36111	----	[ Transcriber's Notes: Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation. Some corrections of spelling have been made. They are listed at the end of the text. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_. ] PROPHETS OF DISSENT BOOKS BY OTTO HELLER HENRIK IBSEN: PLAYS AND PROBLEMS STUDIES IN MODERN GERMAN LITERATURE LESSING'S "MINNA VON BARNHELM" in English Prophets of Dissent: Essays on Maeterlinck, Strindberg, Nietzsche and Tolstoy by Otto Heller Professor of Modern European Literature in Washington University (St. Louis) Is there a thing in this world that can be separated from the inconceivable? Maeterlinck, "Our Eternity" New York Mcmxviii Alfred A Knopf COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF PRINTED IN UNITED STATES OF AMERICA To HELLEN SEARS staunchest of friends Preface The collocation of authors so widely at variance in their moral and artistic aims as are those assembled in this little book may be defended by the safe and simple argument that all of these authors have exerted, each in his own way, an influence of singular range and potency. By fairly general consent they are the foremost literary expositors of important modern tendencies. It is, therefore, of no consequence whether or not their ways of thinking fit into our particular frame of mind; what really matters is that in this small group of writers more clearly perhaps than in any other similarly restricted group the basic issues of the modern struggle for social transformation appear to be clearly and sharply joined. That in viewing them as indicators of contrarious ideal currents due allowance must be made for peculiarities of temperament, both individual and racial, and, correspondingly, for the purely "personal equation" in their spiritual attitudes, does not detract to any material degree from their generic significance. In any case, there are those of us who in the vortical change of the social order through which we are whirling, feel a desire to orient ourselves through an objective interest in letters among the embattled purposes and policies which are now gripped in a final test of strength. In a crisis that makes the very foundations of civilization quake, and at a moment when the salvation of human liberty seems to depend upon the success of a united stand of all the modern forces of life against the destructive impact of the most primitive and savage of all the instincts, would it not be absurdly pedantic for a critical student of literature to resort to any artificial selection and co-ordination of his material in order to please the prudes and the pedagogues? And is it not natural to seek that material among the largest literary apparitions of the age? It is my opinion, then, that the four great authors discussed in the following pages stand, respectively, for the determining strains in a great upsetting movement, and that in the aggregate they bring to view the composite mental and moral impulsion of the times. Through such forceful articulations of current movements the more percipient class of readers have for a long time been enabled to foresense, in a manner, the colossal reconstruction of society which needs must follow this monstrous, but presumably final, clash between the irreconcilable elements in the contrasted principles of right and might, the masses and the monarchs. However, the gathering together of Maeterlinck, Nietzsche, Strindberg, and Tolstoy under the hospitality of a common book-cover permits of a supplementary explanation on the ground of a certain fundamental likeness far stronger than their only too obvious diversities. They are, one and all, radicals in thought, and, with differing strength of intention, reformers of society, inasmuch as their speculations and aspirations are relevant to practical problems of living. And yet what gives them such a durable hold on our attention is not their particular apostolate, but the fact that their artistic impulses ascend from the subliminal regions of the inner life, and that their work somehow brings one into touch with the hidden springs of human action and human fate. This means, in effect, that all of them are mystics by original cast of mind and that notwithstanding any difference, however apparently violent, of views and theories, they follow the same introspective path towards the recognition and interpretation of the law of life. From widely separated ethical premises they thus arrive at an essentially uniform appraisal of personal happiness as a function of living. To those readers who are not disposed to grant the validity of the explanations I have offered, perhaps equality of rank in artistic importance may seem a sufficient criterion for the association of authors, and, apart from all sociologic and philosophic considerations, they may be willing to accept my somewhat arbitrary selection on this single count. O. H. April, 1918. CONTENTS PAGE I Maurice Maeterlinck: a study in Mysticism 3 II August Strindberg: a study in Eccentricity 71 III Friedrich Nietzsche: a study in Exaltation 109 IV Leo Tolstoy: a study in Revivalism 161 I THE MYSTICISM OF MAURICE MAETERLINCK Under the terrific atmospheric pressure that has been torturing the civilization of the entire world since the outbreak of the greatest of wars, contemporary literature of the major cast appears to have gone into decline. Even the comparatively few writers recognized as possessing talents of the first magnitude have given way to that pressure and have shrunk to minor size, so that it may be seriously questioned, to say the least, whether during the past forty months or so a single literary work of outstanding and sustained grandeur has been achieved anywhere. That the effect of the universal embattlement upon the art of letters should be, in the main, extremely depressing, is quite natural; but the conspicuous loss of breadth and poise in writers of the first order seems less in accordance with necessity,--at least one might expect a very superior author to rise above that necessity. In any case it is very surprising that it should be a Belgian whose literary personality is almost unique in having remained exempt from the general abridgment of spiritual stature. It is true that Maurice Maeterlinck, the most eminent literary figure in his sadly stricken country and of unsurpassed standing among the contemporary masters of French letters, has, since the great catastrophe, won no new laurels as a dramatist; and that in the other field cultivated by him, that of the essay, his productiveness has been anything but prolific. But in his case one is inclined to interpret reticence as an eloquent proof of a singularly heroic firmness of character at a time when on both sides of the great divide which now separates the peoples, the cosmopolitan trend of human advance has come to a temporary halt, and the nations have relapsed from their laboriously attained degree of world-citizenship into the homelier, but more immediately virtuous, state of traditional patriotism. It is a military necessity as well as a birthright of human nature that at a time like the present the patriot is excused from any pharisaical profession of loving his enemy. Before the war, Maeterlinck's writings were animated by humanitarian sympathies of the broadest catholicity. He even had a peculiar affection for the Germans, because doubtless he perceived the existence of a strong kinship between certain essential traits in his spiritual composition and the fundamental tendencies of German philosophy and art. But when Belgium was lawlessly invaded, her ancient towns heinously destroyed, her soil laid waste and drenched with the blood of her people, Maeterlinck, as a son of Belgium, learned to hate the Germans to the utmost of a wise and temperate man's capacity for hatred, and in his war papers collected in _Les Débris de la Guerre_, (1916),(1) which ring with the passionate impulse of the patriot, his outraged sense of justice prevails over the disciplined self-command of the stoic. (1) "The Wrack of the Storm," 1916. He refuses to acquiesce in the lenient discrimination between the guilty Government of Germany and her innocent population: "It is not true that in this gigantic crime there are innocent and guilty, or degrees of guilt. They stand on one level, all those who have taken part in it.... It is, very simply, the German, from one end of his country to the other, who stands revealed as a beast of prey which the firm will of our planet finally repudiates. We have here no wretched slaves dragged along by a tyrant king who alone is responsible. Nations have the government which they deserve, or rather, the government which they have is truly no more than the magnified and public projection of the private morality and mentality of the nation.... No nation can be deceived that does not wish to be deceived; and it is not intelligence that Germany lacks.... No nation permits herself to be coerced to the one crime that man cannot pardon. It is of her own accord that she hastens towards it; her chief has no need to persuade, it is she who urges him on."(2) (2) "The Wrack of the Storm," pp. 16-18. Such a condemnatory tirade against the despoilers of his fair homeland was normally to be expected from a man of Maeterlinck's depth of feeling. The unexpected thing that happened not long after was that the impulsive promptings of justice and patriotism put themselves into harmony with the guiding principles of his entire moral evolution. The integrity of his philosophy of life, the sterling honesty of his teachings, were thus loyally sealed with the very blood of his heart.--"Before closing this book," he says in the Epilogue,(3) "I wish to weigh for the last time in my conscience the words of hatred and malediction which it has made me speak in spite of myself." And then, true prophet that he is, he speaks forth as a voice from the future, admonishing men to prepare for the time when the war is over. What saner advice could at this critical time be given the stay-at-homes than that they should follow the example of the men who return from the trenches? "They detest the enemy," says he, "but they do not hate the man. They recognize in him a brother in misfortune who, like themselves, is submitting to duties and laws which, like themselves, he too believes lofty and necessary." On the other hand, too, not many have sensed as deeply as has Maeterlinck the grandeur to which humanity has risen through the immeasurable pathos of the war. "Setting aside the unpardonable aggression and the inexpiable violation of the treaties, this war, despite its insanity, has come near to being a bloody but magnificent proof of greatness, heroism, and the spirit of sacrifice." And from his profound anguish over the fate of his beloved Belgium this consolation is wrung: "If it be true, as I believe, that humanity is worth just as much as the sum total of latent heroism which it contains, then we may declare that humanity was never stronger nor more exemplary than now and that it is at this moment reaching one of its highest points and capable of braving everything and hoping everything. And it is for this reason that, despite our present sadness, we are entitled to congratulate ourselves and to rejoice." Altogether, Maeterlinck's thoughts and actions throughout this yet unfinished mighty fate-drama of history challenge the highest respect for the clarity of his intellect and the profoundness of his humanity. (3) In the English translation this is the chapter preceding the last one and is headed "When the War Is Over," p. 293 ff.; it is separately published in _The Forum_ for July, 1916. The appalling disaster that has befallen the Belgian people is sure to stamp their national character with indelible marks; so that it is safe to predict that never again will the type of civilization which before the war reigned in the basins of the Meuse and the Scheldt reëstablish itself in its full peculiarity and distinctiveness which was the result of a unique coagency of Germanic and Romanic ingredients of culture. Yet in the amalgam of the two heterogeneous elements a certain competitive antithesis had survived, and manifested itself, in the individual as in the national life at large, in a number of unreconciled temperamental contrasts, and in the fundamental unlikeness exhibited in the material and the spiritual activities. Witness the contrast between the bustling aggressiveness in the province of practical affairs and the metaphysical drift of modern Flemish art. To any one familiar with the visible materialism of the population in its external mode of living it may have seemed strange to notice how sedulously a numerous set among the younger artists of the land were facing away from their concrete environment, as though to their over-sensitive nervous system it were irremediably offensive. The vigorous solidity of Constantin Meunier, the great plastic interpreter of the "Black Country" of Belgium, found but few wholehearted imitators among the sculptors, while among the painters that robust terrestrialism of which the work of a Rubens or Teniers and their countless disciples was the artistic upshot, was almost totally relinquished, and linear firmness and colorful vitality yielded the day to pallid, discarnately decorative artistry even, in a measure, in the "applied art" products of a Henri van de Velde. It is in the field of literature, naturally enough, that the contrast is resolved and integrated into a characteristic unity. Very recently Professor A. J. Carnoy has definitely pointed out(4) the striking commixture of the realistic and imaginative elements in the work of the Flemish symbolists. "The vision of the Flemings"--quoting from his own _précis_ of his paper--"is very concrete, very exact in all details and gives a durable, real, and almost corporeal presence to the creations of the imagination. All these traits are exhibited in the reveries of the Flemish mystics, ancient and modern. One finds them also no less plainly in the poetic work of Belgian writers of the last generation: Maeterlinck, Verhaeren, Rodenbach, Van Lerberghe, Le Roy, Elskamp, etc." (4) In a paper read by title before the Modern Language Association of America at Yale University, December 29, 1917. If we take into account this composite attitude of the Flemish mind we shall be less surprised at the remarkable evolution of a poet-philosopher whose creations seem at first blush to bear no resemblance to the outward complexion of his own age; who seems as far removed temperamentally from his locality and time as were his lineal spiritual ancestors: the Dutchman Ruysbroeck, the Scandinavian Swedenborg, the German Novalis, and the American Emerson--and who in the zenith of his career stands forth as an ardent advocate of practical action while at the same time a firm believer in the transcendental. Maeterlinck's romantic antipathy towards the main drift of the age was a phenomenon which at the dawn of our century could be observed in a great number of superior intelligences. Those fugitives from the dun and sordid materialism of the day were likely to choose between two avenues of escape, according to their greater or lesser inner ruggedness. The more aggressive type would engage in multiform warfare for the reconstruction of life on sounder principles; whereas the more meditative professed a real or affected indifference to practical things and eschewed any participation in the world's struggle for progress. And of the quiescent rather than the insurgent variety of the romantic temper Maurice Maeterlinck was the foremost exponent. The "romantic longing" seems to have come into the world in the company of the Christian religion with which it shares its partly outspoken, partly implied repugnance for the battle of life. Romantic periods occur in the history of civilization whenever a sufficiently influential set of artistically minded persons have persuaded themselves that, in quite a literal sense of the colloquial phrase, they "have no use" for the world; a discovery which would still be true were it stated obversely. The romantic world-view, thus fundamentally oriented by world-contempt, entails, at least in theory, the repudiation of all earthly joys--notably the joy of working--and the renouncement of all worldly ambition; it scorns the cooperative, social disposition, invites the soul to a progressive withdrawal into the inner ego, and ends in complete surrender to one sole aspiration: the search of the higher vision, the vision, that is, of things beyond their tangible reality. To such mystical constructions of the inner eye a certain group of German writers who flourished in the beginning of the nineteenth century and were known as the Romantics, darkly groped their way out of the confining realities of their own time. The most modern spell of romanticism, the one through which our own generation was but yesterday passing, measures its difference from any previous romantic era by the difference between earlier states of culture and our own. Life with us is conspicuously more assertive and aggressive in its social than in its individual expressions, which was by no means always so, and unless the romantic predisposition adapted itself to this important change it could not relate itself at all intimately to our interests. Our study of Maeterlinck should help us, therefore, to discover possibly in the new romantic tendency some practical and vital bearings. We find that in the new romanticism esthetic and philosophical impulses are inextricably mixed. Hence the new movement is also playing an indispensable rôle in the modern re-foundation of art. For while acting as a wholesome offset to the so-called naturalism, in its firm refusal to limit inner life to the superficial realities, it at the same time combines with naturalism into a complete recoiling, both of the intellect and the emotions, from any commonplace, or pusillanimous, or mechanical practices of artistry. This latter-day romanticism, moreover, notwithstanding its sky-aspiring outstretch, is akin to naturalism in that, after all, it keeps its roots firmly grounded in the earth; that is to say, it seeks for its ulterior sanctions not in realms high beyond the self; rather it looks within for the "blue flower" of contentedness. Already to the romantics of old the mystic road to happiness was not unknown. It is, for instance, pointed by Novalis: "Inward leads the mysterious way. Within us or nowhere lies eternity with its worlds; within us or nowhere are the past and the future." Viewed separately from other elements of romanticism, this passion for retreating within the central ego is commonly referred to as mysticism; it has a strong hold on many among the moderns, and Maurice Maeterlinck to be properly understood has to be understood as the poet _par excellence_ of modern mysticism. By virtue of this special office he deals mainly in concepts of the transcendental, which puzzles the ordinary person accustomed to perceive only material and ephemeral realities. Maeterlinck holds that nothing matters that is not eternal and that what keeps us from enjoying the treasures of the universe is the hereditary resignation with which we tarry in the gloomy prison of our senses. "In reality, we live only from soul to soul, and we are gods who do not know each other."(5) It follows from this metaphysical foundation of his art that instead of the grosser terminology suitable to plain realities, Maeterlinck must depend upon a code of subtle messages in order to establish between himself and his audience a line of spiritual communication. This makes it somewhat difficult for people of cruder endowment to appreciate his meaning, a grievance from which in the beginning many of them sought redress in facile scoffing. Obtuse minds are prone to claim a right to fathom the profound meanings of genius with the same ease with which they expect to catch the meaning of a bill of fare or the daily stock market report. (5) Maeterlinck, "On Emerson." * * * * * It must be confessed, however, that even those to whom Maeterlinck's sphere of thought is not so utterly sealed, enter it with a sense of mixed perplexity and apprehension. They feel themselves helplessly conducted through a world situated beyond the confines of their normal consciousness, and in this strange world everything that comes to pass appears at first extremely impracticable and unreal. The action seems "wholly dissevered from common sense and ordinary uses;" the figures behave otherwise than humans; the dialogue is "poised on the edge of a precipice of bathos." It is clear that works so far out of the common have to be approached from the poet's own point of view. "Let the reader move his standpoint one inch nearer the popular standpoint," thus we are warned by Mr. G. K. Chesterton, "and his attitude towards the poet will be harsh, hostile, unconquerable mirth." There are some works that can be appreciated for their good story, even if we fail to realize the author's moral attitude, let alone to grasp the deeper content of his work. "But if we take a play by Maeterlinck we shall find that unless we grasp the particular fairy thread of thought the poet rather lazily flings to us, we cannot grasp anything whatever. Except from one extreme poetic point of view, the thing is not a play; it is not a bad play, it is a mass of clotted nonsense. One whole act describes the lovers going to look for a ring in a distant cave when they both know they have dropped it down the well. Seen from some secret window on some special side of the soul's turret, this might convey a sense of faerie futility in our human life. But it is quite obvious that unless it called forth that one kind of sympathy, it would call forth nothing but laughter. In the same play, the husband chases his wife with a drawn sword, the wife remarking at intervals, 'I am not gay.' Now there may really be an idea in this; the idea of human misfortune coming most cruelly upon the opportunism of innocence; that the lonely human heart says, like a child at a party, 'I am not enjoying myself as I thought I should.' But it is plain that unless one thinks of this idea, and of this idea only, the expression is not in the least unsuccessful pathos,--it is very broad and highly successful farce!" And so the atmosphere of Maeterlinck's plays is impregnated throughout with oppressive mysteries, and until the key of these mysteries is found there is very little meaning to the plays. Moreover, these mysteries, be they never so stern and awe-inspiring, are irresistibly alluring. The reason is, they are our own mysteries that have somehow escaped our grasp, and that we fain would recapture, because there dwells in every human breast a vague assent to the immortal truth of Goethe's assertion: "The thrill of awe is man's best heritage."(6) (6) "_Das Schaudern ist der Menschheit bestes Teil._" The imaginative equipment of Maeterlinck's dramaturgy is rather limited and, on its face value, trite. In particular are his dramatis personae creatures by no means calculated to overawe by some extraordinary weirdness or power. And yet we feel ourselves touched by an elemental dread and by an overwhelming sense of our human impotence in the presence of these figures who, without seeming supernatural, are certainly not of common flesh and blood; they impress us as surpassingly strange mainly because somehow they are instinct with a life fundamentally more real than the superficial reality we know. For they are the mediums and oracles of the fateful powers that stir human beings into action. The poet of mysticism, then, delves into the mystic sources of our deeds, and makes us stand reverent with him before the unknowable forces by which we are controlled. Naturally he is obliged to shape his visions in dim outline. His aim is to shadow forth that which no naked eye can see, and it may be said in passing that he attains this aim with a mastery and completeness incomparably beyond the dubious skill displayed more recently by the grotesque gropings of the so-called futurist school. Perhaps one true secret of the perturbing strangeness of Maeterlinck's figures lies in the fact that the basic principle of their life, the one thoroughly vital element in them, if it does not sound too paradoxical to say so, is the idea of death. Maeterlinck's mood and temper are fully in keeping with the religious dogma that life is but a short dream--with Goethe he believes that "all things transitory but as symbols are sent," and apparently concurs in the creed voiced by one of Arthur Schnitzler's characters,--that death is the only subject in life worthy of being pondered by the serious mind. "From our death onwards," so he puts it somewhere, "the adventure of the universe becomes our own adventure." * * * * * It will be useful to have a bit of personal information concerning our author. He started his active career as a barrister; not by any means auspiciously, it seems, for already in his twenty-seventh year he laid the toga aside. Experience had convinced him that in the forum there were no laurels for him to pluck. The specific qualities that make for success at the bar were conspicuously lacking in his make-up. Far from being eloquent, he has at all times been noted for an unparalleled proficiency in the art of self-defensive silence. He shuns banal conversation and the sterile distractions of promiscuous social intercourse, dreads the hubbub of the city, and has an intense dislike for travel, to which he resorts only as a last means of escape from interviewers, reporters, and admirers. Maeterlinck, it is seen, is anything but _multorum vir hominum_. In order to preserve intact his love of humanity, he finds it expedient to live for the most part by himself, away from the throng "whose very plaudits give the heart a pang;" his fame has always been a source of annoyance to him. The only company he covets is that of the contemplative thinkers of bygone days,--the mystics, gnostics, cabalists, neo-Platonists. Swedenborg and Plotinus are perhaps his greatest favorites. That the war has produced a mighty agitation in the habitual calm of the great Belgian poet-philosopher goes without saying. His love of justice no less than his love of his country aroused every red corpuscle in his virile personality to violent resentment against the invader. Since the war broke out, however, he has published nothing besides a number of ringingly eloquent and singularly pathetic articles and appeals,--so that the character portrait derived from the body of his work has not at this time lost its application to his personality. In cast of mind, Maeterlinck is sombrously meditative, and he has been wise in framing his outer existence so that it would accord with his habitual detachment. The greater part of his time used to be divided between his charming retreat at _Quatre Chemins_, near Grasse, and the grand old abbey of St. Wandrille in Normandy, which he managed to snatch in the very nick of time from the tightening clutch of a manufacturing concern. With the temperament of a hermit, he has been, nevertheless, a keen observer of life, though one preferring to watch the motley spectacle from the aristocratic privacy of his box, sheltered, as it were, from prying curiosity. Well on in middle age, he is still an enthusiastic out-of-doors man,--gardener, naturalist, pedestrian, wheelman, and motorist, and commands an extraordinary amount of special knowledge in a variety of sports and sciences. In "The Double Garden" he discusses the automobile with the authority of an expert watt-man and mechanician. In one of his other books he evinces an extraordinary erudition in all matters pertaining to the higher education of dogs; and his work on "The Life of the Bee" passes him beyond question with high rank among "thirty-third degree" apiculturists. One of the characteristics that seem to separate his books, especially those of the earlier period, from the literary tendencies of his age, is their surprising inattention to present social struggles. His metaphysical bias makes him dwell almost exclusively, and with great moral and logical consistency, on aspects of life that are slightly considered by the majority of men yet which he regards as ulteriorly of sole importance. When men like Maeterlinck are encountered in the world of practical affairs, they are bound to impress us as odd, because of this inversion of the ordinary policies of behavior. But before classing them as "cranks," we might well ask ourselves whether their appraisal of the component values of life does not, after all, correspond better to their true relativity than does our own habitual evaluation. With the average social being, the transcendental bearing of a proposition is synonymous with its practical unimportance. But in his essay on "The Invisible Goodness" Maeterlinck quite properly raises the question: "Is visible life alone of consequence, and are we made up only of things that can be grasped and handled like pebbles in the road?" Throughout his career Maeterlinck reveals himself in the double aspect of poet and philosopher. In the first period his philosophy, as has already been amply hinted, is characterized chiefly by aversion from the externalities of life, and by that tense introversion of the mind which forms the mystic's main avenue to the goal of knowledge. But if, in order to find the key to his tragedies and puppet plays, we go to the thirteen essays representing the earlier trend of his philosophy and issued in 1896 under the collective title, "The Treasure of the Humble," we discover easily that his cast of mysticism is very different from that of his philosophic predecessors and teachers in the fourteenth and nineteenth centuries, in particular from the devotional mysticism of the "Admirable" John Ruysbroeck, and Friedrich von Hardenberg-Novalis. Maeterlinck does not strive after the so-called "spiritual espousals," expounded by the "doctor ecstaticus," Ruysbroeck, in his celebrated treatise where Christ is symbolized as the divine groom and Human Nature as the bride glowing with desire for union with God. Maeterlinck feels too modernly to make use of that ancient sensuous imagery. The main thesis of his mystical belief is that there are divine forces dormant in human nature; how to arouse and release them, constitutes the paramount problem of human life. His doctrine is that a life not thus energized by its own latent divineness is, and must remain, humdrum and worthless. It will at once be noticed that such a doctrine harmonizes thoroughly with the romantic aspiration. Both mystic and romantic teach that, in the last resort, the battlefield of our fate lies not out in the wide world but that it is enclosed in the inner self, within the unknown quantity which we designate as our soul. The visible life, according to this modern prophet of mysticism, obeys the invisible; happiness and unhappiness flow exclusively from the inner sources. Maeterlinck's speculations, despite their medieval provenience, have a practical orientation. He firmly believes that it is within the ability of mankind to raise some of the veils that cover life's central secret. In unison with some other charitable students of society, he holds to the faith that a more highly spiritualized era is dawning, and from the observed indications he prognosticates a wider awakening of the sleepbound soul of man. And certainly some of the social manifestations that appeared with cumulative force during the constructive period before the war were calculated to justify that faith. The revival of interest in the metaphysical powers of man which expressed itself almost epidemically through such widely divergent cults as Theosophy and Christian Science, was indubitable proof of spiritual yearnings in the broader masses of the people. And it had a practical counterpart in civic tendencies and reforms that evidenced a great agitation of the social conscience. And even to-day, when the great majority feel that the universal embroilment has caused civilized man to fall from his laboriously achieved level, this sage in his lofty solitude feels the redeeming spiritual connotation of our great calamity. "Humanity was ready to rise above itself, to surpass all that it had hitherto accomplished. It has surpassed it.... Never before had nations been seen that were able as a whole to understand that the happiness of each of those who live in this time of trial is of no consequence compared with the honor of those who live no more or the happiness of those who are not yet alive. We stand on heights that had not been attained before." But even for those many who find themselves unable to build very large hopes on the spiritual uplift of mankind through disaster, Maeterlinck's philosophy is a wholesome tonic. In the essay on "The Life Profound" in "The Treasure of the Humble," we are told: "Every man must find for himself in the low and unavoidable reality of common life his special possibility of a higher existence." The injunction, trite though it sound, articulates a moral very far from philistine. For it urges the pursuit of the transcendental self through those feelings which another very great idealist, Friedrich Schiller, describes in magnificent metaphor as ... "der dunklen Gefühle Gewalt, die im Herzen wunderbar schliefen." In the labyrinth of the subliminal consciousness there lurks, however, a great danger for the seeker after the hidden treasures: the paralyzing effect of fatalism upon the normal energies. Maeterlinck was seriously threatened by this danger during his earlier period. How he eventually contrived his liberation from the clutch of fatalism is not made entirely clear by the progress of his thought. At all events, an era of greater intellectual freedom, which ultimately was to create him the undisputed captain of his soul and master of his fate, was soon to arrive for him. It is heralded by another book of essays: "Wisdom and Destiny." But, as has been stated, we may in his case hardly hope to trace the precise route traveled by the mind between the points of departure and arrival. * * * * * So closely are the vital convictions in this truthful writer linked with the artistic traits of his work that without some grasp of his metaphysics even the technical peculiarities of his plays cannot be fully appreciated. To the mystic temper of mind, all life is secretly pregnant with great meaning, so that none of its phenomena can be deemed inconsequential. Thus, while Maeterlinck is a poet greatly preoccupied with spiritual matters yet nothing to him is more wonderful and worthy of attention than the bare facts and processes of living. Real life, just like the theatre which purports to represent it, manipulates a multiform assortment of stage effects, now coarse and obvious and claptrap, now refined and esoteric, to suit the diversified taste and capacity of the patrons. To the cultured esthetic sense the tragical tendency carries more meaning than the catastrophic finale; our author accordingly scorns, and perhaps inordinately, whatsoever may appear as merely adventitious in the action of plays. "What can be told," he exclaims, "by beings who are possessed of a fixed idea and have no time to live because they have to kill off a rival or a mistress?" The internalized action in his plays is all of one piece with the profound philosophical conviction that the inner life alone matters; that consequently the small and unnoticed events are more worthy of attention than the sensational, cataclysmic moments. "Why wait ye," he asks in that wonderful rhapsody on "Silence"(7) "for Heaven to open at the strike of the thunderbolt? Ye should attend upon the blessed hours when it silently opens--and it is incessantly opening." (7) "The Treasure of the Humble." His purpose, then, is to reveal the working of hidden forces in their intricate and inseparable connection with external events; and in order that the _vie intérieure_ might have the right of way, drama in his practice emancipates itself very far from the traditional realistic methods. "Poetry," he maintains, "has no other purpose than to keep open the great roads that lead from the visible to the invisible." To be sure, this definition postulates, rather audaciously, a widespread spiritual susceptibility. But in Maeterlinck's optimistic anthropology no human being is spiritually so deadened as to be forever out of all communication with the things that are divine and infinite. He fully realizes, withal, that for the great mass of men there exists no intellectual approach to the truly significant problems of life. It is rather through our emotional capacity that our spiritual experience brings us into touch with the final verities. Anyway, the poet of mysticism appeals from the _impasse_ of pure reasoning to the voice of the inner oracles. But how to detect in the deepest recesses of the soul the echoes of universal life and give outward resonance to their faint reverberations? That is the artistic, and largely technical, side of the problem. Obvious it is that if the beholder's collaboration in the difficult enterprise is to be secured, his imagination has to be stirred to a super-normal degree. Once a dramatist has succeeded in stimulating the imaginative activity, he can dispense with a mass of descriptive detail. But he must comply with two irremissible technical demands. In the first place, the "_vie intérieure_" calls forth a _dialogue intérieur_; an esoteric language, I would say, contrived predominantly for the "expressional" functions of speech, as differenced from its "impressional" purposes. Under Swedenborg's fanciful theory of "correspondences" the literal meaning of a word is merely a sort of protective husk for its secret spiritual kernel. It is this inner, essential meaning that Maeterlinck's dialogue attempts to set free. By a fairly simple and consistent code of intimations the underlying meaning of the colloquy is laid bare and a basis created for a more fundamental understanding of the dramatic transactions. Maeterlinck going, at first, to undue lengths in this endeavor, exposed the diction of his dramas to much cheap ridicule. The extravagant use of repetition, in particular, made him a mark for facile burlesque. The words of the Queen in _Princesse Maleine_: "_Mais ne répetez pas toujours ce que l'on dit_," were sarcastically turned against the poet himself. As a result of the extreme simplicity of his dialogue, Maeterlinck was reproached with having invented the "monosyllabic theatre," the "theatre without words," and with having perpetrated a surrogate sort of drama, a hybrid between libretto and pantomime. The fact, however, is, his characters speak a language which, far from being absurd, as it was at first thought to be by many of his readers, is instinct with life and quite true to life--to life, that is, as made articulate in the intense privacy of dreams, or hallucinations, or moments of excessive emotional perturbation. The other principal requisite for the attainment of the inner dramatic vitalness in drama is a pervasive atmospheric mood, a sustained _Stimmung_. This, in the case of Maeterlinck, is brought about by the combined employment of familiar and original artistic devices. The grave and melancholy mood that so deeply impregnates the work of Maeterlinck is tinged in the earlier stage, as has been pointed out, with the sombre coloring of fatalism. In the first few books, in particular, there hovers a brooding sense of terror and an undefinable feeling of desolation. Through _Serres Chaudes_ ("Hot Houses"), his first published book, (1889), there runs a tenor of weariness, of ideal yearnings overshadowed by the hopelessness of circumstances. Even in this collection of poems, where so much less necessity exists for a unity of mood than in the plays, Maeterlinck's predilection for scenic effects suggestive of weirdness and superstitious fear became apparent in the recurrent choice of sombre scenic motifs: oppressive nocturnal silence,--a stagnant sheet of water,--moonlight filtered through green windows, etc. The diction, too, through the incessant use of terms like _morne_, _las_, _pâle_, _désire_, _ennui_, _tiède_, _indolent_, _malade_, exhales as it were a lazy resignation. Temporarily, then, the fatalistic strain is uppermost both in the philosophy and the poetry of the rising young author; and to make matters worse, his is the fatalism of pessimistic despair: Fate is forsworn against man. The objective point of life is death. We constantly receive warnings from within, but the voices are not unequivocal and emphatic enough to save us from ourselves. Probing the abysses of his subliminal self, the mystic may sense, along with the diviner promptings of the heart, the lurking demons that undermine happiness,--"the malignant powers,"--again quoting Schiller--"whom no man's craft can make familiar"--that element in human nature which in truth makes man "his own worst enemy." It is a search which at this stage of his development Maeterlinck, as a mystic, cannot bring himself to relinquish, even though, pessimistically, he anticipates that which he most dreads to find; in this way, fatalism and pessimism act as insuperable barriers against his artistic self-assertion. His fixed frame of mind confines him to the representation of but one elemental instinct, namely, that of fear. The rustic in the German fairy tale who sallied forth to learn how to shudder,--_gruseln_,--would have mastered the art to his complete satisfaction if favored with a performance or two of such plays as "Princess Maleine," "The Intruder," or "The Sightless." Perhaps no other dramatist has ever commanded a similarly well-equipped arsenal of thrills and terrible foreshadowings. The commonest objects are fraught with ominous forebodings: a white gown lying on a _prie-dieu_, a curtain suddenly set swaying by a puff of air, the melancholy soughing of a clump of trees,--the simplest articles of daily use are converted into awful symbols that make us shiver by their whisperings of impending doom. Nor in the earlier products of Maeterlinck are the cruder practices of melodrama scorned or spared,--the crash and flash of thunder and lightning, the clang of bells and clatter of chains, the livid light and ghastly shadows, the howling hurricane, the ominous croaking of ravens amid nocturnal solitude, trees illumined by the fiery eyes of owls, bats whirring portentously through the gloom,--so many harbingers of dread and death. And the prophetic import of these tokens and their sort is reinforced by repeated assertions from the persons in the action that never before has anything like this been known to occur. To such a fearsome state are we wrought up by all this uncanny apparatus that at the critical moment a well calculated knock at the door is sufficient to make our flesh creep and our hair stand on end. Thus, the _vie intérieure_ would seem to prerequire for its externalization a completely furnished chamber of horrors. And when it is added that the scene of the action is by preference a lonely churchyard or a haunted old mansion, a crypt, a cavern, a silent forest or a solitary tower, it is easy to understand why plays like "Princess Maleine" could be classed by superficial and unfriendly critics with the gruesome ebullitions of that fantastic quasi-literary occupation to which we owe a well known variety of "water-front" drama and, in fiction, the "shilling shocker." Their immeasurably greater psychological refinement could not save them later on from condemnation at the hands of their own maker. And yet they are not without very great artistic merits. Octave Mirbeau, in his habitual enthusiasm for the out-of-the-ordinary, hailed Maeterlinck, on the strength of "Princess Maleine," as the Belgian Shakespeare, evidently because Maeterlinck derived some of his motifs from "Hamlet": mainly the churchyard scene, and Prince Hjalmar's defiance of the queen, as well as his general want of decision. As a matter of fact, Maeterlinck has profoundly studied, not Shakespeare alone, but the minor Elizabethans as well. He has made an admirable translation of "Macbeth." Early in his career he even translated one of John Ford's Plays, "'Tis Pity She's a Whore," one of the coarsest works ever written for the stage, but to which he was attracted by the intrinsic human interest that far outweighs its offensiveness. As for any real kinship of Maeterlinck with Shakespeare, the resemblance between the two is slight. They differ philosophically in the fundamental frame of mind, ethically in the outlook upon life, dramaturgically in the value attached to external action, and humanly,--much to the disadvantage of the Belgian,--in their sense of humor. For unfortunately it has to be confessed that this supreme gift of the gods has been very sparingly dispensed to Maeterlinck. Altogether, whether or no he is to be counted among the disciples of Shakespeare, his works show no great dependence on the master. With far better reason might he be called a debtor to Germanic folklore, especially in its fantastic elements. A German fairy world it is to which we are transported by Maeterlinck's first dramatic attempt, "Princess Maleine," (1889), a play refashioned after Grimm's tale of the Maid Maleen; only that in the play all the principals come to a harrowing end and that in it an esoteric meaning lies concealed underneath the primitive plot. The action, symbolically interpreted, illustrates the fatalist's doctrine that man is nothing but a toy in the hands of dark and dangerous powers. Practical wisdom does not help us to discern the working of these powers until it is too late. Neither can we divine their presence, for the prophetic apprehension of the future resides not in the expert and proficient, but rather in the helpless or decrepit,--the blind, the feeble-minded, and the stricken in years, or again in young children and in dumb animals. Take the scene in "Princess Maleine" where the murderers, having invaded the chamber, lie there in wait, with bated breath. In the corridor outside, people are unconcernedly passing to and fro, while the only creatures who, intuitively, sense the danger, are the little Prince and a dog that keeps anxiously scraping at the door. In _L'Intruse_ ("The Intruder"), (1890), a one-act play on a theme which is collaterally developed later on in _Les Aveugles_ ("The Sightless"), and in _L'Intérieur_ ("Home"), the arriving disaster that cannot be shut out by bolts or bars announces itself only to the clairvoyant sense of a blind old man. The household gathered around the table is placidly waiting for the doctor. Only the blind grandfather is anxious and heavy-laden because he alone knows that Death is entering the house, he alone can feel his daughter's life withering away under the breath of the King of Terror: the sightless have a keener sensitiveness than the seeing for what is screened from the physical eye. It would hardly be possible to name within the whole range of dramatic literature another work so thoroughly pervaded with the chilling horror of approaching calamity. The talk at the table is of the most commonplace,--that the door will not shut properly, and they must send for the carpenter to-morrow. But from the mechanism of the environment there comes cumulative and incremental warning that something extraordinary and fatal is about to happen. The wind rises, the trees shiver, the nightingales break off their singing, the fishes in the pond grow restive, the dogs cower in fear,--an unseen Presence walks through the garden. Then the clanging of a scythe is heard. A cold current of air rushes into the room. Nearer and nearer come the steps. The grandfather insists that a stranger has seated himself in the midst of the family. The lamp goes out. The bell strikes midnight. The old man is sure that somebody is rising from the table. Then suddenly the baby whose voice has never been heard starts crying. Through an inner door steps a deaconess silently crossing herself: the mother of the house is dead. These incidents in themselves are not necessarily miraculous. There are none of them but might be accounted for on perfectly natural grounds. In fact, very plausible explanations do offer themselves for the weirdest things that come to pass. So, especially, it was a real, ordinary mower that chanced to whet his scythe; yet the apparition of the Old Reaper in person could not cause the chilling consternation produced by this trivial circumstance coming as it does as the climax of a succession of commonplace happenings exaggerated and distorted by a fear-haunted imagination. To produce an effect like that upon an audience whose credulity refuses to be put to any undue strain is a victorious proof of prime artistic ability. _Les Aveugles_ ("The Sightless"), (1891), is pitched in the same psychological key. The atmosphere is surcharged with unearthly apprehension. A dreary twilight--in the midst of a thick forest--on a lonely island; twelve blind people fretting about the absence of their guardian. He is gone to find a way out of the woods--what can have become of him? From moment to moment the deserted, helpless band grows more fearstricken. The slightest sound becomes the carrier of evil forebodings: the rustling of the foliage, the flapping of a bird's wings, the swelling roar of the nearby sea in its dash against the shore. The bell strikes twelve--they wonder is it noon or night? Then questions, eager and calamitous, pass in whispers among them: Has the leader lost his way? Will he never come back? Has the dam burst apart and will they all be swallowed by the ocean? The pathos is greatly heightened by an extremely delicate yet sure individuation of the figures, as when at the mention of Heaven those not sightless from birth raise their countenance to the sky. And where in the meanwhile is the lost leader? He is seated right in their midst, but smitten by death. They learn it at last through the actions of the dog; besides whom--in striking parallel to "Princess Maleine"--the only other creature able to see is a little child. The horror-stricken unfortunates realize that they can never get home, and that they must perish in the woods. In _Les Sept Princesses_ ("The Seven Princesses"), (1891), although it is one of Maeterlinck's minor achievements, some of the qualities that are common to all his work become peculiarly manifest. This is particularly true of the skill shown in conveying the feeling of the story by means of suitable scenic devices. Most of his plays depend to a considerable degree for their dark and heavy nimbus of unreality upon a studied combination of paraphernalia in themselves neither numerous nor far-sought. In fact, the resulting scenic repertory, too, is markedly limited: a weird forest, a deserted castle with marble staircase and dreamy moonlit terrace, a tower with vaulted dungeons, a dismal corridor flanked by impenetrable chambers, a lighted interior viewed from the garden, a landscape bodefully crêped with twilight--the list nearly exhausts his store of "sets." The works mentioned so far are hardly more than able exercises preparatory for the ampler and more finished products which were to succeed them. Yet they represent signal steps in the evolution of a new dramatic style, designed, as has already been intimated, to give palpable form to emotional data descried in moments anterior not only to articulation but even to consciousness itself; and for this reason, the plane of the dramatic action lies deep below the surface of life, down in the inner tabernacle where the mystic looks for the hidden destinies. In his style, Maeterlinck had gradually developed an unprecedented capacity for bringing to light the secret agencies of fate. A portion of the instructed public had already learned to listen in his writings for the finer reverberations that swing in the wake of the uttered phrase, to heed the slightest hints and allusions in the text, to overlook no glance or gesture that might betray the mind of the acting characters. It is true that art to be great must be plain, but that does not mean that the sole test of great art is the response of the simple and apathetic. In Maeterlinck's first masterpiece, _Pélléas et Mélisande_, (1892), the motives again are drawn up from the lower regions of consciousness; once more the plot is born of a gloomy fancy, and the darkling mood hovering over scene and action attests the persistence of fatalism in the poet. The theory of old King Arkel, the spokesman of the author's personal philosophy, is that one should not seek to be active; one should ever wait on the threshold of Fate. Even the younger people in the play are infected by the morbid doctrine of an inevitable necessity for all things that happen to them: "We do not go where we would go. We do not do that which we would do." Perhaps, however, these beliefs are here enounced for the last time with the author's assent or acquiescence. In artistic merit "Pélléas and Mélisande" marks a nearer approach to mastery, once the integral peculiarities of the form and method have been granted. Despite a noticeable lack of force, directness, and plasticity in the characterization, the _vie intérieure_ is most convincingly expressed. In one of the finest scenes of the play we see the principals at night gazing out upon a measureless expanse of water dotted with scattered lights. The atmosphere is permeated with a reticent yearning of love. The two young creatures, gentle, shy, their souls tinged with melancholy, are drawn towards one another by an ineluctable mutual attraction. Yet, though their hearts are filled to overflowing, not a word of affection is uttered. Their love reveals itself to us even as to themselves, without a loud and jarring declaration, through its very speechlessness, as it were. The situation well bears out the _roi sage_ in _Alladine et Palomides_: "There is a moment when souls touch one another and know everything without a need of our opening the lips." There are still other scenes in this play so tense with emotion that words would be intrusive and dissonant. There is that lovely picture of Mélisande at the window; Pélléas cannot reach up to her hand, but is satisfied to feel her loosened hair about his face. It is a question whether even that immortal love duet in "Romeo and Juliet" casts a poetic spell more enchanting than this. At another moment in the drama, we behold the lovers in Maeterlinck's beloved half-light, softly weeping as they stare with speechless rapture into the flames. And not until the final parting does any word of love pass their lips. In another part of the play Goland, Mélisande's aging husband, who suspects his young stepbrother, Pélléas, of loving Mélisande, conducts him to an underground chamber. We are not told why he has brought him there, and why he has led him to the brink of the pitfall from which there mounts a smell of death. If it be a heinous deed he is brooding, why does he pause in its execution? His terrible struggle does not reveal itself through speech, yet it is eloquently expressed in the wildness of his looks, the trembling of his voice, and the sudden anguished outcry: "Pélléas! Pélléas!" Evidently Maeterlinck completely achieves the very purpose to which the so-called Futurists think they must sacrifice all traditional conceptions of Art; and achieves it without any brutal stripping and skinning of the poetic subject, without the hideous exhibition of its _disjecta membra_, and above all, without that implied disqualification for the higher artistic mission which alone could induce a man to limit his service to the dishing-up of chunks and collops, "cubic" or amorphous. In recognition of a certain tendency towards mannerism that lay in his technique, Maeterlinck, in a spirit of self-persiflage, labeled the book of one-act plays which he next published, (1894), _Trois Petits Drames pour Marionettes_ ("Three Little Puppet Plays"). They are entitled, severally: _Alladine et Palomides_, _Intérieur_, and _La Mort de Tintagiles_. While in motifs and materials as well as in the principal points of style these playlets present a sort of epitome of his artistic progression up to date, they also display some new and significant qualities. Of the three the first named is most replete with suggestive symbolism and at the same time most remindful of the older plays, especially of "Pélléas and Mélisande." King Ablamore is in character and demeanor clearly a counterpart of King Arkel. To be sure he makes a temporary stand against the might of Fate, but his resistance is meek and futile, and his wisdom culminates in the same old fatalistic formula: "_Je sais qu'on ne fait pas ce que l'on voudrait faire._" _L'Intérieur_ ("Home") handles a theme almost identical with that of _L'Intruse_: Life and Death separated only by a thin pane of glass,--the sudden advent of affliction from a cloudless sky. In this little tragedy a family scene, enacted in "dumb show," is watched from the outside. The play is without suspense in the customary use of the term, since after the first whispered conversation between the bringers of the fateful tidings the audience is fully aware of the whole story:--the daughter of the house, for whose return the little group is waiting, has been found dead in the river. The quiescent mood is sustained to the end; no great outburst of lamentation; the curtain drops the instant the news has been conveyed. But the poignancy of the tragic strain is only enhanced by the repression of an exciting climax. "The Death of Tintagiles" repeats in a still more harrowing form the fearful predicament of a helpless child treated with so much dramatic tension in Maeterlinck's first tragedy. Again, as in "Princess Maleine," the action of this dramolet attains its high point in a scene where murderous treachery is about to spring the trap set for an innocent young prince. Intuitively he senses the approach of death, and in vain beats his little fists against the door that imprisons him. The situation is rendered more piteous even than in the earlier treatment of the motif, because the door which bars his escape also prevents his faithful sister Ygraine from coming to the rescue. We have observed in all the plays so far a marked simplicity of construction. _Aglavaine et Selysette_, (1896), denotes a still further simplification. Here the scenic apparatus is reduced to the very minimum, and the psychological premises are correspondingly plain. The story presents a "triangular" love entanglement strangely free from the sensual ingredient; two women dream of sharing, in all purity, one lover--and the dream ends for one of them in heroic self-sacrifice brought to secure the happiness of the rival. However, more noteworthy than the structure of the plot is the fact that the philosophic current flowing through it has perceptibly altered its habitual direction. The spiritual tendency is felt to be turning in its course, and even though fatalism still holds the rule, with slowly relaxing grip, yet a changed ethical outlook is manifest. Also, this play for the first time proclaims, though in no vociferous manner, the duty of the individual toward himself, the duty so emphatically proclaimed by two of Maeterlinck's greatest teachers, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henrik Ibsen. * * * * * The inner philosophic conflict was but of short duration. In 1898 _La Sagesse et La Destinée_ ("Wisdom and Destiny") saw the light. The metaphor might be taken in a meaning higher and more precise than the customary, for, coming to this book from those that preceded is indeed like emerging from some dark and dismal cave into the warm and cheering light of the sun. "Wisdom and Destiny" is a collection of essays and aphorisms which stands to this second phase of Maeterlinck's dramaturgy in a relation closely analogous to that existing between "The Treasure of the Humble" and the works heretofore surveyed. Without amounting to a wholesale recantation of the idea that is central in the earlier set of essays, the message of the newer set is of a very different kind. The author of "Wisdom and Destiny" has not changed his view touching the superiority of the intuitional function over the intellectual. The significant difference between the old belief and the new consists simply in this: the latent force of life is no longer imagined as an antagonistic agency; rather it is conceived as a benign energy that makes for a serene acceptance of the world that is. Of this turn in the outlook, the philosophic affirmation of life and the consent of the will to subserve the business of living are the salutary concomitants. Wisdom, in expanding, has burst the prison of fatalism and given freedom to vision. The world, beheld in the light of this emancipation, is not to be shunned by the wise man. Let Fortune bring what she will, he can strip his afflictions of their terrors by transmuting them into higher knowledge. Therefore, pain and suffering need not be feared and shirked; they may even be hailed with satisfaction, for, as is paradoxically suggested in _Aglavaine et Selysette_, they help man "_être heureux en devenant plus triste_,"--to be happy in becoming sadder. The poet, who till now had clung to the conviction that there can be no happy fate, that all our destinies are guided by unlucky stars, now on the contrary persuades us to consider how even calamity may be refined in the medium of wisdom in such fashion as to become an asset of life, and warns us against recoiling in spirit from any reverse of our fortunes. He holds that blows and sorrows cannot undo the sage. Fate has no weapons save those we supply, and "wise is he for whom even the evil must feed the pyre of love." In fine, Fate obeys him who dares to command it. After all, then, man has a right to appoint himself the captain of his soul, the master of his fate. Yet, for all that, the author of "Wisdom and Destiny" should not be regarded as the partizan and apologist of sadness for the sake of wisdom. If sorrow be a rich mine of satisfaction, joy is by far the richer mine. This new outlook becomes more and more optimistic because of the increasing faculty of such a philosophy to extract from the mixed offerings of life a more near-at-hand happiness than sufferings can possibly afford; not perchance that perpetual grinning merriment over the comicality of the passing spectacle which with so many passes for a "sense of humor," but rather a calm and serious realization of what is lastingly beautiful, good, and true. A person's attainment of this beatitude imposes on him the clear duty of helping others to rise to a similar exalted level of existence. And this duty Maeterlinck seeks to discharge by proclaiming in jubilant accents the concrete reality of happiness. _L'Oiseau Bleu_ ("The Blue Bird"), above all other works, illustrates the fact that human lives suffer not so much for the lack of happiness as for the want of being clearly conscious of the happiness they possess. It is seen that the seed of optimism in "The Treasure of the Humble" has sprouted and spread out, and at last triumphantly shot forth through the overlaying fatalism. The newly converted, hence all the more thoroughgoing, optimist, believing that counsel and consolation can come only from those who trust in the regenerative power of hope, throws himself into a mental attitude akin to that of the Christian Scientist, and confidently proceeds to cure the ills of human kind by a categorical denial of their existence. Or perhaps it would be more just to say of Maeterlinck's latter-day outlook, the serenity of which even the frightful experience of the present time has failed to destroy, that instead of peremptorily negating evil, he merely denies its supremacy. All about him he perceives in the midst of the worst wrongs and evils many fertile germs of righteousness; vice itself seems to distil its own antitoxin. Together with Maeterlinck's optimistic strain, his individualism gains an unexpected emphasis. "Before one exists for others, one must exist for one's self. The egoism of a strong and clear-sighted soul is of a more beneficent effect than all the devotion of a blind and feeble soul." Here we have a promulgation identical in gist with Emerson's unqualified declaration of moral independence when he says: "Whoso would be a man must be a nonconformist. He who would gather immortal palms must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but must explore if it be goodness. Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind. No law can be sacred to me but that of my nature."(8) (8) "Self-Reliance." His attitude of countenancing the positive joys of living causes Maeterlinck in his later career to reverse his former judgment, and to inveigh, much in the manner of Nietzsche, against the "parasitical virtues." "Certain notions about resignation and self-sacrifice sap the finest moral forces of mankind more thoroughly than do great vices and even crimes. The alleged triumphs over the flesh are in most cases only complete defeats of life." When to such rebellious sentiments is joined an explicit warning against the seductions and intimidations held out by the official religions--their sugar plums and dog whips, as Maeterlinck puts it--one can only wonder how his writings escaped as long as they did the attention of the authorities that swing the power of imprimatur and anathema. Maeterlinck may not be classed unreservedly as a radical individualist. For whereas a philosophy like that of Nietzsche takes no account of the "much-too-many," who according to that great fantasist do not interest anybody except the statistician and the devil, Maeterlinck realizes the supreme importance of the great mass as the ordained transmitters of civilization. The gulf between aristocratic subjectivism, devoted single-mindedly to the ruthless enforcement of self-interest, and, on the other hand, a self-forgetful social enthusiasm, is bridged in Maeterlinck by an extremely strong instinct for justice and, moreover, by his firm belief--at least for the time being--that the same strong instinct exists universally as a specific trait of human nature. By such a philosophy Justice, then, is discerned not as a supra-natural function, but as a function of human nature as distinguished from nature at large. The restriction is made necessary by our knowledge of the observable operations of nature. In particular would the principle of heredity seem to argue against the reign of justice in the administration of human destinies, inasmuch as we find ourselves quite unable to recognize in the apportionment of pleasure and pain anything like a due ratio of merit. And yet Maeterlinck realizes that perhaps nature measures life with a larger standard than the individual's short span of existence, and warns us in his essay on "Justice" not to indulge our self-conceit in a specious emulation of ways that are utterly beyond our comprehension. After all, then, our poet-philosopher succeeds _foro conscientiæ_ in reconciling his cult of self with devotion to the common interest. Morality, in that essay, is defined as the co-ordination of personal desire to the task assigned by nature to the race. And is it not true that a contrary, that is, ascetic concept of morality reduces itself to absurdity through its antagonism to that primal human instinct that makes for the continuity of life? * * * * * From the compromise effected between two fairly opposite ethical principles, there emerges in the works of this period something akin to a socialistic tendency. It is organically related to the mystical prepossession of the author's manner of thinking. Maeterlinck gratefully acknowledges that by the search-light of science the uppermost layers of darkness have been dispelled; but realizes also that the deep-seated central enigma still remains in darkness: as much as ever are the primordial causes sealed against a glimpse of finite knowledge. We have changed the names, not the problems. Instead of God, Providence, or Fate, we say Nature, Selection, and Heredity. But in reality do we know more concerning Life than did our ancestors? What, then, questions the persevering pursuer of the final verities, shall we do in order that we may press nearer to Truth? May we not perchance steep our souls in light that flows from another source than science? And what purer light is there to illumine us than the halo surrounding a contented worker performing his task, not under coercion, but from a voluntary, or it may be instinctive, submission to the law of life? If such subordination of self constitutes the basis of rational living, we shall do well to study its workings on a lowlier and less complicated plane than the human; for instance, in the behavior of the creature that is proverbial for its unflagging industry. For this industry is not motivated by immediate or selfish wants; it springs from instinctive self-dedication to the common cause. Some people expected from _La Vie des Abeilles_ ("The Life of the Bee"), (1901), much brand-new information about matters of apiculture. But in spite of his twenty-five years' experience, Maeterlinck had no startling discoveries to convey to his fellow-hivers. His book on bees is not primarily the result of a specialist's investigations but a poetical record of the observations made by a mind at once romantic and philosophical and strongly attracted to the study of this particular form of community life, because by its organization on a miniature scale it spreads before the student of society a synoptic view of human affairs. Of the great change that had by now taken place in his conception of life, Maeterlinck was fully cognizant, and made no concealment of it. In the essay on "Justice" he says, with reference to his earlier dramas: "The motive of these little plays was the fear of the Unknown by which we are constantly surrounded," and passes on to describe his religious temper as a sort of compound of the Christian idea of God with the antique idea of Fate, immersed in the profound gloom of hopeless mystery. "The Unknown took chiefly the aspect of a power, itself but blindly groping in the dark, yet disposing with inexorable unfeelingness of the fates of men." Evidently those same plays are passed once more in self-critical review in _Ardiane et Barbe-Bleue_ ("Ardiane and Blue-Beard"), (1899), notwithstanding the fact that the author disclaims any philosophic purpose and presents his work as a mere libretto. We cannot regard it as purely accidental that of Blue-Beard's terror-stricken wives, four,--Selysette, Mélisande, Ygraine, Alladine,--bear the names of earlier heroines, and, besides, that each of these retains with the name also the character of her namesake. The symbolism is too transparent. The child-wives of the cruel knight, forever in a state of trembling fear, are too passive to extricate themselves from their fate, whereas Ardiane succeeds instantly in breaking her captivity, because she has the spirit and strength to shatter the window and let in the light and air. The contrast between her resolute personality and those five inert bundles of misery undoubtedly connotes the difference between the author's paralyzing fatalism in the past and his present dynamic optimism. A like contrast between dejection and resilience would be brought to light by a comparison of the twelve lyric poems, _Douze Chansons_, (1897), with the _Serres Chaudes_. The mood is still greatly subdued; the new poetry is by no means free from sadness and a strain of resignation. But the half-stifled despair that cries out from the older book returns no dissonant echo in the new. Even his dramatic technique comes under the sway of Maeterlinck's altered view of the world. The far freer use of exciting and eventful action testifies to increased elasticity and force. This is a marked feature of _Soeur Beatrice_ ("Sister Beatrice"), (1900), a miracle play founded on the old story about the recreant nun who, broken from sin and misery, returns to the cloister and finds that during the many years of her absence her part and person have been carried out by the Holy Virgin herself. Equally, the three other dramas of this epoch--_Aglavaine et Selysette_, _Monna Vanna_, and _Joyzelle_--are highly available for scenic enactment. Of the three, _Monna Vanna_, (1902), in particular is conspicuous for a wholly unexpected aptitude of characterization, and for the unsurpassed intensity of its situations, which in this isolated case are not cast in a single mood as in the other plays, but are individually distinct and full of dramatic progress, whereas everywhere else the action moves rather sluggishly. "Monna Vanna" is one of the most brilliantly actable plays of modern times, despite its improbability. A certain incongruity between the realistic and the romantic aspects in the behavior of the principals is saved from offensiveness by a disposition on the part of the spectator to refer it, unhistorically, to the provenience of the story. But as a matter of fact the actors are not fifteenth century Renaissance men and women at all, but mystics, modern mystics at that, both in their reasoning and their morality. It is under a cryptical soul-compulsion that Giovanna goes forth to the unknown condottiere prepared to lay down her honor for the salvation of her people, and that her husband at last conquers his repugnance to her going. Prinzivalle, Guido, Marco, are mystics even to a higher degree than Vanna. The poignant actualism of "Monna Vanna" lies, however, in the author's frank sympathy with a distinctively modern zest for freedom. The situation between husband and wife is reminiscent of "A Doll's House" in the greedily possessive quality of Guido's affection, with which quality his tyrannous unbelief in Prinzivalle's magnanimity fully accords. But Maeterlinck here goes a step beyond Ibsen. In her married life with Guido, Vanna was meekly contented, "at least as happy as one can be when one has renounced the vague and extravagant dreams which seem beyond human life." When the crisis arrives she realizes that "it is never too late for one who has found a love that can fill a life." Her final rebellion is sanctioned by the author, who unmistakably endorses the venerable Marco's profession of faith that life is always in the right. "Joyzelle," (1903), inferior to "Monna Vanna" dramaturgically, and in form the most distinctly fantastic of all Maeterlinck's productions, is still farther removed from the fatalistic atmosphere. This play sounds, as the author himself has stated, "the triumph of will and love over destiny or fatality," as against the converse lesson of _Monna Vanna_. The idea is symbolically expressed in the temptations of Lanceor and in the liberation of Joyzelle and her lover from the power of Merlin and his familiar, Arielle, who impersonates the secret forces of the heart. _Aglavaine et Selysette_, _Monna Vanna_, and _Joyzelle_ mark by still another sign the advent of a new phase in Maeterlinck's evolution; namely, by the characterization of the heroines. Previously, the women in his plays were hardly individualized and none of them can be said to possess a physiognomy strictly her own. Maeterlinck had returned with great partiality again and again to the same type of woman: languid and listless, without stamina and strength, yet at the same time full of deep feeling, and capable of unending devotion--pathetic incorporeal figures feeling their way along without the light of self-consciousness, like some pre-raphaelite species of somnambulists. In the new plays, on the contrary, women of a courageous and venturesome spirit and with a self-possessive assurance are portrayed by preference and with unmistakable approval. As the technique in the more recent creations of Maeterlinck, so the diction, too, accommodates itself to altered tendencies. Whereas formerly the colloquy was abrupt and fragmentary, it is now couched in cadenced, flowing language, which, nevertheless, preserves the old-time simplicity. The poet himself has criticized his former dialogue. He said it made those figures seem like deaf people walking in their sleep, whom somebody is endeavoring to arouse from a heavy dream. * * * * * For the limited purpose of this sketch it is not needful to enter into a detailed discussion of Maeterlinck's latest productions, since such lines as they add to his philosophical and artistic physiognomy have been traced beforehand. His literary output for the last dozen years or so is embodied in six or seven volumes: about two years to a book seems to be his normal ratio of achievement, the same as was so regularly observed by Henrik Ibsen, and one that seems rather suitable for an author whose reserve, dictated by a profound artistic and moral conscience, like his actual performance, calls for admiration and gratitude. During the war he has written, or at least published, very little. It is fairly safe to assume that the emotional experience of this harrowing period will control his future philosophy as its most potent factor; equally safe is it to predict, on the strength of his published utterances, that his comprehensive humanity, that has been put to such a severe test, will pass unscathed through the ordeal. Of the last group of Maeterlinck's works only two are dramas, namely, "The Blue Bird," (1909), and "Mary Magdalene," (1910). The baffling symbolism of "The Blue Bird" has not stood in the way of a tremendous international stage success; the fact is due much less to the simple line of thought that runs through the puzzle than to the exuberant fancy that gave rise to it and its splendid scenical elaboration. Probably Mr. Henry Rose is right, in his helpful analysis of "The Blue Bird," in venturing the assertion that "by those who are familiar with Swedenborg's teaching 'The Blue Bird' must be recognized as to a very large extent written on lines which are in accordance with what is known as the Science of Correspondences--a very important part of Swedenborg's teachings." But the understanding of this symbolism in its fullness offers very great difficulties. That a definite and consistent meaning underlies all its features will be rather felt than comprehended by the great majority who surely cannot be expected to go to the trouble first of familiarizing themselves with Maeterlinck's alleged code of symbols and then of applying it meticulously to the interpretation of his plays. "Mary Magdalene," judged from the dramatic point of view, is a quite impressive tragedy, yet a full and sufficient treatment of the very suggestive scriptural legend it is not. The converted courtezan is characterized too abstractly. Instead of presenting herself as a woman consumed with blazing sensuality but in whom the erotic fire is transmuted into religious passion, she affects us like an enacted commentary upon such a most extraordinary experience. Finally, there are several volumes of essays, to some of which reference has already been made.(9) _Le Temple Enseveli_ ("The Buried Temple"), (1902), consists of six disquisitions, all dealing with metaphysical subjects: Justice, The Evolution of Mystery, The Reign of Matter, The Past, Chance, The Future. _Le Double Jardin_ ("The Double Garden"), (1904), is much more miscellaneous in its makeup. These are its heterogeneous subjects: The Death of a Little Dog, Monte Carlo, A Ride in a Motor Car, Dueling, The Angry Temper of the Bees, Universal Suffrage, The Modern Drama, The Sources of Spring, Death and the Crown (a discussion upon the fatal illness of Edward VII), a View of Rome, Field Flowers, Chrysanthemums, Old-fashioned Flowers, Sincerity, The Portrait of Woman, and Olive Branches (a survey of certain now, alas, obsolete ethical movements of that day). _L'Intelligence des Fleurs_ (in the translation it is named "Life and Flowers," in an enlarged issue "The Measure of the Hours," both 1907), takes up, besides the theme of the general caption, the manufacture of perfumes, the various instruments for measuring time, the psychology of accident, social duty, war, prize-fighting, and "King Lear." In 1912, three essays on Emerson, Novalis, and Ruysbroeck appeared collectively, in English, under the title "On Emerson and Other Essays." These originally prefaced certain works of those writers translated by Maeterlinck in his earlier years. (9) Considerable liberty has been taken by Maeterlinck in the grouping and naming of his essay upon their republication in the several collections. The confusion caused thereby is greatly increased by the deviation of some of the translated editions from the original volumes as to the sequence of articles, the individual and collective titles, and even the contents themselves. Maeterlinck's most recent publications are _La Mort_ (published in English in a considerably extended collection under the title "Our Eternity"), (1913), "The Unknown Guest," (1914), and _Les Débris de la Guerre_ ("The Wrack of the Storm"), (1916).(10) The two first named, having for their central subject Death and the great concomitant problem of the life beyond, show that the author has become greatly interested in psychical research; he even goes so far as to affirm his belief in precognition. In these essays, Theosophy and Spiritism and kindred occult theories are carefully analyzed, yet ingenious as are the author's speculations, they leave anything like a solution of the perplexing riddles far afield. On the whole he inclines to a telepathic explanation of the psychical phenomena, yet thinks they may be due to the strivings of the cosmic intelligence after fresh outlets, and believes that a careful and persistent investigation of these phenomena may open up hitherto undreamt of realms of reality. In general, we find him on many points less assertive than he was in the beginning and inclined to a general retrenchment of the dogmatic element in his philosophic attitude. A significant passage in "The Buried Treasure" teaches us not to deplore the loss of fixed beliefs. "One should never look back with regret to those hours when a great belief abandons us. A faith that becomes extinct, a means that fails, a dominant idea that no longer dominates us because we think it is our turn to dominate it--these things prove that we are living, that we are progressing, that we are using up a great many things because we are not standing still." Of the gloomy fatalism of his literary beginnings hardly a trace is to be found in the Maeterlinck of to-day. His war-book, "The Wrack of the Storm," breathes a calm optimism in the face of untold disaster. The will of man is put above the power of fate. "Is it possible that fatality--by which I mean what perhaps for a moment was the unacknowledged desire of the planet--shall not regain the upper hand? At the stage which man has reached, I hope and believe so.... Everything seems to tell us that man is approaching the day whereon, seizing the most glorious opportunity that has ever presented itself since he acquired a consciousness, he will at last learn that he is able, when he pleases, to control his whole fate in this world."(11) His faith in humanity is built on the heroic virtues displayed in this war. "To-day, not only do we know that these virtues exist: we have taught the world that they are always triumphant, that nothing is lost while faith is left, while honor is intact, while love continues, while the soul does not surrender." ... Death itself is now threatened with extinction by our heroic race: "The more it exercises its ravages, the more it increases the intensity of that which it cannot touch; the more it pursues its phantom victories, the better does it prove to us that man will end by conquering death." (10) "The Light Beyond" (1917) is not a new work at all, but merely a combination of parts from "Our Eternity" and "The Wrack of the Storm." (11) "The Wrack of the Storm," p. 144 f. In the concluding chapter of "Our Eternity," the romantic modification of Maeterlinck's mysticism is made patent in his confession regarding the problem of Knowledge: "I have added nothing to what was already known. I have simply tried to separate what may be true from that which is assuredly not true.... Perhaps through our quest for that undiscoverable Truth we shall have accustomed our eyes to pierce the terror of the last hour by looking it full in the face.... We need have no hope that any one will utter on this earth the word that shall put an end to our uncertainties. It is very probable, on the contrary, that no one in this world, nor perhaps in the next, will discover the great secret of the universe. And ... it is most fortunate that it should be so. We have not only to resign ourselves to living in the incomprehensible, but to rejoice that we cannot get out of it. If there were no more insoluble questions ... infinity would not be infinite; and then we should have forever to curse the fate that placed us in a universe proportionate to our intelligence. The unknown and the unknowable are necessary and will perhaps always be necessary to our happiness. In any case, I would not wish my worst enemy, were his understanding a thousandfold loftier and a thousandfold mightier than mine, to be condemned eternally to inhabit a world of which he had surprised an essential secret...."(12) (12) Quoted from the excellent translation by A. T. de Mattos. So the final word of Maeterlinck's philosophy, after a lifetime of ardent search, clears up none of the tantalizing secrets of our existence. And yet somehow it bears a message that is full of consolation. The value of human life lies in the perpetual movement towards a receding goal. Whoever can identify himself with such a philosophy and accept its great practical lesson, that we shall never reach Knowledge but acquire wisdom in the pursuit, should be able to envisage the veiled countenance of Truth without despair, and even to face with some courage the eternal problem of our being, its reason and its destination. II THE ECCENTRICITY OF AUGUST STRINDBERG One cannot speak of August Strindberg with much _gusto_. The most broadminded critic will find himself under necessity to disapprove of him as a man and to condemn so many features of his production that almost one might question his fitness as a subject of literary discussion. Nevertheless, his importance is beyond dispute and quite above the consideration of personal like or dislike, whether we view him in his creative capacity,--as an intellectual and ethical spokesman of his time,--or in his human character,--as a typical case of certain mental and moral maladies which somehow during his time were more or less epidemic throughout the lettered world. We have it on excellent authority that at his début in the literary theatre he made the stage quake with the elemental power of his personality. Gigantic rebels like Ibsen, Bjoernson, Nietzsche, and Tolstoy, we are told, dwindled to normal proportions beside his titanic stature. He aimed to conquer and convert the whole world by his fanatical protest against the rotten civilization of his time. The attempt proved an utter failure. He never could grow into a world-figure, because he lacked the courage as well as the cosmopolitan adaptability needed for intellectual expatriation. Hence, in great contrast to Ibsen, he remained to Europe at large the uncouth Scandinavian, while in the eyes of Scandinavia he was specifically the Swede; and his country-men, even though they acknowledged him their premier poet, treated him, because of his eccentricity, as a national gazing-stock rather than as a genuine national asset. Yet for all that, he ranks as the foremost writer of his country and one of the representative men of the age. His poetic genius is admitted by practically all the critics, while the greatest among them, George Brandes, pronounces him in addition an unsurpassed master in the command of his mother tongue. But his position as a writer is by no means limited to his own little country. For his works have been translated into all civilized languages, and if the circulation of literary products is a safe indication of their influence, then several of Strindberg's books at least must be credited with having done something toward shaping the thought of our time upon some of its leading issues. In any case, the large and durable interest shown his productions marks Strindberg as a literary phenomenon of sufficient consequence to deserve some study. Readers of Strindberg who seek to discover the reason why criticism should have devoted so much attention to an author regarded almost universally with strong disapproval and aversion, will find that reason most probably in the extreme subjectiveness that dominates everything he has written; personal confession, novels, stories, and plays alike share this equality, and even in his historical dramas the figures, despite the minute accuracy of their delineation, are moved by the author's passion, not their own. Rarely, if ever, has a writer of eminence demonstrated a similar incapacity to reproduce the thoughts and feelings of other people. It has been rightly declared that all his leading characters are merely the outward projections of his own sentiments and ideas,--that at bottom he, August Strindberg, is the sole protagonist in all his dramaturgy and fiction. Strindberg was a man with an omnivorous intellectual curiosity, and he commanded a vast store of knowledge in the fields of history, science, and languages. His "History of the Swedish People" is recognized by competent judges as a very brilliant and scholarly performance. Before he was launched in his literary career, and while still obscurely employed as minor assistant at a library, he earned distinction as a student of the Chinese language, and one product of his research work in that field was even deemed worthy of being read before the _Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres_. In Geology, Chemistry, Botany, he was equally productive. But the taint of eccentricity in his mental fibre prevented his imposing scientific accomplishments from maintaining him in a state of intellectual equilibrium. He laid as much store by things of which he had a mere smattering as by those on which he was an authority, and his resultant unsteadiness caused him to oscillate between opposite scientific enthusiasms even as his self-contradictory personal character involved him in abrupt changes of position, and made him jump from one extreme of behavior to the other. * * * * * Strindberg first attracted public notice by the appearance in 1879 of a novel named "The Red Room." Its effect upon a country characterized by so keen an observer as George Brandes as perhaps the most conservative in Europe resembled the excitement caused by Schiller's "The Robbers" almost precisely one hundred years before. It stirred up enough dust to change, though not to cleanse, the musty atmosphere of Philistia. For here was instantly recognized the challenge of a radical spirit uprisen in full and ruthless rebellion against each and every time-hallowed usage and tradition. The recollection of that hot-spur agitator bent with every particle of his strength to rouse the world up from its lethargy by his stentorian "J'accuse" and to pass sentence upon it by sheer tremendous vociferation, is almost entirely obliterated to-day by the remembrance of quite another Strindberg:--the erstwhile stormy idealist changed into a leering cynic; a repulsive embodiment of negation, a grimacing Mephistopheles who denies life and light or anything that he cannot comprehend, and to whom the face of the earth appears forever covered with darkness and filth and death and corruption. Indeed this final depictment of August Strindberg, whether or no it be accurately true to life, is a terrible example of what life can make of a man, or a man of his life, if he is neither light enough to be borne by the current of his time, nor strong enough to set his face against the tide and breast it. The question is, naturally, was Strindberg sincere in the fanatical insurgency of his earlier period, or was his attitude merely a theatrical pose and his social enthusiasm a ranting declamation? In either case, there opens up this other question: Have we reason to doubt the sincerity of the mental changes that were yet to follow,--the genuineness of his pessimism, occultism, and, in the final stage, of his religious conversion? His unexampled hardihood in reversing his opinions and going dead against his convictions could be illustrated in nearly every sphere of thought. At one time a glowing admirer of Rousseau and loudly professing his gospel of nature, he forsook this allegiance, and chose as his new idol Rousseau's very antipode, Voltaire. For many years he was a democrat of the purest water, identified himself with the proletarian cause, and acted as the fiery champion of the poor labor-driven masses against their oppressors; but one fine day, no matter whether it came about directly through his contact with Nietzsche or otherwise, he repudiated socialism, scornfully denouncing it as a tattered remnant of his cast-off Christianity, and arrayed himself on the side of the elect, or self-elect, against the "common herd," the "much-too-many." License for the best to govern the rest, became temporarily his battle-cry; and his political ideal suggested nothing less completely absurd than a republic presided over by an oligarchy of autocrats. His unsurpassed reputation as an anti-feminist would hardly prepare us to find his earlier works fairly aglow with sympathy for the woman cause. He held at one time, as did Tolstoy, that art and poetry have a detrimental effect upon the natural character; for which reason the peasant is a more normal being than the lettered man. Especially was he set against the drama, on the ground that it throws the public mind into confusion by its failure to differentiate sharply between the author's own opinions and those of the characters. Literature, he held, should pattern itself after a serious newspaper: it should seek to influence, not entertain. Not only did he drop this pedantic restriction of literature in the end, but in his own practice he had always defied it, because, despite his fierce campaign against art, he could not overcome the force of his artistic impulses. And so in other provinces of thought, too, he reversed his judgment with a temerity and swiftness that greatly offended the feelings and perplexed the intelligence of his followers for the time being and justified the question whether Strindberg had any principles at all. In politics he was by quick turns Anarchist and Socialist, Radical and Conservative, Republican and Aristocrat, Communist and Egoist; in religion, Pietist, Protestant, Deist, Atheist, Occultist, and Roman Catholic. And yet unquestionably he was honest. To blame him merely because he changed his views, and be it never so radically, would be blaming a man for exercising his right to develop. In any man of influence, an unalterable permanency of opinion would be even more objectionable than a frequent shift of his point of view. In recent times the presumable length of a person's intellectual usefulness has been a live subject of discussion which has resulted in some legislation of very questionable wisdom, for instance the setting of an arbitrary age limit for the active service of high-grade teachers. In actual experience men are too old to teach, or through any other function to move the minds of younger people in a forward direction, whenever they have lost the ability to change their own mind. Yet at all events, an eminent author's right of self-reversal must not be exercised at random; he should refrain from the propagation of new opinions that have not ripened within himself. Which is the same as saying that he should stick to his old opinions until he finds himself inwardly compelled to abandon them. But as a matter of fact, a man like Strindberg, propelled by an unbridled imagination, alert with romantic tendencies, nervously overstrung, kept constantly under a strain by his morbidly sensitive temperament,--and whose brain is consequently a seething chaos of conflicting ideas, is never put to the necessity of changing his mind; his mind keeps changing itself. It must be as difficult for the literary historian to do Strindberg full justice as it was for the great eccentric himself; when in taking stock, as it were, of his mental equipment, during one of his protracted periods of despondency, he summed himself up in the following picturesque simile: "A monstrous conglomeration, changing its forms according to the observer's point of view and possessing no more reality than the rainbow that is visible to the eyes and yet does not exist." His evolution may be tracked, however, in the detailed autobiography in which he undertook, by a rigorous application of Hippolyte Taine's well-known theory and method, to account for his temperamental peculiarities on the basis of heredity and the milieu and to describe the gradual transformation of his character through education and the external pressure of contemporary intellectual movements. This remarkable work is like a picture book of ideals undermined, hollowed, and shattered; a perverse compound of cynicism and passion, it is unspeakably loathsome to the sense of beauty and yet, in the last artistic reckoning, not without great beauty of its own. It divides the story of Strindberg's life into these consecutive parts: The Son of the Servant; The Author; The Evolution of a Soul; The Confession of a Fool; Inferno; Legends; The Rupture; Alone. The very titles signalize the brutal frankness, or, shall we say, terrible sincerity of a tale that rummages without piety among the most sacred privacies, and drags forth from intimate nooks and corners sorrow and squalor and shame enough to have wrecked a dozen average existences. There is no mistaking or evading the challenge hurled by this story: See me as I am, stripped of conventional lies and pretensions! Look upon my naked soul, covered with scars and open sores. Behold me in my spasms of love and hate, now in demoniacal transports, now prostrate with anguish! And if you want to know how I came to be what I am, consider my ancestry, my bringing up, my social environment, and be sure also to pocket your own due share of the blame for my destruction!--Certainly Strindberg's autobiography is not to be recommended as a graduation gift for convent-bred young ladies, or as a soothing diversion for convalescents, but if accepted in a proper sense, it will be found absorbing, informative, and even helpful. Strindberg never forgave his father for having married below his station. He felt that the good blood of the Strindbergs,--respectable merchants and ministers and country gentlemen,--was worsened by the proletarian strain imported into it through a working girl named Eleonore Ulrike Norling, the mother of August Strindberg and his eleven brothers and sisters. During August's childhood the family lived in extremely straitened circumstances. When a dozen people live cooped up in three rooms, some of them are more than likely to have the joy of youth crushed out of them and crowded from the premises. Here was the first evil that darkened Strindberg's life: he simply was cheated out of his childhood. School was no happier place for him than home. His inordinate pride, only sharpened by the consciousness of his parents' poverty which bordered on pauperism, threw him into a state of perpetual rebellion against comrades and teachers. And all this time his inner life was tossed hither and thither by a general intellectual and emotional restlessness due to an insatiable craving for knowledge. At fifteen years of age he had reached a full conviction on the irredeemable evilness of life; and concluded, in a moment of religious exaltation, to dedicate his own earthly existence to the vicarious expiation of universal sin through the mortification of the flesh. Then, of a sudden, he became a voracious reader of rationalistic literature, and turned atheist with almost inconceivable dispatch, but soon was forced back by remorse into the pietistic frame of mind,--only to pass through another reaction immediately after. At this time he claims that earthly life is a punishment or a probation; but that it lies in man's power to make it endurable by freeing himself from the social restraints. He has become a convert to the fantastic doctrine of Jean Jacques Rousseau, that man is good by nature but has been depraved by civilization. Now in his earliest twenties, he embraces communism with all its implications,--free love, state parenthood, public ownership of utilities, equal division of the fruits of labor, and so forth,--as the sole and sure means of salvation for humanity. In the "Swiss Stories," subtitled "Utopias in Reality,"(13) Strindberg demonstrated to his own satisfaction the smooth and practical workings of that doctrine. It was difficult for him to understand why the major part of the world seemed so hesitant about adopting so tempting and equitable a scheme of living. Yet, for his own person, too, he soon disavowed socialism, because under a socialistic régime the individual would be liable to have his ideas put into uniform, and the remotest threat of interference with his freedom of thought was something this fanatical apostle of liberty could not brook. (13) The stories deal among other things with the harmonious communal life in Godin's _Phalanstère_. Strindberg wrote two descriptions of it, one before, the other after visiting the colony. In the preface to the "Utopias," he had referred to himself as "a convinced socialist, like all sensible people"; whereas now he writes: "Idealism and Socialism are two maladies born of laziness." Having thus scientifically diagnosed the disease and prescribed the one true specific for it, namely--how simple!--the total abolition of the industries, he resumes the preaching of Rousseauism in its simon-pure form, orders every man to be his maid-of-all-work and jack-of-all-trades, puts the world on a vegetarian diet, and then wonders why the socialists denounce and revile him as a turncoat and an apostate. * * * * * The biography throws an especially vivid light on Strindberg's relation to one of the most important factors of socialism, to wit, the question of woman's rights. His position on this issue is merely a phase of that extreme and practically isolated position in regard to woman in general that has more than any other single element determined the feeling of the public towards him and by consequence fixed his place in contemporary literature. That this should be so is hardly unfair, because no other element has entered so deeply into the structure and fibre of his thought and feeling. Strindberg, as has been stated, was not from the outset, or perchance constitutionally, an anti-feminist. In "The Red Room" he preaches equality of the sexes even in marriage. The thesis of the book is that man and woman are not antagonistic phenomena of life, rather they are modifications of the same phenomenon, made for mutual completion; hence, they can only fulfill their natural destiny through close coöperative comradeship. But there were two facts that prevented Strindberg from proceeding farther along this line of thought. One was his incorrigible propensity to contradiction, the other his excessive subjectiveness which kept him busy building up theories on the basis of personal experience. The prodigious feminist movement launched in Scandinavia by Ibsen and Bjoernson was very repugnant to him, because he felt, not without some just reason, that the movement was for a great many people little more than a fad. So long as art and literature are influenced by fashion, so long there will be and should be revolts against the vogue. Moreover, Strindberg felt that the movement was being carried too far. He was prepared to accompany Ibsen some distance on the way of reform, but refused to subscribe to his verdict that the whole blame for our crying social maladjustments rests with the unwillingness of men to allot any rights whatsoever to women. Strindberg's play, "Sir Bengt's Wife," printed in 1882, but of much earlier origin, is interpreted by Brandes as a symbolical portrayal of feminine life in Scandinavia during the author's early manhood. The leading feminine figure, a creature wholly incapable of understanding or appreciating the nobler traits in man, is nevertheless treated with sympathy, on the whole. She is represented,--like Selma Bratsberg in Ibsen's "The League of Youth," and Nora Helmer, in "A Doll's House,"--as the typical and normal victim of a partial and unfair training. Her faults of judgment and errors of temper are due to the fact so forcefully descanted upon by Selma, that women are not permitted to share the interests and anxieties of their husbands. We are expressly informed by Strindberg that this drama was intended, in the first place, as an attack upon the romantic proclivities of feminine education; in the second, as an illustration of the power of love to subdue the will; in the third, as a defense of the thesis that woman's love is of a higher quality than man's; and lastly, as a vindication of the right of woman to be her own master. Again, in "Married" he answers the query, Shall women vote? distinctly in the affirmative, although here the fixed idea about the congenital discordance between the sexes, and the identification of love with a struggle for supremacy, has already seized hold of him. To repeat, there was at first nothing absolutely preposterous about Strindberg's position in regard to the woman movement. On the contrary, his view might have been endorsed as a not altogether unwholesome corrective for the ruling fashion of dealing with the issue by the advocacy of extremes. But by force of his supervening personal grievance against the sex, Strindberg's anti-feminism became in the long run the fixed pole about which gravitated his entire system of social and ethical thought. His campaign against feminism, which otherwise could have served a good purpose by curbing wild militancy, was defeated by its own exaggerations. Granting that feminists had gone too far in the denunciation of male brutality and despotism, Strindberg went still farther in the opposite direction, when he deliberately set out to lay bare the character of woman by dissecting some of her most diabolical incarnations. As has already been said, he was utterly incapable of objective thinking, and under the sting of his miseries in love and marriage, dislike of woman turned into hatred and hatred into frenzy. Henceforth, the entire spectacle of life presented itself to his distorted vision as a perpetual state of war between the sexes: on the one side he saw the male, strong of mind and heart, but in the generosity of strength guileless and over-trustful; on the other side, the female, weak of body and intellect, but shrewd enough to exploit her frailness by linking iniquity to impotence and contriving by her treacherous cunning to enslave her natural superior:--it is the story of Samson and Delilah made universal in its application. Love is shown up as the trap in which man is caught to be shorn of his power. The case against woman is classically drawn up in "The Father," one of the strangest and at the same time most powerful tragedies of Strindberg. The principals of the plot stand for the typical character difference between the sexes as Strindberg sees it; the man being kind-hearted, good-natured, and aspiring, whereas the woman, setting an example for all his succeeding portraits of women, is cunning, though unintelligent and coarse-grained, soulless, yet insanely ambitious and covetous of power. In glaring contrast to the situation made so familiar by Ibsen, we here see the man struggling away from the clutches of a woman who declares frankly that she has never looked at a man without feeling conscious of her superiority over him. In this play the man, a person of ideals and real ability, who is none other than Strindberg himself in one of his matrimonial predicaments, fails to extricate himself from the snare, and ends--both literally and figuratively--by being put into the straitjacket. Without classing Strindberg as one of the great world dramatists, it would be narrow-minded, after experiencing the gripping effect of some of his plays, to deny them due recognition, for indeed they would be remarkable for their perspicacity and penetration, even if they were devoid of any value besides. They contain the keenest analyses ever made of the vicious side of feminine character, obtained by specializing, as it were, on the more particularly feminine traits of human depravity. Assuredly the procedure is onesided, but the delineation of a single side of life is beyond peradventure a legitimate artistic enterprise as long as it is not palmed upon us as an accurate and complete picture. Unfortunately, Strindberg's abnormal vision falsifies the things he looks at, and, being steeped in his insuperable prejudice, his pictures of life, in spite of the partial veracity they possess, never rise above the level of caricatures. He was incompetent to pass judgment upon an individual woman separately; to him all women were alike, and that means, all unmitigatedly bad! To the objection raised by one of the characters in "The Father": "Oh, there are so many kinds of women," the author's mouthpiece makes this clinching answer: "Modern investigation has pronounced that there is only one kind." The autobiography of Strindberg is largely inspired by his unreasoning hatred of women; the result, in the main, of his three unfortunate ventures into the uncongenial field of matrimony. In its first part, the account of his life is not without some traces of healthy humor, but as the story progresses, his entire philosophy of life becomes more and more aberrant under the increasing pressure of that obsession. He gets beside himself at the mere mention of anything feminine, and blindly hits away, let his bludgeon land where it will; logic, common sense, and common decency go to the floor before his vehement and brutal assault. Every woman is a born liar and traitor. Her sole aim in life is to thrive parasitically upon the revenue of her favors. Since marriage and prostitution cannot provide a living for all, the oversupply now clamor for admission to the work-mart; but they are incompetent and lazy, and inveterate shirkers of responsibility. With triumphant malice he points to the perfidious readiness of woman to perform her tasks by proxy, that is, to delegate them to hired substitutes: her children are tended and taught by governesses and teachers; her garments are made by dressmakers and seamstresses; the duties of her household she unloads on servants,--and from selfish considerations of vanity, comfort, and love of pleasure, she withdraws even from the primary maternal obligation and lets her young be nourished at the breast of a stranger. Strindberg in his rage never stops to think that the deputies in these cases,--cooks and housemaids and nurses and so forth,--themselves belong to the female sex, by which fact the impeachment is in large part invalidated. The play bearing the satirical title "Comrades" makes a special application of the theory about the pre-established antagonism of the sexes. In a situation similar to that in "The Father," husband and wife are shown in a yet sharper antithesis of character: a man of sterling character and ability foiled by a woman in all respects his inferior, yet imperiously determined to dominate him. At first she seems to succeed in her ambition, and in the same measure as she assumes a more and more mannish demeanor, the husband's behavior grows more and more effeminate. But the contest leads to results opposite to those in "The Father." Here, the man, once he is brought to a full realization of his plight, arouses himself from his apathy, reasserts his manhood, and, in the ensuing fight for supremacy, routs the usurper and comes into his own. The steps by which he passes through revolt from subjection to self-liberation, are cleverly signaled by his outward transformation, as he abandons the womanish style of dressing imposed on him by his wife's whim and indignantly flings into a corner the feminine costume which she would make him wear at the ball. * * * * * Leaving aside, then, all question as to their artistic value, Strindberg's dramas are deserving of attention as experiments in a fairly unexplored field of analytic psychology. They are the first literary creations of any great importance begotten by such bitter hatred of woman. The anti-feminism of Strindberg's predecessors, not excepting that arch-misogynist, Arthur Schopenhauer himself, sprang from contempt, not from abhorrence and abject fear. In Strindberg, misogyny turns into downright gynophobia. To him, woman is not an object of disdain, but the cruel and merciless persecutor of man. In order to disclose the most dangerous traits of the feminine soul, Strindberg dissects it by a method that corresponds closely to Ibsen's astonishing demonstration of masculine viciousness. The wide-spread dislike for Strindberg's dramas is due, in equal parts, to the detestableness of his male characters, and to the optimistic disbelief of the general public in the reality of womanhood as he represents it. Strindberg's portraiture of the sex appears as a monstrous slander, principally because no other painter has ever placed the model into the same disadvantageous light, and the authenticity of his pictures is rendered suspicious by their abnormal family resemblance. He was obsessed with the petrifying vision of a uniform cruel selfishness staring out of every woman's face: countess, courtezan, or kitchen maid, all are cast in the same gorgon mold. Strindberg's aversion towards women was probably kindled into action, as has already been intimated, by his disgust at the sudden irruption of woman worship into literature; but, as has also been made clear, only the disillusionments and grievances of his private experience hardened that aversion into implacable hatred. At first he simply declined to ally himself with the feminist cult, because the women he knew seemed unworthy of being worshipped,--little vain dolls, frivolous coquettes, and pedants given to domestic tyranny, of such the bulk was made up. Under the maddening spur of his personal misfortunes, his feeling passed from weariness to detestation, from detestation to a bitter mixture of fear and furious hate. He conceived it as his supreme mission and central purpose in life to unmask the demon with the angel's face, to tear the drapings from the idol and expose to view the hideous ogress that feeds on the souls of men. Woman, in Strindberg's works, is a bogy, constructed out of the vilest ingredients that enter into the composition of human nature, with a kind of convulsive life infused by a remnant of great artistic power. And this grewsome fabric of a diseased imagination, like Frankenstein's monster, wreaks vengeance on its maker. His own mordant desire for her is the lash that drives him irresistibly to his destruction. It requires no profound psychologic insight to divine in this odious chimera the deplorable abortion of a fine ideal. The distortion of truth emanates in Strindberg's work, as it does in any significant satire or caricature, from indignation over the contrast between a lofty conception and a disappointing reality. What, after all, can be the mission of this hard-featured gallery of females,--peevish, sullen, impudent, grasping, violent, lecherous, malignant, and vindictive,--if it is not to mark pravity and debasement with a stigma in the name of a pure and noble womanhood? * * * * * It should not be left unmentioned that we owe to August Strindberg some works of great perfection fairly free from the black obsession and with a constructive and consistently idealistic tendency: splendid descriptions of a quaint people and their habitat, tinged with a fine sense of humor, as in "The Hemsoe-Dwellers"; charming studies of landscape and of floral and animal life, in the "Portraits of Flowers and Animals"; the colossal work on the Swedish People, once before referred to, a history conceived and executed in a thoroughly modern scientific spirit; two volumes of "Swedish Fortunes and Adventures"; most of his historic dramas also are of superior order. But these works lie outside the scope of the more specific discussion of Strindberg as a mystic and an eccentric to which this sketch is devoted. We may conclude by briefly considering the final phases of Strindberg's checkered intellectual career, and by summing up his general significance for the age. It will be recalled that during the middle period of his life, (in 1888), Strindberg came into personal touch with Nietzsche. The effect of the latter's sensational philosophy is clearly perceptible in the works of that period, notably in "Tschandala" and "By the Open Sea." Evidently, Nietzsche, at first, was very congenial to him. For both men were extremely aristocratic in their instincts. For a while, Strindberg endorsed unqualifiedly the heterodox ethics of the towering paranoiac. For one thing, that philosophy supplied fresh food and fuel to his burning rage against womankind, and that was enough to bribe him into swallowing, for the time being, the entire substance of Nietzsche's fantastic doctrine. He took the same ground as Nietzsche, that the race had deteriorated in consequence of its sentimentality, namely through the systematic protection of physical and mental inferiority and unchecked procreation of weaklings. He seconded Nietzsche's motion that society should exterminate its parasites, instead of pampering them. Mankind can only be reinvigorated if the strong and healthy are helped to come into their own. The dreams of the pacifists are fatal to the pragmatic virtues and to the virility of the race. The greatest need is an aggressive campaign for the moral and intellectual sanitation of the world. So let the brain rule over the heart,--and so forth in the same strain. Very soon, however, Strindberg passed out of the sphere of Nietzsche's influence. The alienation was due as much to his general instability as to the disparity between his pessimistic temper and the joyous exaltation of Zarathustra-ism. His striking reversion to orthodoxy was by no means illogical. Between pessimism and faith there exists a relation that is not very far to seek. When a person has forfeited his peace of soul and cannot find grace before his own conscience, he might clutch as a last hope the promise of vicarious redemption. Extending the significance of his own personal experience to everything within his horizon, and erecting a dogmatic system upon this tenuous generalisation, Strindberg reached the conviction that the purpose of living is to suffer, a conviction that threw his philosophy well into line with the religious and ethical ideas of the middle age. Yet even at this juncture his cynicism did not desert him, as witness this comment of his: "Religion must be a punishment, because nobody gets religion who does not have a bad conscience." This avowal preceded his saltatory approach to Roman Catholicism. In the later volumes of his autobiography he minutely describes the successive crises through which he passed in his agonizing search for certitude and salvation before his spirit found rest in the idea of Destiny which formerly to him was synonymous with Fate and now became synonymous with Providence. "Inferno" pictures his existence as a protracted and unbroken nightmare. He turned determinist, then fatalist, then mystic. The most trifling incidents of his daily life were spelt out according to Swedenborg's "Science of Correspondences" and thereby assumed a deep and terrifying significance. In the most trivial events, such as the opening or shutting of a door, or the curve etched by a raindrop on a dusty pane of glass, he perceived intimations from the occult power that directed his life. Into the most ordinary occurrence of the day he read a divine order, or threat, or chastisement. He was tormented by terrible dreams and visions; in the guise of ferocious beasts, his own sins agonized his flesh. And in the midst of all these tortures he studied and practised the occult arts: magic, astrology, necromancy, alchemy; he concocted gold by hermetical science! To all appearances utterly deranged, he was still lucid enough at intervals to carry on chemical, botanical, and physiological experiments of legitimate worth. Then his reason cleared up once again and put a sudden end to an episode which he has described in these words: "To go in quest of God and to find the devil,--that is what happened to me." He took leave of Swedenborg as he had taken leave of Nietzsche, yet retained much gratitude for him; the great Scandinavian seer had brought him back to God, so he averred, even though the conversion was effected by picturings of horror. "Legends," the further continuation of his self-history, shows him vividly at his closest contact with the Catholic Church. But the most satisfactory portion of the autobiography from a human point of view, and from a literary point perhaps altogether the best thing Strindberg has done, is the closing book of the series, entitled "Alone." He wrote it at the age of fifty, during a period of comparative tranquillity of mind, and that fact is manifested by the composure and moderation of its style. Now at last his storm-tossed soul seems to have found a haven. He accepts his destiny, and resigns himself to believing, since knowledge is barred. But even this state of serenity harbored no permanent peace; it signified merely a temporary suspension of those terrific internal combats. In Strindberg's case, religious conversion is not an edifying, but on the contrary a morbid and saddening spectacle; it is equal to a declaration of complete spiritual bankruptcy. He turns to the church after finding all other pathways to God blocked. His type of Christianity does not hang together with the labors and struggles of his secular life. A break with his past can be denied to no man; least of all to a leader of men. Only, if he has deserted the old road, he should be able to lead in the new; he must have a new message if he sees fit to cancel the old. Strindberg, however, has nothing to offer at the end. He stands before us timorous and shrinking, the accuser of his fellows turned self-accuser, a beggar stretching forth empty, trembling hands imploring forgiveness of his sins and the salvation of his soul through gracious mediation. His moral asseverations are either blank truisms, or intellectual aberrations. Strindberg has added nothing to the stock of human understanding. A preacher, of course, is not in duty bound to generate original thought. Indeed if such were to be exacted, our pulpits would soon be as sparsely peopled as already are the pews. Ministers who are wondering hard why so many people stay away from church might well stop to consider whether the reason is not that a large portion of mankind has already secured, theoretically, a religious or ethical basis of life more or less identical with the one which churches content themselves with offering. The greatest religious teacher of modern times, Leo Tolstoy, was not by any means a bringer of new truths. The true secret of the tremendous power which nevertheless he wielded over the souls of men was that he extended the practical application of what he believed. If, therefore, we look for a lesson in Strindberg's life as recited by himself, we shall not find it in his religious conversion. * * * * * Taken in its entirety, his voluminous yet fragmentary life history is one of the most painful human documents on record. One can hardly peruse it without asking: Was Strindberg insane? It is a question which he often put to himself when remorse and self-reproach gnawed at his conscience and when he fancied himself scorned and persecuted by all his former friends. "Why are you so hated?" he asks himself in one of his dialogues, and this is his answer: "I could not endure to see mankind suffer, and so I said and wrote: 'Free yourselves, I shall help.' And so I said to the poor: 'Do not let the rich suck your blood.' And to woman: 'Do not let man oppress you.' And to the children: 'Do not obey your parents if they are unjust.' The consequences,--well, they are quite incomprehensible; for of a sudden I had both sides against me, rich and poor, men and women, parents and children; add to that sickness and poverty, disgraceful pauperism, my divorce, lawsuits, exile, loneliness, and now, to top the climax,--do you believe that I am insane?" From his ultra-subjective point of view, the explanation here given of the total collapse of his fortunes is fairly accurate, at least in the essential aspects. Still, many great men have been pursued by a similar conflux of calamities. Overwhelming misfortunes are the surest test of manhood. How high a person bears up his head under the blows of fate is the best gage of his stature. But Strindberg, in spite of his colossal physique, was not cast in the heroic mold. The breakdown of his fortunes caused him to turn traitor to himself, to recant and destroy his intellectual past. Whether he was actually insane is a question for psychiaters to settle; normal he certainly was not. In medical opinion his modes of reacting to the obstructions and difficulties of the daily life were conclusively symptomatic of neurasthenia. Certain obsessive ideas and idiosyncracies of his, closely bordering upon phobia, would seem to indicate grave psychic disorder. His temper and his world-view were indicative of hypochondria: he perceived only the hostile, never the friendly, aspects of events, people, and phenomena. Dejectedly he declares: "There is falseness even in the calm air and the sunshine, and I feel that happiness has no place in my lot." Destiny had assembled within him all the doubts and pangs of the modern soul, but had neglected to counterpoise them with positive and constructive convictions; so that when his small store of hopes and prospects was exhausted, he broke down from sheer hollowness of heart. He died a recluse, a penitent, and a renegade to all his past ideas and persuasions. Evidently, with his large assortment of defects both of character and of intellect, Strindberg could not be classed as one of the great constructive minds of our period. Viewed in his social importance, he will interest future students of morals chiefly as an agitator, a polemist, and in a fashion, too, as a prophet; by his uniquely aggressive veracity, he rendered a measure of valuable service to his time. But viewed as a creative writer, both of drama and fiction, he has an incontestable claim to our lasting attention. His work shows artistic ability, even though it rarely attains to greatness and is frequently marred by the bizarre qualities of his style. Presumably his will be a permanent place in the history of literature, principally because of the extraordinary subjective animation of his work. And perhaps in times less depressed than ours its gloominess may act as a valuable antidote upon the popular prejudice against being serious. His artistic profession of faith certainly should save him from wholesale condemnation. He says in one of his prefaces: "Some people have accused my tragedy of being too sad, as though one desired a merry tragedy. People clamor for Enjoyment as though Enjoyment consisted in being foolish. I find enjoyment in the powerful and terrible struggles of life; and the capability of experiencing something, of learning something, gives me pleasure." The keynote to his literary productions is the cry of the agony of being. Every line of his works is written in the shadow of the sorrow of living. In them, all that is most dismal and terrifying and therefore most tragical, becomes articulate. They are propelled by an abysmal pessimism, and because of this fact, since pessimism is one of the mightiest inspiring forces in literature, August Strindberg, its foremost spokesman, deserves to be read and understood. III THE EXALTATION OF FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE In these embattled times it is perfectly natural to expect from any discourse on Nietzsche's philosophy first of all a statement concerning the relation of that troublesome genius to the origins of the war; and this demand prompts a few candid words on that aspect of the subject at the start. For more than three years the public has been persistently taught by the press to think of Friedrich Nietzsche mainly as the powerful promoter of a systematic national movement of the German people for the conquest of the world. But there is strong and definite internal evidence in the writings of Nietzsche against the assumption that he intentionally aroused a spirit of war or aimed in any way at the world-wide preponderance of Germany's type of civilization. Nietzsche had a temperamental loathing for everything that is brutal, a loathing which was greatly intensified by his personal contact with the horrors of war while serving as a military nurse in the campaign of 1870. If there were still any one senseless enough to plead the erstwhile popular cause of Pan-Germanism, he would be likely to find more support for his argument in the writings of the de-gallicized Frenchman, Count Joseph Arthur Gobineau, or of the germanized Englishman, Houston Stewart Chamberlain, than in those of the "hermit of Maria-Sils," who does not even suggest, let alone advocate, German world-predominance in a single line of all his writings. To couple Friedrich Nietzsche with Heinrich von Treitschke as the latter's fellow herald of German ascendancy is truly preposterous. Treitschke himself was bitterly and irreconcilably set against the creator of Zarathustra,(14) in whom ever since "Unzeitgemässe Betrachtungen" he had divined "the good European,"--which to the author of the _Deutsche Geschichte_ meant the bad Prussian, and by consequence the bad German. (14) As is convincingly pointed out in a footnote of J. A. Cramb's "Germany and England." As a consummate individualist and by the same token a cosmopolite to the full, Nietzsche was the last remove from national, or strictly speaking even from racial, jingoism. Even the imputation of ordinary patriotic sentiments would have been resented by him as an insult, for such sentiments were to him a sure symptom of that gregarious disposition which was so utterly abhorrent to his feelings. In his German citizenhood he took no pride whatsoever. On every occasion that offered he vented in mordant terms his contempt for the country of his birth, boastfully proclaiming his own derivation from alien stock. He bemoaned his fate of having to write for Germans; averring that people who drank beer and smoked pipes were hopelessly incapable of understanding him. Of this extravagance in denouncing his countrymen the following account by one of his keenest American interpreters gives a fair idea. "No epithet was too outrageous, no charge was too farfetched, no manipulation or interpretation of evidence was too daring to enter into his ferocious indictment. He accused the Germans of stupidity, superstitiousness, and silliness; of a chronic weakness of dodging issues, a fatuous 'barn-yard' and 'green-pasture' contentment, of yielding supinely to the commands and exactions of a clumsy and unintelligent government; of degrading education to the low level of mere cramming and examination passing; of a congenital inability to understand and absorb the culture of other peoples, and particularly the culture of the French; of a boorish bumptiousness, and an ignorant, ostrichlike complacency; of a systematic hostility to men of genius, whether in art, science, or philosophy; of a slavish devotion to the two great European narcotics, alcohol and Christianity; of a profound beeriness, a spiritual dyspepsia, a puerile mysticism, an old-womanish pettiness, and an ineradicable liking for the obscure, evolving, crepuscular, damp, and shrouded."