a stand before god and man, when my whole life gives me the lie?--good god!--to stand up and talk about the sanctity of marriage--about the family life as the main support of society--to parade such an argument before the cynics of the opposition, when with my own hands i have helped to tear down that very support--no, no, i can't justify myself without adopting their own cynical and materialistic creed. and not even then; for what i call god they call social expediency; and this new idol of theirs is more exacting than the jehovah of the old dispensation. as to acknowledging that words are one thing and actions another--that the man in me is not accountable to the statesman--well, i haven't sunk as low as that--what i give i must give without an afterthought.--and so all my ideas crumble into dust, all my reasoning ends in contradiction--and i find myself powerless to plead the very cause i have at heart! beata. but why, dearest, why? richard. forgive me. i am so tired; my mind is a blank. first that dreadful scene last night, when a moment's hesitation would have ruined us both. then my long night at my desk--the superhuman effort of collecting my thoughts after all i'd been through. but as i worked, my subject took such hold of me that i've only just waked up to the question--how on earth is it all to end? (beata _is silent_.) oh, beata, the truth, the truth! oh, to be at one with one's self! to have the right to stand up openly for one's convictions! i would give everything for it--happiness, life itself, everything! beata. and yet you love life. richard. i? no--not now. now that our falsehood is closing in on us, death would be--but don't be frightened; i shall do nothing foolish. there are two of us, and we must hold together. i am so used to sharing every thought with you.--what has happened since yesterday? i suppose michael has given up the absurd idea of prosecuting the man. beata. on the contrary. richard. what? beata. at this moment he has probably found out whatever your former secretary knows about us. richard. what on earth do you mean? beata. i haven't interrupted you, dear, because speaking seemed to clear your thoughts. but i haven't attempted to answer you, because every minute is precious. richard. hasn't brachtmann been here? beata. brachtmann came too late. richard. then----? beata. even if he had come sooner he could not have prevented anything. dearest, michael may come back at any moment, and when he comes we must be ready---- richard. don't go on, beata. let us suppose the worst: say that meixner has unearthed a few suspicious circumstances--what use can he make of them? he can't produce any proofs. beata. who knows? richard. where are they to come from? the few letters we exchanged were burnt long ago. copies are not admitted as evidence. he will not be allowed to testify on oath. we have only to keep ourselves in hand as well as we did yesterday, and the whole story will fall to the ground. beata. and michael? richard. michael? beata. suppose he questions you? richard. there can be but one answer, i think. beata. in our class there is something we call a "word of honour." if he asks you for _that_--? you don't answer. richard (_confused, breathing heavily_). we haven't reached that point yet, beata--and if he does--why, we two are chained together by our past, we are answerable to no one but ourselves. that is all there is left to us. beata. is that your answer? you, who tell me you have wrestled with yourself all night because--richard, i don't believe you! richard. believe me or not, but be sure that, whatever happens, no suspicion shall fall on you--on either of us. and now i beg of you--let me see michael alone. beata (_smiling_). alone? richard. i---- beata (_still smiling_). hush! do you hear his latch-key? richard. beata, i implore you. you are not fit to bear what is coming! if you value your life, go---- beata. i value yours, and therefore i shall stay. _enter_ kellinghausen. kellinghausen (_very gravely_). good-afternoon, richard. (_shakes hands with him_.) richard. good-afternoon, michael. kellinghausen (_to_ beata). has any one been here? beata. norbert--and dr. kahlenberg. no one else. kellinghausen. kahlenberg? at this hour? is any one ill? beata. no. he merely came to see me. shall i give you some tea? kellinghausen. thanks, no. richard, you don't want any either? then, if you'll come into my study---- richard. with pleasure. beata. michael, i don't understand you. you have never shut me out from your counsels. hitherto, if i have taken part in your discussions, it was because you wished me to; to-day i have a right to be here. kellinghausen. my dear child, don't you always have your way? if richard doesn't object---- richard. whatever you wish---- beata. but first i want to give you a piece of good news. norbert and ellen are engaged. kellinghausen (_his face lighting up_). ha? what? those two children? i saw it coming, bless their hearts!--but i'd no notion--where are they, beata? (_goes to door, left_.) richard (_in a low tone, to_ beata). he knows nothing. beata (_with an effort_). michael--never mind--don't speak to them now! to-morrow norbert will---- (_she breathes painfully_. richard _makes a startled movement_.) kellinghausen. what is it? are you ill? beata. no--no, it's nothing. but happiness reverberates so! norbert is coming back to-morrow. he wishes to tell his mother first. kellinghausen. ah, that's thoughtful of him. i had forgotten about his mother. well, shake hands, old man. confound it--i'm ashamed to look you in the face with this cursed thing hanging over us. and to think how happy we three might be--oh, that hound, that vile infamous hound! richard. tell me what happened, michael. kellinghausen. there isn't much to tell. my lawyer had a talk with him. he says his only object is to bring out the facts. richard (_after a short pause_). well--let him bring them out. kellinghausen. let him? you should have heard brachtmann. the man was beside himself. he began with the old story of the frenchman who said that if he were accused of stealing the towers of notre dame he would take the first train for the frontier. "no matter how blameless you all are, the lie will stick to you," he said. "it will stick to you and to your children and to your party." i had to give him my word of honour that, whatever happens, i will do nothing to bring scandal on the party. richard. but you haven't stuck to your resolve? kellinghausen. how could i? we can't wring the scoundrel's neck without landing ourselves in prison. norbert was right yesterday. in such cases we have no refuge left but the courts. there is more in that boy's ideas than i was willing to admit at the time. well--meanwhile i've agreed to think the matter over for twenty-four hours. a mere formality, of course--and yet not quite, after all. the fact is, i wanted to talk it out with you. richard. very well. kellinghausen. beata--richard--i don't need to be told that there's nothing wrong in this house--nothing wrong between you two, to put it plainly. i can see that for myself. but in such a dirty business the most harmless fact may be used against you; and you won't misunderstand me if i ask you--both-- you see, you two have always been in such close sympathy--i don't say that to reproach you--god forbid! it was natural enough--you're both so much cleverer than i am--but i ask you, for all our sakes, to look back and try to remember if you've ever written each other any letters that might--might seem--to an outsider--a little too friendly? good heavens! _i_ should understand it if you had! or--or--have you ever written anything about _me_? anything that might--? there are plenty of things to criticise about me. but i must know the truth. there must not be the least pretext for this attack. i ask you to stop and consider. richard. there is nothing to consider, my dear michael. kellinghausen. not so fast, my dear fellow! take time. think the matter over. richard. there is nothing to think over. kellinghausen. beata----? beata. my answer is the same as richard's, of course. kellinghausen. richard, our fate is in your hands. do you advise me to bring suit? richard. oh--if you ask my advice---- kellinghausen. i don't ask your advice but your assurance. i have pledged myself not to endanger the party. give me your word of honour that i can bring suit without doing so. richard (_straightening himself_). i give you my word of honour that--you---- (beata _gives a suppressed cry_.) kellinghausen. what is the matter? what ails you? beata (_looking at_ richard). he will give you his word of honour, and then he will go home and blow his brains out. don't you see it in his face? kellinghausen. what do you mean? richard. kellinghausen, ask your wife to leave the room, and i will---- beata. richard, for fifteen years we have shared all our joys and sorrows. we must share this too. kellinghausen. (_half strangled, tearing his collar open, and then throwing himself on_ richard.) you--you--you! richard (_seizing both his hands_). michael, take care! this must be between ourselves. remember that. kellinghausen. yes--yes--yes; i pledged my word--i remember--i--oh, you--you---- (_he sinks down in a chair near the table, and hides his face with tearless sobs_.) beata (_approaching him after a pause_). dear michael, richard and i conquered our feelings long ago. that is why we are so calm now. what happened between us happened years ago, and we are ready to pay the cost, whatever it is. kellinghausen. oh, as far as he's concerned, it's simple enough. he and i can soon settle our account. richard. yes. kellinghausen. but you--you--how can you justify yourself? how have you reconciled it to your conscience to live beside me half a lifetime with this thing between us? why didn't you come and ask me to set you free? beata. yes--that was what _he_ wanted--he has such a sense of honour! and to this day he has never understood why i wouldn't. i loved him too well to ruin his life--that's all. even if he could have got a divorce and married me, such a marriage would have been his ruin. i should simply have finished the work that leonie had begun. but what i wanted was to save him. and so all these years i have lied for him---- kellinghausen. and what have you done for _me_? or didn't i enter into your calculations? beata. michael, you must see that we can't discuss that now. it would be laughable if i were to try to explain to you---- kellinghausen. ha! ha! lies and deception! wife--friend--everything! everything! (_to_ richard.) why do you stand there as if you were struck dumb? why don't _you_ try and whitewash yourself too? richard. you said just now that our account was easy to settle. beata. he sees things differently. i speak for myself. he looks at things as you do. kellinghausen. and yet---- beata. wait, please! i have one word more to say, i have staked everything and lost--it's all over for us, all three of us. if i had spoken years ago, the same thing would have happened. you told me just now that i had made you happy. well, that is what my lie has done. it has made you happy for fifteen years. blame me for it--but don't forget it---- kellinghausen. and god--and retribution? do you never think of such things? no repentance--no remorse? nothing? nothing? richard. spare her, michael. let me answer for her. (kellinghausen _advances toward him with clenched fist_.) beata. you have questioned _me_, michael; let me question you. must every natural instinct end in remorse and repentance? sin? i am not conscious of sinning. i did the best that it was in me to do. i simply refused to be crushed by your social laws. i asserted my right to live; my right to self-preservation. perhaps it was another way of suicide--that's no matter. you know what my life has been--how i've had to buy it, hour by hour and drop by drop, at the nearest chemist's--well, wretched as it is, i've loved it too dearly to disown it now! yes, i've loved it--i've loved everything--everything around me--you too, michael--ah, don't laugh--yes, you too--even if i've--ah-- (_her breath comes in long gasps and she reels and clutches a chair, closing her eyes as she leans against it. then she opens them again_.) which one of you will--help me to the door? (richard _makes a movement, and then draws back_.) kellinghausen. beata, from now on there will be no one to help you. beata. thank you. (_with an intense effort, she walks out of the room_.) kellinghausen (_to_ richard). and now----? richard. do what you like. say what you like. curse me--shoot me. i sha'n't defend myself. kellinghausen. you admit that one of us must die? richard. no; i don't admit it; but i am at your orders. kellinghausen. a duel between us is impossible---- richard. impossible---- kellinghausen. i don't mean on account of the children. _that's_ all at an end. richard. why must it be at an end if one of us dies? but i am at your orders. kellinghausen. i have pledged my word not to bring any scandal on the party. you are under the same obligation. richard. yes. kellinghausen. so that the only thing left---- richard. before you go any further, let me tell you that i decline to go through the farce of an american duel. kellinghausen. you decline--? perhaps you want to sneak out of the whole business? richard. you don't believe that! kellinghausen. well--what other way is there? richard. i know a way--but---- (norbert's _voice is heard outside, speaking with_ conrad.) kellinghausen. (_with sudden decision, opening the door_.) norbert! richard (_following him_). for god's sake, michael--do you want to disgrace my whole house? kellinghausen (_opening the door_). you shall see.