(15) It certainly requires a violent twist of logic to hold this catalogue of invectives responsible for the transformation of a sluggish and indolent bourgeoisie into a "Volk in Waffen" unified by an indomitable and truculent rapacity. (15) H. L. Mencken, "The Mailed Fist and Its Prophet." _Atlantic Monthly_, November, 1914. Neither should Nietzsche's general condemnation of mild and tender forbearance--on the ground that it blocks the purpose of nature--be interpreted as a call to universal militancy. By his ruling it is only supermen that are privileged to carry their will through. But undeniably he does teach that the world belongs to the strong. They may grab it at any temporary loss to the common run of humanity and, if need be, with sanguinary force, since their will is, ulteriorly, identical with the cosmic purpose. Of course this is preaching war of some sort, but Nietzsche was not in favor of war on ethnic or ethical grounds, like that fanatical militarist, General von Bernhardi, whom the great mass of his countrymen in the time before the war would have bluntly rejected as their spokesman. Anyway, Nietzsche did not mean to encourage Germany to subjugate the rest of the world. He even deprecated her victory in the bloody contest of 1870, because he thought that it had brought on a form of material prosperity of which internal decay and the collapse of intellectual and spiritual ideals were the unfortunate concomitants. At the same time, the universal decrepitude prevented the despiser of his own people from conceiving a decided preference for some other country. He held that all European nations were progressing in the wrong direction,--the deadweight of exaggerated and misshapen materialism dragged them back and down. English life he deemed almost irredeemably clogged by utilitarianism. Even France, the only modern commonwealth credited by Nietzsche with an indigenous culture, was governed by what he stigmatizes as the life philosophy of the shopkeeper. Nietzsche is destitute of national ideals. In fact he never thinks in terms of politics. He aims to be "a good European, not a good German." In his aversion to the extant order of society he never for a moment advocates, like Rousseau or Tolstoy, a breach with civilization. Cataclysmic changes through anarchy, revolution, and war were repugnant to his ideals of culture. For two thousand years the races of Europe had toiled to humanize themselves, school their character, equip their minds, refine their tastes. Could any sane reformer have calmly contemplated the possible engulfment in another Saturnian age of the gains purchased by that enormous expenditure of human labor? According to Nietzsche's conviction, the new dispensation could not be entered in a book of blank pages. A higher civilization could only be reared upon a lower. So it seems that he is quite wrongly accused of having been an "accessory before the deed," in any literal or legal sense, to the stupendous international struggle witnessed to-day. And we may pass on to consider in what other way he was a vital factor of modern social development. For whatever we may think of the political value of his teachings, it is impossible to deny their arousing and inspiriting effect upon the intellectual, moral, and artistic faculties of his epoch and ours. * * * * * It should be clearly understood that the significance of Nietzsche for our age is not to be explained by any weighty discovery in the realm of knowledge. Nietzsche's merit consists not in any unriddling of the universe by a metaphysical key to its secrets, but rather in the diffusion of a new intellectual light elucidating human consciousness in regard to the purpose and the end of existence. Nietzsche has no objective truths to teach, indeed he acknowledges no truth other than subjective. Nor does he put any faith in bare logic, but on the contrary pronounces it one of mankind's greatest misfortunes. His argumentation is not sustained and progressive, but desultory, impressionistic, and freely repetitional; slashing aphorism is its most effective tool. And so, in the sense of the schools, he is not a philosopher at all; quite the contrary, an implacable enemy of the _métier_. And yet the formative and directive influence of his vaticinations, enunciated with tremendous spiritual heat and lofty gesture, has been very great. His conception of life has acted upon the generation as a moral intoxicant of truly incalculable strength. Withal his published work, amounting to eighteen volumes, though flagrantly irrational, yet does contain a perfectly coherent doctrine. Only, it is a doctrine to whose core mere peripheric groping will never negotiate the approach. Its essence must be caught by flashlike seizure and cannot be conveyed except to minds of more than the average imaginative sensibility. For its central ideas relate to the remotest ultimates, and its dominant prepossession, the _Overman_, is, in the final reckoning, the creature of a Utopian fancy. To be more precise, Nietzsche extorts from the Darwinian theory of selection a set of amazing connotations by means of the simultaneous shift from the biological to the poetic sphere of thought and from the averagely socialized to an uncompromisingly self-centred attitude of mind. This doubly eccentric position is rendered feasible for him by a whole-souled indifference to exact science and an intense contempt for the practical adjustments of life. He is, first and last, an imaginative schemer, whose visions are engendered by inner exuberance; the propelling power of his philosophy being an intense temperamental enthusiasm at one and the same time lyrically sensitive and dramatically impassioned. It is these qualities of soul that made his utterance ring with the force of a high moral challenge. All the same, he was not any more original in his ethics than in his theory of knowledge. In this field also his receptive mind threw itself wide open to the flow of older influences which it encountered. The religion of personal advantage had had many a prophet before Nietzsche. Among the older writers, Machiavelli was its weightiest champion. In Germany, Nietzsche's immediate predecessor was "Max Stirner,"(16) and as regards foreign thinkers, Nietzsche declared as late as 1888 that to no other writer of his own century did he feel himself so closely allied by the ties of congeniality as to Ralph Waldo Emerson. (16) His real name was Kaspar Schmidt; he lived from 1806-1856. The most superficial acquaintance with these writers shows that Nietzsche is held responsible for certain revolutionary notions of which he by no means was the originator. Of the connection of his doctrine with the maxims of "The Prince" and of "The Ego and His Own" (_Der Einzige und sein Eigentum_)(17) nothing further need be said than that to them Nietzsche owes, directly or indirectly, the principle of "non-morality." However, he does not employ the same strictly intellectual methods. They were logicians rather than moralists, and their ruler-man is in the main a construction of cold reasoning, while the ruler-man of Nietzsche is the vision of a genius whose eye looks down a much longer perspective than is accorded to ordinary mortals. That a far greater affinity of temper should have existed between Nietzsche and Emerson than between him and the two classic non-moralists, must bring surprise to the many who have never recognized the Concord Sage as an exponent of unfettered individualism. Yet in fact Emerson goes to such an extreme of individualism that the only thing that has saved his memory from anathema is that he has not many readers in his after-times, and these few do not always venture to understand him. And Emerson, though in a different way from Nietzsche's, was also a rhapsodist. In his poetry, where he articulates his meaning with far greater unrestraint than in his prose, we find without any difficulty full corroboration of his spiritual kinship with Nietzsche. For instance, where may we turn in the works of the latter for a stronger statement of the case of Power versus Pity than is contained in "The World Soul"? "He serveth the servant, The brave he loves amain, He kills the cripple and the sick, And straight begins again; For gods delight in gods, And thrust the weak aside,-- To him who scorns their charities Their arms fly open wide." From such a world-view what moral could proceed more logically than that of Zarathustra: "And him whom ye do not teach to fly, teach--how to fall quicker"? (17) By Machiavelli and Stirner, respectively. But after all, the intellectual origin of Nietzsche's ideas matters but little. Wheresoever they were derived from, he made them strikingly his own by raising them to the splendid elevation of his thought. And if nevertheless he has failed to take high rank and standing among the sages of the schools, this shortage in his professional prestige is more than counterbalanced by the wide reach of his influence among the laity. What might the re-classification, or perchance even the re-interpretation, of known facts about life have signified beside Nietzsche's lofty apprehension of the sacredness of life itself? For whatever may be the social menace of his reasoning, his commanding proclamation to an expectant age of the doctrine that Progress means infinite growth towards ideals of perfection has resulted in a singular reanimation of the individual sense of dignity, served as a potent remedy of social dry-rot, and furthered our gradual emergence from the impenetrable darkness of ancestral traditions. In seeking an adequate explanation of his power over modern minds we readily surmise that his philosophy draws much of its vitality from the system of science that underlies it. And yet while it is true enough that Nietzsche's fundamental thesis is an offshoot of the Darwinian theory, the violent individualism which is the driving principle of his entire philosophy is rather opposed to the general orientation of Darwinism, since that is social. Not to the author of the "Descent of Man" directly is the modern ethical glorification of egoism indebted for its measure of scientific sanction, but to one of his heterodox disciples, namely to the bio-philosopher W. H. Rolph, who in a volume named "Biologic Problems," with the subtitle, "An Essay in Rational Ethics,"(18) deals definitely with the problem of evolution in its dynamical bearings. The question is raised, Why do the extant types of life ascend toward higher goals, and, on reaching them, progress toward still higher goals, to the end of time? Under the reason as explained by Darwin, should not evolution stop at a definite stage, namely, when the object of the competitive struggle for existence has been fully attained? Self-preservation naturally ceases to act as an incentive to further progress, so soon as the weaker contestants are beaten off the field and the survival of the fittest is abundantly secured. From there on we have to look farther for an adequate causation of the ascent of species. Unless we assume the existence of an absolutistic teleological tendency to perfection, we are logically bound to connect upward development with favorable external conditions. By substituting for the Darwinian "struggle for existence" a new formula: "struggle for surplus," Rolph advances a new fruitful hypothesis. In all creatures the acquisitive cravings exceed the limit of actual necessity. Under Darwin's interpretation of nature, the struggle between individuals of the same species would give way to pacific equilibrium as soon as the bare subsistence were no longer in question. Yet we know that the struggle is unending. The creature appetites are not appeased by a normal sufficiency; on the contrary, "_l'appetit vient en mangeant_"; the possessive instinct, if not quite insatiable, is at least coextensive with its opportunities for gratification. Whether or not it be true--as Carlyle claims--that, after all, the fundamental question between any two human beings is, "Can I kill thee, or canst thou kill me?"--at any rate in civilized human society the contest is not waged merely for the naked existence, but mainly for life's increments in the form of comforts, pleasures, luxuries, and the accumulation of power and influence; and the excess of acquisition over immediate need goes as a residuum into the structure of civilization. In plain words, then, social progress is pushed on by individual greed and ambition. At this point Rolph rests the case, without entering into the moral implicates of the subject, which would seem to obtrude themselves upon the attention. (18) _Biologische Probleme, zugleich als Versuch einer rationellen Ethik._ Leipzig, 1882. Now to a believer in progressive evolution with a strong ethical bent such a theory brings home man's ulterior responsibility for the betterment of life, and therefore acts as a call to his supreme duty of preparing the ground for the arrival of a higher order of beings. The argument seems simple and clinching. Living nature through a long file of species and genera has at last worked up to the _homo sapiens_ who as yet does not even approach the perfection of his own type. Is it a legitimate ambition of the race to mark time on the stand which it has reached and to entrench itself impregnably in its present mediocrity? Nietzsche did not shrink from any of the inferential conclusions logically to be drawn from the biologic argument. If growth is in the purpose of nature, then once we have accepted our chief office in life, it becomes our task to pave the way for a higher genus of man. And the only force that makes with directness for that object is the Will to Power. To foreshadow the resultant human type, Nietzsche resurrected from Goethe's vocabulary the convenient word _Übermensch_--"Overman." * * * * * Any one regarding existence in the light of a stern and perpetual combat is of necessity driven at last to the alternative between making the best of life and making an end of it; he must either seek lasting deliverance from the evil of living or endeavor to wrest from the world by any means at his command the greatest sum of its gratifications. It is serviceable to describe the two frames of mind respectively as the optimistic and the pessimistic. But it would perhaps be hasty to conclude that the first of these attitudes necessarily betokens the greater strength of character. Friedrich Nietzsche's philosophy sprang from pessimism, yet issued in an optimism of unheard-of exaltation; carrying, however, to the end its plainly visible birthmarks. He started out as an enthusiastic disciple of Arthur Schopenhauer; unquestionably the adherence was fixed by his own deep-seated contempt for the complacency of the plebs. But he was bound soon to part company with the grandmaster of pessimism, because he discovered the root of the philosophy of renunciation in that same detestable debility of the will which he deemed responsible for the bovine lassitude of the masses; both pessimism and philistinism came from a lack of vitality, and were symptoms of racial degeneracy. But before Nietzsche finally rejected Schopenhauer and gave his shocking counterblast to the undermining action of pessimism, he succumbed temporarily to the spell of another gigantic personality. We are not concerned with Richard Wagner's musical influence upon Nietzsche, who was himself a musician of no mean ability; what is to the point here is the prime principle of Wagner's art theory. The key to the Wagnerian theory is found, also, in Schopenhauer's philosophy. Wagner starts from the pessimistic thesis that at the bottom of the well of life lies nothing but suffering,--hence living is utterly undesirable. In one of his letters to Franz Liszt he names as the duplex root of his creative genius the longing for love and the yearning for death. On another occasion, he confesses his own emotional nihilism in the following summary of _Tristan und Isolde_: "_Sehnsucht, Sehnsucht, unstillbares, ewig neu sich gebärendes Verlangen--Schmachten und Dursten; einzige Erlösung: Tod, Sterben, Untergehen,--Nichtmehrerwachen._"(19) But from the boundless ocean of sorrow there is a refuge. It was Wagner's fundamental dogma that through the illusions of art the individual is enabled to rise above the hopelessness of the realities into a new cosmos replete with supreme satisfactions. Man's mundane salvation therefore depends upon the ministrations of art and his own artistic sensitiveness. The glorification of genius is a natural corollary of such a belief. (19) "Longing, longing, unquenchable desire, reproducing itself forever anew--thirst and drought; sole deliverance: death, dissolution, extinction,--and no awaking." Nietzsche in one of his earliest works examines Wagner's theory and amplifies it by a rather casuistic interpretation of the evolution of art. After raising the question, How did the Greeks contrive to dignify and ennoble their national existence? he points, by way of an illustrative answer, not perchance to the Periclean era, but to a far more primitive epoch of Hellenic culture, when a total oblivion of the actual world and a transport into the realm of imagination was universally possible. He explains the trance as the effect of intoxication,--primarily in the current literal sense of the word. Such was the significance of the cult of Dionysos. "Through singing and dancing," claims Nietzsche, "man manifests himself as member of a higher community. Walking and talking he has unlearned, and is in a fair way to dance up into the air." That this supposititious Dionysiac phase of Hellenic culture was in turn succeeded by more rational stages, in which the impulsive flow of life was curbed and dammed in by operations of the intellect, is not permitted by Nietzsche to invalidate the argument. By his arbitrary reading of ancient history he was, at first, disposed to look to the forthcoming _Universal-Kunstwerk_(20) as the complete expression of a new religious spirit and as the adequate lever of a general uplift of mankind to a state of bliss. But the typical disparity between Wagner and Nietzsche was bound to alienate them. Wagner, despite all appearance to the contrary, is inherently democratic in his convictions,--his earlier political vicissitudes amply confirm this view,--and fastens his hope for the elevation of humanity through art upon the sort of genius in whom latent popular forces might combine to a new summit. Nietzsche on the other hand represents the extreme aristocratic type, both in respect of thought and of sentiment. "I do not wish to be confounded with and mistaken for these preachers of equality," says he. "For within _me_ justice saith: men are not equal." His ideal is a hero of coercive personality, dwelling aloft in solitude, despotically bending the gregarious instincts of the common crowd to his own higher purposes by the dominating force of his Will to Might. (20) Work of all arts. The concept of the Overman rests, as has been shown, upon a fairly solid substructure of plausibility, since at the bottom of the author's reasoning lies the notion that mankind is destined to outgrow its current status; the thought of a humanity risen to new and wondrous heights of power over nature is not necessarily unscientific for being supremely imaginative. The Overman, however, cannot be produced ready made, by any instantaneous process; he must be slowly and persistently willed into being, through love of the new ideal which he is to embody: "All great Love," speaketh Zarathustra, "seeketh to create what it loveth. _Myself_ I sacrifice into my love, and _my neighbor_ as myself, thus runneth the speech of all creators." Only the fixed conjoint purpose of many generations of aspiring men will be able to create the Overman. "Could you create a God?--Then be silent concerning all gods! But ye could very well create Beyond-man. Not yourselves perhaps, my brethren! But ye could create yourselves into fathers and fore-fathers of Beyond-man; and let this be your best creating. But all creators are hard." Nietzsche's startlingly heterodox code of ethics coheres organically with the Overman hypothesis, and so understood is certain to lose some of its aspect of absurdity. The racial will, as we have seen, must be taught to aim at the Overman. But the volitional faculty of the generation, according to Nietzsche, is so debilitated as to be utterly inadequate to its office. Hence, advisedly to stimulate and strengthen the enfeebled will power of his fellow men is the most imperative and immediate task of the radical reformer. Once the power of willing, as such, shall have been,--regardless of the worthiness of its object,--brought back to active life, it will be feasible to give the Will to Might a direction towards objects of the highest moral grandeur. Unfortunately for the race as a whole, the throng is ineligible for partnership in the auspicious scheme of co-operative procreation: which fact necessitates a segregative method of breeding. The Overman can only be evolved by an ancestry of master-men, who must be secured to the race by a rigid application of eugenic standards, particularly in the matter of mating. Of marriage, Nietzsche has this definition: "Marriage, so call I the will of two to create one who is more than they who created him." For the bracing of the weakened will-force of the human breed it is absolutely essential that master-men, the potential progenitors of the superman, be left unhampered to the impulse of "living themselves out" (_sich auszuleben_),--an opportunity of which under the regnant code of morals they are inconsiderately deprived. Since, then, existing dictates and conventions are a serious hindrance to the requisite autonomy of the master-man, their abolishment might be well. Yet on the other hand, it is convenient that the _Vielzuviele_, the "much-too-many," i. e. the despised generality of people, should continue to be governed and controlled by strict rules and regulations, so that the will of the master-folk might the more expeditiously be wrought. Would it not, then, be an efficacious compromise to keep the canon of morality in force for the general run, but suspend it for the special benefit of master-men, prospective or full-fledged? From the history of the race Nietzsche draws a warrant for the distinction. His contention is that masters and slaves have never lived up to a single code of conduct. Have not civilizations risen and fallen according as they were shaped by this or that class of nations? History also teaches what disastrous consequences follow the loss of caste. In the case of the Jewish people, the domineering type or morals gave way to the servile as a result of the Babylonian captivity. So long as the Jews were strong, they extolled all manifestations of strength and energy. The collapse of their own strength turned them into apologists of the so-called "virtues" of humility, long-suffering, forgiveness,--until, according to the Judæo-Christian code of ethics, being good came to mean being weak. So races may justly be classified into masters and slaves, and history proves that to the strong goes the empire. The ambitions of a nation are a sure criterion of its worth. "I walk through these folk and keep mine eyes open. They have become _smaller_ and are becoming ever smaller. _And the reason of that is their doctrine of happiness and virtue._ For they are modest even in their virtue; for they are desirous of ease. But with ease only modest virtue is compatible. True, in their fashion they learn how to stride and to stride forward. That I call their _hobbling_. Thereby they become an offense unto every one who is in a hurry. And many a one strideth on and in doing so looketh backward, with a stiffened neck. I rejoice to run against the stomachs of such. Foot and eyes shall not lie, nor reproach each other for lying. But there is much lying among small folk. Some of them _will_, but most of them _are willed_ merely. Some of them are genuine, but most of them are bad actors. There are unconscious actors among them, and involuntary actors. The genuine are always rare, especially genuine actors. Here is little of man; therefore women try to make themselves manly. For only he who is enough of a man will save the woman in woman. And this hypocrisy I found to be worst among them, that even those who command feign the virtues of those who serve. 'I serve, thou servest, we serve.' Thus the hypocrisy of the rulers prayeth. And, alas, if the highest lord be merely the highest servant! Alas! the curiosity of mine eye strayed even unto their hypocrisies, and well I divined all their fly-happiness and their humming round window panes in the sunshine. So much kindness, so much weakness see I. So much justice and sympathy, so much weakness. Round, honest, and kind are they towards each other, as grains of sand are round, honest, and kind unto grains of sand. Modestly to embrace a small happiness--they call 'submission'! And therewith they modestly look sideways after a new small happiness. At bottom they desire plainly one thing most of all: to be hurt by nobody. Thus they oblige all and do well unto them. But this is _cowardice_; although it be called 'virtue.' And if once they speak harshly, these small folk,--I hear therein merely their hoarseness. For every draught of air maketh them hoarse. Prudent are they; their virtues have prudent fingers. But they are lacking in clenched fists; their fingers know not how to hide themselves behind fists. For them virtue is what maketh modest and tame. Thereby they have made the wolf a dog and man himself man's best domestic animal. 'We put our chair in the midst'--thus saith their simpering unto me--'exactly as far from dying gladiators as from happy swine.' This is mediocrity; although it be called moderation."(21) (21) "Thus Spake Zarathustra," pp. 243-245. The only law acknowledged by him who would be a master is the bidding of his own will. He makes short work of every other law. Whatever clogs the flight of his indomitable ambition must be ruthlessly swept aside. Obviously, the enactment of this law that would render the individual supreme and absolute would strike the death-knell for all established forms and institutions of the social body. But such is quite within Nietzsche's intention. They are noxious agencies, ingeniously devised for the enslavement of the will, and the most pernicious among them is the Christian religion, because of the alleged divine sanction conferred by it upon subserviency. Christianity would thwart the supreme will of nature by curbing that lust for domination which the laws of nature as revealed by science sanction, nay prescribe. Nietzsche's ideas on this subject are loudly and over-loudly voiced in _Der Antichrist_ ("The Anti-Christ"), written in September 1888 as the first part of a planned treatise in four instalments, entitled _Der Wille zur Macht. Versuch einer Umwertung aller Werte_. ("The Will to Power. An Attempted Transvaluation of All Values".) * * * * * The master-man's will, then, is his only law. That is the essence of _Herrenmoral_. And so the question arises, Whence shall the conscience of the ruler-man derive its distinctions between the Right and the Wrong? The arch-iconoclast brusquely stifles this naïve query beforehand by assuring us that such distinctions in their accepted sense do not exist for personages of that grander stamp. Heedless of the time-hallowed concepts that all men share in common, he enjoins mastermen to take their position uncompromisingly outside the confining area of conventions, in the moral independence that dwells "beyond good and evil." Good and Evil are mere denotations, devoid of any real significance. Right and Wrong are not ideals immutable through the ages, nor even the same at any time in all states of society. They are vague and general notions, varying more or less with the practical exigencies under which they were conceived. What was right for my great-grandfather is not _ipso facto_ right for myself. Hence, the older and better established a law, the more inapposite is it apt to be to the living demands. Why should the ruler-man bow down to outworn statutes or stultify his self-dependent moral sense before the artificial and stupidly uniform moral relics of the dead past? Good is whatever conduces to the increase of my power,--evil is whatever tends to diminish it! Only the weakling and the hypocrite will disagree. Unmistakably this is a straightout application of the "pragmatic" criterion of truth. Nietzsche's unconfessed and cautious imitators, who call themselves pragmatists, are not bold enough to follow their own logic from the cognitive sphere to the moral. They stop short of the natural conclusion to which their own premises lead. Morality is necessarily predicated upon specific notions of truth. So if Truth is an alterable and shifting concept, must not morality likewise be variable? The pragmatist might just as well come out at once into the broad light and frankly say: "Laws do not interest me in the abstract, or for the sake of their general beneficence; they interest me only in so far as they affect me. Therefore I will make, interpret, and abolish them to suit myself." To Nietzsche the "quest of truth" is a palpable evasion. Truth is merely a means for the enhancement of my subjective satisfaction. It makes not a whit of difference whether an opinion or a judgment satisfies this or that scholastic definition. I call true and good that which furthers my welfare and intensifies my joy in living; and,--to vindicate my self-gratification as a form, indeed the highest, of "social service,"--the desirable thing is that which matters for the improvement of the human stock and thereby speeds the advent of the Superman. "Oh," exclaims Zarathustra, "that ye would understand my word: Be sure to do whatever ye like,--but first of all be such as _can will_! Be sure to love your neighbor as yourself,--but first of all be such as _love themselves_,--as love themselves with great love, with contempt. Thus speaketh Zarathustra, the ungodly." By way of throwing some light upon this phase of Nietzsche's moral philosophy, it may be added that ever since 1876 he was an assiduous student of Herbert Spencer, with whose theory of social evolution he was first made acquainted by his friend, Paul Rée, who in two works of his own, "Psychologic Observations," (1875), and "On the Origin of Moral Sentiments," (1877), had elaborated upon the Spencerian theory about the genealogy of morals. The best known among all of Nietzsche's works, _Also Sprach Zarathustra_ ("Thus Spake Zarathustra"), is the Magna Charta of the new moral emancipation. It was composed during a sojourn in southern climes between 1883 and 1885, during the convalescence from a nervous collapse, when after a long and critical depression his spirit was recovering its accustomed resilience. Nietzsche wrote his _magnum opus_ in solitude, in the mountains and by the sea. His mind always was at its best in settings of vast proportions, and in this particular work there breathes an exaltation that has scarcely its equal in the world's literature. Style and diction in their supreme elation suit the lofty fervor of the sentiment. From the feelings, as a fact, this great rhapsody flows, and to the feelings it makes its appeal; its extreme fascination must be lost upon those who only know how to "listen to reason." The wondrous plastic beauty of the language, along with the high emotional pitch of its message, render "Zarathustra" a priceless poetic monument; indeed its practical effect in chastening and rejuvenating German literary diction can hardly be overestimated. Its value as a philosophic document is much slighter. It is not even organized on severely logical lines. On the contrary, the four component parts are but brilliant variations upon a single generic theme, each in a different clef, but harmoniously united by the incremental ecstasy of the movement. The composition is free from monotony, for down to each separate aphorism every part of it has its special lyric nuance. The whole purports to convey in the form of discourse the prophetic message of Zarathustra, the hermit sage, an idealized self-portrayal of the author. In the first book the tone is calm and temperate. Zarathustra exhorts and instructs his disciples, rails at his adversaries, and discloses his superiority over them. In the soliloquies and dialogues of the second book he reveals himself more fully and freely as the Superman. The third book contains the meditations and rhapsodies of Zarathustra now dwelling wholly apart from men, his mind solely occupied with thought about the Eternal Return of the Present. In the fourth book he is found in the company of a few chosen spirits whom he seeks to imbue with his perfected doctrine. In this final section of the work the deep lyric current is already on the ebb; it is largely supplanted by irony, satire, sarcasm, even buffoonery, all of which are resorted to for the pitiless excoriation of our type of humanity, deemed decrepit by the Sage. The author's intention to present in a concluding fifth division the dying Zarathustra pronouncing his benedictions upon life in the act of quitting it was not to bear fruit. "Zarathustra"--Nietzsche's terrific assault upon the fortifications of our social structure--is too easily mistaken by facile cavilers for the ravings of an unsound and desperate mind. To a narrow and superficial reading, it exhibits itself as a wholesale repudiation of all moral responsibility and a maniacal attempt to subvert human civilization for the exclusive benefit of the "glorious blonde brute, rampant with greed for victory and spoil." Yet those who care to look more deeply will detect beneath this chimerical contempt of conventional regulations no want of a highminded philanthropic purpose, provided they have the vision necessary to comprehend a love of man oriented by such extremely distant perspectives. At all events they will discover that in this rebellious propaganda an advancing line of life is firmly traced out. The indolent and thoughtless may indeed be horrified by the appalling dangers of the gospel according to Zarathustra. But in reality there is no great cause for alarm. Society may amply rely upon its agencies, even in these stupendous times of universal war, for protection from any disastrous organic dislocations incited by the teachings of Zarathustra, at least so far as the immediate future is concerned--in which alone society appears to be interested. Moreover, our apprehensions are appeased by the sober reflection that by its plain unfeasibleness the whole supersocial scheme of Nietzsche is reduced to colossal absurdity. Its limitless audacity defeats any formulation of its "war aims." For what compels an ambitious imagination to arrest itself at the goal of the superman? Why should it not run on beyond that first terminal? In one of Mr. G. K. Chesterton's labored extravaganzas a grotesque sort of super-overman _in spe_ succeeds in going beyond unreason when he contrives this lucid self-definition: "I have gone where God has never dared to go. I am above the silly supermen as they are above mere men. Where I walk in the Heavens, no man has walked before me, and I am alone in a garden." It is enough to make one gasp and then perhaps luckily recall Goethe's consoling thought that under the care of Providence the trees will not grow into the heavens. ("_Es ist dafür gesorgt, dass die Bäume nicht in den Himmel wachsen._") As matter of fact, the ideas promulgated in _Also Sprach Zarathustra_ need inspire no fear of their winning the human race from its venerable idols, despite the fact that the pull of natural laws and of elemental appetites seems to be on their side. The only effect to be expected of such a philosophy is that it will act as an antidote for moral inertia which inevitably goes with the flock-instinct and the lazy reliance on the accustomed order of things. Nietzsche's ethics are not easy to valuate, since none of their standards are derived from the orthodox canon. His being a truly personalized form of morality, his principles are strictly cognate to his temperament. To his professed ideals there attaches a definite theory of society. And since his philosophy is consistent in its sincerity, its message is withheld from the man-in-the-street, deemed unworthy of notice, and delivered only to the _élite_ that shall beget the superman. To Nietzsche the good of the greatest number is no valid consideration. The great stupid mass exists only for the sake of an oligarchy by whom it is duly exploited under nature's decree that the strong shall prey upon the weak. Let, then, this favored set further the design of nature by systematically encouraging the elevation of their own type. * * * * * We have sought to dispel the fiction about the shaping influence of Nietzsche upon the thought and conduct of his nation, and have accounted for the miscarriage of his ethics by their fantastic impracticability. Yet it has been shown also that he fostered in an unmistakable fashion the class-consciousness of the aristocrat, born or self-appointed. To that extent his influence was certainly malign. Yet doubtless he did perform a service to our age. The specific nature of this service, stated in the fewest words, is that to his great divinatory gift are we indebted for an unprecedented strengthening of our hold upon reality. In order to make this point clear we have to revert once more to Nietzsche's transient intellectual relation to pessimism. We have seen that the illusionism of Schopenhauer and more particularly of Wagner exerted a strong attraction on his high-strung artistic temperament. Nevertheless a certain realistic counter-drift to the ultra-romantic tendency of Wagner's theory caused him in the long run to reject the faith in the power of Art to save man from evil. Almost abruptly, his personal affection for the "Master," to whom in his eventual mental eclipse he still referred tenderly at lucid moments, changed to bitter hostility. Henceforth he classes the glorification of Art as one of the three most despicable attitudes of life: Philistinism, Pietism, and Estheticism, all of which have their origin in _cowardice_, represent three branches of the ignominious road of escape from the terrors of living. In three extended diatribes Nietzsche denounces Wagner as the archetype of modern decadence; the most violent attack of all is delivered against the point of juncture in which Wagner's art gospel and the Christian religion culminate: the promise of redemption through pity. To Nietzsche's way of thinking pity is merely the coward's acknowledgment of his weakness. For only insomuch as a man is devoid of fortitude in bearing his own sufferings is he unable to contemplate with equanimity the sufferings of his fellow creatures. Since religion enjoins compassion with all forms of human misery, we should make war upon religion. And for the reason that Wagner's crowning achievement, his _Parsifal_, is a veritable sublimation of Mercy, there can be no truce between its creator and the giver of the counsel: "Be hard!" Perhaps this notorious advice is after all not as ominous as it sounds. It merely expresses rather abruptly Nietzsche's confidence in the value of self-control as a means of discipline. If you have learned calmly to see others suffer, you are yourself able to endure distress with manful composure. "Therefore I wash the hand which helped the sufferer; therefore I even wipe my soul." But, unfortunately, such is the frailty of human nature that it is only one step from indifference about the sufferings of others to an inclination to exploit them or even to inflict pain upon one's neighbors for the sake of personal gain of one sort or another. Why so hard? said once the charcoal unto the diamond, are we not near relations? Why so soft? O my brethren, thus I ask you. Are ye not my brethren? Why so soft, so unresisting, and yielding? Why is there so much disavowal and abnegation in your hearts? Why is there so little fate in your looks? And if ye are not willing to be fates, and inexorable, how could ye conquer with me someday? And if your hardness would not glance, and cut, and chip into pieces--how could ye create with me some day? For all creators are hard. And it must seem blessedness unto you to press your hand upon millenniums as upon wax,-- Blessedness to write upon the will of millenniums as upon brass,--harder than brass, nobler than brass. The noblest only is perfectly hard. This new table, O my brethren, I put over you: Become hard!(22) (22) "Thus Spake Zarathustra," p. 399, sec. 29. The repudiation of Wagner leaves a tremendous void in Nietzsche's soul by depriving his enthusiasm of its foremost concrete object. He loses his faith in idealism. When illusions can bring a man like Wagner to such an odious outlook upon life, they must be obnoxious in themselves; and so, after being subjected to pitiless analysis, they are disowned and turned into ridicule. And now, the pendulum of his zeal having swung from one emotional extreme to the other, the great rhapsodist finds himself temporarily destitute of an adequate theme. However, his fervor does not long remain in abeyance, and soon it is absorbed in a new object. Great as is the move it is logical enough. Since illusions are only a hindrance to the fuller grasp of life which behooves all free spirits, Nietzsche energetically turns from self-deception to its opposite, self-realization. In this new spiritual endeavor he relies far more on intuition than on scientific and metaphysical speculation. From his own stand he is certainly justified in doing this. Experimentation and ratiocination at the best are apt to disassociate individual realities from their complex setting and then proceed to palm them off as illustrations of life, when in truth they are lifeless, artificially preserved specimens. "Encheiresin naturae nennt's die Chemie, Spottet ihrer selbst und weiss nicht wie."(23) Nietzsche's realism, by contrast, goes to the very quick of nature, grasps all the gifts of life, and from the continuous flood of phenomena extracts a rich, full-flavored essence. It is from a sense of gratitude for this boon that he becomes an idolatrous worshiper of experience, "_der grosse Jasager_,"--the great sayer of Yes,--and the most stimulating optimist of all ages. To Nietzsche reality is alive as perhaps never to man before. He plunges down to the very heart of things, absorbs their vital qualities and meanings, and having himself learned to draw supreme satisfaction from the most ordinary facts and events, he makes the common marvelous to others, which, as was said by James Russell Lowell, is a true test of genius. No wonder that deification of reality becomes the dominant _motif_ in his philosophy. But again that onesided aristocratic strain perverts his ethics. To drain the intoxicating cup at the feast of life, such is the divine privilege not of the common run of mortals but only of the elect. They must not let this or that petty and artificial convention, nor yet this or that moral command or prohibition, restrain them from the exercise of that higher sense of living, but must fully abandon themselves to its joys. "Since man came into existence he hath had too little joy. That alone, my brethren, is our original sin."(24) The "much-too-many" are doomed to inanity by their lack of appetite at the banquet of life: Such folk sit down unto dinner and bring nothing with them, not even a good hunger. And now they backbite: "All is vanity!" But to eat well and drink well, O my brethren, is, verily, no vain art! Break, break the tables of those who are never joyful!(25) (23) Goethe's _Faust_, II, ll. 1940-1. Bayard Taylor translates: _Encheiresin naturae_, this Chemistry names, nor knows how herself she banters and blames! (24) "Thus Spake Zarathustra," p. 120. (25) _Ibid._, p. 296, sec. 13. The Will to Live holds man's one chance of this-worldly bliss, and supersedes any care for the remote felicities of any problematic future state. Yet the Nietzschean cult of life is not to be understood by any means as a banal devotion to the pleasurable side of life alone. The true disciple finds in every event, be it happy or adverse, exalting or crushing, the factors of supreme spiritual satisfaction: joy and pain are equally implied in experience, the Will to Live encompasses jointly the capacity to enjoy and to suffer. It may even be paradoxically said that since man owes some of his greatest and most beautiful achievements to sorrow, it must be a joy and a blessing to suffer. The unmistakable sign of heroism is _amor fati_, a fierce delight in one's destiny, hold what it may. Consequently, the precursor of the superman will be possessed, along with his great sensibility to pleasure, of a capacious aptitude for suffering. "Ye would perchance abolish suffering," exclaims Nietzsche, "and we,--it seems that we would rather have it even greater and worse than it has ever been. The discipline of suffering,--tragical suffering,--know ye not that only this discipline has heretofore brought about every elevation of man?" "Spirit is that life which cutteth into life. By one's own pain one's own knowledge increaseth;--knew ye that before? And the happiness of the spirit is this: to be anointed and consecrated by tears as a sacrificial animal;--knew ye that before?" And if, then, the tragical pain inherent in life be no argument against Joyfulness, the zest of living can be obscured by nothing save the fear of total extinction. To the disciple of Nietzsche, by whom every moment of his existence is realized as a priceless gift, the thought of his irrevocable separation from all things is unbearable. "'Was this life?' I shall say to Death. 'Well, then, once more!'" And--to paraphrase Nietzsche's own simile--the insatiable witness of the great tragi-comedy, spectator and participant at once, being loath to leave the theatre, and eager for a repetition of the performance, shouts his endless _encore_, praying fervently that in the constant repetition of the performance not a single detail of the action be omitted. The yearning for the endlessness not of life at large, not of life on any terms, but of _this my life_ with its ineffable wealth of rapturous moments, works up the extreme optimism of Nietzsche to its stupendous _a priori_ notion of infinity, expressed in the name _die ewige Wiederkehr_ ("Eternal Recurrence"). It is a staggeringly imaginative concept, formed apart from any evidential grounds, and yet fortified with a fair amount of logical armament. The universe is imagined as endless in time, although its material contents are not equally conceived as limitless. Since, consequently, there must be a limit to the possible variety in the arrangement and sequence of the sum total of data, even as in the case of a kaleidoscope, the possibility of variegations is not infinite. The particular co-ordination of things in the universe, say at this particular moment, is bound to recur again and again in the passing of the eons. But under the nexus of cause and effect the resurgence of the past from the ocean of time is not accidental nor is the configuration of things haphazard, as is true in the case of the kaleidoscope; rather, history, in the most inclusive acceptation of the term, is predestined to repeat itself; this happens through the perpetual progressive resurrection of its particles. It is then to be assumed that any aspect which the world has ever presented must have existed innumerable millions of times before, and must recur with eternal periodicity. That the deterministic strain in this tremendous _Vorstellung_ of a cyclic rhythm throbbing in the universe entangles its author's fanatical belief in evolution in a rather serious self-contradiction, does not detract from its spiritual lure, nor from its wide suggestiveness, however incapable it may be of scientific demonstration. From unfathomed depths of feeling wells up the pæan of the prophet of the life intense. O Mensch! Gib Acht! Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht? Ich schlief, ich schlief--, Aus tiefem Traum bin ich erwacht:-- Die Welt ist tief, Und tiefer als der Tag gedacht. Tief ist ihr Weh--, Lust--tiefer noch als Herzeleid: Weh spricht: Vergeh! Doch alle Lust will Ewigkeit-- Will tiefe, tiefe Ewigkeit!(26) (26) O man! Lose not sight! What saith the deep midnight? "I lay in sleep, in sleep; From deep dream I woke to light. The world is deep, And deeper than ever day though! it might. Deep is its woe,-- And deeper still than woe--delight." Saith woe: "Pass, go! Eternity's sought by all delight,-- Eternity deep--by all delight. "Thus Spake Zarathustra," The Drunken Song, p. 174.--The translation but faintly suggests the poetic appeal of the original. A timid heart may indeed recoil from the iron necessity of reliving _ad infinitum_ its woeful terrestrial fate. But the prospect can hold no terror for the heroic soul by whose fiat all items of experience have assumed important meanings and values. He who has cast in his lot with Destiny in spontaneous submission to all its designs, cannot but revere and cherish his own fate as an integral part of the grand unalterable fatality of things. * * * * * If this crude presentment of Friedrich Nietzsche's doctrine has not entirely failed of its purpose, the _leitmotifs_ of that doctrine will have been readily referred by the reader to their origin; they can be subsumed under that temperamental category which is more or less accurately defined as the _romantic_. Glorification of violent passion,--quest of innermost mysteries,--boundless expansion of self-consciousness,--visions of a future of transcendent magnificence, and notwithstanding an ardent worship of reality a quixotically impracticable detachment from the concrete basis of civic life,--these outstanding characteristics of the Nietzschean philosophy give unmistakable proof of a central, driving, romantic inspiration: Nietzsche shifts the essence and principle of being to a new center of gravity, by substituting the Future for the Present and relying on the untrammeled expansion of spontaneous forces which upon closer examination are found to be without definite aim or practical goal. For this reason, critically to animadvert upon Nietzsche as a social reformer would be utterly out of place; he is simply too much of a poet to be taken seriously as a statesman or politician. The weakness of his philosophy before the forum of Logic has been referred to before. Nothing can be easier than to prove the incompatibility of some of his theorems. How, for instance, can the absolute determinism of the belief in Cyclic Recurrence be reconciled with the power vested in superman to deflect by his autonomous will the straight course of history? Or, to touch upon a more practical social aspect of his teaching,--if in the order of nature all men are unequal, how can we ever bring about the right selection of leaders, how indeed can we expect to secure the due ascendancy of character and intellect over the gregarious grossness of the demos? Again, it is easy enough to controvert Nietzsche almost at any pass by demonstrating his unphilosophic onesidedness. Were Nietzsche not stubbornly onesided, he would surely have conceded--as any sane-minded person must concede in these times of suffering and sacrifice--that charity, self-abnegation, and self-immolation might be viewed, not as conclusive proofs of degeneracy, but on the contrary as signs of growth towards perfection. Besides, philosophers of the _métier_ are sure to object to the haziness of Nietzsche's idea of Vitality which in truth is oriented, as is his philosophy in general, less by thought than by sentiment. Notwithstanding his obvious connection with significant contemporaneous currents, the author of "Zarathustra" is altogether too much _sui generis_ to be amenable to any crude and rigid classification. He may plausibly be labelled an anarchist, yet no definition of anarchism will wholly take him in. Anarchism stands for the demolition of the extant social apparatus of restraint. Its battle is for the free determination of personal happiness. Nietzsche's prime concern, contrarily, is with internal self-liberation from the obsessive desire for personal happiness in any accepted connotation of the term; such happiness to him does not constitute the chief object of life. The cardinal point of Nietzsche's doctrine is missed by those who, arguing retrospectively, expound the gist of his philosophy as an incitation to barbarism. Nothing can be more remote from his intentions than the transformation of society into a horde of ferocious brutes. His impeachment of mercy, notwithstanding an appearance of reckless impiety, is in the last analysis no more and no less than an expedient in the truly romantic pursuit of a new ideal of Love. Compassion, in his opinion, hampers the progress towards forms of living that shall be pregnant with a new and superior type of perfection. And in justice to Nietzsche it should be borne in mind that among the various manifestations of that human failing there is none he scorns so deeply as cowardly and petty commiseration of self. It also deserves to be emphasized that he nowhere endorses selfishness when exercised for small or sordid objects. "I love the brave. But it is not enough to be a swordsman, one must also know against whom to use the sword. And often there is more bravery in one's keeping quiet and going past, in order to spare one's self for a worthier enemy: Ye shall have only enemies who are to be hated, but not enemies who are to be despised."(27) Despotism must justify itself by great and worthy ends. And no man must be permitted to be hard towards others who lacks the strength of being even harder towards himself. (27) "Thus Spake Zarathustra," p. 304. At all events it must serve a better purpose to appraise the practical importance of Nietzsche's speculations than blankly to denounce their immoralism. Nietzsche, it has to be repeated, was not on the whole a creator of new ideas. His extraordinary influence in the recent past is not due to any supreme originality or fertility of mind; it is predominantly due to his eagle-winged imagination. In him the emotional urge of utterance was, accordingly, incomparably more potent than the purely intellectual force of opinion: in fact the texture of his philosophy is woven of sensations rather than of ideas, hence its decidedly ethical trend. The latent value of Nietzsche's ethics in their application to specific social problems it would be extremely difficult to determine. Their successful application to general world problems, if it were possible, would mean the ruin of the only form of civilization that signifies to us. His philosophy, if swallowed in the whole, poisons; in large potations, intoxicates; but in reasonable doses, strengthens and stimulates. Such danger as it harbors has no relation to grossness. His call to the Joy of Living and Doing is no encouragement of vulgar hedonism, but a challenge to persevering effort. He urges the supreme importance of vigor of body and mind and force of will. "O my brethren, I consecrate you to be, and show unto you the way unto a new nobility. Ye shall become procreators and breeders and sowers of the future.--Not whence ye come be your honor in future, but whither ye go! Your will, and your foot that longeth to get beyond yourselves, be that your new honor!"(28) (28) "Thus Spake Zarathustra," p. 294. It would be a withering mistake to advocate the translation of Nietzsche's poetic dreams into the prose of reality. Unquestionably his Utopia if it were to be carried into practice would doom to utter extinction the world it is devised to regenerate. But it is generally acknowledged that "prophets have a right to be unreasonable," and so, if we would square ourselves with Friedrich Nietzsche in a spirit of fairness, we ought not to forget that the daring champion of reckless unrestraint is likewise the inspired apostle of action, power, enthusiasm, and aspiration, in fine, a prophet of Vitality and a messenger of Hope. IV THE REVIVALISM OF LEO TOLSTOY In the intellectual record of our times it is one of the oddest events that the most impressive preacher who has taken the ear of civilized mankind in this generation raised up his voice in a region which in respect of its political, religious, and economic status was until recently, by fairly common consent, ruled off the map of Europe. The greatest humanitarian of his century sprang up in a land chiefly characterized in the general judgment of the outside world by the reactionism of its government and the stolid ignorance of its populace. A country still teeming with analphabeticians and proverbial for its dense medievalism gave to the world a writer who by the great quality of his art and the lofty spiritualism of his teaching was able not only to obtain a wide hearing throughout all civilized countries, but to become a distinct factor in the moral evolution of the age. The stupefying events that have recently revolutionized the Russian state have given the world an inkling of the secrets of the Slavic type of temperament, so mystifying in its commixture of simplicity and strength on the one hand with grossness and stupidity, and on the other hand with the highest spirituality and idealism. For such people as in these infuriated times still keep up some objective and judicious interest in products of the literary art, the volcanic upheaval in the social life of Russia has probably thrown some of Tolstoy's less palpable figures into a greater plastic relief. Tolstoy's own character, too, has become more tangible in its curious composition. The close analogy between his personal theories and the dominant impulses of his race has now been made patent. We are better able to understand the people of whom he wrote because we have come to know better the people for whom he wrote. The emphasis of Tolstoy's popular appeal was unquestionably enhanced by certain eccentricities of his doctrine, and still more by his picturesque efforts to conform his mode of life, by way of necessary example, to his professed theory of social elevation. The personality of Tolstoy, like the character of the Russian people, is many-sided, and since its aspects are not marked off by convenient lines of division, but are, rather, commingled in the great and varied mass of his literary achievements, it is not easy to make a definitive forecast of his historic position. Tentatively, however, the current critical estimate may be summed up in this: as a creative writer, in particular of novels and short stories, he stood matchless among the realists, and the verdict pronounced at one time by William Dean Howells when he referred to Tolstoy as "the only living writer of perfect fiction" is not likely to be overruled by posterity. Nor will competent judges gainsay his supreme importance as a critic and moral revivalist of society, even though they may be seriously disposed to question whether his principles of conduct constitute in their aggregate a canon of much practical worth for the needs of the western world. As a philosopher or an original thinker, however, he will hardly maintain the place accorded him by the less discerning among his multitudinous followers, for in his persistent attempt to find a new way of understanding life he must be said to have signally failed. Wisdom in him was hampered by Utopian fancies; his dogmas derive from idiosyncrasies and lead into absurdities. Then, too, most of his tenets are easily traced to their sources: in his vagaries as well as in his noblest and soundest aspirations he was merely continuing work which others had prepared. * * * * * An objective survey of Tolstoy's work in realistic fiction, in which he ranked supreme, should start with the admission that he was by no means the first arrival among the Russians in that field. Nicholas Gogol, Fedor Dostoievsky, and Ivan Turgenieff had the priority by a small margin. Of these three powerful novelists, Dostoievsky (1821-1881) has probably had an even stronger influence upon modern letters than has Tolstoy himself. He was one of the earliest writers of romance to show the younger generation how to found fiction upon deeper psychologic knowledge. His greatest proficiency lay, as is apt to be the case with writers of a realistic bent, in dealing with the darkest side of life. The wretched and outcast portion of humanity yielded to his skill its most congenial material. His novels--"Poor Folk," (1846), "Memoirs from a Dead House," (1862), "Raskolnikoff," (1866), "The Idiot," (1868), "The Karamasoffs," (1879)--take the reader into company such as had heretofore not gained open entrance to polite literature: criminals, defectives, paupers, and prostitutes. Yet he did not dwell upon the wretchedness of that submerged section of humanity from any perverse delight in what is hideous or for the satisfaction of readers afflicted with morbid curiosity, but from a compelling sense of pity and brotherly love. His works are an appeal to charity. In them, the imperdible grace of the soul shines through the ugliest outward disguise to win a glance from the habitual indifference of fortune's _enfants gâtés_. Dostoievsky preceded Tolstoy in frankly enlisting his talents in the service of his outcast brethren. With the same ideal of the writer's mission held in steady view, Tolstoy turned his attention from the start, and then more and more as his work advanced, to the pitiable condition of the lower orders of society. It must not be forgotten in this connection that his career was synchronous with the growth of a social revolution which, having reached its full force in these days, is making Russia over for better or for worse, and whose wellsprings Tolstoy helps us to fathom. * * * * * For the general grouping of his writings it is convenient to follow Tolstoy's own division of his life. His dreamy poetical childhood was succeeded by three clearly distinct stages: first, a score of years filled up with self-indulgent worldliness; next, a nearly equal length of time devoted to artistic ambition, earnest meditation, and helpful social work; last, by a more gradual transition, the ascetic period, covering a long stretch of years given up to religious illumination and to the strenuous advocacy of the Simple Life. The remarkable spiritual evolution of this great man was apparently governed far more by inborn tendencies than by the workings of experience. Of Tolstoy in his childhood, youth, middle age, and senescence we gain trustworthy impressions from numerous autobiographical documents, but here we shall have to forego anything more than a passing reference to the essential facts of his career. He was descended from an aristocratic family of German stock but domiciled in Russia since the fourteenth century. The year of his birth was 1828, the same as Ibsen's. In youth he was bashful, eccentric, and amazingly ill-favored. The last-named of these handicaps he outgrew but late in life, still later did he get over his bashfulness, and his eccentricity never left him. His penchant for the infraction of custom nearly put a premature stop to his career when in his urchin days he once threw himself from a window in an improvised experiment in aerial navigation. At the age of fourteen he was much taken up with subtile speculations about the most ancient and vexing of human problems: the future life, and the immortality of the soul. Entering the university at fifteen, he devoted himself in the beginning to the study of oriental languages, but later on his interest shifted to the law. At sixteen he was already imbued with the doctrines of Jean Jacques Rousseau that were to play such an important rôle in guiding his conduct. In 1846 he passed out of the university without a degree, carrying away nothing but a lasting regret over his wasted time. He went directly to his ancestral estates, with the idealistic intention to make the most of the opportunity afforded him by the patriarchal relationship that existed in Russia between the landholder and the _adscripti glebae_ and to improve the condition of his seven hundred dependents. His efforts, however, were foredoomed to failure, partly through his lack of experience, partly also through a certain want of sincerity or tenacity of purpose. The experiment in social education having abruptly come to its end, the disillusionized reformer threw himself headlong into the diversions and dissipations of the capital city. In his "Confession" he refers to that chapter of his existence as made up wholly of sensuality and worldliness. He was inordinately proud of his noble birth,--at college his inchoate apostleship of the universal brotherhood of man did not shield him from a general dislike on account of his arrogance,--and he cultivated the most exclusive social circles of Moscow. He freely indulged the love of sports that was to cling through life and keep him strong and supple even in very old age. (Up to a short time before his death he still rode horseback and perhaps none of the renunciations exacted by his principles came so hard as that of giving up his favorite pastime of hunting.) But he also fell into the evil ways of gilded youth, soon achieving notoriety as a toper, gambler, and _courreur des femmes_. After a while his brother, who was a person of steadier habits and who had great influence over him, persuaded him to quit his profligate mode of living and to join him at his military post. Under the bracing effect of the change, the young man's moral energies quickly revived. In the wilds of the Caucasus he at once grew freer and cleaner; his deep affection for the half-civilized land endeared him both to the Cossack natives and the Russian soldiers. He entered the army at twenty-three, and from November, 1853, up to the fall of Sebastopol in the summer of 1855, served in the Crimean campaign. He entered the famous fortress in November, 1854, and was among the last of its defenders. The indelible impressions made upon his mind by the heroism of his comrades, the awful scenes and the appalling suffering he had to witness, were responsible then and later for descriptions as harrowing and as stirring as any that the war literature of our own day has produced. In the Crimea he made his début as a writer. Among the tales of his martial period the most popular and perhaps the most excellent is the one called "The Cossacks." Turgenieff pronounced it the best short story ever written in Russian, and it is surely no undue exaggeration to say of Tolstoy's novelettes in general that in point of technical mastery they are unsurpassed. Sick at heart over the unending bloodshed in the Caucasus the young officer made his way back to Petrograd, and here, lionized in the salons doubly, fur his feats at arms and in letters, he seems to have returned, within more temperate limits, to his former style of living. At any rate, in his own judgment the ensuing three years were utterly wasted. The mental inanity and moral corruption all about him swelled his sense of superiority and self-righteousness. The glaring humbug and hypocrisy that permeated his social environment was, however, more than he could long endure. Having resigned his officer's commission he went abroad in 1857, to Switzerland, Germany, and France. The studies and observations made in these travels sealed his resolution to settle down for good on his domain and to consecrate his life to the welfare of his peasants. But a survey of the situation found upon his return made him realize that nothing could be done for the "muzhik" without systematic education: therefore, in order to prepare himself for efficacious work as a teacher, he spent some further time abroad for special study, in 1859. After that, the educational labor was taken up in full earnest. The lord of the land became the schoolmaster of his subjects, reenforcing the effect of _viva voce_ teaching by means of a periodical published expressly for their moral uplift. This work he continued for about three years, his hopes of success now rising, now falling, when in a fit of despondency he again abandoned his philanthropic efforts. About this time, 1862, he married Sophia Andreyevna Behrs, the daughter of a Moscow physician. With characteristic honesty he forced his private diary on his fiancée, who was only eighteen, so that she might know the full truth about his pre-conjugal course of living. About the Countess Tolstoy much has been said in praise and blame. Let her record speak for itself. Of her union with the great novelist thirteen children were born, of whom nine reached an adult age. The mother nursed and tended them all, with her own hands made their clothes, and until they grew to the age of ten supplied to them the place of a schoolmistress. It must not be inferred from this that her horizon did not extend beyond nursery and kitchen, for during the earlier years she acted also as her husband's invaluable amanuensis. Before the days of the typewriter his voluminous manuscripts were all copied by her hand, and recopied and revised--in the case of "War and Peace" this happened no less than seven times, and the novel runs to sixteen hundred close-printed pages!--and under her supervision his numerous works were not only printed but also published and circulated. Moreover, she managed his properties, landed, personal, and literary, to the incalculable advantage of the family fortune. This end, to be sure, she accomplished by conservative and reliable methods of business; for while of his literary genius she was the greatest admirer, she never was in full accord with his communistic notions. And the highest proof of all her extraordinary _Tüchtigkeit_ and devotion is that by her common sense and tact she was enabled to function for a lifetime as a sort of buffer between her husband's world-removed dreamland existence and the rigid and frigid reality of facts. Thus Tolstoy's energies were left to go undivided into literary production; its amount, as a result, was enormous. If all his writings were to be collected, including the unpublished manuscripts now reposing in the Rumyantzoff Museum, which are said to be about equal in quantity to the published works, and if to this collection were added his innumerable letters, most of which are of very great interest, the complete set of Tolstoy's works would run to considerably more than one hundred volumes. To discuss all of Tolstoy's writings, or even to mention all, is here quite out of the question. All those, however, that seem vital for the purpose of a just estimate and characterization will be touched upon. * * * * * The literary fame of Tolstoy was abundantly secured already in the earlier part of his life by his numerous short stories and sketches. The three remarkable pen pictures of the siege of Sebastopol, and tales such as "The Cossacks," "Two Hussars," "Polikushka," "The Snow-Storm," "The Encounter," "The Invasion," "The Captive in the Caucasus," "Lucerne," "Albert," and many others, revealed together with an exceptional depth of insight an extraordinary plastic ability and skill of motivation; in fact they deserve to be set as permanent examples before the eyes of every aspiring author. In their characters and their setting they present true and racy pictures of a portentous epoch, intimate studies of the human soul that are full of charm and fascination, notwithstanding their tragic sadness of outlook. Manifestly this author was a prose poet of such marvelous power that he could abstain consistently from the use of sweeping color, overwrought sentiment, and high rhetorical invective. At this season Tolstoy, while he refrained from following any of the approved literary models, was paying much attention to the artistic refinement of his style. There was to be a time when he would abjure all considerations of artistry on the ground that by them the ethical issue in a narration is beclouded. But it would be truer to say conversely that in his own later works, since "Anna Karenina," the clarity of the artistic design was dimmed by the obtrusive didactic purpose. Fortunately the artistic interest was not yet wholly subordinated to the religious urge while the three great novels were in course of composition: "War and Peace," (1864-69), "Anna Karenina," (first part, 1873; published complete in 1877), and "Resurrection," (1899). To the first of these is usually accorded the highest place among all of Tolstoy's works; it is by this work that he takes his position as the chief epic poet of modern times. "War and Peace" is indeed an epic rather than a novel in the ordinary meaning. Playing against the background of tremendous historical transactions, the narrative sustains the epic character not only in the hugeness of its dimensions, but equally in the qualities of its technique. There is very little comment by the author upon the events, and merely a touch of subjective irony here and there. The story is straightforwardly told as it was lived out by its characters. Tolstoy has not the self-complacency to thrust in the odds and ends of his personal philosophy, as is done so annoyingly even by a writer of George Meredith's consequence, nor does he ever treat his readers with the almost simian impertinence so successfully affected by a Bernard Shaw. If "War and Peace" has any faults, they are the faults of its virtues, and spring mainly from an unmeasured prodigality of the creative gift. As a result of Tolstoy's excessive range of vision, the orderly progress of events in that great novel is broken up somewhat by the profusion of shapes that monopolize the attention one at a time much as individual spots in a landscape do under the sweeping glare of the search-light. Yet although in the externalization of this crowding multitude of figures no necessary detail is lacking, the grand movement as a whole is not swamped by the details. The entire story is governed by the conception of events as an emanation of the cosmic will, not merely as the consequence of impulses proceeding from a few puissant geniuses of the Napoleonic order. It is quite in accord with such a view of history that the machinery of this voluminous epopee is not set in motion by a single conspicuous protagonist. As a matter of fact, it is somewhat baffling to try to name the principals in the story, since in artistic importance all the figures are on an equal footing before their maker; possibly the fact that Tolstoy's ethical theory embodied the most persistent protest ever raised against the inequality of social estates proved not insignificant for his manner of characterization. Ethical justice, however, is carried to an artistic fault, for the feelings and reactions of human nature in so many diverse individuals lead to an intricacy and subtlety of motivation which obscures the organic causes through overzeal in making them patent. Anyway, Tolstoy authenticates himself in this novel as a past master of realism, particularly in his utterly convincing depictment of Russian soldier life. And as a painter of the battlefield he ranks, allowing for the difference of the medium, with Vasili Verestschagin at his best. It may be said in passing that these two Russian pacifists, by their gruesome exposition of the horrors of war, aroused more sentiment against warfare than did all the spectacular and expensive peace conferences inaugurated by the crowned but hollow head of their nation, and the splendid declamations of the possessors of, or aspirants for, the late Mr. Nobel's forty-thousand dollar prize. Like all true realists, Tolstoy took great pains to inform himself even about the minutiæ of his subjects, but he never failed, as did in large measure Zola in _La Débâcle_, to infuse emotional meaning into the static monotony of facts and figures. In his strong attachment for his own human creatures he is more nearly akin to the idealizing or sentimentalizing type of realists, like Daudet, Kipling, Hauptmann, than to the downright matter-of-fact naturalists such as Zola or Gorki. But to classify him at all would be wrong and futile, since he was never leagued with literary creeds and cliques and always stood aloof from the heated theoretical controversies of his time even after he had hurled his great inclusive challenge to art. "War and Peace" was written in Tolstoy's happiest epoch, at a time, comparatively speaking, of spiritual calm. He had now reached some satisfying convictions in his religious speculations, and felt that his personal life was moving up in the right direction. His moral change is made plain in the contrast between two figures of the story, Prince Andrey and Peter Bezukhoff: the ambitious worldling and the honest seeker after the right way. In his second great novel, "Anna Karenina," the undercurrent of the author's own moral experience has a distinctly greater carrying power. It is through the earnest idealist, Levine, that Tolstoy has recorded his own aspirations. Characteristically, he does not make Levine the central figure. "Anna Karenina" is undoubtedly far from "pleasant" reading, since it is the tragical recital of an adulterous love. But the situation, with its appalling consequence of sorrow, is seized in its fullest psychological depth and by this means saved from being in any way offensive. The relation between the principals is viewed as by no means an ordinary liaison. Anna and Vronsky are serious-minded, honorable persons, who have struggled conscientiously against their mutual enchantment, but are swept out of their own moral orbits by the resistless force of Fate. This fatalistic element in the tragedy is variously emphasized; so at the beginning of the story, where Anna, in her emotional confusion still half-ignorant of her infatuation, suddenly realizes her love for Vronsky; or in the scene at the horse races where he meets with an accident. Throughout the narrative the psychological argumentation is beyond criticism. Witness the description of Anna's husband, a sort of cousin-in-kind of Ibsen's Thorvald Helmer, reflecting on his future course after his wife's confession of her unfaithfulness. Or that other episode, perhaps the greatest of them all, when Anna, at the point of death, joins together the hands of her husband and her lover. Or, finally, the picture of Anna as she deserts her home leaving her son behind in voluntary expiation of her wrong-doing, an act, by the way, that betrays a nicety of conscience far too subtle for the Rhadamantine inquisitors who demand to know why, if Anna would atone to Karenin, does she go with Vronsky? How perfectly true to life, subsequently, is the rapid _dégringolade_ of this passion under the gnawing curse of the homeless, workless, purposeless existence which little by little disunites the lovers! Only the end may be somewhat open to doubt, with its metastasis of the heroine's character,--unless indeed we consider the sweeping change accounted for by the theory of duplex personality. She herself believes that there are two quite different women alive in her, the one steadfastly loyal to her obligations, the other blindly driven into sin by the demon of her uncontrollable temperament. In the power of analysis, "Anna Karenina" is beyond doubt Tolstoy's masterpiece, and yet in its many discursive passages it already foreshadows the disintegration of his art, or more precisely, its ultimate capitulation to moral propagandism. For it was while at work upon this great novel that the old perplexities returned to bewilder his soul. In the tumultuous agitation of his conscience, the crucial and fundamental questions, Why Do We Live? and How Should We Live? could nevermore be silenced. Now a definitive attitude toward life is forming; to it all the later works bear a vital relation. And so, in regard to their moral outlook, Tolstoy's books may fitly be divided into those written before and those written since his "conversion." "Anna Karenina" happens to be on the dividing line. He was a man well past fifty, of enviable social position, in prosperous circumstances, widely celebrated for his art, highly respected for his character, and in his domestic life blessed with every reason for contentment. Yet all the gifts of fortune sank into insignificance before that vexing, unanswered Why? In the face of a paralyzing universal aimlessness, there could be to him no abiding sense of life in his personal enjoyments and desires. The burden of life became still less endurable face to face with the existence of evil and with the wretchedness of our social arrangements. With so much toil and trouble, squalor, ignorance, crime, and every conceivable kind of bodily and mental suffering all about me, why should I be privileged to live in luxury and idleness? This ever recurring question would not permit him to enjoy his possessions without self-reproach. To think of thousands of fellowmen lacking the very necessaries, made affluence and its concomitant ways of living odious to him. We know that in 1884, or thereabouts, he radically changed his views and modes of life so as to bring them into conformity with the laws of the Gospel. But before this conversion, in the despairing anguish that attacked him after the completion of "Anna Karenina," he was frequently tempted to suicide. Although the thought of death was very terrible to him then and at all times, still he would rather perish than live on in a world made heinous and hateful by the iniquity of men. Then it was that he searched for a reason why the vast proportion of humanity endure life, nay enjoy it, and why self-destruction is condemned by the general opinion, and this in spite of the fact that for most mortals existence is even harder than it could have been for him, since he at least was shielded from material want and lived amid loving souls. The answer he found in the end seemed to lead by a straight road out of the wilderness of doubt and despair. The great majority, so he ascertained, are able to bear the burden of life because they heed the ancient injunction: "_ora et labora_"; they _work_ and they _believe_. Might he not sweeten his lot after the same prescription? Being of a delicate spiritual sensibility, he had long realized that people of the idle class were for the most part inwardly indifferent to religion and in their actions defiant of its spirit. In the upper strata of society religious thought, where it exists, is largely adulterated or weakened; sophisticated by education, doctored by science, thinned out with worldly ambitions and with practical needs and considerations. The faith that supports life is found only among simple folk. For faith, to deserve the name, must be absolute, uncritical, unreasoning. Starting from these convictions as a basis, Tolstoy resolutely undertook _to learn to believe_; a determination which led him, as it has led other ardent religionists, so far astray from ecclesiastical paths that in due course of time he was unavoidably excommunicated from his church. His convictions made him a vehement antagonist of churchdom because of its stiffness of creed and laxness of practice. For his own part he soon arrived at a full and absolute acceptance of the Christian faith in what he considered to be its primitive and essential form. In "Walk Ye in the Light," (1893), the reversion of a confirmed worldling to this original conception of Christianity gives the story of the writer's own change of heart. To the period under discussion belongs Tolstoy's drama, "The Power of Darkness," (1886).(29) It is a piece of matchless realism, probably the first unmixedly naturalistic play ever wrought out. It is brutally, terribly true to life, and that to life at its worst, both in respect of the plot and the actors, who are individualized down to the minutest characteristics of utterance and gesture. Withal it is a species of modern morality, replete with a reformatory purpose that reflects deeply the author's tensely didactic state of mind. His instructional zeal is heightened by intimate knowledge of the Russian peasant, on his good side as well as on his bad. Some of his short stories are crass pictures of the muzhik's bestial degradation, veritable pattern cards of human and inhuman vices. In other stories, again, the deep-seated piety of the muzhik, and his patriarchal simplicity of heart are portrayed. As instance, the story of "Two Old Men," (1885), who are pledged to attain the Holy Land: the one performs his vow to the letter, the other, much the godlier of the two, is kept from his goal by a work of practical charity. In another story a muzhik is falsely accused of murder and accepts his undeserved punishment in a devout spirit of non-resistance. In a third, a poor cobbler who intuitively walks in the light is deemed worthy of a visit from Christ. (29) The only tragedy brought out during his life time. In "The Power of Darkness," the darkest traits of peasant life prevail, yet the frightful picture is somehow Christianized, as it were, so that even the miscreant Nikita, in spite of his monstrous crimes, is sure of our profound compassion. We are gripped at the very heartstrings by that great confession scene where he stutters out his budget of malefactions, forced by his awakened conscience and urged on by his old father: "Speak out, my child, speak it off your soul, then you will feel easier." "The Power of Darkness" was given its counterpart in the satirical comedy, "Fruits of Culture," (1889). The wickedness of refined society is more mercilessly excoriated than low-lived infamy. But artistically considered the peasant tragedy is far superior to the "society play." * * * * * Tolstoy was a pessimist both by temperament and philosophical persuasion. This is made manifest among other things by the prominent place which the idea of Death occupies in his writings. His feelings are expressed with striking simplicity by one of the principal characters in "War and Peace": "One must often think of death, so that it may lose its terrors for us, cease to be an enemy, and become on the contrary a friend that delivers us from this life of miseries." Still, in Tolstoy's stories, death, as a rule, is a haunting spectre. This conception comes to the fore even long after his conversion in a story like "Master and Man." Throughout his literary activity it has an obsessive hold on his mind. Even the shadowing of the animal mind by the ubiquitous spectre gives rise to a story: "Cholstomjer, The Story of a Horse," (1861), and in one of the earlier tales even the death of a tree is pictured. Death is most terrifying when, denuded of its heroic embellishments in battle pieces such as "The Death of a Soldier" ("Sebastopol") or the description of Prince Andrey's death in "War and Peace," it is exposed in all its bare and grim loathsomeness. Such happens in the short novel published in 1886 under the name of "The Death of Ivan Ilyitch,"--in point of literary merit one of Tolstoy's greatest performances. It is a plain tale about a middle-aged man of the official class, happy in an unreflecting sort of way in the jog-trot of his work and domestic arrangements. Suddenly his fate is turned,--by a trite mishap resulting in a long, hopeless sickness. His people at first give him the most anxious care, but as the illness drags on their devotion gradually abates, the patient is neglected, and soon almost no thought is given to him. In the monotonous agony of his prostration, the sufferer slowly comes to realize that he is dying, while his household has gone back to its habitual ways mindless of him, as though he were already dead, or had never lived. All through this lengthened crucifixion he still clings to life, and it is only when the family, gathering about him shortly before the release, can but ill conceal their impatience for the end, that Ivan at last accepts his fate: "I will no longer let them suffer--I will die; I will deliver them and myself." So he dies, and the world pursues its course unaltered,--in which consists the after-sting of this poignant tragedy. * * * * * Between the years 1879 and 1886 Tolstoy published the main portion of what may be regarded as his spiritual autobiography, namely, "The Confession," (1879, with a supplement in 1882), "The Union and Translation of the Four Gospels," (1881-2), "What Do I Believe?" (also translated under the title "My Religion," 1884) and "What Then Must We Do?" (1886). He was now well on the way to the logical ultimates of his ethical ideas, and in the revulsion from artistic ambitions so plainly foreshown in a treatise in 1887: "What is True Art?" he repudiated unequivocally all his earlier work so far as it sprang from any motives other than those of moral teaching. Without a clear appreciation of these facts a just estimate of "The Kreutzer Sonata" (1889) is impossible. The central character of the book is a commonplace, rather well-meaning fellow who has been tried for the murder of his wife, slain by him in a fit of insensate jealousy, and has been acquitted because of the extenuating circumstances in the case. The object of the story is to lay bare the causes of his crime. Tolstoy's ascetic proclivity had long since set him thinking about sex problems in general and in particular upon the ethics of marriage. And by this time he had arrived at the conclusion that the demoralized state of our society is chiefly due to polygamy and polyandrism; corroboration of his uncompromising views on the need of social purity he finds in the evangelist Matthew, v:27-28, where the difference between the old command and its new, far more rigorous, interpretation is bluntly stated: "Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery: But I say unto you that whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart." Now Tolstoy thinks that society, far from concurring in the scriptural condemnation of lewdness, caters systematically to the appetites of the voluptuary. If Tolstoy is right in his diagnosis, then the euphemistic term "social evil" has far wider reaches of meaning than those to which it is customarily applied. With the head person in "The Kreutzer Sonata," Tolstoy regards society as no better than a _maison de tolérance_ conducted on a very comprehensive scale. Women are reared with the main object of alluring men through charms and accomplishments; the arts of the hairdresser, the dressmaker, and milliner, as well as the exertions of governesses, music masters, and linguists all converge toward the same aim: to impart the power of attracting men. Between the woman of the world and the professional courtezan the main difference in the light of this view lies in the length of the service. Pozdnicheff accordingly divides femininity into long term and short term prostitutes, which rather fantastic classification Tolstoy follows up intrepidly to its last logical consequence. The main idea of "The Kreutzer Sonata," as stated in the postscript, is that sexless life is best. A recommendation of celibacy as mankind's highest ideal to be logical should involve a wish for the disappearance of human life from the globe. A world-view of such pessimistic sort prevents itself from the forfeiture of all bonds with humanity only by its concomitant reasoning that a race for whom it were better not to be is the very one that will struggle desperately against its _summum bonum_. Since race suicide, then, is a hopeless desideratum, the reformer must turn to more practicable methods if he would at least alleviate the worst of our social maladjustments. Idleness is the mother of all mischief, because it superinduces sensual self-indulgence. Therefore we must suppress anything that makes for leisure and pleasure. At this point we grasp the meaning of Tolstoy's vehement recoil from art. It is, to a great extent, the strong-willed resistance of a highly impressionable puritan against the enticements of beauty,--their distracting and disquieting effect, and principally their power of sensuous suggestion. The last extensive work published by Tolstoy was "Resurrection," (1889). In artistic merit it is not on a level with "War and Peace" and "Anna Karenina," nor can this be wondered at, considering the opinion about the value of art that had meanwhile ripened in the author. "Resurrection" was written primarily for a constructive moral purpose, yet the subject matter was such as to secrete, unintendedly, a corrosive criticism of social and religious cant. The satirical connotation of the novel could not have been more grimly brought home than through this fact, that the hero by his unswerving allegiance to Christian principles of conduct greatly shocks, at first, our sense of the proprieties, instead of eliciting our enthusiastic admiration. In spite of our highest moral notions Prince Nekhludoff, like that humbler follower of the voice of conscience in Gerhart Hauptmann's novel, impresses us as a "Fool in Christ." The story, itself, leads by degrees from the under-world of crime and punishment to a great spiritual elevation. Maslowa, a drunken street-walker, having been tried on a charge of murder, is wrongfully sentenced to transportation for life, because--the jury is tired out and the judge in a hurry to visit his mistress. Prince Nekhludoff, sitting on that jury, recognizes in the victim of justice a girl whose downfall he himself had caused. He is seized by penitence and resolves to follow the convict to Siberia, share her sufferings, dedicate his life to her redemption. She has sunk so low that his hope of reforming her falters, yet true to his resolution he offers to marry her. Although the offer is rejected, yet the suggestion of a new life which it brings begins to work a change in the woman. In the progress of the story her better nature gradually gains sway until a thorough moral revolution is completed. "Resurrection" derives its special value from its clear demonstration of those rules of conduct to which the author was straining with every moral fiber to conform his own life. From his ethical speculations and social experiments are projected figures like that of Maria Paulovna, a rich and beautiful woman who prefers to live like a common workingwoman and is drawn by her social conscience into the revolutionary vortex. In this figure, and more definitely still in the political convict Simonson, banished because of his educational work among the common people, Tolstoy studies for the first time the so-called "intellectual" type of revolutionist. His view of the "intellectuals" is sympathetic, on the whole. They believe that evil springs from ignorance. Their agitation issues from the highest principles, and they are capable of any self-sacrifice for the general weal. Still Tolstoy, as a thoroughly anti-political reformer, deprecates their organized movement. Altogether, he repudiated the systems of social reconstruction that go by the name of socialism, because he relied for the regeneration of society wholly and solely upon individual self-elevation. In an essential respect he was nevertheless a socialist, inasmuch as he strove for the ideal of universal equality. His social philosophy, bound up inseparably with his personal religious evolution, is laid down in a vast number of essays, letters, sketches, tracts, didactic tales, and perhaps most comprehensively in those autobiographical documents already mentioned. Sociologically the most important of these is a book on the problem of property, entitled, "What Then Must We Do?" (1886), which expounds the passage in Luke iii:10, 11: "And the people asked him, saying, What shall we do then? He answered and saith unto them, He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise." Not long before that, he had thought of devoting himself entirely to charitable work, but practical experiments at Moscow demonstrated to him the futility of almsgiving. Speaking on that point to his English biographer, Aylmer Maude,(30) he remarked: "All such activity, if people attribute importance to it, is worthless." When his interviewer insisted that the destitute have to be provided for somehow and that the Count himself was in the habit of giving money to beggars, the latter replied: "Yes, but I do not imagine that I am doing good! I only do it for myself, because I know that I have no right to be well off while they are in misery." It is worth mention in passing that during the famine of 1891-2 this determined opponent of organized charity, in noble inconsistency with his theories, led in the dispensation of relief to the starving population of Middle Russia. (30) "The Life of Tolstoy," Later Years, p. 643 f. But in "What Then Must We Do?" he treats the usual organized dabbling in charity as utterly preposterous: "Give away all you have or else you can do no good." ... "If I give away a hundred thousand and still withhold five hundred thousand, I am far from acting in the spirit of charity, and remain a factor of social injustice and evil. At the sight of the freezing and hungering I must still feel responsible for their plight, and feel that since we should live in conditions where that evil can be abstained from, it is impossible for me in the position in which I deliberately place myself to be anything other than a source of general evil." It was chiefly due to the influence of two peasants, named Sutayeff and Bondareff, that Tolstoy decided by a path of religious reasoning to abandon "parasitical existence,"--that is, to sacrifice all prerogatives of his wealth and station and to share the life of the lowly. He reasoned as follows: "Since I am to blame for the existence of social wrong, I can lessen my blame only by making myself like unto those that labor and are heavy-laden." Economically, Tolstoy reasons from this fallacy: If all men do not participate equitably in the menial work that has to be performed in the world, it follows that a disproportionate burden of work falls upon the shoulders of the more defenseless portion of humanity. Whether this undue amount of labor be exacted in the form of chattel slavery, or, which is scarcely less objectionable, in the form of the virtual slavery imposed by modern industrial conditions, makes no material difference. The evil conditions are bound to continue so long as the instincts that make for idleness prevail over the co-operative impulses. The only remedy lies in the simplification of life in the upper strata of the social body, overwork in the laboring classes being the direct result of the excessive demands for the pleasures and luxuries of life in the upper classes. To Bondareff in particular Tolstoy confessedly owes the conviction that the best preventive for immorality is physical labor, for which reason the lower classes are less widely removed from grace than the upper. Bondareff maintained on scriptural grounds that everybody should employ at least a part of his time in working the land. This view Tolstoy shared definitely after 1884. Not only did he devote a regular part of his day to agricultural labor; he learned, in addition, shoemaking and carpentry, meaning to demonstrate by his example that it is feasible to return to those patriarchal conditions under which the necessities of life were produced by the consumer himself. From this time forth he modelled his habits more and more upon those of the common rustic. He adopted peasant apparel and became extremely frugal in his diet. Although by natural taste he was no scorner of the pleasures of the table, he now eliminated one luxury after another. About this time he also turned strict vegetarian, then gave up the use of wine and spirits, and ultimately even tobacco, of which he had been very fond, was made to go the way of flesh. He practiced this self-abnegation in obedience to the Law of Life which he interpreted as a stringent renunciation of physical satisfactions and personal happiness. Nor did he shirk the ultimate conclusion to which his premises led: if the Law of Life imposes the suppression of all natural desires and appetites and commands the voluntary sacrifice of every form of property and power, it must be clear that life itself is devoid of sense and utterly undesirable. And so it is expressly stated in his "Thoughts."(31) (31) No. 434. * * * * * To what extent Tolstoy was a true Christian believer may best be gathered from his own writings, "What Do I Believe?" (1884), "On Life," (1887), and "The Kingdom of God is within You," (1893). Although at the age of seventeen he had ceased to be orthodox, there can be no question whatever that throughout his whole life religion remained the deepest source of his inspiration. By the early eighties he had emerged from that acute scepticism that well-nigh cost him life and reason, and had, outwardly at least, made his peace with the church, attending services regularly, and observing the feasts and the fasts; here again in imitating the muzhik in his religious practices he strove apparently to attain also to the muzhik's actual gift of credulity. But in this endeavor his superior culture proved an impediment to him, and his widening doctrinal divergence from the established church finally drew upon his head, in 1891, the official curse of the Holy Synod. And yet a leading religious journal was right, shortly after his death, in this comment upon the religious meaning of his life: "If Christians everywhere should put their religious beliefs into practice with the simplicity and sincerity of Tolstoy, the entire religious, moral, and social life of the world would be revolutionized in a month." The orthodox church expelled him from its communion because of his radicalism; but in his case radicalism meant indeed the going to the roots of Christian religion, to the original foundations of its doctrines. In the teachings of the _primitive_ church there presented itself to Tolstoy a dumfoundingly simple code for the attainment of moral perfection. Hence arose his opposition to the _established_ church which seemed to have strayed so widely from its own fundamentals. Since Tolstoy's life aimed at the progressive exercise of self-sacrifice, his religious belief could be no gospel of joy. In fact, his is a sad, gray, ascetic religion, wholly devoid of poetry and emotional uplift. He did not learn to believe in the divinity of Christ nor in the existence of a God in any definite sense personal, and it is not even clear whether he believed in an after-life. And yet he did not wrongfully call himself a Christian, for the mainspring of his faith and his labor was the message of Christ delivered to his disciples in the Sermon on the Mount. This, for Tolstoy, contained all the philosophy and the theology of which the modern world stands in need, since in the precept of non-resistance is joined forever the issue between the Law and the Gospel: "Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also." And farther on: "Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbor, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you. Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that despitefully use you, and persecute you." ... In this commandment Tolstoy found warrant for unswerving forbearance toward every species of private and corporate aggression. Offenders against individuals or the commonwealth deserve nothing but pity. Prisons should be abolished and criminals never punished. Tolstoy went so far as to declare that even if he saw his own wife or daughters being assaulted, he would abstain from using force in their defense. The infliction of the death penalty was to him the most odious of crimes. No life, either human or animal, should be wilfully destroyed. The doctrine of non-resistance removes every conceivable excuse for war between the nations. A people is as much bound as is an individual by the injunction: "Whosoever shall smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the other also." War is not to be justified on patriotic grounds, for patriotism, far from being a virtue, is an enlarged and unduly glorified form of selfishness. Consistently with his convictions, Tolstoy put forth his strength not for the glory of his nation but for the solidarity of mankind. The cornerstones of Tolstoy's religion, then, were these three articles of faith. First, True Faith gives Life. Second, Man must live by labor. Third, Evil must never be resisted by means of evil. * * * * * Outside of the sphere of religious thought it is inaccurate to speak of a specific Tolstoyan philosophy, and it is impossible for the student to subscribe unconditionally to the hackneyed formula of the books that Tolstoy "will be remembered as perhaps the most profound influence of his day on human thought." Yet the statement might be made measurably true if it were modified in accordance with the important reservation made earlier in this sketch. In the field of thought he was not an original explorer. He was great only as the promulgator, not as the inventor, of ideas. His work has not enriched the wisdom of man by a single new thought, nor was he a systematizer and expounder of thought or a philosopher. In fact he possessed slight familiarity with philosophical literature. Among the older metaphysicians his principal guide was Spinoza, and in more modern speculative science he did not advance beyond Schopenhauer. To the latter he was not altogether unlike in his mental temper. At least he showed himself indubitably a pessimist in his works by placing in fullest relief the bad side of the social state. We perceive the pessimistic disposition also through his personal behavior, seeing how he desponded under the discords of life, how easily he lost courage whenever he undertook to cope with practical problems, and how sedulously he avoided the contact with temptations. It was only by an almost total withdrawal from the world, and by that entire relief from its daily and ordinary affairs which he owed to the devotion of his wife that Tolstoy was enabled during his later years to look upon the world less despairingly. Like his theology, so, too, his civic and economic creed was marked by the utmost and altogether too primitive simplicity. Political questions were of slight interest to him, unless they touched upon his vital principles. If, therefore, we turn from his very definite position in matters of individual conduct to his political views, we shall find that he was wanting in a program of practical changes. His only positive contribution to economic discussion was a persistent advocacy of agrarian reform. Under the influence of Henry George he became an eloquent pleader for the single tax and the nationalization of the land. This question he discussed in numerous places, with especial force and clearness in a long article entitled "A Great Iniquity."(32) He takes the view that the mission of the State, if it have any at all, can only consist in guaranteeing the rights of every one of its denizens, but that in actual fact the State protects only the rights of the propertied. Intelligent and right-minded citizens must not conspire with the State to ride rough-shod over the helpless majority. Keenly alive to the unalterable tendency of organized power to abridge the rights of individuals and to dominate both their material and spiritual existence, Tolstoy fell into the opposite extreme and would have abolished with a clean sweep all factors of social control, including the right of property and the powers of government, and transformed society into a community of equals and brothers, relying for its peace and well-being upon a universal love of liberty and justice. (32) Printed in the (London) _Times_ of September 10, 1905. By his disbelief in authority, the rejection of the socialists' schemes of reconstruction, his mistrust of fixed institutions and reliance on individual right-mindedness for the maintenance of the common good, Tolstoy in the sphere of civic thought separated himself from the political socialists by the whole diameter of initial principle: he might not unjustly be classified, therefore, as an anarchist, if this definition were neither too narrow nor too wide. The Christian Socialists might claim him, because he aspires ardently to ideals essentially Christian in their nature, and there is surely truth in the thesis that "every thinker who understands and earnestly accepts the teaching of the Master is at heart a socialist." At the same time, Christianity and Socialism do not travel the whole way together. For a religion that enjoins patience and submission can hardly be conducive to the full flowering of Socialism. And Tolstoy's attitude towards the church differs radically from that of the Christian Socialists. On the whole one had best abstain from classifying men of genius. The base of Tolstoy's social creed was the non-recognition of private property. The effect of the present system is to maintain the inequality of men and thereby to excite envy and stir up hatred among them. Eager to set a personal example and precedent, Tolstoy rendered himself nominally penniless by making all his property, real and personal, over to his wife and children. Likewise he abdicated his copyrights. Thus he reduced himself to legal pauperism with a completeness of success that cannot but stir with envy the bosom of any philanthropist who shares Mr. Andrew Carnegie's conviction that to die rich is to die disgraced. Tolstoy's detractors have cast a plausible suspicion upon his sincerity. They pointed out among other things that his relinquishment of pecuniary profit in his books was apparent, not real. Since Russia has no copyright conventions with other countries, it was merely making a virtue of necessity to authorize freely the translation of his works into foreign languages. As for the Russian editions of his writings, it is said that in so far as the heavy hand of the censor did not prevent, the Countess, as her husband's financial agent, managed quite skilfully to exploit them. * * * * * Altogether, did Tolstoy practice what he professed? Inconsistency between principles and conduct is a not uncommon frailty of genius, as is notoriously illustrated by Tolstoy's real spiritual progenitor, Jean Jacques Rousseau. Now there are many discreditable stories in circulation about the muzhik lord of Yasnaya Polyana. He urged upon others the gospel commands: "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth" and: "Take what ye have and give to the poor," and for his own part lived, according to report, in sumptuous surroundings. He went ostentatiously on pilgrimages to holy places, barefooted but with an expert pedicure attending him. He dressed in a coarse peasant blouse, but underneath it wore fine silk and linen. He was a vegetarian of the strictest observance, yet so much of an epicure that his taste for unseasonable dainties strained the domestic resources. He preached simplicity, and according to rumor dined off priceless plate; taught the equality of men, and was served by lackies in livery. He abstained from alcohol and tobacco, but consumed six cups of strong coffee at a sitting. Finally, he extolled the sexless life and was the father of thirteen children. It was even murmured that notwithstanding his professed affection for the muzhik and his incessant proclamation of universal equality, the peasantry of Yasnaya Polyana was the most wretchedly-treated to be found in the whole province and that the extortionate landlordism of the Tolstoys was notorious throughout the empire. Much of this, to be sure, is idle gossip, unworthy of serious attention. Nevertheless, there is evidence enough to show that Tolstoy's insistence upon a literal acceptance of earlier Christian doctrines led him into unavoidable inconsistencies and shamed him into a tragical sense of dishonesty. Unquestionably Tolstoy lived very simply and laboriously for a man of great rank, means, and fame, but his life was neither hard nor cramped. Having had no personal experience of garret and hovel, he could have no first-hand practical knowledge of the sting of poverty, nor could he obtain hardship artificially by imposing upon himself a mild imitation of physical discomfort. For the true test of penury is not the suffering of to-day but the oppressive dread of to-morrow. His ostensible muzhik existence, wanting in none of the essentials of civilization, was a romance that bore to the real squalid pauperism of rural Russia about the same relation that the bucolic make-belief of Boucher's or Watteau's swains and shepherdesses bore to the unperfumed truth of a sheep-farm or a hog-sty. As time passed, and the sage turned his thoughts to a more rigid enforcement of his renunciations, it was no easy task for a devoted wife to provide comfort for him without shaking him too rudely out of his fond illusion that he was enduring privations. After all, then, his practice did not tally with his theory; and this consciousness of living contrary to his own teachings was a constant source of unhappiness which no moral quibbles of his friends could still. Yet no man could be farther from being a hypocrite. If at last he broke down under a burden of conscience, it was a burden imposed by the reality of human nature which makes it impossible for any man to live up to intentions of such rigor as Tolstoy's. From the start he realized that he did not conform his practice entirely to his teachings, and as he grew old he was resolved that having failed to harmonize his life with his beliefs he would at least corroborate his sincerity by his manner of dying. Even in this, however, he was to be thwarted. In his dramatic ending, still plainly remembered, we feel a grim consistency with the lifelong defeat of his will to suffer. Early in 1910 a student by the name of Manzos addressed a rebuke to Tolstoy for simulating the habits of the poor, denouncing his mode of life as a form of mummery. He challenged the sage to forsake his comforts and the affections of his family, and to go forth and beg his way from place to place. "Do this," entreated the young fanatic, "and you will be the first true man after Christ." With his typical large-heartedness, Tolstoy accepted the reproof and said in the course of his long reply:(33) ... "The fact that I am living with wife and daughter in terrible and shameful conditions of luxury when poverty surrounds me on all sides, torments me ever more and more, and there is not a day when I am not thinking of following your advice. I thank you very, very much for your letter." As a matter of fact, he had more than once before made ready to put his convictions to a fiery proof by a final sacrifice,--leaving his home and spending his remaining days in utter solitude. But when he finally proceeded to carry out this ascetic intention and actually set out on a journey to some vague and lonely destination, he was foiled in his purpose. If ever Tolstoy's behavior irresistibly provoked misrepresentation of his motives it was by this somewhat theatrical hegira. The fugitive left Yasnaya Polyana, not alone, but with his two favorite companions, his daughter Alexandra and a young Hungarian physician who for some time had occupied the post of private secretary to him. After paying a farewell visit to his sister, a nun cloistered in Shamardin, he made a start for the Trans-Caucasus. His idea was to go somewhere near the Tolstoy colony at the Black Sea. But in an early stage of the journey, a part of which was made in an ordinary third-class railway compartment, the old man was overcome by illness and fatigue. He was moved to a trackman's hut at the station of Astopovo, not farther than eighty miles from his home, and here,--surrounded by his hastily summoned family and tenderly nursed for five days,--he expired. Thus he was denied the summit of martyrdom to which he had aspired,--a lonely death, unminded of men. (33) February 17, 1910. * * * * * Even a summary review like this of Tolstoy's life and labors cannot be concluded without some consideration of his final attitude toward the esthetic embodiment of civilization. The development of his philosophy of self-abnegation had led irresistibly, as we have seen, to the condemnation of all self-regarding instincts. Among these, Art appeared to him as one of the most insidious. He warned against the cultivation of the beautiful on the ground that it results in the suppression and destruction of the moral sense. Already in 1883 it was known that he had made up his mind to abandon his artistic aspirations out of loyalty to his moral theory, and would henceforth dedicate his talents exclusively to the propagation of humanitarian views. In vain did the dean of Russian letters, Turgenieff, appeal to him with a death-bed message: "My friend, great writer of the Russians, return to literary work! Heed my prayer." Tolstoy stood firm in his determination. Nevertheless, his genius refused to be throttled by his conscience; he could not paralyze his artistic powers; he could merely bend them to his moral aims. As a logical corollary to his opposition to art for art's sake, Tolstoy cast from him all his own writings antedating "Confession,"--and denounced all of them as empty manifestations of worldly conceit. His authorship of that immortal novel, "War and Peace," filled him with shame and remorse. His views on Art are plainly and forcibly expounded in the famous treatise on "What is Art?" and in the one on "Shakespeare." In both he maintains that Art, no matter of what sort, should serve the sole purpose of bringing men nearer to each other in the common purpose of right living. Hence, no art work is legitimate without a pervasive moral design. The only true touchstone of an art work is the uplifting strength that proceeds from it. Therefore, a painting like the "Angelus," or a poem like "The Man with the Hoe" would transcend in worth the creations of a Michael Angelo or a Heinrich Heine even as the merits of Sophocles, Shakespeare, and Goethe are outmatched in Tolstoy's judgment by those of Victor Hugo, Charles Dickens, and George Eliot. By the force of this naïve reasoning and his theoretical antipathy toward true art, he was led to see in "Uncle Tom's Cabin" the veritable acme of literary perfection, for the reason that this book wielded such an enormous and noble influence upon the most vital question of its day. He strongly discountenanced the literary practice of revamping ancient themes, believing with Ibsen that modern writers should impart their ideas through the medium of modern life. Yet at the same time he was up in arms against the self-styled "moderns"! They took their incentives from science, and this Tolstoy decried, because science did not fulfill its mission of teaching people how rightly to live. In this whole matter he reasoned doggedly from fixed ideas, no matter to what ultimates the argument would carry him. For instance, he did not stick at branding Shakespeare as an utter barbarian, and to explain the reverence for such "disgusting" plays as "King Lear" as a crass demonstration of imitative hypocrisy. Art in general is a practice aiming at the production of the beautiful. But what is "beautiful"? asked Tolstoy. The current definitions he pronounced wrong because they were formulated from the standpoint of the pleasure-seeker. Such at least has been the case since the Renaissance. From that time forward, Art, like all cults of pleasure, has been evil. To the pleasure-seeker, the beautiful is that which is enjoyable; hence he appraises works of art according to their ability to procure enjoyment. In Tolstoy's opinion this is no less absurd than if we were to estimate the nutritive value of food-stuffs by the pleasure accompanying their consumption. So he baldly declares that we must abolish beauty as a criterion of art, or conversely, must establish truth as the single standard of beauty. "The heroine of my stories whom I strive to represent in all her beauty, who was ever beautiful, is so, and will remain so, is Truth." His views on art have a certain analogy with two modern schools,--much against his will, since he strenuously disavows and deprecates everything modern; they make us think on the one hand of the "naturalists," inasmuch as like them Tolstoy eschews all intentional graces of style and diction: and on the other hand of the "impressionists," with whom he seems united by his fundamental definition of art, namely that it is the expression of a dominant emotion calculated to reproduce itself in the reader or beholder. Lacking, however, a deep and catholic understanding for art, Tolstoy, in contrast with the modern impressionists, would restrict artists to the expression of a single type of sentiments, those that reside in the sphere of religious consciousness. To him art, as properly conceived and practiced, must be ancillary to religion, and its proper gauge is the measure of its agreement with accepted moral teachings. Remembering, then, the primitive form of belief to which Tolstoy contrived to attain, we find ourselves face to face with a theory of art which sets up as the final arbiter the man "unspoiled by culture," and he, in Tolstoy's judgment, is the Russian muzhik. * * * * * This course of reasoning on art is in itself sufficient to show the impossibility for any modern mind of giving sweeping assent to Tolstoy's teachings. And a like difficulty would be experienced if we tried to follow him in his meditations on any other major interest of life. Seeking with a tremendous earnestness of conscience to reduce the bewildering tangle of human affairs to elementary simplicity, he enmeshed himself in a new network of contradictions. The effect was disastrous for the best part of his teaching; his own extremism stamped as a hopeless fantast a man incontestably gifted by nature, as few men have been in history, with the cardinal virtues of a sage, a reformer, and a missionary of social justice. Because of this extremism, his voice was doomed to remain that of one crying in the wilderness. The world could not do better than to accept Tolstoy's fundamental prescriptions: simplicity of living, application to work, and concentration upon moral culture. But to apply his radical scheme to existing conditions would amount to a self-stultification of the race, for it would entail the unpardonably sinful sacrifice of some of the finest and most hard-won achievements of human progress. For our quotidian difficulties his example promises no solution. The great mass of us are not privileged to test our individual schemes of redemption in the leisured security of an ideal experiment station; not for every man is there a Yasnaya Polyana, and the Sophia Andreyevnas are thinly sown in the matrimonial market. But even though Tolstoyism will not serve as a means of solving the great social problems, it supplies a helpful method of social criticism. And its value goes far beyond that: the force of his influence was too great not to have strengthened enormously the moral conscience of the world; he has played, and will continue to play, a leading part in the establishing and safeguarding of democracy. After all, we do not have to separate meticulously what is true in Tolstoy's teaching from what is false in order to acknowledge him as a Voice of his epoch. For as Lord Morley puts the matter in the case of Jean Jacques Rousseau: "There are some teachers whose distinction is neither correct thought, nor an eye for the exigencies of practical organization, but simply depth and fervor of the moral sentiment, bringing with it the indefinable gift of touching many hearts with love of virtue and the things of the spirit." [ 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. sublimal regions of the inner life, and that their work somehow brings subliminal regions of the inner life, and that their work somehow brings in the writings of the de-gallisized Frenchman, Count Joseph Arthur in the writings of the de-gallicized Frenchman, Count Joseph Arthur the same time, the universal decreptitude prevented the despiser of his the same time, the universal decrepitude prevented the despiser of his artistic design was dimmed by the obstrusive didactic purpose. artistic design was dimmed by the obtrusive didactic purpose. ] 