--norbert! come in, my boy--come! norbert _enters_. norbert. uncle michael, what is the matter with aunt beata? the doctor is with her, and ellen has been called---- kellinghausen. nothing serious. don't be alarmed. (_takes his hand_.) norbert, your father and i were just talking of last evening. you remember that stupid business interrupted our talk, and we never heard the end of your argument. let us have it now. sit down--sit down, richard. (_they all seat themselves_.) there was one phrase of yours that struck me. you said--you said--that if---- richard. you said that if a man of honour has injured another and is called on to atone for it, he is the best judge of his own punishment. norbert (_laughing_). did i? very likely--but my head is so full of other things just now that i couldn't swear to it. kellinghausen. that was not quite what i meant; but no matter. suppose we take such a case. if the injured person says: "one of us two must die"--what ought the other to answer? norbert. why, uncle michael, i should say that depended on the nature of the injury--doesn't it? richard. let us say, for the sake of argument, that the wrong is the gravest that one man can do another; let us say he has seduced his friend's wife. has the husband a right to the other man's life? norbert. why, father--there can be but one answer to that. and if the other man is a man of honour--though i don't see how he could be, do you?--he would be more eager to give his life than the husband could possibly be to take it. richard. h'm. perhaps you're right. thank you, my boy. norbert. uncle michael, at what time to-morrow may i see you? kellinghausen. i'll send you word, norbert. norbert. thanks. don't make it too late, will you? don't keep me waiting too long. good-bye. good-bye, father. (_goes out_.) richard. well--are you satisfied? kellinghausen. you put the question in a way that suggests suicide. that was not---- richard. it is your own choice. all i ask is two days' respite. you won't refuse it? (kellinghausen _shrugs his shoulders_.) good-bye. (_goes out_.) curtain. act iv act iv _a study in the house of_ richard völkerlingk. _doors on the right and left, at the back. a fireplace in the middle background, the rest of the wall hidden by book-cases, which frame the fireplace and doors. in the foreground, to the left, a window. to the right of it, a writing-table. in the centre a table covered with periodicals and books. on the right a leather sofa and arm-chairs. behind these a door. rich and sombre decorations, old pictures, armour, etc. a hanging-lamp with a green shade, another lamp on a table, both lit. through the window one sees the twilight_. holtzmann _is seated at the centre-table, reading_. _enter_ george. george. herr holtzmann, some one is asking for the baron. holtzmann. why, you know the baron is at the reichstag. george. he says it's important that the baron should see him. he wants to know when he can call again. holtzmann. do you know who it is? george. well--not exactly a gentleman. what shall i tell him? holtzmann. the baron speaks this afternoon. he will not leave till the house rises. tell the man to come back in an hour. (george _goes out_.) norbert _enters_. norbert (_greatly excited_). herr holtzmann--haven't you been at the reichstag? (holtzmann _shakes his head without speaking_.) then you haven't heard? my father has had the most wonderful triumph--they say there has never been anything like it. holtzmann. ah? norbert. i wish i could give you an idea of it! look at me--i'm shaking all over! if you could have heard the way the words rushed out, the way the thoughts trod on each other's heels! he began by sketching the psychology of the modern man, and from that he developed a theory of marriage, with its outward obligations and inner ideals--the marriage of to-day in its highest, noblest sense--but you'll read what he said; you'll see if i'm exaggerating. then he went on to the practical application of his theory. in this unsettled age, when parents are losing their control over their children, and the state its hold over the citizen, when even god and his priests see the soul of man slipping away from them--at such a time we must do all we can to strengthen the only tie that holds humanity together--the only tie that gives youth the shelter of the family life till habit becomes duty, and duty the law of being, and through obedience to that law a strong and enduring national soul is created. isn't that beautiful, herr holtzmann? isn't that a glorious idea? holtzmann. very fine, very fine. but doesn't such an argument lead back to the standpoint of the church, which---- norbert. when marriage is a mockery, he said, the state may intervene and dissolve it. that was all. never in my life have i heard such a scathing denunciation of infidelity! holtzmann. ah? indeed? norbert. there was such terrible menace in his words that i--oh, well, i can't explain it--but i began to feel afraid--of i don't know what---- holtzmann (_half to himself_). this will explain---- norbert. explain what? what do you mean? george _enters_. george (_urgently_). herr holtzmann! holtzmann (_to_ norbert). one moment, please. (_he goes up to_ george.) george (_in a whisper_). the man is here again, and asking to see you. he is waiting in the café across the street. holtzmann. doesn't he give his name? george. yes. something like meister or meissner. holtzmann (_startled, in a whisper_). meixner? george. that's it. holtzmann (_turning to_ norbert). will you excuse me? some one has sent for me. norbert. don't let me keep you. (holtzmann _and_ george _go out_. norbert _goes to the window, his hand shading his eyes, and gazes out eagerly_. richard _comes in quietly and lays his portfolio on the writing-table_.) norbert (_turning toward him_). father! father! (_he throws himself in_ richard's _arms_. richard _thanks him with a smile_.) norbert. mother sends you her love and is sorry she can't be here to congratulate you. she's in waiting on the princess this evening. richard. ah? (_he moves about the room_.) norbert. oh, father, how happy you must be! how they cheered, how they fought to get near you and shake your hand! oh, if only i could have one such hour in my life! richard (_laying a hand on his shoulder_). if you do, my son, may you pay for it less dearly! norbert. what do you mean? richard. listen, norbert.--have you heard anything of aunt beata? norbert. i went there, but they told me she wouldn't see any one. richard (_musingly_). h'm. norbert. the fact is, i wanted to see uncle michael. richard. (_who has walked toward the window_.) uncle michael? that reminds me that i wanted to tell you-- how the sunset shines on the house-tops over there! everything is in a glow--we shall have glorious winter weather soon---- norbert. you said you had something to tell me, father. richard. yes, yes; to be sure. but first, haven't you something to tell _me_? norbert (_with an embarrassed smile_). yes; but not to-day--when you're so---- richard. the very day, dear boy! to-morrow i may but there's nothing to tell, after all. aunt beata and i have seen this coming and it has made us very happy. norbert. (_flinging his arms about his father_.) father! father! richard. norbert! my dear lad! but we don't yet know what uncle michael will say---- norbert. uncle michael? when i'm _your_ son? father, you've heard something. you wouldn't frighten me for nothing. richard. i have heard nothing. but, norbert, listen. whatever comes to you in after days, i want you to remember one thing: it doesn't matter whether we succeed or not. what we need is the guiding note of a voice that seems the echo of our best hopes. it doesn't matter whether we are mistaken in the voice or not--the great thing is to hear it. and the worst thing is not to feel the need of it. norbert. thank you, father. i'm