14347	----	PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG SECOND SERIES THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES MISS JULIA THE STRONGER CREDITORS PARIAH TRANSLATED WITH INTRODUCTIONS BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN AUTHORIZED EDITION CONTENTS Introduction to "There Are Crimes and Crimes" THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES Introduction to "Miss Julia" Author's Preface MISS JULIA Introduction to "The Stronger" THE STRONGER Introduction to "Creditors" CREDITORS Introduction to "Pariah" PARIAH THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES INTRODUCTION Strindberg was fifty years old when he wrote "There Are Crimes and Crimes." In the same year, 1899, he produced three of his finest historical dramas: "The Saga of the Folkungs," "Gustavus Vasa," and "Eric XIV." Just before, he had finished "Advent," which he described as "A Mystery," and which was published together with "There Are Crimes and Crimes" under the common title of "In a Higher Court." Back of these dramas lay his strange confessional works, "Inferno" and "Legends," and the first two parts of his autobiographical dream-play, "Toward Damascus"--all of which were finished between May, 1897, and some time in the latter part of 1898. And back of these again lay that period of mental crisis, when, at Paris, in 1895 and 1896, he strove to make gold by the transmutation of baser metals, while at the same time his spirit was travelling through all the seven hells in its search for the heaven promised by the great mystics of the past. "There Are Crimes and Crimes" may, in fact, be regarded as his first definite step beyond that crisis, of which the preceding works were at once the record and closing chord. When, in 1909, he issued "The Author," being a long withheld fourth part of his first autobiographical series, "The Bondwoman's Son," he prefixed to it an analytical summary of the entire body of his work. Opposite the works from 1897-8 appears in this summary the following passage: "The great crisis at the age of fifty; revolutions in the life of the soul, desert wanderings, Swedenborgian Heavens and Hells." But concerning "There Are Crimes and Crimes" and the three historical dramas from the same year he writes triumphantly: "Light after darkness; new productivity, with recovered Faith, Hope and Love--and with full, rock-firm Certitude." In its German version the play is named "Rausch," or "Intoxication," which indicates the part played by the champagne in the plunge of _Maurice_ from the pinnacles of success to the depths of misfortune. Strindberg has more and more come to see that a moderation verging closely on asceticism is wise for most men and essential to the man of genius who wants to fulfil his divine mission. And he does not scorn to press home even this comparatively humble lesson with the naive directness and fiery zeal which form such conspicuous features of all his work. But in the title which bound it to "Advent" at their joint publication we have a better clue to what the author himself undoubtedly regards as the most important element of his work--its religious tendency. The "higher court," in which are tried the crimes of _Maurice_, _Adolphe_, and _Henriette_, is, of course, the highest one that man can imagine. And the crimes of which they have all become guilty are those which, as _Adolphe_ remarks, "are not mentioned in the criminal code"--in a word, crimes against the spirit, against the impalpable power that moves us, against God. The play, seen in this light, pictures a deep-reaching spiritual change, leading us step by step from the soul adrift on the waters of life to the state where it is definitely oriented and impelled. There are two distinct currents discernible in this dramatic revelation of progress from spiritual chaos to spiritual order-- for to order the play must be said to lead, and progress is implied in its onward movement, if there be anything at all in our growing modern conviction that _any_ vital faith is better than none at all. One of the currents in question refers to the means rather than the end, to the road rather than the goal. It brings us back to those uncanny soul-adventures by which Strindberg himself won his way to the "full, rock-firm Certitude" of which the play in its entirety is the first tangible expression. The elements entering into this current are not only mystical, but occult. They are derived in part from Swedenborg, and in part from that picturesque French dreamer who signs himself "Sar Péladan"; but mostly they have sprung out of Strindberg's own experiences in moments of abnormal tension. What happened, or seemed to happen, to himself at Paris in 1895, and what he later described with such bewildering exactitude in his "Inferno" and "Legends," all this is here presented in dramatic form, but a little toned down, both to suit the needs of the stage and the calmer mood of the author. Coincidence is law. It is the finger-point of Providence, the signal to man that he must beware. Mystery is the gospel: the secret knitting of man to man, of fact to fact, deep beneath the surface of visible and audible existence. Few writers could take us into such a realm of probable impossibilities and possible improbabilities without losing all claim to serious consideration. If Strindberg has thus ventured to our gain and no loss of his own, his success can be explained only by the presence in the play of that second, parallel current of thought and feeling. This deeper current is as simple as the one nearer the surface is fantastic. It is the manifestation of that "rock-firm Certitude" to which I have already referred. And nothing will bring us nearer to it than Strindberg's own confession of faith, given in his "Speeches to the Swedish Nation" two years ago. In that pamphlet there is a chapter headed "Religion," in which occurs this passage: "Since 1896 I have been calling myself a Christian. I am not a Catholic, and have never been, but during a stay of seven years in Catholic countries and among Catholic relatives, I discovered that the difference between Catholic and Protestant tenets is either none at all, or else wholly superficial, and that the division which once occurred was merely political or else concerned with theological problems not fundamentally germane to the religion itself. A registered Protestant I am and will remain, but I can hardly be called orthodox or evangelistic, but come nearest to being a Swedenborgian. I use my Bible Christianity internally and privately to tame my somewhat decivilized nature-- decivilised by that veterinary philosophy and animal science (Darwinism) in which, as student at the university, I was reared. And I assure my fellow-beings that they have no right to complain because, according to my ability, I practise the Christian teachings. For only through religion, or the hope of something better, and the recognition of the innermost meaning of life as that of an ordeal, a school, or perhaps a penitentiary, will it be possible to bear the burden of life with sufficient resignation." Here, as elsewhere, it is made patent that Strindberg's religiosity always, on closer analysis, reduces itself to morality. At bottom he is first and last, and has always been, a moralist--a man passionately craving to know what is RIGHT and to do it. During the middle, naturalistic period of his creative career, this fundamental tendency was in part obscured, and he engaged in the game of intellectual curiosity known as "truth for truth's own sake." One of the chief marks of his final and mystical period is his greater courage to "be himself" in this respect--and this means necessarily a return, or an advance, to a position which the late William James undoubtedly would have acknowledged as "pragmatic." To combat the assertion of over-developed individualism that we are ends in ourselves, that we have certain inalienable personal "rights" to pleasure and happiness merely because we happen to appear here in human shape, this is one of Strindberg's most ardent aims in all his later works. As to the higher and more inclusive object to which our lives must be held subservient, he is not dogmatic. It may be another life. He calls it God. And the code of service he finds in the tenets of all the Christian churches, but principally in the Commandments. The plain and primitive virtues, the faith that implies little more than square dealing between man and man--these figure foremost in Strindberg's ideals. In an age of supreme self-seeking like ours, such an outlook would seem to have small chance of popularity, but that it embodies just what the time most needs is, perhaps, made evident by the reception which the public almost invariably grants "There Are Crimes and Crimes" when it is staged. With all its apparent disregard of what is commonly called realism, and with its occasional, but quite unblushing, use of methods generally held superseded--such as the casual introduction of characters at whatever moment they happen to be needed on the stage--it has, from the start, been among the most frequently played and most enthusiastically received of Strindberg's later dramas. At Stockholm it was first taken up by the Royal Dramatic Theatre, and was later seen on the tiny stage of the Intimate Theatre, then devoted exclusively to Strindberg's works. It was one of the earliest plays staged by Reinhardt while he was still experimenting with his Little Theatre at Berlin, and it has also been given in numerous German cities, as well as in Vienna. Concerning my own version of the play I wish to add a word of explanation. Strindberg has laid the scene in Paris. Not only the scenery, but the people and the circumstances are French. Yet he has made no attempt whatever to make the dialogue reflect French manners of speaking or ways of thinking. As he has given it to us, the play is French only in its most superficial aspect, in its setting--and this setting he has chosen simply because he needed a certain machinery offered him by the Catholic, but not by the Protestant, churches. The rest of the play is purely human in its note and wholly universal in its spirit. For this reason I have retained the French names and titles, but have otherwise striven to bring everything as close as possible to our own modes of expression. Should apparent incongruities result from this manner of treatment, I think they will disappear if only the reader will try to remember that the characters of the play move in an existence cunningly woven by the author out of scraps of ephemeral reality in order that he may show us the mirage of a more enduring one. THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES A COMEDY 1899 CHARACTERS MAURICE, a playwright JEANNE, his mistress MARION, their daughter, five years old ADOLPHE, a painter HENRIETTE, his mistress EMILE, a workman, brother of Jeanne MADAME CATHERINE THE ABBÉ A WATCHMAN A HEAD WAITER A COMMISSAIRE TWO DETECTIVES A WAITER A GUARD SERVANT GIRL ACT I, SCENE 1. THE CEMETERY 2. THE CRÊMERIE ACT II, SCENE 1. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS 2. THE BOIS DE BOULOGNE ACT III, SCENE 1. THE CRÊMERIE 2. THE AUBERGE DES ADRETS ACT IV, SCENE 1. THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS 2. THE CRÊMERIE (All the scenes are laid in Paris) THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES ACT I FIRST SCENE (The upper avenue of cypresses in the Montparnasse Cemetery at Paris. The background shows mortuary chapels, stone crosses on which are inscribed "O Crux! Ave Spes Unica!" and the ruins of a wind-mill covered with ivy.) (A well-dressed woman in widow's weeds is kneeling and muttering prayers in front of a grave decorated with flowers.) (JEANNE is walking back and forth as if expecting somebody.) (MARION is playing with some withered flowers picked from a rubbish heap on the ground.) (The ABBÉ is reading his breviary while walking along the further end of the avenue.) WATCHMAN. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Look here, this is no playground. JEANNE. [Submissively] I am only waiting for somebody who'll soon be here-- WATCHMAN. All right, but you're not allowed to pick any flowers. JEANNE. [To MARION] Drop the flowers, dear. ABBÉ. [Comes forward and is saluted by the WATCHMAN] Can't the child play with the flowers that have been thrown away? WATCHMAN. The regulations don't permit anybody to touch even the flowers that have been thrown away, because it's believed they may spread infection--which I don't know if it's true. ABBÉ. [To MARION] In that case we have to obey, of course. What's your name, my little girl? MARION. My name is Marion. ABBÉ. And who is your father? (MARION begins to bite one of her fingers and does not answer.) ABBÉ. Pardon my question, madame. I had no intention--I was just talking to keep the little one quiet. (The WATCHMAN has gone out.) JEANNE. I understood it, Reverend Father, and I wish you would say something to quiet me also. I feel very much disturbed after having waited here two hours. ABBÉ. Two hours--for him! How these human beings torture each other! O Crux! Ave spes unica! JEANNE. What do they mean, those words you read all around here? ABBÉ. They mean: O cross, our only hope! JEANNE. Is it the only one? ABBÉ. The only certain one. JEANNE. I shall soon believe that you are right, Father. ABBÉ. May I ask why? JEANNE. You have already guessed it. When he lets the woman and the child wait two hours in a cemetery, then the end is not far off. ABBÉ. And when he has left you, what then? JEANNE. Then we have to go into the river. ABBÉ. Oh, no, no! JEANNE. Yes, yes! MARION. Mamma, I want to go home, for I am hungry. JEANNE. Just a little longer, dear, and we'll go home. ABBÉ. Woe unto those who call evil good and good evil. JEANNE. What is that woman doing at the grave over there? ABBÉ. She seems to be talking to the dead. JEANNE. But you cannot do that? ABBÉ. She seems to know how. JEANNE. This would mean that the end of life is not the end of our misery? ABBÉ. And you don't know it? JEANNE. Where can I find out? ABBÉ. Hm! The next time you feel as if you wanted to learn about this well-known matter, you can look me up in Our Lady's Chapel at the Church of St. Germain--Here comes the one you are waiting for, I guess. JEANNE. [Embarrassed] No, he is not the one, but I know him. ABBÉ. [To MARION] Good-bye, little Marion! May God take care of you! [Kisses the child and goes out] At St. Germain des Prés. EMILE. [Enters] Good morning, sister. What are you doing here? JEANNE. I am waiting for Maurice. EMILE. Then I guess you'll have a lot of waiting to do, for I saw him on the boulevard an hour ago, taking breakfast with some friends. [Kissing the child] Good morning, Marion. JEANNE. Ladies also? EMILE. Of course. But that doesn't mean anything. He writes plays, and his latest one has its first performance tonight. I suppose he had with him some of the actresses. JEANNE. Did he recognise you? EMILE. No, he doesn't know who I am, and it is just as well. I know my place as a workman, and I don't care for any condescension from those that are above me. JEANNE. But if he leaves us without anything to live on? EMILE. Well, you see, when it gets that far, then I suppose I shall have to introduce myself. But you don't expect anything of the kind, do you--seeing that he is fond of you and very much attached to the child? JEANNE. I don't know, but I have a feeling that something dreadful is in store for me. EMILE. Has he promised to marry you? JEANNE. No, not promised exactly, but he has held out hopes. EMILE. Hopes, yes! Do you remember my words at the start: don't hope for anything, for those above us don't marry downward. JEANNE. But such things have happened. EMILE. Yes, they have happened. But, would you feel at home in his world? I can't believe it, for you wouldn't even understand what they were talking of. Now and then I take my meals where he is eating--out in the kitchen is my place, of course--and I don't make out a word of what they say. JEANNE. So you take your meals at that place? EMILE. Yes, in the kitchen. JEANNE. And think of it, he has never asked me to come with him. EMILE. Well, that's rather to his credit, and it shows he has some respect for the mother of his child. The women over there are a queer lot. JEANNE. Is that so? EMILE. But Maurice never pays any attention to the women. There is something _square_ about that fellow. JEANNE. That's what I feel about him, too, but as soon as there is a woman in it, a man isn't himself any longer. EMILE. [Smiling] You don't tell me! But listen: are you hard up for money? JEANNE. No, nothing of that kind. EMILE. Well, then the worst hasn't come yet--Look! Over there! There he comes. And I'll leave you. Good-bye, little girl. JEANNE. Is he coming? Yes, that's him. EMILE. Don't make him mad now--with your jealousy, Jeanne! [Goes out.] JEANNE. No, I won't. (MAURICE enters.) MARION. [Runs up to him and is lifted up into his arms] Papa, papa! MAURICE. My little girl! [Greets JEANNE] Can you forgive me, Jeanne, that I have kept you waiting so long? JEANNE. Of course I can. MAURICE. But say it in such a way that I can hear that you are forgiving me. JEANNE. Come here and let me whisper it to you. (MAURICE goes up close to her.) (JEANNE kisses him on the cheek.) MAURICE. I didn't hear. (JEANNE kisses him on the mouth.) MAURICE. Now I heard! Well--you know, I suppose that this is the day that will settle my fate? My play is on for tonight, and there is every chance that it will succeed--or fail. JEANNE. I'll make sure of success by praying for you. MAURICE. Thank you. If it doesn't help, it can at least do no harm--Look over there, down there in the valley, where the haze is thickest: there lies Paris. Today Paris doesn't know who Maurice is, but it is going to know within twenty-four hours. The haze, which has kept me obscured for thirty years, will vanish before my breath, and I shall become visible, I shall assume definite shape and begin to be somebody. My enemies--which means all who would like to do what I have done--will be writhing in pains that shall be my pleasures, for they will be suffering all that I have suffered. JEANNE. Don't talk that way, don't! MAURICE. But that's the way it is. JEANNE. Yes, but don't speak of it--And then? MAURICE. Then we are on firm ground, and then you and Marion will bear the name I have made famous. JEANNE. You love me then? MAURICE. I love both of you, equally much, or perhaps Marion a little more. JEANNE. I am glad of it, for you can grow tired of me, but not of her. MAURICE. Have you no confidence in my feelings toward you? JEANNE. I don't know, but I am afraid of something, afraid of something terrible-- MAURICE. You are tired out and depressed by your long wait, which once more I ask you to forgive. What have you to be afraid of? JEANNE. The unexpected: that which you may foresee without having any particular reason to do so. MAURICE. But I foresee only success, and I have particular reasons for doing so: the keen instincts of the management and their knowledge of the public, not to speak of their personal acquaintance with the critics. So now you must be in good spirits-- JEANNE. I can't, I can't! Do you know, there was an Abbé here a while ago, who talked so beautifully to us. My faith--which you haven't destroyed, but just covered up, as when you put chalk on a window to clean it--I couldn't lay hold on it for that reason, but this old man just passed his hand over the chalk, and the light came through, and it was possible again to see that the people within were at home--To-night I will pray for you at St. Germain. MAURICE. Now I am getting scared. JEANNE. Fear of God is the beginning of wisdom. MAURICE. God? What is that? Who is he? JEANNE. It was he who gave joy to your youth and strength to your manhood. And it is he who will carry us through the terrors that lie ahead of us. MAURICE. What is lying ahead of us? What do you know? Where have you learned of this? This thing that I don't know? JEANNE. I can't tell. I have dreamt nothing, seen nothing, heard nothing. But during these two dreadful hours I have experienced such an infinity of pain that I am ready for the worst. MARION. Now I want to go home, mamma, for I am hungry. MAURICE. Yes, you'll go home now, my little darling. [Takes her into his arms.] MARION. [Shrinking] Oh, you hurt me, papa! JEANNE. Yes, we must get home for dinner. Good-bye then, Maurice. And good luck to you! MAURICE. [To MARION] How did I hurt you? Doesn't my little girl know that I always want to be nice to her? MARION. If you are nice, you'll come home with us. MAURICE. [To JEANNE] When I hear the child talk like that, you know, I feel as if I ought to do what she says. But then reason and duty protest--Good-bye, my dear little girl! [He kisses the child, who puts her arms around his neck.] JEANNE. When do we meet again? MAURICE. We'll meet tomorrow, dear. And then we'll never part again. JEANNE. [Embraces him] Never, never to part again! [She makes the sign of the cross on his forehead] May God protect you! MAURICE. [Moved against his own will] My dear, beloved Jeanne! (JEANNE and MARION go toward the right; MAURICE toward the left. Both turn around simultaneously and throw kisses at each other.) MAURICE. [Comes back] Jeanne, I am ashamed of myself. I am always forgetting you, and you are the last one to remind me of it. Here are the tickets for tonight. JEANNE. Thank you, dear, but--you have to take up your post of duty alone, and so I have to take up mine--with Marion. MAURICE. Your wisdom is as great as the goodness of your heart. Yes, I am sure no other woman would have sacrificed a pleasure to serve her husband--I must have my hands free tonight, and there is no place for women and children on the battle-field--and this you understood! JEANNE. Don't think too highly of a poor woman like myself, and then you'll have no illusions to lose. And now you'll see that I can be as forgetful as you--I have bought you a tie and a pair of gloves which I thought you might wear for my sake on your day of honour. MAURICE. [Kissing her hand] Thank you, dear. JEANNE. And then, Maurice, don't forget to have your hair fixed, as you do all the time. I want you to be good-looking, so that others will like you too. MAURICE. There is no jealousy in _you_! JEANNE. Don't mention that word, for evil thoughts spring from it. MAURICE. Just now I feel as if I could give up this evening's victory--for I am going to win-- JEANNE. Hush, hush! MAURICE. And go home with you instead. JEANNE. But you mustn't do that! Go now: your destiny is waiting for you. MAURICE. Good-bye then! And may that happen which must happen! [Goes out.] JEANNE. [Alone with MARION] O Crux! Ave spes unica! (Curtain.) SECOND SCENE (The Crêmerie. On the right stands a buffet, on which are placed an aquarium with goldfish and dishes containing vegetables, fruit, preserves, etc. In the background is a door leading to the kitchen, where workmen are taking their meals. At the other end of the kitchen can be seen a door leading out to a garden. On the left, in the background, stands a counter on a raised platform, and back of it are shelves containing all sorts of bottles. On the right, a long table with a marble top is placed along the wall, and another table is placed parallel to the first further out on the floor. Straw-bottomed chairs stand around the tables. The walls are covered with oil-paintings.) (MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter.) (MAURICE stands leaning against it. He has his hat on and is smoking a cigarette.) MME. CATHERINE. So it's tonight the great event comes off, Monsieur Maurice? MAURICE. Yes, tonight. MME. CATHERINE. Do you feel upset? MAURICE. Cool as a cucumber. MME. CATHERINE. Well, I wish you luck anyhow, and you have deserved it, Monsieur Maurice, after having had to fight against such difficulties as yours. MAURICE. Thank you, Madame Catherine. You have been very kind to me, and without your help I should probably have been down and out by this time. MME. CATHERINE. Don't let us talk of that now. I help along where I see hard work and the right kind of will, but I don't want to be exploited--Can we trust you to come back here after the play and let us drink a glass with you? MAURICE. Yes, you can--of course, you can, as I have already promised you. (HENRIETTE enters from the right.) (MAURICE turns around, raises his hat, and stares at HENRIETTE, who looks him over carefully.) HENRIETTE. Monsieur Adolphe is not here yet? MME. CATHERINE. No, madame. But he'll soon be here now. Won't you sit down? HENRIETTE. No, thank you, I'll rather wait for him outside. [Goes out.] MAURICE. Who--was--that? MME. CATHERINE. Why, that's Monsieur Adolphe's friend. MAURICE. Was--that--her? MME. CATHERINE. Have you never seen her before? MAURICE. No, he has been hiding her from me, just as if he was afraid I might take her away from him. MME. CATHERINE. Ha-ha!--Well, how did you think she looked? MAURICE. How she looked? Let me see: I can't tell--I didn't see her, for it was as if she had rushed straight into my arms at once and come so close to me that I couldn't make out her features at all. And she left her impression on the air behind her. I can still see her standing there. [He goes toward the door and makes a gesture as if putting his arm around somebody] Whew! [He makes a gesture as if he had pricked his finger] There are pins in her waist. She is of the kind that stings! MME. CATHERINE. Oh, you are crazy, you with your ladies! MAURICE. Yes, it's craziness, that's what it is. But do you know, Madame Catherine, I am going before she comes back, or else, or else--Oh, that woman is horrible! MME. CATHERINE. Are you afraid? MAURICE. Yes, I am afraid for myself, and also for some others. MME. CATHERINE. Well, go then. MAURICE. She seemed to suck herself out through the door, and in her wake rose a little whirlwind that dragged me along--Yes, you may laugh, but can't you see that the palm over there on the buffet is still shaking? She's the very devil of a woman! MME. CATHERINE. Oh, get out of here, man, before you lose all your reason. MAURICE. I want to go, but I cannot--Do you believe in fate, Madame Catherine? MME. CATHERINE. No, I believe in a good God, who protects us against evil powers if we ask Him in the right way. MAURICE. So there are evil powers after all! I think I can hear them in the hallway now. MME. CATHERINE. Yes, her clothes rustle as when the clerk tears off a piece of linen for you. Get away now--through the kitchen. (MAURICE rushes toward the kitchen door, where he bumps into EMILE.) EMILE. I beg your pardon. [He retires the way he came.] ADOLPHE. [Comes in first; after him HENRIETTE] Why, there's Maurice. How are you? Let me introduce this lady here to my oldest and best friend. Mademoiselle Henriette--Monsieur Maurice. MAURICE. [Saluting stiffly] Pleased to meet you. HENRIETTA. We have seen each other before. ADOLPHE. Is that so? When, if I may ask? MAURICE. A moment ago. Right here. ADOLPHE. O-oh!--But now you must stay and have a chat with us. MAURICE. [After a glance at MME. CATHERINE] If I only had time. ADOLPHE. Take the time. And we won't be sitting here very long. HENRIETTE. I won't interrupt, if you have to talk business. MAURICE. The only business we have is so bad that we don't want to talk of it. HENRIETTE. Then we'll talk of something else. [Takes the hat away from MAURICE and hangs it up] Now be nice, and let me become acquainted with the great author. MME. CATHERINE signals to MAURICE, who doesn't notice her. ADOLPHE. That's right, Henriette, you take charge of him. [They seat themselves at one of the tables.] HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] You certainly have a good friend in Adolphe, Monsieur Maurice. He never talks of anything but you, and in such a way that I feel myself rather thrown in the background. ADOLPHE. You don't say so! Well, Henriette on her side never leaves me in peace about you, Maurice. She has read your works, and she is always wanting to know where you got this and where that. She has been questioning me about your looks, your age, your tastes. I have, in a word, had you for breakfast, dinner, and supper. It has almost seemed as if the three of us were living together. MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Heavens, why didn't you come over here and have a look at this wonder of wonders? Then your curiosity could have been satisfied in a trice. HENRIETTE. Adolphe didn't want it. (ADOLPHE looks embarrassed.) HENRIETTE. Not that he was jealous-- MAURICE. And why should he be, when he knows that my feelings are tied up elsewhere? HENRIETTE. Perhaps he didn't trust the stability of your feelings. MAURICE. I can't understand that, seeing that I am notorious for my constancy. ADOLPHE. Well, it wasn't that-- HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him] Perhaps that is because you have not faced the fiery ordeal-- ADOLPHE. Oh, you don't know-- HENRIETTE. [Interrupting]--for the world has not yet beheld a faithful man. MAURICE. Then it's going to behold one. HENRIETTE. Where? MAURICE. Here. (HENRIETTE laughs.) ADOLPHE. Well, that's going it-- HENRIETTE. [Interrupting him and directing herself continuously to MAURICE] Do you think I ever trust my dear Adolphe more than a month at a time? MAURICE. I have no right to question your lack of confidence, but I can guarantee that Adolphe is faithful. HENRIETTE. You don't need to do so--my tongue is just running away with me, and I have to take back a lot--not only for fear of feeling less generous than you, but because it is the truth. It is a bad habit I have of only seeing the ugly side of things, and I keep it up although I know better. But if I had a chance to be with you two for some time, then your company would make me good once more. Pardon me, Adolphe! [She puts her hand against his cheek.] ADOLPHE. You are always wrong in your talk and right in your actions. What you really think--that I don't know. HENRIETTE. Who does know that kind of thing? MAURICE. Well, if we had to answer for our thoughts, who could then clear himself? HENRIETTE. Do you also have evil thoughts? MAURICE. Certainly; just as I commit the worst kind of cruelties in my dreams. HENRIETTE. Oh, when you are dreaming, of course--Just think of it�- No, I am ashamed of telling-- MAURICE. Go on, go on! HENRIETTE. Last night I dreamt that I was coolly dissecting the muscles on Adolphe's breast--you see, I am a sculptor--and he, with his usual kindness, made no resistance, but helped me instead with the worst places, as he knows more anatomy than I. MAURICE. Was he dead? HENRIETTE. No, he was living. MAURICE. But that's horrible! And didn't it make YOU suffer? HENRIETTE. Not at all, and that astonished me most, for I am rather sensitive to other people's sufferings. Isn't that so, Adolphe? ADOLPHE. That's right. Rather abnormally so, in fact, and not the least when animals are concerned. MAURICE. And I, on the other hand, am rather callous toward the sufferings both of myself and others. ADOLPHE. Now he is not telling the truth about himself. Or what do you say, Madame Catherine? MME. CATHERINE. I don't know of anybody with a softer heart than Monsieur Maurice. He came near calling in the police because I didn't give the goldfish fresh water--those over there on the buffet. Just look at them: it is as if they could hear what I am saying. MAURICE. Yes, here we are making ourselves out as white as angels, and yet we are, taking it all in all, capable of any kind of polite atrocity the moment glory, gold, or women are concerned--So you are a sculptor, Mademoiselle Henriette? HENRIETTE. A bit of one. Enough to do a bust. And to do one of you--which has long been my cherished dream--I hold myself quite capable. MAURICE. Go ahead! That dream at least need not be long in coming true. HENRIETTE. But I don't want to fix your features in my mind until this evening's success is over. Not until then will you have become what you should be. MAURICE. How sure you are of victory! HENRIETTE. Yes, it is written on your face that you are going to win this battle, and I think you must feel that yourself. MAURICE. Why do you think so? HENRIETTE. Because I can feel it. This morning I was ill, you know, and now I am well. (ADOLPHE begins to look depressed.) MAURICE. [Embarrassed] Listen, I have a single ticket left--only one. I place it at your disposal, Adolphe. ADOLPHE. Thank you, but I surrender it to Henriette. HENRIETTE. But that wouldn't do? ADOLPHE. Why not? And I never go to the theatre anyhow, as I cannot stand the heat. HENRIETTE. But you will come and take us home at least after the show is over. ADOLPHE. If you insist on it. Otherwise Maurice has to come back here, where we shall all be waiting for him. MAURICE. You can just as well take the trouble of meeting us. In fact, I ask, I beg you to do so--And if you don't want to wait outside the theatre, you can meet us at the Auberge des Adrets-- That's settled then, isn't it? ADOLPHE. Wait a little. You have a way of settling things to suit yourself, before other people have a chance to consider them. MAURICE. What is there to consider--whether you are to see your lady home or not? ADOLPHE. You never know what may be involved in a simple act like that, but I have a sort of premonition. HENRIETTE. Hush, hush, hush! Don't talk of spooks while the sun is shining. Let him come or not, as it pleases him. We can always find our way back here. ADOLPHE. [Rising] Well, now I have to leave you--model, you know. Good-bye, both of you. And good luck to you, Maurice. To-morrow you will be out on the right side. Good-bye, Henriette. HENRIETTE. Do you really have to go? ADOLPHE. I must. MAURICE. Good-bye then. We'll meet later. (ADOLPHE goes out, saluting MME. CATHERINE in passing.) HENRIETTE. Think of it, that we should meet at last! MAURICE. Do you find anything remarkable in that? HENRIETTE. It looks as if it had to happen, for Adolphe has done his best to prevent it. MAURICE. Has he? HENRIETTE. Oh, you must have noticed it. MAURICE. I have noticed it, but why should you mention it? HENRIETTE. I had to. MAURICE. No, and I don't have to tell you that I wanted to run away through the kitchen in order to avoid meeting you and was stopped by a guest who closed the door in front of me. HENRIETTE. Why do you tell me about it now? MAURICE. I don't know. (MME. CATHERINE upsets a number of glasses and bottles.) MAURICE. That's all right, Madame Catherine. There's nothing to be afraid of. HENRIETTE. Was that meant as a signal or a warning? MAURICE. Probably both. HENRIETTE. Do they take me for a locomotive that has to have flagmen ahead of it? MAURICE. And switchmen! The danger is always greatest at the switches. HENRIETTE. How nasty you can be! MME. CATHERINE. Monsieur Maurice isn't nasty at all. So far nobody has been kinder than he to those that love him and trust in him. MAURICE. Sh, sh, sh! HENRIETTE. [To MAURICE] The old lady is rather impertinent. MAURICE. We can walk over to the boulevard, if you care to do so. HENRIETTE. With pleasure. This is not the place for me. I can just feel their hatred clawing at me. [Goes out.] MAURICE. [Starts after her] Good-bye, Madame Catherine. MME. CATHERINE. A moment! May I speak a word to you, Monsieur Maurice? MAURICE. [Stops unwillingly] What is it? MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! Don't do it! MAURICE. What? MME. CATHERINE. Don't do it! MAURICE. Don't be scared. This lady is not my kind, but she interests me. Or hardly that even. MME. CATHERINE, Don't trust yourself! MAURICE. Yes, I do trust myself. Good-bye. [Goes out.] (Curtain.) ACT II FIRST SCENE (The Auberge des Adrets: a café in sixteenth century style, with a suggestion of stage effect. Tables and easy-chairs are scattered in corners and nooks. The walls are decorated with armour and weapons. Along the ledge of the wainscoting stand glasses and jugs.) (MAURICE and HENRIETTE are in evening dress and sit facing each other at a table on which stands a bottle of champagne and three filled glasses. The third glass is placed at that side of the table which is nearest the background, and there an easy-chair is kept ready for the still missing "third man.") MAURICE. [Puts his watch in front of himself on the table] If he doesn't get here within the next five minutes, he isn't coming at all. And suppose in the meantime we drink with his ghost. [Touches the third glass with the rim of his own.] HENRIETTE. [Doing the same] Here's to you, Adolphe! MAURICE. He won't come. HENRIETTE. He will come. MAURICE. He won't. HENRIETTE. He will. MAURICE. What an evening! What a wonderful day! I can hardly grasp that a new life has begun. Think only: the manager believes that I may count on no less than one hundred thousand francs. I'll spend twenty thousand on a villa outside the city. That leaves me eighty thousand. I won't be able to take it all in until to-morrow, for I am tired, tired, tired. [Sinks back into the chair] Have you ever felt really happy? HENRIETTE. Never. How does it feel? MAURICE. I don't quite know how to put it. I cannot express it, but I seem chiefly to be thinking of the chagrin of my enemies. It isn't nice, but that's the way it is. HENRIETTE. Is it happiness to be thinking of one's enemies? MAURICE. Why, the victor has to count his killed and wounded enemies in order to gauge the extent of his victory. HENRIETTE. Are you as bloodthirsty as all that? MAURICE. Perhaps not. But when you have felt the pressure of other people's heels on your chest for years, it must be pleasant to shake off the enemy and draw a full breath at last. HENRIETTE. Don't you find it strange that yon are sitting here, alone with me, an insignificant girl practically unknown to you-- and on an evening like this, when you ought to have a craving to show yourself like a triumphant hero to all the people, on the boulevards, in the big restaurants? MAURICE. Of course, it's rather funny, but it feels good to be here, and your company is all I care for. HENRIETTE. You don't look very hilarious. MAURICE. No, I feel rather sad, and I should like to weep a little. HENRIETTE. What is the meaning of that? MAURICE. It is fortune conscious of its own nothingness and waiting for misfortune to appear. HENRIETTE. Oh my, how sad! What is it you are missing anyhow? MAURICE. I miss the only thing that gives value to life. HENRIETTE. So you love her no longer then? MAURICE. Not in the way I understand love. Do you think she has read my play, or that she wants to see it? Oh, she is so good, so self-sacrificing and considerate, but to go out with me for a night's fun she would regard as sinful. Once I treated her to champagne, you know, and instead of feeling happy over it, she picked up the wine list to see what it cost. And when she read the price, she wept--wept because Marion was in need of new stockings. It is beautiful, of course: it is touching, if you please. But I can get no pleasure out of it. And I do want a little pleasure before life runs out. So far I have had nothing but privation, but now, now--life is beginning for me. [The clock strikes twelve] Now begins a new day, a new era! HENRIETTE. Adolphe is not coming. MAURICE. No, now he won't, come. And now it is too late to go back to the Crêmerie. HENRIETTE. But they are waiting for you. MAURICE. Let them wait. They have made me promise to come, and I take back my promise. Are you longing to go there? HENRIETTE. On the contrary! MAURICE. Will you keep me company then? HENRIETTE. With pleasure, if you care to have me. MAURICE. Otherwise I shouldn't be asking you. It is strange, you know, that the victor's wreath seems worthless if you can't place it at the feet of some woman--that everything seems worthless when you have not a woman. HENRIETTE. You don't need to be without a woman--you? MAURICE. Well, that's the question. HENRIETTE. Don't you know that a man is irresistible in his hour of success and fame? MAURICE. No, I don't know, for I have had no experience of it. HENRIETTE. You are a queer sort! At this moment, when you are the most envied man in Paris, you sit here and brood. Perhaps your conscience is troubling you because you have neglected that invitation to drink chicory coffee with the old lady over at the milk shop? MAURICE. Yes, my conscience is troubling me on that score, and even here I am aware of their resentment, their hurt feelings, their well-grounded anger. My comrades in distress had the right to demand my presence this evening. The good Madame Catherine had a privileged claim on my success, from which a glimmer of hope was to spread over the poor fellows who have not yet succeeded. And I have robbed them of their faith in me. I can hear the vows they have been making: "Maurice will come, for he is a good fellow; he doesn't despise us, and he never fails to keep his word." Now I have made them forswear themselves. (While he is still speaking, somebody in the next room has begun to play the finale of Beethoven's Sonata in D-minor (Op. 31, No. 3). The allegretto is first played piano, then more forte, and at last passionately, violently, with complete abandon.) MAURICE. Who can be playing at this time of the night? HENRIETTE. Probably some nightbirds of the same kind as we. But listen! Your presentation of the case is not correct. Remember that Adolphe promised to meet us here. We waited for him, and he failed to keep his promise. So that you are not to blame-- MAURICE. You think so? While you are speaking, I believe you, but when you stop, my conscience begins again. What have you in that package? HENRIETTE. Oh, it is only a laurel wreath that I meant to send up to the stage, but I had no chance to do so. Let me give it to you now--it is said to have a cooling effect on burning foreheads. [She rises and crowns him with the wreath; then she kisses him on the forehead] Hail to the victor! MAURICE. Don't! HENRIETTE. [Kneeling] Hail to the King! MAURICE. [Rising] No, now you scare me. HENRIETTE. You timid man! You of little faith who are afraid of fortune even! Who robbed you of your self-assurance and turned you into a dwarf? MAURICE. A dwarf? Yes, you are right. I am not working up in the clouds, like a giant, with crashing and roaring, but I forge my weapons deep down in the silent heart of the mountain. You think that my modesty shrinks before the victor's wreath. On the contrary, I despise it: it is not enough for me. You think I am afraid of that ghost with its jealous green eyes which sits over there and keeps watch on my feelings--the strength of which you don't suspect. Away, ghost! [He brushes the third, untouched glass off the table] Away with you, you superfluous third person--you absent one who has lost your rights, if you ever had any. You stayed away from the field of battle because you knew yourself already beaten. As I crush this glass under my foot, so I will crush the image of yourself which you have reared in a temple no longer yours. HENRIETTE. Good! That's the way! Well spoken, my hero! MAURICE. Now I have sacrificed my best friend, my most faithful helper, on your altar, Astarte! Are you satisfied? HENRIETTE. Astarte is a pretty name, and I'll keep it--I think you love me, Maurice. MAURICE. Of course I do--Woman of evil omen, you who stir up man's courage with your scent of blood, whence do you come and where do you lead me? I loved you before I saw you, for I trembled when I heard them speak of you. And when I saw you in the doorway, your soul poured itself into mine. And when you left, I could still feel your presence in my arms. I wanted to flee from you, but something held me back, and this evening we have been driven together as the prey is driven into the hunter's net. Whose is the fault? Your friend's, who pandered for us! HENRIETTE. Fault or no fault: what does it matter, and what does it mean?--Adolphe has been at fault in not bringing us together before. He is guilty of having stolen from us two weeks of bliss, to which he had no right himself. I am jealous of him on your behalf. I hate him because he has cheated you out of your mistress. I should like to blot him from the host of the living, and his memory with him--wipe him out of the past even, make him unmade, unborn! MAURICE. Well, we'll bury him beneath our own memories. We'll cover him with leaves and branches far out in the wild woods, and then we'll pile stone on top of the mound so that he will never look up again. [Raising his glass] Our fate is sealed. Woe unto us! What will come next? HENRIETTE. Next comes the new era--What have you in that package? MAURICE. I cannot remember. HENRIETTE. [Opens the package and takes out a tie and a pair of gloves] That tie is a fright! It must have cost at least fifty centimes. MAURICE. [Snatching the things away from her] Don't you touch them! HENRIETTE. They are from her? MAURICE. Yes, they are. HENRIETTE. Give them to me. MAURICE. No, she's better than we, better than everybody else. HENRIETTE. I don't believe it. She is simply stupider and stingier. One who weeps because you order champagne-- MAURICE. When the child was without stockings. Yes, she is a good woman. HENRIETTE. Philistine! You'll never be an artist. But I am an artist, and I'll make a bust of you with a shopkeeper's cap instead of the laurel wreath--Her name is Jeanne? MAURICE. How do you know? HENRIETTE. Why, that's the name of all housekeepers. MAURICE. Henriette! (HENRIETTE takes the tie and the gloves and throws them into the fireplace.) MAURICE. [Weakly] Astarte, now you demand the sacrifice of women. You shall have them, but if you ask for innocent children, too, then I'll send you packing. HENRIETTE. Can you tell me what it is that binds you to me? MAURICE. If I only knew, I should be able to tear myself away. But I believe it must be those qualities which you have and I lack. I believe that the evil within you draws me with the irresistible lure of novelty. HENRIETTE. Have you ever committed a crime? MAURICE. No real one. Have you? HENRIETTE. Yes. MAURICE. Well, how did you find it? HENRIETTE. It was greater than to perform a good deed, for by that we are placed on equality with others; it was greater than to perform some act of heroism, for by that we are raised above others and rewarded. That crime placed me outside and beyond life, society, and my fellow-beings. Since then I am living only a partial life, a sort of dream life, and that's why reality never gets a hold on me. MAURICE. What was it you did? HENRIETTE. I won't tell, for then you would get scared again. MAURICE. Can you never be found out? HENRIETTE. Never. But that does not prevent me from seeing, frequently, the five stones at the Place de Roquette, where the scaffold used to stand; and for this reason I never dare to open a pack of cards, as I always turn up the five-spot of diamonds. MAURICE. Was it that kind of a crime? HENRIETTE. Yes, it was that kind. MAURICE. Of course, it's horrible, but it is interesting. Have you no conscience? HENRIETTE. None, but I should be grateful if you would talk of something else. MAURICE. Suppose we talk of--love? HENRIETTE. Of that you don't talk until it is over. MAURICE. Have you been in love with Adolphe? HENRIETTE. I don't know. The goodness of his nature drew me like some beautiful, all but vanished memory of childhood. Yet there was much about his person that offended my eye, so that I had to spend a long time retouching, altering, adding, subtracting, before I could make a presentable figure of him. When he talked, I could notice that he had learned from you, and the lesson was often badly digested and awkwardly applied. You can imagine then how miserable the copy must appear now, when I am permitted to study the original. That's why he was afraid of having us two meet; and when it did happen, he understood at once that his time was up. MAURICE. Poor Adolphe! HENRIETTE. I feel sorry for him, too, as I know he must be suffering beyond all bounds-- MAURICE. Sh! Somebody is coming. HENRIETTE. I wonder if it could be he? MAURICE. That would be unbearable. HENRIETTE. No, it isn't he, but if it had been, how do you think the situation would have shaped itself? MAURICE. At first he would have been a little sore at you because he had made a mistake in regard to the meeting-place--and tried to find us in several other cafes--but his soreness would have changed into pleasure at finding us--and seeing that we had not deceived him. And in the joy at having wronged us by his suspicions, he would love both of us. And so it would make him happy to notice that we had become such good friends. It had always been his dream--hm! he is making the speech now--his dream that the three of us should form a triumvirate that could set the world a great example of friendship asking for nothing--"Yes, I trust you, Maurice, partly because you are my friend, and partly because your feelings are tied up elsewhere." HENRIETTE. Bravo! You must have been in a similar situation before, or you couldn't give such a lifelike picture of it. Do you know that Adolphe is just that kind of a third person who cannot enjoy his mistress without having his friend along? MAURICE. That's why I had to be called in to entertain you--Hush! There is somebody outside--It must be he. HENRIETTE. No, don't you know these are the hours when ghosts walk, and then you can see so many things, and hear them also. To keep awake at night, when you ought to be sleeping, has for me the same charm as a crime: it is to place oneself above and beyond the laws of nature. MAURICE. But the punishment is fearful--I am shivering or quivering, with cold or with fear. HENRIETTE. [Wraps her opera cloak about him] Put this on. It will make you warm. MAURICE. That's nice. It is as if I were inside of your skin, as if my body had been melted up by lack of sleep and were being remoulded in your shape. I can feel the moulding process going on. But I am also growing a new soul, new thoughts, and here, where your bosom has left an impression, I can feel my own beginning to bulge. (During this entire scene, the pianist in the next room has been practicing the Sonata in D-minor, sometimes pianissimo, sometimes wildly fortissimo; now and then he has kept silent for a little while, and at other times nothing has been heard but a part of the finale: bars 96 to 107.) MAURICE. What a monster, to sit there all night practicing on the piano. It gives me a sick feeling. Do you know what I propose? Let us drive out to the Bois de Boulogne and take breakfast in the Pavilion, and see the sun rise over the lakes. HENRIETTE. Bully! MAURICE. But first of all I must arrange to have my mail and the morning papers sent out by messenger to the Pavilion. Tell me, Henriette: shall we invite Adolphe? HENRIETTE. Oh, that's going too far! But why not? The ass can also be harnessed to the triumphal chariot. Let him come. [They get up.] MAURICE. [Taking off the cloak] Then I'll ring. HENRIETTE. Wait a moment! [Throws herself into his arms.] (Curtain.) SECOND SCENE (A large, splendidly furnished restaurant room in the Bois de Boulogne. It is richly carpeted and full of mirrors, easy-chairs, and divans. There are glass doors in the background, and beside them windows overlooking the lakes. In the foreground a table is spread, with flowers in the centre, bowls full of fruit, wine in decanters, oysters on platters, many different kinds of wine glasses, and two lighted candelabra. On the right there is a round table full of newspapers and telegrams.) (MAURICE and HENRIETTE are sitting opposite each other at this small table.) (The sun is just rising outside.) MAURICE. There is no longer any doubt about it. The newspapers tell me it is so, and these telegrams congratulate me on my success. This is the beginning of a new life, and my fate is wedded to yours by this night, when you were the only one to share my hopes and my triumph. From your hand I received the laurel, and it seems to me as if everything had come from you. HENRIETTE. What a wonderful night! Have we been dreaming, or is this something we have really lived through? MAURICE. [Rising] And what a morning after such a night! I feel as if it were the world's first day that is now being illumined by the rising sun. Only this minute was the earth created and stripped of those white films that are now floating off into space. There lies the Garden of Eden in the rosy light of dawn, and here is the first human couple--Do you know, I am so happy I could cry at the thought that all mankind is not equally happy--Do you hear that distant murmur as of ocean waves beating against a rocky shore, as of winds sweeping through a forest? Do you know what it is? It is Paris whispering my name. Do you see the columns of smoke that rise skyward in thousands and tens of thousands? They are the fires burning on my altars, and if that be not so, then it must become so, for I will it. At this moment all the telegraph instruments of Europe are clicking out my name. The Oriental Express is carrying the newspapers to the Far East, toward the rising sun; and the ocean steamers are carrying them to the utmost West. The earth is mine, and for that reason it is beautiful. Now I should like to have wings for us two, so that we might rise from here and fly far, far away, before anybody can soil my happiness, before envy has a chance to wake me out of my dream--for it is probably a dream! HENRIETTE. [Holding out her hand to him] Here you can feel that you are not dreaming. MAURICE. It is not a dream, but it has been one. As a poor young man, you know, when I was walking in the woods down there, and looked up to this Pavilion, it looked to me like a fairy castle, and always my thoughts carried me up to this room, with the balcony outside and the heavy curtains, as to a place of supreme bliss. To be sitting here in company with a beloved woman and see the sun rise while the candles were still burning in the candelabra: that was the most audacious dream of my youth. Now it has come true, and now I have no more to ask of life--Do you want to die now, together with me? HENRIETTE. No, you fool! Now I want to begin living. MAURICE. [Rising] To live: that is to suffer! Now comes reality. I can hear his steps on the stairs. He is panting with alarm, and his heart is beating with dread of having lost what it holds most precious. Can you believe me if I tell you that Adolphe is under this roof? Within a minute he will be standing in the middle of this floor. HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] It was a stupid trick to ask him to come here, and I am already regretting it--Well, we shall see anyhow if your forecast of the situation proves correct. MAURICE. Oh, it is easy to be mistaken about a person's feelings. (The HEAD WAITER enters with a card.) MAURICE. Ask the gentleman to step in. [To HENRIETTE] I am afraid we'll regret this. HENRIETTE. Too late to think of that now--Hush! (ADOLPHE enters, pale and hollow-eyed.) MAURICE. [Trying to speak unconcernedly] There you are! What became of you last night? ADOLPHE. I looked for you at the Hotel des Arrets and waited a whole hour. MAURICE. So you went to the wrong place. We were waiting several hours for you at the Auberge des Adrets, and we are still waiting for you, as you see. ADOLPHE. [Relieved] Thank heaven! HENRIETTE. Good morning, Adolphe. You are always expecting the worst and worrying yourself needlessly. I suppose you imagined that we wanted to avoid your company. And though you see that we sent for you, you are still thinking yourself superfluous. ADOLPHE. Pardon me: I was wrong, but the night was dreadful. (They sit down. Embarrassed silence follows.) HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Well, are you not going to congratulate Maurice on his great success? ADOLPHE. Oh, yes! Your success is the real thing, and envy itself cannot deny it. Everything is giving way before you, and even I have a sense of my own smallness in your presence. MAURICE. Nonsense!--Henriette, are you not going to offer Adolphe a glass of wine? ADOLPHE. Thank you, not for me--nothing at all! HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] What's the matter with you? Are you ill? ADOLPHE. Not yet, but-- HENRIETTE. Your eyes-- ADOLPHE. What of them? MAURICE. What happened at the Crêmerie last night? I suppose they are angry with me? ADOLPHE. Nobody is angry with you, but your absence caused a depression which it hurt me to watch. But nobody was angry with you, believe me. Your friends understood, and they regarded your failure to come with sympathetic forbearance. Madame Catherine herself defended you and proposed your health. We all rejoiced in your success as if it had been our own. HENRIETTE. Well, those are nice people! What good friends you have, Maurice. MAURICE. Yes, better than I deserve. ADOLPHE. Nobody has better friends than he deserves, and you are a man greatly blessed in his friends--Can't you feel how the air is softened to-day by all the kind thoughts and wishes that stream toward you from a thousand breasts? (MAURICE rises in order to hide his emotion.) ADOLPHE. From a thousand breasts that you have rid of the nightmare that had been crushing them during a lifetime. Humanity had been slandered--and you have exonerated it: that's why men feel grateful toward you. To-day they are once more holding their heads high and saying: You see, we are a little better than our reputation after all. And that thought makes them better. (HENRIETTE tries to hide her emotion.) ADOLPHE. Am I in the way? Just let me warm myself a little in your sunshine, Maurice, and then I'll go. MAURICE. Why should you go when you have only just arrived? ADOLPHE. Why? Because I have seen what I need not have seen; because I know now that my hour is past. [Pause] That you sent for me, I take as an expression of thoughtfulness, a notice of what has happened, a frankness that hurts less than deceit. You hear that I think well of my fellow-beings, and this I have learned from you, Maurice. [Pause] But, my friend, a few moments ago I passed through the Church of St. Germain, and there I saw a woman and a child. I am not wishing that you had seen them, for what has happened cannot be altered, but if you gave a thought or a word to them before you set them adrift on the waters of the great city, then you could enjoy your happiness undisturbed. And now I bid you good-by. HENRIETTE. Why must you go? ADOLPHE. And you ask that? Do you want me to tell you? HENRIETTE. No, I don't. ADOLPHE. Good-by then! [Goes out.] MAURICE. The Fall: and lo! "they knew that they were naked." HENRIETTE. What a difference between this scene and the one we imagined! He is better than we. MAURICE. It seems to me now as if all the rest were better than we. HENRIETTE. Do you see that the sun has vanished behind clouds, and that the woods have lost their rose colour? MAURICE. Yes, I see, and the blue lake has turned black. Let us flee to some place where the sky is always blue and the trees are always green. HENRIETTE. Yes, let us--but without any farewells. MAURICE. No, with farewells. HENRIETTE. We were to fly. You spoke of wings--and your feet are of lead. I am not jealous, but if you go to say farewell and get two pairs of arms around your neck--then you can't tear yourself away. MAURICE. Perhaps you are right, but only one pair of little arms is needed to hold me fast. HENRIETTE. It is the child that holds you then, and not the woman? MAURICE. It is the child. HENRIETTE. The child! Another woman's child! And for the sake of it I am to suffer. Why must that child block the way where I want to pass, and must pass? MAURICE. Yes, why? It would be better if it had never existed. HENRIETTE. [Walks excitedly back and forth] Indeed! But now it does exist. Like a rock on the road, a rock set firmly in the ground, immovable, so that it upsets the carriage. MAURICE. The triumphal chariot!--The ass is driven to death, but the rock remains. Curse it! [Pause.] HENRIETTE. There is nothing to do. MAURICE. Yes, we must get married, and then our child will make us forget the other one. HENRIETTE. This will kill this! MAURICE. Kill! What kind of word is that? HENRIETTE. [Changing tone] Your child will kill our love. MAURICE. No, girl, our love will kill whatever stands in its way, but it will not be killed. HENRIETTE. [Opens a deck of cards lying on the mantlepiece] Look at it! Five-spot of diamonds--the scaffold! Can it be possible that our fates are determined in advance? That our thoughts are guided as if through pipes to the spot for which they are bound, without chance for us to stop them? But I don't want it, I don't want it!--Do you realise that I must go to the scaffold if my crime should be discovered? MAURICE. Tell me about your crime. Now is the time for it. HENRIETTE. No, I should regret it afterward, and you would despise me--no, no, no!--Have you ever heard that a person could be hated to death? Well, my father incurred the hatred of my mother and my sisters, and he melted away like wax before a fire. Ugh! Let us talk of something else. And, above all, let us get away. The air is poisoned here. To-morrow your laurels will be withered, the triumph will be forgotten, and in a week another triumphant hero will hold the public attention. Away from here, to work for new victories! But first of all, Maurice, you must embrace your child and provide for its immediate future. You don't have to see the mother at all. MAURICE. Thank you! Your good heart does you honour, and I love you doubly when you show the kindness you generally hide. HENRIETTE. And then you go to the Crêmerie and say good-by to the old lady and your friends. Leave no unsettled business behind to make your mind heavy on our trip. MAURICE. I'll clear up everything, and to-night we meet at the railroad station. HENRIETTE. Agreed! And then: away from here--away toward the sea and the sun! (Curtain.) ACT III FIRST SCENE (In the Crêmerie. The gas is lit. MME. CATHERINE is seated at the counter, ADOLPHE at a table.) MME. CATHERINE. Such is life, Monseiur Adolphe. But you young ones are always demanding too much, and then you come here and blubber over it afterward. ADOLPHE. No, it isn't that. I reproach nobody, and I am as fond as ever of both of them. But there is one thing that makes me sick at heart. You see, I thought more of Maurice than of anybody else; so much that I wouldn't have grudged him anything that could give him pleasure--but now I have lost him, and it hurts me worse than the loss of her. I have lost both of them, and so my loneliness is made doubly painful. And then there is still something else which I have not yet been able to clear up. MME. CATHERINE. Don't brood so much. Work and divert yourself. Now, for instance, do you ever go to church? ADOLPHE. What should I do there? MME. CATHERINE. Oh, there's so much to look at, and then there is the music. There is nothing commonplace about it, at least. ADOLPHE. Perhaps not. But I don't belong to that fold, I guess, for it never stirs me to any devotion. And then, Madame Catherine, faith is a gift, they tell me, and I haven't got it yet. MME. CATHERINE. Well, wait till you get it--But what is this I heard a while ago? Is it true that you have sold a picture in London for a high price, and that you have got a medal? ADOLPHE. Yes, it's true. MME. CATHERINE. Merciful heavens!--and not a word do you say about it? ADOLPHE. I am afraid of fortune, and besides it seems almost worthless to me at this moment. I am afraid of it as of a spectre: it brings disaster to speak of having seen it. MME. CATHERINE. You're a queer fellow, and that's what you have always been. ADOLPHE. Not queer at all, but I have seen so much misfortune come in the wake of fortune, and I have seen how adversity brings out true friends, while none but false ones appear in the hour of success--You asked me if I ever went to church, and I answered evasively. This morning I stepped into the Church of St. Germain without really knowing why I did so. It seemed as if I were looking for somebody in there--somebody to whom I could silently offer my gratitude. But I found nobody. Then I dropped a gold coin in the poor-box. It was all I could get out of my church-going, and that was rather commonplace, I should say. MME. CATHERINE. It was always something; and then it was fine to think of the poor after having heard good news. ADOLPHE. It was neither fine nor anything else: it was something I did because I couldn't help myself. But something more occurred while I was in the church. I saw Maurice's girl friend, Jeanne, and her child. Struck down, crushed by his triumphal chariot, they seemed aware of the full extent of their misfortune. MME. CATHERINE. Well, children, I don't know in what kind of shape you keep your consciences. But how a decent fellow, a careful and considerate man like Monsieur Maurice, can all of a sudden desert a woman and her child, that is something I cannot explain. ADOLPHE. Nor can I explain it, and he doesn't seem to understand it himself. I met them this morning, and everything appeared quite natural to them, quite proper, as if they couldn't imagine anything else. It was as if they had been enjoying the satisfaction of a good deed or the fulfilment of a sacred duty. There are things, Madame Catherine, that we cannot explain, and for this reason it is not for us to judge. And besides, you saw how it happened. Maurice felt the danger in the air. I foresaw it and tried to prevent their meeting. Maurice wanted to run away from it, but nothing helped. Why, it was as if a plot had been laid by some invisible power, and as if they had been driven by guile into each other's arms. Of course, I am disqualified in this case, but I wouldn't hesitate to pronounce a verdict of "not guilty." MME. CATHERINE. Well, now, to be able to forgive as you do, that's what I call religion. ADOLPHE. Heavens, could it be that I am religious without knowing it. MME. CATHERINE. But then, to _let_ oneself be driven or tempted into evil, as Monsieur Maurice has done, means weakness or bad character. And if you feel your strength failing you, then you ask for help, and then you get it. But he was too conceited to do that--Who is this coming? The Abbé, I think. ADOLPHE. What does he want here? ABBÉ. [Enters] Good evening, madame. Good evening, Monsieur. MME. CATHERINE. Can I be of any service? ABBÉ. Has Monsieur Maurice, the author, been here to-day? MME. CATHERINE. Not to-day. His play has just been put on, and that is probably keeping him busy. ABBÉ. I have--sad news to bring him. Sad in several respects. MME. CATHERINE. May I ask of what kind? ABBÉ. Yes, it's no secret. The daughter he had with that girl, Jeanne, is dead. MME. CATHERINE. Dead! ADOLPHE. Marion dead! ABBÉ. Yes, she died suddenly this morning without any previous illness. MME. CATHERINE. O Lord, who can tell Thy ways! ABBÉ. The mother's grief makes it necessary that Monsieur Maurice look after her, so we must try to find him. But first a question in confidence: do you know whether Monsieur Maurice was fond of the child, or was indifferent to it? MME. CATHERINE. If he was fond of Marion? Why, all of us know how he loved her. ADOLPHE. There's no doubt about that. ABBÉ. I am glad to hear it, and it settles the matter so far as I am concerned. MME. CATHERINE. Has there been any doubt about it? ABBÉ. Yes, unfortunately. It has even been rumoured in the neighbourhood that he had abandoned the child and its mother in order to go away with a strange woman. In a few hours this rumour has grown into definite accusations, and at the same time the feeling against him has risen to such a point that his life is threatened and he is being called a murderer. MME. CATHERINE. Good God, what is _this_? What does it mean? ABBÉ. Now I'll tell you my opinion--I am convinced that the man is innocent on this score, and the mother feels as certain about it as I do. But appearances are against Monsieur Maurice, and I think he will find it rather hard to clear himself when the police come to question him. ADOLPHE. Have the police got hold of the matter? ABBÉ. Yea, the police have had to step in to protect him against all those ugly rumours and the rage of the people. Probably the Commissaire will be here soon. MME. CATHERINE. [To ADOLPHE] There you see what happens when a man cannot tell the difference between good and evil, and when he trifles with vice. God will punish! ADOLPHE. Then he is more merciless than man. ABBÉ. What do you know about that? ADOLPHE. Not very much, but I keep an eye on what happens-- ABBÉ. And you understand it also? ADOLPHE. Not yet perhaps. ABBÉ. Let us look more closely at the matter--Oh, here comes the Commissaire. COMMISSAIRE. [Enters] Gentlemen--Madame Catherine--I have to trouble you for a moment with a few questions concerning Monsieur Maurice. As you have probably heard, he has become the object of a hideous rumour, which, by the by, I don't believe in. MME. CATHERINE. None of us believes in it either. COMMISSAIRE. That strengthens my own opinion, but for his own sake I must give him a chance to defend himself. ABBÉ. That's right, and I guess he will find justice, although it may come hard. COMMISSAIRE. Appearances are very much against him, but I have seen guiltless people reach the scaffold before their innocence was discovered. Let me tell you what there is against him. The little girl, Marion, being left alone by her mother, was secretly visited by the father, who seems to have made sure of the time when the child was to be found alone. Fifteen minutes after his visit the mother returned home and found the child dead. All this makes the position of the accused man very unpleasant--The post- mortem examination brought out no signs of violence or of poison, but the physicians admit the existence of new poisons that leave no traces behind them. To me all this is mere coincidence of the kind I frequently come across. But here's something that looks worse. Last night Monsieur Maurice was seen at the Auberge des Adrets in company with a strange lady. According to the waiter, they were talking about crimes. The Place de Roquette and the scaffold were both mentioned. A queer topic of conversation for a pair of lovers of good breeding and good social position! But even this may be passed over, as we know by experience that people who have been drinking and losing a lot of sleep seem inclined to dig up all the worst that lies at the bottom of their souls. Far more serious is the evidence given by the head waiter as to their champagne breakfast in the Bois de Boulogne this morning. He says that he heard them wish the life out of a child. The man is said to have remarked that, "It would be better if it had never existed." To which the woman replied: "Indeed! But now it does exist." And as they went on talking, these words occurred: "This will kill this!" And the answer was: "Kill! What kind of word is that?" And also: "The five-spot of diamonds, the scaffold, the Place de Roquette." All this, you see, will be hard to get out of, and so will the foreign journey planned for this evening. These are serious matters. ADOLPHE. He is lost! MME. CATHERINE. That's a dreadful story. One doesn't know what to believe. ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. God have mercy on him! ADOLPHE. He is in the net, and he will never get out of it. MME. CATHERINE. He had no business to get in. ADOLPHE. Do you begin to suspect him also, Madame Catherine? MME. CATHERINE. Yes and no. I have got beyond having an opinion in this matter. Have you not seen angels turn into devils just as you turn your hand, and then become angels again? COMMISSAIRE. It certainly does look queer. However, we'll have to wait and hear what explanations he can give. No one will be judged unheard. Good evening, gentlemen. Good evening, Madame Catherine. [Goes out.] ABBÉ. This is not the work of man. ADOLPHE. No, it looks as if demons had been at work for the undoing of man. ABBÉ. It is either a punishment for secret misdeeds, or it is a terrible test. JEANNE. [Enters, dressed in mourning] Good evening. Pardon me for asking, but have you seen Monsieur Maurice? MME. CATHERINE. No, madame, but I think he may be here any minute. You haven't met him then since-- JEANNE. Not since this morning. MME. CATHERINE. Let me tell you that I share in your great sorrow. JEANNE. Thank you, madame. [To the ABBÉ] So you are here, Father. ABBÉ. Yes, my child. I thought I might be of some use to you. And it was fortunate, as it gave me a chance to speak to the Commissaire. JEANNE. The Commissaire! He doesn't suspect Maurice also, does he? ABBÉ. No, he doesn't, and none of us here do. But appearances are against him in a most appalling manner. JEANNE. You mean on account of the talk the waiters overheard--it means nothing to me, who has heard such things before when Maurice had had a few drinks. Then it is his custom to speculate on crimes and their punishment. Besides it seems to have been the woman in his company who dropped the most dangerous remarks. I should like to have a look into that woman's eyes. ADOLPHE. My dear Jeanne, no matter how much harm that woman may have done you, she did nothing with evil intention--in fact, she had no intention whatever, but just followed the promptings of her nature. I know her to be a good soul and one who can very well bear being looked straight in the eye. JEANNE. Your judgment in this matter, Adolphe, has great value to me, and I believe what you say. It means that I cannot hold anybody but myself responsible for what has happened. It is my carelessness that is now being punished. [She begins to cry.] ABBÉ. Don't accuse yourself unjustly! I know you, and the serious spirit in which you have regarded your motherhood. That your assumption of this responsibility had not been sanctioned by religion and the civil law was not your fault. No, we are here facing something quite different. ADOLPHE. What then? ABBÉ. Who can tell? (HENRIETTE enters, dressed in travelling suit.) ADOLPHE. [Rises with an air of determination and goes to meet HENRIETTE] You here? HENRIETTE. Yes, where is Maurice? ADOLPHE. Do you know--or don't you? HENRIETTE. I know everything. Excuse me, Madame Catherine, but I was ready to start and absolutely had to step in here a moment. [To ADOLPHE] Who is that woman?--Oh! (HENRIETTE and JEANNE stare at each other.) (EMILE appears in the kitchen door.) HENRIETTE. [To JEANNE] I ought to say something, but it matters very little, for anything I can say must sound like an insult or a mockery. But if I ask you simply to believe that I share your deep sorrow as much as anybody standing closer to you, then you must not turn away from me. You mustn't, for I deserve your pity if not your forbearance. [Holds out her hand.] JEANNE. [Looks hard at her] I believe you now--and in the next moment I don't. [Takes HENRIETTE'S hand.] HENRIETTE. [Kisses JEANNE'S hand] Thank you! JEANNE. [Drawing back her hand] Oh, don't! I don't deserve it! I don't deserve it! ABBÉ. Pardon me, but while we are gathered here and peace seems to prevail temporarily at least, won't you, Mademoiselle Henriette, shed some light into all the uncertainty and darkness surrounding the main point of accusation? I ask you, as a friend among friends, to tell us what you meant with all that talk about killing, and crime, and the Place de Roquette. That your words had no connection with the death of the child, we have reason to believe, but it would give us added assurance to hear what you were really talking about. Won't you tell us? HENRIETTE. [After a pause] That I cannot tell! No, I cannot! ADOLPHE. Henriette, do tell! Give us the word that will relieve us all. HENRIETTE. I cannot! Don't ask me! ABBÉ. This is not the work of man! HENRIETTE. Oh, that this moment had to come! And in this manner! [To JEANNE] Madame, I swear that I am not guilty of your child's death. Is that enough? JEANNE. Enough for us, but not for Justice. HENRIETTE. Justice! If you knew how true your words are! ABBÉ. [To HENRIETTE] And if you knew what you were saying just now! HENRIETTE. Do you know that better than I? ABBÉ. Yes, I do. (HENRIETTE looks fixedly at the ABBÉ.) ABBÉ. Have no fear, for even if I guess your secret, it will not be exposed. Besides, I have nothing to do with human justice, but a great deal with divine mercy. MAURICE. [Enters hastily, dressed for travelling. He doesn't look at the others, who are standing in the background, but goes straight up to the counter, where MME. CATHERINE is sitting.] You are not angry at me, Madame Catherine, because I didn't show up. I have come now to apologise to you before I start for the South at eight o'clock this evening. (MME. CATHERINE is too startled to say a word.) MAURICE. Then you are angry at me? [Looks around] What does all this mean? Is it a dream, or what is it? Of course, I can see that it is all real, but it looks like a wax cabinet--There is Jeanne, looking like a statue and dressed in black--And Henriette looking like a corpse--What does it mean? (All remain silent.) MAURICE. Nobody answers. It must mean something dreadful. [Silence] But speak, please! Adolphe, you are my friend, what is it? [Pointing to EMILE] And there is a detective! ADOLPHE. [Comes forward] You don't know then? MAURICE. Nothing at all. But I must know! ADOLPHE. Well, then--Marion is dead. MAURICE. Marion--dead? ADOLPHE. Yes, she died this morning. MAURICE. [To JEANNE] So that's why you are in mourning. Jeanne, Jeanne, who has done this to us? JEANNE. He who holds life and death in his hand. MAURICE. But I saw her looking well and happy this morning. How did it happen? Who did it? Somebody must have done it? [His eyes seek HENRIETTE.] ADOLPHE. Don't look for the guilty one here, for there is none to he found. Unfortunately the police have turned their suspicion in a direction where none ought to exist. MAURICE. What direction is that? ADOLPHE. Well--you may as well know that, your reckless talk last night and this morning has placed you in a light that is anything but favourable. MAURICE, So they were listening to us. Let me see, what were we saying--I remember!--Then I am lost! ADOLPHE. But if you explain your thoughtless words we will believe you. MAURICE. I cannot! And I will not! I shall be sent to prison, but it doesn't matter. Marion is dead! Dead! And I have killed her! (General consternation.) ADOLPHE. Think of what you are saying! Weigh your words! Do you realise what you said just now? MAURICE. What did I say? ADOLPHE. You said that you had killed Marion. MAURICE. Is there a human being here who could believe me a murderer, and who could hold me capable of taking my own child's life? You who know me, Madame Catherine, tell me: do you believe, can you believe-- MME. CATHERINE. I don't know any longer what to believe. What the heart thinketh the tongue speaketh. And your tongue has spoken evil words. MAURICE. She doesn't believe me! ADOLPHE. But explain your words, man! Explain what you meant by saying that "your love would kill everything that stood in its way." MAURICE. So they know that too--Are you willing to explain it, Henriette? HENRIETTE. No, I cannot do that. ABBÉ. There is something wrong behind all this and you have lost our sympathy, my friend. A while ago I could have sworn that you were innocent, and I wouldn't do that now. MAURICE. [To JEANNE] What you have to say means more to me than anything else. JEANNE. [Coldly] Answer a question first: who was it you cursed during that orgie out there? MAURICE. Have I done that too? Maybe. Yes, I am guilty, and yet I am guiltless. Let me go away from here, for I am ashamed of myself, and I have done more wrong than I can forgive myself. HENRIETTE. [To ADOLPHE] Go with him and see that he doesn't do himself any harm. ADOLPHE. Shall I--? HENRIETTE. Who else? ADOLPHE. [Without bitterness] You are nearest to it--Sh! A carriage is stopping outside. MME. CATHERINE. It's the Commissaire. Well, much as I have seen of life, I could never have believed that success and fame were such short-lived things. MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] From the triumphal chariot to the patrol wagon! JEANNE. [Simply] And the ass--who was that? ADOLPHE. Oh, that must have been me. COMMISSAIRE. [Enters with a paper in his hand] A summons to Police Headquarters--to-night, at once--for Monsieur Maurice Gérard--and for Mademoiselle Henrietta Mauclerc--both here? MAURICE and HENRIETTE. Yes. MAURICE. Is this an arrest? COMMISSAIRE. Not yet. Only a summons. MAURICE. And then? COMMISSAIRE. We don't know yet. (MAURICE and HENRIETTE go toward the door.) MAURICE. Good-bye to all! (Everybody shows emotion. The COMMISSAIRE, MAURICE, and HENRIETTE go out.) EMILE. [Enters and goes up to JEANNE] Now I'll take you home, sister. JEANNE. And what do you think of all this? EMILE. The man is innocent. ABBÉ. But as I see it, it is, and must always be, something despicable to break one's promise, and it becomes unpardonable when a woman and her child are involved. EMILE. Well, I should rather feel that way, too, now when it concerns my own sister, but unfortunately I am prevented from throwing the first stone because I have done the same thing myself. ABBÉ. Although I am free from blame in that respect, I am not throwing any stones either, but the act condemns itself and is punished by its consequences. JEANNE. Pray for him! For both of them! ABBÉ. No, I'll do nothing of the kind, for it is an impertinence to want to change the counsels of the Lord. And what has happened here is, indeed, not the work of man. (Curtain.) SECOND SCENE (The Auberge des Adrets. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at the same table where MAURICE and HENRIETTE were sitting in the second act. A cup of coffee stands in front of ADOLPHE. HENRIETTE has ordered nothing.) ADOLPHE. You believe then that he will come here? HENRIETTE. I am sure. He was released this noon for lack of evidence, but he didn't want to show himself in the streets before it was dark. ADOLPHE. Poor fellow! Oh, I tell you, life seems horrible to me since yesterday. HENRIETTE. And what about me? I am afraid to live, dare hardly breathe, dare hardly think even, since I know that somebody is spying not only on my words but on my thoughts. ADOLPHE. So it was here you sat that night when I couldn't find you? HENRIETTE. Yes, but don't talk of it. I could die from shame when I think of it. Adolphe, you are made of a different, a better, stuff than he or I-- ADOLPHE. Sh, sh, sh! HENRIETTE. Yes, indeed! And what was it that made me stay here? I was lazy; I was tired; his success intoxicated me and bewitched me--I cannot explain it. But if you had come, it would never have happened. And to-day you are great, and he is small--less than the least of all. Yesterday he had one hundred thousand francs. To-day he has nothing, because his play has been withdrawn. And public opinion will never excuse him, for his lack of faith will be judged as harshly as if he were the murderer, and those that see farthest hold that the child died from sorrow, so that he was responsible for it anyhow. ADOLPHE. You know what my thoughts are in this matter, Henriette, but I should like to know that both of you are spotless. Won't you tell me what those dreadful words of yours meant? It cannot be a chance that your talk in a festive moment like that dealt so largely with killing and the scaffold. HENRIETTE. It was no chance. It was something that had to be said, something I cannot tell you--probably because I have no right to appear spotless in your eyes, seeing that I am not spotless. ADOLPHE. All this is beyond me. HENRIETTE. Let us talk of something else--Do you believe there are many unpunished criminals at large among us, some of whom may even be our intimate friends? ADOLPHE. [Nervously] Why? What do you mean? HENRIETTE. Don't you believe that every human being at some time or another has been guilty of some kind of act which would fall under the law if it were discovered? ADOLPHE. Yes, I believe that is true, but no evil act escapes being punished by one's own conscience at least. [Rises and unbuttons his coat] And--nobody is really good who has not erred. [Breathing heavily] For in order to know how to forgive, one must have been in need of forgiveness--I had a friend whom we used to regard as a model man. He never spoke a hard word to anybody; he forgave everything and everybody; and he suffered insults with a strange satisfaction that we couldn't explain. At last, late in life, he gave me his secret in a single word: I am a penitent! [He sits down again.] (HENRIETTE remains silent, looking at him with surprise.) ADOLPHE. [As if speaking to himself] There are crimes not mentioned in the Criminal Code, and these are the worse ones, for they have to be punished by ourselves, and no judge could be more severe than we are against our own selves. HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Well, that friend of yours, did he find peace? ADOLPHE. After endless self-torture he reached a certain degree of composure, but life had never any real pleasures to offer him. He never dared to accept any kind of distinction; he never dared to feel himself entitled to a kind word or even well-earned praise: in a word, he could never quite forgive himself. HENRIETTE. Never? What had he done then? ADOLPHE. He had wished the life out of his father. And when his father suddenly died, the son imagined himself to have killed him. Those imaginations were regarded as signs of some mental disease, and he was sent to an asylum. From this he was discharged after a time as wholly recovered--as they put it. But the sense of guilt remained with him, and so he continued to punish himself for his evil thoughts. HENRIETTE. Are you sure the evil will cannot kill? ADOLPHE. You mean in some mystic way? HENRIETTE. As you please. Let it go at mystic. In my own family--I am sure that my mother and my sisters killed my father with their hatred. You see, he had the awful idea that he must oppose all our tastes and inclinations. Wherever he discovered a natural gift, he tried to root it out. In that way he aroused a resistance that accumulated until it became like an electrical battery charged with hatred. At last it grew so powerful that he languished away, became depolarised, lost his will-power, and, in the end, came to wish himself dead. ADOLPHE. And your conscience never troubled you? HENRIETTE. No, and furthermore, I don't know what conscience is. ADOLPHE. You don't? Well, then you'll soon learn. [Pause] How do you believe Maurice will look when he gets here? What do you think he will say? HENRIETTE. Yesterday morning, you know, he and I tried to make the same kind of guess about you while we were waiting for you. ADOLPHE. Well? HENRIETTE. We guessed entirely wrong. ADOLPHE. Can you tell me why you sent for me? HENRIETTE. Malice, arrogance, outright cruelty! ADOLPHE. How strange it is that you can admit your faults and yet not repent of them. HENRIETTE. It must be because I don't feel quite responsible for them. They are like the dirt left behind by things handled during the day and washed off at night. But tell me one thing: do you really think so highly of humanity as you profess to do? ADOLPHE. Yes, we are a little better than our reputation--and a little worse. HENRIETTE. That is not a straightforward answer. ADOLPHE. No, it isn't. But are you willing to answer me frankly when I ask you: do you still love Maurice? HENRIETTE. I cannot tell until I see him. But at this moment I feel no longing for him, and it seems as if I could very well live without him. ADOLPHE. It's likely you could, but I fear you have become chained to his fate--Sh! Here he comes. HENRIETTE. How everything repeats itself. The situation is the same, the very words are the same, as when we were expecting you yesterday. MAURICE. [Enters, pale as death, hollow-eyed, unshaven] Here I am, my dear friends, if this be me. For that last night in a cell changed me into a new sort of being. [Notices HENRIETTE and ADOLPHE.] ADOLPHE. Sit down and pull yourself together, and then we can talk things over. MAURICE. [To HENRIETTE] Perhaps I am in the way? ADOLPHE. Now, don't get bitter. MAURICE. I have grown bad in these twenty-four hours, and suspicious also, so I guess I'll soon be left to myself. And who wants to keep company with a murderer? HENRIETTE. But you have been cleared of the charge. MAURICE. [Picks up a newspaper] By the police, yes, but not by public opinion. Here you see the murderer Maurice Gérard, once a playwright, and his mistress, Henriette Mauclerc-- HENRIETTE. O my mother and my sisters--my mother! Jesus have mercy! MAURICE. And can you see that I actually look like a murderer? And then it is suggested that my play was stolen. So there isn't a vestige left of the victorious hero from yesterday. In place of my own, the name of Octave, my enemy, appears on the bill-boards, and he is going to collect my one hundred thousand francs. O Solon, Solon! Such is fortune, and such is fame! You are fortunate, Adolphe, because you have not yet succeeded. HENRIETTE. So you don't know that Adolphe has made a great success in London and carried off the first prize? MAURICE. [Darkly] No, I didn't know that. Is it true, Adolphe? ADOLPHE. It is true, but I have returned the prize. HENRIETTE. [With emphasis] That I didn't know! So you are also prevented from accepting any distinctions--like your friend? ADOLPHE. My friend? [Embarrassed] Oh, yes, yes! MAURICE. Your success gives me pleasure, but it puts us still farther apart. ADOLPHE. That's what I expected, and I suppose I'll be as lonely with my success as you with your adversity. Think of it--that people feel hurt by your fortune! Oh, it's ghastly to be alive! MAURICE. You say that! What am I then to say? It is as if my eyes had been covered with a black veil, and as if the colour and shape of all life had been changed by it. This room looks like the room I saw yesterday, and yet it is quite different. I recognise both of you, of course, but your faces are new to me. I sit here and search for words because I don't know what to say to you. I ought to defend myself, but I cannot. And I almost miss the cell, for it protected me, at least, against the curious glances that pass right through me. The murderer Maurice and his mistress! You don't love me any longer, Henriette, and no more do I care for you. To- day you are ugly, clumsy, insipid, repulsive. (Two men in civilian clothes have quietly seated themselves at a table in the background.) ADOLPHE. Wait a little and get your thoughts together. That you have been discharged and cleared of all suspicion must appear in some of the evening papers. And that puts an end to the whole matter. Your play will be put on again, and if it comes to the worst, you can write a new one. Leave Paris for a year and let everything become forgotten. You who have exonerated mankind will be exonerated yourself. MAURICE. Ha-ha! Mankind! Ha-ha! ADOLPHE. You have ceased to believe in goodness? MAURICE. Yes, if I ever did believe in it. Perhaps it was only a mood, a manner of looking at things, a way of being polite to the wild beasts. When I, who was held among the best, can be so rotten to the core, what must then be the wretchedness of the rest? ADOLPHE. Now I'll go out and get all the evening papers, and then we'll undoubtedly have reason to look at things in a different way. MAURICE. [Turning toward the background] Two detectives!--It means that I am released under surveillance, so that I can give myself away by careless talking. ADOLPHE. Those are not detectives. That's only your imagination. I recognise both of them. [Goes toward the door.] MAURICE. Don't leave us alone, Adolphe. I fear that Henriette and I may come to open explanations. ADOLPHE. Oh, be sensible, Maurice, and think of your future. Try to keep him quiet, Henriette. I'll be back in a moment. [Goes out.] HENRIETTE. Well, Maurice, what do you think now of our guilt or guiltlessness? MAURICE. I have killed nobody. All I did was to talk a lot of nonsense while I was drunk. But it is your crime that comes back, and that crime you have grafted on to me. HENRIETTE. Oh, that's the tone you talk in now!--Was it not you who cursed your own child, and wished the life out of it, and wanted to go away without saying good-bye to anybody? And was it not I who made you visit Marion and show yourself to Madame Catherine? MAURICE. Yes, you are right. Forgive me! You proved yourself more human than I, and the guilt is wholly my own. Forgive me! But all the same I am without guilt. Who has tied this net from which I can never free myself? Guilty and guiltless; guiltless and yet guilty! Oh, it is driving me mad--Look, now they sit over there and listen to us--And no waiter comes to take our order. I'll go out and order a cup of tea. Do you want anything? HENRIETTE. Nothing. (MAURICE goes out.) FIRST DETECTIVE. [Goes up to HENRIETTE] Let me look at your papers. HENRIETTE. How dare you speak to me? DETECTIVE. Dare? I'll show you! HENRIETTE. What do you mean? DETECTIVE. It's my job to keep an eye on street-walkers. Yesterday you came here with one man, and today with another. That's as good as walking the streets. And unescorted ladies don't get anything here. So you'd better get out and come along with me. HENRIETTE. My escort will be back in a moment. DETECTIVE. Yes, and a pretty kind of escort you've got--the kind that doesn't help a girl a bit! HENRIETTE. O God! My mother, my sisters!--I am of good family, I tell you. DETECTIVE. Yes, first-rate family, I am sure. But you are too well known through the papers. Come along! HENRIETTE. Where? What do you mean? DETECTIVE. Oh, to the Bureau, of course. There you'll get a nice little card and a license that brings you free medical care. HENRIETTE. O Lord Jesus, you don't mean it! DETECTIVE. [Grabbing HENRIETTE by the arm] Don't I mean it? HENRIETTE. [Falling on her knees] Save me, Maurice! Help! DETECTIVE. Shut up, you fool! (MAURICE enters, followed by WAITER.) WAITER. Gentlemen of that kind are not served here. You just pay and get out! And take the girl along! MAURICE. [Crushed, searches his pocket-book for money] Henriette, pay for me, and let us get away from this place. I haven't a sou left. WAITER. So the lady has to put up for her Alphonse! Alphonse! Do you know what that is? HENRIETTE. [Looking through her pocket-book] Oh, merciful heavens! I have no money either!--Why doesn't Adolphe come back? DETECTIVE. Well, did you ever see such rotters! Get out of here, and put up something as security. That kind of ladies generally have their fingers full of rings. MAURICE. Can it be possible that we have sunk so low? HENRIETTE. [Takes off a ring and hands it to the WAITER] The Abbé was right: this is not the work of man. MAURICE. No, it's the devil's!--But if we leave before Adolphe returns, he will think that we have deceived him and run away. HENRIETTE. That would be in keeping with the rest--But we'll go into the river now, won't we? MAURICE. [Takes HENRIETTE by the hand as they walk out together] Into the river--yes! (Curtain.) ACT IV FIRST SCENE (In the Luxembourg Gardens, at the group of Adam and Eve. The wind is shaking the trees and stirring up dead leaves, straws, and pieces of paper from the ground.) (MAURICE and HENRIETTE are seated on a bench.) HENRIETTE. So you don't want to die? MAURICE. No, I am afraid. I imagine that I am going to be very cold down there in the grave, with only a sheet to cover me and a few shavings to lie on. And besides that, it seems to me as if there were still some task waiting for me, but I cannot make out what it is. HENRIETTE. But I can guess what it is. MAURICE. Tell me. HENRIETTE. It is revenge. You, like me, must have suspected Jeanne and Emile of sending the detectives after me yesterday. Such a revenge on a rival none but a woman could devise. MAURICE. Exactly what I was thinking. But let me tell you that my suspicions go even further. It seems as if my sufferings during these last few days had sharpened my wits. Can you explain, for instance, why the waiter from the Auberge des Adrets and the head waiter from the Pavilion were not called to testify at the hearing? HENRIETTE. I never thought of it before. But now I know why. They had nothing to tell, because they had not been listening. MAURICE. But how could the Commissaire then know what we had been saying? HENRIETTE. He didn't know, but he figured it out. He was guessing, and he guessed right. Perhaps he had had to deal with some similar case before. MAURICE. Or else he concluded from our looks what we had been saying. There are those who can read other people's thoughts-- Adolphe being the dupe, it seemed quite natural that we should have called him an ass. It's the rule, I understand, although it's varied at times by the use of "idiot" instead. But ass was nearer at hand in this case, as we had been talking of carriages and triumphal chariots. It is quite simple to figure out a fourth fact, when you have three known ones to start from. HENRIETTE. Just think that we have let ourselves be taken in so completely. MAURICE. That's the result of thinking too well of one's fellow beings. This is all you get out of it. But do you know, _I_ suspect somebody else back of the Commissaire, who, by-the-bye, must be a full-fledged scoundrel. HENRIETTE. You mean the Abbé, who was taking the part of a private detective. MAURICE. That's what I mean. That man has to receive all kinds of confessions. And note you: Adolphe himself told us he had been at the Church of St. Germain that morning. What was he doing there? He was blabbing, of course, and bewailing his fate. And then the priest put the questions together for the Commissaire. HENRIETTE. Tell me something: do you trust Adolphe? MAURICE. I trust no human being any longer. HENRIETTE. Not even Adolphe? MAURICE. Him least of all. How could I trust an enemy--a man from whom I have taken away his mistress? HENRIETTE. Well, as you were the first one to speak of this, I'll give you some data about our friend. You heard he had returned that medal from London. Do you know his reason for doing so? MAURICE. No. HENRIETTE. He thinks himself unworthy of it, and he has taken a penitential vow never to receive any kind of distinction. MAURICE. Can that he possible? But what has he done? HENRIETTE. He has committed a crime of the kind that is not punishable under the law. That's what he gave me to understand indirectly. MAURICE. He, too! He, the best one of all, the model man, who never speaks a hard word of anybody and who forgives everything. HENRIETTE. Well, there you can see that we are no worse than others. And yet we are being hounded day and night as if devils were after us. MAURICE. He, also! Then mankind has not been slandered--But if he has been capable of _one_ crime, then you may expect anything of him. Perhaps it was he who sent the police after you yesterday. Coming to think of it now, it was he who sneaked away from us when he saw that we were in the papers, and he lied when he insisted that those fellows were not detectives. But, of course, you may expect anything from a deceived lover. HENRIETTE. Could he be as mean as that? No, it is impossible, impossible! MAURICE. Why so? If he is a scoundrel?--What were you two talking of yesterday, before I came? HENRIETTE. He had nothing but good to say of you. MAURICE. That's a lie! HENRIETTE. [Controlling herself and changing her tone] Listen. There is one person on whom you have cast no suspicion whatever-- for what reason, I don't know. Have you thought of Madame Catherine's wavering attitude in this matter? Didn't she say finally that she believed you capable of anything? MAURICE. Yes, she did, and that shows what kind of person she is. To think evil of other people without reason, you must be a villain yourself. (HENRIETTE looks hard at him. Pause.) HENRIETTE. To think evil of others, you must be a villain yourself. MAURICE. What do you mean? HENRIETTE. What I said. MAURICE. Do you mean that I--? HENRIETTE. Yes, that's what I mean now! Look here! Did you meet anybody but Marion when you called there yesterday morning? MAURICE. Why do you ask? HENRIETTE. Guess! MAURICE. Well, as you seem to know--I met Jeanne, too. HENRIETTE. Why did you lie to me? MAURICE. I wanted to spare you. HENRIETTE. And now you want me to believe in one who has been lying to me? No, my boy, now I believe you guilty of that murder. MAURICE. Wait a moment! We have now reached the place for which my thoughts have been heading all the time, though I resisted as long as possible. It's queer that what lies next to one is seen last of all, and what one doesn't _want_ to believe cannot be believed--Tell me something: where did you go yesterday morning, after we parted in the Bois? HENRIETTE. [Alarmed] Why? MAURICE. You went either to Adolphe--which you couldn't do, as he was attending a lesson--or you went to--Marion! HENRIETTE. Now I am convinced that you are the murderer. MAURICE. And I, that you are the murderess! You alone had an interest in getting the child out of the way--to get rid of the rock on the road, as you so aptly put it. HENRIETTE. It was you who said that. MAURICE. And the one who had an interest in it must have committed the crime. HENRIETTE. Now, Maurice, we have been running around and around in this tread-mill, scourging each other. Let us quit before we get to the point of sheer madness. MAURICE. You have reached that point already. HENRIETTE. Don't you think it's time for us to part, before we drive each other insane? MAURICE. Yes, I think so. HENRIETTE. [Rising] Good-bye then! (Two men in civilian clothes become visible in the background.) HENRIETTE. [Turns and comes back to MAURICE] There they are again! MAURICE. The dark angels that want to drive us out of the garden. HENRIETTE. And force us back upon each other as if we were chained together. MAURICE. Or as if we were condemned to lifelong marriage. Are we really to marry? To settle down in the same place? To be able to close the door behind us and perhaps get peace at last? HENRIETTE. And shut ourselves up in order to torture each other to death; get behind locks and bolts, with a ghost for marriage portion; you torturing me with the memory of Adolphe, and I getting back at you with Jeanne--and Marion. MAURICE. Never mention the name of Marion again! Don't you know that she was to be buried today--at this very moment perhaps? HENRIETTE. And you are not there? What does that mean? MAURICE. It means that both Jeanne and the police have warned me against the rage of the people. HENRIETTE. A coward, too? MAURICE. All the vices! How could you ever have cared for me? HENRIETTE. Because two days ago you were another person, well worthy of being loved-- MAURICE. And now sunk to such a depth! HENRIETTE. It isn't that. But you are beginning to flaunt bad qualities which are not your own. MAURICE. But yours? HENRIETTE. Perhaps, for when you appear a little worse I feel myself at once a little better. MAURICE. It's like passing on a disease to save one's self- respect. HENRIETTE. And how vulgar you have become, too! MAURICE. Yes, I notice it myself, and I hardly recognise myself since that night in the cell. They put in one person and let out another through that gate which separates us from the rest of society. And now I feel myself the enemy of all mankind: I should like to set fire to the earth and dry up the oceans, for nothing less than a universal conflagration can wipe out my dishonour. HENRIETTE. I had a letter from my mother today. She is the widow of a major in the army, well educated, with old-fashioned ideas of honour and that kind of thing. Do you want to read the letter? No, you don't!--Do you know that I am an outcast? My respectable acquaintances will have nothing to do with me, and if I show myself on the streets alone the police will take me. Do you realise now that we have to get married? MAURICE. We despise each other, and yet we have to marry: that is hell pure and simple! But, Henriette, before we unite our destinies you must tell me your secret, so that we may be on more equal terms. HENRIETTE. All right, I'll tell you. I had a friend who got into trouble--you understand. I wanted to help her, as her whole future was at stake--and she died! MAURICE. That was reckless, but one might almost call it noble, too. HENRIETTE. You say so now, but the next time you lose your temper you will accuse me of it. MAURICE. No, I won't. But I cannot deny that it has shaken my faith in you and that it makes me afraid of you. Tell me, is her lover still alive, and does he know to what extent you were responsible? HENRIETTE. He was as guilty as I. MAURICE. And if his conscience should begin to trouble him--such things do happen--and if he should feel inclined to confess: then you would be lost. HENRIETTE. I know it, and it is this constant dread which has made me rush from one dissipation to another--so that I should never have time to wake up to full consciousness. MAURICE. And now you want me to take my marriage portion out of your dread. That's asking a little too much. HENRIETTE. But when I shared the shame of Maurice the murderer-- MAURICE. Oh, let's come to an end with it! HENRIETTE. No, the end is not yet, and I'll not let go my hold until I have put you where you belong. For you can't go around thinking yourself better than I am. MAURICE. So you want to fight me then? All right, as you please! HENRIETTE. A fight on life and death! (The rolling of drums is heard in the distance.) MAURICE. The garden is to be closed. "Cursed is the ground for thy sake; thorns and thistles shall it bring forth to thee." HENRIETTE. "And the Lord God said unto the woman--" A GUARD. [In uniform, speaking very politely] Sorry, but the garden has to be closed. (Curtain.) SECOND SCENE (The Crêmerie. MME. CATHERINE is sitting at the counter making entries into an account book. ADOLPHE and HENRIETTE are seated at a table.) ADOLPHE. [Calmly and kindly] But if I give you my final assurance that I didn't run away, but that, on the contrary, I thought you had played me false, this ought to convince you. HENRIETTE. But why did you fool us by saying that those fellows were not policemen? ADOLPHE. I didn't think myself that they were, and then I wanted to reassure you. HENRIETTE. When you say it, I believe you. But then you must also believe me, if I reveal my innermost thoughts to you. ADOLPHE. Go on. HENRIETTE. But you mustn't come back with your usual talk of fancies and delusions. ADOLPHE. You seem to have reason to fear that I may. HENRIETTE. I fear nothing, but I know you and your scepticism-- Well, and then you mustn't tell this to anybody--promise me! ADOLPHE. I promise. HENRIETTE. Now think of it, although I must say it's something terrible: I have partial evidence that Maurice is guilty, or at least, I have reasonable suspicions-- ADOLPHE. You don't mean it! HENRIETTE. Listen, and judge for yourself. When Maurice left me in the Bois, he said he was going to see Marion alone, as the mother was out. And now I have discovered afterward that he did meet the mother. So that he has been lying to me. ADOLPHE. That's possible, and his motive for doing so may have been the best, but how can anybody conclude from it that he is guilty of a murder? HENRIETTE. Can't you see that?--Don't you understand? ADOLPHE. Not at all. HENRIETTE. Because you don't want to!--Then there is nothing left for me but to report him, and we'll see whether he can prove an alibi. ADOLPHE. Henriette, let me tell you the grim truth. You, like he, have reached the border line of--insanity. The demons of distrust have got hold of you, and each of you is using his own sense of partial guilt to wound the other with. Let me see if I can make a straight guess: he has also come to suspect you of killing his child? HENRIETTE. Yes, he's mad enough to do so. ADOLPHE. You call his suspicions mad, but not your own. HENRIETTE. You have first to prove the contrary, or that I suspect him unjustly. ADOLPHE. Yes, that's easy. A new autopsy has proved that Marion died of a well-known disease, the queer name of which I cannot recall just now. HENRIETTE. Is it true? ADOLPHE. The official report is printed in today's paper. HENRIETTE. I don't take any stock in it. They can make up that kind of thing. ADOLPHE. Beware, Henriette--or you may, without knowing it, pass across that border line. Beware especially of throwing out accusations that may put you into prison. Beware! [He places his hand on her head] You hate Maurice? HENRIETTE. Beyond all bounds! ADOLPHE. When love turns into hatred, it means that it was tainted from the start. HENRIETTE. [In a quieter mood] What am I to do? Tell me, you who are the only one that understands me. ADOLPHE. But you don't want any sermons. HENRIETTE. Have you nothing else to offer me? ADOLPHE. Nothing else. But they have helped me. HENRIETTE. Preach away then! ADOLPHE. Try to turn your hatred against yourself. Put the knife to the evil spot in yourself, for it is there that _your_ trouble roots. HENRIETTE. Explain yourself. ADOLPHE. Part from Maurice first of all, so that you cannot nurse your qualms of conscience together. Break off your career as an artist, for the only thing that led you into it was a craving for freedom and fun--as they call it. And you have seen now how much fun there is in it. Then go home to your mother. HENRIETTE. Never! ADOLPHE. Some other place then. HENRIETTE. I suppose you know, Adolphe, that I have guessed your secret and why you wouldn't accept the prize? ADOLPHE. Oh, I assumed that you would understand a half-told story. HENRIETTE. Well--what did you do to get peace? ADOLPHE. What I have suggested: I became conscious of my guilt, repented, decided to turn over a new leaf, and arranged my life like that of a penitent. HENRIETTE. How can you repent when, like me, you have no conscience? Is repentance an act of grace bestowed on you as faith is? ADOLPHE. Everything is a grace, but it isn't granted unless you seek it--Seek! (HENRIETTE remains silent.) ADOLPHE. But don't wait beyond the allotted time, or you may harden yourself until you tumble down into the irretrievable. HENRIETTE. [After a pause] Is conscience fear of punishment? ADOLPHE. No, it is the horror inspired in our better selves by the misdeeds of our lower selves. HENRIETTE. Then I must have a conscience also? ADOLPHE. Of course you have, but-- HENRIETTE, Tell me, Adolphe, are you what they call religious? ADOLPHE. Not the least bit. HENRIETTE. It's all so queer--What is religion? ADOLPHE. Frankly speaking, I don't know! And I don't think anybody else can tell you. Sometimes it appears to me like a punishment, for nobody becomes religious without having a bad conscience. HENRIETTE. Yes, it is a punishment. Now I know what to do. Good-bye, Adolphe! ADOLPHE. You'll go away from here? HENRIETTE. Yes, I am going--to where you said. Good-bye my friend! Good-bye, Madame Catherine! MME. CATHERINE. Have you to go in such a hurry? HENRIETTE. Yes. ADOLPHE. Do you want me to go with you? HENRIETTE. No, it wouldn't do. I am going alone, alone as I came here, one day in Spring, thinking that I belonged where I don't belong, and believing there was something called freedom, which does not exist. Good-bye! [Goes out.] MME. CATHERINE. I hope that lady never comes back, and I wish she had never come here at all! ADOLPHE. Who knows but that she may have had some mission to fill here? And at any rate she deserves pity, endless pity. MME. CATHERINE. I don't, deny it, for all of us deserve that. ADOLPHE. And she has even done less wrong than the rest of us. MME. CATHERINE. That's possible, but not probable. ADOLPHE. You are always so severe, Madame Catherine. Tell me: have you never done anything wrong? MME. CATHERINE. [Startled] Of course, as I am a sinful human creature. But if you have been on thin ice and fallen in, you have a right to tell others to keep away. And you may do so without being held severe or uncharitable. Didn't I say to Monsieur Maurice the moment that lady entered here: Look out! Keep away! And he didn't, and so he fell in. Just like a naughty, self-willed child. And when a man acts like that he has to have a spanking, like any disobedient youngster. ADOLPHE. Well, hasn't he had his spanking? MME. CATHERINE. Yes, but it does not seem to have been enough, as he is still going around complaining. ADOLPHE. That's a very popular interpretation of the whole intricate question. MME. CATHERINE. Oh, pish! You do nothing but philosophise about your vices, and while you are still at it the police come along and solve the riddle. Now please leave me alone with my accounts! ADOLPHE. There's Maurice now. MME. CATHERINE. Yes, God bless him! MAURICE. [Enters, his face very flushed, and takes a seat near ADOLPHE] Good evening. (MME. CATHERINE nods and goes on figuring.) ADOLPHE. Well, how's everything with you? MAURICE. Oh, beginning to clear up. ADOLPHE. [Hands him a newspaper, which MAURICE does not take] So you have read the paper? MAURICE. No, I don't read the papers any longer. There's nothing but infamies in them. ADOLPHE. But you had better read it first-- MAURICE. No, I won't! It's nothing but lies--But listen: I have found a new clue. Can you guess who committed that murder? ADOLPHE. Nobody, nobody! MAURICE. Do you know where Henriette was during that quarter hour when the child was left alone?--She was _there_! And it is she who has done it! ADOLPHE. You are crazy, man. MAURICE. Not I, but Henriette, is crazy. She suspects me and has threatened to report me. ADOLPHE. Henriette was here a while ago, and she used the self- same words as you. Both of you are crazy, for it has been proved by a second autopsy that the child died from a well-known disease, the name of which I have forgotten. MAURICE. It isn't true! ADOLPHE. That's what she said also. But the official report is printed in the paper. MAURICE. A report? Then they have made it up! ADOLPHE. And that's also what she said. The two of you are suffering from the same mental trouble. But with her I got far enough to make her realise her own condition. MAURICE. Where did she go? ADOLPHE. She went far away from here to begin a new life. MAURICE. Hm, hm!--Did you go to the funeral? ADOLPHE. I did. MAURICE. Well? ADOLPHE. Well, Jeanne seemed resigned and didn't have a hard word to say about you. MAURICE. She is a good woman. ADOLPHE. Why did you desert her then? MAURICE. Because I _was_ crazy--blown up with pride especially--and then we had been drinking champagne-- ADOLPHE. Can you understand now why Jeanne wept when you drank champagne? MAURICE. Yes, I understand now--And for that reason I have already written to her and asked her to forgive me--Do you think she will forgive me? ADOLPHE. I think so, for it's not like her to hate anybody. MAURICE. Do you think she will forgive me completely, so that she will come back to me? ADOLPHE. Well, I don't know about _that_. You have shown yourself so poor in keeping faith that it is doubtful whether she will trust her fate to you any longer. MAURICE. But I can feel that her fondness for me has not ceased, and I know she will come back to me. ADOLPHE. How can you know that? How can you believe it? Didn't you even suspect her and that decent brother of hers of having sent the police after Henriette out of revenge? MAURICE. But I don't believe it any longer--that is to say, I guess that fellow Emile is a pretty slick customer. MME. CATHERINE. Now look here! What are you saying of Monsieur Emile? Of course, he is nothing but a workman, but if everybody kept as straight as he--There is no flaw in him, but a lot of sense and tact. EMILE. [Enters] Monsieur Gérard? MAURICE. That's me. EMILE. Pardon me, but I have something to say to you in private. MAURICE. Go right on. We are all friends here. (The ABBÉ enters and sits down.) EMILE. [With a glance at the ABBÉ] Perhaps after-- MAURICE. Never mind. The Abbé is also a friend, although he and I differ. EMILE. You know who I am, Monsieur Gérard? My sister has asked me to give you this package as an answer to your letter. (MAURICE takes the package and opens it.) EMILE. And now I have only to add, seeing as I am in a way my sister's guardian, that, on her behalf as well as my own, I acknowledge you free of all obligations, now when the natural tie between you does not exist any longer. MAURICE. But you must have a grudge against me? EMILE. Must I? I can't see why. On the other hand, I should like to have a declaration from you, here in the presence of your friends, that you don't think either me or my sister capable of such a meanness as to send the police after Mademoiselle Henriette. MAURICE. I wish to take back what I said, and I offer you my apology, if you will accept it. EMILE. It is accepted. And I wish all of you a good evening. [Goes out.] EVERYBODY. Good evening! MAURICE. The tie and the gloves which Jeanne gave me for the opening night of my play, and which I let Henrietta throw into the fireplace. Who can have picked them up? Everything is dug up; everything comes back!--And when she gave them to me in the cemetery, she said she wanted me to look fine and handsome, so that other people would like me also--And she herself stayed at home--This hurt her too deeply, and well it might. I have no right to keep company with decent human beings. Oh, have I done this? Scoffed at a gift coming from a good heart; scorned a sacrifice offered to my own welfare. This was what I threw away in order to get--a laurel that is lying on the rubbish heap, and a bust that would have belonged in the pillory--Abbé, now I come over to you. ABBÉ. Welcome! MAURICE. Give me the word that I need. ABBÉ. Do you expect me to contradict your self-accusations and inform you that you have done nothing wrong? MAURICE. Speak the right word! ABBÉ. With your leave, I'll say then that I have found your behaviour just as abominable as you have found it yourself. MAURICE. What can I do, what can I do, to get out of this? ABBÉ. You know as well as I do. MAURICE. No, I know only that I am lost, that my life is spoiled, my career cut off, my reputation in this world ruined forever. ABBÉ. And so you are looking for a new existence in some better world, which you are now beginning to believe in? MAURICE. Yes, that's it. ABBÉ. You have been living in the flesh and you want now to live in the spirit. Are you then so sure that this world has no more attractions for you? MAURICE. None whatever! Honour is a phantom; gold, nothing but dry leaves; women, mere intoxicants. Let me hide myself behind your consecrated walls and forget this horrible dream that has filled two days and lasted two eternities. ABBÉ. All right! But this is not the place to go into the matter more closely. Let us make an appointment for this evening at nine o'clock in the Church of St. Germain. For I am going to preach to the inmates of St. Lazare, and that may be your first step along the hard road of penitence. MAURICE. Penitence? ABBÉ. Well, didn't you wish-- MAURICE. Yes, yes! ABBÉ. Then we have vigils between midnight and two o'clock. MAURICE. That will be splendid! ABBÉ. Give me your hand that you will not look back. MAURICE. [Rising, holds out his hand] Here is my hand, and my will goes with it. SERVANT GIRL. [Enters from the kitchen] A telephone call for Monsieur Maurice. MAURICE. From whom? SERVANT GIRL. From the theatre. (MAURICE tries to get away, but the ABBÉ holds on to his hand.) ABBÉ. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Find out what it is. SERVANT GIRL. They want to know if Monsieur Maurice is going to attend the performance tonight. ABBÉ. [To MAURICE, who is trying to get away] No, I won't let you go. MAURICE. What performance is that? ADOLPHE. Why don't you read the paper? MME. CATHERINE and the ABBÉ. He hasn't read the paper? MAURICE. It's all lies and slander. [To the SERVANT GIRL] Tell them that I am engaged for this evening: I am going to church. (The SERVANT GIRL goes out into the kitchen.) ADOLPHE. As you don't want to read the paper, I shall have to tell you that your play has been put on again, now when you are exonerated. And your literary friends have planned a demonstration for this evening in recognition of your indisputable talent. MAURICE. It isn't true. EVERYBODY. It is true. MAURICE. [After a pause] I have not deserved it! ABBÉ. Good! ADOLPHE. And furthermore, Maurice-- MAURICE. [Hiding his face in his hands] Furthermore! MME. CATHERINE. One hundred thousand francs! Do you see now that they come back to you? And the villa outside the city. Everything is coming back except Mademoiselle Henriette. ABBÉ. [Smiling] You ought to take this matter a little more seriously, Madame Catherine. MME. CATHERINE. Oh, I cannot--I just can't keep serious any longer! [She breaks into open laughter, which she vainly tries to smother with her handkerchief.] ADOLPHE. Say, Maurice, the play begins at eight. ABBÉ. But the church services are at nine. ADOLPHE. Maurice! MME. CATHERINE. Let us hear what the end is going to be, Monsieur Maurice. (MAURICE drops his head on the table, in his arms.) ADOLPHE. Loose him, Abbé! ABBÉ. No, it is not for me to loose or bind. He must do that himself. MAURICE. [Rising] Well, I go with the Abbé. ABBÉ. No, my young friend. I have nothing to give you but a scolding, which you can give yourself. And you owe a duty to yourself and to your good name. That you have got through with this as quickly as you have is to me a sign that you have suffered your punishment as intensely as if it had lasted an eternity. And when Providence absolves you there is nothing for me to add. MAURICE. But why did the punishment have to be so hard when I was innocent? ABBÉ. Hard? Only two days! And you were not innocent. For we have to stand responsible for our thoughts and words and desires also. And in your thought you became a murderer when your evil self wished the life out of your child. MAURICE. You are right. But my decision is made. To-night I will meet you at the church in order to have a reckoning with myself-- but to-morrow evening I go to the theatre. MME. CATHERINE. A good solution, Monsieur Maurice. ADOLPHE. Yes, that is the solution. Whew! ABBÉ. Yes, so it is! (Curtain.) MISS JULIA INTRODUCTION The volume containing the translation of "There Are Crimes and Crimes" had barely reached the public when word came across the ocean that August Strindberg had ended his long fight with life. His family had long suspected some serious organic trouble. Early in the year, when lie had just recovered from an illness of temporary character, their worst fears became confirmed. An examination disclosed a case of cancer in the stomach, and the disease progressed so rapidly that soon all hope of recovery was out of the question. On May 14, 1912, Strindberg died. With his death peace came in more senses than one. All the fear and hatred which he had incurred by what was best as well as worst in him seemed to be laid at rest with his own worn-out body. The love and the admiration which he had son in far greater measure were granted unchecked expression. His burial, otherwise as simple as he himself had prescribed, was a truly national event. At the grave of the arch-rebel appeared a royal prince as official representative of the reigning house, the entire cabinet, and numerous members of the Riksdag. Thousands of men and women representing the best of Sweden's intellectual and artistic life went to the cemetery, though the hour of the funeral was eight o'clock in the morning. It was an event in which the masses and the classes shared a common sorrow, the standards of student organizations mingling with the banners of labour unions. And not only the capital, but the whole country, observed the day as one of mourning. A thought frequently recurring in the comment passed on Strindberg's death by the European press was that, in some mysterious manner, he, more than any other writer, appeared to be the incarnation of the past century, with its nervous striving after truth, its fear of being duped, and its fretting dread that evolution and progress might prove antagonistic terms. And at that simple grave in Stockholm more than one bareheaded spectator must have heard the gravel rattle on the coffin-lid with a feeling that not only a great individual, but a whole human period--great in spite of all its weaknesses--was being laid away for ever. Among more than half a hundred plays produced by Strindberg during his lifetime, none has won such widespread attention as "Miss Julia," both on account of its masterful construction and its gripping theme. Whether liking or disliking it, critics have repeatedly compared it with Ibsen's "Ghosts," and not always to the advantage of the latter work. It represents, first of all, its author's most determined and most daring endeavour to win the modern stage for Naturalism. If he failed in this effort, it must be recalled to his honour that he was among the first to proclaim his own failure and to advocate the seeking of new paths. When the work was still hot from his hands, however, he believed in it with all the fervour of which his spirit was capable, and to bring home its lesson the more forcibly, he added a preface, a sort of dramatic creed, explaining just what he had tried to do, and why. This preface, which has become hardly less famous than the play itself, is here, as I believe, for the first time rendered into English. The acuteness and exhaustiveness of its analysis serves not only to make it a psychological document of rare value, but also to save me much of the comment which without it might be deemed needful. Years later, while engaged in conducting a theatre for the exclusive performance of his own plays at Stockholm, Strindberg formulated a new dramatic creed--that of his mystical period, in which he was wont to sign himself "the author of 'Gustavus Vasa,' 'The Dream Play,' 'The Last Knight,' etc." It took the form of a pamphlet entitled "A Memorandum to the Members of the Intimate Theatre from the Stage Director" (Stockholm, 1908). There he gave the following data concerning "Miss Julia," and the movement which that play helped to start: "In the '80's the new time began to extend its demands for reform to the stage also. Zola declared war against the French comedy, with its Brussels carpets, its patent-leather shoes and patent-leather themes, and its dialogue reminding one of the questions and answers of the Catechism. In 1887 Antoine opened his Théâtre Libre at Paris, and 'Thérèse Raquin,' although nothing but an adapted novel, became the dominant model. It was the powerful theme and the concentrated form that showed innovation, although the unity of time was not yet observed, and curtain falls were retained. It was then I wrote my dramas: 'Miss Julia,' 'The Father,' and 'Creditors.' "'Miss Julia,' which was equipped with a now well-known preface, was staged by Antoine, but not until 1892 or 1893, having previously been played by the Students' Association of the Copenhagen University in 1888 or 1889. In the spring of 1893 'Creditors' was put on at the Théâtre L'OEuvre, in Paris, and in the fall of the same year 'The Father' was given at the same theatre, with Philippe Garnier in the title part. "But as early as 1889 the Freie Bühne had been started at Berlin, and before 1893 all three of my dramas had been performed. 'Miss Julia' was preceded by a lecture given by Paul Schlenther, now director of the Hofburg Theater at Vienna. The principal parts were played by Rosa Bertens, Emanuel Reicher, Rittner and Jarno. And Sigismund Lautenburg, director of the Residenz Theater, gave more than one hundred performances of 'Creditors.' "Then followed a period of comparative silence, and the drama sank back into the old ruts, until, with the beginning of the new century, Reinhardt opened his Kleines Theater. There I was played from the start, being represented by the long one-act drama 'The Link,' as well as by 'Miss Julia' (with Eysoldt in the title part), and 'There Are Crimes and Crimes.'" He went on to tell how one European city after another had got its "Little," or "Free," or "Intimate" theatre. And had he known of it, he might have added that the promising venture started by Mr. Winthrop Ames at New York comes as near as any one of its earlier rivals in the faithful embodiment of those theories which, with Promethean rashness, he had flung at the head of a startled world in 1888. For the usual thing has happened: what a quarter-century ago seemed almost ludicrous in its radicalism belongs to-day to the established traditions of every progressive stage. Had Strindberg been content with his position of 1888, many honours now withheld might have fallen to his share. But like Ibsen, he was first and last--and to the very last!--an innovator, a leader of human thought and human endeavour. And so it happened that when the rest thought to have overtaken him, he had already hurried on to a more advanced position, heedless of the scorn poured on him by those to whom "consistency" is the foremost of all human virtues. Three years before his death we find him writing as follows in another pamphlet "An Open Letter to the Intimate Theatre," Stockholm, 1909--of the position once assumed so proudly and so confidently by himself: "As the Intimate Theatre counts its inception from the successful performance of 'Miss Julia' in 1900, it was quite natural that the young director (August Falck) should feel the influence of the Preface, which recommended a search for actuality. But that was twenty years ago, and although I do not feel the need of attacking myself in this connection, I cannot but regard all that pottering with stage properties as useless." It has been customary in this country to speak of the play now presented to the public as "Countess Julie." The noble title is, of course, picturesque, but incorrect and unwarranted. It is, I fear, another outcome of that tendency to exploit the most sensational elements in Strindberg's art which has caused somebody to translate the name of his first great novel as "The Scarlet Room,"--instead of simply "The Red Room,"--thus hoping to connect it in the reader's mind with the scarlet woman of the Bible. In Sweden, a countess is the wife or widow of a count. His daughter is no more a countess than is the daughter of an English earl. Her title is that of "Fröken," which corresponds exactly to the German "Fräulein" and the English "Miss." Once it was reserved for the young women of the nobility. By an agitation which shook all Sweden with mingled fury and mirth, it became extended to all unmarried women. The French form of _Miss Julia's_ Christian name is, on the other hand, in keeping with the author's intention, aiming at an expression of the foreign sympathies and manners which began to characterize the Swedish nobility in the eighteenth century, and which continued to assert themselves almost to the end of the nineteenth. But in English that form would not have the same significance, and nothing in the play makes its use imperative. The valet, on the other hand, would most appropriately be named _Jean_ both in England and here, and for that reason I have retained this form of his name. Almost every one translating from the Scandinavian languages insists on creating a difficulty out of the fact that the three northern nations--like the Germans and the French--still use the second person singular of the personal pronoun to indicate a closer degree of familiarity. But to translate the Swedish "du" with the English "thou" is as erroneous as it is awkward. Tytler laid down his "Principles of Translation" in 1791--and a majority of translators are still unaware of their existence. Yet it ought to seem self-evident to every thinking mind that idiomatic equivalence, not verbal identity, must form the basis of a good and faithful translation. When an English mother uses "you" to her child, she establishes thereby the only rational equivalent for the "du" used under similar circumstances by her Swedish sister. Nobody familiar with the English language as it actually springs from the lips of living men and women can doubt that it offers ways of expressing varying shades of intimacy no less effective than any found in the Swedish tongue. Let me give an illustration from the play immediately under discussion. Returning to the stage after the ballet scene, _Jean_ says to _Miss Julia_: "I love you--can you doubt it?" And her reply, literally, is: "You?--Say thou!" I have merely made him say: "Can you doubt it, Miss Julia?" and her answer: "Miss?--Call me Julia!" As that is just what would happen under similar circumstances among English-speaking people, I contend that not a whit of the author's meaning or spirit has been lost in this translation. If ever a play was written for the stage, it is this one. And on the stage there is nothing to take the place of the notes and introductory explanations that so frequently encumber the printed volume. On the stage all explanations must lie within the play itself, and so they should in the book also, I believe. The translator is either an artist or a man unfit for his work. As an artist he must have a courage that cannot even be cowed by his reverence for the work of a great creative genius. If, mistakenly, he revere the letter of that work instead of its spirit, then he will reduce his own task to mere literary carpentry, and from his pen will spring not a living form, like the one he has been set to transplant, but only a death mask! AUTHOR'S PREFACE Like almost all other art, that of the stage has long seemed to me a sort of _Biblia Pauperum_, or a Bible in pictures for those who cannot read what is written or printed. And in the same way the playwright has seemed to me a lay preacher spreading the thoughts of his time in a form so popular that the middle classes, from which theatrical audiences are mainly drawn, can know what is being talked about without troubling their brains too much. For this reason the theatre has always served as a grammar-school to young people, women, and those who have acquired a little knowledge, all of whom retain the capacity for deceiving themselves and being deceived--which means again that they are susceptible to illusions produced by the suggestions of the author. And for the same reason I have had a feeling that, in our time, when the rudimentary, incomplete thought processes operating through our fancy seem to be developing into reflection, research, and analysis, the theatre might stand on the verge of being abandoned as a decaying form, for the enjoyment of which we lack the requisite conditions. The prolonged theatrical crisis now prevailing throughout Europe speaks in favour of such a supposition, as well as the fact that, in the civilised countries producing the greatest thinkers of the age, namely, England and Germany, the drama is as dead as are most of the other fine arts. In some other countries it has, however, been thought possible to create a new drama by filling the old forms with the contents of a new time. But, for one thing, there has not been time for the new thoughts to become so popularized that the public might grasp the questions raised; secondly, minds have been so inflamed by party conflicts that pure and disinterested enjoyment has been excluded from places where one's innermost feelings are violated and the tyranny of an applauding or hissing majority is exercised with the openness for which the theatre gives a chance; and, finally, there has been no new form devised for the new contents, and the new wine has burst the old bottles. In the following drama I have not tried to do anything new--for that cannot be done--but I have tried to modernize the form in accordance with the demands which I thought the new men of a new time might be likely to make on this art. And with such a purpose in view, I have chosen, or surrendered myself to, a theme that might well be said to lie outside the partisan strife of the day: for the problem of social ascendancy or decline, of higher or lower, of better or worse, of men or women, is, has been, and will be of lasting interest. In selecting this theme from real life, as it was related to me a number of years ago, when the incident impressed me very deeply, I found it suited to a tragedy, because it can only make us sad to see a fortunately placed individual perish, and this must be the case in still higher degree when we see an entire family die out. But perhaps a time will arrive when we have become so developed, so enlightened, that we can remain indifferent before the spectacle of life, which now seems so brutal, so cynical, so heartless; when we have closed up those lower, unreliable instruments of thought which we call feelings, and which have been rendered not only superfluous but harmful by the final growth of our reflective organs. The fact that the heroine arouses our pity depends only on our weakness in not being able to resist the sense of fear that the same fate could befall ourselves. And yet it is possible that a very sensitive spectator might fail to find satisfaction in this kind of pity, while the man believing in the future might demand some positive suggestion for the abolition of evil, or, in other words, some kind of programme. But, first of all, there is no absolute evil. That one family perishes is the fortune of another family, which thereby gets a chance to rise. And the alternation of ascent and descent constitutes one of life's main charms, as fortune is solely determined by comparison. And to the man with a programme, who wants to remedy the sad circumstance that the hawk eats the dove, and the flea eats the hawk, I have this question to put: why should it be remedied? Life is not so mathematically idiotic that it lets only the big eat the small, but it happens just as often that the bee kills the lion, or drives it to madness at least. That my tragedy makes a sad impression on many is their own fault. When we grow strong as were the men of the first French revolution, then we shall receive an unconditionally good and joyful impression from seeing the national forests rid of rotting and superannuated trees that have stood too long in the way of others with equal right to a period of free growth--an impression good in the same way as that received from the death of one incurably diseased. Not long ago they reproached my tragedy "The Father" with being too sad--just as if they wanted merry tragedies. Everybody is clamouring arrogantly for "the joy of life," and all theatrical managers are giving orders for farces, as if the joy of life consisted in being silly and picturing all human beings as so many sufferers from St. Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in its violent and cruel struggles, and my pleasure lies in knowing something and learning something. And for this reason I have selected an unusual but instructive case--an exception, in a word--but a great exception, proving the rule, which, of course, will provoke all lovers of the commonplace. And what also will offend simple brains is that my action cannot be traced back to a single motive, that the view-point is not always the same. An event in real life--and this discovery is quite recent--springs generally from a whole series of more or less deep-lying motives, but of these the spectator chooses as a rule the one his reason can master most easily, or else the one reflecting most favourably on his power of reasoning. A suicide is committed. Bad business, says the merchant. Unrequited love, say the ladies. Sickness, says the sick man. Crushed hopes, says the shipwrecked. But now it may be that the motive lay in all or none of these directions. It is possible that the one who is dead may have hid the main motive by pushing forward another meant to place his memory in a better light. In explanation of _Miss Julia's_ sad fate I have suggested many factors: her mother's fundamental instincts; her father's mistaken upbringing of the girl; her own nature, and the suggestive influence of her fiancé on a weak and degenerate brain; furthermore, and more directly: the festive mood of the Midsummer Eve; the absence of her father; her physical condition; her preoccupation with the animals; the excitation of the dance; the dusk of the night; the strongly aphrodisiacal influence of the flowers; and lastly the chance forcing the two of them together in a secluded room, to which must be added the aggressiveness of the excited man. Thus I have neither been one-sidedly physiological nor one-sidedly psychological in my procedure. Nor have I merely delivered a moral preachment. This multiplicity of motives I regard as praiseworthy because it is in keeping with the views of our own time. And if others have done the same thing before me, I may boast of not being the sole inventor of my paradoxes--as all discoveries are named. In regard to the character-drawing I may say that I have tried to make my figures rather "characterless," and I have done so for reasons I shall now state. In the course of the ages the word character has assumed many meanings. Originally it signified probably the dominant ground-note in the complex mass of the self, and as such it was confused with temperament. Afterward it became the middle-class term for an automaton, so that an individual whose nature had come to a stand still, or who had adapted himself to a certain part in life--who had ceased to grow, in a word--was named a character; while one remaining in a state of development--a skilful navigator on life's river, who did not sail with close-tied sheets, but knew when to fall off before the wind and when to luff again--was called lacking in character. And he was called so in a depreciatory sense, of course, because he was so hard to catch, to classify, and to keep track of. This middle-class notion about the immobility of the soul was transplanted to the stage, where the middle-class element has always held sway. There a character became synonymous with a gentleman fixed and finished once for all--one who invariably appeared drunk, jolly, sad. And for the purpose of characterisation nothing more was needed than some physical deformity like a clubfoot, a wooden leg, a red nose; or the person concerned was made to repeat some phrase like "That's capital!" or "Barkis is willin'," or something of that kind. This manner of regarding human beings as homogeneous is preserved even by the great Molière. _Harpagon_ is nothing but miserly, although _Harpagon_ might as well have been at once miserly and a financial genius, a fine father, and a public-spirited citizen. What is worse yet, his "defect" is of distinct advantage to his son-in-law and daughter, who are his heirs, and for that reason should not find fault with him, even if they have to wait a little for their wedding. I do not believe, therefore, in simple characters on the stage. And the summary judgments of the author upon men--this one stupid, and that one brutal, this one jealous, and that one stingy--should be challenged by the naturalists, who know the fertility of the soul-complex, and who realise that "vice" has a reverse very much resembling virtue. Because they are modern characters, living in a period of transition more hysterically hurried than its immediate predecessor at least, I have made my figures vacillating, out of joint, torn between the old and the new. And I do not think it unlikely that, through newspaper reading and overheard conversations, modern ideas may have leaked down to the strata where domestic servants belong. My souls (or characters) are conglomerates, made up of past and present stages of civilisation, scraps of humanity, torn-off pieces of Sunday clothing turned into rags--all patched together as is the human soul itself. And I have furthermore offered a touch of evolutionary history by letting the weaker repeat words stolen from the stronger, and by letting different souls accept "ideas"--or suggestions, as they are called--from each other. _Miss Julia_ is a modern character, not because the man-hating half-woman may not have existed in all ages, but because now, after her discovery, she has stepped to the front and begun to make a noise. The half-woman is a type coming more and more into prominence, selling herself nowadays for power, decorations, distinctions, diplomas, as formerly for money, and the type indicates degeneration. It is not a good type, for it does not last, but unfortunately it has the power of reproducing itself and its misery through one more generation. And degenerate men seem instinctively to make their selection from this kind of women, so that they multiply and produce indeterminate sexes to whom life is a torture. Fortunately, however, they perish in the end, either from discord with real life, or from the irresistible revolt of their suppressed instincts, or from foiled hopes of possessing the man. The type is tragical, offering us the spectacle of a desperate struggle against nature. It is also tragical as a Romantic inheritance dispersed by the prevailing Naturalism, which wants nothing but happiness: and for happiness strong and sound races are required. But _Miss Julia_ is also a remnant of the old military nobility which is now giving way to the new nobility of nerves and brain. She is a victim of the discord which a mother's "crime" produces in a family, and also a victim of the day's delusions, of the circumstances, of her defective constitution--all of which may be held equivalent to the old-fashioned fate or universal law. The naturalist has wiped out the idea of guilt, but he cannot wipe out the results of an action--punishment, prison, or fear--and for the simple reason that they remain without regard to his verdict. For fellow-beings that have been wronged are not so good-natured as those on the outside, who have not been wronged at all, can be without cost to themselves. Even if, for reasons over which he could have no control, the father should forego his vengeance, the daughter would take vengeance upon herself, just as she does in the play, and she would be moved to it by that innate or acquired sense of honour which the upper classes inherit--whence? From the days of barbarism, from the original home of the Aryans, from the chivalry of the Middle Ages? It is beautiful, but it has become disadvantageous to the preservation of the race. It is this, the nobleman's _harakiri_--or the law of the inner conscience compelling the Japanese to cut open his own abdomen at the insult of another--which survives, though somewhat modified, in the duel, also a privilege of the nobility. For this reason the valet, _Jean_, continues to live, but _Miss Julia_ cannot live on without honour. In so far as he lacks this life�endangering superstition about honour, the serf takes precedence of the earl, and in all of us Aryans there is something of the nobleman, or of Don Quixote, which makes us sympathise with the man who takes his own life because he has committed a dishonourable deed and thus lost his honour. And we are noblemen to the extent of suffering from seeing the earth littered with the living corpse of one who was once great--yes, even if the one thus fallen should rise again and make restitution by honourable deeds. _Jean_, the valet, is of the kind that builds new stock--one in whom the differentiation is clearly noticeable. He was a cotter's child, and he has trained himself up to the point where the future gentleman has become visible. He has found it easy to learn, having finely developed senses (smell, taste, vision) and an instinct for beauty besides. He has already risen in the world, and is strong enough not to be sensitive about using other people's services. He has already become a stranger to his equals, despising them as so many outlived stages, but also fearing and fleeing them because they know his secrets, pry into his plans, watch his rise with envy, and look forward to his fall with pleasure. From this relationship springs his dual, indeterminate character, oscillating between love of distinction and hatred of those who have already achieved it. He says himself that he is an aristocrat, and has learned the secrets of good company. He is polished on the outside and coarse within. He knows already how to wear the frock-coat with ease, but the cleanliness of his body cannot be guaranteed. He feels respect for the young lady, but he is afraid of _Christine_, who has his dangerous secrets in her keeping. His emotional callousness is sufficient to prevent the night's happenings from exercising a disturbing influence on his plans for the future. Having at once the slave's brutality and the master's lack of squeamishness, he can see blood without fainting, and he can also bend his back under a mishap until able to throw it off. For this reason he will emerge unharmed from the battle, and will probably end his days as the owner of a hotel. And if he does not become a Roumanian count, his son will probably go to a university, and may even become a county attorney. Otherwise, he furnishes us with rather significant information as to the way in which the lower classes look at life from beneath�- that is, when he speaks the truth, which is not often, as he prefers what seems favourable to himself to what is true. When _Miss Julia_ suggests that the lower classes must feel the pressure from above very heavily, _Jean_ agrees with her, of course, because he wants to gain her sympathy. But he corrects himself at once, the moment he realises the advantage of standing apart from the herd. And _Jean_ stands above _Miss Julia_ not only because his fate is in ascendancy, but because he is a man. Sexually he is the aristocrat because of his male strength, his more finely developed senses, and his capacity for taking the initiative. His inferiority depends mainly on the temporary social environment in which he has to live, and which he probably can shed together with the valet's livery. The mind of the slave speaks through his reverence for the count (as shown in the incident with the boots) and through his religious superstition. But he reveres the count principally as a possessor of that higher position toward which he himself is striving. And this reverence remains even when he has won the daughter of the house, and seen that the beautiful shell covered nothing but emptiness. I don't believe that any love relation in a "higher" sense can spring up between two souls of such different quality. And for this reason I let _Miss Julia_ imagine her love to be protective or commiserative in its origin. And I let _Jean_ suppose that, under different social conditions, he might feel something like real love for her. I believe love to be like the hyacinth, which has to strike roots in darkness _before_ it can bring forth a vigorous flower. In this case it shoots up quickly, bringing forth blossom and seed at once, and for that reason the plant withers so soon. _Christine_, finally, is a female slave, full of servility and sluggishness acquired in front of the kitchen fire, and stuffed full of morality and religion that are meant to serve her at once as cloak and scapegoat. Her church-going has for its purpose to bring her quick and easy riddance of all responsibility for her domestic thieveries and to equip her with a new stock of guiltlessness. Otherwise she is a subordinate figure, and therefore purposely sketched in the same manner as the minister and the doctor in "The Father," whom I designed as ordinary human beings, like the common run of country ministers and country doctors. And if these accessory characters have seemed mere abstractions to some people, it depends on the fact that ordinary men are to a certain extent impersonal in the exercise of their callings. This means that they are without individuality, showing only one side of themselves while at work. And as long as the spectator does not feel the need of seeing them from other sides, my abstract presentation of them remains on the whole correct. In regard to the dialogue, I want to point out that I have departed somewhat from prevailing traditions by not turning my figures into catechists who make stupid questions in order to call forth witty answers. I have avoided the symmetrical and mathematical construction of the French dialogue, and have instead permitted the minds to work irregularly as they do in reality, where, during conversation, the cogs of one mind seem more or less haphazardly to engage those of another one, and where no topic is fully exhausted. Naturally enough, therefore, the dialogue strays a good deal as, in the opening scenes, it acquires a material that later on is worked over, picked up again, repeated, expounded, and built up like the theme in a musical composition. The plot is pregnant enough, and as, at bottom, it is concerned only with two persons, I have concentrated my attention on these, introducing only one subordinate figure, the cook, and keeping the unfortunate spirit of the father hovering above and beyond the action. I have done this because I believe I have noticed that the psychological processes are what interest the people of our own day more than anything else. Our souls, so eager for knowledge, cannot rest satisfied with seeing what happens, but must also learn how it comes to happen! What we want to see are just the wires, the machinery. We want to investigate the box with the false bottom, touch the magic ring in order to find the suture, and look into the cards to discover how they are marked. In this I have taken for models the monographic novels of the brothers de Goncourt, which have appealed more to me than any other modern literature. Turning to the technical side of the composition, I have tried to abolish the division into acts. And I have done so because I have come to fear that our decreasing capacity for illusion might be unfavourably affected by intermissions during which the spectator would have time to reflect and to get away from the suggestive influence of the author-hypnotist. My play will probably last an hour and a half, and as it is possible to listen that length of time, or longer, to a lecture, a sermon, or a debate, I have imagined that a theatrical performance could not become fatiguing in the same time. As early as 1872, in one of my first dramatic experiments, "The Outlaw," I tried the same concentrated form, but with scant success. The play was written in five acts and wholly completed when I became aware of the restless, scattered effect it produced. Then I burned it, and out of the ashes rose a single, well-built act, covering fifty printed pages, and taking hour for its performance. Thus the form of the present play is not new, but it seems to be my own, and changing aesthetical conventions may possibly make it timely. My hope is still for a public educated to the point where it can sit through a whole-evening performance in a single act. But that point cannot be reached without a great deal of experimentation. In the meantime I have resorted to three art forms that are to provide resting-places for the public and the actors, without letting the public escape from the illusion induced. All these forms are subsidiary to the drama. They are the monologue, the pantomime, and the dance, all of them belonging originally to the tragedy of classical antiquity. For the monologue has sprung from the monody, and the chorus has developed into the ballet. Our realists have excommunicated the monologue as improbable, but if I can lay a proper basis for it, I can also make it seem probable, and then I can use it to good advantage. It is probable, for instance, that a speaker may walk back and forth in his room practising his speech aloud; it is probable that an actor may read through his part aloud, that a servant-girl may talk to her cat, that a mother may prattle to her child, that an old spinster may chatter to her parrot, that a person may talk in his sleep. And in order that the actor for once may have a chance to work independently, and to be free for a moment from the author's pointer, it is better that the monologues be not written out, but just indicated. As it matters comparatively little what is said to the parrot or the cat, or in one's sleep--because it cannot influence the action--it is possible that a gifted actor, carried away by the situation and the mood of the occasion, may improvise such matters better than they could be written by the author, who cannot figure out in advance how much may be said, and how long the talk may last, without waking the public out of their illusions. It is well known that, on certain stages, the Italian theatre has returned to improvisation and thereby produced creative actors� who, however, must follow the author's suggestions--and this may be counted a step forward, or even the beginning of a new art form that might well be called _productive_. Where, on the other hand, the monologue would seem unreal, I have used the pantomime, and there I have left still greater scope for the actor's imagination--and for his desire to gain independent honours. But in order that the public may not be tried beyond endurance, I have permitted the music--which is amply warranted by the Midsummer Eve's dance--to exercise its illusory power while the dumb show lasts. And I ask the musical director to make careful selection of the music used for this purpose, so that incompatible moods are not induced by reminiscences from the last musical comedy or topical song, or by folk-tunes of too markedly ethnographical distinction. The mere introduction of a scene with a lot of "people" could not have taken the place of the dance, for such scenes are poorly acted and tempt a number of grinning idiots into displaying their own smartness, whereby the illusion is disturbed. As the common people do not improvise their gibes, but use ready-made phrases in which stick some double meaning, I have not composed their lampooning song, but have appropriated a little known folk-dance which I personally noted down in a district near Stockholm. The words don't quite hit the point, but hint vaguely at it, and this is intentional, for the cunning (i. e., weakness) of the slave keeps him from any direct attack. There must, then, be no chattering clowns in a serious action, and no coarse flouting at a situation that puts the lid on the coffin of a whole family. As far as the scenery is concerned, I have borrowed from impressionistic painting its asymmetry, its quality of abruptness, and have thereby in my opinion strengthened the illusion. Because the whole room and all its contents are not shown, there is a chance to guess at things--that is, our imagination is stirred into complementing our vision. I have made a further gain in getting rid of those tiresome exits by means of doors, especially as stage doors are made of canvas and swing back and forth at the lightest touch. They are not even capable of expressing the anger of an irate _pater familias_ who, on leaving his home after a poor dinner, slams the door behind him "so that it shakes the whole house." (On the stage the house sways.) I have also contented myself with a single setting, and for the double purpose of making the figures become parts of their surroundings, and of breaking with the tendency toward luxurious scenery. But having only a single setting, one may demand to have it real. Yet nothing is more difficult than to get a room that looks something like a room, although the painter can easily enough produce waterfalls and flaming volcanoes. Let it go at canvas for the walls, but we might be done with the painting of shelves and kitchen utensils on the canvas. We have so much else on the stage that is conventional, and in which we are asked to believe, that we might at least be spared the too great effort of believing in painted pans and kettles. I have placed the rear wall and the table diagonally across the stage in order to make the actors show full face and half profile to the audience when they sit opposite each other at the table. In the opera "Aïda" I noticed an oblique background, which led the eye out into unseen prospects. And it did not appear to be the result of any reaction against the fatiguing right angle. Another novelty well needed would be the abolition of the foot-lights. The light from below is said to have for its purpose to make the faces of the actors look fatter. But I cannot help asking: why must all actors be fat in the face? Does not this light from below tend to wipe out the subtler lineaments in the lower part of the face, and especially around the jaws? Does it not give a false appearance to the nose and cast shadows upward over the eyes? If this be not so, another thing is certain: namely, that the eyes of the actors suffer from the light, so that the effective play of their glances is precluded. Coming from below, the light strikes the retina in places generally protected (except in sailors, who have to see the sun reflected in the water), and for this reason one observes hardly anything but a vulgar rolling of the eyes, either sideways or upwards, toward the galleries, so that nothing but the white of the eye shows. Perhaps the same cause may account for the tedious blinking of which especially the actresses are guilty. And when anybody on the stage wants to use his eyes to speak with, no other way is left him but the poor one of staring straight at the public, with whom he or she then gets into direct communication outside of the frame provided by the setting. This vicious habit has, rightly or wrongly, been named "to meet friends." Would it not be possible by means of strong side-lights (obtained by the employment of reflectors, for instance) to add to the resources already possessed by the actor? Could not his mimicry be still further strengthened by use of the greatest asset possessed by the face: the play of the eyes? Of course, I have no illusions about getting the actors to play _for_ the public and not _at_ it, although such a change would be highly desirable. I dare not even dream of beholding the actor's back throughout an important scene, but I wish with all my heart that crucial scenes might not be played in the centre of the proscenium, like duets meant to bring forth applause. Instead, I should like to have them laid in the place indicated by the situation. Thus I ask for no revolutions, but only for a few minor modifications. To make a real room of the stage, with the fourth wall missing, and a part of the furniture placed back toward the audience, would probably produce a disturbing effect at present. In wishing to speak of the facial make-up, I have no hope that the ladies will listen to me, as they would rather look beautiful than lifelike. But the actor might consider whether it be to his advantage to paint his face so that it shows some abstract type which covers it like a mask. Suppose that a man puts a markedly choleric line between the eyes, and imagine further that some remark demands a smile of this face fixed in a state of continuous wrath. What a horrible grimace will be the result? And how can the wrathful old man produce a frown on his false forehead, which is smooth as a billiard ball? In modern psychological dramas, where the subtlest movements of the soul are to be reflected on the face rather than by gestures and noise, it would probably be well to experiment with strong side-light on a small stage, and with unpainted faces, or at least with a minimum of make-up. If, in additon, we might escape the visible orchestra, with its disturbing lamps and its faces turned toward the public; if we could have the seats on the main floor (the orchestra or the pit) raised so that the eyes of the spectators would be above the knees of the actors; if we could get rid of the boxes with their tittering parties of diners; if we could also have the auditorium completely darkened during the performance; and if, first and last, we could have a small stage and a small house: then a new dramatic art might rise, and the theatre might at least become an institution for the entertainment of people with culture. While waiting for this kind of theatre, I suppose we shall have to write for the "ice-box," and thus prepare the repertory that is to come. I have made an attempt. If it prove a failure, there is plenty of time to try over again. MISS JULIA A NATURALISTIC TRAGEDY 1888 PERSONS MISS JULIA, aged twenty-five JEAN, a valet, aged thirty CHRISTINE, a cook, aged thirty-five The action takes place on Midsummer Eve, in the kitchen of the count's country house. MISS JULIA SCENE (A large kitchen: the ceiling and the side walls are hidden by draperies and hangings. The rear wall runs diagonally across the stage, from the left side and away from the spectators. On this wall, to the left, there are two shelves full of utensils made of copper, iron, and tin. The shelves are trimmed with scalloped paper.) (A little to the right may be seen three fourths of the big arched doorway leading to the outside. It has double glass doors, through which are seen a fountain with a cupid, lilac shrubs in bloom, and the tops of some Lombardy poplars.) (On the left side of the stage is seen the corner of a big cook stove built of glazed bricks; also a part of the smoke-hood above it.) (From the right protrudes one end of the servants' dining-table of white pine, with a few chairs about it.) (The stove is dressed with bundled branches of birch. Twigs of juniper are scattered on the floor.) (On the table end stands a big Japanese spice pot full of lilac blossoms.) (An icebox, a kitchen-table, and a wash-stand.) (Above the door hangs a big old-fashioned bell on a steel spring, and the mouthpiece of a speaking-tube appears at the left of the door.) (CHRISTINE is standing by the stove, frying something in a pan. She has on a dress of light-coloured cotton, which she has covered up with a big kitchen apron.) (JEAN enters, dressed in livery and carrying a pair of big, spurred riding boots, which he places on the floor in such manner that they remain visible to the spectators.) JEAN. To-night Miss Julia is crazy again; absolutely crazy. CHRISTINE. So you're back again? JEAN. I took the count to the station, and when I came back by the barn, I went in and had a dance, and there I saw the young lady leading the dance with the gamekeeper. But when she caught sight of me, she rushed right up to me and asked me to dance the ladies' waltz with her. And ever since she's been waltzing like--well, I never saw the like of it. She's crazy! CHRISTINE. And has always been, but never the way it's been this last fortnight, since her engagement was broken. JEAN. Well, what kind of a story was that anyhow? He's a fine fellow, isn't he, although he isn't rich? Ugh, but they're so full of notions. [Sits down at the end of the table] It's peculiar anyhow, that a young lady--hm!--would rather stay at home with the servants--don't you think?--than go with her father to their relatives! CHRISTINE. Oh, I guess she feels sort of embarrassed by that rumpus with her fellow. JEAN. Quite likely. But there was some backbone to that man just the same. Do you know how it happened, Christine? I saw it, although I didn't care to let on. CHRISTINE. No, did you? JEAN. Sure, I did. They were in the stable-yard one evening, and the young lady was training him, as she called it. Do you know what that meant? She made him leap over her horse-whip the way you teach a dog to jump. Twice he jumped and got a cut each time. The third time he took the whip out of her hand and broke it into a thousand bits. And then he got out. CHRISTINE. So that's the way it happened! You don't say! JEAN. Yes, that's how that thing happened. Well, Christine, what have you got that's tasty? CHRISTINE. [Serves from the pan and puts the plate before Jean] Oh, just some kidney which I cut out of the veal roast. JEAN. [Smelling the food] Fine! That's my great _délice_. [Feeling the plate] But you might have warmed the plate. CHRISTINE. Well, if you ain't harder to please than the count himself! [Pulls his hair playfully.] JEAN. [Irritated] Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. CHRISTINE. Well, well, it was nothing but a love pull, you know. [JEAN eats.] [CHRISTINE opens a bottle of beer.] JEAN. Beer-on Midsummer Eve? No, thank you! Then I have something better myself. [Opens a table-drawer and takes out a bottle of claret with yellow cap] Yellow seal, mind you! Give me a glass�-and you use those with stems when you drink it _pure_. CHRISTINE. [Returns to the stove and puts a small pan on the fire] Heaven preserve her that gets you for a husband, Mr. Finicky! JEAN. Oh, rot! You'd be glad enough to get a smart fellow like me. And I guess it hasn't hurt you that they call me your beau. [Tasting the wine] Good! Pretty good! Just a tiny bit too cold. [He warms the glass with his hand.] We got this at Dijon. It cost us four francs per litre, not counting the bottle. And there was the duty besides. What is it you're cooking--with that infernal smell? CHRISTINE. Oh, it's some deviltry the young lady is going to give Diana. JEAN. You should choose your words with more care, Christine. But why should you be cooking for a bitch on a holiday eve like this? Is she sick? CHRISTINE. Ye-es, she is sick. She's been running around with the gate-keeper's pug--and now's there's trouble--and the young lady just won't hear of it. JEAN. The young lady is too stuck up in some ways and not proud enough in others--just as was the countess while she lived. She was most at home in the kitchen and among the cows, but she would never drive with only one horse. She wore her cuffs till they were dirty, but she had to have cuff buttons with a coronet on them. And speaking of the young lady, she doesn't take proper care of herself and her person. I might even say that she's lacking in refinement. Just now, when she was dancing in the barn, she pulled the gamekeeper away from Anna and asked him herself to come and dance with her. We wouldn't act in that way. But that's just how it is: when upper-class people want to demean themselves, then they grow�- mean! But she's splendid! Magnificent! Oh, such shoulders! And--and so on! CHRISTINE. Oh, well, don't brag too much! I've heard Clara talking, who tends to her dressing. JEAN. Pooh, Clara! You're always jealous of each other. I, who have been out riding with her--And then the way she dances! CHRISTINE. Say, Jean, won't you dance with me when I'm done? JEAN. Of course I will. CHRISTINE. Do you promise? JEAN. Promise? When I say so, I'll do it. Well, here's thanks for the good food. It tasted fine! [Puts the cork back into the bottle.] JULIA. [Appears in the doorway, speaking to somebody on the outside] I'll be back in a minute. You go right on in the meantime. [JEAN slips the bottle into the table-drawer and rises respectfully.] JULIA.[Enters and goes over to CHRISTINE by the wash-stand] Well, is it done yet? [CHRISTINE signs to her that JEAN is present.] JEAN. [Gallantly] The ladies are having secrets, I believe. JULIA. [Strikes him in the face with her handkerchief] That's for you, Mr. Pry! JEAN. Oh, what a delicious odor that violet has! JULIA. [With coquetry] Impudent! So you know something about perfumes also? And know pretty well how to dance--Now don't peep! Go away! JEAN. [With polite impudence] Is it some kind of witches' broth the ladies are cooking on Midsummer Eve--something to tell fortunes by and bring out the lucky star in which one's future love is seen? JULIA. [Sharply] If you can see that, you'll have good eyes, indeed! [To CHRISTINE] Put it in a pint bottle and cork it well. Come and dance a _schottische_ with me now, Jean. JEAN. [Hesitatingly] I don't want to be impolite, but I had promised to dance with Christine this time�- JULIA. Well, she can get somebody else--can't you, Christine? Won't you let me borrow Jean from you? CHRISTINE. That isn't for me to say. When Miss Julia is so gracious, it isn't for him to say no. You just go along, and be thankful for the honour, too! JEAN. Frankly speaking, but not wishing to offend in any way, I cannot help wondering if it's wise for Miss Julia to dance twice in succession with the same partner, especially as the people here are not slow in throwing out hints-- JULIA. [Flaring up] What is that? What kind of hints? What do you mean? JEAN. [Submissively] As you don't want to understand, I have to speak more plainly. It don't look well to prefer one servant to all the rest who are expecting to be honoured in the same unusual way-- JULIA. Prefer! What ideas! I'm surprised! I, the mistress of the house, deign to honour this dance with my presence, and when it so happens that I actually want to dance, I want to dance with one who knows how to lead, so that I am not made ridiculous. JEAN. As you command, Miss Julia! I am at your service! JULIA. [Softened] Don't take it as a command. To-night we should enjoy ourselves as a lot of happy people, and all rank should be forgotten. Now give me your arm. Don't be afraid, Christine! I'll return your beau to you! [JEAN offers his arm to MISS JULIA and leads her out.] *** PANTOMIME Must be acted as if the actress were really alone in the place. When necessary she turns her back to the public. She should not look in the direction of the spectators, and she should not hurry as if fearful that they might become impatient. CHRISTINE is alone. A _schottische_ tune played on a violin is heard faintly in the distance. While humming the tune, CHRISTINE clears o$ the table after JEAN, washes the plate at the kitchen table, wipes it, and puts it away in a cupboard. Then she takes of her apron, pulls out a small mirror from one of the table-drawers and leans it against the flower jar on the table; lights a tallow candle and heats a hairpin, which she uses to curl her front hair. Then she goes to the door and stands there listening. Returns to the table. Discovers the handkerchief which MISS JULIA has left behind, picks it up, and smells it, spreads it out absent-mindedly and begins to stretch it, smooth it, fold it up, and so forth. *** JEAN. [Enters alone] Crazy, that's what she is! The way she dances! And the people stand behind the doors and grill at her. What do you think of it, Christine? CHRISTINE. Oh, she has her time now, and then she is always a little queer like that. But are you going to dance with me now? JEAN. You are not mad at me because I disappointed you? CHRISTINE. No!--Not for a little thing like that, you know! And also, I know my place-- JEAN. [Putting his arm around her waist] You are a, sensible girl, Christine, and I think you'll make a good wife-- JULIA. [Enters and is unpleasantly surprised; speaks with forced gayety] Yes, you are a fine partner--running away from your lady! JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julia. I have, as you see, looked up the one I deserted. JULIA. [Changing tone] Do you know, there is nobody that dances like you!--But why do you wear your livery on an evening like this? Take it off at once! JEAN. Then I must ask you to step outside for a moment, as my black coat is hanging right here. [Points toward the right and goes in that direction.] JULIA. Are you bashful on my account? Just to change a coat? Why don't you go into your own room and come back again? Or, you can stay right here, and I'll turn my back on you. JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julia. [Goes further over to the right; one of his arms can be seen as he changes his coat.] JULIA [To CHRISTINE] Are you and Jean engaged, that he's so familiar with you? CHRISTINE. Engaged? Well, in a way. We call it that. JULIA. Call it? CHRISTINE. Well, Miss Julia, you have had a fellow of your own, and-- JULIA. We were really engaged-- CHRISTINE. But it didn't come to anything just the same-- [JEAN enters, dressed in black frock coat and black derby.] JULIA. _Très gentil, Monsieur Jean! Très gentil!_ JEAN. _Vous voulez plaisanter, Madame!_ JULIA. _Et vous voulez parler français!_ Where did you learn it? JEAN. In Switzerland, while I worked as _sommelier_ in one of the big hotels at Lucerne. JULIA. But you look like a real gentleman in your frock coat! Charming! [Sits down at the table.] JEAN. Oh, you flatter me. JULIA. [Offended] Flatter--you! JEAN. My natural modesty does not allow me to believe that you could be paying genuine compliments to one like me, and so I dare to assume that you are exaggerating, or, as we call it, flattering. JULIA. Where did you learn to use your words like that? You must have been to the theatre a great deal? JEAN. That, too. I have been to a lot of places. JULIA. But you were born in this neighbourhood? JEAN. My father was a cotter on the county attorney's property right by here, and I can recall seeing you as a child, although you, of course, didn't notice me. JULIA. No, really! JEAN. Yes, and I remember one time in particular--but of that I can't speak. JULIA. Oh, yes, do! Why--just for once. JEAN. No, really, I cannot do it now. Another time, perhaps. JULIA. Another time is no time. Is it as bad as that? JEAN. It isn't bad, but it comes a little hard. Look at that one! [Points to CHRISTINE, who has fallen asleep on a chair by the stove.] JULIA. She'll make a pleasant wife. And perhaps she snores, too. JEAN. No, she doesn't, but she talks in her sleep. JULIA. [Cynically] How do you know? JEAN. [Insolently] I have heard it. [Pause during which they study each other.] JULIA. Why don't you sit down? JEAN. It wouldn't be proper in your presence. JULIA. But if I order you to do it? JEAN. Then I obey. JULIA. Sit down, then!--But wait a moment! Can you give me something to drink first? JEAN. I don't know what we have got in the icebox. I fear it is nothing but beer. JULIA. And you call that nothing? My taste is so simple that I prefer it to wine. JEAN. [Takes a bottle of beer from the icebox and opens it; gets a glass and a plate from the cupboard, and serves the beer] Allow me! JULIA. Thank you. Don't you want some yourself? JEAN. I don't care very much for beer, but if it is a command, of course-- JULIA. Command?--I should think a polite gentleman might keep his lady company. JEAN. Yes, that's the way it should be. [Opens another bottle and takes out a glass.] JULIA. Drink my health now! [JEAN hesitates.] JULIA. Are you bashful--a big, grown-up man? JEAN. [Kneels with mock solemnity and raises his glass] To the health of my liege lady! JULIA. Bravo!--And now you must also kiss my shoe in order to get it just right. [JEAN hesitates a moment; then he takes hold of her foot and touches it lightly with his lips.] JULIA. Excellent! You should have been on the stage. JEAN. [Rising to his feet] This won't do any longer, Miss Julia. Somebody might see us. JULIA. What would that matter? JEAN. Oh, it would set the people talking--that's all! And if you only knew how their tongues were wagging up there a while ago�- JULIA. What did they have to say? Tell me--Sit down now! JEAN. [Sits down] I don't want to hurt you, but they were using expressions--which cast reflections of a kind that--oh, you know it yourself! You are not a child, and when a lady is seen alone with a man, drinking--no matter if he's only a servant--and at night-�then-- JULIA. Then what? And besides, we are not alone. Isn't Christine with us? JEAN. Yes--asleep! JULIA. Then I'll wake her. [Rising] Christine, are you asleep? CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] Blub-blub-blub-blub! JULIA. Christine!--Did you ever see such a sleeper. CHRISTINE. [In her sleep] The count's boots are polished--put on the coffee--yes, yes, yes--my-my--pooh! JULIA. [Pinches her nose] Can't you wake up? JEAN. [Sternly] You shouldn't bother those that sleep. JULIA. [Sharply] What's that? JEAN. One who has stood by the stove all day has a right to be tired at night. And sleep should be respected. JULIA. [Changing tone] It is fine to think like that, and it does you honour--I thank you for it. [Gives JEAN her hand] Come now and pick some lilacs for me. [During the following scene CHRISTINE wakes up. She moves as if still asleep and goes out to the right in order to go to bed.] JEAN. With you, Miss Julia? JULIA. With me! JEAN. But it won't do! Absolutely not! JULIA. I can't understand what you are thinking of. You couldn't possibly imagine-- JEAN. No, not I, but the people. JULIA. What? That I am fond of the valet? JEAN. I am not at all conceited, but such things have happened--and to the people nothing is sacred. JULIA. You are an aristocrat, I think. JEAN. Yes, I am. JULIA. And I am stepping down-- JEAN. Take my advice, Miss Julia, don't step down. Nobody will believe you did it on purpose. The people will always say that you fell down. JULIA. I think better of the people than you do. Come and see if I am not right. Come along! [She ogles him.] JEAN. You're mighty queer, do you know! JULIA. Perhaps. But so are you. And for that matter, everything is queer. Life, men, everything--just a mush that floats on top of the water until it sinks, sinks down! I have a dream that comes back to me ever so often. And just now I am reminded of it. I have climbed to the top of a column and sit there without being able to tell how to get down again. I get dizzy when I look down, and I must get down, but I haven't the courage to jump off. I cannot hold on, and I am longing to fall, and yet I don't fall. But there will be no rest for me until I get down, no rest until I get down, down on the ground. And if I did reach the ground, I should want to get still further down, into the ground itself--Have you ever felt like that? JEAN. No, my dream is that I am lying under a tall tree in a dark wood. I want to get up, up to the top, so that I can look out over the smiling landscape, where the sun is shining, and so that I can rob the nest in which lie the golden eggs. And I climb and climb, but the trunk is so thick and smooth, and it is so far to the first branch. But I know that if I could only reach that first branch, then I should go right on to the top as on a ladder. I have not reached it yet, but I am going to, if it only be in my dreams. JULIA. Here I am chattering to you about dreams! Come along! Only into the park! [She offers her arm to him, and they go toward the door.] JEAN. We must sleep on nine midsummer flowers to-night, Miss Julia�- then our dreams will come true. [They turn around in the doorway, and JEAN puts one hand up to his eyes.] JULIA. Let me see what you have got in your eye. JEAN. Oh, nothing--just some dirt--it will soon be gone. JULIA. It was my sleeve that rubbed against it. Sit down and let me help you. [Takes him by the arm and makes him sit down; takes hold of his head and bends it backwards; tries to get out the dirt with a corner of her handkerchief] Sit still now, absolutely still! [Slaps him on the hand] Well, can't you do as I say? I think you are shaking�-a big, strong fellow like you! [Feels his biceps] And with such arms! JEAN. [Ominously] Miss Julia! JULIA. Yes, Monsieur Jean. JEAN. _Attention! Je ne suis qu'un homme._ JULIA. Can't you sit still!--There now! Now it's gone. Kiss my hand now, and thank me. JEAN. [Rising] Miss Julia, listen to me. Christine has gone to bed now--Won't you listen to me? JULIA. Kiss my hand first. JEAN. Listen to me! JULIA. Kiss my hand first! JEAN. All right, but blame nobody but yourself! JULIA. For what? JEAN. For what? Are you still a mere child at twenty-five? Don't you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? JULIA. Not for me. I am insured. JEAN. [Boldly] No, you are not. And even if you were, there are inflammable surroundings to be counted with. JULIA. That's you, I suppose? JEAN. Yes. Not because I am I, but because I am a young man-- JULIA. Of handsome appearance--what an incredible conceit! A Don Juan, perhaps. Or a Joseph? On my soul, I think you are a Joseph! JEAN. Do you? JULIA. I fear it almost. [JEAN goes boldly up to her and takes her around the waist in order to kiss her.] JULIA. [Gives him a cuff on the ear] Shame! JEAN. Was that in play or in earnest? JULIA. In earnest. JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago also. Your playing is too serious, and that's the dangerous thing about it. Now I am tired of playing, and I ask to be excused in order to resume my work. The count wants his boots to be ready for him, and it is after midnight already. JULIA. Put away the boots. JEAN. No, it's my work, which I am bound to do. But I have not undertaken to be your playmate. It's something I can never become�- I hold myself too good for it. JULIA. You're proud! JEAN. In some ways, and not in others. JULIA. Have you ever been in love? JEAN. We don't use that word. But I have been fond of a lot of girls, and once I was taken sick because I couldn't have the one I wanted: sick, you know, like those princes in the Arabian Nights who cannot eat or drink for sheer love. JULIA. Who was it? [JEAN remains silent.] JULIA. Who was it? JEAN. You cannot make me tell you. JULIA. If I ask you as an equal, ask you as--a friend: who was it? JEAN. It was you. JULIA. [Sits down] How funny! JEAN. Yes, as you say--it was ludicrous. That was the story, you see, which I didn't want to tell you a while ago. But now I am going to tell it. Do you know how the world looks from below--no, you don't. No more than do hawks and falcons, of whom we never see the back because they are always floating about high up in the sky. I lived in the cotter's hovel, together with seven other children, and a pig--out there on the grey plain, where there isn't a single tree. But from our windows I could see the wall around the count's park, and apple-trees above it. That was the Garden of Eden, and many fierce angels were guarding it with flaming swords. Nevertheless I and some other boys found our way to the Tree of Life--now you despise me? JULIA. Oh, stealing apples is something all boys do. JEAN. You may say so now, but you despise me nevertheless. However�- once I got into the Garden of Eden with my mother to weed the onion beds. Near by stood a Turkish pavillion, shaded by trees and covered with honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for, but I had never seen a more beautiful building. People went in and came out again, and one day the door was left wide open. I stole up and saw the walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors, and the windows were hung with red, fringed curtains--now you know what I mean. I--[breaks off a lilac sprig and holds it under MISS JULIA's nose]--I had never been inside the manor, and I had never seen anything but the church--and this was much finer. No matter where my thoughts ran, they returned always--to that place. And gradually a longing arose within me to taste the full pleasure of--_enfin_! I sneaked in, looked and admired. Then I heard somebody coming. There was only one way out for fine people, but for me there was another, and I could do nothing else but choose it. [JULIA, who has taken the lilac sprig, lets it drop on the table.] JEAN. Then I started to run, plunged through a hedge of raspberry bushes, chased right across a strawberry plantation, and came out on the terrace where the roses grow. There I caught sight of a pink dress and pair of white stockings--that was you! I crawled under a pile of weeds--right into it, you know--into stinging thistles and wet, ill-smelling dirt. And I saw you walking among the roses, and I thought: if it be possible for a robber to get into heaven and dwell with the angels, then it is strange that a cotter's child, here on God's own earth, cannot get into the park and play with the count's daughter. JULIA. [Sentimentally] Do you think all poor children have the same thoughts as you had in this case? JEAN. [Hesitatingly at first; then with conviction] If _all_ poor�- yes�-of course. Of course! JULIA. It must be a dreadful misfortune to be poor. JEAN. [In a tone of deep distress and with rather exaggerated emphasis] Oh, Miss Julia! Oh!--A dog may lie on her ladyship's sofa; a horse may have his nose patted by the young lady's hand, but a servant--[changing his tone]--oh well, here and there you meet one made of different stuff, and he makes a way for himself in the world, but how often does it happen?--However, do you know what I did? I jumped into the mill brook with my clothes on, and was pulled out, and got a licking. But the next Sunday, when my father and the rest of the people were going over to my grandmother's, I fixed it so that I could stay at home. And then I washed myself with soap and hot water, and put on my best clothes, and went to church, where I could see you. I did see you, and went home determined to die. But I wanted to die beautifully and pleasantly, without any pain. And then I recalled that it was dangerous to sleep under an elder bush. We had a big one that was in full bloom. I robbed it of all its flowers, and then I put them in the big box where the oats were kept and lay down in them. Did you ever notice the smoothness of oats? Soft to the touch as the skin of the human body! However, I pulled down the lid and closed my eyes--fell asleep and was waked up a very sick boy. But I didn't die, as you can see. What I wanted--that's more than I can tell. Of course, there was not the least hope of winning you�-but you symbolised the hopelessness of trying to get out of the class into which I was born. JULIA. You narrate splendidly, do you know! Did you ever go to school? JEAN. A little. But I have read a lot of novels and gone to the theatre a good deal. And besides, I have listened to the talk of better-class people, and from that I have learned most of all. JULIA. Do you stand around and listen to what we are saying? JEAN. Of course! And I have heard a lot, too, when I was on the box of the carriage, or rowing the boat. Once I heard you, Miss Julia, and one of your girl friends-- JULIA. Oh!--What was it you heard then? JEAN. Well, it wouldn't be easy to repeat. But I was rather surprised, and I couldn't understand where you had learned all those words. Perhaps, at bottom, there isn't quite so much difference as they think between one kind of people and another. JULIA. You ought to be ashamed of yourself! We don't live as you do when we are engaged. JEAN. [Looking hard at her] Is it so certain?--Well, Miss Julia, it won't pay to make yourself out so very innocent to me�- JULIA. The man on whom I bestowed my love was a scoundrel. JEAN. That's what you always say--afterwards. JULIA. Always? JEAN. Always, I believe, for I have heard the same words used several times before, on similar occasions. JULIA. What occasions? JEAN. Like the one of which we were speaking. The last time-- JULIA. [Rising] Stop! I don't want to hear any more! JEAN. Nor did _she_--curiously enough! Well, then I ask permission to go to bed. JULIA. [Gently] Go to bed on Midsummer Eve? JEAN. Yes, for dancing with that mob out there has really no attraction for me. JULIA. Get the key to the boat and take me out on the lake--I want to watch the sunrise. JEAN. Would that be wise? JULIA. It sounds as if you were afraid of your reputation. JEAN. Why not? I don't care to be made ridiculous, and I don't care to be discharged without a recommendation, for I am trying to get on in the world. And then I feel myself under a certain obligation to Christine. JULIA. So it's Christine now JEAN. Yes, but it's you also--Take my advice and go to bed! JULIA. Am I to obey you? JEAN. For once--and for your own sake! The night is far gone. Sleepiness makes us drunk, and the head grows hot. Go to bed! And besides--if I am not mistaken�-I can hear the crowd coming this way to look for me. And if we are found together here, you are lost! CHORUS. [Is heard approaching]: Through the fields come two ladies a-walking, Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. And one has her shoes full of water, Treederee-derallah-lah. They're talking of hundreds of dollars, Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. But have not between them a dollar Treederee-derallah-lah. This wreath I give you gladly, Treederee-derallah, treederee-derah. But love another madly, Treederee-derallah-lah. JULIA. I know the people, and I love them, just as they love me. Let them come, and you'll see. JEAN. No, Miss Julia, they don't love you. They take your food and spit at your back. Believe me. Listen to me--can't you hear what they are singing?--No, don't pay any attention to it! JULIA. [Listening] What is it they are singing? JEAN. Oh, something scurrilous. About you and me. JULIA. How infamous! They ought to be ashamed! And the treachery of it! JEAN. The mob is always cowardly. And in such a fight as this there is nothing to do but to run away. JULIA. Run away? Where to? We cannot get out. And we cannot go into Christine's room. JEAN. Oh, we cannot? Well, into my room, then! Necessity knows no law. And you can trust me, for I am your true and frank and respectful friend. JULIA. But think only-think if they should look for you in there! JEAN. I shall bolt the door. And if they try to break it I open, I'll shoot!--Come! [Kneeling before her] Come! JULIA. [Meaningly] And you promise me--? JEAN. I swear! [MISS JULIA goes quickly out to the right. JEAN follows her eagerly.] *** BALLET The peasants enter. They are decked out in their best and carry flowers in their hats. A fiddler leads them. On the table they place a barrel of small-beer and a keg of "brännvin," or white Swedish whiskey, both of them decorated with wreathes woven out of leaves. First they drink. Then they form in ring and sing and dance to the melody heard before: "Through the fields come two ladies a-walking." The dance finished, they leave singing. *** JULIA. [Enters alone. On seeing the disorder in the kitchen, she claps her hands together. Then she takes out a powder-puff and begins to powder her face.] JEAN. [Enters in a state of exaltation] There you see! And you heard, didn't you? Do you think it possible to stay here? JULIA. No, I don't think so. But what are we to do? JEAN. Run away, travel, far away from here. JULIA. Travel? Yes-but where? JEAN. To Switzerland, the Italian lakes--you have never been there? JULIA. No. Is the country beautiful? JEAN. Oh! Eternal summer! Orange trees! Laurels! Oh! JULIA. But then-what are we to do down there? JEAN. I'll start a hotel, everything first class, including the customers? JULIA. Hotel? JEAN. That's the life, I tell you! Constantly new faces and new languages. Never a minute free for nerves or brooding. No trouble about what to do--for the work is calling to be done: night and day, bells that ring, trains that whistle, 'busses that come and go; and gold pieces raining on the counter all the time. That's the life for you! JULIA. Yes, that is life. And I? JEAN. The mistress of everything, the chief ornament of the house. With your looks--and your manners--oh, success will be assured! Enormous! You'll sit like a queen in the office and keep the slaves going by the touch of an electric button. The guests will pass in review before your throne and timidly deposit their treasures on your table. You cannot imagine how people tremble when a bill is presented to them--I'll salt the items, and you'll sugar them with your sweetest smiles. Oh, let us get away from here--[pulling a time-table from his pocket]--at once, with the next train! We'll be in Malmö at 6.30; in Hamburg at 8.40 to-morrow morning; in Frankfort and Basel a day later. And to reach Como by way of the St. Gotthard it will take us--let me see--three days. Three days! JULIA. All that is all right. But you must give me some courage� Jean. Tell me that you love me. Come and take me in your arms. JEAN. [Reluctantly] I should like to--but I don't dare. Not in this house again. I love you--beyond doubt--or, can you doubt it, Miss Julia? JULIA. [With modesty and true womanly feeling] Miss? Call me Julia. Between us there can be no barriers here after. Call me Julia! JEAN. [Disturbed] I cannot! There will be barriers between us as long as we stay in this house--there is the past, and there is the count-�and I have never met another person for whom I felt such respect. If I only catch sight of his gloves on a chair I feel small. If I only hear that bell up there, I jump like a shy horse. And even now, when I see his boots standing there so stiff and perky, it is as if something made my back bend. [Kicking at the boots] It's nothing but superstition and tradition hammered into us from childhood--but it can be as easily forgotten again. Let us only get to another country, where they have a republic, and you'll see them bend their backs double before my liveried porter. You see, backs have to be bent, but not mine. I wasn't born to that kind of thing. There's better stuff in me--character--and if I only get hold of the first branch, you'll see me do some climbing. To-day I am a valet, but next year I'll be a hotel owner. In ten years I can live on the money I have made, and then I'll go to Roumania and get myself an order. And I may--note well that I say _may_--end my days as a count. JULIA. Splendid, splendid! JEAN. Yes, in Roumania the title of count can be had for cash, and so you'll be a countess after all. My countess! JULIA. What do I care about all I now cast behind me! Tell me that you love me: otherwise--yes, what am I otherwise? JEAN. I will tell you so a thousand times--later. But not here. And above all, no sentimentality, or everything will be lost. We must look at the matter in cold blood, like sensible people. [Takes out a cigar, cuts of the point, and lights it] Sit down there now, and I'll sit here, and then we'll talk as if nothing had happened. JULIA. [In despair] Good Lord! Have you then no feelings at all? JEAN. I? No one is more full of feeling than I am. But I know how to control myself. JULIA. A while ago you kissed my shoe--and now! JEAN. [Severely] Yes, that was then. Now we have other things to think of. JULIA. Don't speak harshly to me! JEAN. No, but sensibly. One folly has been committed--don't let us commit any more! The count may be here at any moment, and before he comes our fate must be settled. What do you think of my plans for the future? Do you approve of them? JULIA. They seem acceptable, on the whole. But there is one question: a big undertaking of that kind will require a big capital have you got it? JEAN. [Chewing his cigar] I? Of course! I have my expert knowledge, my vast experience, my familiarity with several languages. That's the very best kind of capital, I should say. JULIA. But it won't buy you a railroad ticket even. JEAN. That's true enough. And that is just why I am looking for a backer to advance the needful cash. JULIA. Where could you get one all of a sudden? JEAN. It's for you to find him if you want to become my partner. JULIA. I cannot do it, and I have nothing myself. [Pause.] JEAN. Well, then that's off-- JULIA. And�- JEAN. Everything remains as before. JULIA. Do you think I am going to stay under this roof as your concubine? Do you think I'll let the people point their fingers at me? Do you think I can look my father in the face after this? No, take me away from here, from all this humiliation and disgrace!� Oh, what have I done? My God, my God! [Breaks into tears.] JEAN. So we have got around to that tune now!--What you have done? Nothing but what many others have done before you. JULIA. [Crying hysterically] And now you're despising me!--I'm falling, I'm falling! JEAN. Fall down to me, and I'll lift you up again afterwards. JULIA. What horrible power drew me to you? Was it the attraction which the strong exercises on the weak--the one who is rising on one who is falling? Or was it love? This love! Do you know what love is? JEAN. I? Well, I should say so! Don't you think I have been there before? JULIA. Oh, the language you use, and the thoughts you think! JEAN. Well, that's the way I was brought up, and that's the way I am. Don't get nerves now and play the exquisite, for now one of us is just as good as the other. Look here, my girl, let me treat you to a glass of something superfine. [He opens the table-drawer, takes out the wine bottle and fills up two glasses that have already been used.] JULIA. Where did you get that wine? JEAN. In the cellar. JULIA. My father's Burgundy! JEAN. Well, isn't it good enough for the son-in-law? JULIA. And I am drinking beer--I! JEAN. It shows merely that I have better taste than you. JULIA. Thief! JEAN. Do you mean to tell on me? JULIA. Oh, oh! The accomplice of a house thief! Have I been drunk, or have I been dreaming all this night? Midsummer Eve! The feast of innocent games�- JEAN. Innocent--hm! JULIA. [Walking back and forth] Can there be another human being on earth so unhappy as I am at this moment' JEAN. But why should you be? After such a conquest? Think of Christine in there. Don't you think she has feelings also? JULIA. I thought so a while ago, but I don't think so any longer. No, a menial is a menial-- JEAN. And a whore a whore! JULIA. [On her knees, with folded hands] O God in heaven, make an end of this wretched life! Take me out of the filth into which I am sinking! Save me! Save me! JEAN. I cannot deny that I feel sorry for you. When I was lying among the onions and saw you up there among the roses--I'll tell you now--I had the same nasty thoughts that all boys have. JULIA. And you who wanted to die for my sake! JEAN. Among the oats. That was nothing but talk. JULIA. Lies in other words! JEAN. [Beginning to feel sleepy] Just about. I think I read the story in a paper, and it was about a chimney-sweep who crawled into a wood-box full of lilacs because a girl had brought suit against him for not supporting her kid�- JULIA. So that's the sort you are-- JEAN. Well, I had to think of something--for it's the high-faluting stuff that the women bite on. JULIA. Scoundrel! JEAN. Rot! JULIA. And now you have seen the back of the hawk-- JEAN. Well, I don't know-- JULIA. And I was to be the first branch-- JEAN. But the branch was rotten-- JULIA. I was to be the sign in front of the hotel-- JEAN. And I the hotel-- JULIA. Sit at your counter, and lure your customers, and doctor your bills-- JEAN. No, that I should have done myself-- JULIA. That a human soul can be so steeped in dirt! JEAN. Well, wash it off! JULIA. You lackey, you menial, stand up when I talk to you! JEAN. You lackey-love, you mistress of a menial--shut up and get out of here! You're the right one to come and tell me that I am vulgar. People of my kind would never in their lives act as vulgarly as you have acted to-night. Do you think any servant girl would go for a man as you did? Did you ever see a girl of my class throw herself at anybody in that way? I have never seen the like of it except among beasts and prostitutes. JULIA. [Crushed] That's right: strike me, step on me--I haven't deserved any better! I am a wretched creature. But help me! Help me out of this, if there be any way to do so! JEAN. [In a milder tone] I don't want to lower myself by a denial of my share in the honour of seducing. But do you think a person in my place would have dared to raise his eyes to you, if the invitation to do so had not come from yourself? I am still sitting here in a state of utter surprise-- JULIA. And pride-- JEAN. Yes, why not? Although I must confess that the victory was too easy to bring with it any real intoxication. JULIA. Strike me some more! JEAN. [Rising] No! Forgive me instead what I have been saying. I don't want to strike one who is disarmed, and least of all a lady. On one hand I cannot deny that it has given me pleasure to discover that what has dazzled us below is nothing but cat-gold; that the hawk is simply grey on the back also; that there is powder on the tender cheek; that there may be black borders on the polished nails; and that the handkerchief may be dirty, although it smells of perfume. But on the other hand it hurts me to have discovered that what I was striving to reach is neither better nor more genuine. It hurts me to see you sinking so low that you are far beneath your own cook--it hurts me as it hurts to see the Fall flowers beaten down by the rain and turned into mud. JULIA. You speak as if you were already above me? JEAN. Well, so I am. Don't you see: I could have made a countess of you, but you could never make me a count. JULIA. But I am born of a count, and that's more than you can ever achieve. JEAN. That's true. But I might be the father of counts�if-- JULIA. But you are a thief--and I am not. JEAN. Thief is not the worst. There are other kinds still farther down. And then, when I serve in a house, I regard myself in a sense as a member of the family, as a child of the house, and you don't call it theft when children pick a few of the berries that load down the vines. [His passion is aroused once more] Miss Julia, you are a magnificent woman, and far too good for one like me. You were swept along by a spell of intoxication, and now you want to cover up your mistake by making yourself believe that you are in love with me. Well, you are not, unless possibly my looks might tempt you-�in which case your love is no better than mine. I could never rest satisfied with having you care for nothing in me but the mere animal, and your love I can never win. JULIA. Are you so sure of that? JEAN. You mean to say that it might be possible? That I might love you: yes, without doubt--for you are beautiful, refined, [goes up to her and takes hold of her hand] educated, charming when you want to be so, and it is not likely that the flame will ever burn out in a man who has once been set of fire by you. [Puts his arm around her waist] You are like burnt wine with strong spices in it, and one of your kisses-- [He tries to lead her away, but she frees herself gently from his hold.] JULIA. Leave me alone! In that way you cannot win me. JEAN. How then?--Not in that way! Not by caresses and sweet words! Not by thought for the future, by escape from disgrace! How then? JULIA. How? How? I don't know--Not at all! I hate you as I hate rats, but I cannot escape from you! JEAN. Escape with me! JULIA. [Straightening up] Escape? Yes, we must escape!--But I am so tired. Give me a glass of wine. [JEAN pours out wine.] JULIA. [Looks at her watch] But we must have a talk first. We have still some time left. [Empties her glass and holds it out for more.] JEAN. Don't drink so much. It will go to your head. JULIA. What difference would that make? JEAN. What difference would it make? It's vulgar to get drunk--What was it you wanted to tell me? JULIA. We must get away. But first we must have a talk--that is, I must talk, for so far you have done all the talking. You have told me about your life. Now I must tell you about mine, so that we know each other right to the bottom before we begin the journey together. JEAN. One moment, pardon me! Think first, so that you don't regret it afterwards, when you have already given up the secrets of your life. JULIA. Are you not my friend? JEAN. Yes, at times--but don't rely on me. JULIA. You only talk like that--and besides, my secrets are known to everybody. You see, my mother was not of noble birth, but came of quite plain people. She was brought up in the ideas of her time about equality, and woman's independence, and that kind of thing. And she had a decided aversion to marriage. Therefore, when my father proposed to her, she said she wouldn't marry him--and then she did it just the same. I came into the world--against my mother's wish, I have come to think. Then my mother wanted to bring me up in a perfectly natural state, and at the same time I was to learn everything that a boy is taught, so that I might prove that a woman is just as good as a man. I was dressed as a boy, and was taught how to handle a horse, but could have nothing to do with the cows. I had to groom and harness and go hunting on horseback. I was even forced to learn something about agriculture. And all over the estate men were set to do women's work, and women to do men's--with the result that everything went to pieces and we became the laughing-stock of the whole neighbourhood. At last my father must have recovered from the spell cast over him, for he rebelled, and everything was changed to suit his own ideas. My mother was taken sick--what kind of sickness it was I don't know, but she fell often into convulsions, and she used to hide herself in the garret or in the garden, and sometimes she stayed out all night. Then came the big fire, of which you have heard. The house, the stable, and the barn were burned down, and this under circumstances which made it look as if the fire had been set on purpose. For the disaster occurred the day after our insurance expired, and the money sent for renewal of the policy had been delayed by the messenger's carelessness, so that it came too late. [She fills her glass again and drinks.] JEAN. Don't drink any more. JULIA. Oh, what does it matter!--We were without a roof over our heads and had to sleep in the carriages. My father didn't know where to get money for the rebuilding of the house. Then my mother suggested that he try to borrow from a childhood friend of hers, a brick manufacturer living not far from here. My father got the loan, but was not permitted to pay any interest, which astonished him. And so the house was built up again. [Drinks again] Do you know who set fire to the house? JEAN. Her ladyship, your mother! JULIA. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was? JEAN. Your mother's lover? JULIA. Do you know to whom the money belonged? JEAN. Wait a minute--no, that I don't know. JULIA. To my mother. JEAN. In other words, to the count, if there was no settlement. JULIA. There was no settlement. My mother possessed a small fortune of her own which she did not want to leave in my father's control, so she invested it with--her friend. JEAN. Who copped it. JULIA. Exactly! He kept it. All this came to my father's knowledge. He couldn't bring suit; he couldn't pay his wife's lover; he couldn't prove that it was his wife's money. That was my mother's revenge because he had made himself master in his own house. At that time he came near shooting himself--it was even rumoured that he had tried and failed. But he took a new lease of life, and my mother had to pay for what she had done. I can tell you that those were five years I'll never forget! My sympathies were with my father, but I took my mother's side because I was not aware of the true circumstances. From her I learned to suspect and hate men--for she hated the whole sex, as you have probably heard--and I promised her on my oath that I would never become a man's slave. JEAN. And so you became engaged to the County Attorney. JULIA. Yes, in order that he should be my slave. JEAN. And he didn't want to? JULIA. Oh, he wanted, but I wouldn't let him. I got tired of him. JEAN. Yes, I saw it--in the stable-yard. JULIA. What did you see? JEAN. Just that--how he broke the engagement. JULIA. That's a lie! It was I who broke it. Did he say he did it, the scoundrel? JEAN. Oh, he was no scoundrel, I guess. So you hate men, Miss Julia? JULIA. Yes! Most of the time. But now and then--when the weakness comes over me--oh, what shame! JEAN. And you hate me too? JULIA. Beyond measure! I should like to kill you like a wild beast-- JEAN. As you make haste to shoot a mad dog. Is that right? JULIA. That's right! JEAN. But now there is nothing to shoot with--and there is no dog. What are we to do then? JULIA. Go abroad. JEAN. In order to plague each other to death? JULIA. No-in order to enjoy ourselves: a couple of days, a week, as long as enjoyment is possible. And then--die! JEAN. Die? How silly! Then I think it's much better to start a hotel. JULIA. [Without listening to JEAN]--At Lake Como, where the sun is always shining, and the laurels stand green at Christmas, and the oranges are glowing. JEAN. Lake Como is a rainy hole, and I could see no oranges except in the groceries. But it is a good place for tourists, as it has a lot of villas that can be rented to loving couples, and that's a profitable business--do you know why? Because they take a lease for six months--and then they leave after three weeks. JULIA. [Naïvely] Why after three weeks? JEAN. Because they quarrel, of course. But the rent has to be paid just the same. And then you can rent the house again. And that way it goes on all the time, for there is plenty of love--even if it doesn't last long. JULIA. You don't want to die with me? JEAN. I don't want to die at all. Both because I am fond of living, and because I regard suicide as a crime against the Providence which has bestowed life on us. JULIA. Do you mean to say that you believe in God? JEAN. Of course, I do. And I go to church every other Sunday. Frankly speaking, now I am tired of all this, and now I am going to bed. JULIA. So! And you think that will be enough for me? Do you know what you owe a woman that you have spoiled? JEAN. [Takes out his purse and throws a silver coin on the table] You're welcome! I don't want to be in anybody's debt. JULIA. [Pretending not to notice the insult] Do you know what the law provides-- JEAN. Unfortunately the law provides no punishment for a woman who seduces a man. JULIA. [As before] Can you think of any escape except by our going abroad and getting married, and then getting a divorce? JEAN. Suppose I refuse to enter into this _mésaillance_? JULIA. _Mésaillance_-- JEAN. Yes, for me. You see, I have better ancestry than you, for nobody in my family was ever guilty of arson. JULIA. How do you know? JEAN. Well, nothing is known to the contrary, for we keep no Pedigrees--except in the police bureau. But I have read about your pedigree in a book that was lying on the drawing-room table. Do you know who was your first ancestor? A miller who let his wife sleep with the king one night during the war with Denmark. I have no such ancestry. I have none at all, but I can become an ancestor myself. JULIA. That's what I get for unburdening my heart to one not worthy of it; for sacrificing my family's honour-- JEAN. Dishonour! Well, what was it I told you? You shouldn't drink, for then you talk. And you must not talk! JULIA. Oh, how I regret what I have done! How I regret it! If at least you loved me! JEAN. For the last time: what do you mean? Am I to weep? Am I to jump over your whip? Am I to kiss you, and lure you down to Lake Como for three weeks, and so on? What am I to do? What do you expect? This is getting to be rather painful! But that's what comes from getting mixed up with women. Miss Julia! I see that you are unhappy; I know that you are suffering; but I cannot understand you. We never carry on like that. There is never any hatred between us. Love is to us a play, and we play at it when our work leaves us time to do so. But we have not the time to do so all day and all night, as you have. I believe you are sick--I am sure you are sick. JULIA. You should be good to me--and now you speak like a human being. JEAN. All right, but be human yourself. You spit on me, and then you won't let me wipe myself--on you! JULIA. Help me, help me! Tell me only what I am to do--where I am to turn? JEAN. O Lord, if I only knew that myself! JULIA. I have been exasperated, I have been mad, but there ought to be some way of saving myself. JEAN. Stay right here and keep quiet. Nobody knows anything. JULIA. Impossible! The people know, and Christine knows. JEAN. They don't know, and they would never believe it possible. JULIA. [Hesitating] But-it might happen again. JEAN. That's true. JULIA. And the results? JEAN. [Frightened] The results! Where was my head when I didn't think of that! Well, then there is only one thing to do--you must leave. At once! I can't go with you, for then everything would be lost, so you must go alone--abroad--anywhere! JULIA. Alone? Where?--I can't do it. JEAN. You must! And before the count gets back. If you stay, then you know what will happen. Once on the wrong path, one wants to keep on, as the harm is done anyhow. Then one grows more and more reckless--and at last it all comes out. So you must get away! Then you can write to the count and tell him everything, except that it was me. And he would never guess it. Nor do I think he would be very anxious to find out. JULIA. I'll go if you come with me. JEAN. Are you stark mad, woman? Miss Julia to run away with her valet! It would be in the papers in another day, and the count could never survive it. JULIA. I can't leave! I can't stay! Help me! I am so tired, so fearfully tired. Give me orders! Set me going, for I can no longer think, no longer act�- JEAN. Do you see now what good-for-nothings you are! Why do you strut and turn up your noses as if you were the lords of creation? Well, I am going to give you orders. Go up and dress. Get some travelling money, and then come back again. JULIA: [In an undertone] Come up with me! JEAN. To your room? Now you're crazy again! [Hesitates a moment] No, you must go at once! [Takes her by the hand and leads her out.] JULIA. [On her way out] Can't you speak kindly to me, Jean? JEAN. An order must always sound unkind. Now you can find out how it feels! [JULIA goes out.] [JEAN, alone, draws a sigh of relief; sits down at the table; takes out a note-book and a pencil; figures aloud from time to time; dumb play until CHRISTINE enters dressed for church; she has a false shirt front and a white tie in one of her hands.] CHRISTINE. Goodness gracious, how the place looks! What have you been up to anyhow? JEAN. Oh, it was Miss Julia who dragged in the people. Have you been sleeping so hard that you didn't hear anything at all? CHRISTINE. I have been sleeping like a log. JEAN. And dressed for church already? CHRISTINE. Yes, didn't you promise to come with me to communion to-day? JEAN. Oh, yes, I remember now. And there you've got the finery. Well, come on with it. [Sits down; CHRISTINE helps him to put on the shirt front and the white tie.] [Pause.] JEAN. [Sleepily] What's the text to-day? CHRISTINE. Oh, about John the Baptist beheaded, I guess. JEAN. That's going to be a long story, I'm sure. My, but you choke me! Oh, I'm so sleepy, so sleepy! CHRISTINE. Well, what has been keeping you up all night? Why, man, you're just green in the face! JEAN. I have been sitting here talking with Miss Julia. CHRISTINE. She hasn't an idea of what's proper, that creature! [Pause.] JEAN. Say, Christine. CHRISTINE. Well? JEAN. Isn't it funny anyhow, when you come to think of it? Her! CHRISTINE. What is it that's funny? JEAN. Everything! [Pause.] CHRISTINE. [Seeing the glasses on the table that are only half-emptied] So you've been drinking together also? JEAN. Yes. CHRISTINE. Shame on you! Look me in the eye! JEAN. Yes. CHRISTINE. Is it possible? Is it possible? JEAN. [After a moment's thought] Yes, it is! CHRISTINE. Ugh! That's worse than I could ever have believed. It's awful! JEAN. You are not jealous of her, are you? CHRISTINE. No, not of her. Had it been Clara or Sophie, then I'd have scratched your eyes out. Yes, that's the way I feel about it, and I can't tell why. Oh my, but that was nasty! JEAN. Are you mad at her then? CHRISTINE. No, but at you! It was wrong of you, very wrong! Poor girl! No, I tell you, I don't want to stay in this house any longer, with people for whom it is impossible to have any respect. JEAN. Why should you have any respect for them? CHRISTINE. And you who are such a smarty can't tell that! You wouldn't serve people who don't act decently, would you? It's to lower oneself, I think. JEAN. Yes, but it ought to be a consolation to us that they are not a bit better than we. CHRISTINE. No, I don't think so. For if they're no better, then it's no use trying to get up to them. And just think of the count! Think of him who has had so much sorrow in his day! No, I don't want to stay any longer in this house--And with a fellow like you, too. If it had been the county attorney--if it had only been some one of her own sort-- JEAN. Now look here! CHRISTINE. Yes, yes! You're all right in your way, but there's after all some difference between one kind of people and another�- No, but this is something I'll never get over!--And the young lady who was so proud, and so tart to the men, that you couldn't believe she would ever let one come near her--and such a one at that! And she who wanted to have poor Diana shot because she had been running around with the gate-keeper's pug!--Well, I declare!--But I won't stay here any longer, and next October I get out of here. JEAN. And then? CHRISTINE. Well, as we've come to talk of that now, perhaps it would be just as well if you looked for something, seeing that we're going to get married after all. JEAN. Well, what could I look for? As a married man I couldn't get a place like this. CHRISTINE. No, I understand that. But you could get a job as a janitor, or maybe as a messenger in some government bureau. Of course, the public loaf is always short in weight, but it comes steady, and then there is a pension for the widow and the children-- JEAN. [Making a face] That's good and well, but it isn't my style to think of dying all at once for the sake of wife and children. I must say that my plans have been looking toward something better than that kind of thing. CHRISTINE. Your plans, yes--but you've got obligations also, and those you had better keep in mind! JEAN. Now don't you get my dander up by talking of obligations! I know what I've got to do anyhow. [Listening for some sound on the outside] However, we've plenty of time to think of all this. Go in now and get ready, and then we'll go to church. CHRISTINE. Who is walking around up there? JEAN. I don't know, unless it be Clara. CHRISTINE. [Going out] It can't be the count, do you think, who's come home without anybody hearing him? JEAN. [Scared] The count? No, that isn't possible, for then he would have rung for me. CHRISTINE. [As she goes out] Well, God help us all! Never have I seen the like of it! [The sun has risen and is shining on the tree tops in the park. The light changes gradually until it comes slantingly in through the windows. JEAN goes to the door and gives a signal.] JULIA. [Enters in travelling dress and carrying a small birdcage covered up with a towel; this she places on a chair] Now I am ready. JEAN. Hush! Christine is awake. JULIA. [Showing extreme nervousness during the following scene] Did she suspect anything? JEAN. She knows nothing at all. But, my heavens, how you look! JULIA. How do I look? JEAN. You're as pale as a corpse, and--pardon me, but your face is dirty. JULIA. Let me wash it then--Now! [She goes over to the washstand and washes her face and hands] Give me a towel--Oh!--That's the sun rising! JEAN. And then the ogre bursts. JULIA. Yes, ogres and trolls were abroad last night!�But listen, Jean. Come with me, for now I have the money. JEAN. [Doubtfully] Enough? JULIA. Enough to start with. Come with me, for I cannot travel alone to-day. Think of it--Midsummer Day, on a stuffy train, jammed with people who stare at you--and standing still at stations when you want to fly. No, I cannot! I cannot! And then the memories will come: childhood memories of Midsummer Days, when the inside of the church was turned into a green forest--birches and lilacs; the dinner at the festive table with relatives and friends; the afternoon in the park, with dancing and music, flowers and games! Oh, you may run and run, but your memories are in the baggage-car, and with them remorse and repentance! JEAN. I'll go with you-but at once, before it's too late. This very moment! JULIA. Well, get dressed then. [Picks up the cage.] JEAN. But no baggage! That would only give us away. JULIA. No, nothing at all! Only what we can take with us in the car. JEAN. [Has taken down his hat] What have you got there? What is it? JULIA. It's only my finch. I can't leave it behind. JEAN. Did you ever! Dragging a bird-cage along with us! You must be raving mad! Drop the cage! JULIA. The only thing I take with me from my home! The only living creature that loves me since Diana deserted me! Don't be cruel! Let me take it along! JEAN. Drop the cage, I tell you! And don't talk so loud--Christine can hear us. JULIA. No, I won't let it fall into strange hands. I'd rather have you kill it! JEAN. Well, give it to me, and I'll wring its neck. JULIA. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't--no, I cannot! JEAN. Let me--I can! JULIA. [Takes the bird out of the cage and kisses it] Oh, my little birdie, must it die and go away from its mistress! JEAN. Don't make a scene, please. Don't you know it's a question of your life, of your future? Come, quick! [Snatches the bird away from her, carries it to the chopping block and picks up an axe. MISS JULIA turns away.] JEAN. You should have learned how to kill chickens instead of shooting with a revolver--[brings down the axe]--then you wouldn't have fainted for a drop of blood. JULIA. [Screaming] Kill me too! Kill me! You who can take the life of an innocent creature without turning a hair! Oh, I hate and despise you! There is blood between us! Cursed be the hour when I first met you! Cursed be the hour when I came to life in my mother's womb! JEAN. Well, what's the use of all that cursing? Come on! JULIA. [Approaching the chopping-block as if drawn to it against her will] No, I don't want to go yet. I cannot�-I must see--Hush! There's a carriage coming up the road. [Listening without taking her eyes of the block and the axe] You think I cannot stand the sight of blood. You think I am as weak as that--oh, I should like to see your blood, your brains, on that block there. I should like to see your whole sex swimming in blood like that thing there. I think I could drink out of your skull, and bathe my feet in your open breast, and eat your heart from the spit!--You think I am weak; you think I love you because the fruit of my womb was yearning for your seed; you think I want to carry your offspring under my heart and nourish it with my blood--bear your children and take your name! Tell me, you, what are you called anyhow? I have never heard your family name�-and maybe you haven't any. I should become Mrs. "Hovel," or Mrs. "Backyard"--you dog there, that's wearing my collar; you lackey with my coat of arms on your buttons-- and I should share with my cook, and be the rival of my own servant. Oh! Oh! Oh!--You think I am a coward and want to run away! No, now I'll stay--and let the lightning strike! My father will come home--will find his chiffonier opened--the money gone! Then he'll ring--twice for the valet--and then he'll send for the sheriff--and then I shall tell everything! Everything! Oh, but it will be good to get an end to it--if it only be the end! And then his heart will break, and he dies!--So there will be an end to all of us--and all will be quiet�peace--eternal rest!--And then the coat of arms will be shattered on the coffin--and the count's line will be wiped out--but the lackey's line goes on in the orphan asylum--wins laurels in the gutter, and ends in jail. JEAN. There spoke the royal blood! Bravo, Miss Julia! Now you put the miller back in his sack! [CHRISTINE enters dressed for church and carrying n hymn-book in her hand.] JULIA. [Hurries up to her and throws herself into her arms ax if seeking protection] Help me, Christine! Help me against this man! CHRISTINE. [Unmoved and cold] What kind of performance is this on the Sabbath morning? [Catches sight of the chopping-block] My, what a mess you have made!--What's the meaning of all this? And the way you shout and carry on! JULIA. You are a woman, Christine, and you are my friend. Beware of that scoundrel! JEAN. [A little shy and embarrassed] While the ladies are discussing I'll get myself a shave. [Slinks out to the right.] JULIA. You must understand me, and you must listen to me. CHRISTINE. No, really, I don't understand this kind of trolloping. Where are you going in your travelling-dress--and he with his hat on--what?--What? JULIA. Listen, Christine, listen, and I'll tell you everything-- CHRISTINE. I don't want to know anything-- JULIA. You must listen to me-- CHRISTINE. What is it about? Is it about this nonsense with Jean? Well, I don't care about it at all, for it's none of my business. But if you're planning to get him away with you, we'll put a stop to that! JULIA. [Extremely nervous] Please try to be quiet, Christine, and listen to me. I cannot stay here, and Jean cannot stay here--and so we must leave�- CHRISTINE. Hm, hm! JULIA. [Brightening. up] But now I have got an idea, you know. Suppose all three of us should leave--go abroad--go to Switzerland and start a hotel together--I have money, you know--and Jean and I could run the whole thing--and you, I thought, could take charge of the kitchen--Wouldn't that be fine!--Say yes, now! And come along with us! Then everything is fixed!--Oh, say yes! [She puts her arms around CHRISTINE and pats her.] CHRISTINE. [Coldly and thoughtfully] Hm, hm! JULIA. [Presto tempo] You have never travelled, Christine--you must get out and have a look at the world. You cannot imagine what fun it is to travel on a train--constantly new people--new countries�- and then we get to Hamburg and take in the Zoological Gardens in passing--that's what you like--and then we go to the theatres and to the opera--and when we get to Munich, there, you know, we have a lot of museums, where they keep Rubens and Raphael and all those big painters, you know--Haven't you heard of Munich, where King Louis used to live--the king, you know, that went mad--And then we'll have a look at his castle--he has still some castles that are furnished just as in a fairy tale--and from there it isn't very far to Switzerland--and the Alps, you know--just think of the Alps, with snow on top of them in the middle of the summer--and there you have orange trees and laurels that are green all the year around-- [JEAN is seen in the right wing, sharpening his razor on a strop which he holds between his teeth and his left hand; he listens to the talk with a pleased mien and nods approval now and then.] JULIA. [Tempo prestissimo] And then we get a hotel--and I sit in the office, while Jean is outside receiving tourists--and goes out marketing--and writes letters--That's a life for you--Then the train whistles, and the 'bus drives up, and it rings upstairs, and it rings in the restaurant--and then I make out the bills--and I am going to salt them, too--You can never imagine how timid tourists are when they come to pay their bills! And you--you will sit like a queen in the kitchen. Of course, you are not going to stand at the stove yourself. And you'll have to dress neatly and nicely in order to show yourself to people--and with your looks--yes, I am not flattering you--you'll catch a husband some fine day--some rich Englishman, you know-�for those fellows are so easy [slowing down] to catch--and then we grow rich--and we build us a villa at Lake Como--of course, it is raining a little in that place now and then�- but [limply] the sun must be shining sometimes--although it looks dark--and--then--or else we can go home again--and come back--here�- or some other place-- CHRISTINE. Tell me, Miss Julia, do you believe in all that yourself? JULIA. [Crushed] Do I believe in it myself? CHRISTINE. Yes. JULIA. [Exhausted] I don't know: I believe no longer in anything. [She sinks down on the bench and drops her head between her arms on the table] Nothing! Nothing at all! CHRISTINE. [Turns to the right, where JEAN is standing] So you were going to run away! JEAN. [Abashed, puts the razor on the table] Run away? Well, that's putting it rather strong. You have heard what the young lady proposes, and though she is tired out now by being up all night, it's a proposition that can be put through all right. CHRISTINE. Now you tell me: did you mean me to act as cook for that one there--? JEAN. [Sharply] Will you please use decent language in speaking to your mistress! Do you understand? CHRISTINE. Mistress! JEAN. Yes! CHRISTINE. Well, well! Listen to him! JEAN. Yes, it would be better for you to listen a little more and talk a little less. Miss Julia is your mistress, and what makes you disrespectful to her now should snake you feel the same way about yourself. CHRISTINE. Oh, I have always had enough respect for myself-- JEAN. To have none for others! CHRISTINE. --not to go below my own station. You can't say that the count's cook has had anything to do with the groom or the swineherd. You can't say anything of the kind! JEAN. Yes, it's your luck that you have had to do with a gentleman. CHRISTINE. Yes, a gentleman who sells the oats out of the count's stable! JEAN. What's that to you who get a commission on the groceries and bribes from the butcher? CHRISTINE. What's that? JEAN. And so you can't respect your master and mistress any longer! You--you! CHRISTINE. Are you coming with me to church? I think you need a good sermon on top of such a deed. JEAN. No, I am not going to church to-day. You can go by yourself and confess your own deeds. CHRISTINE. Yes, I'll do that, and I'll bring back enough forgiveness to cover you also. The Saviour suffered and died on the cross for all our sins, and if we go to him with a believing heart and a repentant mind, he'll take all our guilt on himself. JULIA. Do you believe that, Christine? CHRISTINE. It is my living belief, as sure as I stand here, and the faith of my childhood which I have kept since I was young, Miss Julia. And where sin abounds, grace abounds too. JULIA. Oh, if I had your faith! Oh, if�- CHRISTINE. Yes, but you don't get it without the special grace of God, and that is not bestowed on everybody-- JULIA. On whom is it bestowed then? CHRISTINE. That's just the great secret of the work of grace, Miss Julia, and the Lord has no regard for persons, but there those that are last shall be the foremost-- JULIA. Yes, but that means he has regard for those that are last. CHRISTINE. [Going right on] --and it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye than for a rich man to get into heaven. That's the way it is, Miss Julia. Now I am going, however-�alone�- and as I pass by, I'll tell the stableman not to let out the horses if anybody should like to get away before the count comes home. Good-bye! [Goes out.] JEAN. Well, ain't she a devil!--And all this for the sake of a finch! JULIA. [Apathetically] Never mind the finch!--Can you see any way out of this, any way to end it? JEAN. [Ponders] No! JULIA. What would you do in my place? JEAN. In your place? Let me see. As one of gentle birth, as a woman, as one who has--fallen. I don't know--yes, I do know! JULIA. [Picking up the razor with a significant gesture] Like this? JEAN. Yes!--But please observe that I myself wouldn't do it, for there is a difference between us. JULIA. Because you are a man and I a woman? What is the difference? JEAN. It is the same--as--that between man and woman. JULIA. [With the razor in her hand] I want to, but I cannot!--My father couldn't either, that time he should have done it. JEAN. No, he should not have done it, for he had to get his revenge first. JULIA. And now it is my mother's turn to revenge herself again, through me. JEAN. Have you not loved your father, Miss Julia? JULIA. Yes, immensely, but I must have hated him, too. I think I must have been doing so without being aware of it. But he was the one who reared me in contempt for my own sex--half woman and half man! Whose fault is it, this that has happened? My father's--my mother's--my own? My own? Why, I have nothing that is my own. I haven't a thought that didn't come from my father; not a passion that didn't come from my mother; and now this last--this about all human creatures being equal--I got that from him, my fiancé--whom I call a scoundrel for that reason! How can it be my own fault? To put the blame on Jesus, as Christine does--no, I am too proud for that, and know too much--thanks to my father's teachings--And that about a rich person not getting into heaven, it's just a lie, and Christine, who has money in the savings-bank, wouldn't get in anyhow. Whose is the fault?--What does it matter whose it is? For just the same I am the one who must bear the guilt and the results-- JEAN. Yes, but-- [Two sharp strokes are rung on the bell. MISS JULIA leaps to her feet. JEAN changes his coat.] JEAN. The count is back. Think if Christine-- [Goes to the speaking-tube, knocks on it, and listens.] JULIA. Now he has been to the chiffonier! JEAN. It is Jean, your lordship! [Listening again, the spectators being unable to hear what the count says] Yes, your lordship! [Listening] Yes, your lordship! At once! [Listening] In a minute, your lordship! [Listening] Yes, yes! In half an hour! JULIA. [With intense concern] What did he say? Lord Jesus, what did he say? JEAN. He called for his boots and wanted his coffee in half an hour. JULIA. In half an hour then! Oh, I am so tired. I can't do anything; can't repent, can't run away, can't stay, can't live�- can't die! Help me now! Command me, and I'll obey you like a dog! Do me this last favour--save my honour, and save his name! You know what my will ought to do, and what it cannot do--now give me your will, and make me do it! JEAN. I don't know why--but now I can't either--I don't understand�- It is just as if this coat here made a--I cannot command you--and now, since I've heard the count's voice--now--I can't quite explain it-�but--Oh, that damned menial is back in my spine again. I believe if the count should come down here, and if he should tell me to cut my own throat--I'd do it on the spot! JULIA. Make believe that you are he, and that I am you! You did some fine acting when you were on your knees before me--then you were the nobleman--or--have you ever been to a show and seen one who could hypnotize people? [JEAN makes a sign of assent.] JULIA. He says to his subject: get the broom. And the man gets it. He says: sweep. And the man sweeps. JEAN. But then the other person must be asleep. JULIA. [Ecstatically] I am asleep already--there is nothing in the whole room but a lot of smoke--and you look like a stove--that looks like a man in black clothes and a high hat--and your eyes glow like coals when the fire is going out--and your face is a lump of white ashes. [The sunlight has reached the floor and is now falling on JEAN] How warm and nice it is! [She rubs her hands as if warming them before a fire.] And so light--and so peaceful! JEAN. [Takes the razor and puts it in her hand] There's the broom! Go now, while it is light--to the barn--and-- [Whispers something in her ear.] JULIA. [Awake] Thank you! Now I shall have rest! But tell me first�- that the foremost also receive the gift of grace. Say it, even if you don't believe it. JEAN. The foremost? No, I can't do that!--But wait--Miss Julia--I know! You are no longer among the foremost--now when you are among the--last! JULIA. That's right. I am among the last of all: I am the very last. Oh!--But now I cannot go--Tell me once more that I must go! JEAN. No, now I can't do it either. I cannot! JULIA. And those that are foremost shall be the last. JEAN. Don't think, don't think! Why, you are taking away my strength, too, so that I become a coward--What? I thought I saw the bell moving!--To be that scared of a bell! Yes, but it isn't only the bell--there is somebody behind it--a hand that makes it move�- and something else that makes the hand move-but if you cover up your ears--just cover up your ears! Then it rings worse than ever! Rings and rings, until you answer it--and then it's too late--then comes the sheriff--and then-- [Two quick rings from the bell.] JEAN. [Shrinks together; then he straightens himself up] It's horrid! But there's no other end to it!--Go! [JULIA goes firmly out through the door.] (Curtain.) THE STRONGER INTRODUCTION Of Strindberg's dramatic works the briefest is "The Stronger." He called it a "scene." It is a mere incident--what is called a "sketch" on our vaudeville stage, and what the French so aptly have named a "quart d'heure." And one of the two figures in the cast remains silent throughout the action, thus turning the little play practically into a monologue. Yet it has all the dramatic intensity which we have come to look upon as one of the main characteristics of Strindberg's work for the stage. It is quivering with mental conflict, and because of this conflict human destinies may be seen to change while we are watching. Three life stories are laid bare during the few minutes we are listening to the seemingly aimless, yet so ominous, chatter of _Mrs. X._--and when she sallies forth at last, triumphant in her sense of possession, we know as much about her, her husband, and her rival, as if we had been reading a three-volume novel about them. Small as it is, the part of _Mrs. X._ would befit a "star," but an actress of genius and discernment might prefer the dumb part of _Miss Y_. One thing is certain: that the latter character has few equals in its demand on the performer's tact and skill and imagination. This wordless opponent of _Mrs. X._ is another of those vampire characters which Strindberg was so fond of drawing, and it is on her the limelight is directed with merciless persistency. "The Stronger" was first published in 1890, as part of the collection of miscellaneous writings which their author named "Things Printed and Unprinted." The present English version was made by me some years ago--in the summer of 1906--when I first began to plan a Strindberg edition for this country. At that time it appeared in the literary supplement of the _New York Evening Post_. THE STRONGER A SCENE 1890 PERSONS MRS. X., an actress, married. MISS Y., an actress, unmarried. THE STRONGER SCENE [A corner of a ladies' restaurant; two small tables of cast-iron, a sofa covered with red plush, and a few chairs.] [MRS. X. enters dressed in hat and winter coat, and carrying a pretty Japanese basket on her arm.] [MISS Y. has in front of her a partly emptied bottle of beer; she is reading an illustrated weekly, and every now and then she exchanges it for a new one.] MRS. X. Well, how do, Millie! Here you are sitting on Christmas Eve as lonely as a poor bachelor. [MISS Y. looks up from the paper for a moment, nods, and resumes her reading.] MRS. X. Really, I feel sorry to find you like this--alone--alone in a restaurant, and on Christmas Eve of all times. It makes me as sad as when I saw a wedding party at Paris once in a restaurant--the bride was reading a comic paper and the groom was playing billiards with the witnesses. Ugh, when it begins that way, I thought, how will it end? Think of it, playing billiards on his wedding day! Yes, and you're going to say that she was reading a comic paper-- that's a different case, my dear. [A WAITRESS brings a cup of chocolate, places it before MRS. X., and disappears again.] MRS. X. [Sips a few spoonfuls; opens the basket and displays a number of Christmas presents] See what I've bought for my tots. [Picks up a doll] What do you think of this? Lisa is to have it. She can roll her eyes and twist her head, do you see? Fine, is it not? And here's a cork pistol for Carl. [Loads the pistol and pops it at Miss Y.] [MISS Y. starts as if frightened.] MRS. X. Did I scare you? Why, you didn't fear I was going to shoot you, did you? Really, I didn't think you could believe that of me. If you were to shoot _me_--well, that wouldn't surprise me the least. I've got in your way once, and I know you'll never forget it--but I couldn't help it. You still think I intrigued you away from the Royal Theatre, and I didn't do anything of the kind-- although you think so. But it doesn't matter what I say, of course-- you believe it was I just the same. [Pulls out a pair of embroidered slippers] Well, these are for my hubby-�tulips--I've embroidered them myself. Hm, I hate tulips--and he must have them on everything. [MISS Y. looks up from the paper with an expression of mingled sarcasm and curiosity.] MRS. X. [Puts a hand in each slipper] Just see what small feet Bob has. See? And you should see him walk--elegant! Of course, you've never seen him in slippers. [MISS Y. laughs aloud.] MRS. X. Look here--here he comes. [Makes the slippers walk across the table.] [MISS Y. laughs again.] MRS. X. Then he gets angry, and he stamps his foot just like this: "Blame that cook who can't learn how to make coffee." Or: "The idiot--now that girl has forgotten to fix my study lamp again." Then there is a draught through the floor and his feet get cold: "Gee, but it's freezing, and those blanked idiots don't even know enough to keep the house warm." [She rubs the sole of one slipper against the instep of the other.] [MISS Y. breaks into prolonged laughter.] MRS. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers-- Mary has pushed them under the bureau. Well, perhaps it is not right to be making fun of one's own husband. He's pretty good for all that--a real dear little hubby, that's what he is. You should have such a husband--what are you laughing at? Can't you tell? Then, you see, I know he is faithful. Yes, I know, for he has told me himself--what in the world makes you giggle like that? That nasty Betty tried to get him away from me while I was on the road�- can you think of anything more infamous? [Pause] But I'd have scratched the eyes out of her face, that's what I'd have done if I had been at home when she tried it. [Pause] I'm glad Bob told me all about it, so I didn't have to hear it first from somebody else. [Pause] And just think of it, Betty was not the only one! I don't know why it is, but all women seem to be crazy after my husband. It must be because they imagine his government position gives him something to say about the engagements. Perhaps you've tried it yourself--you may have set your traps for him, too? Yes, I don't trust you very far--but I know he never cared for you--and then I have been thinking you rather had a grudge against him. [Pause. They look at each other in an embarrassed manner.] MRS. X. Amèlia, spend the evening with us, won't you? Just to show that you are not angry--not with me, at least. I cannot tell exactly why, but it seems so awfully unpleasant to have you--you for an enemy. Perhaps because I got in your way that time [rallentando] or--I don't know--really, I don't know at all-- [Pause. MISS Y. gazes searchingly at MRS. X.] MRS. X. [Thoughtfully] It was so peculiar, the way our acquaintance-- why, I was afraid of you when I first met you; so afraid that I did not dare to let you out of sight. It didn't matter where I tried to go--I always found myself near you. I didn't have the courage to be your enemy--and so I became your friend. But there was always something discordant in the air when you called at our home, for I saw that my husband didn't like you--and it annoyed me just as it does when a dress won't fit. I tried my very best to make him appear friendly to you at least, but I couldn't move him--not until you were engaged. Then you two became such fast friends that it almost looked as if you had not dared to show your real feelings before, when it was not safe--and later--let me see, now! I didn't get jealous--strange, was it not? And I remember the baptism--you were acting as godmother, and I made him kiss you--and he did, but both of you looked terribly embarrassed--that is, I didn't think of it then--or afterwards, even--I never thought of it�-till--_now_! [Rises impulsively] Why don't you say something? You have not uttered a single word all this time. You've just let me go on talking. You've been sitting there staring at me only, and your eyes have drawn out of me all these thoughts which were lying in me like silk in a cocoon--thoughts--bad thoughts maybe--let me think. Why did you break your engagement? Why have you never called on us afterward? Why don't you want to be with us to-night? [MISS Y. makes a motion as if intending to speak.] MRS. X. No, you don't need to say anything at all. All is clear to me now. So, that's the reason of it all. Yes, yes! Everything fits together now. Shame on you! I don't want to sit at the same table with you. [Moves her things to another table] That's why I must put those hateful tulips on his slippers--because you love them. [Throws the slippers on the floor] That's why we have to spend the summer in the mountains--because you can't bear the salt smell of the ocean; that's why my boy had to be called Eskil--because that was your father's name; that's why I had to wear your colour, and read your books, and eat your favourite dishes, and drink your drinks--this chocolate, for instance; that's why--great heavens!-- it's terrible to think of it--it's terrible! Everything was forced on me by you�-even your passions. Your soul bored itself into mine as a worm into an apple, and it ate and ate, and burrowed and burrowed, till nothing was left but the outside shell and a little black dust. I wanted to run away from you, but I couldn't. You were always on hand like a snake with your black eyes to charm me--I felt how my wings beat the air only to drag me down--I was in the water, with my feet tied together, and the harder I worked with my arms, the further down I went--down, down, till I sank to the bottom, where you lay in wait like a monster crab to catch me with your claws--and now I'm there! Shame on you! How I hate you, hate you, hate you! But you, you just sit there, silent and calm and indifferent, whether the moon is new or full; whether it's Christmas or mid-summer; whether other people are happy or unhappy. You are incapable of hatred, and you don't know how to love. As a cat in front of a mouse-hole, you are sitting there!--you can't drag your prey out, and you can't pursue it, but you can outwait it. Here you sit in this corner--do you know they've nicknamed it "the mouse-trap" on your account? Here you read the papers to see if anybody is in trouble, or if anybody is about to be discharged from the theatre. Here you watch your victims and calculate your chances and take your tributes. Poor Amèlia! Do you know, I pity you all the same, for I know you are unhappy--unhappy as one who has been wounded, and malicious because you are wounded. I ought to be angry with you, but really I can't--you are so small after all-- and as to Bob, why that does not bother me in the least. What does it matter to me anyhow? If you or somebody else taught me to drink chocolate--what of that? [Takes a spoonful of chocolate; then sententiously] They say chocolate is very wholesome. And if I have learned from you how to dress--_tant mieux_!--it has only given me a stronger hold on my husband--and you have lost where I have gained. Yes, judging by several signs, I think you have lost him already. Of course, you meant me to break with him--as you did, and as you are now regretting--but, you see, _I_ never would do that. It won't do to be narrow-minded, you know. And why should I take only what nobody else wants? Perhaps, after all, I am the stronger now. You never got anything from me; you merely gave--and thus happened to me what happened to the thief--I had what you missed when you woke up. How explain in any other way that, in your hand, everything proved worthless and useless? You were never able to keep a man's love, in spite of your tulips and your passions--and I could; you could never learn the art of living from the books--as I learned it; you bore no little Eskil, although that was your father's name. And why do you keep silent always and everywhere-- silent, ever silent? I used to think it was because you were so strong; and maybe the simple truth was you never had anything to say--because you were unable to-think! [Rises and picks up the slippers] I'm going home now--I'll take the tulips with me�-your tulips. You couldn't learn anything from others; you couldn't bend and so you broke like a dry stem--and I didn't. Thank you, Amèlia, for all your instructions. I thank you that you have taught me how to love my husband. Now I'm going home--to him! [Exit.] (Curtain.) CREDITORS INTRODUCTION This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the head of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalistic period, the other two being "The Father" and "Miss Julia." It is, in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. Its rarely excelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it a masterpiece. In Swedish its name is "Fordringsägare." This indefinite form may be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as a plural. And the play itself makes it perfectly clear that the proper translation of its title is "Creditors," for under this aspect appear both the former and the present husband of _Tekla_. One of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtedness first to one and then to the other of these men, while all the time she is posing as a person of original gifts. I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote this play--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before he finally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by an appeal to the law--believed _Tekla_ to be fairly representative of womanhood in general. The utter unreasonableness of such a view need hardly be pointed out, and I shall waste no time on it. A question more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of _Tekla_ be true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one out of numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex but by faculties and qualities. And the same question may well be raised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidently intended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger than himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and humiliating circumstances. Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a _Tekla_ can be found in the flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional to gain acceptance as a real individuality. It must be remembered, however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, Strindberg did not draw his men and women in the spirit generally designated as impressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might step straight from his pages into life and there win recognition as human beings of familiar aspect. His realism is always mixed with idealism; his figures are always "doctored," so to speak. And they have been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drive home the particular truth he is just then concerned with. Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may be designated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. But these he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychological settings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactly homogeneous. The man with a single quality, like Molière's _Harpagon_, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia." When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did it by setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind most likely to be attracted by it. _Tekla_ is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlated mental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of a personality built up logically around a dominant central note. There are within all of us many personalities, some of which remain for ever potentialities. But it is conceivable that any one of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have been living, might have developed into its severely logical consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be held abnormal if actually encountered. This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again, both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in his plays. In all of us a _Tekla_, an _Adolph_, a _Gustav_--or a _Jean_ and a _Miss Julia_--lie more or less dormant. And if we search our souls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admission that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might have come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergian creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedish dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwise happen that so many critics, of such widely differing temperaments, have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of his work: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness to be interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be denied in spite of resolute resistance to it! For Strindberg _does_ hold us, even when we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiar with the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a paradox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings provide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise as true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art of living. There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's is only one of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. Its main fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. For while Strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this fact colours all his writings, he could only express himself through his reason. An emotion that would move another man to murder would precipitate Strindberg into merciless analysis of his own or somebody else's mental and moral make-up. At any rate, I do not proclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of all available. But I suspect that this decidedly strange way of Strindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings as _Gustav_, or in such grievously inferior ones as _Adolph_--may come nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of much more plausible writers. This does not need to imply that the future will imitate Strindberg. But it may ascertain what he aimed at doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, the pioneer, could never hope to attain. CREDITORS A TRAGICOMEDY 1889 PERSONS TEKLA ADOLPH, her husband, a painter GUSTAV, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who is travelling under an assumed name) SCENE (A parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. The rear wall has a door opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. To the right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. There is a chair on the left side of the stage. To the right of the table stands a sofa. A door on the right leads to an adjoining room.) (ADOLPH and GUSTAV, the latter seated on the sofa by the table to the right.) ADOLPH. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand; his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this I have to thank you! GUSTAV. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense! ADOLPH. Why, certainly! During the first days after my wife had gone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. It was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that I couldn't move from the spot. When I had slept a couple of days, I seemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. My head calmed down after having been working feverishly. Old thoughts from days gone by bobbed up again. The desire to work and the instinct for creation came back. My eyes recovered their faculty of quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. GUSTAV. I admit you were in a miserable condition when I first met you, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this is not to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. You needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. ADOLPH. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. Once I used to have men for friends, but I thought them superfluous after I married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one I had chosen. Later I was drawn into new circles and made a lot of acquaintances, but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself: worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. And so I was left alone with my own jealousy. GUSTAV. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind of disease. ADOLPH. I was afraid of losing her--and I tried to prevent it. There is nothing strange in that. But I was never afraid that she might be deceiving me-- GUSTAV. No, that's what married men are never afraid of. ADOLPH. Yes, isn't it queer? What I really feared was that her friends would get such an influence over her that they would begin to exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and _that_ is something I couldn't bear. GUSTAV. So your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's? ADOLPH. Seeing that you have heard so much already, I may as well tell you everything. My wife has an independent nature--what are you smiling at? GUSTAV. Go on! She has an independent nature-- ADOLPH. Which cannot accept anything from me-- GUSTAV. But from everybody else. ADOLPH. [After a pause] Yes.--And it looked as if she especially hated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there was anything wrong about them. For it used to happen quite often that she advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood up for them as her own. Yes, it even happened that friends of mine gave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and then they seemed all right. Everything was all right except what came from me. GUSTAV. Which means that you are not entirely happy? ADOLPH. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted, and I have never wanted anybody else. GUSTAV. And you have never wanted to be free? ADOLPH. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes I have imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But the moment she leaves me, I begin to long for her--long for her as for my own arms and legs. It is queer that sometimes I have a feeling that she is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organ that can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. It seems almost as if I had deposited with her that centre of vitality of which the anatomical books tell us. GUSTAV. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is just what has happened. ADOLPH. How could it be so? Is she not an independent being, with thoughts of her own? And when I met her I was nothing--a child of an artist whom she undertook to educate. GUSTAV. But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, didn't you? ADOLPH. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. GUSTAV. Yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to fall off after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least? But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for I understand she used her former husband for a model. You never knew him, did you? They say he was an idiot. ADOLPH. I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of him. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct. GUSTAV. I do!--But why did she ever take him? ADOLPH. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of course, you never _do_ get acquainted until afterward! GUSTAV. And for that reason one ought not to marry until-- afterward.--And he was a tyrant, of course? ADOLPH. Of course? GUSTAV. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you not the least. ADOLPH. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases-- GUSTAV. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up, could you? But do you like her to stay away whole nights? ADOLPH. No, really, I don't. GUSTAV. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell the truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. ADOLPH. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his wife? GUSTAV. Of course he can. And it's just what you are already--and thoroughly at that! ADOLPH. [Convulsively] I! It's what I dread most of all--and there's going to be a change. GUSTAV. Don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. ADOLPH. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all night? GUSTAV. Yes, why? Well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that's the way it is. And while you are trying to figure out why, the mishap has already occurred. ADOLPH. What mishap? GUSTAV. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him only to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have freedom except by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call a husband. ADOLPH. Of course not. GUSTAV. And now you are the chaperon. ADOLPH. I? GUSTAV. Since you are her husband. (ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence.) GUSTAV. Am I not right? ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years, and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, you are my friend. The only male friend I have. During this last week you have given me courage to live again. It is as if your own magnetism had been poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you have fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. Can't you hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to the point? And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had recovered its ring. GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that? ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your voice in talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always used to accuse me of shouting. GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of the slipper? ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some reflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk of something else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and you enabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course, for some time I had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as it didn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression of what I wanted to bring out. But when you explained all this to me, and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet for the creative instinct, then I saw the light at last--and I realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to express myself by means of colour only. GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting-- that you may not have a relapse? ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went to bed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point by point, and I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a good night's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me in a flash that you might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out of bed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use! Every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears of paint, and I quaked at the thought of having believed, and having made others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but a painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was just as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a child again. GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its proper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all three dimensions-- ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word! GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, you have been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing was needed but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, do you experience supreme joy now when you are at work? ADOLPH. Now I am living! GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing? ADOLPH. A female figure. GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that! ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It is remarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my body as I of hers. GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know what transfusion is? ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes. GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. When I look at the figure here I comprehend several things which I merely guessed before. You have loved her tremendously! ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether she was I or I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she is weeping, I weep. And when she--can you imagine anything like it?-- when she was giving life to our child--I felt the birth pangs within myself. GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, but you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell? GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brother of mine who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively. ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of? [During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, and ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates many of GUSTAV'S gestures.] GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong enough I won't inflict a description of it on you. ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on! GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of a child and the pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless she managed to usurp the male prerogative-- ADOLPH. What is that? GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angel nearly carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put on the cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. It was horrible! ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened? GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting together talking, he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while his face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of his hands--like this. [He illustrates the movement and it is imitated by ADOLPH] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew-- like this. [He chews, and again ADOLPH imitates him] The saliva was rattling in his throat. His chest was squeezed together as if it had been closed in a vice. The pupils of his eyes flickered like gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and he sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he were drowning. And then-- ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now! GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well? ADOLPH. No. GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. And we'll talk of something else. ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on! GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at all. He had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened to you? ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my physician says it's only anaemia. GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believe me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. ADOLPH. What can I do? GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe complete abstinence. ADOLPH. For how long? GUSTAV. For half a year at least. ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life. GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then! ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it! GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you have already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other canker, no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare to find only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and so fruitful in chances for false relationships. Is there not a corpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?-- For instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child which has been left in other people's care. Why don't you keep it with you? ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so. GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now! ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began to look like him, her former husband. GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband? ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest resemblance. GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you? ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here every summer. GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her dead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they used to burn all widows in India, as you know.--But tell me: have you ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken you to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla, use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We! ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very thought. GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If you work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on the hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how you resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have a way of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and your eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. GUSTAV. No, really? ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent way that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really" quite often. GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human beings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will be interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you say is true. ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caught her using any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule develop what is called "marital resemblance." GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?-- That woman has never loved you. ADOLPH. What do you mean? GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's love consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes nothing does not have her love. She has never loved you! ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once? GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then our eyes are opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and so you had better beware of those that have. They are dangerous, I tell you. ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as if something were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. And this cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means the pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--She has never loved me!--Why, then, did she ever take me? GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was you who took her or she who took you? ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did it happen? Well, it didn't come about in one day. GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen? ADOLPH. That's more than you can do. GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife that you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almost humorously] The husband had gone abroad to study, and she was alone. At first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came a sense of vacancy, for I presume she was pretty empty when she had lived by herself for a fortnight. Then _he_ appeared, and by and by the vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one seemed to fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--you know the law about the square of the distance? But when they felt their passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of their consciences, of him. For protection they played brother and sister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the more they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that? GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papa and mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in order to hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vow of chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they got in a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen by anybody. [With mock severity] But they felt that there was _one_ whose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened-- and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figure began to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed: turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; a creditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black hand between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of the night that should have been broken only by the beating of their own pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing each other but he spoiled their happiness. And when they became aware of his invisible interference with their happiness; when they took flight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinion they could not face--and when they found themselves without the strength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to send out into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. They were free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forward and speak openly to him the words: "We love each other!" To sum it up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Is that right? ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled my head with new thoughts-- GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she not educate the other man also--into a free-thinker? ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot! GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather an ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me a question: but is your wife so very profound after all? I have discovered nothing profound in her writings. ADOLPH. Neither have I.--But then I have also to confess a certain difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brain wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her. GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too? ADOLPH. I don't _think_ so! And it seems to me all the time as if she were in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, for instance, which I got today? [Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.] GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seems strangely familiar. ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think? GUSTAV. Well, I know at least _one_ man who writes that kind of hand--She addresses you as "brother." Are you still playing comedy to each other? And do you never permit yourselves any greater familiarity in speaking to each other? ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that way. GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself your sister? ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to be the better part of my own self. GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it be less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Do you want to place yourself beneath your wife? ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to her. I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order to raise her courage. And so it ended with my actually being her inferior, more of a coward than she. It almost seemed to me as if she had actually taken my courage away from me. GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else? ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how to spell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when she took charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the habit of writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack of practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. But do you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at the start? No--and so I am "the idiot," of course. GUSTAV. So you _are_ an idiot already? ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course! GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do you know what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat their enemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. And this woman has been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge-- ADOLPH. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write her first book-- GUSTAV. [Making a face] Oh-h-h! ADOLPH. It was I who praised her, even when I found her stuff rather poor. It was I who brought her into literary circles where she could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. It was I who used my personal influence to keep the critics from her throat. It was I who blew her faith in herself into flame; blew on it until I lost my own breath. I gave, gave, gave--until I had nothing left for myself. Do you know--I'll tell you everything now--do you know I really believe--and the human soul is so peculiarly constituted--I believe that when my artistic successes seemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation-- then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and by making my own art seem inferior to hers. I talked so long about the insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked so long about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what I said, that one fine day I found myself convinced of its futility. So all you had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. GUSTAV. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning of our talk--that she had never taken anything from you. ADOLPH. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing more to take. GUSTAV. The snake being full, it vomits now. ADOLPH. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me than I have been aware of? GUSTAV. You can be sure of that. She took when you were not looking, and that is called theft. ADOLPH. Perhaps she never did educate me? GUSTAV. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her trick to make it appear the other way to you. May I ask how she set about educating you? ADOLPH. Oh, first of all--hm! GUSTAV. Well? ADOLPH. Well, I-- GUSTAV. No, we were speaking of her. ADOLPH. Really, I cannot tell now. GUSTAV. Do you see! ADOLPH. However--she devoured my faith also, and so I sank further and further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. GUSTAV. [Smiling] In sculpture? ADOLPH. [Doubtfully] Yes. GUSTAV. And have you really faith in it? In this abstract, antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation? Do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--by the three dimensions--tell me? That you can reach the practical mind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the use of colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that? ADOLPH. [Crushed] No! GUSTAV. Well, I don't either. ADOLPH. Why, then, did you say you did? GUSTAV. Because I pitied you. ADOLPH. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt! Finished!-- And worst of all: not even she is left to me! GUSTAV. Well, what could you do with her? ADOLPH. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I became an atheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense of veneration. GUSTAV. Bury your sense of veneration and let something else grow on top of it. A little wholesome scorn, for instance. ADOLPH. I cannot live without having something to respect-- GUSTAV. Slave! ADOLPH.--without a woman to respect and worship! GUSTAV. Oh, HELL! Then you had better take back your God--if you needs must have something to kow-tow to! You're a fine atheist, with all that superstition about woman still in you! You're a fine free-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! Do you know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profound something in your wife really is? It is sheer stupidity!--Look here: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. And that, you know, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When you look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch.--Nothing but the skirts-that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pair of moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look at her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find the instrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and nothing else--giving yon back your own words, or those of other people-- and always in diluted form. Have you ever looked at a naked woman-- oh yes, yes, of course! A youth with over-developed breasts; an under-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height and then stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronically anaemic: what can you expect of such a creature? ADOLPH. Supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible that I still think her my equal? GUSTAV. Hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! Or--the two of you may actually have become equals. The levelling process has been finished. Her capillarity has brought the water in both tubes to the same height.--Tell me [taking out his watch]: our talk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to be here. Don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get a rest? ADOLPH. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone! GUSTAV. Oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. ADOLPH. Yes, she is coming!--It's all so queer! I long for her, but I am afraid of her. She pets me, she is tender to me, but there is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls and numbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched by the clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appears before the public. GUSTAV. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without being a physician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is enough to look at your latest pictures in order to see that. ADOLPH. You think so? How can you see it? GUSTAV. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that the cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it impresses me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showing beneath-- ADOLPH. Oh, stop, stop! GUSTAV. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have you read to-day's paper? ADOLPH. [Shrinking] No! GUSTAV. It's on the table here. ADOLPH. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it] Do they speak of it there? GUSTAV. Read it--or do you want me to read it to you? ADOLPH. No! GUSTAV. I'll leave you, if you want me to. ADOLPH. No, no, no!--I don't know--it seems as if I were beginning to hate you, and yet I cannot let you go.--You drag me out of the hole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firm ice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the water again. As long as my secrets were my own, I had still something left within me, but now I am quite empty. There is a canvas by an Italian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whose intestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of a windlass. The martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, while the roll on the axle grows thicker.--Now it seems to me as if you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing but an empty shell behind. GUSTAV. How you do let your fancy run away with you!--And besides, your wife is bringing back your heart. ADOLPH. No, not since you have burned her to ashes. Everything is in ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, my faith! GUSTAV. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came along. ADOLPH. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's too late-- incendiary! GUSTAV. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll sow in the ashes. ADOLPH. I hate you! I curse you! GUSTAV. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left in you. And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen now! Do you want to listen to me, and do you want to obey me? ADOLPH. Do with me what you will--I'll obey you! GUSTAV. [Rising] Look at me! ADOLPH. [Looking at GUSTAV] Now you are looking at me again with that other pair of eyes which attracts me. GUSTAV. And listen to me! ADOLPH. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any longer: I am like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. GUSTAV. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a teacher of dead languages, and a widower--that's all! Take my hand. ADOLPH. What terrible power there must be in you! It feels as if I were touching an electrical generator. GUSTAV. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you are now.-- Stand up! ADOLPH. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwing his arms around the neck of GUSTAV] I am like a boneless baby, and my brain seems to lie bare. GUSTAV. Take a turn across the floor! ADOLPH. I cannot! GUSTAV. Do what I say, or I'll strike you! ADOLPH. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying? GUSTAV. I'll strike you, I said. ADOLPH. [Leaping backward in a rage] You! GUSTAV. That's it! Now you have got the blood into your head, and your self-assurance is awake. And now I'll give you some electriticy: where is your wife? ADOLPH. Where is she? GUSTAV. Yes. ADOLPH. She is--at--a meeting. GUSTAV. Sure? ADOLPH. Absolutely! GUSTAV. What kind of meeting? ADOLPH. Oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. GUSTAV. Did you part as friends? ADOLPH. [With some hesitation] Not as friends. GUSTAV. As enemies then!--What did you say that provoked her? ADOLPH. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could you know? GUSTAV. It's very simple: I possess three known factors, and with their help I figure out the unknown one. What did you say to her? ADOLPH. I said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and I regret them--regret them very much. GUSTAV. Don't do it! Tell me now? ADOLPH. I said: "Old flirt!" GUSTAV. What more did you say? ADOLPH. Nothing at all. GUSTAV. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps because you don't dare remember it. You have put it away in a secret drawer, but you have got to open it now! ADOLPH. I can't remember! GUSTAV. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought to be ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!" ADOLPH. Did I say that? I must have said it!--But how can you know that I did? GUSTAV. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I came here. ADOLPH. To whom? GUSTAV. To four young men who formed her company. She is already developing a taste for chaste young men, just like-- ADOLPH. But there is nothing wrong in that? GUSTAV. No more than in playing brother and sister when you are papa and mamma. ADOLPH. So you have seen her then? GUSTAV. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when you didn't-- I mean, when you were not present. And there's the reason, you see, why a husband can never really know his wife. Have you a portrait of her? (Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. There is a look of aroused curiosity on his face.) GUSTAV. You were not present when this was taken? ADOLPH. No. GUSTAV. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the portrait you painted of her? Hardly any! The features are the same, but the expression is quite different. But you don't see this, because your own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. Look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to the original. What does it represent? Nothing, so far as I can see, but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play with her. Do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which you are never allowed to see? Can you see that her eyes are seeking out some man who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cut low at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that her sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? Can you see? ADOLPH. Yes--now I see. GUSTAV. Look out, my boy! ADOLPH. For what? GUSTAV. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you said she could not attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--the one thing above all others. If you had told her that she wrote nothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. But as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desire for revenge has not already been satisfied. ADOLPH. I must know if it is so! GUSTAV. Find out! ADOLPH. Find out? GUSTAV. Watch--I'll assist you, if you want me to. ADOLPH. As I am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last! What am I to do? GUSTAV. First of all a piece of information: has your wife any vulnerable point? ADOLPH. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like a cat. GUSTAV. There--that was the boat whistling at the landing--now she'll soon be here. ADOLPH. Then I must go down and meet her. GUSTAV. No, you are to stay here. You have to be impolite. If her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? GUSTAV. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run in loops, but I'll follow. My room is nest to this. [He points to the door on the right] There I shall take up my position and watch you while you are playing the game in here. But when you are done, we'll change parts: I'll enter the cage and do tricks with the snake while you stick to the key-hole. Then we meet in the park to compare notes. But keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourself weakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. ADOLPH. All right!--But don't go away. I must be sure that you are in the next room. GUSTAV. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get scared afterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and laying out its various parts on the table. They say it is rather hard on a beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to miss it.--And be sure to remember one thing: not a word about having met me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she was away. Not one word! And I'll discover her weak point by myself. Hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. She's humming to herself. That means she is in a rage!--Now, straight in the back, please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that she has to sit here--then I can watch both of you at the same time. ADOLPH. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guests have arrived--for I haven't heard the bell ring. That means we shall be by ourselves--worse luck! GUSTAV. Are you weak? ADOLPH. I am nothing at all!--Yes, I am afraid of what is now coming! But I cannot keep it from coming! The stone has been set rolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it-- nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. GUSTAV. Let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out] (ADOLPH nods back at him. Until then he has been standing with the photograph in his hand. Now he tears it up and flings the pieces under the table. Then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously at his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coat lapel, and so on.) TEKLA. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; her manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello, little brother! How is he getting on? ADOLPH. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest] What mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kiss me? TEKLA. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money. ADOLPH. You have had a good time then? TEKLA. Very! But not exactly at that crèche meeting. That was plain piffle, to tell the truth.--But what has little brother found to divert himself with while his Pussy was away? (Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking for somebody or sniffing something.) ADOLPH. I've simply been bored. TEKLA. And no company at all? ADOLPH. Quite by myself. TEKLA. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has been sitting here? ADOLPH. Over there? Nobody. TEKLA. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is a hollow here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. Have you had lady callers? ADOLPH. I? You don't believe it, do you? TEKLA. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling the truth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his conscience. (Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his head resting in her lap.) ADOLPH. You're a little devil--do you know that? TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all about myself. ADOLPH. You never think about yourself, do you? TEKLA. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but myself-- I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn so philosophical all at once? ADOLPH. Put your hand on my forehead. TEKLA. [Prattling as if to a baby] Has he got ants in his head again? Does he want me to take them away, does he? [Kisses him on the forehead] There now! Is it all right now? ADOLPH. Now it's all right. [Pause] TEKLA. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the time go? Have you painted anything? ADOLPH. No, I am done with painting. TEKLA. What? Done with painting? ADOLPH. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help it that I can't paint any longer! TEKLA. What do you mean to do then? ADOLPH. I'll become a sculptor. TEKLA. What a lot of brand new ideas again! ADOLPH. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure over there. TEKLA. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare!--Who is that meant for? ADOLPH. Guess! TEKLA. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all? ADOLPH. Is it like? TEKLA. How can I tell when there is no face? ADOLPH. Yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful! TEKLA. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must keep still or I'll have to kiss him. ADOLPH. [Holding her back] Now, now!--Somebody might come! TEKLA. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own husband, perhaps? Oh yes, that's my lawful right. ADOLPH. Yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don't believe we are married, because we are kissing each other such a lot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, for lovers are said to do that also. TEKLA. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why can't he always be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't he try? Doesn't he want us to be happy? ADOLPH. Do I want it? Yes, but-- TEKLA. There we are again! Who has put it into his head that he is not to paint any longer? ADOLPH. Who? You are always looking for somebody else behind me and my thoughts. Are you jealous? TEKLA. Yes, I am. I'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. ADOLPH. Are you really afraid of that? You who know that no other woman can take your place, and that I cannot live without you! TEKLA. Well, I am not afraid of the women--it's your friends that fill your head with all sorts of notions. ADOLPH. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are you afraid? TEKLA. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has been here? ADOLPH. Don't you wish me to look at you? TEKLA. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed to look at me. ADOLPH. How was I looking at you then? TEKLA. Way up under my eyelids. ADOLPH. Under your eyelids--yes, I wanted to see what is behind them. TEKLA. See all you can! There is nothing that needs to be hidden. But--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studying him] you philosophise--that's what you do! [Approaches him threateningly] Who has been here? ADOLPH. Nobody but my physician. TEKLA. Your physician? Who is he? ADOLPH. That doctor from Strömstad. TEKLA. What's his name? ADOLPH. Sjöberg. TEKLA. What did he have to say? ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am on the verge of epilepsy-- TEKLA. Among other things? What more did he say? ADOLPH. Something very unpleasant. TEKLA. Tell me! ADOLPH. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. TEKLA. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! They want to separate us! That's what I have understood a long time! ADOLPH. You can't have understood, because there was nothing to understand. TEKLA. Oh yes, I have! ADOLPH. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear of something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has never existed? What is it you fear? That I might borrow somebody else's eyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be? TEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is the beast that dwells in man's soul. ADOLPH. Where did you learn that? From those chaste young men on the boat--did you? TEKLA. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be learned from youth also. ADOLPH. I think you are already beginning to have a taste for youth? TEKLA. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you. Do you object? ADOLPH. No, but I should prefer to have no partners. TEKLA. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little brother, that there is room in it for many more than him. ADOLPH. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers. TEKLA. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled because he is jealous--no, envious is the right word for it! (Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, where GUSTAV is.) ADOLPH. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk seriously. TEKLA. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seriously? Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of his head and kisses him] Smile a little--there now! ADOLPH. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the--I might almost think you knew how to use magic! TEKLA. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't start any trouble--or I might use my magic to make him invisible! ADOLPH. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla? With the side of your face this way, so that I can put a face on my figure. TEKLA. Of course, I will. [Turns her head so he can see her in profile.] ADOLPH. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure] Don't think of me now--but of somebody else. TEKLA. I'll think of my latest conquest. ADOLPH. That chaste young man? TEKLA. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft and rosy that you just wanted to bite it. ADOLPH. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about the mouth. TEKLA. What expression? ADOLPH. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen before. TEKLA. [Making a face] This one? ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Harte pictures an adulteress? TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something. ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush. TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she must blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not be allowed to see it. ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable of bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the charming spectacle. ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla! TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny! ADOLPH. Tekla! TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a pretty little blush for his sake. Does he want me to? ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could bite you! TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come! [Opens her arms to him.] ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll bite you to death! TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come! ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world if I can only have you! TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer? ADOLPH. Then I shall die! TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am too old to be wanted by anybody else? ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all back now! TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so cock-sure? ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion kept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything that would give me more pain than to have _him_ know that I am unhappy. Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, fascinates me, paralyses me! TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I would make his prophecy come true? ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would. TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then? ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you play that kind of game? TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all! ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men! TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women. ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently? TEKLA. Not in the last sis months. ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him? TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off our correspondence. ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all? TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now? ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was alone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was left alone that time. TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience? ADOLPH. I am. TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you? ADOLPH. Almost! TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal property. I am very much obliged to you! ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more than property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish notions would leave you.--Have you not taken his place with me? ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him? TEKLA. Of course, I did! ADOLPH. And then-- TEKLA. I grew tired of him! ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also? TEKLA. But I won't! ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all the qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you would leave me? TEKLA. No. ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without him? Then you would leave me, of course? TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow. ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you? TEKLA. Yes! Why not? ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand. TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All persons are not made in the same way, you know. ADOLPH. I begin to see now! TEKLA. No, really! ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to struggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know, Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful? TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and one that you taught me. ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something behind that frankness of yours. TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know. ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--this evening! TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I don't feel like starting on another trip. ADOLPH. But I want to. TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go! ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me! TEKLA. Demand?--What arc you talking about? ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife? TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband? ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things. TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have never loved me! ADOLPH. Haven't I? TEKLA. No, for to love is to give. ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to take.--And I have given, given, given! TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given? ADOLPH. Everything! TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman cannot receive anything except from her lover. ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been your lover, but never your husband. TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll send you packing, for I don't want a husband. ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer, TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet little idiot! ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but oneself! TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks. ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your former husband--was not so much of an idiot after all. TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him? ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it, TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--we might be overheard. TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people? ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at the same time you have a taste for chaste young men? TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love the whole world. ADOLPH. Do you know what that means? TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just _feel_. ADOLPH. It means that old age is near. TEKLA. There you are again! Take care! ADOLPH. Take care yourself! TEKLA. Of what? ADOLPH. Of the knife! TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such dangerous things. ADOLPH. I have quit playing. TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's what married men never get. ADOLPH. You hate me then? TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's probably because you are nothing to me but a child. ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I compelled the clamorous herd to see yon with my own infatuated vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and I collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushed myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you-- and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry up when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main branch--and so stem and branch must die together. TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have written my books. ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has only a single note in it. TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have written my books. ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having written your books. TEKLA. But that's what you meant! ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it. TEKLA. But the sum of it-- ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does not work out evenly. I have not added anything. TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself. ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it. TEKLA. No. but that's what you wanted to do. ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak to me--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone! You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws into my thoughts and tear them to pieces! (He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.) TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick? (ADOLPH motions her away.) TEKLA. Adolph! (ADOLPH shakes his head at her.) TEKLA. Adolph. ADOLPH. Yes. TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago? ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit! TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon? ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speak to me! TEKLA. Kiss my hand then! ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don't speak to me! TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air before dinner. ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave. TEKLA. No! ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason. TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to- night. ADOLPH. Oh, that's it! TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend-- ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word. ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is somebody who has made you promise to go. TEKLA. Yes. ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because your husband is sick. TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to be kept from going with me. ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer then? TEKLA. I don't know what you mean. ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something that--doesn't please you. TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me? ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for a while! (Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the right.) (TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He pretends not to see TEKLA.) TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it you? GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon! TEKLA. Which way did you come? GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as-- TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--Well, it was some time ago-- GUSTAV. Yes, some time. TEKLA. You have changed a great deal. GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if anything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil your happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I should never-- TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay. GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well, whatever I say, I am sure to offend you. TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--that your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light as you. TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very sympathetic terms. GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself permanently in our minds. TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And as for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your different ways again. GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through the rest of my sorrowful days. TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood me. I thank you for it! GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost me to make such a confession to myself. TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs] But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable nature--one that I had to respect--but-- GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies, sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered! TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you? GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive. TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we who are old enough to know better! GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you grow younger every day. (He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.) TEKLA. Do you think so? GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress. TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured out what colors would be most becoming to me? GUSTAV. No. TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how you used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a touch of crimson about my dress. GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you. TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all. GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being does. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when you write. TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a peaceful way like this. GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a pretty peaceful time with me. TEKLA. Perhaps too much so. GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I don't think your husband can be called a sluggard. TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing. GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still wearing the ear-rings I gave you? TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between us--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and a reminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off one of her ear-rings.] GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of it? TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says? GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury. It is likely to make him ridiculous. TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that before! GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps? TEKLA. Oh--thank you! GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if your husband could see us now! TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though! GUSTAV. Is he jealous also? TEKLA. Is he? I should say so! [A noise is heard from the room on the right.] GUSTAV. Who lives in that room? TEKLA. I don't know.--But tell me how you are getting along and what you are doing? GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along? (TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.) GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you! TEKLA. I don't believe so. GUSTAV. But it is very like you. TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so? GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How could your majesty see that?" TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any new stories? GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some. TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays. GUSTAV. Is he modest also? TEKLA. Oh--well-- GUSTAV. Not an everything? TEKLA. He isn't well just now. GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other people's hives? TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing! GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were just married--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall there--and over there stood the big bed. TEKLA. Now you stop! GUSTAV. Look at me! TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I? [They look hard at each other.] GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has made a very deep impression on him? TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly the memories of our youth. GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. TEKLA. Are you going to marry again? GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a spill. TEKLA. Is she good looking? GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now when chance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning to doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. TEKLA. How do you mean? GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, Tekla! TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more conquests. GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you. TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him. GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his courage. There _are_ some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--there are drawbacks to it, indeed. TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach-- GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extent necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but now it did happen, and so it had to happen. TEKLA. _You_ are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybody with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterly free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do you know, I am jealous of your intended wife! GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband? TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever! GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell--or what do you say? TEKLA. [Agitated] No! GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!--Let us have a farewell! Let us drown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep that when you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm around her waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is infecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life into you. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like a remontant rose. I'll--- (Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to the veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, laugh, and disappear.) TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that? GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists. TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you! GUSTAV. Why? TEKLA. You take my soul away from me! GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul for that matter--it's nothing but a delusion. TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can be angry with you. GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage on you--Tell me now, when--and--where? TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still in love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm. GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs? TEKLA, Where can you get them? GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] Here! See for yourself! TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage! GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where? TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch! GUSTAV. When? TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. GUSTAV. And then-- TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who can be living in there that makes such a racket? GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole] There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe-- that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in there.--At nine o'clock then? TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself.--What a depth of deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But wait a little�how was it now? He received me with something like hostility--didn't meet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remark about young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear�- but how could he know? Wait--and then he began to philosophise about women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art of the time--exactly in accordance with your old speculations! GUSTAV. No, really! TEKLA. No, really?--Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see what a hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbed him to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had to live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his wife; yes, it was you!--How long have you been here? GUSTAV. I have been here a week. TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat? GUSTAV. It was. TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me? GUSTAV. It has been done. TEKLA. Not yet! GUSTAV. Yes! TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with a villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you. GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happened in reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster might overtake you. But I felt practically certain that no interference on my part was required. And besides, I have been far too busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happened to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young men on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to take a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw itself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough to explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touch old wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and I was seized with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and I succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the work of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were the spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken apart--and what a buzzing followed!--When I came in here, I didn't know exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a number of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your moves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and finally I had you where I wanted you.--Now you are caught! TEKLA. No! GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. The world at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom I had not sent for, as I am not an intriguer--the world has seen how you became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back repentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough? TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge--But tell me, how can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is it possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and that all our actions are determined in advance-- GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined. TEKLA. That's the same thing! GUSTAV. No! TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold me guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances into acting as I did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--? GUSTAV. For that very reason--for the reason that my nature and the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that giving both sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to get the worst of it in this struggle? (TEKLA looks scornful.) GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I am stronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot--and he! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might be well for you to bear this in mind. TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings? GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capable of thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and of acting--in which you have just had some slight experience. TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity? GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go around hurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spot than that. TEKLA. Vindictive wretch--shame on you! GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch--shame on you! TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it? GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?--You ought to learn something about human nature in others before you give your own nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. TEKLA. You can never forgive:-- GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you! TEKLA. You! GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during all these years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a single reproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played a joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to finish him.--But there is no reason why I, the complainant, should be defending myself as I am now--Tekla! Have you nothing at all to reproach yourself with? TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions are governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, are we not free from all liability? GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is no more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. TEKLA. So you came here to dun me? GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had received as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recover it only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right--or was it not? TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied? GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.] TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee? GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I am not going home, for I have no home, and don't want one. (A WAITER comes in.) GUSTAV. Get me my bill--I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. (THE WAITER bows and goes out.) TEKLA. Without making up? GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have lost their--meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all three of us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up by making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You just took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing left to restore.--Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgive me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set you free from parental restraints, that I released you from the tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule my house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a woman out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!-- Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle your account with the other one! TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect-- something terrible! GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him? TEKLA. Yes! GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true? TEKLA. It was true. GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then? TEKLA. You despise me? GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait--I don't call it a fault--just a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. Poor Tekla! I don't know--but it seems almost as if I were feeling a certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt--as you! But perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time.-- Do you know where your husband is? TEKLA. I think I know now--he is in that room in there! And he has heard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees his own wraith dies! (ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face is white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips are covered with froth.) GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!--Now you can settle with him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.--Good-bye! (He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.) TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph! (ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the floor.) TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing him] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!-- Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!--Little brother must say something, I tell him!--No, good God, he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help! GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved _him_, too!--Poor creature! (Curtain.) PARIAH INTRODUCTION Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter of 1888- 89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg, assisted by his first wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a "Scandinavian Experimental Theatre." In March, 1889, the two plays were given by students from the University of Copenhagen, and with Mrs. von Essen Strindberg as _Tekla_. A couple of weeks later the performance was repeated across the Sound, in the Swedish city of Malmö, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then a young actor, assisted in the stage management. One of the actors was Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisite art since then has won him European fame. In the audience was Ola Hansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who had just published a short story from which Strindberg, according to his own acknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name and the theme of "Pariah." Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (_Tilskueren_, Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg about that time, as well as some very informative comments of his own. Concerning the performance of Malmö he writes: "It gave me a very unpleasant sensation. What did it mean? Why had Strindberg turned my simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not a vestige of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had even suggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing that it was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had at first planned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah'--which meant, of course, that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush the weak Pariah, Hansson, _coram populo_." In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it dealt with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doing both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is left vague and undefined." At that moment "Raskolnikov" was in the air, so to speak. And without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, I feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctly Dostoievskian. Strindberg himself had been reading Nietzsche and was--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the popular disapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more and more into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the two novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea" (1890). The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained in the present volume. But these plays are strongly colored by something else--by something that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strindberg- Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the letters published by Mr. Hansson. These show that while Strindberg was still planning "Creditors," and before he had begun "Pariah," he had borrowed from Hansson a volume of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. It was his first acquaintance with the work of Poe, though not with American literature--for among his first printed work was a series of translations from American humourists; and not long ago a Swedish critic (Gunnar Castrén in _Samtiden_, Christiania, June, 1912) wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had learned much from Swedish literature, but probably more from Mark Twain and Dickens." The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming. He returns to it in one letter after another. Everything that suits his mood of the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque." The story that seems to have made the deepest impression of all was "The Gold Bug," though his thought seems to have distilled more useful material out of certain other stories illustrating Poe's theories about mental suggestion. Under the direct influence of these theories, Strindberg, according to his own statements to Hansson, wrote the powerful one-act play "Simoom," and made _Gustav_ in "Creditors" actually _call forth_ the latent epileptic tendencies in _Adolph_. And on the same authority we must trace the method of: psychological detection practised by _Mr. X._ in "Pariah" directly to "The Gold Bug." Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so little of his story in the play. And here we have the origin of a theme which, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain a favourite one with Strindberg: that of a duel between intellect and cunning. It forms the basis of such novels as "Chandalah" and "At the Edge of the Sea," but it recurs in subtler form in works of much later date. To readers of the present day, _Mr. X._--that striking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for in poetry--is much less interesting as a superman _in spe_ than as an illustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do with the tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways and human motives. And in giving us a play that holds our interest as firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stage shows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, Strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of its old, shackling conventions. The name of this play has sometimes been translated as "The Outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "The Outlaw," a much earlier play on a theme from the old Sagas. I think it better, too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish title be not lost, for the best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of the Pariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of social position. PARIAH AN ACT 1889 PERSONS MR. X., an archaeologist, Middle-aged man. MR. Y., an American traveller, Middle-aged man. SCENE (A simply furnished room in a farmhouse. The door and the windows in the background open on a landscape. In the middle of the room stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writing materials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.) (On the left side hangs a bookshelf. Otherwise the furniture is that of a well-to-do farmer.) (MR. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and a botany-can. He goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes down a book, which he begins to read on the spot.) (The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in sunlight. The ringing of church bells indicates that the morning services are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is heard from the outside.) (MR. X. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.) (MR. Y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume.) MR. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have a thunderstorm. MR. Y. What makes you think so? MR. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies are sticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I couldn't find any worms. Don't you feel nervous? MR. Y. [Cautiously] I?--A little. MR. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you were expecting thunderstorms. MR. Y. [With a start] Do I? MR. X. Now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is not to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud."-- Anything new?--Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up some letters from the table] My, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts! Have you ever had any debts? MR. Y. [After some reflection] N-no. MR. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot of overdue bills. [Reads one of the letters] The rent unpaid--the landlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. And here am I sitting waist-high in gold! [He opens an iron-banded box that stands on the table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other] Just look--here I have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which I have dug up in the last fortnight. This bracelet alone would bring me the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I might make a fine career for myself. Then I could get the illustrations made for my treatise at once; I could get my work printed, and--I could travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose? MR. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out. MR. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intelligent fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never found out? I am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while I am digging out there in the fields. It wouldn't be strange if I put something in my own pockets now and then. MR. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. MR. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--and then I'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them as genuine ones, of course-- MR. Y. Of course! MR. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to dabble in counterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold first. [Pause] It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what I cannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to acquit him--but I couldn't possibly acquit myself. I might even make a brilliant speech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was _res nullius_, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time when property rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rights it could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner has never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this if the--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by a mania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations-- by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. Don't you think so? MR. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual need had been the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive which the law will not accept in extenuation. That motive makes a plain theft of it. MR. Y. And this you couldn't excuse? MR. X. Oh, excuse--no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't. On the other hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me to charge a collector with theft merely because he had appropriated some specimen not yet represented in his own collection. MR. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not be excused by need? MR. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the only one, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I can no more change this feeling than I can change my own determination not to steal under any circumstances whatever. MR. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot-- hm!--steal? MR. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible as the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So it cannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other one cannot refrain!--But you understand, of course, that I am not without a desire to own this gold. Why don't I take it then? Because I cannot! It's an inability--and the lack of something cannot be called a merit. There! [Closes the box with a slam. Stray clouds have cast their shadows on the landscape and darkened the room now and then. Now it grows quite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.] MR. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming all right. [MR. Y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.] MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder? MR. Y. It's just as well to be careful. (They resume their seats at the table.) MR. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping down like a bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a Swedish-American who is collecting flies for a small museum-- MR. Y. Oh, never mind me now! MR. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of talking about myself and want to turn my attention to you. Perhaps that was the reason why I took to you as I did--because you let me talk about myself? All at once we seemed like old friends. There were no angles about you against which I could bump myself, no pins that pricked. There was something soft about your whole person, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educated people know how to show. You never made a noise when you came home late at night or got up early in the morning. You were patient in small things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed threatening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion! But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering about you in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. It seems almost as if you were made up of two different personalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your back in the mirror over there--it is as if I were looking at somebody else. (MR. Y. turns around and stares at the mirror.) MR. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--In front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting his fate with bared breast, but from behind--really, I don't want to be impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or as if you were crouching to escape a raised stick. And when I look at that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a packing-box-- MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon-- MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to. [A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if that might have struck the sheriff's house! MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's! MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you, with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that yon are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. MR. Y. Who is he? MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non- commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective-- and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the front of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened to read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known government official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentleman had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter of a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish a connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's peculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause.] MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished? MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.] MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending people? MR. X. Exactly! MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward? MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.] MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he had been--punished? MR. X. Perfectly! (MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.) MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still? MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Are you a Christian? MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not? (MR. Y. makes a face.) MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know the difference. MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild, hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you-- know--that? MR. X. Why, I could see it. MR. Y. How? How could you see it? MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others. But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs. Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to the city with you. MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo. MR. X. Oh, you are not? MR. Y. No. MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind-- MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which place you have not visited at all during all this time. And yet you came the whole way from America merely to have a look at Malmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance. And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, yon can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of the county jail.--And now I hope you see that it's your own stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything clear to me. MR. Y. This means that you despise me? MR. X. Oh, no! MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it! MR. X. No--here's my hand. (MR. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.) MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog! MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me touch his hand after learning-- MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you is that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your punishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you? MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say. But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am no ORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that there are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again] which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible-- May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have passed over? MR. X. Suit yourself. MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was a student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan from a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned some property--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent the note to the second man of the two who were to act as security, and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For a while I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in front of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyes stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find other securities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, it was very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quite unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if it had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well- written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent- mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. I had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like this. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim that there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature back of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was a wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that beautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean space on the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce the signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder with a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I slept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. At times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemed to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant memory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table, just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. All thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had disappeared� no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was fulfilling some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet] What could it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mental suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? I was sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitive self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing-- which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep-- together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to calculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think of it? MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Frankly speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details-- and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think I have, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! You have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to acknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more. MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of my innocence. MR. X. Well, are you not? MR. Y. No, I am not! MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly what is bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every human being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us, stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there are persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot control their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, and there you have your criminal.--But I cannot understand why you don't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, why should the criminal be regarded differently? It is the more strange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later. [Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have never suffered any qualms on account of it. MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you? MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shake hands with a murderer? MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense! MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished, ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] So much the better for you!--How did you get out of it? MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to hunt with a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent a besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset the whole _equipage_ in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that my life was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit him across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, but collapsed then and there. MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it? MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The man left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could be of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allotted period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled by somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life was necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps also to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for all cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and I didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for the sake of an abstract principle of justice. MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life? MR. X. In the present case, yes. MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of? MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As a boy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly person. MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly what one gets for--writing names. MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than one night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really as bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar? MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cutting off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you are sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourself in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Which wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say. MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then they cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become conscious of the border line between life and death. Every vital function is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking. And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived ages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was written for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You are torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put beneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get a sense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you were dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out of a trough--ugh! MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if he belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the proper costume. MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a man from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden age. MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with that last expression--the golden age? MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all. MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say all you think. MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when I dared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as I did.--But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?-- It is that the others are not in there too! MR. X. What others? MR. Y. Those that go unpunished. MR. X. Are you thinking of me? MR. Y. I am. MR. X. But I have committed no crime. MR. Y. Oh, haven't you? MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime. MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder? MR. X. I have not committed murder. MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person? MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional and unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me, for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would you like me to show you how clever I am? MR. X. Come on! MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You have suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at hard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of being punished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffered a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has had to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some great scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of money--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one, the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a fine? Don't you think so? MR. X. [Calmly] Yes. MR. Y. Then we understand each other.--Hm! [Pause] What do you think would be reasonable? MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by the fact that the dead man left no relatives. MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have to speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collect fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is no prosecutor. MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do? MR. X. Oh, _now_ we are getting the matter cleared up! How much do you want for becoming my accomplice? MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them? (MR. Y. points to the box.) MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become a thief. MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believe that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before? MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could let myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these soft natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they like you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guard against people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convinced that I have helped myself out of the box before? MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if you don't get six thousand crowns? MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no use trying. MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!-- Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment! MR. X. For what? MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--it wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as well leave. MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where you sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you up to now? MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y.] Oh, now I have it! Oh-h-h! MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discovering now? MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, I could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. I couldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you and watch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became more acute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color contrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't be seen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you have been reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental suggestion--for you turned the book upside-down in putting it back. So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I think myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. MR. Y. By need! If you only knew-- MR. X. If _you_ only knew the extent of the need I have had to face and live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed with your case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted. But it happened in America, for it was American prison life you described. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, that you have not borne your punishment on this side. MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind? MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all about it. (MR. Y. gets up.) ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, in connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when a person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. And that's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause.] MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now? MR. X. Now you can go. MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me? MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you? MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I? MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and I am less of a menace to prevailing property rights. MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever as you. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move I can mate you--all the same! MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y.] So we have to have another bout! What kind of mischief are you up to now? MR. Y. That's my secret. MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous letter giving away MY secret! MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare to have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone, I can do what I please. MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do you want to make a real murderer out of me? MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward! MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feeling that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. And that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treat you as I treated that coachman? [He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y.] MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. straight in the face] You can't! It's too much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over there. ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box? MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she had married a murderer. MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--if stronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less, that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person's name instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were when you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I might have read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourself cleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured into becoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and write my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!-- Have you had enough now? MR. Y. May I go? MR. X. Now you _have_ to go! And at once! I'll send your things after you!--Get out of here! (Curtain.) 
46397	----	(Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust) LEGENDS AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE 3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN 1912 CONTENTS I. The Possessed Exorcist II. My Wretchedness Increases III. My Wretchedness Increases (cont.) IV. Miracles V. My Incredulous Friend's Troubles VI. Miscellanies VII. Studies in Swedenborg VIII. Canossa IX. The Spirit of Contradiction X. Extracts from my Diary, 1897 XI. In Paris XII. Wrestling Jacob Note I THE POSSESSED EXORCIST Hunted by the furies, I found myself finally in December 1896 fixed fast in the little university town Lund, in Sweden. A conglomeration of small houses round a cathedral, a palace-like university building and a library, forming an oasis of civilisation in the great southern Swedish plain. I must admire the refinement of cruelty which has chosen this place as my prison. The University of Lund is much prized by the natives of Schonen, but for a man from the north like myself the fact that one stays here is a sign that one has come to an inclined plane and is rolling down. Moreover, for me who am well advanced in the forties, have been a married man for twenty years and am accustomed to a regular family life, it is a humiliation to be relegated to intercourse with students, bachelors who are given to a life of riot and carousing, and who are all more or less in ill odour with the fatherly authorities of the university because of their radical way of thinking. Of the same age, and formerly a companion of the professors, who now no longer tolerate me, I am compelled to find my friends among the students, and so to take upon myself the rôle of an enemy of the seniors and of the social circles of solid respectability. Come down, indeed! That is just the right word, and why? Because I scorned to submit myself to the laws of social life and domestic slavery. I have regarded the conflict for the upholding of my personality as a sacred duty, quite irrespective of the fact of its being a good or bad one. Excommunicated, regarded with suspicion, denounced by fathers and mothers as a corrupter of youth, I am placed in a situation which reminds one of a snake in an ant-heap, all the more as I cannot leave the town through pecuniary embarrassment. Pecuniary embarrassment! That has now been my lot for three years, and I cannot explain how all my resources were dried up, as soon as my profits were exhausted. Four-and-twenty dramas of my composing are now laid up in a corner, and not a single one performed any more; an equal number of novels and tales, and not one in a second edition. All attempts to borrow a loan have failed and continue to fail. After I had sold all that I possessed, need compelled me at last to sell the letters which I had received in the course of years, _i.e._ other people's property. This constant condition of poverty seems to me so clearly to depend upon some special purpose of Providence that I finally endure it willingly as a part of my penance and do not try to resist it any more. As regards myself, I want of means signifies nothing to me as an independent author, but it is disgraceful not to have the wherewithal to support my children. Very well! I make up my mind to bear the disgrace though it involve pains like hell. I will not yield to the temptation to pay for false honour with my life. Prepared for anything, I endure resolutely to the uttermost the most extraordinary humiliations and observe how my expiatory pangs commence. Well-educated youths of good family treat me one night to a serenade of caterwauling in my corridor. I take it as something I have deserved without disturbing myself. I try to hire a furnished lodging. The landlord refuses with transparent excuses, and the refusal is flung in my face. I pay visits and am not received. These are mere trifles. But what really wounds me is the sublime irony shown in the unconscious behaviour of my young friends when they try to encourage me by praising my literary works, "so fruitful in liberating ideas, etc." And this to me, who have just flung these so-called ideas on the dust-heap, so that those who entertain these views are now my opponents! I am at war with my former self, and while I oppose my friends and those once of the same mind with me, I lay myself prostrate in the dust. This is irony indeed; and as a dramatist I must admire the composition of this tragi-comedy. In truth, the scenes are well-arranged. Meanwhile people, taking into consideration the way in which old and new views become entangled with each other in a period of transition, do not reckon too rigidly with a veteran like myself. They do not prick up their ears so solemnly at my arguments, but rather ask after novelties in the world of ideas. I open for them the vestibule to the temple of Isis, and say, by way of preliminary, that occultism is going to be the vogue. Then they rage, and cut me down with the same weapons which during twenty years I have been forging against superstition and mysticism. Since these debates always take place in garden-restaurants to the accompaniment of wine-drinking, one avoids violent arguments, and I confine myself to relating facts and real occurrences, assuming the mask of an enlightened sceptic. It can certainly not be said that people are opposed to everything new--quite the contrary; but they become conservative as regards ideals which have been won by hard fighting and which one is not inclined to desert. Still less are they disposed to abjure a faith which has been purchased by a baptism of blood. It falls to my share to strike out a path between naturalism and supernaturalism, by expounding the latter as a development of the former. For this purpose, I address myself to the problem of giving, as just indicated, natural and scientific explanation for all the mysterious phenomena which appear to us. I split up my personality and show to the world a rationalistic occultist, but I keep my innermost individuality unimpaired and cherish the germ of a creedless religion. Often my outer rôle gets the upper hand; my two natures become so intricately intermixed that I can laugh at my newly won belief. This helps my theories to find entrance into the most oppositely constituted minds. The gloomy December days drag on lazily under a dark-grey smoky sky. Although I have discovered Swedenborg's explanation regarding the character of my sufferings, I cannot bring myself once for all to bend under the hand of the Powers. My disposition to make objections asserts itself, and I continually refer the real causes of my suffering to external things, especially the malice of men. Attacked day and night by "electric streams," which compress my chest and stab my heart, I quit my torture-chamber, and visit the tavern where I find friends. Fearing sobriety, I drink ceaselessly, as the only way of procuring sleep at night. Shame and disgust, however, combined with restlessness, compel me to give this up, and for some evenings I visit the Temperance Café called the "Blue Band." But the company one meets with there depresses me,--bluish, pale, and emaciated faces, terrible and malicious eyes, and a silence which is not the peace of God. When things go wrong, wine is a benefit, and refraining from it a punishment. I return to the half-sober tavern, without, however, transgressing the bounds of moderation, after having disciplined myself for several evenings by drinking tea. Christmas is approaching, and I regard the children's festival with a cool bitterness that I can hardly dignify with the name of resignation. For six years I have had all kinds of sufferings, and am now prepared for anything. Loneliness in an hotel! That has long been my nightmare, and I have become accustomed to it. It seems as though the very thing that I dislike is forced upon me. Meanwhile a closer intimacy has sprung up between me and a friendly circle, so that they begin to make confidences to me. The fact is that during the last months so many things have happened, so many unusual unexpected things. "Let me hear them," I say. "They tell me that the head of the revolutionary students, the freest of freethinkers, after having come out of a temperance hospital and taking the pledge, has been now converted, so that he forthwith----" "Well, what?" "Sings penitential psalms." "Incredible!" In fact the young man, who was unusually gifted, had for the present spoilt his prospects by attacking the views prevalent at the university, including the misuse of strong drink. When I arrived in the town he kept a little aloof from me on the ground of his temperance principles, but it was he who lent me Swedenborg's Arcana Coelestia, which he had taken from his father's library. I remember that after I had begun to read the work I gave him an account of Swedenborg's theories, and suggested to him to read the prophet in order to gain light, but he interrupted me with a gesture of alarm. "No! I will not! Not now! Later!" "Are you afraid?" "Yes, for the moment." "But read it merely as a literary curiosity." "No." I thought at first he was joking, but later on it became clear to me that he was quite in earnest. So there seems to be a general awakening going on through the world, and I need not conceal my own experiences. "Tell me, old fellow, can you sleep at night?" "Not much. When I lie awake my whole past life comes in review before me; all the follies which I have committed, all my sufferings and unhappiness pass by, but especially the follies. And when the procession ends, it commences all over again." "You also?" "What do you mean by 'also'?" "That is the disease of our time. They call it 'the mills of God.'" At the word "God" he makes a grimace and answers, "Yes, it is a queer age we live in; the world turns round and round." "Or rather it is the re-entrance of the Powers." * * * * * The Christmas week is over. In consequence of the holidays my table companions are scattered over the neighbourhood of Lund. One fine morning my friend, the doctor and psychologist, comes and shows me a letter from our friend the poet, containing an invitation to his parents' house, a country property a few miles from the town. I decline to go as I dislike travelling. "But he is unhappy," says the doctor. "What is the matter with him?" "Sleeplessness; you know he has lately been keeping Christmas." I take shelter behind the excuse of having some business to do, and the question remains undecided. In the afternoon I get another letter, to say that the poet is ill and wants his friend's medical advice. "What is he suffering from now?" I ask. "He suffers from neurasthenia and believes himself persecuted----" "By demons?" "Not exactly that, but anyhow----" An access of grim humour elicited by the fact of having a brother in misfortune makes me determine to go with him. "Very well then, let us start," I say; "you see to the medicine and I will see to the exorcism." When the matter is settled, I pack my portmanteau, and as I go down the hotel steps I am unexpectedly accosted by an unknown female. "Excuse me, are you Dr. Norberg?" "No, I am not," I answer, not exactly politely, for I thought she was a disreputable person. "Could you tell me what time it is?" she continued. "No!" And I go off. How unmeaningful this scene was, it did nevertheless leave me with me an unsettling impression. In the evening we stay in a village, to pass the night there. I have just entered my room, on the first floor, and washed up a little, when the usual sounds reach my ears; someone moves furniture around and I hear dance-steps. This time I don't leave it with a suspicion, but run in the company of my comrades up the servants' stairs, to get certainty. But upstairs nothing suspicious can be found, because above my room, under the roofpanes, there's nobody living. After a bad night with little sleep, we continue our journey and a couple of hours later we are in the parental home of the Poet, who almost appears as a prodigal son before religious parents, good and honest man. The day is spent with walks in a beautiful country-side and innocent conversations. The evening descends and brings an indescribable peace in a very homely environment, in which the doctor and I seem completely lost to ourselves, he even more than I, because he's an atheist. Late in the evening we retire to the room that was assigned to the Doctor and me. When I'm searching for something to read, I lay hands upon "Magic of the Middle Ages" by Viktor Rydberg. Again this writer, whom I avoided, as long as he lived, and who keeps pursuing me after his death! I page through the book, and my eye is caught by the part about Incubi and Succubi. The author doesn't believe in such things and ridiculizes the thought of devils. But I cannot laugh; I'm offended by what I'm reading, and I console myself with the thought that by now the author may have altered his views. In the mean time, reading about things magical and weird isn't very suitable to induce any sleep, and I experience a certain nervous restlessness. Therefore, the proposal to come along to the sanitary rooms is taken as a welcome distraction and a hygienic preliminary for the night, which I fear. Provided with a lantern, we walk over the inner court, where, under a cloudy sky, the skeletons of frosted trees crash under the playful and capricious whirlwind. "I think you're afraid of your own shadows my good fellows," laughs the doctor contemptuously. We give no answer, for the violence of the wind nearly throws us down. When we reach the place which is near the stable and under the hayloft, we are greeted by a noise over our heads, and, strange to say, it is exactly the noise which has followed me for half a year. "Listen!" I said; "don't you hear something?" "Yes, it is only the farm servants feeding the cattle." I do not deny the fact, but why must they do it just as I enter the place? And how comes it that the disturbance always takes an acoustic form? There must be some unseen agent who arranges these serenades for me, and it is no mere illusion of my ears, for others hear them too. When we return to our bedroom, all is still. The poet who has behaved quietly all day, and who sleeps in an attic begins to look uneasy, and finally confesses that he cannot sleep alone, as he suffers from nightmare. I give him up my bed, and go into a large room close by, where there is an enormous one. This room, unwarmed, without blinds, and almost unfurnished, makes me feel a depression which is increased by the damp and cold. In order to distract myself, I look for books, and find on a small table a Bible illustrated by Gustave Doré, together with a number of books of devotion. Then I remember that I am an intruder into a religious home, that I, the friend of the prodigal son, am regarded as a corrupter of youth. What a humiliating rôle for a man of eight and forty! I understand the young man's discomfort at being penned up with excellent and pious people. He must feel like a devil obliged to attend mass. And it is to drive out devils with devils that I have been invited hither. I have come in order to make this rarefied air possible to breathe by defiling it, since the young man cannot bear it, pure. With such thoughts I retire to bed. Sleep was formerly my last and surest refuge whose pity never failed me. But now my comforter has left me in the lurch and the darkness alarms me. The lamp is lit and there is stillness after the storm. Then a strange buzzing noise rivets my attention and rouses me from my drowsiness. I observe an insect flying hither and thither in the upper part of the room. But I am astonished to find that I cannot identify it, though I am well up in entomology, and flatter myself that I know all the winged insects in Sweden. This is not a butterfly or a moth, but a fly, long and black, which makes a sound like a wasp. I get up to chase it. Chasing flies at the end of December! It disappears. I creep again under the bedclothes and resume my meditations. But the cursed insect flies out from under my cushion cover, and, after having rested and warmed itself in my bed, it flies in all directions, and I let it go, feeling sure that I shall soon catch it by the lamp, whose flame will attract it. I have not long to wait; as soon as the fly gets within the lamp-shade a match scorches its wings. It dances its death-dance and lies lifeless on its back. I convince myself by ocular demonstration that it is an unknown winged insect, about an inch long, and of a black colour, with two fiery red spots on its wings. What is it? I don't know, but in the morning I will give the others the opportunity of ratifying its existence. Meanwhile, after accomplishing this auto-da-fé, I go to sleep. In the middle of the night I am awakened by a sound of whining and chattering of teeth which comes from the next room. I kindle a light and go in. My friend the doctor has thrown himself half out of bed, and writhes in terrible convulsions, with his mouth wide open. In a word, he shows all the signs of hysteria described in Charcot's treatise, which calls the stage he is in now "possession." And he a man of conspicuous intelligence and good heart, not morally worse than others, of full growth, with regular and pleasant features, now disfigured to such a degree that he looks like the picture of a mediæval devil. In alarm, I wake him up, "Have you been dreaming, old fellow?" "No, it was an attack of nightmare." "Incubus!" "Yes, indeed! It squeezed my lungs together, something like angina pectoris." I gave him a glass of milk; he lights a cigar, and I return to my room. But now all my chance of sleep is gone. What I had seen was too terrible, and till the morning my companions continue their conflict with the invisible. We meet at breakfast, and make a joke of the adventures of the night. But our host does not laugh, a circumstance which I ascribe to his religious way of thinking, which makes him hold the hidden Powers in awe. The delicate position in which I find myself between the seniors whom I admire, and the juniors whom I have no right to blame, makes me hasten my departure. As we rise from table the master of the house asks the doctor for a special consultation, and they retire for half an hour. "What is the matter with the old man?" I ask, when the doctor returns. "He cannot sleep,--has heart attacks at night." "He also! That good and pious man! Then it is an epidemic which spares no one." I will not deny that this circumstance restored my courage, and the old spirit of rebellion and scepticism took possession of my soul. To challenge the demons, to defy the invisible, and finally to subdue it,--that, was the task I proposed to myself as I left this hospitable family in order to proceed upon my projected excursion in Schonen. * * * * * Reaching the town Höganäs the same evening, I take my evening meal in the large dining-hall of the hotel, and have a journalist for my companion. As soon as we have sat down to table, the usual noise is heard overhead. In order to guard against any possibility of illusion on my part, I let the journalist describe the phenomenon, and find him convinced of its reality. As we went out after finishing our meal, the unknown woman who had accosted me before my departure from Lund, stood motionless before the door, and let me and my companion pass by. I forget the demons and the invisible, and begin again to suspect that I am persecuted by visible foes. Terrible doubts gnaw at my brain, fever my blood, and make me feel disgusted with life. But the night has a surprise in store for me which alarms me more than all the last days together. Tired with my journey, I go to bed at eleven o'clock. All is silent in the hotel, and no noise audible. My courage rises, and I fall into a deep sleep, but to be awoken in half an hour by a tremendous noise overhead. There seems to be at least a score of young people who sing, stamp on the ground, and push chairs about. The disturbance lasts till morning. Why don't I complain to the manager? Because never once in my life have I succeeded in obtaining justice. Being born and predestinated to suffer injustice, I have ceased to complain. In the morning I continue my journey in order to visit the coal mines near Höganäs. At the very moment that I enter the inn, to order a carriage, the usual witches' Sabbath commences overhead. Under some pretext or other, I don't remember what, I ascend the stairs, only to find a large empty room above. Since the mines cannot be visited before twelve o'clock, I have myself driven to a fishing village some miles north, where there is a celebrated view over the Sound. As the carriage drives through the turnpike gate before the village, I feel a violent compression of the chest, just as though someone pressed his knees into my back. The illusion is so complete that I turn round to see the enemy who is sitting behind me. Then a number of crows raise a loud croaking, and fly over the head of the horse. He is frightened, rears, pricks his ears, and large drops of sweat roll down his flanks. He champs the bit, and the driver has to get down to quiet him. I ask why the horse is so unreasonably nervous, and the answer is legible in the look which the driver directs towards the crows, who follow us for some minutes. It is a quite natural occurrence, but of an unfortunate kind, and, according to popular belief, of evil omen. After spending two useless hours, because a fog cuts off the view over the Sound, we drive into the village Mölle. Determined to scale the summit of the Kulle on foot, I dismiss the driver, and tell him to await my return in the inn. After my mountain walk I return to the village to look for him. But I have no knowledge of the place, and I look for some one to ask the way. Not a living soul is to be seen on the street or anywhere else. I knock at doors, but get no answer. Although it is eleven o'clock in the morning, and I am in a village of two hundred inhabitants, there is not a man, woman, child, or even a dog to be seen. Driver, horse, and carriage have disappeared. I roam about the streets, and after half an hour find the inn. Sure of finding the driver there, I order breakfast, and, after I have eaten it, ask them to send the driver to me. "Which driver?" "My own." "I haven't seen one." "Haven't you seen a carriage drawn by a chestnut horse, and driven by a man with a dark complexion?" "No, indeed I have not." "Yet I told him to wait here in the inn." "Oh, then he will be sitting in the bait-house close by." The servant girl shows the way and I set off. But I am doomed to be unfortunate, and mistake my way, so that I cannot find the inn again. Nor is anyone to be seen. Then I get nervous,--nervous in broad daylight! The village is bewitched. I cannot walk any more, but stand still as if spellbound. What is the good of seeking when the devil has a finger in the pie? After I have had a great deal of trouble the driver at last turns up. I am ashamed to tell him of my annoyances or to demand from him explanations which explain nothing. We drive back to Höganäs and when we reach the hotel the horse falls suddenly, as though someone were standing before the door who frightened it. I now ask the way to the coal-mines, and this time, in order to make no mistake, I go the "five minutes' walk" which has been pointed out to me on foot. I walk for ten minutes, quarter of an hour, half an hour, till I come to an open plain, without a sign of buildings or chimneys to indicate the presence of a coal-mine. The plain, which is under cultivation, seems to stretch to infinity; there is not even a hut, and no one of whom to ask the way. It is the Devil who has played me this trick! I remain standing as though fast-bound and blinded, without being able to move a step forwards or backwards. Finally I return to the village, take a room, and have a good rest on a sofa. After quarter of an hour I am roused out of my sad thoughts by a disturbance--a sound like that of hammering nails. Incredulous as to spirit-rappings, I attribute the phenomenon to malicious people or to greater ill-luck than usual. I ring, pay my bill, and betake myself to the station. I have three hours to wait! That is a great deal when one is impatient, but there is no help for it. After I have spent two hours on a seat, a well-dressed female figure passes me, in order to enter into the first-class waiting-room. In the gait and manner of this lady and in her whole bearing was something that aroused vague recollections in me. Anxious to see her aspect from the front I watch the door, waiting for her reappearance. After waiting a long time I venture into the waiting-room. There is no one there at all, nor is there any other exit nor dressing-room. There are double windows, so that there is no possibility of her having gone out by them. Do I suffer from optical delusion? Has anyone got the power to tamper with my faculty of sight? Can one make oneself invisible? These are unsolved questions which make me feel near despair. Am I mad? No, the doctors say I am not. There is inducement enough to believe in miracles. If one may believe Swedenborg, I am a damned soul in hell and the Powers punish me ceaselessly and mercilessly. The spirits which I conjure up have no wish to enter the flask which I have unsealed. I spend the evening of the same day in a good first-class hotel in the town of Malmö. At half-past ten they begin to split wood in the corridor without anyone objecting to it, and that in a continental hotel full of tourists! This is followed by dancing. Later on they turn a machine with wheel-work. I get up, pay my reckoning, and determine to continue my journey the whole night. Absolutely alone, in the cold January night, I drag myself on, with my carpet bag, under a pitch black sky. For a moment I think the best thing would be to lie down in the snow, and die. But the next moment I collect my strength, and turn into a deserted back street where I find an unpretending hotel. After making sure that I am not watched, I slink in through the door. Without taking off my clothes I stretch myself upon the bed, firmly resolved rather to let myself be killed than obliged to get up again. There is a death-like silence in the house, and delightful sleep approaches. Suddenly I hear a sound as though an invisible paw was scratching in the paper covering of the ceiling immediately over my head. It cannot be a mouse, for the loosely hanging paper does not move; besides, it seems to be a fairly large paw, like that of a hare, or a dog. Till the grey of morning I lie awake, expecting to feel the claws in my flesh, but in vain, for anxiety is more painful than death. Why do I not become ill after such tortures as these? Because I have to empty the cup of suffering to the dregs, in order that the punishments undergone may be equivalent to the wrongs committed. And it is really remarkable how I manage to endure the tortures; I swallow them down with a kind of grim joy in order to get done with them. II MY WRETCHEDNESS INCREASES When the New Year with its numerous holidays has passed, I find myself one fine day alone. It is as though a hurricane had passed by; all are scattered, blown away, shipwrecked. My friend the doctor has entered the hospital as a patient. As a matter of fact, weakened by dipsomania, hard-pressed by poverty, and worn out by want of sleep, he is suffering from "neurasthenia." This is pitiful, and, instead of going to the tavern, I turn my steps to the hospital for an hour's conversation and society. In the café I am the only one who drinks anything alcoholic, for my three companions have taken the pledge. The poet has gone away. The young aesthete, the son of the Professor of Ethics, has been sent abroad in order to be freed from the evil companionship of the "seducer of youth," _i.e._ myself. A doctor of philosophy is laid up through having broken his leg. At the same time it happens that the young chemist, the standard-bearer of the party of progress, falls ill and has to be treated for neurasthenia. He suffers from sleeplessness, attacks of nightmare and giddiness. All these sad events and others happen in the course of a month and a half. And what makes my situation insupportable is, that they attribute the blame more or less to me. I am the Evil One himself and have the evil eye! It is a good thing that they know nothing about the power of an evil will and the secret tricks of occultism and reject all ideas of it, otherwise they kill. A depressing stagnation has settled down on the intellectual life of the University. There are no new productive ideas, no ferment and no movement. The natural sciences have suffered to fall into disuse the transformistic method which promised progress, and threaten to die of their common weakness. There is no more discussion, for people are agreed as to the futility of all efforts at reform. They have seen so many illusions perish, and in this condition of things the once great movement for liberty has dissolved or rather decomposed. The younger generation are waiting for something new without being clear as to what they want. Novelty at any price, whatever it be, with the exception of apologies and retreats! Forward to the unknown, no matter what, so long as it is not old! They want reconciliation with the gods, but they must be re-created or, rather, developed gods, who are up-to-date, have broad views, are free from petty prejudices, and intoxicated with the joy of life. The invisible powers have become all the more morose, envious of the freedom which mortals have won for themselves. Wine is poisoned, and causes madness instead of calling up pleasant visions. Love, regulated by social bonds, proves to be a life-and-death battle, and free love brings in its train nameless and numberless diseases, causes misery in homes, and its victims are execrated and outlawed. The period for experiments has passed away, and the experiments have produced only negative results. All the better for the men of the future who can derive wholesome lessons from the defeat of the advance guard, who have gone astray in the desert, and fallen in hopeless strife against superior force. * * * * * Lonely as I am, a wreck on a reef in the ocean, there are moments when I am seized with giddiness at the sight of the blue and vacant immensity. Is it the sky which reflects the outspread sea, or the sea which mirrors the sky? I have fled from men and men fly from me. In the loneliness which I longed for I am persecuted by a crowd of demons, and after all I begin to prefer the humblest mortal to the most interesting phantom. But when I look for a man, during the long evenings through the whole town, I find no one either at home or in the cafés. But in the midst of my fated and inevitable need, Providence sends in my way a man, whose father I had in former times despised, both on account of his defective education as of his radical views, which had shut him out from the best social circles. Now came the recompense; I had rejected the father, although he was a rich man, and I was simply compelled to put up with the son. It must be added that the young man had as bad a name in the town as myself, and was doomed to equal isolation as a "seducer of youth." Our common misfortune causes us to form a real friendship. He invites me to share his house, he provides me with means of living, he watches over me as over a patient, and, as a matter of fact, the persecution to which I have been subjected has made me cause a scandal in my hotel, where I tried to get into a room near my own, convinced that I would find the disturbers of my peace there. If I had stayed another day in that hotel the police would certainly have interfered, and I should have spent the rest of my days in a madhouse. At the same time the appearance of another young man convinces me that the gods do not cherish an irreconcilable grudge against me. He was a real youthful prodigy, with a precocious insight into all branches of human knowledge. His father, a learned man of high moral character, had brought him up well, but two years ago the young man was seized with a mysterious illness, the details of which he told me, with a view of learning my opinion, or rather of confirming his own suspicions. The young man, who had led a pure life and imbibed the strictest moral principles, entered the world with favourable auspices, admired by his contemporaries and popular wherever he came. But one day he committed an act directly forbidden by his conscience. Since then nothing could give him peace. After a long period of mental torture his body also succumbed, while his spiritual crisis was intensified. Every day he realised the fresh advance of an imaginary disease, and at last he seemed to undergo death agonies. Then he thought he really was dead, and heard in all corners of the house the hammering of coffins. When he read the paper, for his mind remained clear, he expected to see the report of his own burial. At the same time his body seemed to suffer dissolution and exhaled a corpse-like odour, which frightened the attendants away from his bed, and alarmed him himself. Moreover a change seemed to take place even in his personality, for though he was formerly religiously minded in his way he was now attacked by doubts. One of his illusions, which he remembered afterwards, was that his attendants had wax-like or blue faces. And even when he rose from his bed to watch the people in the street all the passers-by seemed to him to have blue faces. What still further alarmed him was that, in the street below, there seemed to be passing an endless procession of beggars, ragged vagabonds, decrepit, limping, legless cripples on crutches, as though they had been summoned to pass in review before him. During the whole time the sick man had the impression that what he saw was, beyond all doubt, real, and yet he was obliged to attribute a symbolical meaning to it. Every book which he opened seemed to contain direct intimations for him. After he had ended his narrative he asked what I thought of the matter. "Something half real," I answered, "a series of visions conjured up by someone with a special object. A living charade, from which it is for you to draw the lesson. How were you cured?" "It is comical, but I will confess it to you. Formerly I had stood in opposition against my parents, who had surrounded me with unwearied care for soul and body, but now at last I brought my neck under the yoke, which had become pleasant and beneficial to me, since it had been imposed in pure love, and so I was healed." "And have you had no relapse?" "Yes, once, but of a very mild kind. A period of insignificant nervousness and sleeplessness, which yielded to the simplest medical instructions. But this time I had nothing to reproach myself with." "And what were your doctor's orders?" "To live regularly, to sleep at night, and to keep free of excesses." "Why, that is the way of the Cross." * * * * * Thus I feel no longer lonely and deserted. The young scholar seems to have come to me as a messenger from the Powers; I can confide all to him, and while we compare our experiences, we lend each other mutual I support on the narrow path in the valley of suffering. He also has been struck in his youth, and all men are violently roused from sleep! There is a universal awakening proceeding, and what is to be its goal? III MY WRETCHEDNESS INCREASES (cont.) Swedenborg, my guide in the darkness, has finally revealed himself as an avenger. His Arcana Coelestia speaks only of hell and of punishments which are executed by evil spirits, _i.e._ devils. Not a word of comfort or grace. And yet, while I was still young, the Devil had been got rid of; everyone laughed at him, and now, by the irony of accident, they are just preparing to keep the jubilee of the philosopher Bostrom, who did away with hell and annihilated the Devil. In my youth this thinker was regarded as a reformer, and now the Devil is preparing a renaissance for himself. He has crept into the productions of the so-called Satanic literature, into the fine arts by the side of Christ, and even into trade. Last Christmas I noticed that the Christmas presents were adorned with little devils and goblins, both the children's toys and comic objects which elder people buy for each other, such as spice cakes and almanacks. Is there really a devil, or is he only a half-real bugbear projected from the unseen in order to make a strong impression on us, and to drive us to the Cross? I had not yet succeeded in finding an answer to this question, when, one cold, wet evening my friends took me to a sculptor, who is a freethinker and atheist, as are the other members of the theosophical society to which he belongs. He has a private collection of clay ornaments on view intended for the Stockholm Exhibition. In these, with repulsive realism and cynicism, the Devil is represented in different attitudes, and always with a priest who is terrified at him. People laugh at them, but I cannot laugh, and think to myself "Wait, and we shall see!" After an interval of four months I meet the sculptor in the street. He looks troubled, as though some misfortune had happened to him. "Can you imagine," he says, "such a piece of infernal bad luck? They have just broken three of my best figures in unpacking them at the Exhibition." I feel immensely interested, and simultaneously with my condolence over his misfortune I ask with almost shameless curiosity, "And which of your statuettes were they?" "Three of the Devil, I believe." I do not laugh, but answer with a smile, "There, you see! Lucifer does not like to be caricatured." Some weeks later the sculptor receives another letter, and learns that the other figures have fallen from their pedestals and been broken, without the managers being able to say how it has happened. Consequently the unfortunate artist has lost a year, not counting the costs of production, and he finds himself struck out of the list of exhibitors. In his despondency he comforts himself by attributing it to accident, which means nothing, and yet which saves a man's pride, while bowing to blind Chance. One stoops one's head before a stone flung at one, but what of the flinger whom one is not conscious of having seen? * * * * * Meanwhile I obtain Swedenborg's works, one after another, and always at some favourable moment. In his "Dreams" I find all the symptoms of my illness, the nightly attacks and the difficulty in breathing. The facts which he records in these notes belong to the time before he had his revelations. That was for Swedenborg the period of "desolation," when he was delivered over to Satan for the destruction of the flesh. This helps me to understand the beneficent purposes of the invisible powers, without, however, bringing me comfort. Not till I read _Heaven and Hell_ do I begin to get help. There is, then, an object in these mysterious sufferings--the improvement and development of my personality to something greater, something like Nietzsche's imaginary ideal, but differently conceived. The Devil is not an independent being, equal to God, and His opponent. The invisible power which plagues us is the Spirit of discipline. A great step is taken when we see that evil does not exist for evil's sake, and we conceive a new hope of finding peace through penitence and conscientious watchfulness over our thoughts and actions. As I watch the events of daily life, a new method of education begins to operate upon me, and I learn to recognise, the system of signs which the invisible powers use. But my difficulties are great because of my age and the inveteracy of evil habits, and in consequence of a certain yieldingness of disposition I am all too prone to suit myself to my surroundings. It is so hard to be the first to quit a merry carouse; if I try to insist on my own way, my intimate friends call me "a bad boon-companion." But one has to learn to do everything in this world. For instance, at dinner, which I take at two o'clock, I had been accustomed to remain behind for coffee. One day at the beginning of February I am sitting there with my back against the outer wall, when my friends begin to discuss whether they shall order a bowl of punch. Instantly there comes a direct answer in the form of a terrible noise behind my back, so that the cups of coffee on the tray jump. It can be imagined what kind of a face I make. The cause of the noise is quite simple,--a workman is repairing the decoration of the wall outside. We adjourn to a special room. Immediately there breaks out a noise on the ceiling over my head. I rise and fly from the battlefield, and from that hour I never remain for coffee after dinner except on holidays. In the evening, on the other hand, I can drink a glass with my friends, since the object is not so much drink as the interchange of thought with learned people, who represent all branches of science. But often it happens that mere love of drink gets the upper hand, accompanied by unbridled hilarity and cynical suggestions. One's lower nature breaks through and the brutal instincts find free scope. It is so pleasant to be an animal for a while, one thinks to oneself, and besides life is not always so cheerful, and so on, to the same effect. One day, after I have for some time taken part in riotous drinking bouts, I am on the way to my restaurant. I pass by an undertaker's shop where a coffin is exposed to view. The street is strewn with fir branches, and the great bell of the cathedral is tolling a knell. Arrived at the restaurant, I find my table companion in trouble, as he has come straight from the hospital, where he has taken leave of a dying friend. As I return home after dinner by back streets, where I have not been before, I meet two funeral processions. How everything reeks of death to-day, and the tolling of the knell recommences! In the evening, as I am about to enter the tavern, I see an old man leaning against the wall, obviously drunk and ill. In order not to meet him, I make a detour and enter the dining-hall. My headache from yesterday's debauch, combined with the funereal impressions I have received in the course of the day, inspire me with a secret fear of alcohol, so that I order milk for my supper. In the midst of the meal there is a noise in the house mingled with cries of grief, and after a little while they carry in the old man I had seen near the entrance, his son leading the procession. His father was dead. A warning for drinkers! In the night following I had a terrible attack of nightmare. Some one hung fast on to my back and shook me by the shoulders. This was sufficient cause for me to be careful how I prolonged my drinking to a late hour. But I did not entirely renounce it. At the end of January I take rooms in a private house, and confront my fate steadfastly without seeking to find distraction in the presence of a friend. It is a duel, and there is no possibility of escape. As soon as I come home in the evening I ascertain at once how it stands with my conscience. A choking atmosphere, even when the windows are open, gives warning of a bad night. The terrible fear I feel brings on fever accompanied with a cold sweat, and when I search my conscience I at once find where the shoe pinches. But I fly no more, for it is useless. * * * * * Among the lessons which the avenging powers have given me is one which I dare not forget, that is, the command not to search into hidden things, because they are to remain hidden. For instance, in my excursions in Schonen, I had noticed a kind of stones found in scattered places of peculiar and very characteristic shapes. They represented either types of living creatures, such as birds, or hats and helmets. There were also others with furrows which resembled the tracings on meteoric stones. Without being clear as to their origin, I received the impression that they were not a mere freak of nature. Their form showed that they were works of art, produced and elaborated by human hands. For two years I continued to look for them, and after I had interested a friend of mine who lived at a distance in the matter, I told him where some could be found, that he might send me a photograph of them. But the expedition failed, and a year later I discovered that I had given him a wrong address. Ever since then, when I have obstinately set about such investigations, hindrances have arisen in such an extraordinary way that I could not attribute them to chance. Thus, for instance, I had resolved one morning to make an expedition with an antiquarian in order to solve the question once for all. In the street before my door a nail came loose in my boot and stuck in my foot. At first I took no notice of it, but as I approached my friend's door the pain became so great that I had to stand still. It was impossible to proceed, or to turn back. In great annoyance I drew off my boot and flattened the nail with my knife. A vague remembrance of a passage I had read in Swedenborg came to me simultaneously-- "When the avenging spirits see an evil act, or the intention to commit a wrong, they punish by inflicting pain in the foot, the hand, or the neighbourhood of the diaphragm." But I was so spurred on by the thirst for knowledge, which I regarded as lawful and praiseworthy, that I resumed my interrupted attempt, and soon joined my companion. We intended first to investigate a grotto in the park. But the entrance was blocked up with heaps of abominable filth piled up in such a challenging or rather ironical way as to make me smile. The other place, well known to me, where these stones are to be found, is in a garden, where great blocks of them are grouped round a tree, and they are easily got at. But this morning the gardener has fenced off the tree and the antiquities with a row of flower-pots, so that I cannot get there to show my learned companion anything. A pretty fiasco! Irritated by all these hindrances, I take my friend, who begins to look sceptical, right through the town to a courtyard where a whole museum of these curiosities has been collected. There the matter will be settled once for all, and I expect to see him startled. On our arrival we are greeted by the barking of a vile cur; as we endeavour to drive him off, the occupants of the house come into the courtyard, and we have to shout what we want in order to drown the noise of the barking dog. The objects of our search are surrounded by a closed fence, and the key cannot be found. "Are there any other places?" asks the antiquarian, who begins to despise me. "Yes, there are, but outside the town." I will not weary the reader with trifles. Suffice it to say, that after more or less vexatious wanderings, we did at last reach a pile of such stones. But there was witchcraft at work; I could show the antiquarian nothing, because he saw nothing, and I myself, as though dazzled, could not now distinguish in the shapes of the stones anything resembling living creatures. But on the next day, when I went to the place alone, I found a whole menagerie. The account of this adventure may close with a note regarding the character of these remains of pre-Adamite sculpture. The occultists attribute their origin to men of the Tertiary period, and place them in the same category as the colossal stone image found in the Easter Islands and in the desert of Gobi. Olaus Magnus mentions them also, and has found them in great numbers on the coast of Braviken in East Gothland. Swedenborg attributes to them a symbolical significance, and regards them as artistic products of the silver age. * * * * * To judge by what takes place in the narrow circle in which I live, the Powers do not allow me to chose my acquaintances, and still less to despise any one, whoever it may be. Like everyone else, I have sympathies and partialities for certain kinds of people. At present I seek for those seriously disposed, to whom I can impart my thoughts without being exposed to unpleasant and insulting jests. Providence has sent me a friend whom I prize highly on account of the pure atmosphere which surrounds him. Like a spoilt child I begin to despise the other uncultivated and uninspired souls, who occasionally find pleasure in coarseness. But just as I return, I found my friend has gone away. I cannot meet the others anywhere, and in my isolation I am compelled to humble myself to the utmost by begging for the society of insignificant persons, who, as a rule, have nothing to do with the society in which I move. After a number of experiences in this direction I make my old discovery again, that the difference between man and man is not so great as one supposes. As a matter of fact I have found real gentlemen among the lower classes, and how many saints and heroes may I not have unconsciously classed with those I despised! On the other hand, people lay stress on the proverb, "Evil companionship corrupts good manners"; but which is evil society, and which is the good? It might be supposed, as I have done, that a mission to preach was laid upon me, if I settled down in a strange town, without knowing why, but what is my business here? To preach morality? My conscience answers me "Yes; by thy example." But now no one takes me for an example, and what would be the use if I tried to preach to young men who have not sinned as much as I have? Besides, the period of the prophets seems to have come to an end. The Powers want to have nothing more to do with priests, but have taken the direct government of souls upon themselves, and one need not go far to find examples of this. One of our poets has recently been summoned before a court because of a collection of poems, some of which were considered injurious to morality. He has been acquitted by the jury, but can find no rest. In one of his poems he has challenged the Eternal to a wrestle, even though (he said) it should have to be decided in hell. It seems as though the challenge had been accepted, and the young man were compelled, like a broken reed, to sue for mercy. One evening, while he sits in a merry circle of friends, some power, unknown to the exact sciences, snatches the cigar from his mouth so that it falls to the ground. A little surprised, he picks up the cigar again, as though nothing had happened. But the same thing happens three times. Then the sceptic becomes as pale as death, and quits the place in silence, while his friends sit mute with astonishment. But when he reached home the rash man found a new surprise awaiting him. Without any visible cause, both his hands like those of a masseur began to chafe or rather to knead his whole body, which too much drinking had made unnecessarily obese. This involuntary massage continued without interruption for fourteen days, yet at the end of this time the wrestler feels himself sufficiently strengthened to enter the arena again. He hires an hotel and invites his friends to a Belshazzar's feast, which is to last three days. He means to show the world how Nietzsche's superman can control the evil spirits of wine. They drink through the whole of the first day till night falls, and with it falls the champion. But before he gives up the battle for lost the demons of wine take possession of the soul of this superman and fill him with such uncontrollable madness that he flings his guests out of the doors and windows, and so the feast ends. Whereupon the host is taken to an asylum. Thus the adventure was related to me, and I am sorry to have repeated it without the tears which one owes to misfortune. But the accused has gained a defender for his case, a young doctor, who offers to assist him in his conflict with the Eternal. Is it rash to connect these two facts? The doctor pleads the blasphemer's cause, and the doctor breaks his leg. Was it a mere chance that frightened his horse so that he shied and upset the carriage? I only ask the question. And how did it happen that the doctor, after he had been confined to his bed for several months, got up with a "sprung thigh sinew," that his formerly clear and firm look had a strange and wild expression, like that of a man who is no longer master of himself? Is it necessary for me to answer? In case one should say "Yes," I continue the narrative to the end. This doctor, a good fellow, intelligent and honest, came to me one day towards the end of summer, and confided to me that he was plagued with sleeplessness, and that a strange irritation woke him at night, and allowed him no rest till he got up. If he obstinately remained lying in bed he began to have palpitations. "Well?" he concluded, awaiting my answer with manifest impatience. "It was just the same with me," I replied. "And how did you get cured?" Was it cowardice, or did I obey an inner voice when I answered, "I took sulphonal." His face assumed an expression of disappointment, but I could do nothing for him. IV MIRACLES After three months of very severe winter weather, the first signs of spring begin to be visible. One's frozen senses begin to thaw, and the seeds sown under the snow begin to germinate. So much has happened, and instead of rejecting undeniable facts as fortuitous coincidences, I observe and collect them, and draw my inferences. At first I laugh at my own superstition, but later on I cease to smile, and do not know what to believe. Miracles happen, and that every day, but they do not happen to order. One day before noon I cross the market place, which is empty for the moment. As I have long suffered from "agoraphobia," I dread empty spaces, and cross it with scarcely concealed anxiety. Just now, when I am tired by work, and extremely nervous, the aspect of the deserted market place makes a very painful impression on me, so that I experience a desire to make myself invisible in order to escape curious eyes. I lower my head, fasten my eyes on the pavement, and feel as though I had compressed myself within myself, closed my senses, cut off communication with the outer world, and ceased to feel the influence of my surroundings. Almost unconsciously I have crossed over the market place. The next moment in the street two well-known voices call after me. I remain standing. "Which way did you come?" "Over the market place." "No! How could you? We stood waiting here to meet you and to have dinner together." "I assure you----" "Oh; then you made yourself invisible?" "Nothing is impossible." "For you, at any rate. They tell the most incredible stories about you." "I suspected something of the kind, as I have been seen near the Danube, when I was in Paris." This was really the case, but at this time I believed there were visions without any substratum of reality, and I let drop the remark, merely as a happy idea. The same day I take my evening meal alone, in the smaller dining-room of the inn. A man, whom I do not know, comes in, apparently to look for some one. He does not seem to notice me although he looks at all the tables, and, believing himself alone in the room, he begins to swear and talk aloud with himself. In order to apprise him of the presence of some one I knock with my fork against a glass. The stranger starts and seems surprised to see some one; he becomes suddenly silent, and hastens away. From that time I begin to ponder the subject of dematerialisation which the occultists believe in. And proofs follow rapidly. A week later, my attention was aroused by another strange occurrence. It was a Wednesday, when the dining-room of the inn is generally full because of the weekly market. In order to avoid the crowd and the discomfort, my usual table companion has ordered a special room, and, as he has come earlier than myself, he waits for me in the hall, and bids me go upstairs. But in order to save time, we agree to engage the tea-table in the dining-room. Unwillingly I march in behind my friend, because I abominate the drunken farmers and their bad language. Meanwhile we come through the crowd to the tea-table, where there was only one very quiet individual. After we had taken something without exchanging a single word, we retired to our private room, I following him. When we reached the door, my friend seemed astonished to see me. "Hullo! Where did you come from?" "From the tea-table, of course." "I never saw you; I thought you had remained up here." "Never saw me! Why, our hands crossed over the dishes. Can I then make myself invisible?" "Well, it is funny anyhow." When I delve in my memory, I bring now forgotten incidents to light, which were hitherto valueless to a sceptic whose mind had been sterilised by the study of the exact sciences. Thus I remember the morning of my first wedding day. It was a winter Sunday, peculiarly quiet and unnaturally solemn for me who was preparing to quit an impure bachelor life and to settle down by the domestic hearth with the woman I loved. I felt I should like to take my breakfast, the last in my bachelor life, quite alone, and with this object I went down to an underground café in a low street. It was a basement-room lit with gas. After ordering breakfast, I noticed that I was being watched by a number of men who were sitting, obviously in a state of intoxication, round their bottles, since the previous evening. They looked spectrally pale, uncouth, shabby; they were hoarse-voiced and disgusting, after a night spent in debauchery. Among the