not sure i understand--but you may be sure i shall listen for the voice. richard. and one thing more. uncle michael is very busy just now. leave him alone for a day or two--even if you have the chance of speaking. and let me see you to-morrow morning early. i may have to go on a long journey--and before i start---- norbert. on a journey? now? just as you---- richard (_nods_). this is between ourselves. but meanwhile, try to see aunt beata for a moment. i want you to tell her--but stay, i'll write. (_he seats himself at the writing-table and begins to write_.) _enter_ george. george. his excellency baron ludwig von völkerlingk. _enter_ baron ludwig. richard _starts up, pleased and surprised_. george. the evening papers, your excellency. (_he puts them down and goes out_.) richard. ludwig! it's a long time since you've given me this pleasure. baron ludwig. thank you, richard. richard. will you excuse me a moment? i am finishing a letter. (_he folds the letter, puts it into an envelope and writes the address, while_ norbert _and_ baron ludwig _are greeting each other_.) there! norbert (_taking the letter_). an answer, father? richard. as soon as possible. (norbert _goes out_.) baron ludwig. my dear richard--we're quite alone, i suppose? (richard _nods_.) forgive the suggestion, but-- (_he glances about the room_) leonie sometimes overhears---- richard. leonie is out. baron ludwig. so much the better. but first let me tell you with what admiration i listened to you just now--what breathless admiration! (richard _makes a gesture of thanks_.) still, i confess that your having to speak on such a subject just at present made me--er--a little nervous---- richard. why so? baron ludwig. i was almost afraid--but we'll go into that presently.--well, at all events, if nothing goes wrong, you may look upon this as the starting-point of a career that any man living might envy you. richard. what do you mean? baron ludwig. a certain personage was heard to say after your speech: _that is the man i need_. don't look as if you saw a ghost. you deserve it all, my dear richard. richard. (_walks up and down in agitated silence_.) ludwig--you have led me to the top of a high mountain and shown me the promised land in which i shall never set foot. give me time to renounce the idea. baron ludwig. why should you talk of renouncing it? but this brings me to the object of my visit. richard, how long do you suppose your enemies will wait before making capital out of your speech? richard. i'm ready for them, my dear fellow. i'll pay the shot--to the last penny! baron ludwig (_in a lower tone_). we are talking at cross-purposes. i referred to the insinuations of your former secretary. richard. i understand. baron ludwig. you know there is nothing they are so eager to attack as our private life. of course i don't for a moment imagine the man has anything to go on--but unless you can silence him he may make a scandal in which everything will go under--your name, your career--and other things besides. richard. what can i do to prevent it? baron ludwig. for one thing, you might jump into a cab and hunt your man down with a big bribe in your pocket. richard. do you think that kind of man could be bribed? baron ludwig. my dear richard, this is not merely a matter of life and death. remember that. of course you may be too late; but it's the only way i can suggest. (_there is a knock on the door_.) richard. come in. _enter_ holtzmann. holtzmann. i beg your pardon, baron. (_in a low voice_.) an important matter---- richard. you may speak before my brother. i have no secrets from him. holtzmann. there is a man waiting in my room who wishes to speak to you. his name is meixner. (_the two brothers look at each other_.) richard. thanks. please tell herr meixner that i will see him in a moment. (holtzmann _goes out_.) baron ludwig. well, this ends my mission. good-bye, richard. your luck frightens me. richard (_laughing bitterly_). my luck! baron ludwig (_pressing his hands_). don't hang back now, my dear fellow. the way is open to you. richard. thank you. good-bye. (baron ludwig _goes out_. richard _rings_.) _enter_ george. richard. i will see the gentleman who is waiting. you will remain in the ante-room. don't let in any one else. (george _goes out. after a short pause_ meixner _enters_.) richard. herr meixner, after what has happened, doesn't it strike you as rather a liberty that you should enter my house? meixner. (_speaking in a hoarse voice, with an occasional cough_.) may i take my muffler off? my lungs have gone wrong--makes it very hard for me to talk down my adversary in one of those crowded smoky halls.--but what's to be done about it? richard. may i ask what you want of me? meixner. really, baron, from the way you look at me i might almost ask what you want of _me_. but i suppose it's my turn first.--i haven't come out of malice. you can safely offer me a chair. richard. if you haven't come out of malice you probably won't stay long enough to need one. meixner. ah--thanks. well, i'll take the hint and be brief. it was down at lengenfeld, you know. herr holtzmann and i sat up a whole night arguing over the elections. why not--two honourable antagonists, eh? herr holtzmann, as a good theologian, was all for the sanctity of the social order. i laughed at him--he's at the age when the disciple looks up to his master, and he brought you up as an example. i laughed at him again.--"if baron völkerlingk is not what i believe him to be," said he, "nothing is what i believe it to be, and i'll go over to your side." "shake hands on that," said i; and we did. the next day, in my speech, i made that allusion--you know what i mean--and as no one took it up, and i began to be afraid it might hang fire, i sent about a few copies of the paper. that helped. i got my nomination the next day. richard. not in my district. meixner. no matter. well i found i'd made a stupid blunder. i'd meant to convert holtzmann but i hadn't meant to ruin _you_. do you see? then you made your speech to-day--and after that-- well, i've been tramping the streets ever since, saying to myself: the man who could make that speech after what he's been through--well, he's suffered enough.