company I recognised two friends of my youth, who had so come down in the world that they had neither house nor home nor occupation, notorious good-for-nothings, not far from committing some crime. It was not pride which made me shrink from renewing the acquaintanceship; it was the fear of a relapse in the mire, the dislike of finding myself placed back in my past,--for I had gone through a similar stage. At last, when the comparatively soberest of them, chosen as an envoy, stood up in order to approach my table, I was seized with terror. Firmly resolved to deny my identity if necessary, I fix my eyes on my assailant, and without my knowing how it happened he remained standing for a moment before my table, and then with a silly expression, which I can never forget, he makes an apology and returns to his place. He had been prepared to swear that it was I, and yet he did not recognise me. Then they began to discuss my alibi. "It is he certainly." "Yes, the Devil take me, it is!" I quit the place filled with shame at myself and pity for the poor fellows, but in the depth of my heart glad at having escaped such a hateful existence. Escaped! Apart from the moral aspect of the question the strange fact remains, that one can so alter one's physiognomy as to be irrecognisable by an old acquaintance whom one meets and I salutes all through the year in the street. * * * * * In earlier times I used to go hunting alone, without a dog and often without a rifle. I wandered about at haphazard (it was in Denmark), and once as I was standing in a glade a fox jumped up suddenly beside me. He looked me in the face, in full sunlight, at a distance of about twenty steps. I stood motionless, and the fox continued to search the ground hunting for mice. I stooped to pick up a stone. Then it was his turn to make himself invisible, for he vanished in an instant without my seeing how he did so. When I searched the ground, I found there no trace of a fox-hole, and not even a bush behind which he might have hidden. He had vanished without the help of his legs. Here and there in the marshy meadows on the banks of the Danube herons often build their nests, and they are extremely shy birds. In spite of that, I could often surprise them without hiding myself. As long as I kept motionless, I could stand and watch them. Sometimes they even flew close over my head. No one would believe me when I related this, least of all sportsmen, and I concluded therefore that the matter was something above the ordinary. When I told this to my friend the theosophist in Lund, he remembered an occurrence to which he could never find the key. A workman whom he knew visited him, saying that he had found an antique work of art for sale, and asked him for an advance of five crowns. After the man had received the commission to buy it he had disappeared, and could be found nowhere for three whole months. One Sunday evening the theosophist and his wife were going down a back street, when he saw the man a little before him on the same pavement. "Now I have the fellow!" he exclaimed. He let go of his wife's arm, and hastened his steps, when suddenly the other disappeared, as if he had evaporated. As usual in such cases, the theosophist believed he was the victim of a delusion. At the same time there was no one else in the street, so that the possibility of a mistaken identity was excluded. Such is the bare fact. To explain the inexplicable is a contradiction in terms. There was there no open door nor window nor cellar hole into which the man might have slipped and hidden himself. When it is said that some human beings have the power to divert the visible light-rays from their proper direction, that is to say, to alter the quantity of refraction,--does this heap of words explain the problem, the stress of which lies in the Why and the Wherefore? The only supposition left is, that it was a miracle! Let it pass for such till we obtain further information, and, while we wait, let us collect data, and not attempt to refute them. V MY INCREDULOUS FRIEND'S TROUBLES I feel greatly embarrassed in narrating my friend's adventure, but I have begged his pardon beforehand, and he knows how unselfish my aims are. Besides, as he has related his troubles to everyone who would listen to them, without having deposed to the facts under a seal of secrecy, I have only to play the rôle of an impartial chronicler, and if I am looked at askance on account of that it is I who pay the penalty. My friend is an atheist and materialist, but enjoys the life which he despises, and fears death, which he does not know. At the beginning of our acquaintanceship, when he offered me a refuge in his house, he treated me with friendly brotherliness, and tended me like a sick person, that is to say, with the considerate sympathy of an intelligent free-thinker who understands mental disorders, and the indulgent treatment which they require. But even a freethinker may have his dark hours of depression, the cause of which he knows not. Late one evening, when the room was in twilight, and the lamps, though kindled, did not illuminate the corners where the shadows fell, my friend confided to me, in answer to my expressions of gratitude, that the obligation lay on his side. For he had, he said, a short while ago lost his best friend by death. Since then he was troubled by uneasy dreams, in which there always mixed the image of his departed friend. "You also?" I exclaimed. "I also! But you understand that I am only speaking of dreams such as one has at night." "Yes, certainly." "Sleeplessness, nightmares, and so forth. You know what it is to be ridden by a nightmare, which is a disorder of the chest caused by disturbed digestion following on excesses. Have you never had it?" "Yes, indeed. One eats crabs for supper, and then one has it! Have you tried sulphonal for it?" "Yes. But as to trusting doctors--you know yourself already, perhaps?" "I should think so! I know them thoroughly. But let us speak of your dead friend. Does he appear to you in a disturbing way,--I mean in dreams?" "I need hardly tell you it isn't he who appears before me. It is his corpse, and I am sorry to say he died under strange circumstances. Only think! A young talented man who had made a very promising début in literature must die of an obscure disease, tuberculosis miliaris, which caused his body to so decompose that it looked like a heap of millet." "And now his body appears to you?" "You don't understand what I mean. Let us drop the subject." * * * * * With his health shaken and his moods as varying as April weather, my friend seems to suffer from an acute degree of nervousness. When I part from him in February, he will never go alone to his house after sunset. Then he has an important pecuniary loss. There is some talk of instituting legal proceedings, and we fear that he may commit suicide, judging by expressions which he has let fall from time to time. Although recently engaged to be married, he regards the future in the most gloomy light. But instead of resisting his troubles, he takes a journey in order to distract his mind, and on his return invites his friends to a dinner to celebrate the occasion. But in the middle of the festival he has an attack of indisposition and is ordered to bed. As soon as I hear of it, on the second day of his illness, I go to him. A corpse-like odour pervades the house. The patient has grown black in the face, so that he can be scarcely recognised. He lies stretched out on the bed, and is watched by a friend and a nurse, whose hands he does not let go of for a moment. My coming startles him, weakened as he is by his continuous sufferings. Later on, when he is somewhat better, he tells me that he has had a vision of five devils in the shape of red apes with black eyes, which crept up, sat on the edge of his bed, and moved their tails up and down. When he has recovered his strength and put his pecuniary affairs in order, he tells his dream to every one who will listen, and they are much amused at it. From time to time he expresses his astonishment that destiny, which has hitherto favoured him, now begins to persecute him so that nothing will succeed and everything goes wrong. Amid these gloomy reflections, with intervals of cheerfulness, the unhappy man, who seems to have fallen into disfavour with the Powers, receives a fresh and crushing blow. A tradesman, who belonged to his set, has drowned himself, leaving debts, so that my friend who had gone surety for him for a considerable sum is still further embarrassed. His troubles now recommence in earnest. The body of the dead man appears in his kitchen, and he persuades a young doctor to pass the nights with him in order to drive away the phantoms. But the invisible powers are regardless of everything, and one night my friend wakes up to see the whole room full of mice. Fully convinced of their reality, he takes a stick and strikes at them till they disappear. That was an attack of delirium, but an attack shared by two, for in the morning his friend, who occupied the adjoining room, says that he heard the squeaking of mice from my friend's room. How are we to explain a hallucination which is seen by one and heard by another? When this adventure is related in sunshine and broad daylight, it is laughed at. Thereupon my friend begins to give a detailed description of the body of the suicide which had appeared to him, and he accompanies it with deliberately cynical remarks, "Cannot you imagine that it was quite black, and that the white maggots----" As an eye-witness, I can testify that in the same moment that he uttered these words he turned pale, stood up from the table, and with a gesture of disgust pointed to something on his plate. It was a white maggot crawling along a sardine. The next day my friend is obliged to break off his evening meal because he finds a piece of chicken surrounded by white maggots. He cannot eat although he is ravenously hungry, and becomes alarmed, but only for a moment. "What does it mean? What does it mean?" he says. "One should not speak ill of the dead. They revenge themselves." "The dead? But they are dead!" "Exactly. And therefore they are more alive than the living." My friend had, as a matter of fact, accustomed himself to speak openly of the weaknesses of the deceased, who, in spite of all, had been a good friend to him. Some days later, as we sat at table in the verandah of a garden-restaurant, one of the guests exclaimed, "Look at that rat! What a big fellow!" No one had seen it, and they laughed at the visionary. "Wait a minute!" he said, "you will soon see. It is there under the planks!" A minute passed, and a cat came from under the planks. "I think we have had enough of rats," my friend exclaimed, apparently much disturbed. After some time has elapsed, one evening I hear a knock at my door after I have gone to bed. I open it, and find myself face to face with my friend, who looks disturbed and excited. He asks to be allowed to stay and rest on a sofa, because there is a woman who screams the whole night in the house where he lives. "Is it a real woman, or a spectre?" "Oh, it is a woman with cancer, who only wants to be able to die. It is enough to drive one mad. If I don't end my days in an asylum, it will be strange." There is only a short sofa, and to see the tall man stretched out on such a thing, and two chairs placed by it, is as though one saw a slave on the rack. Hunted out of his pleasant house, and his comfortable bed, deprived of the simple pleasure of being able to undress himself, he rouses my sympathy and I offer him my bed as a sign of my gratitude. But he refuses. He asks to have the lamp lit, and the light falls straight on the unfortunate man's face. He fears the dark and I promise to sit up and watch. He lies and murmurs to himself till sleep has pity on him. "There is no doubt it is a sick woman, but still it is strange." For two whole weeks he is obliged to seek rest on other people's sofas. "This is really hell!" he exclaims. "Just what I think" is my answer. Another time when the "white woman" has appeared to him in the night he himself suggests the possibility that it may be a punishment. True to my rôle, I confine myself to a sceptical silence. I pass over others of his adventures and come to the story of the Madonna and the telepathic vision he had of some one at the moment he died. It is quite short. On the occasion of an excursion into the country my friend found himself in a little company gathered on the shore of a lake. In an access of cheerfulness and forgetfulness of his painful experiences he made the following suggestion,-- "This, on my faith, is the proper scene for a revelation of the Blessed Virgin! It would be a good speculation to set up a shrine for pilgrimages." At the same moment he turned pale, and to the great astonishment of his companions he exclaimed almost in an ecstasy,-- "Just now he has died." "Who?" "Lieutenant X. I saw him lying in the death struggle, the chamber, the attendants, and everything!" His friends laughed at him, but on their return to the town they were met by the news of Lieutenant X.'s death. It had happened suddenly, exactly at half-past seven o'clock, at the same moment in which the visionary received intimation of it. Those who had ridiculed him were greatly impressed, so that they involuntarily shed tears, not of grief, for the death of the lieutenant was a matter of indifference to them, but of emotion at the strange occurrence. The newspapers made a fuss over the affair. The honest ones did not deny the fact, while the dishonest ones suggested that the witnesses were liars. The result was a protest on the part of my friend the heretic, who acknowledged the real facts of the case, but explained them as an accidental coincidence. I grant that a certain apparent modesty would rule out as impossible all interference of invisible powers in our petty affairs, but this modesty itself may be an "obstacle cast up by the unrepentant." This seems to be suggested by the following words of Claude de Saint Martin:-- "It is perhaps this wrong connection of ideas (that the earth is only a mere point in the universe) which has led men to the still falser notion that they are not worthy of the Creator's regard. They have believed themselves to be obeying the dictates of humility when they have denied that the earth and all that the universe contains only exist on man's account, on the ground that the admission of such an idea would be only conceit. But they have not been afraid of the laziness and cowardice which are the inevitable results of this affected modesty. The present-day avoidance of the belief that we are the highest in the universe is the reason that we have not the courage to work in order to justify that title, that the duties springing from it seem too laborious, and that we would rather abdicate our position and our rights than realise them in all their consequences. Where is the pilot that will guide us between these hidden reefs of conceit and false humility?" Meanwhile I have gained a thorough knowledge of all my friend's weaknesses, and can predict the troubles he will suffer by day or night by observing his behaviour. My observations lead me to the conclusion that all his ailments spring from "moral" grounds. But "moral" is a word which is nowadays despised and suspected, and I am not the man to reassert it. Only on one occasion, when the unfortunate man was in a state of deep depression, I said to him out of sympathy, and by way of putting up a sign-post for him, "If you had read Swedenborg before your last attack at night you would have gone into the Salvation Army or become a hospital attendant!" "How so?" he asked. "What does this Swedenborg say?" "He says a great deal, and he it is who has saved me from going mad. Consider now, he has given me back the power of sleep by a single sentence of four words." "Say it, I beg you." My courage sank, and has failed me every time that the possessed man has asked for this formula of exorcism. But here I write down the four words which are worth all the doctors' regulations, "_Do this no more_." Everyone's conscience must interpret the word "this" for himself. I, the undersigned, declare that I have obtained health and quiet sleep by obeying the above receipt. THE AUTHOR. This is a confession, not an exhortation. MISCELLANIES No one has been so tried by fate as the doctor of whom I spoke in the first chapter under the sobriquet of leader of the youthful revolters. After countless changes of opinion he has become sober and almost morbidly scrupulous. He regards himself as bankrupt in everything, and distrusts everyone. Deprived of the faculties which render us capable of enjoyment and of suffering, he is indifferent to everything. He began his career as an enthusiast for the freedom of the individual, for the democracy, and for the liberation of women, and has seen his hopes completely disappointed. He who was an ardent champion of free love has seen the woman of his choice, for whom he himself had great respect, sink in the deepest infamy. He is now thirty years old. During some years' residence abroad he has lived a painful life as a lonely wanderer; he has worn threadbare clothing and endured poverty, hunger, and cold, and all the humiliations of a man laden with debt. He has slept at night in woods and open parks for want of a dwelling; and has nourished himself with the gelatine and starch which were used in the laboratory where he was an assistant. As a result of his privations he had less power to resist alcohol, and although lie was not a drunkard, the effect of the small quantity of drink which he could procure was too much for him. Abandoned to the mercy of fortune by his relatives, he was helped by a Swedenborgian, whom he hardly knew, to enter an institution for the cure of nervous diseases. After some months he was healed, and returned to the university in Sweden. He was told, however, that he would have to practise total abstinence. It was he who lent me Swedenborg's _Arcana Coelestia_, and later on his _Apocalypsis Revelata_. He had not read them himself, but had found them in the library of his mother, who was a Swedenborgian. One thing surprises me, that although up to my forty-ninth year I have never come across the works of Swedenborg, whom the cultivated classes in Sweden openly despise, yet now he turns up everywhere--in Paris, on the Danube, in Sweden, and that in the course of a single half year. Meanwhile my friend, with his destroyed illusions, remains indifferent in spite of the blows which fate has repeatedly dealt him. He cannot stoop, and thinks it unworthy of a man to kneel to unknown powers who might some day reveal themselves as tempters, whose temptations or tests one should have resisted to the uttermost. I do not conceal from him my new religious views without, however, wishing to influence him. "You see," I say to him, "religion is a thing which one must appropriate for oneself; it is no use preaching it." Often he listens to me with apparent attention, and often he smiles. Sometimes he disappears for a fortnight together, as though he were vexed, but he comes again and looks as if he had been brooding over some thought. Sometimes, in order to help him, I let drop, as though by chance, an interrogatory remark, "Something is happening, isn't it?" "I don't know; it is so absurd that there must be jugglery in it." "What is it, then?" "Every morning when I enter the laboratory I find my things in confusion,--you cannot think what it looks like,--and the table in a mess. And that although I take the greatest pains to keep the place clean." "Is it some one with a spite against you?" "Impossible, for I am the last to leave the room, and if there were anyone he would be immediately discovered." "Then is it----?" "Well, who?" "Some one unseen?" "I don't say so, but latterly it does seem as though some one were watching me, and could read my most secret thoughts. And if I ever kick over the traces, I am pulled up at once in a moment." "Have you ever had similar abnormal experiences before?" "Not I myself, but my mother and sister, who are Swedenborgians, have. Wait a minute, though! I did have one, just two years ago, in Berlin." "Let me hear it." "It was as follows:--I entered a lavatory near the Linden Avenue one evening, and saw beside me a bare-headed man of a questionable and strange appearance. He had a protuberance on the back of his neck, and to my astonishment he 'yodeled'[1] like a Tyrolese. The painful impression which this individual with his lugubrious physiognomy made on me remained with me unconsciously, and in order to shake it off I continued my walk outside the town, and finally found myself in the country. Tired and hungry I entered an inn, where I ordered at the bar a Frankfort sausage and a pint of beer. 'A Frankfort sausage and a pint--' of beer,' repeated some one at my side, and, as I turned round, I saw the man with the protuberance on his neck. Thrown into complete confusion, I went on my way without waiting for what I had ordered, and, unable to give the reason for my abrupt departure, I have never thought any more of this insignificant occurrence, but I have a very vivid impression of it, and it just now recurs to me." When he had finished he covered his eyes with both hands, as though he wished to obliterate the picture by rubbing the pupil of his eye. which still retained the portrait of the man. While the above narrative with its details is fresh in the reader's memory, I will introduce another, which, through its connection with the former, may perhaps bring us a little nearer our goal. On the first of May I went pretty early through the Park to eat dinner with a school-master. When we had sat down at a table in the large, open balcony, which was empty, I suddenly experienced a feeling of discomfort, and as I turned round on my chair I perceived a man of very questionable appearance, and with an unsteady, irresolute expression in his eyes. "Who is that?" I asked my companion, who was an old inhabitant of Lund, and knew the whole population. "A foreigner, certainly." The stranger, bare-headed and silent, came near, and, when he stood directly in front of me, he regarded me with such a piercing look that I felt a burning pain in my breast. We changed our seats. The man followed us without breaking silence. His looks were neither malicious nor severe, but rather melancholy and expressionless like those of a somnambulist. Then I had a recollection, which was too vague to be conscious, and addressed a question to my companion. "That man there resembles one of our friends, but which of them?" "Yes, certainly; he is just like what our friend Martin would be at forty-five." At this moment there sprang up from a mass of confused memories the Berlin Lavatory and "Friend Martin" (as the unfortunate doctor was called), pursued by this stranger. Meanwhile the man had taken a seat near us and turned his back. How great was my astonishment when I noticed a protuberance on his neck! In order to clear up the matter, I asked my companion, "Can you see a protuberance on this fellow's neck?" "Yes, distinctly. What of that?" I did not answer, because it would have been too long a story. Besides, the school-master was a declared foe of occultism. The same evening I saw Friend Martin in the middle of a swarm of students. Without beating about the bush I asked him directly, "Where were you to-day between one and two o'clock?" "Why? Why do you ask that?" And he looked embarrassed as he spoke. "Only answer my question." "I was asleep. I am not accustomed to sleep in the day, and therefore your question embarrassed me." "And yet you go outside and roam about during your sleep." "It looks like it, for some days ago, while I slept, I saw the fire which had broken out in the Museum. That is the simple truth." After this admission on his part, I described to him the appearance in the Park, and compared it with what he had seen in Berlin. But he was in good spirits, and though the protuberance in the neck made him shudder, he exclaimed, "The description fits to a T. It is my double!" And we both laughed. * * * * * I pause here for a moment in order to expound the possible theories of the phenomenon known as a man's "double" (_doppelgänger_). The Theosophists assume it as a fact that the soul, or the "astral body," has the power to quit the body and to clothe itself in a quasi-material form which under favourable circumstances can be visible to many. All so-called telepathic experiences are thus explained. The creations of the imagination have no reality, but some visions and hallucinations have a kind of materiality. Similarly, in optics, one distinguishes between virtual and real images, the latter of which can be projected on a screen or fixed on a sufficiently sensitive photographic plate. Suppose that an absent person thinks of me, by evoking my personality in his remembrance; he only succeeds in creating a virtual image of me by a free and conscious effort of his own. But suppose again that an old aunt of mine in a foreign country sits at the piano without thinking of me, and sees me then standing in person behind the instrument; she has _seen_ a virtual image of me. And this actually happened in the autumn of 1895. I remember that I was then passing through a dangerous illness in the French capital, when my longing to be in the bosom of my family overcame me to such a degree that I saw the inside of my house and for a moment forgot my surroundings, having lost the consciousness of where I was. I was really there behind the piano as I appeared, and the imagination of the old lady had nothing to do with the matter. But since she understood these kind of apparitions, and knew their significance, she saw in it a precursor of death and wrote to ask if I were ill. In order the better to elucidate this problem, I will insert here an essay of my own printed last year in the Initiation, which has points of contact with the above-mentioned occurrence. "OBSERVATIONS ON THE IRRADIATION AND DILATABILITY OF THE SOUL." "To be beside oneself" and "to collect oneself" are two phrases in every-day use, which express well the capacity which the soul possesses of expanding and contracting. Fear makes it shrink and contract, and joy, happiness, or success make it expand. Go alone into a full railway carriage, where no one knows another, but all are sitting silent. Each feels, according to his degree of sensibility, an extreme discomfort. There is a manifold crossing of irradiations from souls in different moods which causes a general feeling of oppression. It is not warm, but one feels as though one were stifled; the senses, charged to overflowing with magnetic fluids, feel as if they must explode; the intensity of the electric streams, strengthened by influence and condensation, perhaps also by induction, has reached its maximum. Then some one begins to speak. A discharge of electricity takes place, and the various currents neutralise each other when all present enter upon a trivial conversation to relieve a physical necessity. The person fond of solitude draws back into his corner, closes his inner eye and ear, and sinks in himself in order to ward off a new "influence." Or he looks at the landscape through the window, and lets his thoughts wander, while he steps outside the magic circle of those shut up with him, to whom, however, he is indifferent. The secret of the success of a great actor consists in his inborn capacity of letting his soul "ray out," and thus enter into touch with the audience. In great moments there is actually a radiance round an eloquent speaker, visible even to the incredulous. The actor with a dreamy nature, who has a keen intelligence, and has studied much, but not acquired the power of going out of himself, will never make a great impression on the stage. Shut up in himself, his mind cannot penetrate the minds of the spectators. In the great crises of life, when existence itself is threatened, the soul attains transcendent powers. It seems sometimes as though the fear of poverty drove the tortured soul to fly to seek a life somewhere else, where living is easier, and it is not for nothing that suicide attracts the unhappy by promising to open the gates of their prison. Some years ago I had the following experience. One autumn morning I sat at my writing table before, the window, which looked out on a gloomy street in a small industrial town of Moravia. In the neighbouring room, of which the door was on the jar, my wife, who was expecting her first confinement, was resting. While I was writing, I imagined myself transplanted to a scene many hundred miles north, which I well knew. Although where I was, it was autumn and approaching winter, I found myself in my thoughts under a green oak in the sunshine. The little garden which I had myself cultivated in my youth was there; the roses--I could tell them by their names--the syringas, the jasmines exhaled their scents so that I could smell them; I picked caterpillars off my cherry-trees, I trimmed the currant-bushes *** Suddenly I hear a hoarse cry, I find myself standing on the ground, I feel a kind of cramp in my spine causing intolerable pain, and fall senseless on my chair. When I recover consciousness, I find that my wife had come from behind in order to say good morning, and had quite gently laid her hand upon my shoulder. "Where am I?" That was my first question, and I said it in my native language, which my wife, as a foreigner, did not understand. The impression which I received from this occurrence was, that my soul had dilated itself and left the body without breaking the connection of the invisible threads, and I needed a certain though ever so small an interval to recollect in some degree that I was conscious and intact in the room, where I had just been sitting and working. If, according to the old methods of explanation, my soul had merely sunk in herself and still remained confined in the limits of the body, it would have been able to expand itself again with greater readiness and swiftness, and I would not have suffered so much through being surprised during my absence. No. I was absent, "_franvarande_"--that is the Swedish word for "distracted "--and my soul returned so suddenly as to cause me suffering. But the pains were felt in the neighbourhood of the spine and not in the brain, and this reminds me of the important functions attributed to the "plexus solaris" when I studied medicine in my youth. Another occurrence, which happened to me three years ago in Berlin, is to my mind sufficient proof that the exteriorisation or displacement of the soul can happen under certain extraordinary circumstances. After soul-shattering crises, troubles, and an irregular life, I was sitting one night between one and half-past in a wine shop, at a table which was always reserved for our coterie. We had been eating and drinking since six o'clock, and I had been obliged the whole time to carry on the conversation practically alone. The problem was for me to give sensible advice to a young officer who was on the point of changing a military career for that of an artist. As he happened to be at the same time in love, his nerves were in a very over-strained condition, and after having received in the course of the day a letter containing reproaches from his father, he was quite beside himself. I forgot my own wounds while I was tending those of another. The task was a difficult one, and caused me some mental disturbance. After arguments and endless appeals, I wished to call up in his memory a past event which might influence his resolve. He had forgotten the occurrence in question, and in order to stimulate his memory, I began to describe it to him. "You remember that evening in the Augustiner tavern." I continued to describe the table where we had eaten our meal, the position of the bar, the door through which people entered, the furniture, the pictures *** All of a sudden I stopped. I had half lost consciousness without fainting, and still sat in my chair. I was in the Augustiner tavern and had forgotten to whom I spoke, when I recommenced as follows: "Wait a minute, I am now in the Augustiner tavern, but I know very well that I am in some other place. Don't say anything *** I don't know you any more, but yet I know that I do. Where am I? Don't say anything; this is very interesting." I made an effort to raise my eyes--I don't know if they were closed--and I saw a cloud, a background of indistinct colour, and from the ceiling descended something like a theatre curtain; it was the dividing wall with shelves and bottles. "Oh yes!" I said, relieved after feeling a pang pass through me, "I am in F.'s" (the wine shop). The officer's face was distorted with alarm, and he wept. "What is the matter?" I said to him. "That was dreadful," he answered. "What?" When I have related this story to others, they have objected that it was a fainting fit or an attack of giddiness, words which say little and explain nothing. First and foremost, fainting fits and giddiness are accompanied by loss of consciousness. Nor was it a case of amyosthenia (depression of muscular action), as I remained sitting on my chair, and spoke consciously about my partial unconsciousness. At that time I was unaware of the phenomenon itself, and did not know the expression "exteriorisation of sensibility." Now that I know it, I am sure that the soul possesses the power of expansion which it exercises in a very high degree during ordinary sleep, and at death to such an extent that it leaves the body, and is by no means extinguished. Some days ago, as I was going along the pavement, I saw an inn-keeper before his door, loudly abusing a knife-grinder who was standing in the street. I did not want to cut off the connection between the two, but it could not be avoided, and I felt a keen feeling of discomfort as I passed between the two quarrelling men. It was as though I divided a cord which was stretched between them, or rather as though I crossed a street which was being sprinkled on both sides with water. The connection between friends, relatives, and especially between husband and wife, is a real bond and has a palpable actuality. We begin to love a woman, and deposit our soul piece-meal, so to speak, with her. We double our personality, and the loved one, who was formerly indifferent and neutral, begins to clothe herself in our other "I," and becomes our counterpart. When she takes it into her head to depart with our soul, the pain which it causes us is perhaps the most violent that there is, only to be compared to that of a mother who has lost her child. There is a painful sense of emptiness and woe to the man who has not strength enough to begin to divide himself again and to find another vessel to fill. Love is an act through which the masculine blossom attains to fruit, because it is the man who loves, and it is a sweet illusion to suppose that he is loved by his wife, his other self, a creation of his own. Between a married pair the invisible bond often develops itself in a mediumistic fashion. They can call each other from a distance, read each other's thoughts, and practise mutual "suggestion" when they like. They no longer feel the need of speech; the mere presence of the beloved gives joy, her soul radiates warmth. When they are divided the bond between them expands; the sense of longing and pining increases with distance, sometimes to such a degree as to involve the breaking of the bond, and thereby death. For many years I have taken notes of all y dreams, and have arrived at the conviction lat mail leads a double life, that imaginations, fancies, and dreams possess a kind of reality. So that we are all of us spiritual somnambulists, and in dreams commit acts which, according to their varying character, accompany us when we are awake with feelings of satisfaction or an evil conscience and fears of the consequences. And from reasons, which I reserve the right to explain some other time, I believe that the so-called persecution-mania really springs from pains of conscience after evil deeds which one has committed in sleep, and of which vague recollections haunt us. The imaginations of the poet, which prosaic, souls so despise, are realities. "And what about death?" you ask. To the brave man who does not set too great a value on life, I would at an earlier stage of my experience have recommended the following experiment, which I have repeatedly made, not without troublesome, but in all cases easily cured, physical results. After closing windows, doors, and the stove-flue, I place an open bottle containing cyan-kalium on the table and lie down on the bed. The carbonic acid in the air liberates in a little time the cyanic acid in the bottle, and the well-known physical symptoms follow--a slight throbbing of the throat, and an indescribable taste in the mouth, which I might by analogy call "cyanic," paralysis of the biceps-muscle, and pain in the stomach. The deadly effect of cyanic acid remains still a mystery. Different authorities ascribe different methods of operation to this poison. One says, "paralysis of the brain"; another, "paralysis of the heart"; a third, "suffocation as a secondary consequence of the medulla oblongata being attacked," etc. But since the effect may show itself at once, before absorption has taken place, the method of operation must be regarded much more as psychical, especially when one has regard to the use of cyanic acid in medicine as a quieting remedy in so-called nervous diseases. As regards the condition of the soul under this experiment, I would say the following: It does not seem to undergo a slow extinction, but rather a dissolution during which the pleasant sensations far outweigh the trifling pains. The mental capacities gain in clearness, exactly contrary to their condition at the approach of sleep; one is in full possession of one's will, and I can break off the experiment by corking the bottle, opening the window, and inhaling chlorine or ammonia. I do not lay much stress upon it, but supposing that we could obtain satisfactory proofs of the temporary condition of death into which Indian fakirs can throw themselves, the experiment might be prolonged without danger. In case of an accident one must proceed with the various methods which are used to resuscitate a person who has been choked. The fakirs use warm compresses on the brain, the Chinese warm the pit of the stomach and cause sneezing. In his remarkable book, _Positive and Negative_ (1890), Vial relates, following Trousseau and Piloux: "In the year 1825 Carrero stifled and drowned a large number of animals, which he afterwards resuscitated a long time after death by simply inserting needles into their brain." * * * * * In my book _Inferno_, I have spoken of my brother in misfortune the German-American painter, and of the quack Francis Schlatter who was suspected of being his "double." The time has come when I am obliged to compromise my friend with the sole object of helping the investigation into the relation between them. My friend's name was H., whether real or assumed. When I had returned to Paris in August 1897, I was turning over, one day, the _Revue Spirite_ for the year 1859. I found there an article, headed "My Friend H." Under this title a certain Herr H. Lugner had published in the feuilleton of the _Journal des Débats_ for 26th November 1858 a narrative which he asserted to be fact, and offered to witness to, if necessary, as he himself was a friend of the hero of the adventure. The latter was a young man, aged five and twenty, of irreproachable morals and thoroughly amiable character. H. could not keep awake as soon as the sun went down. An irresistible weariness came over him, and he sank gradually in a deep sleep, from which nothing could rouse him. In brief, H. lived a double life, so that at night he committed criminal acts in Melbourne under the name William Parker. When, later on, Parker was executed, H., in Germany, was simultaneously found dead in his bed. Whether the story was true or a product of the imagination, it interested me, because of the coincidence of names, and also of some of the circumstances. Modern literature has already dealt with the phenomenon of the _Doppelgänger_ (double) in the famous romance _Trilby_, and in another by Paul Lindau. It would be interesting to know whether the authors have based their narrative on facts or no. Meanwhile we return to friend Martin. In order to obtain some distraction, he undertook a cruise to Norrland and Norway, and expected to derive from it a real feeling of freedom and much pleasure. After some weeks I meet him in a street in Lund. "Have you had a pleasant journey?" I ask. "No; a devil's journey! I don't know what to believe. There is certainly some one who challenges me, and the fight is unequal. Listen! I went to Stockholm to amuse myself at the great exhibition, and though I have hundreds of friends there, I did not meet one. They were all in the country, and I found myself alone. I only stayed in my room one day, and was then turned out of it by a stranger to whom my brother, by mistake, had previously promised it. Ill-luck made me so stupid that I did not go and see the exhibition, and as I wandered about alone in the streets, suddenly a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. It was a very seriously disposed uncle of mine, whom I had not seen twice in my life, and who was the last man I wished to see. He invited me to spend the whole evening with him and his wife. I had to swallow everything I disliked. It was like witchcraft. Then I went on alone in a railway carriage for hundreds of miles, through scenery that was deadly dull. At Areskutan, the principal object of my excursion, there was only one hotel, and in this hotel all my antipathies had appointed a rendezvous. The Free Church pastor was feeding his flock there, and they were singing psalms morning, noon, and evening. It was enough to drive one wild, and yet it seemed quite natural. There was only one thing which seemed to me somewhat strange, or with a smack of the occult about it. That was, that in this quiet and well-kept hotel they were hammering up large boxes at night." "Over your head?" "Yes; just over! And, strangely enough, this hammering followed me to Norway. When I ask the hotel manager for an explanation, he declared he had heard nothing." "That is just like my own experience." "Yes." I would not have related these trivial and in themselves repellent stories, did not their very absurdity suggest the existence of a reality, which yet is neither real objectively nor a mere vision, but a phantasmagoria called up by the invisible powers, to warn, to teach, or to punish. This condition, called by the theosophists "Astralplanet," is also described by Swedenborg in the last part of his _Arcana_, "Visiones et Visa." There are two kinds of visionary states which are beyond nature, and in which I have been placed merely to experience what they are like, and what is to be understood by the expressions to be "rapt from the body," and "to be carried by the spirit" to another place. 1. A man is placed in a condition between sleep and waking; when he is in this state he seems to himself to be fully awake. This is the condition of being "rapt from the body," when one does not know whether one is in the body or out of the body. 2. Wandering through the streets of a city and over the fields, and holding converse with spirits, I seemed to myself to be as much awake and alert as on ordinary occasions. Thus I wandered without quitting the road. Yet all the while I was in a vision, and saw woods, rivers, palaces, houses, men, and other things. But after I had wandered thus for some hours, I fell suddenly into a state of corporeal hallucination, and was aware that I was in another place. At this I was greatly surprised, and saw that I was in such a condition as those are who are said to be "carried by the Spirit to another place." * * * * * Friend Martin since his return from his excursion lives alone in his parents' house, because the family have scattered in different directions for their summer holiday. I will not say that he is afraid, but he is uncomfortable. Sometimes he hears steps and other sounds from the room of his absent sister, sometimes sneezing. Some days ago he heard in the middle of the night a sharp metallic sound, like that of a scythe being sharpened. "Taking it all in all," he concluded, "wonderful things do occur, but if I once began to engage in dealings with the invisible powers I should be lost." That was his last word, as autumn approached with great strides. [1] Gave a peculiar cry. VII STUDIES IN SWEDENBORG While all these occurrences went on in every-day life, I continued my studies in Swedenborg--that is to say, his works, which are hard to procure, fell into my hands one after the other, at very long intervals. In the _Arcana Coelestia_, hell is represented as everlasting, without any hope of an end, and bare of every word of comfort. The _Apocalypses Revelata_ expounds a method of systematic penance, and the result was that I lived under its spell till the spring. Sometimes I shook it off while I entertained the hope that the Prophet was deceived in details, and that the Lord of Life and Death would show Himself more merciful. But what cannot be denied is the startling coincidence between Swedenborg's visions, and all events great or small which have happened to me and my friends during this year of terror. It was not till March that I found in an antiquarian bookseller's shop _The Wonders of Heaven and Hell_ and _Conjugal Love_. Not till then was I freed from the spiritual burden that had secretly oppressed me ever since I first became aware of the Invisible. In them I learned that God is Love. He does not reign over slaves, and has therefore bestowed on mortals the gift of free will. Evil has no independent power, but is a servant of God, fulfilling the functions of a disciplinary force. Punishments are not endless; every one is free to expiate by patience the wrongs which he has done. The sufferings which are, imposed upon us are intended to improve our character. The operations which constitute the preparation for a spiritual life begin with "Devastation" (vastatio), and consist in constriction of the chest, difficulty of breathing, symptoms of suffocation, heart affections, terrible attacks of fear, sleeplessness, nightmare. This process, which Swedenborg underwent in the years 1744 and 1745, is described in his book Dreams. The diagnosis of this kind of illness corresponds in every point to the ailments which are just now so common, so that I do not shrink from drawing the conclusion that we are approaching a new era in which there will be spiritual awakening, and it will be a joy to live. Angina pectoris, sleeplessness, nightly terrors, all these symptoms which doctors wish to class as epidemic, are nothing else but the work of unseen powers. For how can the systematic persecution of healthy men by unprecedented bizarre occurrences, disturbances and annoyances be regarded as an epidemic sickness? An epidemic of coincidences? That is certainly absurd. * * * * * Swedenborg has become my Virgil, who guides me through hell, and I follow him blindly. He certainly is a terrible chastiser, but he knows also how to comfort, and he seems to me less severe than the Protestant theologians. "A man may amass riches, if he does so honestly and uses them honestly; he may clothe himself and live according to his means; he may hold intercourse with people of the same social standing as himself, enjoy the innocent pleasures of life, look joyful and contented, and not morose. He can, in a word, live and act like a rich man in this world, and after he dies go straight to heaven, if only in his heart he has faith in God and love to Him, and behaves as he should towards his neighbour." "I have met several of those who, before they died, had renounced the world and retired into solitude, in order to devote themselves to the contemplation of heavenly things, and thereby to make themselves a surer path to heaven. They nearly all had a gloomy and depressed appearance, seemed to be annoyed that others were not like them, and that they themselves were not rewarded with greater honour and a happier lot. They live in hidden places, like hermits, almost in the same way as they had lived in our world. Man is created to live in harmony with others; in society and not in solitude he finds numerous opportunities of exercising Christian mildness towards his neighbours." In solitude one only contemplates oneself, forgetting all others. Consequently one thinks only of oneself, or of the world, in order to avoid it or to feel the want of it, which is the opposite of Christian love. As regards the so-called everlasting punishments, at the last moment, the seer appears as a deliverer, and allows a ray of hope to dawn on us. He says, "Those among them, for whose deliverance one may hope, are set in waste places, which only afford a picture of desolation. They are left there till their sorrow has darkened into despair, because this is the only means to conquer the evil and falsehood which rule them. Arrived at this point, they cry out that they are no better than animals, that they are full of hate and all kinds of abomination, and that they are damned. These exclamations are pardoned them, as being cries of despair, and God softens their mood, so that their expressions of reproach and abuse do not transgress the assigned limits. When they have suffered all that can be suffered, so that their bodies are also dead, they are troubled no more about it, and are prepared for deliverance. I have seen some of them taken to heaven after they have been visited with all the sufferings of which I have spoken. When they were admitted, they displayed such great joy that I was moved to tears." What the Catholics call "_conscientia scrupulosa_," a tender conscience, is caused by malicious spirits, who induce pangs of conscience for nothing at all. They delight in laying a load on the conscience, and this state has nothing to do with the improvement of the sinner. In a similar way there are unwholesome temptations. Evil spirits evoke in the depth of the soul all the evil it has committed since childhood, and bring its worst side uppermost. But the angels discover all the good and true which they can in the exhausted soul. That is the strife which is revealed under the name, "pangs of conscience." I stop here, because I do my Master an injustice by tearing asunder the web which he has so well woven together, and by exhibiting the fragments as samples. Swedenborg's work is one of enormous compass, and he has answered all my questions, however presumptuous they may have been. Disquiet soul, suffering heart, "_Take up and read_." VIII CANOSSA Exhausted by these mysterious persecutions, I have for a long time undertaken a careful examination of my conscience, and, true to my new resolve not to justify myself as against my neighbour, I find my past life abominable and am disgusted at my own personality. "It is true that I have incited the younger generation to rebel against law and order, against religion, authority, morality. That is my godlessness, for which I am now I punished, and which I now retract." So I say to myself, and after a pause in the current of my thoughts I reverse the question, and ask, "And the others, the opposers of my revolutionary views, the pious defenders of morality, of the State, of religion, can _they_ sleep at night? and have the Powers prospered them in their worldly affairs?" When I pass in review the pillars of society and their various fortunes, I am compelled to answer, "No!" The brave champion of the Ideal in poetry and in life, the poet popular with the steady and respectable bourgeois class, cannot now sleep at night owing to violent attacks of hysteria. To add to his troubles, his guardian angel left him in the lurch, so that his affairs became embarrassed from his engaging in speculations which nearly reduced him to beggary. It is no joy for me to remember this, for it increases my depression when I see how the noblest efforts only lead to beggary. What of my opponent in religion? He who wished to have me imprisoned for blasphemy has himself been arrested for falsification in the transfer of property. But don't think, reader, that I make his sin an excuse for my blasphemies. It is a trouble to me not to be able to keep my belief in the purifying effect of Christianity, in view of such a startling example, to the contrary. Then the lady who took morality under her protection, the friend of oppressed women, the prophetess who in fiery and candid essays preached celibacy to young men--what has become of her? No one knows it, but on her there rests a dark and terrible suspicion. Edifying, is it not? As to the other pillars of moral and religious order, I pass them over, whether they have put a bullet through their brains, or decamped to avoid an ominous investigation. Speaking briefly, judgment seems to strike the just and unjust alike, and one may prove as good as another. What is it then that is taking place in the world to-day? Is it the irrevocable doom pronounced against Sodom? Must all perish? Are there none righteous? Not one! May we then be friends and suffer in common as fellow-sinners, without exalting ourselves, one above another. * * * * * I have apologised for my culpable actions, and abjure my past. Let me now say a word in self-defence. It is a common characteristic of youth in all ages to be in revolt, frivolous, disorderly. Am I the first inventor of revolt or sin? Formerly I was the youth led astray, the child of my time, the disciple of my teachers, the victim of seduction. Whose is the fault, and why have they made me a scapegoat? Suppose that it was a lie, and that I am not the person for whom men take me? But here the accusation of "black magic" comes in to turn the scales. But it was out of ignorance that I had recourse to that. Well then, what about the revolt against the Invisible? Yes, I did revolt. But how about the others who spent their lives on their knees in devotion and self-denial, and who have all been disowned? Let us acknowledge that the state of affairs is desperate, and that we are all handed over to the power of the Prince of this world to be bowed in the dust and humbled till we are disgusted with ourselves, in order that we may feel homesick for heaven. Self-contempt, anger at one's own personality, the result of vain endeavours to improve oneself--that is the way to a higher life. And remember one thing: the way to Rome, the imperial route lay through Canossa! IX THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION In spite of all the sufferings which I have endured, the spirit of rebellion in me is still erect, and suggests doubts as to the benevolent designs of my invisible guide. An accident (?) has brought into my hands Schikaneder's text of the opera of the _Magic Flute_. The sufferings and temptations of the young pair suggest to me the thought that I have let myself be duped by misleading voices, and that I had bowed myself and submitted, simply because I could not endure the pains and difficulties. Immediately I remember Prometheus who storms at the gods while the vulture gnaws his liver. And at last the rebel is admitted to the circle of the Olympians without making an open recantation. The fire is now kindled, and immediately evil spirits add fuel to it. An occult magazine, sent by post, encourages my cowardice by propounding subversive theories, such as the following: "As is well known, in the old books of the Veda, Creation is represented as a single act of sacrifice, in which God, both Priest and Victim, offers Himself by dividing Himself." That is the very idea which I have expressed in the Mystery Play appended to "Meister Olof." Further: "All the elements, which conjointly constitute the universe, are nothing else than fallen divinities, which, through the stone, plant, animal, human, and angelic kingdoms, climb up to heaven, only to fall down again." This idea was characterised by the famous Alexander von Humboldt and the historian Cantu as sublime. (Yes, it is sublime.) "As is well known, the Greek and Roman gods were originally men. Jupiter himself, the greatest of all, was born in Crete, where he was suckled by the she-goat Amalthea. He thrust his father from the throne, and took all possible precautions not to be dethroned himself. When the giants attacked him, and most of the gods left him in the lurch, in a cowardly way, and hid themselves under the shapes of plants in Egypt, he had the good luck, with the help of the bravest gods, to remain victor. But it was not without considerable difficulty." "In Homer, the gods fight against men and are sometimes wounded. Our Gallic forefathers also fought against heaven, and shot arrows against it when they believed themselves threatened by it. The Jews were animated by the same feelings as the heathen. They had Jehovah (God), but they also had Elohim (Gods). The Bible begins thus: 'He who is, who was, and who will be--the One in the many.'" "When Adam had committed the 'beata culpa,' which, so far from being a fall, was a sublime step upwards, as the snake had prophesied, God said, 'Behold, Adam has become as _one of us_, to know good and evil.' And He added, 'Now, therefore, lest he put forth his hand, and take of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever.'" The ancients accordingly saw in the gods men who had elevated themselves to despotic power, and sought by an overthrow of the constitution to maintain that power, while preventing others from raising themselves in their turn. Hence sprang the conflict, men endeavouring to drive away the usurping deities, and the latter struggling to maintain the power they had arrogated to themselves. "Now the flood-gates are opened with a vengeance! Only consider! We are gods!" "And the sons of the gods descended to earth and married the daughters of men, and they brought forth children. From this inter-mixture came the giants, and all famous men, warriors, statesmen, authors, artists." This was fine seed to sow in a refractory mind, and the Ego inflated itself again, "Only think! We are gods!" The same evening when all in the restaurant were in high spirits, a circle was formed round a doctor of music. My friend the philosopher, to whom I had imparted the discovery of our relationship to the gods, asked to hear Mozart's _Don Juan_, especially the finale of the last act. "What is that about?" asked one, who was not at home in the classical repertory of music. "The devil comes and carries away the Sybarite." The abysmal torment, so well described by Mozart--who very likely knew pangs of conscience of this kind, as the husband of a woman he had seduced committed suicide on his account--is unrolled in a succession of melancholy tones like a cutting neuralgia. The laughter stops, the jests cease, and when the piece is finished there is a painful silence. "Here's to your health!" says some one. They drink. But the cheerfulness is at an end, the Olympic mood is quenched, for the night is coming on and the terrible chromatic successions of notes echo like innumerable waves which rise and fall, and hurl human derelicts aloft in the air in order to swallow them the next moment. * * * * * While the descendants of the gods make vain attempts to assume a tone becoming their high birth, night has come, and the restaurant is closed. The party must break up and go, each to his lonely bed. As we pass the Cathedral veiled in the shadows of the night, a white light suddenly flashes on the façade, on which are depicted saints and sinners kneeling before the throne of the Lamb. "What is that?" we ask, for there is no thunderstorm. We are startled, and remain standing, only to find that it is a photographer working in his shop by the magnesium light. We are annoyed at our nervousness, and for my part I involuntary think of the theatrical lightning when Don Juan is carried off. As I enter my room I feel a kind of alarm, chilly and feverish, at the same moment. When I have taken off my overcoat, I hear the wardrobe door open of itself. "Is any one there?" No answer. My courage sinks, and for a moment I feel inclined to go out again and spend the night in the dark and dirty streets. But weariness and despair hamper me, and I prefer to die in a comfortable bed. While I undress I look forward to a bad night, and once happily in bed I take up a book to distract my thoughts. Then my toothbrush falls from the washing-stand on to the ground without any visible cause. Immediately afterwards the cover of my jug rises and falls again with a clash before my eyes. Nothing has occurred to shake the room, the night being perfectly still. The universe has no secrets veiled from giants and geniuses, and yet reason is helpless before a jug cover which defies the law of gravitation. Fear of the unknown makes a man who thought he had solved the riddle of the Sphinx tremble! I was nervous, terribly nervous; I would not, however, quit the battlefield, but continued to read. Then there fell a spark, or a small will-o'-the-wisp, like a snowflake from the ceiling, and was quenched on my book. Yet, reader, I did not go mad! Sleep, sacred sleep, assumes the form of an ambush in which murderers lurk. I dare not sleep any more, and yet have no power to keep myself awake. This is really hell! As I feel the torpor of sleep stealing over me, a galvanic shock like a thunderbolt strikes me, without, however, killing me. Hurl thy shafts, proud Gaul, against heaven! Heaven in its turn never stops hurling. * * * * * Since all resistance is useless, I lay down my arms although after relapses into refractoriness. During this last unequal strife I see will-o'-the-wisps even in broad daylight, but I attribute this to an affection of the eyes. Then I find in Swedenborg an explanation of the meaning of these flickering flames which I have never seen since:-- "Other spirits try to convince me of the opposite of what the instructing spirits have said to me. These spirits of contradiction were upon earth men who were banished from society for their criminality. One recognises their approach by a flickering flame which seems to drop before one's face. They settle on people's backs, and their presence is felt in the limbs. They preach that one should not believe what the instructing spirits, together with the angels, have said, nor behave himself in accordance with their teaching, but live in licence and liberty as he chooses. These spirits of contradiction generally come when the others have gone. Men know what they are worth, and trouble themselves little about them; but through them they learn to distinguish between good and evil, for the quality of good is learnt through acquaintance with its opposite." X EXTRACTS FROM MY DIARY, 1897 _Feb_. 12_th_.--Pulled out of bed after I have heard a woman's voice. St. Chrysostom, the misogynist, says: "What is woman? The enemy of friendship, the punishment that cannot be escaped, the necessary evil, the natural temptation, the longed for misery, the fountain of tears which is never dry, the worst masterpiece of creation in white and dazzling array." "Since the first woman made an agreement with the Devil, why should her daughters not do so likewise? Created as she was from a crooked rib, her whole turn of mind is crooked, and inclined towards evil." Well said! St. Chrysostom, the Golden mouthed! _Feb_. 28_th_.--The chaffinches warble, the blue glimpses of the sea in the distance invite me, but as soon as I reach after my carpet-bag I am attacked by the invisible powers. Flight is in fact cut off from me. I am imprisoned here. In order to distract my mind I try to work at my book _Inferno_, but that is not permitted me. As soon as I take up the pen my power of recollection seems to be extinguished. I can remember nothing, or only such events as have no significance. _April_ 2_nd_.--A German author asks my opinion of Count Bismarck for a paper which is collecting adverse and favourable opinions of the Chancellor. My own was this: "I must admire a man who has understood how to dupe his contemporaries so well as Bismarck. His work was supposed to be the unification of Germany, and yet he has divided the great kingdom in two, with one Emperor in Berlin and another in Vienna." In the evening there is a scent of jasmine blossoms in my room, a gentle feeling of peace take possession of my mind, and this night I sleep quietly (Swedenborg says that the presence of a good spirit or angel is known by a balmy perfume. The theosophists maintain the same, but call angels "Mahatmas"). _April_ 5_th_.--I hear that a great piece of sculpture by Ebbe, representing a crucified woman, has been broken during its passage to the Stockholm Exhibition. On the other hand, my friend H.'s picture of the crucified woman has been seized for debt, and hung up in a courtyard over the dustbin. _April_ 10_th_.--Read a good deal of sorts--Chateaubriand's _Mémoires d'outre-tombe_; Las Casas' _Diary of St. Helena_. Who was Napoleon? Of whom was he the re-incarnation? He was born in Ajaccio, of Greek colonists who derive their name from Ajax. 1. Ajax, the son of Telamon, was conquered by Odysseus, and maddened by fury he slaughtered the flocks of the Greeks in the belief that he was spreading death among his enemies. One day when one of the patron gods of Troy had enveloped both armies in a cloud in order to help the flight of the Trojans, he cried, "O Zeus! give us light, though thou slay us in the light!" 2. Ajax, son of Oileus, suffered shipwreck on the home voyage from the siege of Troy, but saved himself by climbing a cliff where he obstinately defied the gods, and was, as a punishment, drowned in the depths of the sea. "Ajax defying the gods" has become a proverb. Napoleon was prematurely born on a mat adorned with scenes from the Iliad. Paola a Porta said one day to the young Napoleon, "There is nothing modern about thee; thou art a man out of Plutarch." Before Napoleon's birth, Rousseau had interested himself in Corsica, and its inhabitants wished to have him as a ruler. "There is still a land in Europe," he said, "where it is possible to give laws: that is the island of Corsica. I have a foreboding that this little island will fill Europe with wonder." Nordille Bonaparte in the year 1266 pledged his honour for Konradin von Schwaben, who was executed by Charles of Anjou. The Franchini branch of the Bonaparte family bore on its shield of arms three golden lilies, like the Bourbons. Napoleon was related to Orsini. Orsini was the name of the assassin who attempted the life of Napoleon in. On three islands Napoleon spent his days of adversity,--Corsica, Elba, and St. Helena. In a geography which he composed in his youth he mentions the last, with the two words "little island." (Too little indeed he found it afterwards!) During the war with England, he sent a cruiser without any obvious cause to the neighbourhood of St. Helena. The death of Napoleon affords plenty of material to the imagination of an occultist. "There was a terrible storm, the rain fell without intermission, and the wind threatened to sweep everything away. The willow-tree under which Napoleon had been accustomed to take the air had been broken; the trees of the plantation had been tom up and scattered about. A single indiarubber still stood erect, till a whirlwind seized it, tore it up, and hurled it in the mud. Nothing that the Emperor loved could survive him." The patient could not bear the light; he had to be kept in a dark room. When at the point of death he sprang out of bed in order to go out into the garden. "Spasmodic twitchings of the navel and the stomach, deep sighs, out-cries, convulsive movements which during the death-struggle terminate in a loud and painful sobbing." Noverrez, who had been ill, became delirious. "He imagines that the Emperor is threatened, and calls for help." After Napoleon had given up the ghost, a smile of peace lay on his lips, and the corpse retained this look of calm in the funereal vault for nineteen years. When the grave was opened in 1840, the body was in a state of perfect preservation. The soles of the feet were white. (White soles of the feet, according to Swedenborg, signify the forgiveness of sins.) The hands were well preserved (the left, however, was not white), soft, and still retained their beautiful shape. The whole body was dead-white, as though one saw it through thick lace. In the upper jaw were only three teeth. (A strange coincidence--the Duke of Enghiem[1] had only three teeth when he was shot.) And in parenthesis it may be added the Duke was borne after parturition-pangs of forty-eight hours. He was dark blue, and without a sign of life. Having been wrapped in a cloth that had been steeped in spirits, he was held too close to a light and took fire. Not till then did he begin to live. Napoleon was placed in a coffin in a green uniform (green clothes are a favourite dress of wizards). Chateaubriand writes: "Napoleon's commission as a captain was signed by Louis xvi. on the 30th of August 1792, and the King abdicated on August 10th. "Explain this who can. What protector furthered the schemes of this Corsican? The Eternal." _April_ 18_th_, Easter day.--On a fire-brand in the oven I saw the letters I.N.R.I. (Jesus of Nazareth, the King of the Jews). _May_ 3_rd_.--I begin to work at the Inferno. I am told that a very well-known journalist has been suddenly attacked by nightly visitations of the now common nervous disease which I have described. The occultists connect this with an inconsiderate obituary notice which he wrote of a worthy man recently dead. In reading Wagner's _Rheingold_, I discover a great poet, and understand now why I have not comprehended the greatness of this musician, whose music is the only proper accompaniment to his words. Moreover, Rheingold has a special message for me:-- "_Wellgunde_: Knowest thou not who alone is permitted to forge the gold? "_Woglinde_: Only he who renounces the might of love and drives the joy of it away, obtains the magic power of moulding the gold into a ring. "_Wellgunde_: Well then, we are safe and free of care, for all that live loves. Love none can avoid. "_Woglinde_: Least of all he,--the amorous imp. * * * * * "_Alberich_ (stretching his hand after the gold): I tear the gold from the cleft and forge the avenging ring, for--let the stream hear it!--I curse love!" _May_ 12_th_.--With dull resignation I have for five months drunk coffee made of chicory without complaining. I wanted to see if there was any limit to the enterprising spirit of the dishonest woman who makes my morning coffee. For five months I have suffered, now I will for once enjoy the divine drink with the intoxicating aroma. For this purpose I buy a pound of the dearest coffee in the middle of the day. In the evening I read in Sar Peladan's _L'Androgyn_e, p. 107, the following anecdote of an old missionary: "At the end of a missionary journey, during an important sermon, I am struck with powerlessness as soon as I have pronounced the words 'my brothers,'--not a thought in my brain, not a word on my lips. 'Holy Virgin!' I prayed secretly, 'I have only retained one weakness, my cup of coffee, I offer it up to Thee.' Immediately my elasticity of mind returned, I outdid myself and benefited many souls." What a rôle coffee has played in my family as a disturber of domestic peace! I am ashamed to think of it, all the more as a happy result does not depend on goodwill or cleverness, but on circumstances out of our control. Accordingly to-morrow I shall have the greatest enjoyment or the greatest chagrin. _May_ 13_th_.--The woman has made the most horrible coffee imaginable. I sacrifice it to the Powers, and henceforth drink chocolate without murmuring. _May_ 26_th_.--Excursion to the beech-wood. Some hundreds of young people have collected there. They sing melodies belonging to the time when I was young, thirty years ago. They play the games and dance the dances of my youth. Melancholy overcomes me, and suddenly my whole past life unrolls before the eyes of my spirit. I can survey the path I have traversed, and feel dazzled. Yes, it will soon end; I am old, and the path descends to the grave. I cannot restrain my tears,--I am old. _June_ 1_st_.--A young doctor of a gentle nature, and such a sensitive disposition that the mere fact of his existence causes him suffering, spends the evening in my company. He also is plagued by qualms of conscience; be bewails the past which cannot be altered, though not worse than that of others. He explains to me the Mystery of Christ. "We cannot do again what has once been done, we cannot obliterate a single evil deed; and this thought leads to pure despair. Then it is that Christ reveals Himself. He alone can wipe out the debt which cannot be paid, perform a miracle, and lift off the burden of an evil conscience and of self-reproach. 'Credo quia absurdum' and I am saved. "But that I cannot, and I prefer to pay my own debts by my sufferings. There are hours when I long for a cruel death, to be burnt alive at the stake, and to feel the joy of injuring my own body--this prison of a soul which strives upwards. The kingdom of heaven for me means to be freed from material needs, to see enemies again in order to pardon them and to press their hands. No more enemies! No malice! That is my kingdom of heaven. Do you know what makes life bearable for me? The fact that I sometimes imagine it to be only half real, an evil dream inflicted on us as a punishment, and that in the moment of death we awake to the real reality and come to see that it was only a dream,--all the evil that one has done, only a dream! So the pangs of conscience vanish together with the act that was never committed. That is redemption and deliverance." _June_ 25_th_.--I have now finished writing _Inferno_. A lady-bird has settled on my hand. I await an omen for the journey for which I am preparing. The lady-bird flies off towards the south. Very well, let us go south. From this moment I resolve on going to Paris. But it seems to me doubtful how far the Powers will agree with me. A prey to inner conflicts I let July pass, and with the commencement of August I wait for a sign to determine me. Sometimes it appears to me that the guides of my destiny are not agreed among themselves, and that I am the object of a protracted discussion. One urges me on, and another holds me back. Finally, on the morning of the 24th August, I get out of bed, pull up the window-blind, and see a crow standing on the chimney of a very high house. It stands just like the cock on the tower of Nôtre Dame, and looks as though it were about to fly towards the south. I open the window. The bird rises, keeps close to the wind, flies straight towards me, and disappears. I take the omen, and pack my things. [1] Executed by Napoleon's orders. XI IN PARIS Once more,--is it for the last time? I get out at the Northern Station. I do not ask now, "What have I to do here?" as I feel at home in the chief city of Europe. Gradually a resolve has been ripening in me, not quite clear I confess, to take refuge in the Benedictine cloister at Solesmes. But first I go and visit my old haunts with their painful, and yet such pleasant, memories,--the garden of the Luxembourg, the Hotel Orfila, the churchyard of Mont Parnasse, and the Jardin des Plantes. In the Rue Censier I remain standing a moment in order to cast a stolen look into the garden of my hotel on the Rue de la Clef. Great is my emotion at the sight of the pavilion containing the room where I escaped death in that terrible night when I unconsciously wrestled with it. My feelings may be imagined as I turned my steps to the Jardin des Plantes and perceived the traces of the waterspout which devastated my favourite walk before the bears' and bisons' houses. On my return, in the street Saint Jacques I discover a spiritualist bookshop and buy Allan Kardec's _Book of Spirits_, hitherto unknown to me. I read it, and find it is Swedenborg and Blavatsky over again; and as I find my own "case" treated of everywhere, I cannot conceal from myself that I am a spiritualist. I, a spiritualist! Could I have believed I should end as one when I laughed at my former chief in the royal library at Stockholm because he was an adherent of spiritualism! One knows not into what harbour one will finally run. While I continue my studies in Allan Kardec, I notice a gradual reappearance of the symptoms which disquieted me before. The noises over my head recommenced, I am again attacked by compression of the chest, and feel afraid of everything. I do not, however, succumb, and continue to read the spiritualistic magazines while I keep a careful watch over my thoughts and acts. Then, after quite plain warnings, I am woken up one night exactly at two o'clock by a heart attack. I understand the hint. It is forbidden to penetrate into the secrets of the Powers, I throw away the forbidden books, and peace immediately returns--a sufficient proof for me that I have followed the Higher Will. On the following Sunday I am present at vespers in Nôtre Dame. Deeply impressed by the ceremony, although I do not understand a word of it, I burst into tears, and leave the cathedral with the conviction that here, in the Mother Church, is the harbour of salvation. But no! It was not so! For the next day I read in _La Presse_ that the Abbot of the Solesmes Convent has just been deposed for immorality. "Am I, then, always to be the plaything and sport of the invisible Powers?" I exclaimed, struck by so well-aimed a blow. Then I was silent, and suppressed unseemly criticism, determined to await the end. The next book which accidentally falls into my hands allows me to catch a glimpse of the purposes of my Guide. It is Haubert's _Temptation of St. Anthony_. "All those who are tormented by longing for God I have devoured," says the Sphinx. This book makes me ill, and I am alarmed when I recognise in it the thoughts which I have expressed in my mystery-play mentioned above--regarding the admission of evil into the kingdom of the good God. After reading it, I threw it away like a temptation of the Devil, who is the author of it. "Anthony makes the sign of the cross, and resumes his prayers." So the book ends, and I follow his example. After that, and at the propitious moment, I come across Huysmans' _En route_. Why did not this confession of an occultist fall into my hands before? Because it was necessary that two analogous destinies should be developed on parallel lines, so that one might be strengthened by the other. It is the history of an over-curious man, who challenges the Sphinx and is devoured by her, that his soul may be delivered at the foot of the Cross. Well, as far as I am concerned, a Catholic may go to the Trappists and confess to the priest; for my part, however, it is enough that my sin be publicly acknowledged in writing. Besides, the eight weeks which I have spent in Paris writing the present book may well be the equivalent and more of entering a convent, because I have lived a thorough hermit's life. A little room, not larger than a monk's cell, with a barred window high up under the ceiling, has been my dwelling. Through the bars of the window, which looks into a deep courtyard, I can see a fragment of the sky and a grey wall overgrown with ivy which climbs upward to the light. My loneliness, which I find terrible in itself, is still more oppressive in the restaurant among a noisy crowd of people twice a-day. Add to this the cold--a perpetual draught through the room which has given me violent neuralgia,--pecuniary anxieties with no means of relieving them, the daily increasing bill, and it may be imagined what the total effect is! And then the pangs of conscience! Formerly when I regarded myself as responsible, it was only the remembrance of committed follies that pained me. Now it is the evil itself, my sinful acts, which constitute my scourge. To crown all, my past life appears to me merely as a network of crime, a skein composed of godlessness, wickednesses, blunders, brutalities in word and act Whole scenes out of my past unrolled before my gaze. I see myself in this and that situation, and always a preposterous one. I am astonished that anyone has ever been able to love me. I accuse myself of every possible crime; there is not a meanness, not a disagreeable act, which is not marked in black chalk on a white slate. I am filled with terror at myself, and would like to die. There are moments when shame sends the blood to my cheeks and to my ear-tips. Selfishness, ingratitude, malice, envy, pride--all the deadly sins weave their ghostly dance before my awakened conscience. While my mind thus tortures itself, my health deteriorates, my strength decreases, and, together with the emaciation of the body, the soul begins to have a presentiment of her deliverance, from the mire. At present I read Töpffer's Le Presbytere and Dickens's _Christmas Tales_, and they impart to me an indescribable inward calm and joy. I return to the ideals of the best period of my youth, and recover the treasures which I had squandered in the game of life. Faith returns, and with it, trust in the natural goodness of men; faith in innocence, unselfishness, virtue. Virtue! This word has disappeared from modern use; it has been declared null and void and thoroughly false. Just now I see in the papers that my drama, _Herr Bengt's Wife_, has been acted in _Copenhagen_. In this play love and virtue triumph just as in the _Secret of Gilde_. The drama has not pleased the public any more than when it was first acted in 1882. Why? Because this fuss about virtue is considered idle talk. I have again read Maupassant's _Horla_. That is the finale out of _Don Juan_ over again. Some one steals unseen into the bedroom in the middle of the night. He drinks water and milk, and finishes by sucking the blood of the wretched Don Juan, who, hunted to death, is forced to lay hands on himself. That is a real experience. I recognise myself in it, and 1 confess that my senses are disturbed; but some one has a hand in it. * * * * * My health constantly gets worse, for there are cracks in the wall so that smoke penetrates into my room. To-day when I walked in the street the pavement moved under my feet like the deck of a ship swaying up and down. Only with considerable difficulty can I make the ascent to the Garden of the Luxembourg. My appetite grows continually less, and I only eat in order to still the pangs of hunger. An occurrence which has often happened since my arrival in Paris has caused me to make various reflections. Inside my coat, on the left side, exactly over the heart, there is heard a regular ticking; it reminds me of the ticking noise in walls produced by the insect called, in Sweden, "the carpenter" and also the "death-watch," believed to presage somebody's death. I thought at first it was my watch, but found it was not so, as the ticking continued after I had laid the watch aside. It is not the buckle of my suspenders, nor the lining of my vest. I accept the explanation of the death-watch, as it suits me best. A few nights ago I had a dream which again aroused my longing to be able to die, by holding out the hope of a better existence, where there is no danger of a relapse into the misery of life. Having gone too far on a projecting ledge bounded by a steep precipice hid in darkness, I fell head foremost in an abyss. But strangely enough I fell upwards instead of downwards. I was closely surrounded by a dazzling halo of light, and I saw----. What I saw gave me two simultaneous ideas, "I am dead, and I am delivered." A feeling of the greatest happiness overcame me, together with the consciousness that the other life was now over. Light, purity, freedom, filled my spirit, and as I cried, "God!" I obtained the certainty that I had won forgiveness, that hell was behind me, and that heaven was open. Since that night I feel still more homeless than before in this world, and like a tired, weary child, I long to be able to "go home" to rest my heavy head on a mother's bosom, to sleep on the lap of a mother, the pure spouse of an infinite God, who calls Himself my Father, and whom I dare not approach. But this wish is connected with another--to see the Alps, and more especially the Dent du Midi in the Canton Valais. I love this mountain more than the other Alps, without being able to say why. Perhaps it is the remembrance of my residence on the Lake of Geneva, where I wrote _Real Utopias_, and of the scenery there which reminded me of heaven. There I have spent the most beautiful hours of my life, there have I loved,--loved wife, children, humankind, the universe, God. "I lift up my hands to God's mountain and house." Paris, _October_ 1897. XII WRESTLING JACOB (A FRAGMENT) After my return to Paris at the end of August 1897, I found myself suddenly isolated. My friend the philosopher, whose daily companionship had been a moral support for me, and who had promised to follow me to Paris in order to spend the winter there, has delayed in Berlin. He is not able to explain what detains him in Berlin, as Paris is the goal of his journey, and he is very eager to see the City of Light. I have waited for him three months, and receive the impression that Providence wishes to have me alone, in order to separate me from the world and to drive me into the desert, that the chastising spirits may thoroughly shake and sift my soul. In this Providence has done right, for solitude has educated me by compelling me to hold aloof from my social pleasures, which had considerably increased, and by depriving me of every friendly support. I have grown accustomed to speak to the Lord, to confide only in Him, and have as good as ceased to feel the need of men; an attitude which has always seemed to me to be the ideal one of independence and freedom. I am obliged to renounce even the convent in which I expected to find the protection of religion and of harmony with one's fellows. The life of the eremite was imposed upon me, and I have received it as a chastisement and an education, regardless of the fact that at the age of forty-eight it is difficult to change one's rooted habits for new ones. I live, as mentioned above, in a small room, narrow as a convent cell, with a barred window high up under the ceiling, which looks out on a courtyard and a stone wall overgrown with an immense quantity of ivy. In the evening I go out for my meal, and go straight to the restaurant, without first taking a liqueur to provoke an appetite,--a thing I dislike doing now. Why I choose the little restaurant on the Boulevard St. Germain it would be difficult for me to explain. Perhaps it is the recollection of the two terrible evenings I spent there last year with my occultist friend, the German-American, which fascinates and draws me thither, to such a degree that every attempt to go to another restaurant results in a degree of discomfort which might be called unfair, and which drives me back to this one, which I hate. The reason is that my former friend has left unpaid debts here, and that I have been recognised as his companion. For this reason, and because we have been heard speaking German, I am treated as a Prussian, that is to say, I am served very badly. It is no use for me to make silent protests by leaving my visiting cards behind, or purposely forgetting letters bearing the Swedish postmark. I sec myself compelled to suffer and to pay for the guilty. No one but I sees the logic in this position, nor that it is an atonement for a crime. It is simply a piece of justice which cannot be objected to, and for two months I chew the horribly bad food which reeks of the dissector's knife. The manageress, who, pale as a corpse, sits installed at the cashier's desk, greets me with a triumphant air, and I am accustomed to say to myself, "Poor old woman, she has certainly had to eat rats during the siege of Paris in 1871!" But it seems as though she begins to feel sympathy with me when she sees my dull submission and endurance. There are moments when she seems to me to look paler,--when she sees me come alone, always alone, and always thinner. It is the bare truth that after passing two months in this way, when I buy new collars I must buy them nearly two inches smaller. My cheeks have become hollow and my clothes hang in folds. Then all of a sudden they seem disposed to give me better food, and the manageress smiles at me. At the same time the feeling of being bewitched ceases, and I go my way without rancour, and as if freed from a burden, with the assurance that for my part the penance is over, and perhaps also for my absent friend. If it was mere fancy on my part that I was badly treated, and if the manageress was quite blameless, I ask her pardon. In that case it was I who punished myself with a well-deserved chastisement. "The chastising spirits take possession of the imagination of the man who deserves punishment, and effect his moral improvement by letting him see everything distorted" (Swedenborg). How often it has happened to me that when I really wished to enjoy a meal, all the dishes inspired disgust in me as though they were bad, while my companions were enthusiastically unanimous in praising the good food. The man "continually discontent" is an unfortunate under the scourge of the invisible Powers, and it is with very good reason that people avoid him, for he is condemned to be a disturber of the peace, who, doomed to solitude and suffering, atones for secret misdoings. Accordingly I go about alone, and when, after not hearing my own voice for weeks at a time, I seek any one's company, I so overpower him with my loquacity that he is bored and retires, and involuntarily gives me to understand that he does not wish for another meeting. There are other moments when the longing to see a human being drives me into bad society. Then it happens that in the midst of conversation a feeling of discomfort, accompanied by headache, seizes me. I become dumb, unable to bring out another word. And I find myself compelled to leave the circle, who always show that they are glad to be rid of an intolerable person who had no business there. Condemned to isolation, outlawed among men, I take refuge in the Lord, who for me has become a personal Friend. He is often angry with me, and then I suffer; often He seems absent, engaged with some one else, and then it is much worse. But when He is gracious, then my life is sweet, especially when I am alone. By a curious accident I have taken up my abode in the Rue Bonaparte, the Catholic street. I live exactly opposite the École des Beaux Arts, and when I go out, I walk between rows of plateglass windows filled with Puvis de Chavanne's Legends, Botticelli's Madonnas, Raphael's Virgins, which accompany me to the upper part of the Rue Jacob, whence the Catholic bookshops with their prayer-books and missals follow me to the church St. Germain des Prés. From that point the shops with their objects of devotion form a line of Saviours, Madonnas, Archangels, Demons, and Saints, all the fourteen stations of the Passion of Christ, and Christmas mangers on the right hand. On the left there is a series of devotional picture-books, rosaries, clerical vestments, and altar vessels, as far as the Saint Sulpice market-place, where the four lions of the church, with Bossuet at their head, guard the noblest religious edifice in Paris. After I have passed observantly through this repertory of sacred history, I often enter the church in order to strengthen myself by looking at Eugene Delacroix's picture of Jacob wrestling with the angel. The fact is that this picture always sets me thinking, by rousing irreligious ideas in me, in spite of the religious character of the subject. And when I pass out again, through the kneeling worshippers, I keep remembering the wrestler who holds himself upright although lamed in the sinew of his thigh. Afterwards I pass by the Seminary of the Jesuits, a kind of terrible Vatican, from which emanate floods of psychic force, whose effect may be felt from far, if one may believe the Theosophists. I have now reached my goal, the Garden of the Luxembourg. From the time of my first visit to Paris in 1876, this park has exercised a mysterious influence over me, and it was my day-dream to be able to live near it. This idea was realised in 1893, and from that time on, although with interruptions, this garden has become part of my recollections, and so to speak, of my personality. Although actually of moderate extent, it seems in my imagination of immeasurable size. It has twelve gates, just like the Holy City in the Book of Revelation, and in order to complete the resemblance, "On the east, three gates; on the north, three gates; on the south, three gates; on the west, three gates" (Rev. xxi. 13). Every entrance gives me a different impression, derived from the arrangement of the plants, buildings, and statues, and perhaps also from personal reminiscences connected with them. So I feel quite glad as I enter by the first gate after the Rue de Luxembourg as one comes from Saint Sulpice. The ivy-grown cottage of the gatekeeper, with a duckpond close by, seems like an unpublished idyll. Further on is the building containing pictures, by living artists, in clear bright colours. The thought that the friends of my youth, Karl Larsson, the sculptor Ville Vallgren, and Fritz Thaulow, have there deposited, so to speak, parts of their souls, strengthens and makes me feel younger, and I seem to feel the irradiation of their spirit pierce through the walls, and bid me take courage, since my friends are close by. Further on we have Eugene Delacroix, whose right to his laurels is questioned by contemporaries, and will be by posterity. The second gate of the pair which open on the Rue de Fleurus leads me to the racecourse, which is as broad as a hippodrome, and ends with a flower-terrace where a marble Victory stands as a boundary pillar, and from which one sees in the distance the Pantheon surmounted by a cross. The third gate forms the continuation of the Rue Vanneau, and leads me to a dusky alley which, on the left, merges itself into a sort of Elysian field where the children have chosen for themselves spots to play in and amuse themselves with wooden horses which go in pairs with lions, elephants, and camels, just as in Paradise; further on is the tennis ground, the children's theatre among flower-beds, the Golden Age, Noah's Ark. Here the springtime of life meets me in the autumn of my own. On the south side, past the Rue d'Assas, the vegetable and nursery garden present a picture of midsummer; the blossoming time is over. It is the season of fruit, and the beehives close by, with their citizen-like inhabitants who collect gold dust for the winter, strengthen the impression of maturity which this part of the garden makes. The second gate, immediately opposite the Lyceum "Louis le Grand," opens up a paradisal prospect; velvet-like meadows with ever fresh green; here and there a rose bush and a single peach tree. I shall never forget how one spring this last, arrayed in its dawn-coloured blossoms, enticed me to spend a whole half-hour in contemplation, or rather in adoration, of its slim, youthful, virginal form. The Observatory Avenue leads to the gate of the main entrance, which with its gilded "fasces" looks really majestic. But, as it is really too majestic for me, I generally remain standing outside--in the morning admiring the palace, in the evening the bright outline of Montmartre showing above the roofs, and in clear weather the Great Bear and the Polar Star circling above the great barred gate, which serves me in my astrological observations as a mural quadrant. On the east side the only gate that attracts me is that which opens on the Rue Soufflot. From that point I discovered my favourite garden, with the charming outlines of the giant plane trees, and in the blue distance hinting at mysteries, as I did not yet know the Rue de Fleurus, which later on became dear to me as the entrance to a new life. Thence I am accustomed to look back over the path I have traversed, which is interrupted on one side by the pool, and on the other by the little statue of David with the broken sword. One morning in early autumn the fountain presented the spectacle of a rainbow, which reminded me of the dyer's shop in the Rue de Fleurus where "my rainbow" expanded as a sign of my covenant with the Eternal (vide _Inferno_[1]). When I go on to the descent of the terrace I have to pass by the row of statues of women who were more or less queens or sinners, and I remain standing at the top of the great flight of stairs where, in springtime, a hedge of red hawthorn acts as a framework to the outspread panorama of flowers. The last gate, that by the museum, makes a mixed impression, with the vulture that for no apparent cause has swooped down on the head of the Sphinx, and with Hero kissing Leander, overtaken by an early death, which might have been easily predicted. Passing it, I increase my topographical knowledge by skirting the gallery of contemporary paintings, and burying myself in the rose garden avenue with its thousands of roses. This constitutes my morning walk, and I tune my mood to whatever pitch I like, according to the gate through which I enter. For my return route I use the Boulevard Saint Michel, and keep the top of the steeple of the Sainte Chapelle in sight. This serves as a cynosure to guide me between the vain attractions spread out in the shop windows and exhibited on the pavement in the shape of _filles de joie_ and children of the world. Arrived at the Saint Michel market-place, I feel myself protected by the statue of the noble archangel who kills the dragon. The feeling that this emblem displays the spirit of evil is not derived from its lizard-like tail, nor the ram's horns, nor the lifted eyebrows, but from its mouth, which does not close at the corners, while the lips are drawn forward so as to hide the four front teeth. The tusks cannot be hidden, and its hideous sidelong smile displays the deathless evil, which still grins contempt, with the spearpoint in its breast. Three times in my life I have met this mouth, in an actor, a female painter, and another woman, and I have never been deceived in my feeling about it. I have now reached the crowded opening of the Rue Bonaparte. This narrow road forms a discharge outlet for the Mont Parnasse quarter, Luxembourg, and part of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. One has to manoeuvre skilfully to make one's way into the outflowing torrent, hemmed in as it is by foot-passengers and vehicles, while the firm ground is represented by a pavement a yard broad. Meanwhile nothing makes me so nervous as these omnibuses drawn by three white horses, because I have seen them in dreams, and, moreover, these white horses remind me, perhaps, of a certain "pale horse" mentioned in the Book of Revelation. Especially in the evening, when they follow one another three abreast with the red lantern suspended above, I imagine that they turn their heads towards me, look at me maliciously, and say, "Wait a little; we will soon have you." In brief, this is my "vicious circle" which I traverse twice a day, and my life is so thoroughly enclosed in the frame of this circuit, that if I once take the liberty to go another way, I go wrong, as if I had lost fragments of myself, my recollections, my thoughts, and feelings of self-coherence. * * * * * One Sunday afternoon in November I betook myself to the restaurant to eat alone. Two little tables are set out on the pavement of the Boulevard St. Germain, flanked by two green oleander pots, and shaded by two fibre-mats, which form an enclosure. The air is warm and still; the street lamps, which have been lit, illuminate a vivid kinematographic picture, as omnibuses, chaises and cabs drive home from the parks, filled with holiday-makers in their best clothes, who sing, blow horns, and shout at the passers-by. As I sit down to eat, both my friends, two cats, come and take their usual places on both sides of me, waiting till the meat appears. As I have not heard my own voice for weeks, I make them a short address without getting any answer. Condemned to this dumb and hungry companionship, because I have abandoned evil companionship where my ear was vexed by irreligious and coarse language, I feel rebellious against such injustice. For I abominate animals, cats as well as dogs, as it is my right to hate the animal within myself. Why is it that Providence, which takes the trouble to educate me, always banishes me to evil companionship when good companionship would be more adapted to improve me by the power of example? At this very moment there comes a black poodle with a red collar and drives my feline friends away. After he has swallowed their portions, he makes his acknowledgments by defiling the foot of my seat, and then the ungrateful cynic takes up a sitting position on the asphalt and turns his back on me. From the frying-pan into the fire! It is no use complaining, for swine might come instead of him and offer me their society, as they did to Robert the Devil or Francis of Assissi. One can ask so little of life: So little! and yet it is too much for me. A flower-seller offers me pinks. Why must it be pinks, which I dislike because they resemble raw flesh and smell of a chemist's shop? To please her I take a handful at my own price, and since it was a generous one, the old woman rewards me with a "God bless the gentleman for giving me such a fine douceur to-night!" Although I know the dodge, the blessing sounds pleasantly in my ears, for I have great need of one after so many curses. About half-past eight the news-vendors cry _La Presse_, and that is a signal for me to go. If I remain sitting to eat some dessert, and to drink an extra glass of wine, I am certain to be annoyed in some way or other, either by a troop of cocottes, who sit down exactly opposite me, or by roaming street urchins, who abuse me. There is no mistake about it; I am put upon diet, and if I take more than three courses and half a flask of wine, I am punished. After my first attempts to transgress the limits at meal-times have been frustrated in this way, I give up making any more, and finally find myself contented to be put on half rations. So I get up from table, in order to betake myself to the Rue Bonaparte and from thence up to the Luxembourg. At the corner of the Rue Gozlin I buy cigarettes, and pass the "Gold Pheasant" restaurant. At the corner of the Rue du Four I pause by a strikingly realistic picture of Christ. The spiritually minded artists during their campaign against the Zola-literature have not been able to avoid the contagion of realism, and with the help of one devil seek to drive out another. It is impossible to pass such pictures without pausing to contemplate them, drawn as they are after living models and painted with the glaring colours of the impressionists. The shop is closed and veiled in shadow, and the Redeemer stands there in His royal robe lit by the street lamp, showing His bleeding heart and head crowned with thorns. For more than a year I have been persecuted and followed by the Redeemer, whom I do not understand and whose help I should like to dispense with by bearing my own cross if possible. This is due to a remnant of manly pride which finds something repulsive in the cowardice of casting one's sins on the shoulders of the innocent. I have seen the Crucified everywhere--in the toy shops, at the picture dealers', at the Art Exhibitions particularly, in the theatre, and in literature. I have seen Him on the cover of my cushion, in the burning logs in the oven, in the snow over there in Sweden, on the coast cliffs of Normandy. Is He preparing for His return, or has He arrived? What does He want? Here in the shop window in the Rue Bonaparte He is no longer the Crucified. He comes from heaven as Victor, adorned with gold and jewels. Is He the "Good Tyrant" which youth dreams of, a Prince of Peace, a glorious hero? He has cast away His cross and resumed His sceptre, and, as soon as His temple on the Mont de Mars (formerly called "Mount of Martyrs") is ready, He will come and rule the world Himself, and hurl from the throne the false usurper, who finds the eleven thousand rooms known as the _infamia Vaticani loca_ too narrow for him, laments over his luxurious imprisonment, and kills the time with small excursions into the field of poetry. Leaving the picture of the Redeemer, as I arrived at the Saint Sulpice market, I am astonished to find that the Church seems removed to a great distance. It has gone back at least half a mile, and the fountains proportionably. Have I then lost the sense for distances? As I pass along the seminary wall it seems as though it would never end, so interminable does it appear this evening. I spend half an hour in traversing this small portion of the Rue Bonaparte, which generally takes only five minutes. And before me there walks a figure, whose gait and manner remind me of some one whom I know. I quicken my steps, I run, but the Unknown presses forward with exactly corresponding celerity, so that I never succeed in shortening the distance between us. At last I have reached the trellis-gate of the Luxembourg. The garden which was closed at sunset is sunk in silence and solitude, the trees are bare, and the border-beds laid waste by frost and autumn storms. But there is a good wholesome smell of dry leaves and fresh earth. Following the enclosing wall I go up the Rue de Luxembourg, and always see in front of me the Unknown, who begins to interest me. Clad in a traveller's mantle, which resembles mine, but is of opaline whiteness, slight and tall like myself, he goes forward when I do, remains standing when I remain standing, so that it seems as if I were his guide and he depended on my movements. But one circumstance particularly draws my attention to him, viz. that his mantle flutters in a strong breeze which is quite imperceptible to me. In order to clear up the matter I light a cigar, and as I perceive the smoke rise steadily upward without wavering, my conviction that there is no air-current, is strengthened. Moreover, the trees and bushes in the garden are motionless. After we have reached the Rue Vavin I turn off to the right, and at the same moment find myself transported from the pavement to the middle of the garden without understanding how it has happened, as the gates are closed. Before me, at a distance of twenty steps, stands my companion turned towards me. Round his beardless face of dazzling whiteness spreads a luminous ring in the shape of an ellipse with the Unknown in the centre. After he has given me a sign to follow him, he goes further. The crown of rays accompanies him, so that the gloomy, cold, and squalid garden is lit up as he goes. Moreover the trees, the bushes, the plants grow green and blossom just as far as the rays of his halo reach, but fade again when he has passed. I recognise the great flowering canes with leaves like elephant's ears hanging over the statuary group of Adam and his family, also the bed of Salvia fulgens, the fire-red sage, the peach tree, the roses, the banana plants, the aloes,--all my old acquaintances, each in his own place. The only strange thing is that the seasons of the year seem to be mingled together, so that the spring and autumn flowers are blooming simultaneously. But what surprises me more than anything is that nothing of all this seems strange to me; it all appears quite natural and inevitable. So as I walk along the bee-garden, a swarm of bees buzzes about the plants and settles on the flowers, but in such an exactly defined circle that the insects disappear as soon as they fly into the shadow. The illuminated part of a sage-plant is covered with leaves and blossoms, while the part in shadow is withered and blighted with hoar frost. Under the chestnut trees there is a fascinatingly beautiful sight, as, under the foliage, an empty dove's nest is suddenly taken possession of by a cooing pair of doves. At last we have reached the Fleurus Gate, and my guide signs to me to remain standing. Within a second he is at the other end of the garden, at the Gay-Lussac Gate, at a distance which appears to me immense, although it is only about a quarter of a mile. In spite of the distance I can see the Unknown surrounded by his oval halo. Without speaking a word or moving a muscle of his mouth he bids me approach. I seem to divine his purpose as I traverse the long avenue, the racecourse well known to me for years bounded at the end by the cross of the Pantheon, which stands in blood-red relief against the dark sky. The Way of the Cross and, perhaps, the fourteen Stations, if I am not mistaken. Before I begin it, I make a sign that I wish to speak, question, and receive explanation. My guide answers with an inclination of the head that he is ready to hear what I have to say. At the same moment the Unknown changes his position without the slightest perceptible movement or rustle. The only thing I notice is, that as he approaches me the air is filled with a perfume as of balsam, which makes my heart and lungs swell, and gives me courage to dare the contest. I commence my questioning-- "Thou art he who has followed me for two years. What would'st thou of me?" Without opening his mouth the Unknown answered me with a kind of smile full of super-human kindness, forbearance, and urbanity,-- "Why dost thou ask me since thou knowest the answer thyself?" And, as if within me, I hear thy voice sound again, "I wish to raise thee to a higher life, to lift thee out of the mire." "Born as I am out of mire, created for baseness, feeding on decay, how shall I be freed from earthly grossness except by death? Take my life then! Thou wilt not? It must be the infliction of punishment which is to educate me? But let me assure thee that humiliations make me proud; being denied the little enjoyments of life produces desire for them; fasting occasions gluttony, which is not my besetting sin; chastity whets the edge of lust; enforced loneliness produces love of the world and its unwholesome delights; poverty gives birth to greed; and the evil companionship to which I am relegated instils contempt of humanity into me, and produces unawares the suspicion that justice is maladministered. Yes, at certain moments it seems to me as though Providence was not kept sufficiently informed by its satraps to whom it has intrusted the rule over mankind; that its prefects and sub-prefects allow themselves to be guilty of malversations, falsifications, baseless denunciations. Thus it has happened to me, that I have been punished where others have sinned; suits have been brought against me, in which I was not only innocent, but actually the defender of right and the accuser of crime. All the same the punishment has lighted on me while the guilty triumphed. "Allow me a plain question: Have women been admitted to a share in the rule? For the present method of government seems so irritable, so petty, so unjust, yes,--unjust. Is it not the case that every time when I have brought a righteous and lawful case against a woman, she, however unworthy she may have been, has been acquitted, and I have been condemned? "Thou wilt not answer? And then thou demandest from me that I should love criminals, soul-murderers who poison the mind and falsify truth, and perjurers! No, a thousand times no! 'O Eternal! should I not hate them that hate thee? Should I not abhor them that rise up against thee. I hate them with perfect hatred; I count them mine enemies.' So speaks the Psalmist, and I add, 'I hate the wicked as I hate myself'; and my prayer is this, 'Punish, O Lord, those who persecute me with lies and malice as Thou hast punished me when I was false and malicious! Have I now blasphemed the Eternal, the Father of Jesus Christ, the God of the Old and New Testament? Of old time He listened to the reproaches of mortals, and permitted the accused to defend themselves. Listen to the way in which Moses defended himself before the Lord when the Israelites were tired of the manna, "Wherefore hast Thou afflicted Thy servant? and wherefore have I not found favour in Thy sight, that Thou layest the burden of all this people upon me? Have I conceived all this people? have I begotten them, that Thou shouldest say unto me, Carry them in thy bosom, as a nursing father beareth the sucking child, unto the land which Thou swearest unto their fathers? Whence should I have flesh to give unto all this people? for they weep unto me, saying Give us flesh, that we may eat. I am not able to bear all this people alone, because it is too heavy for me."' "Is not this plain speaking on the part of a mortal? Is it quite befitting, this speech of an angry servant? Yet consider, the Lord does not smite the bold speaker with a thunderbolt, but lightens his load by choosing seventy leaders to share the burden of the people with Moses. The way in which the Eternal grants the prayer of the people when they clamour for flesh to eat, is only slightly contemptuous, like that of a kindly father when he grants the wishes of his unreasonable children. 'Therefore the Lord will give you flesh and ye shall eat. Ye shall not eat one day, nor two days, nor five days, neither ten days nor twenty days, but even a whole month, until it come out at your nostrils, and it be loathsome to you.' "That is a God after my ideal, the same God to whom Job cries, 'Oh that one might plead with God as a man pleadeth with his friend.' But without waiting for this, the sufferer takes the liberty of demanding explanations from the Lord regarding the evil treatment to which he is exposed. 'I will say to God, "Condemn me not; show me wherefore Thou goest against me in judgment. Doth it please Thee to oppress me, to overthrow the work of Thine own hands, and to further the devices of the wicked?"' These are reproaches and imputations which the good God accepts without anger, and which He answers without using thunderbolts. Where is He, the Heavenly Father, who can smite at the follies of His children and pardon after He has punished them? Where does He hide Himself, the Master of the house who kept it in good order, and watched the overseers in order to prevent injustice?" During my disconnected speech the Unknown regarded me with the same indulgent smile, without betraying impatience. But when I had finished, he disappeared. I found myself breathing a stifling atmosphere of carbonic oxide, and standing alone on the gloomy, dirty, autumnal-looking Rue Medici. While I went down the Boulevard Saint Michel I felt vexed with myself, that I had neglected the opportunity of speaking out everything. I had still many shafts in my quiver, if only the Unknown had waited to answer, or to direct an accusation against me. But as soon as the crowd again presses round me in the glaring light of the gas lamps, and all the exposed wares in the shops remind me of the trivialities of life, the scene in the garden appears like a miracle, and I hasten in alarm to my lodging, where meditation plunges me into an abyss of doubt and anxiety. There is a ferment going on in the world, and men are waiting for something new, of which a glimmering has already appeared. France is preparing for a return to the Middle Ages,--the period of faith and of dogma, to which it has been led over the downfall of an empire, and of a miniature Augustus, just as at the time of the decay of the power of Rome and the invasion of the barbarians. One has seen Paris--Rome in flames, and the Goths crowning themselves in the capitol, Versailles. The great heathen Taine and Renan have gone down to perdition, and taken their scepticism with them, but Joan of Arc has again woken to life. The Christians are persecuted, their processions dispersed by gens d'armes; saturnalias are held on carnival days, and shameful orgies take place in the open streets under the protection of the police, and with the aid of money grants from the Government, which to satisfy the discontented offers shows, with or without gladiatorial encounters. "Panem et Circenses" (Dear)--bread and games. All is readily bought with money, honour, conscience, fatherland, love, administration of justice,--truly the infallible and regular symptoms of decay in a community, whence Virtue, both in name and reality, has been banished for thirty years. Yet for all that we are in the Middle Ages. Young men assume monkish cowls, wear the tonsure and dream of convent life. They compose legends and perform miracle-plays, paint Madonnas and carve images of Christ, drawing their inspiration from the magician,[2] who has bewitched them with Tristan and Isolde, Parzival and the Holy Grail. Crusades against Jews and Turks begin afresh; the Anti-Semites and Philhellenes see to that. Magic and alchemy have already been re-established, and they only wait for the first proved case of witchcraft in order to erect a funeral pile to burn witches on. Middle Ages indeed! Witness the pilgrimages to Lourdes, Tilli-sur-Seine, Rue Jean Goujon. Heaven also gives the sleepy world signs to be ready. The Lord speaks through water-spouts, cyclones, floods, and thunder-storms. Mediæval also is the leprosy which has just appeared again, and against which the doctors of Paris and Berlin have combined. But they were beautiful, the Middle Ages, when men knew how to enjoy and to suffer, when strength and love and beauty in colour, in line, and harmony were revealed for the last time, before they were drowned and sabred by the renaissance of heathenism which is called Protestantism. * * * * * The evening has come, and I burn with desire to renew my meeting with the Unknown, well prepared, as I now am, to confess all and to defend myself before I am condemned. After I have taken my melancholy meal alone I go up the Via Dolorosa, the Rue Bonaparte. This street has never appeared to me so monstrous as this evening; the shop windows yawn like abysses in which Christ is portrayed in many forms --half-martyred, half-triumphant. I go on and on, while the sweat runs in great drops down my face, and the soles of my boots burn my feet, yet I do not seem to advance a step. Am I the Wandering Jew who refused the Redeemer a drink of water? and am I, now that I wish to follow and imitate Him, unable to approach Him? Finally, and without myself knowing how, I find myself before the Fleurus Gate, and in the next moment within the garden, which lies there, dark, damp, and still. Immediately a gust of wind sets the skeletons of the trees in motion, and the Unknown takes up his position quicker as he approaches in his summer-like garment of light. With the same smile as before he invites me to speak. And I speak, "What demandest thou of me, and wherefore plaguest thou me with thy Christ? A few days ago in some mysterious manner thou placedst the _Imitation of Christ_ in my hand, and I read it as in my youth when I learned to despise the world. How can I have the right to despise the creation of the Eternal and the beautiful earth? And whither has thy wisdom led me? To neglect my affairs, till I have become a burden for my fellow-men, and ended as a beggar. This book, which forbids friendship, which lays worldly intercourse under a ban, which demands solitude and renunciation, is written for a monk, and I have not the right to be a monk and expose myself to the danger of letting my children die of want. See whither the love for a lonely life has led me. On the one hand thou enjoinest the life of a hermit, and as soon as I withdraw myself from the world I am attacked by the evil spirits of madness, my affairs fall into confusion, and in my isolation I do not possess a single friend from whom I can ask help. On the other hand, as soon as I seek out men, I meet the worst kind, who annoy me with their arrogance, and that in proportion to my humility. For I am humble, and treat all as my equals, till they trample me under their feet, when I behave like a worm which raises its head but cannot bite. "What then demandest thou of me? Is it to make me a martyr at all costs, whether I do thy will or disregard it? Wilt thou make me a prophet? That is too great an honour for me, and I lack the vocation to be one. Besides I cannot take up that attitude, for all prophets which I have known have been finally unmasked as half-charlatans, half-lunatics, and their prophecies have always failed. "Moreover, if thou pressest upon me this vocation, I must be favoured with electing grace, so that I become free from all destructive passions which are degrading for a preacher; I must have adequate support for my life instead of being, as I am, besmirched with poverty, which makes one's character deteriorate and ties one's hands. It is certainly true, and I grant it, that contempt of the world has led me to despise myself and to neglect my calling through undervaluing honour. I confess that I have been a sorry guardian of my own person, but that is because of the superiority of my better self which despised the unclean sheath in which thou hast immured my immortal soul. From my earliest years I have loved purity and virtue--verily I have. Yet my life has dragged itself dong in filth and wickedness, so that I often suppose my sins to be punishments inflicted upon me, with the object of arousing in me a permanent disgust of life. Why hast thou condemned me to ingratitude, which I hate more than any other sin? Thou hast entangled me, who am naturally grateful, in snares, in order to compel me to feel obligation to the first benefactor who came in my way. So I have become involved in dependence and slavery, since benefactors demand as compensation control over the thoughts, wishes, inclinations, and devotion,--in a word, the whole soul, of those whom they benefit. Always I have been compelled to withdraw myself, laden with debt and ungrateful, in order to preserve my individuality and manly worth; I have been forced to tear asunder the bonds which threatened to strangle my immortal soul. And that, too, with the spiritual torment and pangs of conscience of a thief who goes his way with some one else's property. "As a matter of fact, by choosing the royal road of the Cross I have entangled myself in the thorny thicket of theology, so that doubts more terrible than ever have taken possession of me, and whispered plainly in my ear that all unhappiness, all injustice, and the whole work of redemption is only an enormous temptation which one must manfully resist. Often I believe that Swedenborg, with his terrifying hells, is only a fire and water-ordeal which must be undergone. And although I owe a debt of gratitude, which I cannot pay to this prophet, who has saved me from madness, I feel rise again and again in my heart a burning desire to overthrow him, to defy him as an evil spirit who always plots to ensnare my soul in order to enslave me, after he has driven me to despair and suicide. Yes, he has insinuated himself between me and my God, whose place he has wished to take. It is he who tyrannises over me with terrors of the night and threatens me with madness. Though possibly he has only fulfilled his task in drawing me back to the Lord and making me submit to the Eternal. It may be that his hells are only a scarecrow; I take them as such, but believe no more in them, for I cannot believe in them without slandering the good God who demands that we should forgive, because He can Himself forgive. If the unhappiness and trouble I meet with are not punishments, then they are initial tests. I am inclined to explain them in this way, and it is likely that Christ is the Example, because He has suffered much, although I do not understand what end such great sufferings serve, except to throw into relief future blessedness. I have said what I had to say. Give me now an answer." But the Unknown, who had listened with wonderful patience, answered only with a gesture of gentle irony, and vanished. When I found myself back in the street, I was, as usual, angry at having forgotten the best arguments, which always turn up when it is too late. A whole long speech presents itself to me now, while my heart swells and my courage rises again. The awe-inspiring and sympathetic Unknown has, at any rate, heard me without crushing me. He has also waited to hear my grounds of complaint, and he will now consider the injustice to which I have been a sacrifice. Perhaps I have succeeded in convincing him, as he stood there and did not answer me. The old idea that I am Job comes into my mind, I have really lost my property; they have taken my movable goods and books, means of existence, wife, and children. Hunted from one land to another, I am condemned to a lonely life in the desert. Is it I who have written these lamentations, or is it Job: "My neighbours have forsaken me, and my friends have forgotten me. My wife makes herself strange to me, and my prayers reach not the sons of my mother. Little children also despise me. He has made me a by-word among the people, and I have become their music. I find only slanderers, and my eye wakes the whole night while they persecute my soul. My skin breaks and is dissolved. When I say, 'My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint,' then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions." This fits me exactly; the cracks in the skin, the dreams and the visions. But there is an over-plus on my side. I have endured the extremest sufferings, as circumstances brought about by invisible powers which hemmed me in, in order to compel me to leave unfulfilled the simplest duty of a man,--to support his children. Job retired from the game with his honour unaffected; for me all was lost, even honour, and yet I overcame the temptation to suicide; I possessed the courage to live without honour. * * * * * For three months I seek in vain to come into personal connection with the Swedenborg Society in Paris. For a whole week I go every morning past the Pantheon to reach the Rue Thouin, where the chapel and the library of the Swedish prophet are situated. Finally I find some one who says that the librarian only receives strangers in the afternoon, just the time when I wish to be alone with my thoughts, and am too tired to walk. However, time after time I make the attempt to reach the Rue Thouin. The first time I felt uncomfortably depressed as I wont out, and at the end of the bridge of Saint Michel this feeling amounted to a positive fear, which compelled me to return home. A second time it is Sunday, and they are going to have service in the Swedenborgian chapel. I arrive an hour too soon, and do not feel strong enough to wait an hour in the street. The third time I find the pavement taken up in the Rue Thouin, and workman blocking the way with their planks and tools. Then I conclude that Swedenborg is not destined to be my leader on the right path, and under this impression I retrace my steps. But when I get home, it occurs to me that I have allowed myself to be deceived by Swedenborgs invisible enemies, and that I must fight them. My last attempt I make in a carriage. This time the street is barricaded, as it expressly to frustrate my purpose. I get out of the carriage and clamber over the obstructions, but when I reach the door of the Swedenborgian chapel I find the pavement and steps have been taken away. In spite of all I manage to reach the door, pull the bell, and am told by a stranger that the librarian is ill. With a kind of feeling of relief I turn my back on the gloomy, shabby little chapel with its dark window panes soiled with rain and dust. This edifice, built in the severe barbaric depressing Methodist style, had always repelled me. Its want of beauty reminded me of the Protestantism of the north, and it cost my pride a struggle to bring myself to seek to enter it. I did it as a pious duty towards Swedenborg, nothing more. As I turned round with a light heart, I saw on the pavement a tin-coated piece of iron, in the shape of a clover-leaf, and superstitiously picked it up. Simultaneously a recollection sprang to life in my mind. The year before, on the 2nd November in the terrible year 1896, as I was walking one morning in Klam in Austria, the sun disappeared behind a wall of cloud shaped like an arch, with clover-shaped outlines surrounded by blue and white rays. This cloud and my tinned iron-plate resembled each other as closely as two drops of water. My diary, in which I made a sketch of the former, can verify this fact. What does that signify? The Trinity, that is clear. And further?-- I leave the Rue Thouin, joyful as a school-boy who has escaped a hard task because the teacher is ill. As I pass by the Pantheon, I find the great gate wide open in a sort of challenging way, as if to say, "Come in!" As a matter of fact, in spite of my long residence in Paris I have never visited this church, chiefly because people have told me lies about the wall-paintings, and said that they dealt with certain modern subjects which I strongly dislike. One may imagine my delight as I enter and find myself in a shower of radiance falling from the central dome, and surrounded by a golden legend--the sacred history of France, which closes immediately before the time of Protestantism. The ambiguous inscription without--"_Aux grands hommes,_" had also misled me. There are few kings, still fewer generals, and not a single deputy; I breathe again. On the other hand, there are St Denis, St Geneviève, St. Louis, Joan of Arc. Never would I have believed that the Republic was Catholic to such a degree. There is only wanting the Altar and Tabernacle. In place of the Crucified and the Virgin is the statue of a woman of the world, set up here by women who admire her; but I comfort myself with the thought that this celebrity will finally descend to the gutter like so many more honoured ones have done before. It is pleasant and interesting to roam about this temple which is dedicated to sanctity, but it is sad to see at the same time how the virtuous and benevolent have been beheaded. Must one not out of reverence to God believe that all the evil treatment which has fallen to the lot of the just and merciful is only an apparent wrong, and that, however discouraging the path of virtue may appear, it leads to some good end, which is hidden from our view? Otherwise these infernal stakes and scaffolds, where executioners triumph over saints, must suggest blasphemous thoughts regarding the goodness of the supreme Judge who only seems to hate and persecute the saints below, in order to reward them in a higher world. "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy." Meanwhile, as I leave the Pantheon, I cast a look at the Rue Thouin and wonder that the road to Swedenborg has led me to the Church of St. Geneviève. Swedenborg, my guide and prophet, has hindered me from going to his modest chapel. Has he then rejected himself and become better instructed, so that he has been converted to Catholicism. While I studied the works of the Swedish seer, it has struck me how he sets himself up as an opponent to Luther, who valued faith alone. In fact, Swedenborg is more Catholic than he has wished to appear, since he preaches faith in conjunction with works, just like the Catholic Church. If it is so, then he is at war with himself, and I, his disciple, will be crushed between anvil and hammer. * * * * * One evening, after a day filled with pangs of conscience and doubts, I betook myself, after I had taken my lonely midday meal, to the garden which draws me like a Gethsemane where unknown sufferings await me. I have a foreboding of torments, and cannot escape them; I long for them almost as a wounded man wishes to subject himself to a cruel operation, which will bring him cure or death. Reaching the Fleurus Gate, I find myself at once upon the racecourse which is terminated by the Pantheon surmounted by the Cross. Two years ago this temple signified to my worldly mind the honour paid to "great men," now I look upon it as dedicated to the martyrs and the sufferings which they have endured; so greatly has my point of view changed. The fact that the Unknown remains absent causes me to feel an oppression of the chest. Lonely, and prepared for controversy, I feel myself weary for want of a visible opponent. To fight with phantoms and shadows is worse than to contend with dragons and lions. Terror seizes me, and urged on by the courage of the coward, I go forward with firm steps on the slippery ground between the plane trees. A close smell of dirty cod-fish mixed with that of tar and tallow chokes me; I hear the slapping of waves against the sides of ships and the quay; I am led into the courtyard of a yellow brick building; I mount upstairs, traverse enormous halls and countless galleries, passing between showcases and glass cabinets full of animals stuffed or preserved in tins. Finally, an open door invites me into a hall of strange appearance; it is dark, but faintly illuminated by patches of light reflected from a number of coins and medals in well-arranged showcases. I stop before a glass-covered case near a window, and my eye is attracted among the gold and silver medals by one of another metal, which is as dark as lead. It bears the picture of myself, the type of an ambitious criminal with hollow cheeks, hair erect, and an ugly mouth. The reverse of the medal bears the inscription, "Truth is always ruthless".