--baron völkerlingk, here are two letters written to you by-- (_he looks about him cautiously_) by a lady i needn't name. don't ask me how i got them. i didn't steal them; and here they are, if you'll give me your word that you'll put a stop to that libel-suit. richard. i think the suit has already been stopped. meixner. h'm--well, your thinking so is hardly sufficient. richard. it will have to be stopped, even if you keep those letters. meixner (_startled_). even if--? h'm--do things look as badly as that for you? richard. you will kindly leave me out of the question. meixner. ah--well--here are your letters. (_lays them on the table_.) richard. if you didn't wish to do me a public injury, why not have shown them privately to my secretary? meixner. they might have been forgeries. richard. they may be so still. meixner. when i've taken the trouble to return them to you? holtzmann doesn't think so. he's packing up already. perhaps you'd like to see him before he leaves? richard. no. meixner. baron völkerlingk, if i have got you into trouble don't set it down to ill-feeling. principle is principle, if we have to hang for it. every man who has convictions must be prepared to go to the stake for them. good-day to you, baron völkerlingk. (_he goes out_.) richard. (_clutches the letters and strikes his clenched hand against his brow_.) oh, to live again to live, to live! _enter_ norbert. norbert. father---- richard. well? norbert. aunt beata was out. richard. out? at this hour? why, she never goes out except for her morning drive. where can she have gone? norbert. no one knows. richard. but she must have ordered the carriage? norbert. it seems not. richard. well, thank you, my boy. what time is it? norbert. nearly seven. richard. you had better dine without me. i shall go and enquire. she may have---- norbert. is there anything i can do, father? richard. no, no. thanks, norbert. (_he gives him his hand_.) good-night, my lad. norbert. good-night, father. (_goes out_.) richard (_to himself_). my god! my god! (_he hurries toward the door, and starts back amazed_.) _enter_ beata, _in hat and cloak, her face thickly veiled_. richard. beata! (_he closes the door_.) where have you come from? tell me, for heaven's sake! beata. alive! richard. did any one see you except george? beata. alive--alive! (_she sinks into a chair, trembling and hiding her face in her hands_.) richard. good god, beata, rouse yourself! what has happened? don't keep me in suspense. what is it, dearest? answer me. beata. i'm so cold. richard (_opening the door_). george! (george _enters_.) light the fire. george (_kneels down and lights it_). yes, your excellency. richard. and see that no one interrupts us. i am engaged with madame von kellinghausen. george. yes, your excellency. richard. if the baroness comes in, say nothing, but let me know. george. yes, your excellency. (_goes out_.) richard. and now, come and sit by the fire. but take off your cloak first--there. and your hat and veil too? beata. (_letting her arms sink down helplessly_.) i can't. richard. wait, dear. (_he loosens her veil_.) how white you are! come to the fire. (_he leads her to the fireplace_.) there! is that right? beata. everything is right as long as you're alive! richard. why, beata, what put such an idea into your head? beata. hasn't it been in _yours_ ever since yesterday? richard. there will be no duel, i assure you. beata. i have just read your speech. it was your goodbye to the world. oh, don't laugh--don't deny it. i've felt death hanging over us ever since. richard. and i swear to you that i've never loved life better, have never been more determined to live, than now that i've won back my place in the world. beata. you swear that to me? richard. i swear it. beata. and yet you must die. richard. so must we all. but i mean to put it off as long as possible, i promise you! beata (_standing up_). richard, for fifteen years we haven't kept a single thought from each other, yet now that the end has come you throw me over as if you were paying off a discarded mistress. richard (_agitated_). beata! beata. don't be afraid. i am not going to force your confidence. you would only repeat what michael has already told me--that you are going to travel, to disappear for a while.--is this the laugh with which we were to have greeted death? often and often, at night, when i've lain in bed struggling for breath, i've said to myself that i should die before morning. what if it really happened to-night? you'd have to wait then--you'd have no right to follow me. think how people would talk if you did! (_with a sudden start_.) the children, richard--there must be no shadow on the children. richard. beata, don't talk so wildly. do shake off such fancies. beata (_musing_). yes--yes.--you know you'll have a note from michael in the morning. richard. what do you mean? beata. a note asking you to luncheon to-morrow to meet some friends. nothing more. richard. what is the object---- beata. it seems there has been some gossip at the clubs, and this is the shortest way of putting a stop to it. (_entreatingly_.) you'll come, richard, won't you? richard. beata! why should we go through this new misery? beata (_in wild anxiety_). richard, you _will_ come? you must come. richard. i can't, beata. beata. it is the last thing i shall ever ask of you. now you're smiling again--well, i'll believe anything you tell me--about your travelling, about your disappearing--i'll believe anything, if you'll only come. richard, come for the children's sake. and if not for the children's sake, come for mine--or i shall die of it--i shall die of it, richard, in the night---- richard (_overcome_). i will come. beata. give me your hand. (richard _gives it_. beata _takes his hand, and passes it over her eyes and cheeks_.) there--i'm quite quiet again, you see. (_sits down_.) i don't know if i told you that i'm going to rossitsch to-morrow. richard. for good? beata (_nodding_). so that, unless you come and pay me a visit there---- richard. this is good-bye? for always. so you needn't keep yourself so frightfully in hand. (_he looks at her doubtfully_.) you needn't, really. (_he falls on his knees before her and hides his face in her lap_.) beata (_stroking his hair_). "i knew a sad old tale of tristram and iseult"--how grey you've grown in these last few days! (_she kisses his hair_.) don't get up yet--i want to look at you again--for the last time.--only i can't see you--your face has been like a mask ever since yesterday.--look at me just once as you used to--just once! richard (_rising_). i've never changed to you. beata. haven't you?--who knows?--we've grown old, you and i. there's a layer of ashes on our hearts--a layer of conventionality and good behaviour and weariness and disappointment.--who knows what we were like before the fire went out? not a trace is left to tell--not so much as a riband or a flower. the words are forgotten, the letters are destroyed, the emotions have faded. here we sit like two ghosts on our own graves. (_passionately_.) oh, to go back just once to the old life, and then forget everything---- richard. do you really want to? beata. you can work wonders--but not that! richard. (_draws out the letters, and opening one, begins to read it to her_.) "rossitsch, june th, . two o'clock in the morning." beata. what is that? richard. listen. (_reading_.) "i don't want to sleep, dearest. the night is too bright and my happiness too great. the moonlight lies on likowa, and already the dawn shows red through the network of elms. the blood beats like a hammer in my temples--i scarcely know how i am going to bear the riches of my new life. oh, how i pray god to let me live it out beside you--not as your wife, that would be too wild a dream!--but as an unseen influence at your side, faint as the moonlight which rests upon your sleep, or as the first glow of dawn that wakes you to new endeavour." beata. i must have been listening to wagner. let me see; did i really write that? (_she reads_.) "for i mean to make you the greatest among men, you, my discoverer and my deliverer--" that's not so bad, you know. (_reads on_.) "if only heaven would let me die, and give you my life to live as well as your own." (_she rises suddenly with a strange look on her face_.) richard. this letter and another have just been brought to me by--meixner. if he had come yesterday we should have been saved. now it is too late. beata. too late?--oh, richard, how ungrateful i've been! why, every prayer of my youth has been granted--the long sad sweet dream at your side-- (_she breaks suddenly into laughter_.) richard. why do you laugh? beata. i laugh because in your speech this morning you disowned us both--disowned our long sad sweet dream. oh, i don't blame you, richard. it isn't your conscience that torments you, it's the conscience of the race. i'm only a woman--what do i care for the race? you felt that you were sinning--i felt that i had risen above myself, that i had attained the harmony nature meant me to attain. and because i feel that---- richard. you deny that we have sinned----? beata. i deny nothing. i affirm nothing. i stand on the farther shore of life, and look over at you with a smile. oh, richard, richard (_she laughs_), did you ever really think i had given you up? i never gave you up. i never ceased to long for you, passionately, feverishly, day and night, when you were away and when you were near me--always, always--and all the while i was playing the cool, quiet friend, biting my lips to keep the words back, and crushing down my rebellious heart--yes, and through it all i was so happy--so unspeakably, supremely happy---- richard (_going up to her_). take care, dear. you mustn't excite yourself. i shall have to send you home. beata. (_letting her head sink on his breast with a happy smile_.) home? this is home. richard. they will be wondering where you are. they may send here to find you. beata (_mysteriously, urgently_). no, no--not yet! i have so much to say to you. there are so many secrets i must tell you. everything has grown so clear to me--i wish i--richard, you will surely come to-morrow? (_crying out suddenly_.) i want to stay with you. i am afraid of to-night! richard. beata, do try to control yourself. beata. yes, yes--i'll control myself.-- (_she stands motionless, benumbed_.) give me my hat. (_he brings her the hat and veil_.) and my veil. (_fervently_.) you still love your life, richard? you still want to live? richard. haven't i told you so? ever since---- beata. never fear, dearest. you _shall_ live. richard (_with outstretched hands_). beata, before we part---- beata. don't thank me--don't kiss me. i--good-bye, richard. (_she goes out_.) richard. beata! curtain. act v act v _the dining-room at_ count kellinghausen's. _in the middle of the stage a table with six covers. on the right a sofa, table, and chairs. sideboard on the left. in the centre at the back a wide door leading into the drawing-room. door on the right into anteroom, door on the left into inner apartments. a window on the right, in the foreground. grey light of a winter's day_. ellen _is busy arranging the flowers on the table_. conrad _in the background. enter_ beata _from the left_. ellen. oh, mother, i'm so glad you've come. will the flowers do? beata. beautifully, dear. (conrad _goes out_.) ellen. and the cards? look--i've put you here, of course, with baron ludwig on your right, and prince usingen on your left.--mother! you're not listening. beata. yes i am. but brachtmann is older than the prince. they must change places. ellen. very well. and this is uncle richard's seat, next to father's. _enter_ kellinghausen. kellinghausen. what about father? ellen. i was only saying that i had put uncle richard next to you. kellinghausen. next to me?--yes, yes; of course. quite right. (_he pets her_.) now, you monkey, be off! beata. i shall see you before luncheon, dear. ellen. yes, mother. (_goes out_.) kellinghausen. i came to speak to you about our arrangements. i have just received a telegram from rossitsch. your rooms are ready for you. to prevent any talk, i shall take you there and leave you. i suppose you are ready to start this evening? beata. whenever you please, dear michael. kellinghausen. you don't seem to have made any preparations. beata (_smiling_). i have so few to make! kellinghausen. i have no objection to ellen's remaining with you till the spring. then we can see about sending her to a boarding-school. beata. i consent to that too. kellinghausen. you could hardly expect your refusal to make much difference. beata (_still smiling_). don't be afraid. i understand my position. kellinghausen. and who is to blame for it? beata. my dear michael, we neither of us care for tragedy. why not let that be? kellinghausen. you're right.--where have you put my seat? beata. here. kellinghausen. another torture to undergo! beata. isn't it more than you can bear? kellinghausen. perhaps--but it can't be helped. i had to have these people--i've got to go through with it. beata. yes, you've got to go through with it. and so have i. i need them more than you do. kellinghausen. you? why? beata. you will see later. kellinghausen. you have no right to keep anything from me---- beata. are you keeping nothing from _me_? (_he turns away_.) michael, here is a letter in which i have written something i can't well say to you. will you promise not to open it till luncheon is over? kellinghausen. yes. beata. you give me your word? kellinghausen. yes. beata (_giving him the letter_). here it is. kellinghausen. thank you. then--i suppose--we-- (_goes to the door_.) beata. michael! kellinghausen. eh? beata. you know i'm not very strong--oh, don't misunderstand me! i'm not trying to work on your feelings--but you know how much is at stake. if richard völkerlingk should die suddenly, and i---- kellinghausen (_tortured_). i beg of you, beata! i---- beata. well? kellinghausen. go on. beata. you had something to say. kellinghausen (_confused_). i--i was only going to tell you--that there will be no duel. beata. ah.--then the danger i spoke of is removed, and i---- _enter_ conrad. conrad. his highness prince usingen and baron brachtmann are in the drawing-room. kellinghausen. i will come at once. (conrad _goes out_.) beata. if you don't mind i will join you at table. kellinghausen. you are not well. beata (_carelessly_). it's nothing to speak of. don't keep them waiting.