[3] Oh! Truth! which is so veiled from mortals, and which I was bold enough to believe I had unveiled, when I despised the Holy Communion, the miracle of which I now recognise. The medal is a godless memorial to the dishonour of the godlessness of blasphemous friends. It is true I have always been ashamed of this glorification of brutality, and not taken the trouble to keep this memorial. I have thrown it to the children to play with, and it has disappeared without my missing it. Similarly, by a fateful "coincidence," the artist who made the medal, went out of his mind soon afterwards, having deceived his publisher and committed forgery. Oh, this disgrace, which cannot be wiped out, but must for ever be preserved in memory, as the law orders this indictment to be kept in the State museum! Here one sees what "honour" comes to! But what have I to complain of, since Providence has only granted fulfilment to an unholy prayer which I addressed to it in my youth? I was about fifteen years old when, weary of useless conflicts against the young hot blood that longed to satisfy its passions, exhausted by the religious doubts which devastated my soul, which was eager to solve the riddle of existence, surrounded by pietists who worried me under the plea of winning my soul to love the God-like, I roundly asserted to an old lady friend who had lectured me to death, "I pitch morality overboard, provided I can be a great genius and universally admired!" I was, moreover, strengthened in my views by Thomas Henry Buckle, who taught us that morality was "a nothing," incapable of development, and that intelligence was everything. Later on, when I was twenty, I learnt from Taine that evil and good were indifferent matters, possessed of unconscious and irresponsible qualities, like the acidity of acids, and the alkalinity of alkalis. And this phrase, which was quickly caught up and developed by George Brandes, has stamped an impress of immorality on Scandinavian literature. A sophism, that is a weak syllogism which has missed the mark, has seduced a whole generation of freethinkers. Weak indeed it is! For if we analyse Buckle's epigram, "Morality is incapable of development, and therefore does not matter," it is easy to discover that the inference should rather be, "Morality, which remains invariably the same, thereby proves her divine and everlasting origin." When my wish was finally attained, I became an acknowledged and admired genius, and the most despised of all men born in my country in this century. Banished from the better circles, neglected by the smallest of the small, disavowed by my friends, I received the visits of my admirers by night, or in secret. Yes, all do homage to morality, and a minority reverence talent, a fact which gives rise to various reflections concerning the essence of morality. Still worse is the reverse of the medal! Truth! As though I had never given myself over to the power of falsehood, in spite of my pretence to be more truthful and sincere than others. I do not dwell on the petty falsehoods of childhood, which signify so little, occasioned as they mostly were by fear or the incapacity of distinguishing between fact and imagination, and because they were counterbalanced by punishments unjustly inflicted and based upon false accusations of my schoolfellows. But there are other falsehoods, and more serious ones because of the injurious consequences which evil example and excuse for grievous wrongdoing involve. For example, the untrue description in my autobiography, "The Son of a Servant," with regard to the crisis of puberty. When I wrote that youthful confession, the liberal tendency of that period seems to have induced me to use too bright colours with the pardonable object of freeing from fear young men who have fallen into precocious sin. As I bring these bitter reflections to a close, the coin-cabinet contracts, the medal retreats to a distance, and diminishes to the size of a lead button,--and I see myself in a dormitory in a school for boys in the country on the bank of the Malar in 1861. Children born of unlawful unions, children of parents who had tied from their country, badly brought-up children who in too many families were in the way, live here together huddled in a loft, without oversight, tyrannising over and ill-treating each other, in order to revenge themselves for the cruelty of life. A hungry herd of little evil-doers, ill-clothed and ill-nourished, a terror to the country people and especially to the gardeners. Pains of conscience follow immediately on a fall, and I see myself in the twilight of a summer evening sitting at a table in my night-dress with a prayer-book before me, stung by conscience and shame, although wholly unacquainted with the nature of sin. Innocent because I was ignorant, and yet a criminal. Led astray, and afterwards leading others astray, suffering remorse and relapsing, doubting the justice of my accusing conscience, and doubting the mercy of God who allows an innocent child to be exposed to the most terrible temptations. Unhappy victim without strength to stand first in the unequal strife with all-powerful Nature 1 Meanwhile the infernal fire is lit which will burn till the grave. I burn with desire to accuse myself and to defend myself at the same time, but there is no judgment-seat and no judge, and I devour myself here in solitude. As I cried out in my despair towards all quarters of heaven, I became enveloped in a dark mist, and when I began to see again clearly I found myself standing in the Fleurus Avenue with my head leant against a chestnut tree. It was the third tree counting from the entrance gate, and the avenue has forty-seven on each side. Nine seats are placed between the trees to rest on. Thus there are forty-four halting places for me before I reach the first Station. For a moment I remain quite depressed, watching the path of tears stretch before me. Suddenly under the leafless trees a ball of light approaches, borne along by two birds' wings. It stops before me on a level with my eyes, and in the clear light which the ball radiates I see a white sheet of paper ornamented like a menu-card. At the top I read in smoke-coloured letters, "Eat!" Then in a second the record of my whole past life is enrolled like a micrographic reproduction on an enormous placard. Everything is there! All the horrors, the most secret sins, the most loathsome scenes in which I have played the chief part Alas! I could die with shame as I see those scenes depicted, which my eye, which seems to grow in size, takes in at once, without needing to read and interpret them. I do not die, however. On the contrary, for a minute which is forty-eight years long, I review my whole life from early childhood to this day. My bones are dried up to the marrow, my blood ceases to circulate, and, consumed by fiery pangs of conscience, I fall to the ground with the cry, "Mercy! Mercy! I must cease to justify myself before the Eternal, and I must cease to accuse my neighbours." When consciousness returned I found myself on the Rue de Luxembourg, and as I looked through the trellis-gate I saw the garden blooming, while a choir of little mocking-birds greeted me from the bushes and trees. The next evening there was h knock at my door about six o'clock, and there stepped in the American painter whom, in my book _Inferno_, I have identified with Francis Schlatter. As we had parted from each other quite indifferently, without friendship or enmity, our meeting was quite cordial. I notice that the man is somewhat altered. He seems physically smaller than I remember him, and I cannot get him as before to smile at the vexations of life and at sorrows already endured, which are so easily borne when they are happily over. But he treats me with a surprising respect which contrasts strongly with his former cameraderie. Meanwhile this meeting rouses me from my lethargy, partly because I have some one to speak to who understands every word I say, partly because he forms a link with a period when the development of my life, belief, and growth was strongest. I feel as if the clock had been put back two years, and feel a wish to get free, to spend half a night on the Boulevard pavement in talk, with our glasses before us. We agree to have our lunch at Montmartre, and take that direction. The noise of the street somewhat interrupts the current of conversation, and I notice in myself an unusual difficulty in hearing and understanding his words. At the entrance to the Avenue de l'Opéra the crowd is great, and we are constantly separated by those who meet us. It happens that a man carrying some cotton wool stumbles against my companion so that he is covered over with white. With my head full of Swedenborgs symbols, I try to remember what this should signify, but can only think of the opening of the grave at St. Helena, when Napoleon's body looked as though it were covered with white down. In the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin I am already so tired and nervous that we resolve to take a carriage. Since it is dinner-time the street is very full, and when we have driven for some minutes the carriage suddenly stands still. Simultaneously I receive such a blow in the back that I rise from my seat, and as I turn round there are three horses' heads opposite me,--an omnibus with a shouting driver on the top of it. This puts me out of humour, and I ask myself if it is intended for a warning. We alight at the Place Pigalle and dine. Here I am reminded of my residence in Paris in the seventies, when I was young, but it makes me sad, for the changes are great. My lodging-house in the Rue Douai is no more. The "Black Cat" which stood there then is closed, and Rodolphe Salis has been buried this year. The "Café de l'Ermitage" is only a recollection, and the "Tambourin" has changed its name and title. The friends of those days are dead, married, scattered, and the Swedish colony has transferred its quarters to Mont Parnasse. I feel that I have grown old. The dinner is not so lively as I expected. The wine is of the bad kind that puts one out of humour. My having got out of the habit of listening and speaking makes the conversation disjointed and exhausting. The hope of recovering our former cheerful mood with the coffee is not realised, and soon that terrible silence begins which betrays a desire to get away from each other. For a long while we struggle against the growing embarrassment, but in vain. As early as nine o'clock we rise from table, and my companion, guessing my mood, takes his own way, under the pretext of having an appointment to keep. As soon as I am alone I feel an indescribable relief; my discomfort ceases, my headache disappears, and I feel as though the convolutions of my brain, and the network of my nerves which had become entangled, were slowly returning to their normal state. In truth, solitude has made my personality so sensitive that I cannot bear the contact of a stranger. Quietly, but with an illusion the less, I return home, glad to be in my cell again; but I notice that the room has undergone a change; it is no longer the same, and a sort of domestic discomfort seems to pervade it. The furniture and small articles are in their places, but give a strange impression. Some one has been here and left traces of himself behind. I am undone! The next day I go out to seek for society, but find none. The third day I go by appointment to my friend the artist to see his etchings. He lives in Marais. I ask the porter whether he is at home. "Yes," he answered, "but he is in the café, with a lady." Since I have nothing to say to the lady I go away again. The next day I go again to Marais, and since he is at home I proceed to mount the six flights of stairs, which wind narrowly like stairs in a tower. When I have ascended three I begin to remember a dream and a reality. The dream which is often repeated has to do with just such narrow cork-screw stairs up which I crawl till I am stifled, as they grow ever narrower. The first time I remembered this dream was in the tower at Putbus, and I immediately went down again. Now I stand here squeezed, panting, my heart palpitating, but determine to ascend. I manage to get up, enter the studio, and find my friend with a lady. After I have sat for five minutes I get a severe headache and say, "My good friend, it seems as though I must renounce your society, for your stairs kill me. Just now I have a distinct conviction that if I come up here again I shall die." He answered, "But you lately ascended the Montmartre and the stairs at the church of the Sacred Heart." "Yes," I reply, "it is very strange." "Well," he said, "then I will come to you, and we will dine in the evening together." So the next day we actually have our meal together, and fall into the pleasant mood which is desirable at such times. We treat each other with respect, avoid saying unpleasant things, put ourselves at each other's point of view, and obtain the illusion of being of one mind in all matters. After our meal, since the evening is mild, we continue our conversation, and cross the river, proceeding to the Boulevards till we finally reach the Café du Cardinal. It is now midnight, but we are far from being tired, and now begin those wonderful hours when the soul gets free from her wrappings, and the spiritual faculties, which would ordinarily be employed in dreaming, are roused to waking, and clear conceptions and keen glances into the past and future. During these night hours, my spirit seems to hover over and outside my body, which sits there like a stranger. Our drinking is merely a secondary matter which serves to keep sleep away, perhaps also to open the flood-gates of memory whence all the occurrences of my life flow forth, so that at every moment I can call up facts, dates, years, scenes, and pictures. That is the attraction and power of vinous excitement over me, but a religious-minded occultist has told me that it is a sin, for it is wrongfully antedating salvation, which consists in the liberation of the soul from matter. Therefore this trespass is punished with terrible subsequent tortures. Meanwhile they begin to disturb us by giving signs of closing the Boulevard cafés, but as I do not want to finish, I name the word "Baratte," and my friend is ready at once. Café Baratte, near the "Halls," has always had a wonderful attraction for me, without my exactly knowing why. It may be the proximity of the "Halls." When it is night on the Boulevard, it is morning in them--all through the night in fact--which with its enforced want of occupation and dark dreams is banished. The mind which has become intoxicated in immaterial worlds descends to eating, sin, and noise. This scent of fish, flesh, and vegetables, over the refuse of which we step, seems to me an effective contrast to the lofty themes which we have just been discussing. That is the stuff out of which we are created and re-created three times a day, and when one enters from the darkness, dirt, and knots of seedy figures outside, into the comfortable café, one is greeted by light, warmth, song, mandolines, and guitars. At this hour of the day all class distinctions are wiped out. Here sit artists, students, authors, drinking at long tables, and in a sort of waking trance. Or have they fled from the sad sleep which, perhaps, has ceased to visit them? There is no sparkling hilarity, but a kind of stupor broods over the whole, and it seems to me as if I had entered into a realm of shadows peopled by half-real phantoms. I know an author who used to sit there at night and write. I have seen strangers there dressed as though they came from a brilliant supper at Parc Monceau. I have seen a public man, with the appearance of a foreign ambassador, stand up and sing a solo. I have seen people who looked like disguised princes and princesses drinking champagne, and I really don't know whether they are real mortals, all these shadows, or the projected "astral" bodies of sleepers outside who hallucinate those drunk with sleep who sit there. The remarkable thing is that no coarseness prevails in the company packed together in the narrow café. The songs are mostly sentimental, and the melancholy guitars heal the needle-pricks with which the sharp steel-strung mandoline pricks the brain. Now in the night, after my long course of loneliness, I feel happy in the crowd, which seems to radiate warmth and sympathy. For the first time after a long interval I am seized with a sentimental pity for the unhappy women of the night. Near our table sit half a dozen of them looking depressed, and not having ordered anything. They are most of them ugly, despised, and probably unable to order anything. I suggest to my friend, who is as disinterested as myself, to invite two of the ugliest who sit near us. He agrees; and I invite two, asking if they will have anything to drink, adding at the same time that they must have no other designs and behave with propriety. They seem to understand the part they have to play, and ask first for food. My friend and I continue our philosophical conversation in German, now and then speaking a word to the women, who are not presuming, and who seem more anxious to eat than to be attended to. For a moment the thought strikes me, "Suppose one of your acquaintances saw you now?" Yes, I know what he would say, and I know what I would answer: "You have thrust me out of society, condemned me to solitude, and I am compelled to purchase the companionship of pariahs, outcasts like myself, and hungry as I have been. My simple pleasure is to be able to see these despised ones plume themselves on a conquest which is no conquest, to sec them eat and drink, and to hear their voices, which are at any rate those of women. Moreover, I have not paid them in any way, not even in order to append a moral exhortation." I simply find a pleasure in sitting together with human beings, and in being able to give out of my momentary superfluity, for in a month I may be as poor as they are. It is now morning; the clock strikes five, and we go. But my companion demands fifteen francs for having given me her society, a demand which from her point of view I find quite comprehensible, for my society is as worthless as my power to protect her against the police. But I do not believe that will increase my self-respect, rather the opposite. Meanwhile I go home with a good conscience after a well-spent night, sleep till ten o'clock, awake well rested, and spend the day in work and meditation. But the following night I have an attack of the terrible kind which Swedenborg describes in his _Dreams_. So that was the punishment! What for? I really don't understand. I thought that this was a new lesson in the art of life,--that I should learn that all men alike are good cabbage-eaters, and had actually for a moment imagined that the part I had played in the night-café was rather that of a philanthropist than of a sinner, or at any rate morally indifferent. During the following days I was much depressed, and one evening I looked forward to passing a night of terror. At nine o'clock I had Cicero's _Natura Deorum_ before me, and was so pleased with Aristotle's doctrine that the gods quite ignored our world, and would pollute themselves if they had anything to do with this filth, that I determined to copy it out. At the same time I noticed that blood had broken out on the back of my right hand without any apparent cause. When I wiped it off, I found no mark of a scratch. But I forgot it, and went to bed. About half-past twelve I awoke with the fully developed symptoms of what I have called "the electric girdle." Notwithstanding that I know its nature and inner significance, I am compelled to seek the cause of it outside myself. I made an effort and lighted the lamp. As the Bible lay close by I determined to consult it, and it gave the answer: "I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way that thou shalt go; I will guide thee with Mine eye: be not like to horse and mule, whose mouths must be drawn with bit and bridle, else they will not come near thee." That was an answer, and I went to sleep again, satisfied that it was not anything evil, but a benignant power that spoke to me, though somewhat ambiguously. After I had quieted myself with some days' solitude, I went out again one evening with the American and a young Frenchman who corrects my manuscripts. It was somewhat tedious, and I returned home shortly before midnight with a bad conscience, because, being drawn into a heated conversation, I had been compelled to speak evil of some one absent. What I said was in self-defence against a liar, and absolutely true. About two o'clock I awoke and heard some one stamping in the room above me, and then come down the stairs and go into the room by the side of mine. Am I then watched? I had already had the same experience here in the hotel in September, when I lived on the third storey. So it cannot be an accident If now, as is probable, my unseen mentor wishes to punish me, how cunning it is to keep me uncertain whether they are human beings who persecute me or not! Though I have convinced myself that no one persecutes me, I am again drawn into the old circle of the self-torturing belief that some one does. When once the question is raised, there begins a dance of conjectures kept up by my conscience, which accuses me even when I have acted in pure self-defence in rebutting unjust accusations. I feel as though I were tied backwards to a stake, and that all the passers-by have the right to spit on me unpunished, but if I spit back, I am scourged, choked, hunted by furies. The whole world, even the meanest beggar, has rights against mu. If I only knew why! All the tactics are so feminine that I cannot get rid of my suspicion. For when a woman for years has done injury and wrong to a man, and he, out of innate nobility, has not lifted his hand in return, but at last strikes round him as when one drives away a fly, the woman raises an outcry, calls the police, and exclaims, "He defends himself!" Or, when in school an unreasonable teacher falls on a pupil, who is groundlessly accused, and the latter, from an injured sense of justice, seeks to defend himself, what does the teacher do? He proceeds to corporal punishment, exclaiming, "So you answer back, do you?" I have answered back. And therefore I am punished. The punishment continues eight days and nights successively. The consequence is that I become depressed and unfit for social intercourse. My friend the American, weary of me, quietly withdraws, and as he has set up a domestic establishment, I find myself again alone. But it is not entirely a mutual aversion which has a second time separated us, for we have both noticed that during our last meeting strange things have happened, which could be only ascribed to the intervention of conscious powers who intended to arouse aversion between us. This man, who knows hardly anything of my past life, seems during our last interview to have had the purpose of wounding me on all my sore points, and it seemed as though he guessed my most secret thoughts and intentions, which are yet only known to myself. As I remarked something of this sort to him, a light seemed to break upon him, "Is that not the Devil?" he broke out. "I thought there was something wrong, for the whole evening you could not open your mouth without wounding me to the quick, but I saw by your quiet face and friendly expression that you had nothing evil in your mind." We tried to defy the malefic influence. But for three days in succession my friend traversed the long road to me in vain. I was not there, nor did he find me where I usually dine. Thus loneliness closes round me again like a thick darkness. It is nearly Christmas-time, and the being without home and family oppresses me. The whole of life becomes distasteful, and I begin again, in consequence, to look after what is from above. I buy the _Imitation of Christ_ and read it. It is not the first time that this wonderful book has fallen into my hands, but this time it finds the ground prepared. Its purport is to die, while yet alive, to the world,--the contemptible, wearisome, filthy world. The unknown author has the remarkable faculty of not preaching or reproaching, but he speaks in a friendly way, convincingly, logically, and invitingly. He regards our sorrows not as punishments but tests, and thereby arouses in us the ambition to endure. Now I have Jesus again, not Christ this time, and He steals softly in to me, as though He came in velvet sandals. And the Christmas-displays in the Rue Bonaparte help towards the belief: there is the Christ-child in the manger, the Jesus-child with royal mantle and crown, the Child-redeemer on the Virgin's arm, the Child playing, lying, and on the cross. Yes, the Child! Him I can understand. The God who has so long heard the lamentations of men over the misery of mortal life that He finally resolved to descend, to let Himself be born and to live, in order to prove how hard it is to drag oneself about with a human life. _Him_ I comprehend. One Sunday morning I passed by the Church Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois. This building has always exercised a strong influence on me, because it looks so familiar; the vestibules with their paintings have an inviting air, and the congregations are so small that one is not crushed or lost. As I pass in at the door, there are twilight and organ music, coloured pictures and wax candles. Whenever I enter a Catholic church I remain standing at the door and feel embarrassed, restless, and outside the pale. When the gigantic Swiss guard approaches with his halberd, my conscience feels uneasy, and I expect him to drive me out as a heretic. Here in Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois I feel a certain anxiety, for I remember that it was in this tower that the bell for some unknown reason began to sound at two o'clock in the night of St. Bartholomew. To-day ray position as a Huguenot makes me more uncomfortable than usual, for two mornings ago I read in the _Osservatore Romano_ congratulations sent by the Catholic priests to the persecutors of the Jews in Russia and Hungary, followed by a highly coloured comparison with the great days of the St. Bartholomew massacre, the return of which the writer evidently wished for. The organ, which was out of sight, plays tunes which I have never heard before, but which seem to me like memories--memories of the times of my ancestors, or still further back. When I hear fine music, I always ask myself, "Where did the composer find it?" Not in nature and in life, for in music there are no models, as in the other arts. The only remaining conjecture is, to consider music as the recollection of a condition, which every man in his best moments longs for. And that very longing shows a vague consciousness of having lost something which one has formerly possessed. There are six lighted candles on the altar. The priest, arrayed in white, red, and gold, says nothing, but his hand hovers with the graceful movements of a butterfly over a book. Behind him come two little children dressed in white, and bend their knees. The priest washes his hands, and proceeds to do something which I do not understand. Something rare, beautiful, and wonderful is taking place there in the distance amid the gold ornaments, incense-smoke, and light I understand nothing, but feel an easily explicable fear and reverence, and am convinced that I have gone through the same experience before. This is succeeded by the feeling of shame of the outcast, the heathen, who has nothing to do here. And then the whole truth is apparent: a Protestant has no religion,--for Protestantism is free-thinking, revolt, separation, dogmatism, theology, heresy. And the Protestant is under the ban of excommunication. This is the curse which rests over us and makes us dissatisfied, melancholy, restless. At this hour I feel the curse, and I understand why the victor at Lützen was cut off, and why his own daughter contradicted him; why Protestant Germany was devastated, while Austria remained untouched. And what was won for us? The freedom to be cast out, the freedom to separate ourselves and to split off, in order to end finally without a creed. The surging congregation moves out through the doors, and I remain alone, enduring, as it seems to me, their looks of disapproval. It is dark at the door where I stand, but I see all those who pass out touch the holy water in the stoup and cross themselves, and as I stand directly in front of it, it seems as though they were crossing themselves in defence against me. I know what that means, as in Austria I was exposed to the danger of those who met me on the roads crossing themselves against the "Protestant." At last, as I am left alone, I approach the consecrated font out of curiosity or some other motive. It is made out of yellow marble in the form of a conch-shell, and over it hangs a winged cherub's head. The face of the child has a lively and radiant expression such as one only sees in good, beautiful, and well-cared-for children. The mouth is open, and the corners of it show a suppressed smile. The large fine eyes arc cast down, and one sees how the little rogue contemplates his image in the water, but under the protection of his eyelids, as though he were conscious of doing something wrong, but yet he is not afraid of his chastiser, whom he knows he can disarm with a single look. That is the child, which still keeps the impress of our distant origin, a gleam of the supernatural, which belongs to heaven. So then it is possible to smile in heaven, and not only to bear the cross! How often in my self-reproachful hours, when everlasting punishments have seemed to me objective realities, have I not put to myself the question which many would consider irreverent, "Can God smile?"--smile at the folly and over-daring of human ants? If He can, then He can also forgive. The cherub's face smiles at me and looks at me under its eyelids, and open mouth says banteringly, "Try it; the water is not dangerous." I touch the holy water with two fingers,--a ripple passes over the surface, as though it were the pool of Bethesda, and then 1 make a motion with my finger from my forehead to my heart and across from left to right, as I have seen my daughter do. But in the next moment I am outside the Church, for the cherub laughed, and I--I will not say I was ashamed, but I had rather no one had seen it. Outside, on the church door, there is a notice about something, which informs me that it is Advent. In front of the church an old woman sits in the terrible cold and sleeps. I lay gently a silver coin in her lap without her noticing it, and although I would have gladly seen her awaking, I go my way. What a noble and real joy to be able to act as the agent of Providence in hearing a request and to give for once, after having so long received. * * * * * Now I read the _Imitation_ and Chateaubriand's _La Genie du Christianisme_. I have taken the sign of the cross and carry a medal which I have received at the Church of the Sacred Heart in Montmartre. But the cross is for me the symbol of sufferings patiently borne, and not the token that Christ has suffered in my stead, for I must do that for myself. I have, in fact, framed a theory, as follows: When we unbelievers did not want to hear any more about Christ, He left us to ourselves, His vicarious satisfaction for sin ceased, and we must drag ourselves along with our own misery and consciousness of guilt. Swedenborg says expressly that Christ's suffering on the cross was not His work of atonement, but a test which God laid upon Himself rather of shame than of suffering. At the same time as the _Imitatio Christi_, I get Swedenborg's _Vera Religio Christiana_ in two thick volumes. With an attractive power that defies all resistance he drags me into his gigantic mill and begins to grind me. At first I lay the book aside and say, "This is not for me." But I take it up again, for there is so much in it that chimes in with my observations and experiences, and so much worldly wisdom that interests me. Again I cast it aside, but have no peace till I take it up again; and the terrible thing about the matter is that when I read, I have the distinct impression "This is the truth, but I cannot reach it." Never! for I will not Then I begin to revolt, and say to myself, "He has deceived himself, and this is the spirit of falsehood." But then comes the fear that I have made a mistake. What is it after all in the book, which is to be a word of life to me? I find the whole arrangement of grace and eternal hell; childish recollections of the hell of childhood with its everlasting miseries. But now I have got my head in the noose, and am held fast. The whole day and half the night my thoughts revolve round this one theme,--I am damned, for I cannot speak the word "Jesus" without adding "Christ," and according to Swedenborg, this is the shibboleth of evil spirits. Now a whole abyss opens within me, and the gentle Christ of the _Imitation_ has become the Tormentor. I am keenly conscious that if this process continues I shall become a "Reader," but that I will not. Three days have passed since I have put Swedenborg away again, but one evening, as I am studying the physiology of plants, I remember to have seen something especially interesting regarding the position of plants in the _Vera Religio Christiana_. Cautiously I begin to look for the well-known passage, but cannot find it; on the other hand, I find everything else, "the call, the enlightenment, sanctification, conversion," and, as I turn the page and try to hurry on, my eye is arrested by the most terrible passages which stab and burn. I hunt through both volumes twice, but what I seek has disappeared. It is an enchanted book, and I should like to burn it, but dare not, for night is approaching and two o'clock will come. I feel myself becoming a hypocrite, and I have resolved to-morrow, if I can only sleep this night in peace, to commence a battle against this soul-destroyer. I will survey his weaknesses with a microscope. I will pluck his stings out of my heart, even though it should be torn in the process, and I will forget that be has saved me from one madhouse in order to conduct me into another. * * * * * After I had slept in the night, although I had expected to be tormented, I set to work the following morning, not without scruples, for to take up weapons against a friend is the saddest of all enterprises. But it must be; it concerns my immortal soul, whether it is to be destroyed or not. So long as Swedenborg in the _Arcana_ and the _Apocalypse_ treats of revelations, prophecies, interpretations, he has a religious effect upon me, but when in the _Vera Religio_ he begins to reason about dogmas, he becomes a freethinker and Protestant. When he draws the sword of reason, he has himself chosen the weapons, and they are likely to prove bad ones for himself. I wish to have religion as a quiet accompaniment to the monotonous music of life, but here it is a matter of professional religion and pulpit-discussion--in brief, a struggle for power. Already, while I read the _Apocalypse_, I came across a passage which repelled me, by betraying a human vanity, which I do not like to see in a man of God. But out of respect I passed it by, not, however, without erasing it. The passage is as follows: In heaven Swedenborg meets an English king, to whom he complains that English newspapers have not thought it worth while to notice certain of his writings. He also expresses his vexation against certain bishops and lords, who had received his writings but given them no attention. The king (George II.) is astonished, and turns to the unworthy recipients, saying, "Go your ways! Woe betide him who can remain so indifferent when he hears of heaven and eternal life." I may remark in passing that I do not like the way in which both Dante and Swedenborg send their enemies and friends to hell, while they themselves scale the heights; and I praise myself a little like Paul, were it the proper time to remember the fact that I, in contrast to the great masters, have placed myself alone in the furnaces of hell,[4] and have at any rate set the rest above me in Purgatory. In the _Vera Religio_ the matter is still more uncomfortable, for there one finds Calvin in a brothel, because he has taught that faith is everything and works nothing, as in the case of the crucified thief. Luther and Melanchthon, in spite of their Protestantism, are exposed to coarse scorn and mockery. But no! it disturbs me to seek out these flaws in the picture of a noble mind. And I hope it has fared with Swedenborg in his spiritual experience as he says it fared with Luther: "When he entered the spirit world he made strenuous efforts to propagate his dogmas, but as these were not rooted in the innermost depth of his mind, but only imbibed from his infancy, he soon obtained greater illumination, so that he finally shared the new heavenly faith." Is my Teacher angry that I have written this? I cannot believe it: perhaps he shares my opinions now, and has come to find that there are no theological disputes over there. His description of life in the spiritual world, with pulpits and hearers, objectors and answerers, has prompted in me the irreverent question, "Is God a theologian?" I had now locked away Swedenborg and taken leave of him with gratitude, as of one who, although with alarming pictures, had frightened me like a child back to God. And now the White Christ, the Child who can smile and play, approaches with the Advent season. At the same time I can view life with more happiness and confidence, that is, as long as I keep watch over my acts, words, and even thoughts, which it seems cannot be kept secret from the Guardian and Avenging Angel who follows me everywhere. Enigmatic occurrences continue to happen, but not in such a threatening way as before. I have abandoned Swedenborg's Christianity because it was ugly, revengeful, petty, slavish, but I keep to the Imitation with certain reservations, and a quiet religion of compromise has sprung out of that ominous condition which accompanies the search for Jesus. One evening I sit at dinner with a young French poet, who has just read my _Inferno_, and from the occultist point of view wishes to find an explanation for the assaults to which I have been exposed and have endured. "Have you no talisman against them?" he asked. "You must have a talisman." "Yes, I have the _Imitation_" I answered. He looked at me, and I, somewhat embarrassed because I had just deserted from the ranks of the freethinkers, took out my watch, in order to have something to occupy myself with. At the same moment the medal of the Sacred Heart with the picture of Christ fell from my watchchain. I felt still more embarrassed, but said nothing. We soon got up, and went to a café to drink a glass of beer. The hall was large, and when we entered we took our places at a table exactly opposite the door. There we sat for a time, and the conversation turned on Christ and what He signifies. "He has certainly not suffered for us," I said; "for, if He had, our sufferings would have been diminished. They have not been lessened, however, but are as severe as ever." Just then a waiter made an exclamation, and with a broom and sawdust began to sweep the ground between us and the door, though no one had come in since we had entered. On the white inlaid floor there was a circle of red drops, and as the waiter turned away he looked at us askance as if we were guilty. I asked my companion what it was. "It is something red." "Then we have done it, for no one has stepped there after us, and when we entered the floor was clean." "No," answered my friend, "we have not done it, for the mark is not that of a foot, but as if some one had bled; and we are not bleeding." This was weird and also uncomfortable, because we were attracting the attention of the other occupants of the café in an embarrassing way. The poet read my thoughts, though he had not seen what had happened with the medal. Therefore, in order to relieve my mind, I said finally, "Christ persecutes me." He made no answer, although he would have gladly found a natural explanation of the occurrence, but could not. * * * * * Before I leave my friend the American, whom I have provisionally identified with the doctor, Francis Schlatter, I must relate some incidents which increase the suspicion that this man had a "double." When we recently renewed our acquaintanceship, I told him exactly all my opinions on the subject, and showed him the number of the _Revue Spirite_ in which was the article "My friend H." He appeared undecided, but inclined to be sceptical. After some days, when he came to dinner, he was quite disturbed, and related, with a good deal of emotion, that his mistress had disappeared without leaving any information, and without bidding him farewell. She remained some days absent and then returned. On being questioned, she acknowledged that she was afraid of her master, for whom she acted as housekeeper. Further questioning elicited the fact that once when she awoke in the night, and he was asleep, his face appeared as white as chalk and irrecognisable, and this frightened her indescribably. Moreover, he said, he did not dare to go to sleep before midnight, for if he did he was tortured as though he were stuck on a roasting skewer which turned him slowly round, so that he had to leave his bed. When he had read my book, _Inferno_, he said-- "You have not had a persecution mania, but have been persecuted, though not by men." Stimulated by my related experiences, he began to search in his memory, and imparted to me some inexplicable incidents of his life during the last few years. For instance, there was a certain spot on the Pont Saint-Michel where a rheumatic pain in his leg always obliged him to stand. This occurred regularly, and he had caused his friends to witness it He had also noticed many other strange incidents, and had learnt to say "punished." "If I smoke, I am punished; and if I drink absinthe, I am punished." One evening when we had met, but it was not yet midnight, we entered the Café de la Fregata in the Rue du Bac. Talking energetically, we took the first place that offered, and asked for absinthe. The conversation continued, but all of a sudden my companion stopped and, looking round him, broke out, "Have you ever seen such a collection of bandits? They are all criminal types." When I looked round I was startled, for there were not the usual occupants of the café, but a collection of ruffians, most of whom seemed disguised and made grimaces. My companion had leant himself against an iron pillar which looked as though it grew out of his back: "And you are in the pillory!" I exclaimed. It seemed to us that they were all watching us; we became morose, depressed, and stood up, without finishing our drink. That was the last time that I drank absinthe with my friend. I made another attempt to drink it alone, but I did not repeat it. Waiting for some friends to come to dinner I took a seat on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, exactly opposite Cluny, and ordered a glass of absinthe. Immediately three figures came forward, I know not from where, and stood before me. Two fellows with torn clothes, spattered with dirt, as if they had been dragged out of sewers; beside them a woman, bareheaded, with unkempt hair and traces of beauty, drunken, dirty; they all looked at me scornfully and boldly, with a cynical air as though they knew me and expected to be invited to my table. I have never seen such types in Paris or Berlin, though I may have done so near London Bridge, where the people really have a weird appearance. I try to tire them out by lighting cigarettes, but in vain. Then the thought strikes me, "These are not real people at all, but half-visions." I stand up, and since then I have not ventured to touch absinthe. * * * * * Amid all my vacillations one thing seems certain to me, and that is that an invisible hand has undertaken my education, for it is not the logic of circumstances which is operating here. It is not, for instance, a natural result that a chimney should take fire, or that figures previously non-existent should appear when I drink absinthe. Nor is it natural that I should be taken out of bed at night if I have spoken evil about any one in the day. But in all these dealings there is revealed a conscious, planning, all-knowing intelligence with a good purpose. It is, however, difficult for me to obey it, for my experience of so-called kindness and disinterestedness have been unfortunate. Meanwhile it has fashioned a regular system of signalling, which I begin to understand, and whose correctness I have proved. Thus, for six weeks I had made no chemical experiments, and there had been to smoke in the room. One morning I took out my apparatus for producing gold and prepared the chemical baths. Immediately the room filled with smoke; it rose from the ground, from behind the mantelpiece mirror, everywhere. When I summoned the landlord, he declared it was incomprehensible, because it was coal smoke, and coals were not used in the house at all! This meant that I was not to make experiments in alchemy. The wooden concertina, mentioned above, betokens peace, for I have noticed when it is absent there is always trouble. A whimpering child's voice, which is often heard in the chimney and cannot be accounted for on material grounds, signifies "You must be industrious," and, in addition, "You must write this book and not occupy yourself with another." If I am rebellious in thoughts, words, or writing, or approach improper subjects, I hear a deep base note as though it came from an organ or the trunk of an elephant when he trumpets and is angry. I mention two proofs which show that these are not mere subjective impressions on my part. The American, the French poet, and I, were dining at the "Place de la Bastille." The conversation for a couple of hours had turned upon art and literature, when, during dessert, the American proceeded to tell some stories of bachelor life. Immediately there was heard in the wall the trumpeting of an elephant. I made as though I heard nothing, but my companions noticed it, and changed the topic of their talk with a certain vexation. Another time I was breakfasting with a Swede in quite another café. Towards the end of the dessert he talked about Huysmans' La Bas and was proceeding to describe the Black Mass. Immediately there was the sound of a trumpet, but this time in the middle of the hall, which was empty. "What was that?" he asked, breaking of. I did not answer, and he continued the terrible description. Again there was the sound of a trumpet, so powerful this time that the narrator stopped short, first poured out a wineglass, upset the whole of the creamjug over his clothes, and quitted the topic which annoyed me. [1] An earlier work by Strindberg. [2] Wagner. [3] Strindberg had been prosecuted for assailing the doctrine of the Holy Communion; he was acquitted, and the medal in question seems to have been struck on the occasion. [4] One of Strindberg's autobiographical works is called _Inferno_. NOTE As the reader has probably perceived, the second part of this book, called "Wrestling Jacob," is an attempt to give a symbolical description of the religious struggles of the author, and as such it is a failure. Therefore it has only remained a fragment, and, like all religious crises, has ended in a chaos. The inference seems to be that all investigation of the secrets of Providence, like all attempts to take heaven by storm, are struck with confusion, and that every attempt to approach religion by the way of argument leads to absurdities. The reason is that religion like science begins with axioms, whose peculiarity is that they do not need to be proved, and _cannot_ be proved, so that when we try to prove self-evident necessary pre-suppositions we fall into absurdities. When the author, in 1894, gave up his scepticism, which threatened to make havoc of the whole of his intellectual life, and began to place himself experimentally at the stand-point of a believer, there opened to him a new spiritual life, which is described in the _Inferno_ and in these _Legends_. As time went on, and the author had given up all resistance, he found himself attacked by influences and powers which threatened to destroy him. Feeling himself sinking, he clutched at lighter objects which might keep him afloat; but these also began to give way, and it was only a question of time when he would perish. At such moments the terror of the drowning man takes a straw for a support, and then the faith, to which he is compelled, lifts him out of the waves in which he is sinking, so that he can walk upon the water. Credo quia absurdum. I believe, because the absurdity which reasoning leads to, shows me that I was trying to prove an axiom. And thus we are linked to what is above us. 
44302	----	(From images made available by the Google Books Project) PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG FOURTH SERIES THE BRIDAL CROWN THE SPOOK SONATA THE FIRST WARNING GUSTAVUS VASA TRANSLATED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN AUTHORIZED EDITION NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1916 CONTENTS INTRODUCTION THE BRIDAL CROWN THE SPOOK SONATA THE FIRST WARNING GUSTAVUS VASA MUSICAL APPENDIX TO "THE BRIDAL CROWN" INTRODUCTION The province of Dalecarlia has often been called the heart of Sweden. It is a centrally located inland province, said to contain a sample of everything the country can offer in the way of natural beauty. For centuries it played a remarkable part in Swedish history, taking the leadership time and again in the long struggle to rid the nation of a perverted and abused union with Denmark and Norway. It has preserved the original stock, the original language, and the original customs of the race as no other province. The dialects used in Dalecarlia are among the most difficult to understand for outsiders and have an air of antiquity that irresistibly leads the thought back to old Norse. The picturesque costumes characteristic of the different parishes are still in use, and one of these--that of Rättvik--has almost become _the_ national costume of Sweden. The people are simple and shrewd, stem and kindly, energetic and obstinate, loyal and independent. They have much in common with the old New England stock, but possess, in spite of their unmistakably Puritanical outlook, a great store of spontaneous and pleasant joy in life. They are thinkers in their own humble way, but not morbid. In their attitude toward each other and toward the family they are distinctly and quaintly patriarchal, and in this respect, too, they preserve a quality that used to be characteristic of the whole Scandinavian north. It is impossible to read "The Bridal Crown," with its typical Dalecarlian atmosphere and setting, without being struck at once by the extent to which the individual plays the part of a link in the unbroken chain of generations rather than of an isolated, all-important point of personality. And the same impression is obtained from Selma Lagerlöf's contemporaneous novel, "Jerusalem." Always a very religious race, though not always good church-goers, the Dalecarlians have long had and still have the Puritanical closeness to the Bible as _the_ book, and they talk naturally in quotations from that source. At the same time the old Norse stores of legend and homely wisdom survive among them to an extent that is perhaps paralleled only in Iceland. And when Strindberg in this play makes his characters quote the old poetic Edda he violates no law of probability, although it is doubtful whether the expression in question would actually come in just such a form from living lips. I mean that the sentiment of such a phrase as "Vagrant women make bread of mould for their men as only food" survives among the people, while it is likely to have gradually changed into a form more wholly their own. No matter from where the inspiration of their utterances may come, the Dalecarlians are apt to express themselves picturesquely, and this inclination to lapse into rhyme and alliteration is noticeable--sometimes in quoting old saws dating back to heathen times and sometimes in improvising. Strindberg has used this tendency in both ways. When the old grandfather says to the bride that she is "comely as he is homely," he is merely repeating a phrase dear to the heart of a people strongly bound up in traditions. When, on the other hand, he lets the fisherman in the last scene answer, "Krummedikke's castle and Krummedikke's lake, Krummedikke's church, and soon it will break," he is probably illustrating the tendency toward roughly rhymed improvisations. A typical feature of Dalecarlian life has always been the sending of the cattle to upland pastures during the summer months in care of young men and women, who, in communication among themselves as well as with the people at the home farm, have availed themselves of the ancient alpenhorn, or _lur_, made out of wood and birch bark, as well as of the horn made out of the natural horn of the ox. And instinctively they have realised that melodious utterance carries farther than ordinary speech, and so they have come to sing or hum their communications. Furthermore, they have grown accustomed to use some song already familiar to the listener rather than what they might improvise, and have thus learned to pass on simple pieces of news, or a mere mood, perhaps, in what might be called a code. Throughout Sweden such songs and snatches and tunes, made up in olden days by some more than usually audacious village genius, survived until far into the past century, and in Dalecarlia and a few neighbouring provinces they have survived to the present day in actual use. With the flaring up of a true historical interest that followed the Romantic movement of the early nineteenth century came a recognition of the beauty and value of those old songs and tunes. The first man in Sweden to make a systematic collection of them was Richard Dybeck, who, during the years 1842-50 published a periodical for lovers of the old which he called _Runa_--"The Rune." In 1846 the same man published a separate collection of the folk-material just referred to under the name of _Svenska Vallvisor och Hornlåtar_--"Swedish Herd-Songs and Horn-Melodies." Both this little volume and the issues of "The Rune" must have come under the attention of Strindberg at an early period, and to both he remained strongly attached throughout life. In the pages of those two Dybeck publications he found almost everything that makes "The Bridal Crown" what it is--a remarkable picture of the external life and internal spirit of the Dalecarlian people. The musical duet between _Kersti_ and _Mats_ in the first scene is the basis of the whole play. It is found in Dybeck's work just as Strindberg has used it--both the music and the words. The legend has it that a young man and a young woman, herding cattle in adjoining pastures, fell in love with each other. The girl bore a child, which they nursed together as they best could, having tried to legitimise it by going through a simple wedding ceremony of their own improvisation. Once, when the girl could not get back to the pasture at night, she used her alpenhorn to communicate that fact to her lover and ask him to look after the baby. This legend is found all over Sweden in very slightly modified form. To the old legend Strindberg has added the still more ancient Montecchi and Capuletti theme from "Romeo and Juliet," making the two lovers the offspring of mutually jealous and hostile families, and thereby giving the play the tragical twist which his mood required. How he was turned in this direction I don't know, but his work on the historical play, "Gustavus Vasa"--it was written in 1899, and "The Bridal Crown" seems to have been completed in the winter of 1900-1--had taken his mind to Dalecarlia, where its first act is laid. And the idea of a play built on Swedish folk-themes seems to have been long present in his mind. For folk-colour as well as for local verisimilitude, he drew freely both on Dybeck and on other repositories of old Swedish lore and legend and superstition. One of the beauties of the play is that so many of the extranatural figures and elements introduced are common to the whole country. The Neck, or the Man of the Rapids, or the Brookman (_Necken, Forskarlen_, or _Bäckamannen_) exists in popular fancy wherever a peasant has put his plough into Swedish soil. He is a creature of the thousand rivers and brooks that beribbon the land from the arctic circle down to the fertile planes of Scania, and always he is associated with an unusual gift of music and with the fallen angel's longing for the lost Paradise. From Norrland to Scania is told the anecdote of the tot who heard the Neck sing the song used by Strindberg--"I am hoping, I am hoping that my Redeemer still liveth"--and who called out to him: "There is no Redeemer for you." On returning home, the child told his parents of what had happened and was ordered to go back with a less discouraging message to the wailing spirit of the waters. The _Midwife_, half human, half extranatural, is another familiar figure, mostly called the Wood-Imp (_Skogsrå_). The queer snatches uttered by her from time to time are old Swedish riddles or "guess-rhymes," which Strindberg also found in Dybeck's work, and which he has employed very effectively as spells or incantations. That quaint dualistic revenant, which is called the _Mewler_ as an apparition, and the _Mocker_ as a bodiless voice, exists in the imagination of the people all over Sweden. It is a creation of the moral instinct, designed for the discouragement of poor maidens who have born a child "in hiding," as the old phrase puts it, and who may be tempted into ridding themselves of such a burden--a crime that has figured too frequently in the criminal annals of the country. The word _Myling_, which I have had to translate as _Mewler,_ is said to come from a verb meaning to kill, to choke, to bury, or to cover up. It is related to _mylla_, mould, however, and when we find the same term, _mylingar, Mewlings_, applied to the relatives of _Kersti_, this characterises them not as "murtherlings," as Strindberg's German translator would have it, but as "mouldings," as people delving in the soil. In the original text, the name applied both to the apparition of _Kersti's_ dead baby and to her relatives is the same. I have thought this too confusing for English-speaking readers, and have made two terms to get the needed dearness and distinction. It remains finally to say a word about the keystone to the whole dramatic conflict in the play--the desire of _Kersti_ to wear a crown at her wedding--to be a "crown-bride," as the Swedish phrase and the name of the original text both have it. The chief ornaments of a Swedish bride have always been the crown, the wreath, and the veil--and so they are to this very day. The wreath is generally made out of myrtle. The crown is nowadays almost invariably made out of the same material. But it used to be of metal, richly ornamented, and kept ready for use in every country church throughout the land. It was another device meant to encourage morality, the convention being that only a chaste young woman could wear the crown at her wedding--only one "worthy" of it, as the old phrase had-it. To go to church without that ornament was, of course, a most humiliating confession, and tended to detract largely from the riotous joy of the festivity which the Swedish peasants have always placed above all others--the wedding. Originally the crown also served another purpose, however. It was, as I have already said, kept in the church and lent only with the sanction of the clergy. In other words, it was reserved for the bride whose relatives consented to have a church wedding at a time when the sacramental character of the ceremony had not yet become popularly recognised. For ages the Swedish wedding was wholly a secular ceremony based on the old custom of bride-barter, and it took the Catholic Church many centuries to turn it into a religious rite. There are a few minor points that need some clearing up, too. The position of _Kersti's_ father, the _Soldier_, must be a puzzle to non-Swedish readers. The presence of the picture of King Charles XV on the wall of the _Soldier's_ cottage indicates that the action takes place in the eighteen-sixties, before the reorganisation of the Swedish army on the basis of universal conscription had been carried out. At that time each province had to furnish one or more regiments. The maintenance of this soldiery fell directly on the small landholders, and from two to ten of these formed a _rote_ or "file" having to employ, equip, and maintain one soldier. Each soldier had a cottage and a small patch of soil furnished him by the men responsible for his up-keep. Under such circumstances the soldier would seem likely to fall into the position of a servant living under his masters, but that was not at all the case. The warlike qualities and traditions of the nation probably counteracted tendencies in that direction. Instead the soldier became one of the recognised honoratiores of his district, ranking next to the sexton and often filling the place of that functionary when the office was vacant. The use of the name of Krummedikke in connection with the lake is a mystery I have not been able to clear up. The noble family of Krummedige or Krummedike belonged originally in the duchy of Holstein, but moved from there into Denmark and spread gradually into southern Sweden and Norway. During the period of Sweden's union with Denmark and Norway two members of that family held the famous old fortress of Baahus (now Bohus) on behalf of the Danish king. Other members controlled fortified places in Småland and the province of Halland along the west coast of present Sweden. But there is no record of any Krummedike having a "castle" in the northern part of Sweden. Whether legends connected with this family have actually spread from southern Sweden to Dalecarlia or the name, simply happened to catch Strindberg's fancy I cannot tell. The play in its entirety is one of the most impersonal Strindberg ever wrote. Echoes of his private life are very rare--which is remarkable, considering how plentiful they are in such a work as the historical drama "Gustavus Vasa." In this respect "The Bridal Crown" connects logically with Strindberg's novels and stories from the islands outside of Stockholm: "The People at Hemsö," "Fisher Folks," and "At the Edge of the Sea." It seems that nothing helped more to take him out of himself and his morbid introspection than a study of the life of the common people. How successful he was in that study is indicated by the wide popularity of the novels and stories in question as well as by the stage history of "The Bridal Crown." This play has been one of the most frequently produced of all his dramatic works. The first performance took place on September 14, 1907, at the Swedish Theatre, Stockholm, and since that time it has been played more than one hundred times in Stockholm alone--which is a great deal in Sweden. * * * * * The list of characters will suffice to indicate what a weird thing "The Spook Sonata" is. Rarely has Strindberg's peculiar fancy carried him further without bringing him to outright disaster. Mingling extreme realism of portrayal with a symbolism that frequently borders on the extravagant and the impossible, he has nevertheless produced a work that bites into the consciousness of the reader and challenges his thought to an unusual degree. The best characterisation of the play as a whole might be to call it a symbolistic mosaic pieced together with fragments of real life. Reminiscences of the author's own life in all its periods recur constantly, and yet the play cannot be called autobiographical in any narrow sense. Not even its general tendency--if it can be said to have one--is particularly tied up with Strindberg's view of his own fate. No, the play is in all its aspects a generalisation along the lines of "The Dream Play," but brought nearer to the level and superficial appearance of every-day life. One of its purposes is to illustrate the mysterious relationship between seemingly disconnected things and events which Strindberg during his latest period was so prone to discover everywhere.--When in this super-Swedenborgian mood, he was inclined to regard the slightest incident of daily life as a mere symbol meant to shadow or foreshadow vaster incidents on higher levels. It would be dangerous to accept his readings of life in this mood as so many formulations of truth, but, on the other hand, it would be unwise to discard them as meaningless. What must be remembered first and last in the study of Strindberg's work is that he was primarily, if not wholly, a bearer of suggestions rather than of final truths. We cannot go to him for knowledge of what life actually is, but we may be sure of never reading one of his pages without finding some new angle of approach, the use of which will help our own thought to enlarge our knowledge of actual life. Those who demand predigested thought will always be lost in the mazes of his irresponsible fancy. Those who ask nothing more of literature than to be set thinking will always find him one of the most fruitful writers produced by modern times. For this very reason it would be futile to attempt any explanatory analysis of "The Spook Sonata." There must, in fact, be a separate analysis of that kind for every thinking reader. One may say, of course, that its name as well as the strange function which forms its central scene, points to an interpretation of all human life as a ghostly reflection of wasted and buried possibilities. But there is charity as well as bitterness in the play, and it seems to preach the lesson that we owe tolerance to every man but him who thinks himself better than the rest. It warns, too, against that interference with other lives which seems to have been one of the haunting spectres of Strindberg's own existence. In other words, the play may be regarded as a final passionate expression of his will to live his own life in his own way and of his resentment against real or fancied efforts to balk I that will. Dramatically this play is well worthy of study, It contains some points that, whether successful or no in this particular connection, should not be passed over by future playwrights. Such a point, for instance, is the continued presence on the stage of several dumb characters during almost the entire first scene. I do not know whether it will come home to readers of the play that, while the conversation is going on between the _Student_ and _Old Hummel_, for example, the _Janitress_ and the _Dark Lady_ are all the time present in the background as living reminders of the secret threads of human life underlying the conflict between the two men that do the talking. And the idea of trying to render simultaneous portrayal of life within and without a human habitation has again been tried by Strindberg in this play with very remarkable and suggestive results. There are several signs which indicate that Strindberg changed his plan of the play while he was writing it. There is one character present on the list of characters in the Swedish text that never appears--the _Janitor_. On the other hand, that list does not contain the name of the _Cook_, who plays such a strange part in the final scene--a sort of infernalised Greek chorus with a Japanese soy bottle for its Dionysian emblem. The arrangement of the stage directions in the Swedish original indicates, too, that he intended a single setting to serve for the whole play. He hoped probably to be able to let the action laid within the house be seen from the outside, but, warned by his strong sense of theatrical feasibility, he changed his plans unhesitatingly, and with them his scenery. Several of the minor themes running through the play may to the reader seem not only minor but hopelessly trivial. I am thinking principally of the constantly recurring charge against servants that they take the nourishment out of food before serving it to their masters. This suspicion seems to have been one of Strindberg's fixed ideas, occurring in almost every work where the relationship between masters and servants is at all mentioned. I think he has harped too much on this theme, both in "The Spook Sonata" and elsewhere. I think, too, that he is wrong in placing the responsibility with the servants. On the other hand, I think one of his services is that he works with modern science to bring us a better realisation of the dose interrelation between the material basis of our existences and the more important spiritual overtones. "The Spook Sonata" was written and published in 1907. It was played for the first time on January 27, 1908, at the Intimate Theatre, Stockholm, reaching a total of twelve performances. * * * * * The little scene named "The First Warning" is frankly autobiographical. It relates an actual incident from Strindberg's first marriage, to which, I think, he makes reference in "A Fool's Confession"--a work, by the bye, which should really be named "A Fool's Plea" in English. In spite of sinister undertones, "The First Warning" is distinctly a comedy, and practically the only short thing in a lighter vein written by Strindberg. At first he named it "The First Tooth," but he had adopted the present title before the original publication--with three other one-act plays--occurred, in 1893. In Germany the play is known under the name "Signs of Autumn" (_Herbstzeichen_). Beginning on September 10, 1910, it was given eight times in all at the Intimate Theatre, Stockholm, but long before that time it had been played a number of times on various German stages. * * * * * King Gustavus I, founder of the Vasa dynasty, which reigned over Sweden until 1818, has rightly been called the "father" of his country and the builder of modern Sweden. He finished the war of liberation, by which the hampering and unsatisfactory union between Sweden and the other two Scandinavian kingdoms was finally severed. But he did much more. He reorganised the whole country, in all its departments, on such a basis of efficiency that it became able to play the part of a great European power for more than a century. Some have pictured him as a sort of superman. Others have called him a mere country squire, applying the methods of stable and barn to a whole country. Both those views of him are probably correct as well as incorrect. He was undoubtedly first of all an able and conscientious peasant on a large scale, but as such he was very much in place at a time when agriculture was the only source of income that could be called national. And his cares on behalf of commerce and mining show him to have had a very broad and foresighted view of husbandry. The figure of the first Vasa took an early hold of Strindberg's imagination. He introduced it in the first version of his first great play, "Master Olov." But there the king was a subordinate character--so much so, in fact, that he did not appear at all in the final metrical version of the play, completed in 1877. At that time Strindberg was more interested in _Master Olov_, the dreaming idealist who placed religious reform above political and economical reorganisation. When, in 1899, he returned to "old King Gustav," his interest had shifted, and in this play, said to be his greatest historical drama--and one of the greatest of its kind in the annals of modern literature--the royal figure dominates absolute. When I first contemplated a translation of this play I feared it would be necessary to preface it with a condensed history of Sweden during the early sixteenth century. Having finished my task, I find that an elaborate historical introduction would merely be a duplication of the work done by the playwright. Barring a few minor points that have been illuminated by notes, all the history needed for the understanding of the play will be found within the play itself. The truth of the matter is that Strindberg was not writing history but poetry, and that he was more anxious to portray human character than to set forth all too familiar historical events. He portrayed his main character in more than one way and sense, however. The _King_, as we find him in the drama, is a wonderfully vivid and faithful reconstruction of a great man that has writ himself in large letters on the map of his country. But he is also a symbolisation of a type that will always remain one of the most fascinating of all that people the earth: that of the ruler who is conscious both his mission and of the price that must be paid for its fulfilment. The problem of Strindberg's play might be said to be this: granted such a mission, how much has a man the right to pay for its proper fulfilment? And as behoves a poet Strindberg has brought this problem to no triumphant "Q.E.D." His ambiguous, yet tremendously significant, answer seems to be: "Such a man has the right to do whatever his mission demands, even though it may go against his grain as an individual, but he must be humble about it and not confuse himself with Providence." _Gustavus_ is humbled and made to suffer, not because of this or that act, but because of an inclination to consider his own mission the only one in sight. A few words need to be said about the chronology of the play. In accordance with his theories in regard to historical playwriting Strindberg has dealt very freely with dates and facts. The play occupies a period of about two years, which length of time separates the first act from the four last. These take place within a few days. The historical events that enter as material into the play were spread over nearly twenty years, and Strindberg has not hesitated to introduce them in reversed order either. This license must be considered in the light of what I have already said about his intentions. His main concern was to show how the principal character would act under certain given circumstances, and to use those circumstances in the manner most apt to throw light on the character in question. And in this respect he has undoubtedly been successful. The Swedes think so, at least. "Gustavus Vasa" has drawn grudging approval from Strindberg's worst enemies among his own countrymen. The first performance of the play, which took place on October 17, 1899, at the Swedish Theatre, Stockholm, turned at the time into a national event. The play has since then been revived several times, particularly in connection with the celebration of its author's sixtieth and sixty-third birthday anniversaries, in 1909 and 1912. In all, the play has been performed about one hundred times in Stockholm alone, and it has been given on several German stages with striking success. * * * * * A word should be said concerning the spelling of Swedish names used in this volume. It can hardly be called a system at all. It is neither Swedish nor English. It is a frank compromise, designed exclusively to make the reading of the plays as easy as possible to English-speaking readers. Some time in the future, when the knowledge of the Scandinavian literatures and languages has reached a more advanced stage in this country, I should like to see a revised edition with the original Swedish spelling of all names preserved throughout. THE BRIDAL CROWN (KRONBRUDEN) A FOLK-PLAY IN SIX SCENES 1902 CHARACTERS MATS KERSTI _The_ MOTHER _of_ KERSTI _The_ SOLDIER, _her father_ _The_ VERGER, _her grandfather_ BRITA, _the grown-up sister of_ MATS _The_ GRANDFATHER } _The_ GRANDMOTHER } _The_ FATHER } _of_ MATS _The_ MOTHER } ANNA } LIT-KAREN } _younger sisters of_ MATS LIT-MATS, _the small brother of_ MATS _The_ SHERIFF _The_ PASTOR _The_ FISHERMAN _The_ MIDWIFE _The_ NECK _The_ CHILD IN WHITE _The_ MEWLER (_Mylingen_), _an apparition_ _The_ MOCKER (_Skratten_), _a voice_ _The_ HEADSMAN MATS'S RELATIVES, _called the_ MILL-FOLK KERSTI'S RELATIVES, _called the_ MEWLINGS (_Mylingarne_) FOUR BRIDESMAIDS SIX SERVANT-GIRLS TWO FIDDLERS TWO SOLDIERS SCENARIO SCENE I. THE HILL PASTURE SCENE II. THE FAMILY COUNCIL AT THE MILL SCENE III. THE SOLDIER'S HOUSE ON THE EVE OF THE WEDDING SCENE IV. THE WEDDING AT THE MILL SCENE V. AT THE CHURCH: THE PENANCE OF KERSTI SCENE VI. ON THE ICE OF THE LAKE FIRST SCENE _A hill pasture in Dalecarlia. A hut of rough-hewn boards, painted red, Stands at the left. Beside it grow two birches with trunks that are white clear down to the ground_. _On the right-hand side appears a sloping hillside covered with spruces. The hillside is cut by a large brook forming a waterfall. At the foot of it is a tarn covered by water-lilies. The background shows a big lake bordered by blue hills. A church is visible across the lake_. _A grindstone set in a wooden frame stands in the foreground by the corner of the hut_. _It is Sunday evening, about sunset time_. KERSTI'S MOTHER _sits on a wooden block outside the hut, smoking her pipe_. KERSTI _enters with an alpenhorn in her hand. She stops in front of her_ MOTHER. MOTHER. Where have you been all this time, daughter? KERSTI. In the woods, mother. MOTHER. Picking strawberries, I suppose. Your lips are so red. KERSTI. Why did you call me, mother? MOTHER. The woods were full of noises, child, and of stealthy footfalls. Could it be the bear? KERSTI. Can't tell. MOTHER. I thought I heard the strokes of an axe, but maybe I was mistaken. KERSTI. The bear uses no axe, mother. MOTHER. Why dressed up in your best, daughter? KERSTI. It's Sunday, mother. MOTHER. There is milk on your tucker, child. Have you been milking May-dew or Starbright? KERSTI. Could I but milk the stars--and the moon, O! MOTHER. While it's night, O! KERSTI. Day and night! MOTHER. Night and day!--Yes, I know! Beware of the bear! KERSTI. Do you think he would tear my pet cow? MOTHER. Have you lost her? KERSTI. Shall I ask Anna? MOTHER. You had better! KERSTI. [_Picks up her alpenhorn and sounds a melody; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 1. _Then she sings; see Melody No_. 2] "Too-la-loo, Ann at Boorness! Do you see my cosset cow Over there at your place?" MATS. [_Answering from a distance in a dear tenor voice; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 3] "Too-la-loo, so I do. Come at once: Cosset cow is here now!" MOTHER. What a deep voice Anna has got! KERSTI. She has been calling her cows since the sun began to set. MOTHER. What do you hear down there in the valley, child? KERSTI. The big bell of the cow, the low bell of the goat.... MOTHER. Oh, no! KERSTI. I can hear the cock crowing and the dog barking, the gun banging and the cart clanking, and the oars saying "duck-duck" in the rowlocks. MOTHER. Whose cock do you mean, and whose dog? KERSTI. The miller's. MOTHER. What's his name? Is it Anna? KERSTI _looks embarrassed and does not answer_. MOTHER. What do you see down there in the valley? KERSTI. The water-wheel in the mill-race, the smoke from the chimney.... MOTHER. Whose chimney? The mill-folk's, I suppose? KERSTI. It's growing dark, mother. MOTHER. I _am_ going--before it grows still darker! [_She rises to her feet_] This has been the longest Sunday in all my life!--What kind of a smell is that? KERSTI. I smell the woods; I smell the cattle; I smell the hay. MOTHER. No, it was tattle-berries you were picking! [_For a while she stands still, lost in thought; then she sings; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 4] "The joy that was mine Has been turned into woe!" KERSTI. It is growing dark, mother! MOTHER. So I see, daughter mine. The darkness is coming down on us heavy as a pall, and downward goes my path now--ever downward! But you must stay to watch the curds. And trust me to see if you let the fire go out. KERSTI. Trust me to see that the fire won't go out, mother. MOTHER. Good night, then. And don't forget your evening prayers! KERSTI. Good night, mother. MOTHER. "The joy that was mine has been turned into woe!" Don't forget your evening prayers! [_She goes out to the left_. KERSTI _opens the door of the hut. A big pot is seen hanging over the fire, on which she puts more wood; coming out again, she looks around to make sure that her mother is gone; then she picks up the alpenhorn and sounds another wordless melody on it. [See musical appendix, Melody No_. 5.] MATS. [_Is heard singing outside, on the right-hand side; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 6] "Kersti dearest, Kersti dearest, Baby sleeps in the forest." KERSTI. [_Answers in the same way; see Melody No_. 7] "Dillery-dell! Fareth he well, Fareth he well Far in the forest?" MATS. [_Answers as before; see Melody No_. 8] "Nothing to fear! Nothing to fear! Baby sleeps in his cradle here, Far, far, in the forest!" KERSTI. [_Singing; see Melody No_. 9] "Haste to the house and milk the cows, And see that baby lacks nothing. I cannot come, must stay at home, Helping my folks with the baking." MATS. [_Answers as before; see Melody No_. 10] "Birches nod in the blowing breeze, But baby slumbers in perfect peace, Kersti, Kersti, dearest!" _A strong wind springs up. The centre of the stage grows dark, but the sun is still shining on the tops of spruces on the hillside_. _Very faintly at first, then more and more clearly, the yells and cries of a gang of game beaters are heard. These are followed by the snapping of branches, the baying of hounds, the trampling of horses in trot and gallop, the cracking of guns, the snarling of rattles, the crashing of trees that fall, and, above all, the constantly rising roar of the waterfall_. _Finally a canon is sounded by ten hunting-horns, the first horn repeating its theme while the rest join in one by one. [See musical appendix, Melody No_. 11.] _Badly frightened_, KERSTI _stands staring in every direction while the noise lasts. When it has died away in the distance and the woods are silent again, she brings bunches of spruce branches and spreads them on the ground, covering them at last with a brightly coloured rag carpet. Next she fetches two young spruce-trees that have been stripped of branches and bark, so that only their tops remain green. These she places beside the door of the hut, one on either side. Then she goes to the tarn and picks a number of white water-lilies, which she binds into a wreath_. MATS _enters from the left, carrying a baby in a cradle of leather with straps attached to it_. KERSTI. Baby, baby darling! Is he still asleep? MATS. Indeed he is! KERSTI. Bring him here, and we'll let the trees rock him. _They hang the cradle between the two birches that are swayed gently by the wind_. KERSTI. [_Humming_] "Birches nod in the blowing breeze, but baby slumbers in perfect peace.".... Did you hear the hunt, Mats? MATS. No hunt at this time of day, girl! KERSTI. But I heard it! MATS. Hardly!--What did your mother have to say? KERSTI. She bothered me until I thought she would bother the life out of me. MATS. Yes, dear, there can be no peace or happiness for us until our union has been hallowed and our baby baptised. KERSTI. As long as the old folk resist there can be no wedding. But we must pray the Lord to bless our union before we give baby a name. MATS. So we have agreed, and now it may as well be done. KERSTI. Everything is ready, as you see. MATS. It's well done, but--we're a sorry couple for all that, and a sorry wedding we're having. KERSTI. Let the Lord look into our minds and hearts, and if they hold no evil--what matters the rest? Have you brought the Book? MATS. I have. But are you sure, dear, that what we mean to do is not sinful? KERSTI. Why should it be? Don't you know that the midwife can baptise in case of need? MATS. Well, that's the midwife! KERSTI. [_Putting the wreath on her head_] Let us begin! MATS. In the name of the Lord! And may we never come to regret it! [_They kneel on the carpet, facing each other_; MATS _takes out a ring, which they hold between them while he is reading out of the prayer-book_] "I, Mats Anders Larsson, take you, Kersti Margaret Hansdaughter, to be my wedded wife, whom I will love in good days and bad, and in token thereof I give you this ring." KERSTI. "I, Kersti Margaret Hansdaughter, take you, Mats Anders Larsson, to be my wedded husband, whom I will love in good days and bad, and in token thereof I give you this ring." _They pray in silence for a while; then they rise and take hold of each other's hands, but they do not kiss each other_. MATS. Now you are mine in the sight of God, dear, and after this we won't mind what people may say. KERSTI. That remains to be seen. MATS. And what have we to eat, dear. KERSTI. Nothing at all, Mats. MATS. Then there is nothing left but to smoke. _They seat themselves on two small, three-legged stools and we flint and steel to light their pipes_. MATS. [_When they have smoked a while in silence_] What was that you said about the hunt just now? KERSTI. I haven't the heart to tell, Mats. I haven't the heart since I guessed what folk they were. MATS. Better not, maybe!... Look at the cradle--going as if it could rock itself. KERSTI. That's the wind, Mats; the wind in the birches. MATS. But there is no wind in the spruces over there. KERSTI. So I see. Surely the evil ones are abroad to-night. MATS. Don't talk of them! KERSTI. Do you see my smoke going northward? MATS. And mine southward! KERSTI. The gnats are dancing.... MATS. Which means a wedding.... KERSTI. Do you think we are happier now? MATS. Hardly! KERSTI. Do you hear the cry of the blackcock? MATS. A sure sign of wedding.... KERSTI. But not a single church bell to be heard MATS. It's Sunday, and the ringing during the day has made them tired What shall we call the little one? KERSTI. [_In wild rebellion_] Burden and Ill-luck and Un-asked and crown-thief.... MATS. Why crown-thief? KERSTI. Because and because and because Even if we get a real wedding, I can wear no crown! What should he be called? Bride-spoil, Mother-woe, Forest-find! MATS. Badly fares who badly does! KERSTI. Yes, that's for you to say! _The_ MOTHER _of_ KERSTI _appears on the hillside among the spruces and stands looking at_ MATS _and her daughter_. MATS. There are evil eyes about! KERSTI. And evil thoughts.... What you brew I have to drink. What you grind I have to bake. _The_ MOTHER _disappears_. MATS. Can you tell what made our families hate each other so fiercely? KERSTI. It had to do with land--with bought favours, and ill-gotten gains, and corrupt judges, and--everything that's bad, bad, bad! MATS. And then the hatred turned into liking, love, lust.... KERSTI. All of it poisoned.... MATS. How dark it turns when the hatred breaks through! KERSTI. [_Throwing her wreath into the tarn_] Well may you say so! The devil take the wreath, as I can't have a crown.... MATS. Don't say that! KERSTI. We hold wedding like beggars, and rascals, and roving folk.... What is it you cannot eat or drink, but that tastes good for all that? It's tobacco--and that's all you get for a wedding-feast! The fire under the kettle is going out, Mats. Go and fetch some wood. It's all the dancing there will be. MATS. If tokens tell the truth, you were born to be a queen! KERSTI. Maybe! Surely not to milk the cows! MATS. And the baby, the baby, the dear little thing! KERSTI. The poor dear! Oh, what will become of us? What can be in store for us? Get some wood, Mats! Mother will beat me if the milk doesn't curdle. Go, Mats! MATS. There was a time when you served my father, KERSTI, and now it's my turn to serve you. Because he was harsh to you, I'll be good to you! KERSTI. Yes, Mats, you are good, but I am not. If I only were! MATS. Try to be! KERSTI. Try to be bad, Mats, and we'll see if you can. MATS. You don't mean it! KERSTI. Who can tell?--Get away from here, Mats, and hurry up! Somebody is coming. I know her steps. It's mother! MATS. Your mother?--And how about the baby? KERSHI. [_Picks up the carpet and throws it across the cradle; then she takes her sheepskin coat that has been hanging on the outside wall of the hut and spreads it on top of the carpet_] Go, go, go! MATS. Be careful about baby--be careful now! [_He goes out_. KERSTI. Of course, of course! MOTHER. [_Entering from the left_] Was it Anna that was here? KERSTI. It was. MOTHER. [_Looking hard at_ KERSTI] And she left when I came?--What a voice she has! KERSTI. Yes, has she not? MOTHER. And she cut the wedding poles, too, and spread the spruce? KERSTI. What is strange about that? MOTHER. [_Pulling_ KERSTI _by the hair_] Storyteller, hussy, strumpet.... KERSTI. [_Raising her hand against her_ MOTHER] Take care! MOTHER. Will you lay hand on your own mother, you trull? Is that what Mats has been teaching you? His father drove us from house and home, and now you take the son in your arms, daughter mine.... O! KERSTI. That such things can be said.... O! MOTHER. [_Pointing to the cradle_] What have you there? KERSTI. Clothes to be aired. MOTHER. Small ones, I guess. KERSTI. Not so very. MOTHER. And inside the cradle? KERSTI. Small wash--not for small ones. MOTHER. The child is there! KERSTI. What child? MOTHER. Yours! KERSTI. There is no such thing! MOTHER. Will you swear? KERSTI. I swear! May the Neck get me if I lie! MOTHER. You shouldn't swear by the evil one. KERSTI. I will swear by no one else! MOTHER. [_Seating herself_] There is talk in the village. KERSTI. Indeed? MOTHER. A queer sort of talk. KERSTI. No, really? MOTHER. They say that Mats is to have the mill. KERSTI [_Rising_] Is it true? MOTHER. As true as it is that rashness always gets into trouble. KERSTI. So Mats gets the mill? Then he will marry, I guess? MOTHER. They talk of that, too. KERSTI. Whom do you think? MOTHER. Whoever it be that his fancy will take--the crown she must surely be able to wear. KERSTI. Oh! MOTHER. Oh, indeed!--There is gold on your finger. KERSTI. There is. MOTHER. Are you pledged? KERSTI. I am. MOTHER. And the crown? [KERSTI _does not reply_] Have you lost it? KERSTI. [_Walking back and forth restlessly_] You know, it was foretold that I should wear a crown. MOTHER. Stuff and nonsense! A virgin's crown is more beautiful than a queen's. And happy is she who wears it with honour! KERSTI. Oh! MOTHER. And oh, indeed!--Little we had. Wrong we suffered. Badly we fared. Alas the day! KERSTI. Little we had, but shall have plenty! Luck is near! MOTHER. Race against race, hating and hated; fire and water: now it's coming to a boil. KERSTI. Water may cool what the fire has heated. All will be well! MOTHER. [_Rising to leave_] "The joy that was mine has been turned into woe." [_She goes toward the right_] There is a wreath floating on the water--where's the crown? [_She goes out_. KERSTI. It will come, it will come! NECK. [_Appears at the foot of the falls surrounded by a bright, white light; he wears a red cap, and a silvery tunic fastened about the waist with a green sash; he is young and fair, with blond hair that is falling down his back; he has a fiddle of gold with a bow of silver, and plays to his own singing; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 12] "I am hoping, I am hoping that my Redeemer still liveth." KERSTI. [_Who has been lost in thought, becomes aware of the_ Neck; _when he has repeated his song twice, she remarks sneeringly_] There is no redeemer for you, I can tell you! _The_ NECK _pauses for a while and looks sadly at her; then he repeats the same song twice again_. KERSTI. If you'll keep quiet I'll let you play at my wedding. _The_ NECK _nods assent and vanishes into the rock behind the falls_. MIDWIFE. [_Enters from behind the hut wearing a wide Hack cloak and a close-fitting black hood; she carries a bag under her cloak, and she is very careful never to let her back be seen_] Good evening, my dear. I hope my visit is not inconvenient. KERSTI. You are the midwife--Mrs. Larsson--are you not? MIDWIFE. Of course, I am. It was I that helped you, my dear.... KERSTI. Oh, yes; but you promised never to speak of it. MIDWIFE. And we won't! How--is the little one doing? KERSTI. [_Impatiently_] Oh, well enough! MIDWIFE. Better not be too impatient, dear.... KERSTI. Who says I am? MIDWIFE. The snappy voice and the tap of the little foot! But now there is gold on your finger, I see. Then I shall be asked to a wedding shortly, I think. KERSTI. You? MIDWIFE. I am always at the baptism, but can never get to a wedding--and I think it would be such fun! KERSTI. No doubt it would! MIDWIFE. Of all human virtues, there is one I value above the rest.... KERSTI. I don't suppose it is chastity. MIDWIFE. What no one has, is beyond value. That which I put value on is gratitude. KERSTI. You were paid, were you not? MIDWIFE. There are services that money can't pay. KERSTI. And people you cannot get rid of. MIDWIFE. Exactly, my dear, and of those I am one.... KERSTI. So I find. MIDWIFE. And there is another, KERSTI. Who can that be? MIDWIFE. The Sheriff! KERSTI. [_Startled_] The Sheriff? MIDWIFE. Yes, the Sheriff. He is a very remarkable man, and I have heard of no one who knows the law as he does, from cover to cover.... You and I could never get all that into our heads, but--there is one chapter I have to know by heart, being a midwife.... And a most remarkable chapter it is, with a most remarkable number of paragraphs.... What's the matter? KERSTI. [_Agitated_] Tell me what you know. MIDWIFE. Nothing at all I am nothing but a poor old woman who has come here to get lodging for the night.... KERSTI. Lodging here? MIDWIFE. Right here. KERSTI. Begone! MIDWIFE. I can't be walking the woods in the dark of the night. KERSTI. [_Threatening her with a stick_] If you won't walk, I'll make you run. MIDWIFE. [_Moving back a couple of steps without turning about_] Have we got that far now? You had better leave the stick alone, or.... KERSTI. Or what? MIDWIFE. The Sheriff, of course, and that chapter I spoke of.... KERSTI [_With the stick raised for a blow_] Go to the devil, you cursed witch! [_The stick breaks into small pieces_. MIDWIFE. Ha-ha! Ha-ha! KERSTI. [_Picks up the flint and steel, and strikes fire_] In the name of Christ and His Passion, get thee gone! MIDWIFE. [_Turns and runs out with the galloping movement of a wild thing; her back, which then becomes visible, looks like that of a fox and ends in a sweeping, bushy tail; she hisses rather than speaks_] We'll meet at the wedding, bid or unbid! And the Sheriff, too! Ad-zee! Ad-zee! Ad-zee! KERSTI _takes a few faltering steps in direction of the tarn, as if she meant to throw herself into the water_. _Then she begins to walk up and down in front of the cradle. After a while she takes off the round Dalecarlian jacket she is wearing and puts it on top of the clothing already covering the cradle. Finally she sits down on one of the stools by the corner of the hut and buries her face in her hands_. _The grindstone begins to whirl with a hissing sound. Little bells, like those worn by goats, are heard ringing in the woods. Little white flames appear among the spruces on the hillside. Cow-bells are heard dose by. The_ NECK _appears as before and sings the same song_. KERSTI _rises horror-stricken and stands like a statue_. _Tones like those produced by a harmonica are heard from the tarn. Unseen by_ KERSTI, _the_ CHILD IN WHITE _emerges from among the water-lilies and goes to the cradle. Then all sounds die out. The grindstone comes to a stop. The_ NECK _disappears. All the will-o'-the-wisps but one go out_. _Still unseen by_ KERSTI, _the_ CHILD IN WHITE _rocks the cradle gently, puts his ear dose to it, and draws back with an expression of great sadness. At last he bursts into tears and covers his face with one arm. During this scene the beltlike tones from the tarn continue_. _The_ CHILD IN WHITE _picks several water-lilies to pieces and strews them on the cradle, which he finally kisses before he descends into the tarn again. Then the last will-o'-the-wisp disappears and the harmonica can no longer be heard_. MIDWIFE. [_Enters again, carrying her bag so that it can be seen_] Perhaps I shall be more welcome this time. Does the fair maiden care to see the midwife now? KERSTI. What do you bring? MIDWIFE. [_Taking a bridal crown from her bag_] This! KERSTI. What do you take? MIDWIFE. [_Pointing toward the cradle_] "You see it, I see it, the whole world sees it, and yet it is not there."[1] KERSTI. Take it, then! MIDWIFE. [_Goes to the cradle_] I have it. [_She takes stealthily something from the cradle and drops it into her bag, which she then hides under her cloak again_] Can I come to the wedding now? KERSTI. Yes, come. MIDWIFE. You must say that I'll be welcome. KERSTI. That would be a lie. MIDWIFE. You must practise.... KERSTI. Welcome, then--if you'll only leave me now! MIDWIFE. [_Withdrawing backwards_] "Four that whirl and twirl; Eight that hurl and purl; Four that flip-flap in a row; Four that question where to go."[2] [_She disappears_. MATS. [_Is heard singing triumphantly outside; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 13] "Come, cosset, cosset, cosset; come, cosset, cosset!" _As_ KERSTI _hears him a happy look comes into her face, and she seems to swell with pride and new courage_. MATS _enters, with an armful of wood, looking joyful_. KERSTI. [_Going to meet him_] Did you see anybody? MATS. I did!--Now for the wedding! [_He dumps the wood into the hut_] Let the kettle boil over--I am boiling, too. KERSTI. Was it your father? MATS. Father and mother. And I get the mill! KERSTI. [_Showing her crown_] Do you see what I...? MATS. Where did you get it? KERSTI. Mother brought it for me. MATS. Has she been here? KERSTI. Happy as anything! MATS. But the baby, the baby! KERSTI. Sit down, Mats! Sit down! You know I can always find a way! MATS. [_Seating himself_] But the baby! KERSTI. There now!--Listen! Now, when trouble is on the wane and life is smiling, don't you think a little patience might carry us very far.... MATS. If only the course be straight.... KERSTI. Of course, straight and short. MATS. What are you after? KERSTI. If the big fish is to be hooked, the small ones must be overlooked. MATS. Can't you talk plainly? KERSTI. Wait a little! MATS. I am waiting. KERSTI. The old folks make conditions. MATS. Yes, I know. KERSTI. They want a croton bride. What does that mean if not a bride that wears a crown? MATS. And wears it with honour! KERSTI. With or without! What no one sees and no one knows does not exist. MATS. Let me think. [_He sits silent for a few moments_] All right! And furthermore? KERSTI. To hook what's big, you must overlook what's less. MATS. Which does not mean the little one! KERSTI. Do you mean to prove false? MATS. I don't! Not to you, Kersti! KERSTI. Suppose now--the banns have been read, the wedding is under way, but the little one sleeps in the forest. Who will haste to the house, and milk the cows, and see that baby lacks nothing? Who, I ask? MATS. Well may you ask! [_He broods a while_] If we only dared.... What was that you said? KERSTI. Not a word. MATS. It seems to me.... If we only dared.... KERSTI. What? Say it! MATS. Say it yourself! KERSTI. No, it's for you! MATS. Somebody must take care of the little one. KERSTI. Who? MATS. There is only one. KERSTI. Then it's easy to guess who! MATS. Tell whom you mean. KERSTI. No, you must tell. MATS. Beside ourselves, there is only one who knows about the baby. KERSTI. Who is that? MATS. If you know, why don't you tell? KERSTI. Because I want you to tell. MATS. It's the midwife. Was that what you said? KERSTI. I said nothing, but you did--and, as you know, I do what you say. MATS. I have my doubts. KERSTI. But what you said I have done already. The baby can't stay in the woods. It must have shelter when the nights grow cold. And if anything should happen, then comes--the Sheriff! MATS. The Sheriff, you say? Yes, so he does! KERSTI. [_Leaping to her feet_] Is he coming, you say? MATS. Yes, if something should happen.... Well, where's the midwife to be found? KERSTI. Would you like to call her? MATS. I wish she were here! KERSTI. And what do you want her to do? MATS. Give the baby a home. KERSTI. With whom? MATS. With herself. KERSTI. For how long? MATS. Till the wedding is over. KERSTI. But if he were taken sick while with her? MATS. Better than have him freeze in the woods--better than have him freeze to death! Take a look at the cradle. I think I heard him! KERSTI. No, he's asleep.... MATS. Hush--I heard him. KERSTI. No, you didn't! MATS. Yes, I did. [_He rises_. KERSTI. [_Placing herself in front of the cradle_] Don't you wake him! If he should cry, somebody might hear. MATS. Oh.... Do you think any one has--that your mother may have heard him? Oh, Kersti, we should never have done what we have! KERSTI. Undone were better! MATS. [_Dejectedly_] We must take him to the midwife to-night. I must go to the village. KERSTI. I'll take him! MATS. [_Going to the cradle_] Do! KERSTI. But don't wake him! MATS. Can't I bid him good night? KERSTI. Don't touch him! MATS. Think if I should never see him again! KERSTI. Then it would be the will of Him whose will we cannot change. MATS. His will be done! KERSTI. Now you have said it! MATS. What have I said that could please you like that? KERSTI. That--that--you submit to the will of Him that performeth all things. MATS. [_Simply_] Yes, whatever may happen is His will, of course. KERSTI. Of course! MATS. Good night, then, Kersti dear, and good night, baby! [_He goes out_. KERSTI. Good night, Mats. KERSTI _loosens the empty cradle from its fastenings and drops it into the tarn, from the waters of which the_ CHILD IN WHITE _rises to threaten her with raised forefinger. At the sight of him_ KERSTI _shrinks back._ NECK. [_Appears in the same spot as before, but now bareheaded and carrying a golden harp, on which he accompanies himself; he has a threatening look as he sings; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 20] "Stilled are the waters, dark grows the sky: Dark grows the sky. Once in the world of the ages I lived, Blessed by the sun. Gone is the light, Conquered by night. Deep is my sin, Black as the tarn. Joy there is none; Plenty of woe. Torture and Shame must I name my abode: O!" _While the_ NECK _is singing_, KERSTI _hides the bridal crown in the hid. Then she puts out the fire under the pot. As she does so, the smoke pours in large quantities from the chimney, forming a dark background against which appear fantastically shaped and vividly coloured snakes, dragons, birds, etc_. _When_ KERSTI _comes out of the hut again, she has on a short Dalecarlian jacket and is carrying a bag and the alpenhorn. She locks the door of the hut and walks across the stage with proud bearing and firm steps just as the_ NECK _is singing the last line_. _Curtain_. [1] Old Swedish folk-riddle, the real solution of which is: the horizon. [2] An old Swedish folk-riddle, the answer of which is: a carriage. The four lines describe respectively: (1) the wheels; (2) the hoofs of the horses; (3) their ears; (4) their eyes. SECOND SCENE _The living-room of the mill. Everything is covered by white dust. In the background, on the right-hand side, is an open trap-door, showing part of the water-wheel. The end of the flour chute, with a bag attached to it, is protruding from the right wall not far from the trap-door. Near it appears a lever used for starting and stopping the water-wheel._ _Large gates occupy the centre of the real wall. Heavy wooden shutters dose another opening farther to the left and half-way from the floor_. _In the foreground, at the right, is a huge open fireplace, in which a coal-fire is burning. An iron pot is hanging over the fire. On the left-hand side appear a bedstead, a hand-loom, a bobbin, a red, and a spinning-wheel. There is a door in the right wall_. _The following members of the family are seated in a circle in front of the fireplace: the_ GRANDFATHER; _the_ GRANDMOTHER; _the_ FATHER _and_ MOTHER _of_ MATS; _his sisters_, BRITA, _who is full-grown_, ANNA, _who is half-grown, and_ LIT-KAREN, _who is still a child; and his brother_, LIT-MATS, _who is also a mere boy. All are smoking out of small pipes with iron bowls and looking very serious_. BRITA _is plaiting a chain out of human hair_. LIT-KAREN _and_ LIT-MATS _are playing with two dolls_. BRITA. [_To_ LIT-KAREN] Where did you get the doll? LIT-KAREN. Kersti gave it to me. BRITA. [_Taking the doll from her_] Away with it! [_To_ LIT-MATS] Where did you get your doll? LIT-MATS. Kersti gave it to me. BRITA. [_Taking the doll_] Out with it! FATHER. Hush! Hush! Grandfather is thinking. [_Silence_. MOTHER. [_To_ BRITA] What are you doing? BRITA. A watch-chain, but there is hardly hair enough. MOTHER. Where can you get any? BRITA. I know where it ought to be pulled. MOTHER. Horses pull. BRITA. Hens are picked, pigs give bristles, and maidens are combed.--Combed hair is good, but cut is better. FATHER. Hush, hush, grandfather is thinking. [_Silence_. ANNA. [_In a low voice to_ BRITA] What is he thinking of? BRITA. You'll hear by and by. And all will have to swallow. ANNA. Is it about Mats? [BRITA _makes no answer_] And Kersti? Will there be a wedding? FATHER. Hush, hush, grandfather is thinking. [_Silence_. ANNA. [_To_ BRITA] I'll give you some of my hair. BRITA. Not the right colour. ANNA. Who's got it? [BRITA _does not answer_] Is it Kersti you mean? BRITA. Don't mention her. [_Silence_. GRANDMOTHER. [_To_ GRANDFATHER] Have you thought it out? GRANDFATHER. [_Who has been sitting with the Bible and the hymn-book in his lap, lost in thought, wakes up_] I have! [_He opens the hymn-book at haphazard and says to the others_] It is No. 278, the fourth verse: "All at birth and death." Let us have it! ALL. [_Read in unison like children at school_] "All at birth and death are equals, As the graveyard bones proclaim, Poor and rich and low and mighty In the end appear the same; And the naked new-born baby Brings no evidence to prove Whether poverty or fortune Will attend its fated groove." GRANDFATHER. It is settled! "He that hath an ear, let him hear."--Is it settled? GRANDMOTHER. Not yet. FATHER. Not quite. MOTHER. The Lord beholdeth! BRITA. What does the Scripture, say? ANNA. "Doth God pervert judgment, or doth the Almighty pervert justice?" LIT-KAREN. What do you want me to say? GRANDFATHER. You must give us your advice, child, although we may not take it. Out of the mouth of babes may come the truth.... Shall Kersti have Mats? LIT-KAREN. If they want each other. GRANDFATHER. Well spoken! [_To_ LIT-MATS] And you, Lit-Mats? LIT-MATS. [_With his fingers in his mouth_] I want my doll! GRANDFATHER. And Mats wants his. Shall he have her? LIT-MATS. If it is Kersti, he may, for she gave me the doll. BRITA. Listen to him! GRANDFATHER. Let us search the Scripture. [_He opens the Bible and reads_] Genesis, thirty-fourth chapter and eighth verse. "And Hamor communed with them, saying, The soul of my son Shechem longeth for your daughter: I pray you give her him to wife." Is that enough? GRANDMOTHER. Enough and to spare! FATHER. There wasn't anything about the mill. MOTHER. Let His will be done! BRITA. [_Abruptly_] Amen. ANNA. Verily, it shall be done! LIT-KAREN. I like Kersti because she's nice. LIT-MATS. Me, too! FATHER. Hush, hush, grandfather is thinking. [_Silence_. GRANDFATHER. [_To_ FATHER] Ask your brother-in-law to come in. _The_ FATHER _goes to the door in the background, where he stops_. GRANDFATHER. [_Goes to the bed, pulls a box from under it, takes a bundle of papers from the box, and turns to the_ FATHER _again_] Let him come! FATHER. [_Opening the door in the background_] Come in, Stig Matsson. SHERIFF. [_Enters, dressed in uniform_] The peace of God be with you! ALL. [_Rising_] And his blessing on you! GRANDFATHER. It is I who have called you, Stig Matsson, and you know the reason. Kersti Margaret Hansdaughter--[_He sighs_]--is to become the wife of Mats Anders Larsson, my grandson. The two families have fought and fumed at each other for a long time--all too long! At this late hour I have come to feel that an end should be put to all strife and ill will before my eyes are closed and I am carried to my last rest. Take a look at these papers. [_He hands the bundle to the_ SHERIFF, _who opens it and glances at some of the papers_] They are legal documents, deeds, wills, receipts, authorisations--belonging to suits that have been settled or are still unsettled. Have you looked them over? SHERIFF. I have. GRANDFATHER. [_Takes back the bundle_] All right! Then I shall throw them into the fire. There is a time to hate and a time to love. The time of hatred must come to an end I am longing for peace. Therefore, I beg you, my next of kin, to regard all that has happened in the past as if it had not happened at all--and I ask you: Will you forget everything, and will you meet your new relatives without grudge or guile, and greet them as friends? Answer me! ALL. We will! GRANDFATHER. Then I shall let the fire consume what is left of past evils. [_He throws the bundle of papers into the fire, pulls the iron lid in front of the grate, and opens three small ventilators in the lid_] Let us be seated! _All seat themselves in front of the fireplace, staring at the red glare from the three ventilators_. ANNA. [_To_ BRITA, _in a low voice_] Do you hear it sing? BRITA. No, it moans. And within me it's aching! _The_ GRANDFATHER _rises. Then all the rest follow his example_. GRANDFATHER. [_To the_ FATHER] Bring them in! _The_ FATHER _goes to the door at the right and brings in_ MATS. _The_ MOTHER _goes to the door in the rear and opens it_. KERSTI _enters, accompanied by her_ MOTHER, _her father, the_ SOLDIER, _who is wearing the old full-dress uniform of the Swedish infantry of the line, and her grandfather, the_ VERGER. GRANDFATHER. May God bless you! And be seated, please! _All seat themselves except_ MATS, KERSTI, _and the_ SHERIFF. MATS _has taken hold of_ KERSTI _by both hands. Long silence_. GRANDFATHER. When is the wedding to be? MATS. In a fortnight, as soon as the banns have been read the third time. GRANDFATHER. What is the hurry? KERSTI _shows evidence of being offended_. MATS. Haven't we waited long enough? GRANDFATHER. Maybe you have! MATS. [_To his relatives_] Have you no word to say to Kersti? [_Pause_] Not one of you? SHERIFF. [_Goes to_ KERSTI _and takes her by the hands with evident friendliness_] Let us welcome the new child! _Panic-stricken_, KERSTI _tries to tear herself loose_. SHERIFF. You are not afraid of me, are you?--Oh, no!--Look me in the face, Kersti. I have dandled you on my knees when you were a little child, and I have held your pretty head in my hands.... Yes, you have a very pretty head, and a forehead that makes me think of a bull. That's why you are having your own way now, I suppose. [_He lets go of her_. GRANDFATHER. Let us leave the young ones alone! _Alt rise, walk past_ MATS _and_ KERSTI, _and disappear through the door in the rear_. BRITA. [_Who is the last to leave, spits scornfully as she passes_ KERSTI] Fie! MATS. [_Spitting in the same way_] Fie yourself! KERSTI _and_ MATS _are left alone_. MATS. I hope you will feel at home with me, Kersti! KERSTI. With you, yes! MATS. What have you to do with the others? KERSTI. That's the question. MATS. You are not marrying the family. KERSTI. But into it. MATS. Of course, we are not very soft or cuddlesome. KERSTI. That's plain.... Is this the place where we are to live? MATS. Yes, what do you think of it? KERSTI. Everything is white.... MATS. It's the flour, you see. Do you object? KERSTI. And damp.... MATS. It's the mill-race.... KERSTI. And cold, too.... MATS. It's the water.... KERSTI. Shall we have new furniture? MATS. There will be nothing new. Everything is handed down from one generation to another. KERSTI. But we can sweep, can't we? MATS. No, we can't! The dust in a mill is like the coating in a pipe. Mustn't be touched! KERSTI. Is that the wheel? MATS. That's the wheel. _He pulls the lever, whereupon the rushing of the water through the race is heard, and the wheel begins to turn_. KERSTI. Ugh! Have we to listen to that noise? MATS. It's ours! And we should be thankful as long as we hear it, because that means we have grist for the mill. KERSTI. And the sun never gets here? MATS. Never! How could it? KERSTI. And nothing grows here--except that green stuff on the wheel. MATS. But we catch eels here and lampreys. KERSTI. Ugh! I like it better in the pasture, where the wind is blowing.... MATS. And the birches rock.... KERSTI. [_Covering her face with the apron and weeping_] Must I live in a place like this, beneath the water, at the bottom of the sea? MATS. I was born here. KERSTI. And here we are to die--O! MATS. Why "O"? KERSTI. Stop the wheel at least. MATS. Well, if you can't get along with the wheel, then.... KERSTI. [_Opening a trap-door in the floor_] What's down here? MATS. The river. KERSTI. Please stop that wheel! MATS. [_Labours with the lever, but is unable to stop the wheel]_ Well! There must be mischief abroad!--It won't stop! KERSTI. I shall die here! MATS. I must go outside to stop it! There is mischief abroad, I tell you! KERSTI. And at home? MATS. Oh, dear! KERSTI. "Meow, said the cat."[1] MATS. What is the matter? KERSTI. Merely that I have got what I wanted. MATS. And it was not worth having? [_The noise made by the wheel has become, deafening, and the wheel itself has begun to turn in the opposite direction_] Christ Jesus, help! The wheel is turning backward! [_He runs out through the rear door_. KERSTI _remains alone_. _The handloom starts. The bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel begin to turn, each one in its own manner. The stage becomes brightly illumined as if with sunlight. Then the room turns very dark. The fireplace swings around so that the glare from the ventilators confronts_ KERSTI _like three burning eyes. It looks as if the fireplace were chasing her. Then it drops back into its accustomed place. The roar of the water-wheel increases again. The_ NECK _appears in the wheel with the red cap on his head, and the golden fiddle in his hand. Be sings and plays as before, repeating the brief tune several times_. NECK. "I am hoping, I am hoping, that my Redeemer still liveth!" KERSTI. [_Running out through the rear door_] Mats, Mats! _The_ NECK _disappears, but his song is still heard for a while, as it gradually dies away in the distance_. MIDWIFE. [_Enters, opens the small trap-door in the floor, and drops her leather bag through it_] "If you come back, it's all off, and if you don't, it's all on!" Now that's done! And I shall dance at the wedding! _She takes some dance steps, but without letting her back be seen. The hand-loom begins to rap in waltz time, accompanied by the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel. Then the_ MIDWIFE _disappears through the rear door, showing her back with the fox tail for a brief moment. The handloom, the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel keep right on as before_. KERSTI _enters, and at once everything stops. A moment later the_ VERGER _enters_. KERSTI. Is that you, grandfather? VERGER. Yes, girl, I forgot something. _He picks up a large leather bag which he dropped on the bed at his first entrance_. KERSTI. What have you there? VERGER. I come from the sacristy, and I am taking home the numbers to be polished. KERSTI. What numbers? VERGER. Those that show the hymns you are to sing, don't you know? KERSTI. Let me see! VERGER. [_Takes out of his bag a small black board, such as is found in every Swedish church; it has a number of nails on which are hung numbers made of brass_] Here you can see.... What's the matter, sweetheart? KERSTI. I don't know, grandfather, but I think I should never have come here.... VERGER. What talk is that, child? KERSTI. There is mischief astir in this house.... VERGER. Oh, mercy, no...; No, my dear.... KERSTI. Oh, oh, oh! Everything has grown so strange all of a sudden.... VERGER. But how is this going to end, Kersti? KERSTI. Yes, tell me, tell me! VERGER. I must go now, child. I must go back to the church and get the crown so I can send it to a goldsmith. It has to be cleaned with cream of tartar.... KERSTI. All right, grandfather.... VERGER. It is for your sake the crown is to be cleaned--for your own sake, don't you know?... [_He goes out by the rear door_. _The_ SOLDIER _enters immediately afterward_. KERSTI. Is that you, father? SOLDIER. Yes, it's only me. I want my chaco, which I left in here. [_He picks up the chaco_. KERSTI. Oh, father, father, I am so unhappy.... SOLDIER. [_Drily_] What has happened? KERSTI. Nothing! SOLDIER. Why should you be unhappy, then? KERSTI. You don't understand! SOLDIER. [_Brusquely, as he adjusts the chin-strap of the chaco_] Come to your senses, child! KERSTI. Don't go, father! SOLDIER. The sorrows of love pass quickly--Come to your senses is my advice. Do come to your senses! [_He goes out._ BRITA _enters_. KERSTI. And what have _you_ forgotten? BRITA. I never forget anything. KERSTI. What are you looking for? BRITA. You! KERSTI. How kindly! BRITA. Yes, is it not? KERSTI. You hateful thing! BRITA. You hussy! KERSTI. You--sister-in-law! BRITA. Who knows? KERSTI. Are you telling my fortune, you witch? BRITA. Yes--a rope! KERSTI. Should not be mentioned in the house of a hanged man! BRITA. [_Goes to the bag attached to the end of the flour chute_] Now I shall tell your fortune! You get the mill, and the grist will be accordingly. [_She takes from the bag a handful of black mould out of which she forms a small mound on the floor; then she says_] "Vagrant women Grind for their men Meal out of mould As only food."[1] KERSTI. A witch you are, indeed! BRITA. Yes, and one who can find buried treasures! Perhaps you will let me find a little treasure for you? KERSTI. Take care, you witch! Have you no shame? It's mortal sin you are practising now! You should be burned by fire, for I am sure you would float if thrown in the water! BRITA. [_Taking a pinch of mould from the bag and pouring it on_ KERSTI'S _head_] To the dust I wed you, and a crown of dirt shall you wear, so that your shame may find you out! KERSTI. Fie on you! Fie! VOICE. [_Like that of a small child, repeats after her_] Fie! KERSTI. Who was that? VOICE. Who was that? BRITA. Guess!--That was the Mocker! KERSTI. Who is the Mocker? VOICE. The Mocker! BRITA. The Mocker is the Mocker. Don't you know the Mewler? KERSTI. The Mewler, you say? What have I got to do with that one? VOICE. With that one! BRITA. The wages of sin is death! KERSTI. [_Calling through the door_] Mats! VOICE. Mats! KERSTI. [_In despair_] Oh! Oh! [_She unfastens one of her red garters and ties it about her own neck_] Let me die! Let me die! BRITA. You shall have your wish! KERSTI. Hang me to a tree! VOICE. To a tree! BRITA. Not I! MATS. [_Is heard singing outside_] "Kersti dear, is baby asleep?" BRITA. "Far in the forest!" Fie on you! [_She goes out_. MATS. [_Enters, looking very happy_] "Far, far, in the forest!" [_He comes up behind_ KERSTI _and puts his hands over her eyes_] Guess who it is! KERSTI. Oh, you hurt me! MATS. [_Taking hold of the garter which is still about the neck of_ KERSTI] What kind of necklace is this? KERSTI. Let go! MATS. [_Pulling playfully at the garter_] Now I have you! Now you are my prisoner, my dove, my goat that I bought for a groat! [_He leads her about by the garter_] My little white kid! My little pet cow! [_Singing_] "Come, cosset, cosset, cosset! Come, cosset, cosset!" KERSTI. Yes, you can be happy, Mats! MATS. I am, and guess why? KERSTI. Can't any longer! MATS. Because I met the midwife, and she brought word of the little one. KERSTI. Did she? MATS. She did! He's sleeping, she said, so quietly, so quietly. KERSTI. Oh! MATS. Far in the forest!--What's that in your hair? KERSTI. Mould. MATS. Have you been buried? KERSTI. Yes, already! MATS. [_Brushing the mould out of her hair_] Ugh! Who did that? KERSTI. Can't you tell? MATS. Brita with the evil eye? KERSTI. Can't you blind it? MATS. Not I! The only one who can is Jesus Christ! _A church-bell sounds the call to even-song_. KERSTI. Fray for me! MATS. One must do that for oneself. KERSTI. But suppose you can't? MATS. You can if your conscience is clear. KERSTI. But when _is_ it? MATS. Do you hear the even-song bell? KERSTI. No! MATS. But I do; so you must hear it, too. KERSTI. I don't, I don't! Alas the day! MATS. Can you hear the rapids? KERSTI. The roar of the rapids, the beat of the flail, the tinkle of cowbells--but of holy bells not a sound! MATS. That's a bad sign! I remember when the bells were rung at the burial of our former sheriff--we could see them move, but not a sound was heard. A bad sign! KERSTI. Brita put a spell on me! MATS. It will be worst for herself. KERSTI. Come to the pasture! I must see the sun! MATS. I will--Kersti dear! KERSTI. Oh! MATS. [_Putting his arms about her and pressing her head to his breast_] Oh! _Curtain_. [1] Part of an old saw, the rest of which reads as follows: "when it was spanked for licking up the cream." THIRD SCENE _The eve of the wedding. The house of_ KERSTI'S _parents_. _Above the door in the rear hangs a smalt tin plate on which are painted the_ SOLDIER'S _regimental number and the coat-of-arms of Dalecarlia. There is a window on either side of the door, both filled with potted plants. The floor is of pine boards, full of knot-holes and nail-heads, but scrubbed immaculately dean_. _Half-way down the left wall is an open fireplace with a hood. On the same side, nearer the footlights, stands a wooden seat covered with brightly coloured home-made draperies_. _Against the opposite wall stands a chest of drawers surmounted by a mirror, over which a white veil has been draped. A pair of candlesticks and a few simple ornaments are arranged in front of the mirror. A table and a wooden seat are placed between the chest and the footlights. On the wall above this seat hangs the_ SOLDIER'S _old-fashioned musket, with stock of birch wood, stained yellow, red leather sling, and percussion-lock. His chaco, cartridge-case, and white bandoleer with bayonet are grouped around the musket. Below appears a portrait of King Charles XV of Sweden in full uniform_. _A landscape with stacks of sheaves in the fields can be seen through the windows and the open door in the rear_. _When the curtain rises, a maid servant is at work by the fireplace scouring and polishing copper pans, iron pots, and coffee-kettles_. _The_ VERGER _is seated at the table on the right-hand side engaged in polishing the brass numbers of the hymn-board, which is lying on the table beside him. There lies also the collection-bag of red velvet with embroideries in silver and a small bell attached to the bottom of it for the rousing of sleeping worshippers_. _The_ SOLDIER, _in undress uniform and forage-cap, is seated at the same table, looking over some papers on which he is making notes with a pencil, the point of which he wets from time to time_. LIT-KAREN _and_ LIT-MATS _stand beside the table, with their chins resting on the edge of it, watching the_ VERGER. _Their eyes are agog, and their fingers in their mouths. The_ VERGER _smiles at them and strokes their hair from time to time. The_ MOTHER _is standing by the fireplace drying a couple of towels. As the curtain rises, the merry singing of girls is heard from the outside, but the atmosphere in the room is oppressive, and everybody is trying to lose himself in what he has at hand, forgetful of the rest_. GIRLS. [_Singing outside; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 14] "When I was a little lassie, herding on the hill, One day I lost the bell-cow and Gossamer, too. I stood upon a rock and called and cried with a will, Till I heard Gossamer begin to moo In a pasture far, far away. 'Hush,' said Pine-tree, 'She will surely find thee,' Hemlock told me not to stumble; Willow asked me not to grumble; Birch-tree said I could not hope to miss a spanking." SOLDIER. [_Looks up from his work and remarks phlegmatically to the_ MOTHER] Say, Mother! MOTHER. We-ell? SOLDIER. Was it three quarters we got off the place last year? MOTHER. Yes, that's right. VERGER. Haven't the girls come out of the bath yet? MOTHER. No.... This business of the wedding takes a lot of people.... We should be bringing in the oats.... And it will soon be time to pick berries.... VERGER. Yes, the dog-days are most over. You can see it on the flies; they're kind of drowsy.... Will there be a lot of berries this year? MOTHER. Yes. [_Silence_. SOLDIER. Will those girls never come back? MOTHER. I don't know what can be keeping them so long. SOLDIER. It's hot. VERGER. It must be bad in camp. SOLDIER. Well, it isn't so very hard on the infantry.... VERGER. You were lucky to get leave. SOLDIER. I guess I was! MOTHER. Now they are coming. SOLDIER. Did you see that they had something to eat and drink? MOTHER. Yes, right in the bath, and plenty of it. [_Silence_. _The girls are heard outside, talking and laughing_. KERSTI _enters first, white-faced, with her wet hair streaming down her back. She is followed by_ BRITA, ANNA, _and the four bridesmaids_, ELSA, RICKA, GRETA, _and_ LISA. _The maids are carrying jars and wine-glasses which they put down by the fireplace_. KERSTI, BRITA, _and_ ANNA _carry long bath-towels with coloured borders, which they hang up by the door_. _The_ MOTHER _puts a chair in the middle of the floor and makes_ KERSTI _sit on it_. KERSTI'S _hair having first been carefully dried with towels, the_ MOTHER _begins to comb it. The maids duster on the bench at the left_. BRITA _seats herself so that she can stare at_ KERSTI. _No greetings are exchanged, and no emotion of any hind is shown_. MOTHER. Give me the mirror. KERSTI. Don't! I don't want any mirror. BRITA. You ought to look at yourself, as you won't let anybody else see you. KERSTI. What do you mean? BRITA. Hard to tell, isn't it?--Nice hair you've got. Can I have it, if it should come off? KERSTI. No, you can't! MOTHER. What would you do with it? BRITA. Watch-chain for Mats. MOTHER. [_To her daughter_] Won't you let Mats have it? KERSTI. No, I won't! BRITA. [_Taking from her skirt-bag the same piece of work on which she was employed in the previous scene_] I'll never be able to match the colour. KERSTI. You can have it when I am dead. BRITA. That's a promise, but will you keep it? KERSTI. I will! [_Silence_. SOLDIER. Say, Mother.... Please keep quiet a while, children.... Do you know if the sergeant has been asked? MOTHER. Vesterlund? Of course! SOLDIER. It's to be at four o'clock in the church, isn't it? MOTHER. That's right. SOLDIER. [_Putting his papers together_] Then I'll go and see the Pastor now.... And I'll go right on to the sexton.... [_To himself_] Hm-hm! That was that! Hm-hm! [_He goes out pensively without greeting anybody. Silence_. VERGER. Now, my dears, I hope you won't touch anything. LIT-KAREN. I'll look after Lit-Mats and see that he doesn't. VERGER. So you're going to look after him, are you? MOTHER. Where are you going, father? VERGER. To the store to get the crown, which should be back from the city by this time. BRITA. [_Sneeringly_] Oh--the crown! VERGER. [_Rising_] The goldsmith has had it, you know--to clean it with cream of tartar. That's what you do with silver: you boil it in cream of tartar. BRITA. [_As before_] Ha-ha! MOTHER. [_To the_ Verger] Wait a moment, and I'll go along to the store. VERGER. Is it safe to leave the children alone? BRITA. What do you fear might happen? MOTHER. Why, they are grown-up people! BRITA. And Kersti likes to be alone for that matter. She can't stand having anybody look at her.... MOTHER. Now, now! BRITA. When she is bathing, she doesn't want any company at all. But, of course, she's grown-up, so she doesn't have to be afraid.... KERSTI _is turning and twisting to escape the stare of BRITA_. MOTHER. Keep still, girl! BRITA. No, she's no longer any child. She's outgrown that, and a lot more. Perhaps the crown won't fit her even? Have you tried it on? VERGER. [_Quietly_] That's what we are going to do in a little while. _He goes out accompanied by the_ MOTHER. _Silence_. KERSTI _seats herself at the table on the right-hand side and begins to play with the brass numbers_. BRITA. [_Pursuing_ KERSTI _with her stare_] A merry wedding eve, isn't it? KERSTI. Do you want to play games? BRITA. We might play "papa and mamma and the children." KERSTI. Would you like to guess riddles? BRITA. I have already guessed.... KERSTI. Or sing? BRITA. "Hush-a-bye, baby," I suppose you mean?... No, let us read the Bible. KERSTI. The Bible, you say? BRITA. Yes--Genesis, thirty-fourth and eight. KERSTI. About Shechem, you mean? BRITA. Exactly, and about Dinah, for whom his heart was longing.... Do you know who Dinah was? KERSTI. She was the daughter of Jacob and Leah. BRITA. That's right. And do you know what she was? KERSTI. Is that a riddle? BRITA. Not at all. Do you know what she was? KERSTI. No. BRITA. She was a little--spoiled! KERSTI. Is that a play on words? BRITA. More than that! KERSTI _lets her head fall forward as if wishing to hide her face_. BRITA. Do you understand? [_Pause_] Is Mrs. Larsson the only one _you_ have asked? KERSTI. Have I asked?... The midwife, you say? BRITA. Well, so she says. KERSTI. Then she is lying! BRITA. As midwife she has been sworn, although I couldn't tell whether her oath be false or fair. Just now she swears that she doesn't lie. KERSTI _lets her head droop again_. BRITA. Hold up your head! Can't you look people in the face? KERSTI. [_To the other girls_] Say something, girls! [_Silence_. BRITA. It's hard to say anything when one has seen nothing. But nevertheless--one knows what one knows! SHERIFF. [_Appearing in the doorway_] I am making free.... It won't matter if an old fellow like me gets in to the girls--although the boys have to keep out! BRITA. [_Shaking her fist in the face of_ KERSTI] But you'll never wear the crown! KERSTI. You don't say! BRITA _goes out_. _The_ SHERIFF _pulls up a chair and sits down beside_ KERSTI. _The girls sneak out of the room one by one_. LIT-MATS _stays behind, clinging to the skirt of_ KERSTI. _It is plain that the intentions of the_ SHERIFF _are kindly, and so are his words, but the more discreet he tries to be, the more awkward he becomes, and so all his words assume an ambiguous meaning_. SHERIFF. [_Taking one of_ KERSTI'S _hands and looking her straight in the eyes_] What sort of a bride is this, looking so sad when she is getting her heart's desire? What is the matter? KERSTI. With what? SHERIFF. Is that the way to answer an old friend who will be a kinsman by this hour to-morrow? There is more than one lass who envies you, and who would like to get to the altar ahead of you to-morrow. KERSTI. Maybe there is. SHERIFF. And there is the new life ahead of you, in mill and kitchen. No more running about in the woods, where "birches nod in the blowing breeze." No more dancing in the barns on Saturday nights. You'll be busy 'tending your pots, and watching the cradle, and having the meals on the table when Mats comes home, and--keeping an even temper when the dark days arrive--for after sunshine there is sure to be a little rain. Does it scare you to find life so serious, dear? It isn't as bad as it looks. It merely helps to make life kind of solemn. KERSTI. Oh! SHERIFF. What are you oh-ing about, girl?--There seems to be something in the air that has no place in the thoughts of a young girl--something amiss. Now, my dear, let me see if I can't straighten it out. [_Jestingly_] The guardian of the law knows how to get the truth out of all sorts of people. What's on your mind, dear? Has Mats been nasty to you? KERSTI. Oh, mercy! SHERIFF. Has the family been playing the high-and-mighty? What have you to do with the family anyhow? LIT-MATS _climbs into the lap of_ KERSTI, _puts his arms about her, nestles up to her as close as he can get, and falls asleep_. SHERIFF. Look at that little chap now! He likes his sister-in-law, and that's a good sign. Children always know their real friends. Are you fond of children, Kersti? KERSTI. [_Suspiciously_] Why do you ask? SHERIFF. That's not the right kind of an answer!... Don't you think it's nice to have a little thing like that--to hold it on your lap and feel how it trusts you--just as if there could never be any harm or deceit in the bosom that shelters it.... I think he's falling asleep. Helpless as he is, he's not afraid of trusting his sleep to a stranger--who means nothing but well by him, I am sure. KERSTI. Have you seen anything of Mats? SHERIFF. He was busy with the boys making the mill ready for the dance to-morrow. [_Silence_] It's some time since we saw a crown bride in this place. KERSTI. Is that so? SHERIFF. Yes, indeed. The old ways are gone, and new ones have come in--from the cities and the camps.... KERSTI. [_Pertly_] They used to blame the fellows who came to buy the timber. SHERIFF. Yes, but if it hadn't been for them, there would have been no mill.... KERSTI. They are always putting the blame on somebody else.... SHERIFF. You are getting a nice husband, Kersti.... KERSTI. Yes, he's fine--too fine for me! SHERIFF. That's a bitter answer to a kind word! KERSTI. There was nothing bitter about it--nothing but the truth.... SHERIFF. Why should it be so hard for us to understand each other? It looks almost as if you didn't want us to be friends? KERSTI. Why do you think so? SHERIFF. What is well meant, you take badly, and the other way around. Well--that happens frequently when there is something amiss. KERSTI. What's amiss? SHERIFF. I don't know. KERSTI. Neither do I, but it isn't customary to say things like that to a young girl. SHERIFF. Now, now!--Where there's no sick conscience, you don't have to walk in your stocking feet--but, but, but.... KERSTI. Has the examination begun already? SHERIFF. I didn't mean.... KERSTI. The--"guardian of the law" doesn't know how to talk to ladies. SHERIFF. [_Sharply_] Kersti! KERSTI. What is it? SHERIFF. [_Looking hard at her_] What do you mean? KERSTI. What do you mean yourself? SHERIFF. Lo and behold! That's just the kind of questions asked by _my_ ladies when they want to find out whether I know anything. KERSTI. What could there be to know? SHERIFF. Whew--is the wind in that corner? Well, well! [_Silence_] Well--I guess I'll be going! Yes, I had better be going! _He goes out by the rear door, stepping very softly and putting his forefinger across his lips as if meaning to enforce silence on himself_. KERSTI, _left alone, kisses the head of the sleeping_ LIT-MATS. MATS _appears at the right-hand window_. _The twilight has come, but it is the lingering, luminous twilight of the northern summer night_. MATS. Hey! KERSTI. Mats! Oh, come here! MATS. I mustn't come in--I have promised. KERSTI. Yes, do! MATS. No, no!--Is the little one asleep? KERSTI. This one--yes!--Hush! Hush! _A bugle-call is faintly heard in the distance. It is the summons to evening service in the camp of the regiment to which_ KERSTI'S _father belongs. (See the musical appendix, Melody No_. 