--(kellinghausen _stands before her, shaken with tearless sobs_. beata _goes up to him and lays her hand softly on his arm_.) michael, dear, when i think how i have hurt you i should like to fall down before you and kiss your hands--i should like to show you--what is in my heart--but it's too late to say such things now---- kellinghausen. good-bye. (_he goes out_. beata _rings and_ conrad _enters_.) beata. ask countess ellen to bring me my drops. (conrad _goes out_. beata _stretches out her arms and passes her hands over her face_.) _enter_ ellen. ellen (_in the doorway_). mother! are you ill? (beata _stretches out her arms again, half beckoning_ ellen, _half warding her off_. ellen, _hastening to her_.) mother! mother! what is it? beata (_softly_). nothing, nothing. (_she strokes_ ellen's hair, _lets her arms slip gradually from the girl's shoulders, and finds the phial containing the drops in her left hand. a long shudder_.) give me the drops. ellen. how you snatch! here they are. (beata _turns the phial about in her hand_.) mother, are we really going to rossitsch, this evening? beata (_nodding_). yes. ellen. in midwinter? why do we go? beata. h'm---- ellen. what will norbert say? it looks as though you wanted to separate us---- beata. does it? does it really look so? ellen. no, no, no--forgive me! no. beata. but others might want to separate you--for life--for life, ellen! do you understand? ellen. mother! beata. shall i tell you what to do if ever that happens? wait till you are of age, and then go to him wherever he is, and say: "my mother sent me." do you see? ellen. yes, yes--but why----? beata. by and by, at rossitsch, i'll tell you. when we sit together in the big hall, over the fire, with the wind singing in the chimney. you'll like that, won't you, dear? we'll be so jolly together, you and i. and now, darling, go. (_passionately_.) no, come back-- (_kissing her) and now-- (_smiling at her) go dear, go! (ellen _goes out_.) _enter_ conrad. beata. has every one come? conrad. all but baron richard. beata. you may announce luncheon, then. (conrad _goes out. a moment later he throws open the doors, and_ baron ludwig, prince usingen, baron brachtmann, _and_ kellinghausen _enter_.) beata. prince--herr von brachtmann--how do you do? (_to_ baron ludwig.) your excellency, you are to sit on my right. baron ludwig. you do me too much honour. (conrad _closes the folding-doors_.) kellinghausen. and now, gentlemen, shall we begin _à la russe_, with a little caviare? (_he leads the others to the table near the sofa, where cold dishes and liqueurs are set out_.) prince. your true german can't abide a russian, but we all adore their caviare. baron ludwig. where can my brother be? the feast is given for him and he is the last to appear. brachtmann. he's probably doing what we all do the day after. poring over the papers. prince. and wondering how it is that yesterday's laurels have already turned into thorns. baron ludwig. ah, that's part of the game. prince. no, it's the end of the game. beata. what do you mean, prince? prince. that our growth ceases when we gain our end. attainment means being nailed fast--nailed to a cross, sometimes! kellinghausen. (_while_ conrad _hands about glasses of wine_.) gentlemen, won't you drop your epigrams and try some of my port? prince. it's his excellency's doing. he always begins! _enter a footman_. the footman. baron richard von völkerlingk. (_there is an expectant murmur_.) _enter_ richard. brachtmann (_aside to_ prince). i told you there was nothing wrong. prince. wait and see. richard (_kissing_ beata's _hand_). forgive my being so late. a dozen things turned up at the last moment. excuse me, michael. (_the_ prince _makes a sign to_ brachtmann.) kellinghausen. (_shaking hands composedly with_ richard.) don't mention it, my dear fellow. we are lucky to get you at all. the man of the hour you can't have a moment to yourself. richard. i've not had many yet. (_shakes hands with him again and then turns to the others_.) beata. shall we have luncheon? völkerlingk, you can join us when you've had your caviare. (richard _makes a gesture refusing the hors-d'[oe]uvre_.) brachtmann (_aside to the_ prince). well? prince. irreproachable, as usual. brachtmann. thank god! (_they all seat themselves_.) prince (_to_ baron ludwig). i can't make your brother out. you know him better than we do. look at his face--what's the matter with him? baron ludwig. we are such complicated machines, your highness. it's impossible to explain any one with a word. beata. take a hundred, then. (_with a short excited laugh_.) life is long enough! kellinghausen (_to himself_). yes. life is long enough. richard. instead of discussing my appearance i wish you would criticise my speech. prince. what a _gourmet_ he is, countess! he wants the disapproval of his friends to season the praise of his enemies! richard. now, then, brachtmann? brachtmann. why, my dear fellow, if you insist--i must tell you frankly that i had hoped you would lay more stress on the view of marriage as a divine institution. richard. i have the greatest respect for that view of marriage, but i fear it might have invalidated the scientific side of my argument. what do you say, prince? prince. and what if it did? it's much more gratifying to our vanity to think ourselves the objects of divine solicitude than the victims of natural law. (brachtmann _and_ baron ludwig _protest_. beata _laughs_.) kellinghausen. really, usingen----! baron ludwig. isn't your highnesses scepticism a little overdone? surely society has made us the natural protectors of the social order. the order may change with the times--all we ask is that it should maintain the moral balance of power. (beata _laughs_.) you are amused, countess? beata (_still laughing_). i was only laughing to think how often i'd heard it before--the moral balance of power, and all the rest! i'm sure our ancestors sang the same song when they threw their victims to moloch. and our souls are still thrown by the million to the moloch of social expediency. we are all expected to sacrifice our personal happiness to the welfare of the race! (_she laughs excitedly_.) kellinghausen (_almost threateningly_). beata! baron ludwig. countess, you are conjuring up a phantom. beata. it may be a phantom, but it has us by the throat.--(_to_ richard.) what are you thinking of, völkerlingk? you are not going to refuse our celebrated game-pie? richard. i beg your pardon. i wasn't thinking. (_he helps himself to the dish_.) beata. you must know that that pie is an invention of my own! prince. dear me, countess, are you at home in every branch of learning? beata. oh, i had the making of a great cook in me. i believe i'm the last of the old school--the model housekeeper, the domestic wife, the high-priestess of the family! (_she goes on laughing excitedly and_ michael _nervously echoes her laugh_.) richard. (_making a perceptible effort to change the conversation_.) my dear countess, no one ever ventures to dispute your statements. but there is one family about which i want to say a word and that is the one we are in. (_rising_.) i drink to the house of kellinghausen! the others. hear--hear! richard. the house of kellinghausen! as i look back over my life, i don't know how to sum up all i owe to it. (_he turns to_ beata.) to you, my dear friend---- kellinghausen (_with forced gaiety_). is this a settlement in full, my dear fellow? richard. (_taken aback, but recovering himself instantly_.) you're right, michael. there's no use trying; but there's something i want to say to you. kellinghausen. hear! hear! richard (_to the others_). since yesterday, you all know what i owe him. my success is his doing, all his doing. if i've gained my end, if i've reached the goal at last, it's to kellinghausen i owe it. here's to my good friend and yours! the others. hear! hear! (_they clink their glasses_.) kellinghausen. (_with a strained laugh, as he and_ richard _touch glasses_.) you might have left that out. richard. i should have written it if i hadn't said it. kellinghausen (_still on his feet_). gentlemen--beata--i may speak for all of you, i believe? i think our friend völkerlingk proved conclusively yesterday that if he has taken my place it is because he has the best right to it. (_on the verge of an outburst_.) a better right to it--than-- (_he is checked by a terrified glance from_ beata, _who utters a low exclamation_.) well--well--i'm not much of a speech-maker.--gentlemen--beata--long life to our friend völkerlingk--long life to my successor! beata. (_in a low voice, while the others gather about_ richard.) long life to him! (_she presses her hand to her heart, and rests heavily against the arm of her chair_.) prince (_to_ kellinghausen). is anything wrong with the countess? kellinghausen. beata! beata (_raising herself with a smile_). yes? kellinghausen. would you not rather go into the drawing-room? you look tired. (_she shakes her head_.) richard. (_in a formal tone, with a glance at_ michael.) we all beg of you, countess---- beata. (_looking from one to the other with growing apprehension_.) no--no--no--i'm quite--quite--on the contrary--_i_ have a toast to propose. (richard _makes a startled gesture_.) yes--a toast of my own! but please all sit down first---- prince. woman disposes! kellinghausen. beata, you are overtaxing yourself. be careful. beata. my dear friends, you all go on wishing each other a long life but which of us is really alive? which of us really dares to live? somewhere, far off in the distance, we catch a glimpse of life--but we hide our eyes and shrink away from it like transgressors. and that's our nearest approach to living! do you really think you're alive--any one of you? or do you think i am? (_she springs up with an inspired look_.) but i, at least--i--whose whole life is one long struggle against death--i who never sleep, who hardly breathe, who barely stand--i at least know how to laugh, how to love life and be thankful for it! (_she staggers to her feet, raising her glass, her voice no more than a hoarse whisper_.) and as the only living soul among you, i drink to the joy of living! the others (_holding out their glasses_). good! good! bravo! beata. (_draws a deep breath, sets down her glass, and looks about her confusedly. her eyes rest on_ richard, _and then turn to_ michael, _to whom she speaks_.) i think i will take your advice and go into the other room for a little while. (_she rises with an effort_.) kellinghausen. there, beata! i warned you. baron ludwig (_offering her his arm_). won't you take my arm, countess? beata. no, no--thanks! michael, make my excuses. i shall be back in a few minutes. (_she lingers in the doorway with a last smile and a last look at_ richard.) good-bye. i shall be back--in a few minutes. (_goes out_.) kellinghausen (_to the others_). don't be alarmed. my wife often breaks down in this way--i knew by her excitement that it was coming. please sit down again. i assure you that in a few minutes she--(_a heavy fall is heard in the next room_. richard _starts violently_. michael _half springs from his seat, but controls himself with an effort. there is a short pause_.)--she'll be coming back laughing as usual. (_whispers are heard behind the door to the left_. richard _is seen to listen intently_.) what are you listening to? what's the matter? richard (_agitated_). i beg your pardon--i thought i-- (ellen _is heard to utter a piercing scream. the men start to their feet_. michael _rushes out_.) baron ludwig. surely that was countess ellen's voice? prince. it doesn't look as if the countess were going to come back laughing as usual. michael _enters with a ghastly face_. kellinghausen (_hoarsely_). the nearest doctor--any one--quick! (_goes out again_. richard _makes a motion as though to follow him, then turns and rushes out of the door to the right_.) brachtmann. the countess is subject to such attacks; but this seems--different. prince. h'm--yes--quite so. (_there is a long silence_.) brachtmann (_to_ baron ludwig). your brother may not be able to find a doctor. baron ludwig. we must hope for the best. (_another silence_.) prince. perhaps we had better be going---- brachtmann. (_nods his assent; then to_ baron ludwig.) are you coming? baron ludwig. i shall wait for my brother. (_he shakes hands with them_.) prince. h'm. (_he and_ brachtmann _go out_. baron ludwig _walks up and down the room shaking his head_.) _enter_ conrad. baron ludwig. well? conrad. i can't say yet, your excellency. (_he goes to the table_.) we are looking for the drops. countess ellen gave them to the countess herself before luncheon. baron ludwig. i thought i saw something in her hand at luncheon. has any one looked in her hand? conrad. no. (_he goes out. there is a pause_.) _enter_ richard _and a doctor_. richard. well? has anything---- baron ludwig. nothing. richard. will you come this way, doctor? the doctor. thank you. (richard _and the doctor go out_. baron ludwig _continues to pace the floor_.) _enter_ norbert _by door on the right_. norbert. uncle, what has happened? i've just met brachtmann and usingen. they said--uncle-- (baron ludwig _points silently to the door on the left_. norbert _hurries through it. another pause_. baron ludwig _continues to pace up and down. the doctor_, richard _and_ michael _come slowly into the room_.) the doctor (_after a silence_). count, i am extremely sorry to have come too late. but it may be some comfort to you to know that i could have done nothing. death was the result of heart disease--the end must have been instantaneous. may i ask who was the countess's regular physician? kellinghausen. dr. kahlenberg. the doctor. i will notify him at once. permit me to offer my sympathy. kellinghausen. thank you, doctor. (_shakes his hand and accompanies him to the door. the doctor goes out_. baron ludwig _shakes_ kellinghausen's _hand silently, nods to_ richard _and withdraws_.) richard. thank you, michael--for letting me be with her---- kellinghausen. read this. (_hands him_ beata's _letter_.) richard. (_takes the letter, shudders at sight of the handwriting, tries to read it, and then hands it back_.) i cannot---- kellinghausen. then i will read it to you. it's meant for both of us. (_he reads_.) "dear michael, even if the poison is found in me they will think i took it by mistake. to avoid suspicion i shall do it while we are all at luncheon. i see that some one must pay the penalty--better i than he. he has his work before him--i have lived my life. and so i mean to steal a march on him. whatever you have agreed upon between you, my death will cancel the bargain--he cannot die now without causing the scandal you have been so anxious to avert. i have always loved happiness, and i find happiness now in doing this for his sake, and the children's and yours. beata." as she says, this cancels our agreement. you see that i must give you back your word. richard. and you see, michael---- _enter_ norbert. norbert. (_throws himself weeping into_ kellinghausen's _arms_.) uncle michael! kellinghausen. go, my son--go to ellen. (norbert _wrings_ richard's _hand without speaking, and goes out_.) richard. and you see, michael, that _i_ live because i must--that i live--because i am dead---- curtain.