15.) KERSTI. [_Scared_] Are they hunting again? MATS. No, who would be hunting at this time of day? KERSTI. What is it? MATS. A soldier's daughter you are, and don't know! KERSTI. Tell me! MATS. That's at the camp, you know. They are calling them to evening prayers. KERSTI. Of course--but everything seems strange and confused! MATS. Come to the window, Kersti. KERSTI. I think.... I'll just put the little one away. MATS. The little one, you say? KERSTI. [_Rises very carefully and carries_ LIT-MATS _to the bench by the fireplace, where she pulls him down and covers him up_] Hushaby, hushaby! _The singing of a hymn in unison is heard from the camp_. KERSTI _kneels beside the bench and tries to pray, bid merely wrings her hands in despair. At last she kisses the shoes of the sleeping child, struggles to her feet, and goes to window_. MATS. There is something nice about children, isn't there? KERSTI. Yes--yes! MATS. Are you alone? KERSTI. Yes, they left! Hating me--all of them! MATS. To-morrow is our wedding-day! KERSTI. Yes--think of it! MATS. Yes, think of it--to-morrow is our wedding-day! KERSTI. And I shall be living in the mill! MATS. In the mill with me! KERSTI. Till death us do part! MATS. Which won't be soon! KERSTI. Oh! _Curtain_. FOURTH SCENE _The wedding. The living-room at the mill has been cleared for the occasion. The big doors in the rear stand wide open. Through the doorway is seen a large loft, where a number of tables have been spread for the impending feast, of which coffee is to form one of the principal features. The shutters covering the rectangular opening to the left of the main doorway are also open, disclosing a table with several candlesticks on it. On this table the fiddlers subsequently take up their position_. _The opening to the water-wheel appears to the right of the main door. The hand-loom, the bobbin, the reel, and the spinning-wheel have disappeared_. _On the floor, beneath the place reserved for the fiddlers, stands the "old men's table," with a full equipment of jugs, mugs, pipes, and playing-cards_. _A number of chairs and benches occupy the middle of the floor, and on these are spread clean white sheets, pillow-cases, and towels for drying_. _As the curtain rises, six servant-girls are busily grinding coffee on as many hand-mills, while from the outside are heard the ringing of church-bells and a bridal march played on violins. When the coffee is ground, the girls begin to gather up the linen and sing while they are doing so_. GIRLS. [_Singing; see musical appendix, Melody No_. 16] "Dillery-deering! Twelve in the clearing: Twelve men glare at me, Twelve swords flare at me. Kine they are slaughtering; Sheep they are quartering; Naught but my life they're leaving: Dillery-deering!" _The bridal procession is drawing near. The girls put the benches and chairs where they belong and go out with their burdens of linen_. _The stage is left empty for a few moments, all the sounds previously heard having died out_. _Then the song of the_ NECK _is heard from the water-wheel, while he himself remains unseen_. NECK. [_Singing outside_] "I am hoping, I am hoping, that my Redeemer still liveth." _The trap-door in the floor is raised and the_ MEWLER _ascends from the hole: a blurred mass of white veils beneath which the outlines of a small infant in long clothes are barely discernible. This apparition remains hovering above the opening in the floor_. _Then the bridal march is again heard outside. The song of the_ NECK _ceases, and the_ MEWLER _disappears, the trap-door falling back into its wonted position_. _The bridal procession enters the room. First come the fiddlers, then the bridesmaids and bridesmen. After these come the bride and the groom, and then follow the_ PASTOR, _the parents of the couple, the members of both families, friends, and young people. Everybody seems depressed, and the entrance is made in gloomy silence_. _The bride is led to a chair in the middle of the floor, placed so that she must face the trap-door in the floor. She is very pale and does not look up at all. The guests pass in front of her as in review. Now and then one stops and says a few words to her. Little by little they disappear into the loft in the rear_. MATS. [_To_ KERSTI] Now the worst is over, Kersti. [_He goes out_. BRITA. [_Heading the bridesmaids, to_ KERSTI] You have got the crown--see that you keep it! [_She and the maids go out_. KERSTI'S MOTHER. [_Making sure that the crown is on straight_] Keep your back straight and your head high, girl! [_She goes out_. SOLDIER. [_To_ KERSTI] God bless you! [_Goes out_. VERGER. [_To_ KERSTI] And protect you! [_Goes out_. MATS'S GRANDFATHER. [_To_ KERSTI] Comely you are as I am homely! [_Goes out_. MATS'S MOTHER. [_To_ KERSTI] Your new family bids you welcome! [_She goes out_. MATS'S FATHER. [_To_ KERSTI] _My_ daughter now--the old ties have been loosed! [_He goes out_. SHERUT. [_To_ KERSTI] Why so pale? What draws all the blood to your heart? What is weighing on it? KERSTI. [_Raising her head at last to give the_ SHERIFF _a furious look_] Nothing! SHERIFF. So little is a lot! KERSTI. Go! SHERIFF. When you ride, I'll go ahead of you--but we won't be headed for the same place. When you kneel, I shall be standing, but the cold steel you'll taste won't be in my hands. KERSTI. Oh, I wish you'd break your neck! SHERIFF. [_Putting the palm of his hand on her neck_] Take care of your own! [_He goes out_. _The rest of_ MATS'S _relatives file past her, greeting her coldly_. _The fiddlers have in the meantime taken their places, and several old men have sat down at the table reserved for them and begun to smoke. Now the fiddlers strike up an old Swedish polka. (See the musical appendix, Melody No_. 17.) _At the same time the_ NECK _begins to play the melody heard in the first scene, but so powerfully that it sounds like two violins. (See musical appendix, Melody No_. 18.) _As soon as the dance music is heard, cries of_ "Off with the crown!" _are raised, first in the loft, and then in the living-room_. KERSTI _becomes alarmed_. _The_ PASTOR _goes up to her_. FIDDLERS. [_Crying, as they become aware of the playing of the_ NECK] Who is cutting in? ALL. [_Repeat without looking at the water-wheel or knowing from whence the strange music is heard_] Who is cutting in? _Then the_ NECK _ceases playing, while the fiddlers continue. The_ PASTOR _takes the bride by the hand and begins to lead her around the room in a stately and solemn manner. Just as he puts his arm about_ KERSTI'S _waist in order to open the dance with her the_ NECK _begins to play again_. KERSTI. [_Dropping the crown, which rolls into the mill-race_] Jesus Christ! _All the people in the living-room get on their feet and cry_: "The crown's in the mill-race!" _Those in the rear room shout back_: "What's up?" _Those in the living-room repeat_: "The crown's in the mill-race!" _The fiddlers suddenly stop their playing. The whole place is in wild commotion_. MATS. [_Appearing in the doorway_] We must look for it! ALL. We must look for it! PASTOR. God help us and protect us! ALL. God help us and protect us! SHERIFF. Let us look for it! ALL. Let us look for it! MATS. Yes, let's look! _All disappear by the rear door, leaving_ KERSTI _alone on the stage. She seats herself on the same chair as before. In the meantime the stage has gradually been darkened._ _The water-wheel begins to turn_. NECK. [_Appears in the wheel with his harp, and sings_] "Stilled are the waters, dark grows the sky: Dark grows the sky. Once in the world of the ages I lived, Blessed by the sun. Gone is the light, Conquered by night. Deep is my sin, Black as the tarn. Joy there is none; Plenty of woe. Torture and Shame must I name my abode: O!" _When the_ NECK _begins to sing, the trap-door flies open right at the feet of_ KERSTI, _and the_ MEWLER _appears as before_. _At first_ KERSTI _stares at the apparition with horror. Then she seizes it and presses it to her breast_. _The_ NECK _stops his song and disappears. Instead the voice of a child (the_ MOCKER) _is heard from the opening in the floor_. MOCKER. Cold is the river; warm is my mother's bosom. Nothing you gave me in life: in death I take what is mine! KERSTI. [_Who has been rocking the_ MEWLER _on her arm_, _puts a hand to her breast as if feeling acute pain_] Oh, help! Save me! MIDWIFE. [_Trips in fussily_] Here I am! Here I am! Mustn't take on like that! [_She takes the_ MEWLER _from_ KERSTI _and drops it through the hole in the floor_] I know how to handle little ones! I help them into the world and out of it.... And I got to the wedding after all! BRITA _has in the meantime appeared where the fiddlers were seated before, and she has seen the_ MIDWIFE _hide something under the floor_. MIDWIFE. The Neck was also asked, I understand. Did he come? KERSTI. What will you take to get out of here? MIDWIFE. What you have lost! KERSTI. You mean the crown? MIDWIFE. Not exactly.... Hush!... I think I heard somebody! Then I'll hide in the fireplace for a while.... I got here after all, as you see! _She steps into the fireplace and closes the iron shutters behind her_. BRITA. [_Enters and goes up to_ KERSTI] Now it's you or me! KERSTI. You, then! BRITA. A present is waiting for you. KERSTI. Let's see! BRITA. Bracelets--but not from me! [_Silence_] Bracelets of steel! [_She places herself on the trap-door_] Now my foot is on your head and on your heart! Now I shall stamp your secret out of the earth, or the water, or the fire--wherever it may be! [_Silence_] Now I shall have your hair for my watch-chain, which is not what it seems. Where is the Midwife? Where is the guest of honour at this virginal wedding? You stole the crown, and the Neck stole it from you. You have stolen the mill, but it will be returned. Shechem's Dinah has proved not only spoiled, but soiled! The little one is asleep, not in the forest, but in the river! You have put my brother to shame, and our whole family, and the name that we bear! And now you shall die! KERSTI. [_Submissively_] I am dead! I have been dying for days.... Are you satisfied now? BRITA. No, you shall go on dying for days to come! You shall die for perjury, falsehood, murder, theft, slander, deceit! You shall die six times over! And when you really die the seventh time, it will seem so only! You shall not rest in consecrated ground! You shall have no black coffin with stars of silver on it! You shall have no spruce strewn and no bells rung.... KERSTI. I suppose not! BRITA. Therefore.... [_Heavy steps are heard outside_] Do you hear those steps? Count them! [_She counts in time with the approaching steps of the_ SHERIFF] One, two, three, four, five, six.... _The_ SHERIFF _enters from the rear_. BRITA _goes to him and whispers something in his ear_. SHERIFF. It's here, you say? BRITA. Not the crown, I guess! SHERIFF. Something else, then! [_He raises the trap-door and looks down_] No, it is not the crown! Poor Kersti! Did you put it there? KERSTI. I did not! SHERIFF. No?--Tell the truth! KERSTI. I did not put it there! BRITA. [_Striking her on the mouth_] The truth! KERSTI. I did not put it there! BRITA. [_Putting her hand in the_ SHERIFF'S _pocket and taking out a pair of handcuffs_] On with the bracelets! SHERIFF. [_To_ BRITA] Born executioner--that's what _you_ are! [_He puts his hands to his face and weeps_] God have mercy on us! PASTOR. [_Entering from the rear_] Has it been found? SHERIFF. Not that, but.... PASTOR. Say no more! I know.... [_Putting his hands to his face and weeping_] God have mercy on us! SOLDIER. [_Entering from the rear_] Have you found the crown? SHERIFF. Not that, but.... SOLDIER. Enough! I know.... [_Begins to weep, with his hands to his face_. KERSTI'S MOTHER. [_Entering from the rear_] Have you found the crown? SHERIFF. No, no! MOTHER. Oh! _She looks hard at_ KERSTI, _who is holding out her hands to meet the handcuffs, which_ BRITA _puts on her_. MOTHER. [_Screaming_] Oh! _Snatching up a pair of shears, she cuts off_ KERSTI'S _hair and throws it to_ BRITA, _who catches it and sniffs at it as if enjoying its odour. The_ MOTHER _then strips her daughter of the veil and other bridal ornaments. At last she throws a shawl over her head_. MATS. [_Entering from the rear, stops in front of_ KERSTI _and looks at her in surprise_] Who is that? BRITA. Look well! MATS. [_Looking more closely at_ KERSTI] She reminds me of somebody! BRITA. Look well! MATS. I don't know her. BRITA. Grant God you never had! MATS. The eyes are different.... But the mouth--that sweet mouth--and the little chin.... No, it is not she! [_He turns away from_ KERSTI _and catches sight of the open trap-door_] What's that? You are standing here as if it were a grave.... BRITA. It is a grave! MATS. Of what? BRITA. Of everything--everything that made your life worth while! MATS. That means the little one!--Who did it? BRITA. [_Pointing to_ KERSTI] She, and she, and she! MATS. It is not true! _All who were in the room at the beginning and who left to look for the crown, have gradually returned, and are now crowded together in the background, no one saying a word or making the least noise_. BRITA. It is true! MATS. You liar! SOLDIER. [_To_ BRITA] You liar born of liars! MATS'S RELATIVES. [_Gathering on the left side of_ KERSTI] You liar born of thieves and liars! That's you! KERSTI'S RELATIVES [_Gathering on her right side_] No, that's you! PASTOR. Peace! Peace! In the name of the Lord! ALL. Peace. SHERIFF. No one must be condemned untried! ALL. Let us hear! SHERIFF. Who brings the charge? ALL. Who brings the charge? BRITA. I, Brita Lisa Larsson. ALL. Brita Lisa Larsson brings the charge. Against whom? BRITA. Against Kersti Margaret Hansdaughter. ALL. Against Kersti Margaret Hansdaughter!--What is the charge? BRITA. If bride be spoiled, the crown is forfeit! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. And your evidence? BRITA. Two witnesses make valid evidence. MATS'S RELATIVES. Two witnesses make valid evidence! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. We challenge them! SHERIFF. No challenging without good cause! BRITA. "If unmarried woman puts away child that comes to its death, the life of the mother shall be forfeit!" MATS'S RELATIVES. Her life is forfeit! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. [_Drawing closer with menacing gestures_] "Empty-headed men and meanly tempered never know that they are far from faultless."[1]--The fault is Mats's! MATS'S RELATIVES. The fault is not Mats's! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. The fault is his who did the deed! MATS'S RELATIVES. [_With raised fists_] What deed? You had better ask Kersti! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. Ask her! SHERIFF. [_To_ KERSTI] Did you kill the child? KERSTI. I did! MATS'S RELATIVES. There you hear! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. God have mercy! MATS'S RELATIVES. Now you can hear! MATS _has been standing at the fireplace lost in thought, with his back to the rest. Suddenly he tears off everything that indicates his character of bridegroom. After a brief moment of hesitation, he leaps like mad on the table in the rear and disappears through the opening where the fiddlers were seated before_. PASTOR. [_Who has been weeping silently, with his hands covering his face, goes to the open trap-door and says_] "To the dead Give peace, O Lord, And console The living!"[2] _All bend their heads, shade their faces with one hand, and pray in silence, as the custom is when the Lord's Prayer is read in a Swedish church or at a grave_. PASTOR. May the Lord bless you and protect you! ALL. [_With their faces buried in their hands_] Amen! _Everybody leaves silently and sadly. When_ KERSTI _alone remains, the_ SHERIFF _locks the doors in the rear. Then he fastens the shutters covering the opening where the fiddlers were seated_. _From the fireplace is heard a loud noise as of thunder_. NECK. [_Appears in the water-wheel with his fiddle and plays and sings as before_] "I am hoping, I am hoping that thy Redeemer still liveth." _This he repeats several times, while_ KERSTI _is kneeling on the floor with her handcuffed arms raised toward heaven._ _The_ CHILD IN WHITE _enters from behind the fireplace with a basket full of spruce branches and flowers_. _The_ NECK _stops singing and disappears_. _The_ CHILD IN WHITE _strews the spruce branches on the floor so that a green path is formed to the edge of the trap-door. When he has reached this, he drops flowers into the hole, from which the bell-like notes of the harmonica are heard_. _Unseen by_ KERSTI, _he goes up to her, places his hands on her head and stands still with upturned face as if in prayer_. _The face of_ KERSTI, _which until then has shown deep despair, assumes an expression of quiet happiness_. _Curtain_. [1] From the Poetic Edda: "The Song of the High One." See introduction. [2] From the Poetic Edda: "The Song of the Sun." See introduction. FIFTH SCENE _The porch of a country church appears at the right in the foreground. It is brilliantly white, with a roof of black shingle_. Near the entrance is a sort of pillory, at the foot of which KERSTI _lies in penitential garb, with the hood pulled forward to cover her face_. _A big lake, surrounded by a typical Dalecarlian landscape, forms the background. At the foot of the open place before the church is a boat-landing. A point of land projects into the lake at the right, and there stands the scaffold, consisting of a simple wooden platform with a block on it. Two soldiers, fully armed, stand "at ease" by the entrance to the porch, from within which an organ prelude is heard when the curtain rises_. _Two large "church-boats" (of the kind used on Lake Siljan in Dalecarlia) gliding slowly forward from opposite directions, arrive at the landing simultaneously. The rowers have raised their oars and appear to be disputing about the right of landing_. MATS'S RELATIVES _are in the boat at the left_; KERSTI'S RELATIVES _in the boat at the right_. MATS'S RELATIVES. Look out, Mewlings! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. Look out, millers! MATS'S RELATIVES. [_Raising their oars in menace_] Look out! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. [_In the same way_] Look out! MATS'S RELATIVES. Can you match us with eight pairs? KERSTI'S RELATIVES. With sixteen, if needs be! Come on! MATS'S RELATIVES. At 'em! At 'em! _They begin to fight with the oars_. PASTOR. [_Standing bareheaded in prow of the boat at the left_] Peace! Peace in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ! KERSTI'S RELATIVES. Peace! MATS'S RELATIVES. War! War on life and death! PASTOR. Peace! MATS'S RELATIVES. War! _The_ VERGER _comes running from the porch, seizes the bell-rope and begins to toll the bell_. _At the first stroke, all oars are lowered, the boats are brought to the landing and tied up side by side. The_ PASTOR _is the first one to leave the boat at the left. He is followed by_ MATS, _who carries a small white coffin trimmed with lace. Then the relatives and friends of_ MATS _gradually step on shore_. _The_ SOLDIER _leaves the other boat ahead of all the rest and is followed by his wife. Then come the relatives and friends of_ KERSTI. _The people on both sides adjust their clothing while throwing angry glances at their opponents_. _At last_ MATS _with the coffin leads the way up to the church, followed by the_ PASTOR. MATS. [_Whose face shows intense despair, stops in front of_ KERSTI] Here is the little one now. He's so light--as light as the mind of a bad woman. He's asleep--and soon you will be sleeping, too. KERSTI. [_Raising her head so that the hood falls back_] O! Mats. "O," indeed! It's the end, while A is the beginning. Between those two lie many letters, but the last one of all is O. Cry "O" again--the last time of all--so that the little one may hear it. He will tell the Lord and the Saviour, and ask them to forgive you! No? Well, kiss his white coffin then--kiss it where his small feet are resting--the small, small feet that never had a chance to tread this sinful earth! [KERSTI _kisses the coffin_] That's right! Now we'll take him into the church and play and sing and toll the bells over him--but no clergyman can read him into his grave--because of you! I will speak the words myself when we get to the grave. We'll plant him in the sod like a seed in order that he may sprout and grow into a winged blossom. Some day, perhaps, he will spread his wings and fly to heaven--lifted by the wind when the midsummer sun is shining! PASTOR. [_Taking_ MATS _by the arm and drawing him toward the church_] That's enough, Mats! Come now! MATS. I am coming. _They disappear into the porch, followed gradually by the rest_. SOLDIER. [_Stops in front of_ KERSTI, _shakes his head sadly and tries to find words_] Well.... Well.... [_He goes into the church_. KERSTI'S MOTHER. [_Speaking drily, with a vain attempt to show emotion_] Yes, here we are now!--Was it bad in the Castle? KERSTI _shakes her head_. MOTHER. Is there anything you want? To eat or drink--you can have it now, you know.... Did they give you any tobacco while you were in the Castle? KERSTI _shakes her head_. MOTHER. Keep your head high, Kersti, and don't let the mill-folk put us to shame. Don't weep so much either. Your father is a man of war, you know, and he can't stand that kind of thing. [_Handing her daughter a hymn-book_] Take this book--and read where I have put the mark. And look at the mark--I got it from some one--some one who is thinking of you in your moment of need. And it is a sure cure against the shakes Farther than this I won't keep you company, Kersti.... I can't--I really can't, being as old as I am.... KERSTI. Do what you feel like, mother. I have found my comforter! I know that my Redeemer still liveth! MOTHER. It's all right, then, child. That's all I wanted to know.... And you don't want me to go with you? KERSTI. No, mother, you must spare yourself.... You have had enough trouble on my account as it is. MOTHER. Then I'll take your word for it, so that the mill-folk won't have anything to talk about. I take your word for it, so that I can tell them: "Kersti didn't want it--it was her own will, and of course her last will was as good as law to me!" And that's just what it is! [_She goes into the church._ BRITA. [_Stops in front of_ KERSTI _and points toward the scaffold_] A queen you were, and a crown you wore: there's your throne now, with heaven above and hell beneath!--Now you would be glad enough to be milking cows! Now you wouldn't mind picking wood, and scouring pots, and cleaning shoes, and rocking the cradle--now, when you have brought shame on my family and your own, on our parish and our province, so that the whole country is talking of it! Fie on you! KERSTI _bends lower and lower over the hymn-book._ BRITA. My brother must carry your brat to the grave-_my_ brother! But I shall keep you company to the block when you get spanked! I shall be your bridesmaid when you're wedded to the axe! "There's a corpse that isn't dead, and a babe that wasn't bred, and a bride without a wedding!" LIT-MATS. Hush up, Brita! Kersti is nice! BRITA. Indeed! LIT-MATS. Yes, she is! But I don't like her to have on that ugly cloak.... That would be right for you, Brita! Oh, Kersti, why are you lying here? Are you waiting for Communion? And why did you run away from the wedding? Who is lying in the white box? Is all this a fairy-tale? Do you know that I lost my doll--the one you gave me?... Oh, Kersti dear, why are you so sorry? [_He throws his arms about her neck_. KERSTI. [_Taking him on her lap and kissing his shoes_] Oh, Lit-Mats, Lit-Mats! BRITA. [_To the soldiers_] Is that allowed? _The soldiers stand at attention, but make no reply_. BRITA. [_Taking_ LIT-MATS _away from_ KERSTI] Come on now! KERSTI. [_To_ LIT-MATS] Go with your sister, Lit-Mats! And you had better keep away from me! [_She begins to read in a low voice out of the hymn-book_. BRITA. [_To_ KERSTI] Shall I tell him? KERSTI. For God's sake, don't tell the child! BRITA. For the child's sake, I won't! KERSTI. Thank you, Brita--for the child's sake! BRITA _goes into the church with_ LIT-MATS. _The only ones that remain outside are_ KERSTI _and the two soldiers_. _The_ HEADSMAN _enters from the right, carrying a black box. He keeps in the background and does not look in the direction of_ KERSTI. KERSTI. [_Catching sight of him_] Christ Jesus, Saviour of the world, help me for the sake of Thy passion and death! MIDWIFE. [_Enters from the left and goes up to the_ HEADSMAN] Listen, my dear man.... If it comes off, would you mind my getting quite close to it?... I need a little of that red stuff, you know--for a sick person--one who has the falling sickness.... _The_ HEADSMAN _goes out to the left without answering_. MIDWIFE. Oh, he is of the kind that won't listen. [_Going to_ KERSTI] Ah, there you are, my dear.... KERSTI. [_With a deprecatory gesture_] Begone! MIDWIFE. [_Keeping behind the pillory so that she cannot be seen by the soldiers_] Wait a little! Wait a little! Listen now, my dear! I can do what others can't! The hour is near, and the black one is waiting! KERSTI. In the name of Christ Jesus, begone! MIDWIFE. Listen! I can do what others can't! I can set you free! KERSTI. I have found my Saviour! His name is Christ Jesus! MIDWIFE. I can make the judge as soft as wax.... KERSTI. He who shall judge the quick and the dead; He who is the resurrection and the life: He has sentenced me to death in the flesh, and to--life everlasting. MIDWIFE. Look at the soldiers! They have gone to sleep! Take my cloak and run! KERSTI. Are the soldiers asleep? MIDWIFE. Their eyes are closed!--Run, run, run! KERSTI _rises and looks at the soldiers, who have closed their eyes_. MIDWIFE. Run, run, run! KERSTI. [_Lying down again_] No, much better is it to fall into the hands of the living God!--Depart from me! _She raises the hymn-book so that the golden cross on its front cover faces the_ MIDWIFE. MIDWIFE. [_Shrinking back_] Shall we meet a Thursday night at the crossroads? KERSTI. On the path to the cross I shall meet with my Redeemer, but not with you! Depart! MIDWIFE. [_Drawing away_] There is a boat down at the shore--horse and carriage are waiting on the other side Mats is there, but the Sheriff not.... Run, run, run! KERSTI [_Struggling with herself_] O Lord, lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil! MIDWIFE. Shash-ash-ash-ash! Horse and carriage! KERSTI _seizes the bell-rope and pulls it three times. At the third stroke of the bell, the_ MIDWIFE _takes flight_. MIDWIFE. Ad-zee! Ad-zee! Ad-zee! [_She disappears_. _The_ CHILD IN WHITE _comes forward from behind one of the pillars of the porch. His dress is that worn by girls at Rättvik, Dalecarlia (the one with liberty cap, white waist and striped apron, which is probably more familiar to foreigners than any other Swedish peasant costume), but all its parts are white, including the shoes_. KERSTI. [_As if blinded by his appearance_] Who are you, child--you who come when the evil one departs? _The_ CHILD IN WHITE _puts a finger across his lips_. KERSTI. White as snow, and white as linen.... Why are you so white? CHILD IN WHITE [_In a low voice_] Thy faith has saved thee! Out of faith has sprung hope! [_He goes toward_ KERSTI. KERSTI. Please, dear, don't step on the ant! CHILD IN WHITE. [_Stoops and picks up something on a leaf_] But the greatest of these be love--love of all living things, great or small! Now I shall send this ant into the woods to tell the king of all the ants, so that the little people may come here and gnaw the ropes to pieces, and you will be set free. KERSTI. No, no! Don't talk like that! CHILD IN WHITE. Doubt not--but believe! Believe, Kersti!--Believe! KERSTI. How can I? CHILD IN WHITE. Believe! _He steps behind the pillar again and disappears_. _The stage grows darker_. NECK. [_Appears with his harp in the middle of the lake and sings to the same melody as before_] "I am hoping, I am hoping, that thy Redeemer still liveth!" KERSTI. He sings of _my_ Redeemer! He brings hope to me, who denied it to him! _The_ NECK _sinks beneath the waters_. SHERIFF. [_Enters reading a document; he approaches a few steps at a time, now looking at the ground, and now at the paper in his hand_] Kersti! KERSTI _looks up, only to drop her head at once_. SHERIFF. [_Slowly and with frequent pauses_] Behold the Sheriff!--You are only scared by him!--Do you think everybody feels like that? Suppose that the Sheriff has been summoned to help some one in a moment of dire need. Do you think he will be welcome then? Of course, he will!... Did you ever see such a lot of ants, Kersti? KERSTI _raises her head again and becomes attentive_. SHERIFF. Look at them! Files of them, and whole hosts! Look!--Do you know what that means? It is a good omen! But, of course, you never expect anything good to come from me. You wouldn't believe it _that_ time either--and that's what led to your exposure! Look at those ants! Look at them! They are making straight for you, Kersti. Are you not afraid of them? KERSTI. I used to be, but I am not. SHERIFF. Big wood-ants, and I think the ant-king himself is with them. Do you know what can be done by the King, and by no other authority? Do you know that? All other authorities can pass judgment--all of them can do that--harshly or mercifully; but there is only one that can grant pardon. That's the King!--Shall we ask the antking if he will grant pardon? [_He puts his hand to his ear as if to hear better_] Would your Majesty be willing to pardon her--that is, in regard to the worst part?... Did you hear what he answered? I thought he said yes. But I may have been mistaken.... And being the Sheriff, I can't go by hearsays, but must have everything in writing. Let us ask the ant-king to write it down. He has plenty of pens--sharp as needles--and he has ink of his own, that burns. If we could only find a piece of paper! [_He pretends to search his pockets, and finally he brings out the paper he was reading when he entered_] Oh, here we are! Look at this! The King has written it with his own hand. Do you see? C-A-R-L, which makes Carl. [_He raises his cap for a moment in salute_] You haven't seen such big letters since you went to school, Kersti. And look at the red seal--that smelled like resin in the woods when the sealing-wax still was warm. And look at the silken cords, yellow and blue--and all these lions and crowns.... That's royal, every bit of it!... Read it yourself, Kersti, while I give my orders to the soldiers. KERSTI _takes the paper from his hand and reads_. _The_ SHERIFF _turns to the soldiers and says something that cannot be heard by the public_. _The soldiers leave_. _When_ KERSTI _has finished reading she hands the document back to the_ SHERIFF _in a quiet, dignified manner_. SHERIFF. Are you glad, Kersti? KERSTI. I am thankful that my family and yours will be spared the greatest shame of all. I cannot be glad, for eternal life is better than a life in fetters. SHERIFF. Regard it as a time of preparation. KERSTI. I will! SHERIFF. Are you still afraid of me? KERSTI. Having looked death in the face, I fear nothing else. SHERIFF. Come with me, then. KERSTI. You must set me free first. _The_ SHERIFF _unties the ropes with which she has been bound_. _An organ prelude is heard from the church_. KERSTI _stretches her arms toward heaven_. _Curtain_. SIXTH SCENE _The stage represents the frozen surface of a big lake, the shores of which form the background. Deep snow covers the ice. Tall pine branches stuck into the snow serve to mark the tracks used in crossing the lake_. _In the centre of the stage, toward the background, a large rectangular opening has been cut in the ice. A number of small spruce-trees have been set along the edges of it to warn against danger_. _Long-tailed ducks_ (Heralda glacialis _or_ Clangula glacialis) _are floating on the open water. Now and then one of them utters its peculiarly melodious cry. (See musical appendix, Melody No_. 19.) _A number of short fishing-rods are placed along the edges of the open water, with their lines out_. _A gloomy old structure with turrets and battlements appears on the shore in the background. It is known as the "Castle", but is in reality a penitentiary_. _It is about daybreak_. _The_ FISHERMAN _enters from the right dressed in a sheepskin coat and hauling a sledge on which lies an ice-hook. All the ducks dive when he comes in sight. He begins to examine his fishlines_. MIDWIFE. [_Entering from the left_] How dare you fish on Easter Sunday? FISHERMAN. I am not fishing--I'm just looking. MIDWIFE. Perhaps you, who are so clever, can also tell a poor, strayed old woman where she is? FISHERMAN. If you give me a light. MIDWIFE. If you have flint and steel. FISHERMAN. [_Handing her two pieces of ice_] Here they are. MIDWIFE. Ice? Well, water is fire, and fire is water! _She tears off a piece of her cloak to serve as tinder; then, she strikes the two pieces of ice against each other; hiving set the tinder on fire in that way, she hands it to the_ FISHERMAN, _who lights his pipe with it_. FISHERMAN. Oh, you are that kind? Then I know where I am. MIDWIFE. But where am I? FISHERMAN. In the middle of Krummedikke's lake, and over there you see his castle. He was a king who lived long, long ago, and, like Herod, he caused all male babes to be slain because he was afraid for his crown. But now his castle holds all the girls who have not been afraid for theirs. MIDWIFE. What are they doing in there? FISHERMAN. Spinning flax. MIDWIFE. That's the jail, then? FISHERMAN. That's what it is. MIDWIFE. And the lake? FISHERMAN. Oh, it's a good one! There used to be dry land where the lake is now, and on that piece of land stood a church, and that church started a feud. It was a question of pews, you see. The mill-folk, who thought themselves above the rest, wanted to sit next to the altar, but the Mewlings were the stronger. One Easter Sunday it broke loose, right in the nave, and blood was shed. The church was profaned so that it could never be cleansed again. Instead it was closed up and deserted, and by and by it sank into the earth, and now there are fifty feet of water above the weathercock on the spire. By this time the lake has been washing it and washing it these many hundred years, but as long as mill-folk and Mewlings keep on fighting, the temple will never be cleansed. MIDWIFE. Why are they called Mewlings? FISHERMAN. Because they are descended from Krummedikke, who slew the infants. MIDWIFE. And they are still fighting? FISHERMAN. Still fighting, and still slaying.... You remember, don't you, Kersti, the soldier's daughter? MIDWIFE. Of course, I do. FISHERMAN. She is in the Castle, but to-day she will be out to do her yearly public penance at the church. MIDWIFE. Is that so? FISHERMAN. The Mewlings are coming to bring her over, and the mill-folk are coming to look on. MIDWIFE. Do you hear the ice tuning up? FISHERMAN. I do. MIDWIFE. Does it mean thaw? FISHERMAN. Maybe. MIDWIFE. Then the ice will begin to break from the shore? FISHERMAN. Quite likely. But if the water should rise, the rapids down there will carry it off. MIDWIFE. Are the rapids far from here? FISHERMAN. Naw! You can hear the Neck quite plainly. To-day he will be up betimes, as he is expecting something. MIDWIFE. What can he be expecting? FISHERMAN. Oh, you know! MIDWIFE. No, I don't. Please tell me. FISHERMAN. This is what they tell: Every Easter Sunday morning, at the hour when the Saviour ascended from his grave, the church of Krummedikke rises out of the lake. And he who gets a look at it has peace in his soul for the rest of the year. MIDWIFE. [_Gallops out toward the right_] Ad-zee! Ad-zee! Ad-zee! FISHERMAN. That was a bad meeting.... [_He lands a fish and takes it from the hook_] I got you! _The fish slips out of his hand and leaps into the water. The_ FISHERMAN _tries to catch it with his dip-net. Then a whole row of fish-heads appear above the water_. FISHERMAN. Dumb, but not deaf! "What roars more loudly than a crane? What is whiter by far than a swan?"[1] CHILD IN WHITE. [_Dressed as in the preceding scene, enters on skis, carrying a torch_;] The thunder of heaven roars more loudly than the crane, and he who does no evil is whiter than the swan. _The fish-heads disappear_. FISHERMAN. Who read my riddle? CHILD IN WHITE. Who can free the prisoner from his bonds and set the tongue of the fish talking? FISHERMAN. No one! CHILD IN WHITE. No man by man begotten, but one born of the all-creative God.... He who has built the bridge of glass can break it, too!... Beware! [_He goes out to the right_. _The_ FISHERMAN _begins to gather up his implements_. _The_ MILL-FOLK (MATS'S _relatives) enter from the left; all are on skis and carry long staffs_. MATS _carries a torch_. MATS. Where is the winter road? FISHERMAN. Do you mean the road of the fish in the water? MATS. No, the road of the horse on the snow. FISHERMAN. Does it lead to court or church? MILL-FOLK. To church. FISHERMAN. For the man who has lost his way, all roads lead to the rapids. [_A rumbling noise is made by the ice_] The roof is cracking! MILL-FOLK. Where is the road to the church? FISHERMAN. Everywhere! MILL-FOLK. Where is the church? FISHERMAN. You are standing on it, and walking over it, and soon it will be here. MILL-FOLK. Is this Krummedikke's lake? FISHERMAN. It's Krummedikke's castle and Krummedikke's lake; it's Krummedikke's church, and soon it will break. MILL-FOLK. Lord have mercy! [_They go out to the right_. _The_ MEWLINGS (KERSTI'S _relatives) enter from the left_, on _skis and carrying staffs. The_ SOLDIER _carries a torch_. MEWLINGS. Is this the road to the church? FISHERMAN. This is the road to the rapids! Turn back! MEWLINGS. Ridges and open water everywhere! The floe is breaking loose! FISHERMAN. Go eastward! The sun is tarrying. MEWLINGS. Let's go eastward! [_They go out to the right_. _The_ MILL-FOLK _return from the right_. FISHERMAN. Turn back! The floe has broken loose down that way! MILL-FOLK. And eastward, too! Let's turn northward! FISHERMAN. There's the river! MILL-FOLK. Southward, then! FISHERMAN. There are the rapids! MILL-FOLK. [_Leaning dejectedly on their staffs_] God have mercy on us! MATS. The Mewlings put us on the wrong track. BRITA. As they have always done! FATHER. And they'll be first at church! GRANDFATHER. Never mind! But I can't help regretting the day when I burned the papers. MOTHER. Will there ever be peace? GRANDMOTHER. "Men who are mild and gentle live in peace and know but little sorrow."[2] MILL-FOLK. [_Raising their staffs_] The Mewlings! MEWLINGS. [_Entering from the right, with raised staffs]_ Will you bide now, mill-folk? You put us on the wrong track! MILL-FOLK. You liars! MEWLINGS. The same to you! MILL-FOLK. Quibblers! MEWLINGS. And what are you? _The ice begins to crash and rumble_. FISHERMAN. Peace in the name of Christ Jesus! The water is rising! ALL. [_Crying aloud_] The water is rising! MATS'S GRANDFATHER. The ice is sinking. Stay where you are! MATS'S GRANDMOTHER. To-day we must die, and then comes the day of judgment! _The_ MILL-FOLK _embrace each other. The women pick up the children into their arms. The_ MEWLINGS _do likewise_. MATS'S MOTHER. [_To_ Mats] For the sake of your foolish fondness, we must die! KERSTI'S MOTHER. "Another's love should by no one be blamed: wise men are often snared by beauty, but fools never."[2] SOLDIER. "This fault of his should by no one be blamed: love, in its might, will often turn the sons of men from wisdom to folly."[3] MATS. [_Holding out his hand to the_ SOLDIER] Thank you for those words! You are the man I named father for a brief while! SOLDIER. "All at birth and death are equals." MATS'S FATHER. There you took the word away from me! Your hand! SOLDIER. [_Giving his hand after a little hesitation_] Here it is! We are all Christians, and this is the great day of atonement. Let not the sun rise on our wrath! MEWLINGS. Let us have peace! MILL-FOLK. Yes, let us have peace! _The two parties are approaching each other with hands stretched out, when a terrific crash is heard, and the ice opens at their feet, separating them from each other_. MATS'S GRANDFATHER. Parted in life and parted in death! MATS'S GRANDMOTHER. The bridge has broken under the burden of crime. MATS'S MOTHER. Where is Kersti? MILL-FOLK. Where is Kersti? MEWLINGS. Where is Kersti? SOLDIER. "And lo, it was expedient that one should die for the people." MATS'S GRANDFATHER. "Then said they unto him: What shall we do unto thee, that the sea may be calm unto us?" KERSTI'S MOTHER. "Take me up, and cast me forth into the sea: for I know that for my sake this great tempest is upon you." MATS'S GRANDMOTHER. Is it settled? ALL. It is settled! KERSTI'S MOTHER. "Behold the fire and the wood: but where is the lamb for a burnt offering?" MEWLINGS. Where is Kersti? MILL-FOLK. Where is Kersti? _The_ PASTOR _enters, followed by the_ VERGER. PASTOR. [_To the_ Soldier] "And the Lord said: Lay not thine hand upon the child, for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thine only child from me." ALL. [_To the_ Minister] Save us! PASTOR. "There is but one God, the Saviour!" Let us pray! _All kneel on the ice_. PASTOR. "Out of the depths I cry unto thee, O Lord!" ALL. "Lord, hear my voice!" PASTOR. O Lord, have mercy! ALL. Christ, have mercy! _The_ SHERIFF _enters from the rear with a torch in his hand. He is followed by four soldiers, carrying the dead body of_ KERSTI _between them_. _All get on their feet_. PASTOR. Whom are you bringing with you? SHERIFF. We are bringing the crown bride--Kersti! PASTOR. Is she alive? SHERIFF. She is dead. The waters took her! PASTOR. May the Lord take her soul! SOLDIER. O Lord, have respect unto our offering, as thou hast given thyself for us an offering. PASTOR. "For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son!" BRITA. The water is falling! ALL. The water is falling! _The gap in the ice is closed up again_. MATS _and_ BRITA _walk over to the_ MEWLINGS, _break branches from the spruces set in the snow, and spread these over the body of_ KERSTI. PASTOR. Will there be peace after this? ALL. Peace and reconciliation! PASTOR. [_Beside the body of_ KERSTI] "To the dead Give peace, O Lord, And console The living!" _In the background a church is seen rising out of the lake: first the gilded weathercock; then the cross resting on a globe; and finally the spire, the roof covered with black shingles, and the white walls of the round-arched church_. NECK. [_Is heard playing and singing in the distance, but now his melody has been transposed into D minor_] "I am hoping, I am hoping, that my Redeemer still liveth." PASTOR. Let us give praise and thanks unto the Lord! ALL. We thank and praise thee, O Lord! MATS _and_ BRITA _kneel beside the body of_ KERSTI. _All the rest kneel around them and sing No_. 6 _from the "Old" _Swedish Hymn-Book_ (which is a free rendering of Luther's_ "Herr Gott, dich loben wir," _and practically identical with the Ambrosian_ "Te Deum laudamus"). ALL. [_Singing_] "O God, we give thee praise! O Lord, we give thee thanks! Eternal Father, whom the whole world worships! Thy praise is sung by angels and all the heavenly powers; By Cherubim and Seraphim thy praise is sung incessantly: Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Sabaoth!" _Curtain_. [1] Old Swedish folk-riddle, the expected answers to the questions being respectively: the thunder and an angel. [2] From the Poetic Edda: "The Song of the High One." See Introduction. [3] id. note 2. THE SPOOK SONATA (SPÖK-SONATEN) CHAMBER PLAYS: OPUS III 1907 CHARACTERS OLD HUMMEL _The_ STUDENT, _named Arkenholtz_ _The_ MILKMAID, _an apparition_ _The_ JANITRESS _The_ GHOST _of the Consul_ _The_ DARK LADY, _daughter of the Consul and the_ JANITRESS _The_ COLONEL _The_ MUMMY, _wife of the_ COLONEL _The_ YOUNG LADY, _supposedly the_ COLONEL'S _daughter_, _but in reality the daughter of_ OLD HUMMEL _The_ DANDY, _called Baron Skansenkorge and engaged to the_ DARK LADY JOHANSSON, _in the service of_ HUMMEL BENGTSSON, _the valet of the_ COLONEL _The_ FIANCÉE, _a white-haired old woman, formerly engaged to_ HUMMEL _The_ COOK _A_ SERVANT-GIRL BEGGARS FIRST SCENE _The stage shows the first and second stories of a modern corner home. At the left, the house continues into the wings; at the right, it faces on a street supposed to be running at right angle to the footlights_. _The apartment on the ground floor ends at the corner in a round room, above which is a balcony belonging to the apartment on the second floor. A flagstaff is fixed to the balcony_. _When the shades are raised in the windows of the Round Room, a statue of a young woman in white marble becomes visible inside, strongly illumined by sunlight. It is surrounded by palms. The windows on the left side of the Round Room contain a number of flower-pots, in which grow blue, white, and red hyacinths_. _A bedquilt of blue silk and two pillows in white cases are hung over the railing of the balcony on the second floor. The windows at the left of the balcony are covered with white sheets on the inside_. _A green bench stands on the sidewalk in front of the house. The right corner of the foreground is occupied by a drinking fountain; the corner at the left, by an advertising column_. _The main entrance to the house is near the left wing. Through the open doorway appears the foot of the stairway, with steps of white marble and a banister of mahogany with brass trimmings. On the sidewalk, flanking the entrance, stand two laurel-trees in wooden tubs_. _At the left of the entrance, there is a window on the ground floor, with a window-mirror outside_. _It is a bright Sunday morning_. _When the curtain rises, the bells of several churches are heard ringing in the distance_. _The doors of the entrance are wide open, and on the lowest step of the stairway stands the_ DARK LADY. _She does not make the slightest movement_. _The_ JANITRESS _is sweeping the hallway. Then she polishes the brass knobs on the doors. Finally she waters the laurel-trees_. _Near the advertising column_, OLD HUMMEL _is reading his paper, seated in an invalid's chair on wheels. His hair and beard are white, and he wears spectacles_. _The_ MILKMAID _enters from the side street, carrying milk-bottles in a crate of wire-work. She wears a light dress, brown shoes, black stockings, and a white cap_. _She takes off her cap and hangs it on the fountain; wipes the perspiration from her forehead; drinks out of the cup; washes her hands in the basin, and arranges her hair, using the water in the basin as a mirror_. _A steamship-bell is heard outside. Then the silence is broken fitfully by a few bass notes from the organ in the nearest church_. _When silence reigns again, and the_ MILKMAID _has finished her toilet, the_ STUDENT _enters from the left, unshaved and showing plainly that he has spent a sleepless night. He goes straight to the fountain. A pause ensues_. STUDENT. Can I have the cup? _The_ MILKMAID _draws back with the cup_. STUDENT. Are you not almost done? _The_ MILKMAID _stares at him with horror_. HUMMEL. [_To himself_] With whom is he talking? I don't see anybody. Wonder if he's crazy? [_He continues to look at them with evident surprise_. STUDENT. Why do you stare at me? Do I look so terrible--It is true that I haven't slept at all, and I suppose you think I have been making a night of it.... _The_ MILKMAID _remains as before_. STUDENT. You think I have been drinking, do you? Do I smell of liquor? _The_ MILKMAID _remains as before_. STUDENT. I haven't shaved, of course.... Oh, give me a drink of water, girl. I have earned it. [_Pause_] Well? Must I then tell you myself that I have spent the night dressing wounds and nursing the injured? You see, I was present when that house collapsed last night.... Now you know all about it. _The_ MILKMAID _rinses the cup, fills it with water, and hands it to him_. STUDENT. Thanks! _The_ MILKMAID _stands immovable_. STUDENT. [_Hesitatingly_] Would you do me a favour? [_Pause_] My eyes are inflamed, as you can see, and my hands have touched wounds and corpses. To touch my eyes with them would be dangerous.... Will you take my handkerchief, which is clean, dip it in the fresh water, and bathe my poor eyes with it?--Will you do that?--Won't you play the good Samaritan? _The_ MILKMAID _hesitates at first, but does finally what he has asked_. STUDENT. Thank you! [_He takes out his purse_. _The_ MILKMAID _makes a deprecatory gesture_. STUDENT. Pardon my absent-mindedness. I am not awake, you see.... _The_ MILKMAID _disappears_. Hummel. [_To the_ STUDENT] Excuse a stranger, but I heard you mention last night's accident.... I was just reading about it in the paper.... STUDENT. Is it already in the papers? HUMMEL. All about it. Even your portrait. They are sorry, though, that they have not been able to learn the name of the young student who did such splendid work.... STUDENT. [_Glancing at the paper_] Oh, is that me? Well! HUMMEL. Whom were you talking to a while ago? STUDENT. Didn't you see? [_Pause_. HUMMEL. Would it be impertinent--to ask--your estimable name? STUDENT. What does it matter? I don't care for publicity. Blame is always mixed into any praise you may get. The art of belittling is so highly developed. And besides, I ask no reward.... HUMMEL. Wealthy, I suppose? STUDENT. Not at all--on the contrary--poor as a durmouse! HUMMEL. Look here.... It seems to me as if I recognised your voice. When I was young, I had a friend who always said "dur" instead of door. Until now he was the one person I had ever heard using that pronunciation. You are the only other one.... Could you possibly be a relative of the late Mr. Arkenholtz, the merchant? STUDENT. He was my father. HUMMEL. Wonderful are the ways of life.... I have seen you when you were a small child, under very trying circumstances.... STUDENT. Yes, I have been told that I was born just after my father had gone bankrupt. HUMMEL. So you were. STUDENT. May I ask your name? HUMMEL. I am Mr. Hummel. STUDENT. You are? Then I remember.... HUMMEL. Have you often heard my name mentioned at home? STUDENT. I have. HUMMEL. And not in a pleasant way, I suppose? _The_ STUDENT _remains silent_. HUMMEL. That's what I expected.--You were told, I suppose, that I had ruined your father?--All who are ruined by ill-advised speculations think themselves ruined by those whom they couldn't fool. [_Pause_] The fact of it is, however, that your father robbed me of seventeen thousand crowns, which represented all my savings at that time. STUDENT. It is queer how the same story can be told in quite different ways. HUMMEL. You don't think that I am telling the truth? STUDENT. How can I tell what to think? My father was not in the habit of lying. HUMMEL. No, that's right, a father never lies.... But I am also a father, and for that reason.... STUDENT. What are you aiming at? HUMMEL. I saved your father from misery, and he repaid me with the ruthless hatred that is born out of obligation.... He taught his family to speak ill of me. STUDENT. Perhaps you made him ungrateful by poisoning your assistance with needless humiliation. HUMMEL. All assistance is humiliating, sir. STUDENT. And what do you ask of me now? HUMMEL. Not the money back. But if you will render me a small service now and then, I shall consider myself well paid. I am a cripple, as you see. Some people say it is my own fault. Others lay it to my parents. I prefer to blame life itself, with its snares. To escape one of these snares is to walk headlong into another. As it is, I cannot climb stairways or ring door-bells, and for that reason I ask you: will you help me a little? STUDENT. What can I do for you? HUMMEL. Give my chair a push, to begin with, so that I can read the bills on that column. I wish to see what they are playing to-night. STUDENT. [_Pushing the chair as directed_] Have you no attendant? HUMMEL. Yes, but he is doing an errand. He'll be back soon. Are you a medical student? STUDENT. No, I am studying philology, but I don't know what profession to choose.... HUMMEL. Well, well! Are you good at mathematics? STUDENT. Reasonably so. HUMMEL. That's good! Would you care to accept a position? STUDENT. Yes, why not? HUMMEL. Fine! [_Studying the playbills_] They are playing "The Valkyr" at the matinee.... Then the Colonel will be there with his daughter, and as he always has the end seat in the sixth row, I'll put you next to him.... Will you please go over to that telephone kiosk and order a ticket for seat eighty-two, in the sixth row? STUDENT. Must I go to the opera in the middle of the day? HUMMEL. Yes. Obey me, and you'll prosper. I wish to see you happy, rich, and honoured. Your début last night in the part of the brave rescuer will have made you famous by to-morrow, and then your name will be worth a great deal. STUDENT. [_On his way out to telephone_] What a ludicrous adventure! HUMMEL. Are you a sportsman? STUDENT. Yes, that has been my misfortune. HUMMEL. Then we'll turn it into good fortune.--Go and telephone now. _The_ STUDENT _goes out_. HUMMEL _begins to read his paper again. In the meantime the_ DARK LADY _has come out on the sidewalk and stands talking to the_ JANITRESS. HUMMEL _is taking in their conversation, of which, however, nothing is audible to the public_. _After a while the_ STUDENT _returns_. HUMMEL. Ready? STUDENT. It's done. HUMMEL. Have you noticed this house? STUDENT. Yes, I have been watching it.... I happened to pass by yesterday, when the sun was making every window-pane glitter.... And thinking of all the beauty and luxury that must be found within, I said to my companion: "Wouldn't it be nice to have an apartment on the fifth floor, a beautiful young wife, two pretty little children, and an income of twenty thousand crowns?"... HUMMEL. So you said that? Did you really? Well, well! I am very fond of this house, too.... STUDENT. Do you speculate in houses? HUMMEL. Mm-yah! But not in the way you mean. STUDENT. Do you know the people who live here? HUMMEL. All of them. A man of my age knows everybody, including their parents and grandparents, and in some manner he always finds himself related to every one else. I am just eighty--but nobody knows _me_--not through and through. I am very much interested in human destinies. _At that moment the shades are raised in the Round Room on the ground floor, and the_ COLONEL _becomes visible, dressed in civilian clothes. He goes to one of the windows to study the thermometer outside. Then he turns back into the room and stops in front of the marble statue_. HUMMEL. There's the Colonel now, who will sit next to you at the opera this afternoon. STUDENT. Is _he_--the Colonel? I don't understand this at all, but it's like a fairy-tale. HUMMEL. All my life has been like a collection of fairy-tales, my dear sir. Although the tales read differently, they are all strung on a common thread, and the dominant theme recurs constantly. STUDENT. Whom does that statue represent? HUMMEL. His wife, of course. STUDENT. Was she very lovely? HUMMEL. Mm-yah--well.... STUDENT. Speak out. HUMMEL. Oh, we can't form any judgment about people, my dear boy. And if I told you that she left him, that he beat her, that she returned to him, that she married him a second time, and that she is living there now in the shape of a mummy, worshipping her own statue--then you would think me crazy. STUDENT. I don't understand at all. HUMMEL. I didn't expect you would. Then there is the window with the hyacinths. That's where his daughter lives? She is out for a ride now, but she will be home in a few moments. STUDENT. And who is the dark lady talking to the janitress? HUMMEL. The answer is rather complicated, but it is connected with the dead man on the second floor, where you see the white sheets. STUDENT. Who was he? HUMMEL. A human being like you or me, but the most conspicuous thing about him was his vanity.... If you were born on a Sunday, you might soon see him come down the stairway and go out on the sidewalk to make sure that the flag of the consulate is half-masted. You see, he was a consul, and he revelled in coronets and lions and plumed hats and coloured ribbons. STUDENT. You spoke of being born on a Sunday.... So was I, I understand. HUMMEL. No! Really?... Oh, I should have known.... The colour of your eyes shows it.... Then you can see what other people can't. Have you noticed anything of that kind? STUDENT. Of course, I can't tell what other people see or don't see, but at times.... Oh, such things you don't talk of! HUMMEL. I was sure of it! And you can talk to me, because I--I understand--things of that kind.... STUDENT. Yesterday, for instance.... I was drawn to that little side street where the house fell down afterward.... When I got there, I stopped in front of the house, which I had never seen before.... Then I noticed a crack in the wall.... I could hear the floor beams snapping.... I rushed forward and picked up a child that was walking in front of the house at the time.... In another moment the house came tumbling down.... I was saved, but in my arms, which I thought held the child, there was nothing at all.... HUMMEL. Well, I must say!... Much as I have heard.... Please tell me one thing: what made you act as you did by the fountain a while ago? Why were you talking to yourself? STUDENT. Didn't you see the Milkmaid to whom I was talking? HUMMEL. [_Horrified_] A milkmaid? STUDENT. Yes, the girl who handed me the cup. HUMMEL. Oh, that's what it was.... Well, I haven't that kind of sight, but there are other things.... _A white-haired old woman is seen at the window beside the entrance, looking into the window-mirror_. HUMMEL. Look at that old woman in the window. Do you see her?--Well, she was my fiancée once upon a time, sixty years ago.... I was twenty at that time.... Never mind, she does not recognise me. We see each other every day, and I hardly notice her--although once we vowed to love each other eternally.... Eternally! STUDENT. How senseless you were in those days! We don't talk to our girls like that. HUMMEL. Forgive us, young man! We didn't know better.--Can you see that she was young and pretty once? STUDENT. It doesn't show.... Oh, yes, she has a beautiful way of looking at things, although I can't see her eyes clearly. _The_ JANITRESS _comes out with a basket on her arm and begins to cover the sidewalk with chopped hemlock branches, as is usual in Sweden when a funeral is to be held_. HUMMEL. And the Janitress--hm! That Dark Lady is her daughter and the dead man's, and that's why her husband was made janitor.... But the Dark Lady has a lover, who is a dandy with great expectations. He is now getting a divorce from his present wife, who is giving him an apartment-house to get rid of him. This elegant lover is the son-in-law of the dead man, and you can see his bedclothes being aired on the balcony up there.... That's a bit complicated, I should say! STUDENT. Yes, it's fearfully complicated. HUMMEL. It certainly is, inside and outside, no matter how simple it may look. STUDENT. But who was the dead man? Hummel. So you asked me a while ago, and I answered you. If you could look around the corner, where the servants' entrance is, you would see a lot of poor people whom he used to help--when he was in the mood.... STUDENT. He was a kindly man, then? HUMMEL. Yes--at times. STUDENT. Not always? HUMMEL. No-o.... People are like that!--Will you please move the chair a little, so that I get into the sunlight? I am always cold. You see, the blood congeals when you can't move about.... Death isn't far away from me, I know, but I have a few things to do before it comes.... Just take hold of my hand and feel how cold I am. STUDENT. [_Taking his hand_] I should say so! [_He shrinks back_. HUMMEL. Don't leave me! I am tired now, and lonely, but I haven't always been like this, you know. I have an endlessly long life back of--enormously long.... I have made people unhappy, and other people have made me unhappy, and one thing has to be put against the other, but before I die, I wish to see you happy.... Our destinies have become intertwined, thanks to your father--and many other things.... STUDENT. Let go my hand! You are taking all my strength! You are freezing me! What do you want of me? HUMMEL. Patience, and you'll see, and understand.... There comes the Young Lady now.... STUDENT. The Colonel's daughter? HUMMEL. His daughter--yes! Look at her!--Did you ever see such a masterpiece? STUDENT. She resembles the marble statue in there. HUMMEL. It's her mother. STUDENT. You are right.... Never did I see such a woman of woman born!--Happy the man who may lead her to the altar and to his home! HUMMEL. You see it, then? Her beauty is not discovered by everybody.... Then it is written in the book of life! _The_ YOUNG LADY _enters from the left, wearing a close-fitting English riding-suit. Without looking at any one, she walks slowly to the entrance, where she stops and exchanges a few words with the_ JANITRESS. _Then she disappears into the house. The_ STUDENT _covers his eyes with his hand_. HUMMEL. Are you crying? STUDENT. Can you meet what is hopeless with anything but despair? HUMMEL. I have the power of opening doors and hearts, if I can only find an arm to do my will.... Serve me, and you shall also have power.... STUDENT. Is it to be a bargain? Do you want me to sell my soul? HUMMEL. Don't sell anything!... You see, all my life I have been used to _take_. Now I have a craving to give--to give! But no one will accept.... I am rich, very rich, but have no heirs except a scamp who is tormenting the life out of me.... Become my son! Inherit me while I am still alive! Enjoy life, and let me look on--from a distance, at least! STUDENT. What am I to do? HUMMEL. Go and hear "The Valkyr" first of all. STUDENT. That's settled--but what more? HUMMEL. This evening you shall be in the Round Room. STUDENT. How am I to get there? HUMMEL. Through "The Valkyr." STUDENT. Why have you picked me to be your instrument? Did you know me before? HUMMEL. Of course, I did! I have had my eyes on you for a long time.... Look at the balcony now, where the Maid is raising the flag at half-mast in honour of the consul.... And then she turns the bedclothes.... Do you notice that blue quilt? It was made to cover two, and now it is only covering one.... [_The_ YOUNG LADY _appears at her window, having changed dress in the meantime; she waters the hyacinths_] There is my little girl now. Look at her--look! She is talking to her flowers, and she herself looks like a blue hyacinth. She slakes their thirst--with pure water only--and they transform the water into colour and fragrance.... There comes the Colonel with the newspaper! He shows her the story about the house that fell down--and he points at your portrait! She is not indifferent--she reads of your deeds.... It's clouding up, I think.... I wonder if it's going to rain? Then I shall be in a nice fix, unless Johansson comes back soon [_The sun has disappeared, and now the stage is growing darker; the white-haired old woman closes her window_] Now my fiancée is closing her window.... She is seventy-nine--and the only mirror she uses is the window-mirror, because there she sees not herself, but the world around her--and she sees it from two sides--but it has not occurred to her that she can be seen by the world, too.... A handsome old lady, after all.... _Now the_ GHOST, _wrapped in winding sheets, comes out of the entrance_. STUDENT. Good God, what is that I see? HUMMEL. What _do_ you see? STUDENT. Don't _you_ see?... There, at the entrance.... The dead man? HUMMEL. I see nothing at all, but that was what I expected. Tell me.... STUDENT. He comes out in the street.... [_Pause_] Now he turns his head to look at the flag. HUMMEL. What did I tell you? And you may be sure that he will count the wreaths and study the visiting-cards attached to them.... And I pity anybody that is missing! STUDENT. Now he goes around the corner.... HUMMEL. He wants to count the poor at the other entrance.... The poor are so decorative, you know.... "Followed by the blessings of many".... But he won't get any blessing from me!--Between us, he was a big rascal! STUDENT. But charitable.... HUMMEL. A charitable rascal, who always had in mind the splendid funeral he expected to get.... When he knew that his end was near, he cheated the state out of fifty thousand crowns.... And now his daughter goes about with ... another woman's husband, and wonders what is in his will.... Yes, the rascal can hear every word we say, and he is welcome to it!--There comes Johansson now. JOHANSSON _enters from the left_. HUMMEL. Report! JOHANSSON _can be seen speaking, but not a word of what he says is heard_. HUMMEL. Not at home, you say? Oh, you are no good!--Any telegram?--Not a thing.... Go on!--Six o'clock to-night?--That's fine!--An extra, you say?--With his full name?--Arkenholtz, a student, yes.... Born.... Parents.... That's splendid! I think it's beginning to rain.... What did he say?--Is that so?--He won't?--Well, then he must!--Here comes the Dandy.... Push me around the corner, Johansson, so I can hear what the poor people have to say.... [_To the_ STUDENT] And you had better wait for me here, Arkenholtz.... Do you understand?--[_To_ JOHANSSON] Hurry up now, hurry up! JOHANSSON _pushes the chair into the side street and out of sight. The_ STUDENT _remains on the same spot, looking at the_ YOUNG LADY, _who is using a small rake to loosen up the earth in her pots. The_ DANDY _enters and joins the_ DARK LADY, _who has been walking back and forth on the sidewalk. He is in mourning_. DANDY. Well, what is there to do about it? We simply have to wait. DARK LADY. But I can't wait! DANDY. Is that so? Then you'll have to go to the country. DARK LADY. I don't want to! DANDY. Come this way, or they'll hear what we are saying. _They go toward the advertising column and continue their talk inaudibly_. JOHANSSON. [_Entering from the right; to the_ STUDENT] My master asks you not to forget that other thing. STUDENT. [_Dragging his words_] Look here.... Tell me, please.... Who _is_ your master? JOHANSSON. Oh, he's so many things, and he has been everything.... STUDENT. Is he in his right mind? JOHANSSON. Who can tell?--All his life he has been looking for one born on Sunday, he says--which does not mean that it must be true.... STUDENT. What is he after? Is he a miser? JOHANSSON. He wants to rule.... The whole day long he travels about in his chair like the god of thunder himself He looks at houses, tears them down, opens up new streets, fills the squares with buildings.... At the same time he breaks into houses, sneaks through open windows, plays havoc with human destinies, kills his enemies, and refuses to forgive anything.... Can you imagine that a cripple like him has been a Don Juan--but one who has always lost the women he loved? STUDENT. How can you make those things go together? JOHANSSON. He is so full of guile that he can make the women leave him when he is tired of them.... Just now he is like a horse thief practising at a slave-market.... He steals human beings, and in all sorts of ways.... He has literally stolen me out of the hands of the law.... Hm.... yes.... I had been guilty of a slip. And no one but he knew of it. Instead of putting me in jail, he made a slave of me. All I get for my slavery is the food I eat, which might be better at that.... STUDENT. And what does he wish to do in this house here? JOHANSSON. No, I don't want to tell! It's too complicated.... STUDENT. I think I'll run away from the whole story.... _The_ YOUNG LADY _drops a bracelet out of the window so that it falls on the sidewalk_. JOHANSSON. Did you see the Young Lady drop her bracelet out of the window? _Without haste, the_ STUDENT _picks up the bracelet and hands it to the_ YOUNG LADY, _who thanks him rather stiffly; then he returns to_ JOHANSSON. JOHANSSON. So you want to run away? That is more easily said than done when _he_ has got you in his net.... And he fears nothing between heaven and earth except one thing or one person rather.... STUDENT. Wait--I think I know! JOHANSSON. How could you? STUDENT. I can guess! Is it not--a little milkmaid that he fears? JOHANSSON. He turns his head away whenever he meets a milk wagon.... And at times he talks in his sleep.... He must have been in Hamburg at one time, I think.... STUDENT. Is this man to be trusted? JOHANSSON. You may trust him--to do anything! STUDENT. What is he doing around the corner now? JOHANSSON. Watching the poor dropping a word here and a word there.... loosening a stone at a time ... until the whole house comes tumbling down, metaphorically speaking.... You see, I am an educated man, and I used to be a book dealer.... Are you going now? STUDENT. I find it hard to be ungrateful.... Once upon a time he saved my father, and now he asks a small service in return.... JOHANSSON. What is it? STUDENT. To go and see "The Valkyr".... JOHANSSON. That's beyond me.... But he is always up to new tricks.... Look at him now, talking to the police-man! He is always thick with the police. He uses them. He snares them in their own interests. He ties their hands by arousing their expectations with false promises--while all the time he is pumping them.... You'll see that he is received in the Round Room before the day is over! STUDENT. What does he want there? What has he to do with the Colonel? JOHANSSON. I think I can guess, but know nothing with certainty. But you'll see for yourself when you get there! STUDENT. I'll never get there. JOHANSSON. That depends on yourself!--Go to "The Valkyr." STUDENT. Is that the road? JOHANSSON. Yes, if he has said so--Look at him there--look at him in his war chariot, drawn in triumph by the Beggars, who get nothing for their pains but a hint of a great treat to be had at his funeral. OLD HUMMEL _appears standing in his invalid's chair, which is drawn by one of the_ BEGGARS, _and followed by the rest_. HUMMEL. Give honour to the noble youth who, at the risk of his own, saved so many lives in yesterday's accident! Three cheers for Arkenholtz! _The_ BEGGARS _bare their heads, but do not cheer. The_ YOUNG LADY _appears at her window, waving her handkerchief. The_ COLONEL _gazes at the scene from a window in the Round Room. The_ FIANCÉE _rises at her window. The_ MAID _appears on the balcony and hoists the flag to the top_. HUMMEL. Applaud, citizens! It is Sunday, of course, but the ass in the pit and the ear in the field will absolve us. Although I was not born on a Sunday, I have the gift of prophecy and of healing, and on one occasion I brought a drowned person back to life.... That happened in Hamburg on a Sunday morning just like this.... _The_ MILKMAID _enters, seen only by the_ STUDENT _and_ HUMMEL. _She raises her arms with the movement of a drowning person, while gazing fixedly at_ HUMMEL. HUMMEL. [_Sits down; then he crumbles in a heap, stricken with horror_] Get me out of here, Johansson! Quick!--Arkenholtz, don't forget "The Valkyr!" STUDENT. What is the meaning of all this? JOHANSSON. We'll see! We'll see! _Curtain_. SECOND SCENE _In the Round Room. An oven of white, glazed bricks occupies the centre of the background. The mantelpiece is covered by a large mirror. An ornamental clock and candelabra stand on the mantelshelf_. _At the right of the mantelpiece is a door leading into a hallway, back of which may be seen a room papered in green, with mahogany furniture. The_ COLONEL _is seated at a writing-desk, so that only his back is visible to the public_. _The statue stands at the left, surrounded by palms and with draperies arranged so that it can be hidden entirely_. _A door at the left of the mantelpiece opens on the Hyacinth Room, where the_ YOUNG LADY _is seen reading a book_. BENGTSSON, _the valet, enters from the hallway, dressed in livery. He is followed by_ JOHANSSON _in evening dress with white tie_. BENGTSSON. Now you'll have to do the waiting, Johansson, while I take the overclothes. Do you know how to do it? JOHANSSON. Although I am pushing a war chariot in the daytime, as you know, I wait in private houses at night, and I have always dreamt of getting into this place.... Queer sort of people, hm? BENGTSSON. Yes, a little out of the ordinary, one might say. JOHANSSON. Is it a musicale, or what is it? BENGTSSON. The usual spook supper, as we call it. They drink tea and don't say a word, or else the Colonel does all the talking. And then they munch their biscuits, all at the same time, so that it sounds like the gnawing of a lot of rats in an attic. JOHANSSON. Why do you call it a spook supper? BENGTSSON. Because they look like spooks.... And they have kept this up for twenty years--always the same people, saying the same things or keeping silent entirely, lest they be put to shame. JOHANSSON. Is there not a lady in the house, too? BENGTSSON. Yes, but she is a little cracked. She sits all the time in a closet, because her eyes can't bear the light. [_He points at a papered door_] She is in there now. JOHANSSON. In there, you say? BENGTSSON. I told you they were a little out of the ordinary.... JOHANSSON. How does she look? BENGTSSON. Like a mummy.... Would you care to look at her? [_He opens the papered door_] There she is now! JOHANSSON. Mercy! MUMMY. [_Talking baby talk_] Why does he open the door? Haven't I told him to keep it closed? BENGTSSON. [_In the same way_] Ta-ta-ta-ta! Polly must be nice now. Then she'll get something good. Pretty polly! MUMMY. [_Imitating a parrot_] Pretty polly! Are you there, Jacob? Currrrr! BENGTSSON. She thinks herself a parrot, and maybe she's right [_To the_ MUMMY] Whistle for us, Polly. _The_ MUMMY _whistles_. JOHANSSON. Much I have seen, but never the like of it! BENGTSSON. Well, you see, a house gets mouldy when it grows old, and when people are too much together, tormenting each other all the time, they lose their reason. The lady of this house.... Shut up, Polly!... That mummy has been living here forty years--with the same husband, the same furniture, the same relatives, the same friends.... [_He closes the papered door_] And the happenings this house has witnessed! Well, it's beyond me.... Look at that statue. That's the selfsame lady in her youth. JOHANSSON. Good Lord! Can that be the Mummy? BENGTSSON. Yes, it's enough to make you weep!--And somehow, carried away by her own imagination, perhaps, she has developed some of the traits of the talkative parrot.... She can't stand cripples or sick people, for instance.... She can't bear the sight of her own daughter, because she is sick.... JOHANSSON. Is the Young Lady sick? BENGTSSON. Don't you know that? JOHANSSON. No.--And the Colonel--who is he? BENGTSSON. That remains to be seen! JOHANSSON. [_Looking at the statue_] It's horrible to think that.... How old is she now? BENGTSSON. Nobody knows. But at thirty-five she is said to have looked like nineteen, and that's the age she gave to the Colonel.... In this house.... Do you know what that Japanese screen by the couch is used for? They call it the Death Screen, and it is placed in front of the bed when somebody is dying, just as they do in hospitals.... JOHANSSON. This must be an awful house! And the Student was longing for it as for paradise.... BENGTSSON. What student? Oh, I know! The young chap who is coming here to-night.... The Colonel and the Young Lady met him at the opera and took a great fancy to him at once.... Hm!... But now it's my turn to ask questions. Who's your master? The man in the invalid's chair?... JOHANSSON. Well, well! Is he coming here, too? BENGTSSON. He has not been invited. JOHANSSON. He'll come without invitation--if necessary. OLD HUMMEL _appears in the hallway, dressed in frock coat and high hat. He uses crutches, but moves without a noise, so that he is able to listen to the two servants._ BENGTSSON. He's a sly old guy, isn't he? JOHANSSON. Yes, he's a good one! BENGTSSON. He looks like the very devil. JOHANSSON. He's a regular wizard, I think because he can pass through locked doors.... HUMMEL. [_Comes forward and pinches the ear of_ JOHANSSON] Look out, you scoundrel! [_To_ BENGTSSON] Tell the Colonel I am here. BENGTSSON. We expect company.... HUMMEL. I know, but my visit is as good as expected, too, although not exactly desired, perhaps.... BENGTSSON. I see! What's the name? Mr. Hummel? HUMMEL. That's right. BENGTSSON _crosses the hallway to the Green Room, the door of which he closes behind him_. HUMMEL. [_To_ JOHANSSON] Vanish! JOHANSSON _hesitates_. HUMMEL. Vanish, I say! JOHANSSON _disappears through the hallway_. HUMMEL. [_Looking around and finally stopping in front of the statue, evidently much surprised_] Amelia!--It is she!--She! _He takes another turn about the room, picking up various objects to look at them; then he stops in front of the mirror to arrange his wig; finally he returns to the statue_. MUMMY. [_In the closet_] Prrretty Polly! HUMMEL. [_Startled_] What was that? Is there a parrot in the room? I don't see it! MUMMY. Are you there, Jacob? HUMMEL. The place is haunted! MUMMY. Jacob! HUMMEL. Now I am scared!... So that's the kind of secrets they have been keeping in this house! [_He stops in front of a picture with his back turned to the closet_] And that's he.... He! MUMMY. [_Comes out of the closet and pulls the wig of_ HUMMEL] Currrrr! Is that Currrrr? HUMMEL. [_Almost lifted off his feet by fright_] Good Lord in heaven!... Who are you? MUMMY. [_Speaking in a normal voice_] Is that you, Jacob? HUMMEL. Yes, my name is Jacob.... MUMMY. [_Deeply moved_] And my name is Amelia! HUMMEL. Oh, no, no, no!--Merciful heavens!... MUMMY. How I look! That's right!--And _have_ looked like that! [_Pointing to the statue_] Life is a pleasant thing, is it not?... I live mostly in the closet, both in order to see nothing and not to be seen.... But, Jacob, what do you want here? HUMMEL. My child our child.... MUMMY. There she sits. HUMMEL. Where? MUMMY. There--in the Hyacinth Room. HUMMEL. [_Looking at the_ YOUNG LADY] Yes, that is she! [_Pause_] And what does her father say.... I mean the Colonel.... your husband? MUMMY. Once, when I was angry with him, I told him everything.... HUMMEL. And?... MUMMY. He didn't believe me. All he said was: "That's what all women say when they wish to kill their husbands."--It is a dreadful crime, nevertheless. His whole life has been turned into a lie--his family tree, too. Sometimes I take a look in the peerage, and then I say to myself: "Here she is going about with a false birth certificate, just like any runaway servant-girl, and for such things people are sent to the reformatory." HUMMEL. Well, it's quite common. I think I recall a certain incorrectness in regard to the date of your own birth. MUMMY. It was my mother who started that.... I was not to blame for it.... And it was you, after all, who had the greater share in our guilt.... HUMMEL. No, what wrong we did was provoked by your husband when he took my fiancée away from me! I was born a man who cannot forgive until he has punished. To punish has always seemed an imperative duty to me--and so it seems still! MUMMY. What are you looking for in this house? What do you want? How did you get in?--Does it concern my daughter? If you touch her, you must die! HUMMEL. I mean well by her! MUMMY. And you have to spare her father! HUMMEL. No! MUMMY. Then you must die ... in this very room ... back of that screen.... HUMMEL. Perhaps.... but I can't let go when I have got my teeth in a thing.... MUMMY. You wish to marry her to the Student? Why? He is nothing and has nothing. HUMMEL. He will be rich, thanks to me. MUMMY. Have you been invited for to-night? HUMMEL. No, but I intend to get an invitation for your spook supper. MUMMY. Do you know who will be here? HUMMEL. Not quite. MUMMY. The Baron--he who lives above us, and whose father-in-law was buried this afternoon.... HUMMEL. The man who is getting a divorce to marry the daughter of the Janitress.... The man who used to be--your lover! MUMMY. Another guest will be your former fiancée, who was seduced by my husband.... HUMMEL. Very select company! MUMMY. If the Lord would let us die! Oh, that we might only die! HUMMEL. But why do you continue to associate? MUMMY. Crime and guilt and secrets bind us together, don't you know? Our ties have snapped so that we have slipped apart innumerable times, but we are always drawn together again.... HUMMEL. I think the Colonel is coming. MUMMY. I'll go in to Adèle, then.... [_Pause_] Consider what you do, Jacob! Spare him.... [_Pause; then she goes out_. COLONEL. [_Enters, haughty and reserved_] Won't you be seated, please? HUMMEL _seats himself with great deliberation; pause_. COLONEL. [_Staring at his visitor_] You wrote this letter, sir? HUMMEL. I did. COLONEL. Your name is Hummel? HUMMEL. It is. [_Pause_. COLONEL. As I learn that you have bought up all my unpaid and overdue notes, I conclude that I am at your mercy. What do you want? HUMMEL. Payment--in one way or another. COLONEL. In what way? HUMMEL. A very simple one. Let us not talk of the money. All you have to do is to admit me as a guest.... COLONEL. If a little thing like that will satisfy you.... HUMMEL. I thank you. COLONEL. Anything more? HUMMEL. Discharge Bengtsson. COLONEL. Why should I do so? My devoted servant, who has been with me a lifetime, and who has the medal for long and faithful service.... Why should I discharge him? HUMMEL. Those wonderful merits exist only in your imagination. He is not the man he seems to be. COLONEL. _Who is_? HUMMEL. [_Taken back_] True!--But Bengtsson must go! COLONEL. Do you mean to order my household? HUMMEL. I do ... as everything visible here belongs to me ... furniture, draperies, dinner ware, linen and other things! COLONEL. What other things? HUMMEL. Everything! All that is to be seen is mine! I own it! COLONEL. Granted! But for all that, my coat of arms and my unspotted name belong to myself. HUMMEL. No--not even that much! [_Pause_] You are not a nobleman! COLONEL. Take care! HUMMEL. [_Producing a document_] If you'll read this extract from the armorial, you will see that the family whose name you are using has been extinct for a century. COLONEL. [_Reading the document_] I have heard rumours to that effect, but the name was my father's before it was mine.... [_Reading again_] That's right! Yes, you are right--I am not a nobleman! Not even that!--Then I may as well take off my signet-ring.... Oh, I remember now.... It belongs to you.... If you please! HUMMEL. [_Accepting the ring and putting it into his pocket_] We had better continue. You are no colonel, either. COLONEL. Am I not? HUMMEL. No, you have simply held the title of colonel in the American volunteer service by special appointment. After the war in Cuba and the reorganisation of the army, all titles of that kind were abolished.... COLONEL. Is that true? HUMMEL. [_With a gesture toward his pocket_] Do you wish to see for yourself? COLONEL. No, it won't be necessary.--Who are you, anyhow, and with what right are you stripping me naked in this fashion? HUMMEL. You'll see by and by. As to stripping you naked--do you know who you are in reality? COLONEL. How dare you? HUMMEL. Take off that wig, and have a look at yourself in the mirror. Take out that set of false teeth and shave off your moustache, too. Let Bengtsson remove the iron stays--and perhaps a certain X Y Z, a lackey, may begin to recognise himself--the man who used to visit the maid's chamber in a certain house for a bite of something good.... _The_ COLONEL _makes a movement toward a table on which stands a bell, but is checked by_ HUMMEL. HUMMEL. Don't touch that bell, and don't call Bengtsson! If you do, I'll have him arrested.... Now the guests are beginning to arrive.... Keep your composure, and let us continue to play our old parts for a while. COLONEL. Who are you? Your eyes and your voice remind me of somebody.... HUMMEL. Don't try to find out! Keep silent and obey! STUDENT. [_Enters and bows to the_ COLONEL] Colonel! COLONEL. I bid you welcome to my house, young man. Your splendid behaviour in connection with that great disaster has brought your name to everybody's lips, and I count it an honour to receive you here.... STUDENT. Being a man of humble birth, Colonel and considering your name and position.... COLONEL. May I introduce?--Mr. Arkenholtz--Mr. Hummel. The ladies are in there, Mr. Arkenholtz--if you please--I have a few more things to talk over with Mr. Hummel.... _Guided by the_ COLONEL, _the_ STUDENT _goes into the Hyacinth Room, where he remains visible, standing beside the_ YOUNG LADY _and talking very timidly to her_. COLONEL. A splendid young chap--very musical--sings, and writes poetry.... If he were only a nobleman--if he belonged to our class, I don't think I should object.... HUMMEL. To what? COLONEL. Oh, my daughter.... HUMMEL. _Your_ daughter, you say?--But apropos of that, why is she always sitting in that room? COLONEL. She has to spend all her time in the Hyacinth Room when she is not out. That is a peculiarity of hers.... Here comes Miss Betty von Holstein-Kron--a charming woman--a Secular Canoness, with just enough money of her own to suit her birth and position.... Hummel. [_To__himself_] My fiancée! _The_ FIANCÉE _enters. She is white-haired, and her looks indicate a slightly unbalanced mind_. COLONEL. Miss von Holstein-Kron--Mr. Hummel. _The_ FIANCÉE _curtseys in old-fashioned manner and takes a seat. The_ DANDY _enters and seats himself; he is in mourning and has a very mysterious look._ COLONEL. Baron Skansenkorge.... HUMMEL. [_Aside, without rising_] That's the jewelry thief, I think.... [_To the_ COLONEL] If you bring in the Mummy, our gathering will be complete. COLONEL. [_Going to the door of the Hyacinth Room_] Polly! MUMMY. [_Enters_] Currrrr! COLONEL. How about the young people? HUMMEL. No, not the young people! They must be spared. _The company is seated in a circle, no one saying a word for a while_. COLONEL. Shall we order the tea now? HUMMEL. What's the use? No one cares for tea, and I can't see the need of pretending. [_Pause_. COLONEL. Shall we make conversation? HUMMEL. [_Speaking slowly and with frequent pauses._] Talk of the weather, which we know all about? Ask one another's state of health, which we know just as well? I prefer silence. Then thoughts become audible, and we can see the past. Silence can hide nothing--but words can. I read the other day that the differentiation of languages had its origin in the desire among savage peoples to keep their tribal secrets hidden from outsiders. This means that every language is a code, and he who finds the universal key can understand every language in the world--which does not prevent the secret from becoming revealed without any key at times, and especially when the fact of paternity is to be proved--but, of course, legal proof is a different matter. Two false witnesses suffice to prove, anything on which they agree, but you don't bring any witnesses along on the kind of expedition I have in mind. Nature herself has planted in man a sense of modesty, which tends to hide that which should be hidden. But we slip into situations unawares, and now and then a favourable chance will reveal the most cherished secret, stripping the impostor of his mask, and exposing the villain.... _Long pause during which everybody is subject to silent scrutiny by all the rest_. HUMMEL. How silent everybody is! [_Long silence_] Here, for instance, in this respectable house, this attractive home, where beauty and erudition and wealth have joined hands.... [_Long silence_] All of us sitting here now--we know who we are, don't we? I don't need to tell.... And all of you know me, although you pretend ignorance.... In the next room is my daughter--_mine_, as you know perfectly well. She has lost the desire to live without knowing why.... The fact is that she has been pining away in this air charged with crime and deceit and falsehood of every kind.... That is the reason why I have looked for a friend in whose company she may enjoy the light and heat radiated by noble deeds [_Long silence_] Here is my mission in this house: to tear up the weeds, to expose the crimes, to settle all accounts, so that those young people may start life with a clean slate in a home that is my gift to them. [_Long silence_] Now I grant you safe retreat. Everybody may leave in his due turn. Whoever stays will be arrested. [_Long silence_] Do you hear that clock ticking like the deathwatch hidden in a wall? Can you hear what it says?--"It's time! It's time!"--When it strikes in a few seconds, your time will be up, and then you can go, but not before. You may notice, too, that the clock shakes its fist at you before it strikes. Listen! There it is! "Better beware," it says.... And I can strike, too [_He raps the top of a table with one of his crutches_] Do you hear? _For a while everybody remains silent_. MUMMY. [_Goes up to the dock and stops it; then she speaks in a normal and dignified tone_] But I can stop time in its course. I can wipe out the past and undo what is done. Bribes won't do that, nor will threats--but suffering and repentance will [_She goes to_ HUMMEL] We are miserable human creatures, and we know it. We have erred and we have sinned--we, like everybody else. We are not what we seem, but at bottom we are better than ourselves because we disapprove of our own misdeeds. And when you, Jacob Hummel, with your assumed name, propose to sit in judgment on us, you merely prove yourself worse than all the rest. You are not the one you seem to be--no more than we! You are a thief of human souls! You stole mine once upon a time by means of false promises. You killed the Consul, whom they buried this afternoon--strangling him with debts. You are now trying to steal the soul of the Student with the help of an imaginary claim against his father, who never owed you a farthing.... _Having vainly tried to rise and say something_, HUMMEL _sinks back into his chair; as the_ MUMMY _continues her speech he seems to shrink and lose volume more and more_. MUMMY. There is one dark spot in your life concerning which I am not certain, although I have my suspicions.... I believe Bengtsson can throw light on it. [_She rings the table-bell_. HUMMEL. No! Not Bengtsson! Not him! MUMMY. So he _does_ know? [_She rings again_. _The_ MILKMAID _appears in the hallway, but is only seen by_ HUMMEL, _who shrinks back in horror. Then_ BENGTSSON _enters, and the_ MILKMAID _disappears_. MUMMY. Do you know this man, Bengtsson? BENGTSSON. Oh yes, I know him, and he knows me. Life has its ups and downs, as you know. I have been in his service, and he has been in mine. For two years he came regularly to our kitchen to be fed by our cook. Because he had to be at work at a certain hour, she made the dinner far ahead of time, and we had to be satisfied with the warmed-up leavings of that beast. He drank the soup-stock, so that we got nothing but water. Like a vampire, the sucked the house of all nourishment, until we became reduced to mere skeletons--and he nearly got us into jail when we dared to call the cook a thief. Later I met that man in Hamburg, where he had another name. Then he was a money-lender, a regular leech. While there, he was accused of having lured a young girl out on the ice in order to drown her, because she had seen him commit a crime, and he was afraid of being exposed.... MUMMY. [_Making a pass with her hand over the face of_ HUMMEL _as if removing a mask_] That's you! And now, give up the notes and the will! JOHANSSON _appears in the hallway and watches the scene with great interest, knowing that his slavery will now come to an end_. HUMMEL _produces a bundle of papers and throws them on the table_. MUMMY. [_Stroking the back of_ HUMMEL] Polly! Are you there, Jacob? HUMMEL. [_Talking like a parrot_] Here is Jacob!--Pretty Polly! Currrr! MUMMY. May the clock strike? HUMMEL. [_With a clucking noise like that of a clock preparing to strike_] The dock may strike! [_Imitating a cuckoo-clock]_ Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo.... MUMMY. [_Opening the closet door_] Now the clock has struck! Rise and enter the closet where I have spent twenty years bewailing our evil deed. There you will find a rope that may represent the one with which you strangled the Consul as well as the one with which you meant to strangle your benefactor.... Go! HUMMEL _enters the closet_. MUMMY. [_Closes the door after him_] Put up the screen, Bengtsson.... The Death Screen! BENGTSSON _places the screen in front of the door._ MUMMY. It is finished! God have mercy on his soul! ALL. Amen! _Long silence. Then the_ YOUNG LADY _appears in the Hyacinth Room with the_ STUDENT. _She seats herself at a harp and begins a prelude, which changes into an accompaniment to the following recitative_: STUDENT. [_Singing_] "Seeing the sun, it seemed to my fancy That I beheld the Spirit that's hidden. Man must for ever reap what he planted: Happy is he who has done no evil. Wrong that was wrought in moments of anger Never by added wrong can be righted. Kindness shown to the man whose sorrow Sprang from your deed, will serve you better. Fear and guilt have their home together: Happy indeed is the guiltless man!" _Curtain_. THIRD SCENE _A room furnished in rather bizarre fashion. The general effect of it is Oriental. Hyacinths of different colours are scattered everywhere. On the mantelshelf of the fireplace is seen a huge, seated Buddha, in whose lap rests a bulb. From that bulb rises the stalk of a shallot_ (Allium Ascalonicum), _spreading aloft its almost globular cluster of white, starlike flowers_. _An open door in the rear wall, toward the right-hand side, leads to the Round Room, where the_ COLONEL _and the_ MUMMY _are seated. They don't stir and don't utter a word. A part of the Death Screen is also visible_. _Another door, at the left, leads to the pantry and the kitchen. The_ YOUNG LADY _[Adèle] and the_ STUDENT _are discovered near a table. She is seated at her harp, and he stands beside her_. YOUNG LADY. Sing to my flowers. STUDENT. Is this the flower of your soul? YOUNG LADY. The one and only.--Are you fond of the hyacinth? STUDENT. I love it above all other flowers. I love its virginal shape rising straight and slender out of the bulb that rests on the water and sends its pure white rootlets down into the colourless fluid. I love the colour of it, whether innocently white as snow or sweetly yellow as honey; whether youthfully pink or maturely red; but above all if blue--with the deep-eyed, faith-inspiring blue of the morning sky. I love these flowers, one and all; love them more than pearls or gold, and have loved them ever since I was a child. I have always admired them, too, because they possess every handsome quality that I lack.... And yet.... YOUNG LADY. What? STUDENT. My love is unrequited. These beautiful blossoms hate me. YOUNG LADY. How do you mean? STUDENT. Their fragrance, powerful and pure as the winds of early spring, which have passed over melting snow--it seems to confuse my senses, to make me deaf and blind, to crowd me out of the room, to bombard me with poisoned arrows that hurt my heart and set my head on fire. Do you know the legend of that flower? YOUNG LADY. Tell me about it. STUDENT. Let us first interpret its symbolism. The bulb is the earth, resting on the water or buried in the soil. From that the stalk rises, straight as the axis of the universe. At its upper end appear the six-pointed, starlike flowers. YOUNG LADY. Above the earth--the stars! What lofty thought! Where did you find it? How did you discover it? STUDENT. Let me think.... In your eyes!--It is, therefore, an image of the Cosmos. And that is the reason why Buddha is holding the earth-bulb in his lap, brooding on it with a steady gaze, in order that he may behold it spread outward and upward as it becomes transformed into a heaven.... This poor earth must turn into a heaven! That is what Buddha is waiting for! YOUNG LADY. I see now.... Are not the snow crystals six-pointed, too, like the hyacinth-lily? STUDENT. You are right! Thus the snow crystal is a falling star.... YOUNG LADY. And the snowdrop is a star of snow--grown out of the snow. STUDENT. But the largest and most beautiful of all the stars in the firmament, the red and yellow Sirius, is the narcissus, with its yellow-and-red cup and its six white rays.... YOUNG LADY. Have you seen the shallot bloom? STUDENT. Indeed, I have! It hides its flowers within a ball, a globe resembling the celestial one, and strewn, like that, with white stars.... YOUNG LADY. What a tremendous thought! Whose was it? STUDENT. Yours! YOUNG LADY. No, yours! STUDENT. Ours, then! We have jointly given birth to something: we are wedded.... YOUNG LADY. Not yet. STUDENT. What more remains? YOUNG LADY. To await the coming ordeal in patience! STUDENT. I am ready for it. [_Pause_] Tell me! Why do your parents sit there so silently, without saying a single word? YOUNG LADY. Because they have nothing to say to each other, and because neither one believes what the other says. This is the way my father puts it: "What is the use of talking, when you can't fool each other anyhow?" STUDENT. That's horrible.... YOUNG LADY. Here comes the Cook.... Look! how big and fat she is! STUDENT. What does she want? YOUNG LADY. Ask me about the dinner.... You see, I am looking after the house during my mother's illness. STUDENT. Have we to bother about the kitchen, too? YOUNG LADY. We must eat.... Look at that Cook.... I can't bear the sight of her.... STUDENT. What kind of a monster is she? Young Lady. She belongs to the Hummel family of vampires. She is eating us alive. STUDENT. Why don't you discharge her? YOUNG LADY. Because she won't leave. We can do nothing with her, and we have got her for the sake of our sins.... Don't you see that we are pining and wasting away? STUDENT. Don't you get enough to eat? YOUNG LADY. Plenty of dishes, but with all the nourishment gone from the food. She boils the life out of the beef, and drinks the stock herself, while we get nothing but fibres and water. In the same way, when we have roast, she squeezes it dry. Then she eats the gravy and drinks the juice herself. She takes the strength and savour out of everything she touches. It is as if her eyes were leeches. When she has had coffee, we get the grounds. She drinks the wine and puts water into the bottles.... STUDENT. Kick her out! YOUNG LADY. We can't! STUDENT. Why not? YOUNG LADY. We don't know! But she won't leave! And nobody can do anything with her. She has taken all our strength away from us. STUDENT. Will you let me dispose of her? YOUNG LADY. No! It has to be as it is, I suppose.--Here she is now. She will ask me what I wish for dinner, and I tell her, and then she will make objections, and in the end she has her own way. STUDENT. Why don't you leave it to her entirely? YOUNG LADY. She won't let me. STUDENT. What a strange house! It seems to be bewitched! YOUNG LADY. It is!--Now she turned back on seeing you here. COOK. [_Appearing suddenly in the doorway at that very moment_] Naw, that was not the reason. [_She grins so that every tooth can be seen_. STUDENT. Get out of here! COOK. When it suits me! [_Pause_] Now it does suit me! [_She disappears_. YOUNG LADY. Don't lose your temper! You must practise patience. She is part of the ordeal we have to face in this house. We have a chambermaid, too, after whom we have to put everything back where it belongs. STUDENT. Now I am sinking! _Cor in aethere!_ Music! YOUNG LADY. Wait! STUDENT. Music! YOUNG LADY. Patience!--This is named the Room of Ordeal.... It is beautiful to look at, but is full of imperfections. STUDENT. Incredible! Yet such things have to be borne. It is very beautiful, although a little cold. Why don't you have a fire? YOUNG LADY. Because the smoke comes into the room. STUDENT. Have the chimney swept! YOUNG LADY. It doesn't help.--Do you see that writing-table? STUDENT. Remarkably handsome! YOUNG LADY. But one leg is too short. Every day I put a piece of cork under that leg. Every day the chambermaid takes it away when she sweeps the room. Every day I have to cut a new piece. Both my penholder and my inkstand are covered with ink every morning, and I have to clean them after that woman--as sure as the sun rises. [_Pause]_ What is the worst thing you can think of? STUDENT. To count the wash. Ugh! YOUNG LADY. That's what I have to do. Ugh! STUDENT. Anything else? YOUNG LADY. To be waked out of your sleep and have to get up and dose the window--which the chambermaid has left unlatched. STUDENT. Anything else? YOUNG LADY. To get up on a ladder and tie on the cord which the chambermaid has torn from the window-shade. STUDENT. Anything else? YOUNG LADY. To sweep after her; to dust after her; to start the fire again, after she has merely thrown some wood into the fireplace! To watch the damper in the fireplace; to wipe every glass; to set the table over again; to open the wine-bottles; to see that the rooms are aired; to make over your bed; to rinse the water-bottle that is green with sediment; to buy matches and soap, which are always lacking; to wipe the chimneys and cut the wicks in order to keep the lamps from smoking and in order to keep them from going out when we have company, I have to fill them myself.... STUDENT. Music! YOUNG LADY. Wait! The labour comes first--the labour of keeping the filth of life at a distance. STUDENT. But you are wealthy, and you have two servants? YOUNG LADY. What does that help? What would it help to have three? It is troublesome to live, and at times I get tired.... Think, then, of adding a nursery! STUDENT. The greatest of joys.... YOUNG LADY. And the costliest.... Is life really worth so much trouble? STUDENT. It depends on the reward you expect for your labours.... To win your hand I would face anything. YOUNG LADY. Don't talk like that. You can never get me. STUDENT. Why? YOUNG LADY. You mustn't ask. [_Pause_. STUDENT. You dropped your bracelet out of the window.... YOUNG LADY. Yes, because my hand has grown too small.... [_Pause_. _The_ COOK _appears with a bottle of Japanese soy in her hand_. YOUNG LADY. There is the one that eats me and all the rest alive. STUDENT. What has she in her hand? COOK. This is my colouring bottle that has letters on it looking like scorpions. It's the soy that turns water into bouillon, and that takes the place of gravy. You can make cabbage soup out of it, or mock-turtle soup, if you prefer. STUDENT. Out with you! COOK. You take the sap out of us, and we out of you. We keep the blood for ourselves and leave you the water--with the colouring. It's the colour that counts! Now I shall leave, but I stay just the same--as long as I please! [_She goes out_. STUDENT. Why has Bengtsson got a medal? YOUNG LADY. On account of his great merits. STUDENT. Has he no faults? YOUNG LADY. Yes, great ones, but faults bring you no medals, you know. [_Both smile_. STUDENT. You have a lot of secrets in this house.... YOUNG LADY. As in all houses.... Permit us to keep ours! [_Pause_. STUDENT. Do you care for frankness? YOUNG LADY. Within reason. STUDENT. At times I am seized with a passionate craving to say all I think.... Yet I know that the world would go to pieces if perfect frankness were the rule. [_Pause_ I attended a funeral the other day--in one of the churches--and it was very solemn and beautiful. YOUNG LADY. That of Mr. Hummel? STUDENT. Yes, that of my pretended benefactor. An elderly friend of the deceased acted as mace-bearer and stood at the head of the coffin. I was particularly impressed by the dignified manner and moving words of the minister. I had to cry--everybody cried.... A number of us went to a restaurant afterward, and there I learned that the man with the mace had been rather too friendly with the dead man's son.... _The_ YOUNG LADY _stares at him, trying to make out the meaning of his words_. STUDENT. I learned, too, that the dead man had borrowed money of his son's devoted friend.... [_Pause_] And the next day the minister was arrested for embezzling the church funds.--Nice, isn't it? YOUNG LADY. Oh! [_Pause_. STUDENT. Do you know what I am thinking of you now? YOUNG LADY. Don't tell, or I'll die! STUDENT. I must, lest _I_ die! YOUNG LADY. It is only in the asylum you say all that you think.... STUDENT. Exactly! My father died in a madhouse.... YOUNG LADY. Was he sick? STUDENT. No, perfectly well, and yet mad. It broke out at last, and these were the circumstances. Like all of us, he was surrounded by a circle of acquaintances whom he called friends for the sake of convenience, and they were a lot of scoundrels, of course, as most people are. He had to have some society, however, as he couldn't sit all alone. As you know, no one tells people what he thinks of them under ordinary circumstances, and my father didn't do so either. He knew that they were false, and he knew the full extent of their perfidy, but, being a wise man and well brought up, he remained always polite. One day he gave a big party.... It was in the evening, naturally, and he was tired out by a hard day's work. Then the strain of keeping his thoughts to himself while talking a lot of damned rot to his guests.... [_The_ YOUNG LADY _is visibly shocked_] Well, while they were still at the table, he rapped for silence, raised his glass, and began to speak.... Then something loosed the trigger, and in a long speech he stripped the whole company naked, one by one, telling them all he knew about their treacheries. At last, when utterly tired out, he sat down on the table itself and told them all to go to hell! YOUNG LADY. Oh! STUDENT. I was present, and I shall never forget what happened after that. My parents had a fight, the guests rushed for the doors--and my father was taken to a madhouse, where he died! [_Pause_] To keep silent too long is like letting water stagnate so that it rots. That is what has happened in this house. There is something rotten here. And yet I thought it paradise itself when I saw you enter here the first time.... It was a Sunday morning, and I stood gazing into these rooms. Here I saw a Colonel who was no colonel. I had a generous benefactor who was a robber and had to hang himself. I saw a Mummy who was not a mummy, and a maiden--how about the maidenhood, by the by?... Where is beauty to be found? In nature, and in my own mind when it has donned its Sunday clothes. Where do we find honour and faith? In fairy-tales and childish fancies. Where can I find anything that keeps its promise? Only in my own imagination!... Your flowers have poisoned me and now I am squirting their poison back at you.... I asked you to become my wife in a home full of poetry, and song, and music; and then the Cook appeared.... _Sursum corda!_ Try once more to strike fire and purple out of the golden harp.... Try, I ask you, I implore you on my knees.... [_As she does not move_] Then I must do it myself! [_He picks up the harp, but is unable to make its strings sound_] It has grown deaf and dumb! Only think that the most beautiful flower of all can be so poisonous--that it can be more poisonous than any other one.... There must be a curse on all creation and on life itself.... Why did you not want to become my bride? Because the very well-spring of life within you has been sickened.... Now I can feel how that vampire in the kitchen is sucking my life juices.... She must be a Lamia, one of those that suck the blood of children. It is always in the servants' quarters that the seed-leaves of the children are nipped, if it has not already happened in the bedroom.... There are poisons that blind you, and others that open your eyes more widely. I must have been born with that second kind of poison, I fear, for I cannot regard what is ugly as beautiful, or call evil good--I cannot! They say that Jesus Christ descended into hell. It refers merely to his wanderings on this earth--his descent into that madhouse, that jail, that morgue, the earth. The madmen killed him when he wished to liberate them, but the robber was set free. It is always the robber who gets sympathy! Woe! Woe is all of us! Saviour of the World, save us--we are perishing! _Toward the end of the_ STUDENT'S _speech, the_ YOUNG LADY _has drooped more and more. She seems to be dying. At last she manages to reach a bell and rings for_ BENGTSSON, _who enters shortly afterward_. YOUNG LADY. Bring the screen! Quick! I am dying! BENGTSSON _fetches the screen, opens it and places it so that the_ YOUNG LADY _is completely hidden behind_. STUDENT. The liberator is approaching! Be welcome, thou pale and gentle one!--Sleep, you beauteous, unhappy and innocent creature, who have done nothing to deserve your own sufferings! Sleep without dreaming, and when you wake again--may you be greeted by a sun that does not burn, by a home without dust, by friends without stain, by a love without flaw! Thou wise and gentle Buddha, who sitst waiting there to see a heaven sprout from this earth, endow us with patience in the hour of trial, and with purity of will, so that thy hope be not put to shame! _The strings of the harp begin to hum softly, and a white light pours into the room_. STUDENT. [_Singing_] "Seeing the sun, it seemed to my fancy That I beheld the Spirit that's hidden. Man must for ever reap what he planted: Happy is he who has done no evil. Wrong that was wrought in moments of anger Never by added wrong can be righted. Kindness shown to the man whose sorrow Sprang from your deed, will serve you better. Fear and guilt have their home together: Happy indeed is the guiltless man!"[1] _A faint moaning sound is heard from behind the screen_. STUDENT. You poor little child--you child of a world of illusion, guilt, suffering, and death--a world of eternal change, disappointment, and pain--may the Lord of Heaven deal mercifully with you on your journey! _The whole room disappears, and in its place appears Boecklin's "The Island of Death" Soft music, very quiet and pleasantly wistful, is heard from without_. _Curtain_. [1] The lines recited by the _STUDENT_ are a paraphrase of several passages from "The Song of the Sun" in the Poetic Edda. It is characteristic of Strindberg's attitude during his final period that this Eddic poem, which apparently has occupied his mind great deal, as he has used it a number of times in "The Bridal Crown" also, is the only one of that ancient collection which is unmistakably Christian in its colouring. It has a certain apocryphal reputation and is not regarded on a par with the other contents of the Poetic Edda. THE FIRST WARNING (FÖRSTA VARNINGEN) A COMEDY IN ONE ACT 1893 CHARACTERS _The_ HUSBAND, _thirty-seven (Axel Brunner)_ _The_ WIFE, _thirty-six (Olga Brunner)_ ROSE, _fifteen_ _The_ BARONESS, _her mother, forty-seven_ _A_ MAID _The scene is laid in Germany, about_ 1890. _A German dining-room, with a rectangular dinner-table occupying the middle of the floor. A huge wardrobe stands at the right. There is an oven of glazed bricks_. _The door in the background stands open, disclosing a landscape with vineyards, above which appears a church spire_. _At the left is a door papered like the rest of the wait. A travelling-bag is placed on a chair by the wardrobe_. _The_ WIFE _is writing at the table, on which lie a bunch of flowers and a pair of gloves_. HUSBAND. [_Entering_] Good morning--although it's noon already. Did you sleep well? WIFE. Splendidly, considering the circumstances. HUSBAND. Yes, we might have broken away a little earlier from that party last night.... WIFE. I seem to remember that you made the same remark a number of times during the night.... HUSBAND. [_Playing with the flowers_] Do you really remember that much? WIFE. I remember also that you got mad because I sang too much.... Please don't spoil my flowers! HUSBAND. Which previously belonged to the Captain, I suppose? WIFE. Yes, and which probably belonged to the gardener before the florist got them. But now they are mine. HUSBAND. [_Throwing away the flowers_] It's a nice habit they have in this place--of sending flowers to other people's wives. WIFE. I think it would have been well for you to go to bed a little earlier. HUSBAND. I am perfectly convinced that the Captain was of the same opinion. But as my one choice was to stay and be made ridiculous, or go home alone and be made equally ridiculous, I preferred to stay.... WIFE. ... And make yourself ridiculous. HUSBAND. Can you explain why you care to be the wife of a ridiculous man? I should never care to be the husband of a ridiculous woman. WIFE. You are to be pitied! HUSBAND. Right you are. Frequently I have thought so myself. But do you know what is the most tragical feature of my ridiculousness? WIFE. I am sure your own answer will be much cleverer than any one I could give. HUSBAND. It is--that I am in love with my wife after fifteen years of marriage.... WIFE. Fifteen years! Have you begun to use a pedometer? HUSBAND. For the measurement of my thorny path, you mean? No. But you, who are dancing on roses, might do well in counting your steps To me you are still as young as ever--unfortunately--while my own hair is turning grey. But as we are of the same age, my looks should tell you that you must be growing old yourself.... WIFE. And that is what you are waiting for? HUSBAND. Exactly. How many times have I not wished that you were old and ugly, that you were pock-marked, that your teeth were gone, just to have you to myself and be rid of this worry which never leaves me! WIFE. How charming! And once you had me old and ugly, then everything would be so very peaceful until you began to worry about somebody else, and I was left to enjoy all that peace alone, by myself. HUSBAND. No! WIFE. Yes! It has been well proved that your love loses its fervour the moment you have no reason to be jealous. Do you remember last summer, when there was not a soul on that island but we two? You were away all day, fishing, hunting, getting up an appetite, putting on flesh--and developing a self-assurance that was almost insulting. HUSBAND. And yet I recall being jealous--of the hired man. WIFE. Merciful Heavens! HUSBAND. Yes, I noticed that you couldn't give him an order without making conversation; that you couldn't send him out to cut some wood without first having inquired about the state of his health, his future prospects, and his love-affairs.... You are blushing, I think? WIFE. Because I am ashamed of you.... HUSBAND ... Who.... WIFE. ... Have no sense of shame whatever. HUSBAND. Yes, so you say. But will you please tell me why you hate me? WIFE. I don't hate you. I simply despise you! Why? Probably for the same reason that makes me despise all men as soon as they--what do you call it?--are in love with me. I am like that, and I can't tell why. HUSBAND. So I have observed, and my warmest wish has been that I might hate you, so that you might love me. Woe is the man who loves his own wife! WIFE. Yes, you are to be pitied, and so am I, but what can be done? HUSBAND. Nothing. We have roved and roamed for seven years, hoping that some circumstance, some chance, might bring about a change. I have tried to fall in love with others, and have failed. In the meantime your eternal contempt and my own continued ridiculousness have stripped me of all courage, all faith in myself, all power to act. Six times I have run away from you--and now I shall make my seventh attempt. [_He rises and picks up the travelling-bag_. WIFE. So those little trips of yours were attempts to run away? HUSBAND. Futile attempts! The last time I got as far as Genoa. I went to the galleries, but saw no pictures--only you. I went to the opera, but heard nobody--only your voice back of every note. I went to a Pompeian café, and the one woman that pleased me looked like you--or seemed to do so later. WIFE. [_Revolted_] You have visited places of that kind? HUSBAND. Yes, that far have I been carried by my love--and by my virtue, which has embarrassed me by making me ridiculous. WIFE. That's the end of everything between us two! HUSBAND. So I suppose, as I can't make you jealous. WIFE. No, I don't know what it is to be jealous--not even of Rose, who loves you to distraction. HUSBAND. How ungrateful of me not to notice it! On the other hand, I have had my suspicions of the old Baroness, who is all the time finding excuses for visiting that big wardrobe over there. But as she is our landlady, and the furniture belongs to her, I may be mistaken as to the motive that makes our rooms so attractive to her.... Now I'll get dressed, and in half an hour I shall be gone--without any farewells, if you please! WIFE. You seem rather afraid of farewells. HUSBAND. Particularly when you are concerned in them! _He goes out. The_ WIFE _remains alone a few moments. Then_ ROSE _enters. She is carelessly dressed, and her hair is down. A scarf wrapped about her head and covering her cheeks and chin indicates toothache. There is a hole on the left sleeve of her dress, which ends half-way between her knees and her ankles_. WIFE. Well, Rose!--What's the matter, child? ROSE. Good morning, Mrs. Brunner. I have such a toothache that I wish I were dead! WIFE. Poor little thing! ROSE. To-morrow is the Corpus Christi festival, and I was to walk in the procession--and to-day I should be binding my wreath of roses, and Mr. Axel has promised to help me with it.... Oh, those teeth! WIFE. Let me see if there are any signs of decay--open your mouth now!--What wonderful teeth you have! Perfect pearls, my dear child! [_She kisses_ ROSE _on the mouth_. ROSE. [_Annoyed_] You mustn't kiss me, Mrs. Olga! You mustn't! I don't want it! [_She climbs up on the table and puts her feet on one of the chairs_ ] Really, I don't know what I want! I should have liked to go to that party yesterday--but I was forced to stay at home all by myself in order to get my lessons done--just as if I were nothing but a child--and then I have to sit on the same bench with those kids! But all the same I won't let the Captain chuck me under the chin any longer, for I am no child! No, I am not! And if my mother tries to pull my hair again--I don't know what I'll do to her! WIFE. What's the matter, my dear Rose? What has happened, anyhow? ROSE. I don't know what is the matter, but I have shooting pains in my head and in my teeth, and I feel as if I had a red-hot iron in my back--and I am disgusted with life. I should like to drown myself. I should like to run away, and go from one fair to another, and sing, and be insulted by all sorts of impudent fellows.... WIFE. Listen, Rose! Listen to me now! ROSE. I wish I had a baby! Oh, I wish it were not such an awful shame to have a baby! Oh, Mrs. Olga [_She catches sight of the travelling-bag_] Who is going away? WIFE. My ... my husband. ROSE. Then you have been nasty to him again, Mrs. Olga.--Where is he going? Is he going far away? When will he be back? WIFE. I--_I_ know nothing at all! ROSE. Oh, you don't? Haven't you asked him even? [_She begins to ransack the bag_] But I--_I_ can see that he is going far away, because here is his passport. Very far, I am sure! How far, do you think?--Oh, Mrs. Olga, why can't you be nice to him, when he is so kind to you? [_She throws herself weeping into the arms of Mrs. Brunner_. WIFE. Now, now, my dear child! Poor little girl--is she crying? Poor, innocent heart! ROSE. I like Mr. Axel so much! WIFE. And you are not ashamed of saying so to his own wife? And you want me to console you--you, who are my little rival?--Well, have a good cry, my dear child. That helps a whole lot. ROSE. [_Tearing herself away_] No! If I don't want to cry, I don't have to! And if it suits me to pick up what you are throwing away, I'll do so!--I don't ask any one's permission to like anybody or anything! WIFE. Well, well, well! But are you so sure that he likes you? ROSE. [_Throwing herself into the elder woman's arms again, weeping_] No, I am not. WIFE. [_Tenderly, as if talking to a baby_] And now perhaps you want me to ask Mr. Axel to like you? Is that what Mrs. Olga has to do? ROSE. [_Weeping_] Ye-es!--And he mustn't go away! He mustn't!--Please be nice to him, Mrs. Olga! Then he won't go away. WIFE. What in the world am I going to do, you little silly? ROSE. I don't know. But you might let him kiss you as much as he wishes.... I was watching you in the garden the other day, when he wanted, and you didn't--and then I thought.... BARONESS. [_Entering_] Sorry to disturb you, madam, but with your permission I should like to get into the wardrobe. WIFE. [_Rising_] You're perfectly welcome, Baroness. BARONESS. Oh, there is Rose.--So you are up again, and I thought you were in bed!--Go back to your lessons at once. ROSE. But you know, mamma, we have no school to-morrow because of the festival. BARONESS. You had better go anyhow, and don't bother Mr. and Mrs. Brunner all the time. WIFE. [_Edging toward the door in the background_] Oh, Rose is not bothering us at all. We couldn't be better friends than we are.... We were just going into the garden to pick some flowers, and then we meant to try on the white dress Rose is to wear to-morrow. ROSE. [_Disappears through the door in the background with a nod of secret understanding to the_ WIFE] Thank you! BARONESS. You are spoiling Rose fearfully. WIFE. A little kindness won't spoil anybody, and least of all a girl like Rose, who has a remarkable heart and a head to match it. _The_ BARONESS _is digging around in the wardrobe for something. The_ WIFE _stands in the doorway in the rear. Entering by the door at the left with a number of packages, the_ HUSBAND _exchanges a glance of mutual understanding with his wife. Then hath watch the_ BARONESS _smilingly for a moment. At last the_ WIFE _goes out, and the_ HUSBAND _begins to put his packages into the travelling-bag_. BARONESS. Pardon me for disturbing you.... I'll be through in a moment.... HUSBAND. Please don't mind me, Baroness. BARONESS. [_Emerging from the wardrobe_] Are you going away again, Mr. Brunner? HUSBAND. I am. BARONESS. Far? HUSBAND. Perhaps--and perhaps not. BARONESS. Don't you know? HUSBAND. I never know anything about my own fate after having placed it in the hands of another person. BARONESS. Will you pardon me a momentary impertinence, Mr. Brunner? HUSBAND. That depends.... You are very friendly with my wife, are you not? BARONESS. As friendly as two women can be with each other. But my age, my experience of life, my temperament.... [_She checks herself abruptly_] However--I have seen that you are unhappy, and as I have suffered in the same way myself, I know that nothing but time will cure your disease. HUSBAND. Is it really I who am diseased? Is not my behaviour quite normal? And is not my suffering caused by seeing other people behave abnormally or--pathologically? BARONESS. I was married to a man whom I loved.... Yes, you smile! You think a woman cannot love because.... But I did love him, and he loved me, and yet--he loved others, too. I suffered from jealousy so that--so that--I made myself insufferable. He went into the war--being an officer, you know--and he has never returned. I was told that he had been killed, but his body was never found, and now I imagine that he is alive and bound to another woman.--Think of it! I am still jealous of my dead husband. At night I see him in my dreams together with that other woman.... Have you ever known torments like that, Mr. Brunner? HUSBAND. You may be sure I have!--But what makes you think that he is still alive? [_He begins to arrange his things in the travelling-bag_. BARONESS. A number of circumstances combined to arouse my suspicions at one time, but for years nothing happened to revive them. Then you came here four months ago, and, as a strange fate would have it, I noticed at once a strong resemblance between you and my husband. It served me as a reminder. And as my dreams took on flesh and blood, so to speak, my old suspicions turned into certainty, and now I really believe that he is alive? I am in a constant torment of jealousy--and that has enabled me to understand you. HUSBAND. [_Becoming attentive, after having listened for a while with apparent indifference_] You say that I resemble your husband.--Won't you be seated, Baroness? BARONESS. [_Sits down at the table with her back to the public; the_ HUSBAND _takes a chair beside her_] He looked like you, and--barring certain weaknesses--his character also.... HUSBAND. He was about ten years older than I.... And he had a scar on his right cheek that looked as if it had been made by a needle.... BARONESS. That's right! HUSBAND. Then I met your husband one night in London. BARONESS. Is he alive? HUSBAND. I have to figure it out--for the moment I can't tell.... Let's see! That was five years ago--in London, as I told you. I had been to a party--men and women--and the atmosphere had been rather depressed. On leaving the place, I joined the first man who gave me a chance to unburden myself. We were _en rapport_ at once, and our chat developed into one of those endless sidewalk conversations, during which he let me have his entire history--having first found out that I came from his own district. BARONESS. Then he is alive?... HUSBAND. He was not killed in the war--that much is certain--because he was taken prisoner. Then he fell in love with the mayor's daughter, ran away with her to England, was deserted by his fair lady, and began to gamble--with constant bad luck. When we separated in the morning hours, he gave me the impression of being doomed. He made me promise that if chance should ever put you in my way after a year had gone by, and provided that he had not in the meantime communicated with me by advertisement in a newspaper I am always reading, I was to consider him dead. And when I met you, I was to kiss you on the hand, and your daughter on the brow, saying on his behalf: "Forgive!" _As he kisses the hand of the_ BARONESS, ROSE _appears on the veranda, outside the open door, and watches them with evident excitement_. BARONESS. [_Agitated_] Then he is dead? HUSBAND. Yes, and I should have given you his message a little more promptly, if I had not long ago forgotten the man's name as well as the man himself. [_The_ BARONESS _is pulling at her handkerchief, apparently unable to decide what to say or do_] Do you feel better now? BARONESS. Yes, in a way, but all hope is gone, too. HUSBAND. The hope of suffering those sweet torments again.... BARONESS. Besides my girl, I had nothing to interest me but my anxiety.... How strange it is that even suffering can be missed! HUSBAND. You'll have to pardon me, but I do think that you miss your jealousy more than your lost husband. BARONESS. Perhaps--because my jealousy was the invisible tie connecting me with that image of my dreams.... And now, when I have nothing left [_She takes hold of his hand_] You, who have brought me his last message--you, who are a living reminder of him, and who have suffered like me.... HUSBAND. [_Becomes restless, rises and looks at his watch_] Pardon me, but I have to take the next train--really, I must! BARONESS. I was going to ask you not to do so. Why should you go? Don't you feel at home here? ROSE _disappears from the veranda_. HUSBAND. Your house has brought me some of the best hours I have experienced during these stormy years, and I leave you with the greatest regret--but I must Baroness. On account of what happened last night? HUSBAND. Not that alone--it was merely the last straw.... And now I must pack, if you'll pardon me. [_He turns his attention to the travelling-bag again_. BARONESS. If your decision is irrevocable.... won't you let me help you, as no one else is doing so? HUSBAND. I thank you ever so much, my dear Baroness, but I am almost done.... And I shall ask you to make our leave-taking less painful by making it short.... In the midst of all trouble, your tender cares have been a sweet consolation to me, and I find it almost as painful to part from you as_--[The_ BARONESS _looks deeply moved_]--from a good mother. I have read compassion in your glances, even when discretion compelled you to remain silent, and I have thought at times that your presence tended to improve my domestic happiness--as your age permitted you to say things that a younger woman would not like to hear from one of her own generation.... BARONESS. [_With some hesitation_] You must forgive me for saying that your wife is no longer young.... HUSBAND. In my eyes she is. BARONESS. But not in the eyes of the world. HUSBAND. So much the better, although, on the other hand, I find her coquetry the more disgusting the less her attractions correspond to her pretensions--and if a moment comes when they begin to laugh at her.... BARONESS. They are doing so already. HUSBAND. Really? Poor Olga! [_He looks thoughtful; then, as a single stroke of a bell is heard from the church tower outside, he pulls himself together_] The clock struck. I must leave in half an hour. BARONESS. But you cannot leave without your breakfast. HUSBAND. I am not hungry. As always, when starting on a journey, I am so excited that my nerves tremble like telephone wires in very cold weather.... BARONESS. Then I'll make you a cup of coffee. You'll let me do that, won't you? And I'll send up the maid to help you pack. HUSBAND. Your kindness is so great, Baroness, that I fear being tempted into weaknesses that I should have to regret later on. BARONESS. You would never regret following my advice--if you only would! [_She goes out_. _The_ HUSBAND _remains alone for a few moments. Then_ ROSE _enters from the rear_ with a basketful of roses. HUSBAND. Good morning, Miss Rose. What's the matter? ROSE. Why? HUSBAND. Why.... Because you have your head wrapped up like that. ROSE. [_Tearing off the scarf and hiding it within her dress_] There is nothing the matter with me. I am perfectly well. Are you going away? HUSBAND. Yes, I am. _The_ MAID _enters_. ROSE. What do you want? MAID. The Baroness said I should help Mr. Brunner to pack. ROSE. It isn't necessary. You can go! _The_ MAID _hesitates_. ROSE. Go, I tell you! _The_ MAID _goes out_. HUSBAND. Isn't that rather impolite to me, Miss Rose? ROSE. No, it is not. I wanted to help you myself. But you are impolite when you run away from your promise to help me with the flowers for to-morrow's festival. Not that I care a bit--as I am not going to the festival to-morrow, because--I don't know where I may be to-morrow. HUSBAND. What does that mean? ROSE. Can't I help you with something, Mr. Axel? Won't you let me brush your hat? [_She picks up his hat and begins to brush it_. HUSBAND. No, I can't let you do that, Miss Rose. [_He tries to take the hat away from her_. ROSE. Let me alone! [_She puts her fingers into the hole on her sleeve and tears it open_] There, now! You tore my dress! HUSBAND. You are so peculiar to-day, Miss Rose, and I think your restiveness is troubling your mother. ROSE. Well, what do I care? I am glad if it troubles her, although I suppose that will hurt _you_. But I don't care any more for you than I care for the cat in the kitchen or the rats in the cellar. And if I were your wife, I should despise you, and go so far away that you could never find me again!--You should be ashamed of kissing another woman! Shame on you! HUSBAND. Oh, you saw me kissing your mother's hand, did you? Then I must tell you that it was nothing but a final greeting from your father, whom I met abroad after you had seen him for the last time. And I have a greeting for you, too.... _He goes to_ ROSE _and puts his hands about her head in order to kiss her brow, but_ ROSE _throws her head back so that her lips meet his. At that moment the_ WIFE _appears on the veranda, shrinks back at what she sees and disappears again_. HUSBAND. My dear child, I meant only to give you an innocent kiss on the brow. ROSE. Innocent? Ha-ha! Yes, very innocent!--And you believe those fairy-tales mother tells about father, who died several years ago! That was a man, I tell you, who knew how to love, and who dared to make love! He didn't tremble at the thought of a kiss, and he didn't wait until he was asked! If you won't believe me, come with me into the attic, and I'll let you read the letters he wrote to his mistresses.... Come! [_She opens the papered door, so that the stairs leading to the attic become visible_] Ha-ha-ha! You're afraid that I am going to seduce you, and you look awfully surprised ... surprised because a girl like me, who has been a woman for three years, knows that there is nothing innocent about love! Do you imagine that I think children are born through the ear? Now I can see that you despise me, but you shouldn't do that, for I am neither worse nor better than anybody else.... I am like this! HUSBAND. Go and change your dress before your mother comes, Miss Rose. ROSE. Do you think I have such ugly arms? Or don't you dare to look at them?--Now I think I know why why your wife why you are so jealous of your wife! HUSBAND. Well, if that isn't the limit! ROSE. Look at him blush! On my behalf, or on your own? Do you know how many times I have been in love? HUSBAND. Never! ROSE. Never with a bashful fellow like you!--Tell me, does that make you despise me again? HUSBAND. A little!--Take care of your heart, and don't put it where the birds can pick at it, and where it gets--dirty. You call yourself a woman, but you are a very young woman--a girl, in other words.... ROSE. And for that reason just for that reason.... But I can become a woman.... HUSBAND. Until you have--I think we had better postpone conversations of this kind. Shake hands on that, Miss Rose! ROSE. [_With tears of anger_] Never! Never! Oh, you! HUSBAND. Are we not going to part as friends--we who have had so many pleasant days together during the gloomy winter and the slow spring? WIFE. [_Enters, carrying a tray with the coffee things on it; she seems embarrassed and pretends not to notice_ ROSE] I thought you might have time to drink a nice cup of coffee before you leave. [ROSE _tries to take the tray away from her_] No, my little girl, I can attend to this myself. HUSBAND. [_Watching his wife in a questioning and somewhat ironic manner_] That was an excellent idea of yours.... WIFE. [_Evading his glance_] I am glad ... that.... ROSE. Perhaps I had better say good-bye now--to Mr. Brunner.... HUSBAND. So you mean to desert me now, Miss Rose.... ROSE. I suppose I must ... because ... your wife is angry with me. WIFE. I? Why in the world.... ROSE. You promised to try on my dress.... WIFE. Not at this time, child. You can see that I have other things to do now. Or perhaps you wish to keep my husband company while I get the dress ready? HUSBAND. Olga! WIFE. What is it? ROSE _puts her fingers into her mouth, looking at once embarrassed and angry_. WIFE. You had better dress decently, my dear young lady, if you are to go with us to the train. ROSE _remains as before_. WIFE. And suppose you take your flowers with you, if there is to be any demonstration.... HUSBAND. That's cruel, Olga! ROSE. [_Dropping a curtsey_] Good-bye, Mr. Brunner. HUSBAND. [_Shaking hands with her_] Good-bye, Miss Rose. I hope you will be happy, and that you will be a big girl soon-a very big girl. ROSE. [_Picking up her flowers_] Good-bye, Mrs. Brunner. [_As she gets no answer_] Good-bye! [_She runs out_. HUSBAND _and_ WIFE _look equally embarrassed; she tries to avoid looking him in the face_. WIFE. Can I be of any help? HUSBAND. No, thank you, I am practically done. WIFE. And there are so many others to help you. HUSBAND. Let me have a look at you! [_He tries to take hold of her head_. WIFE. [_Escaping him_] No, leave me alone. HUSBAND. What is it? WIFE. Perhaps you think that I am--that I am jealous? HUSBAND. I think so when you say it, but I could never have believed it before. WIFE. Of a schoolgirl like that--ugh! HUSBAND. The character of the object seems immaterial in cases of this kind. I felt jealous of a hired man You saw, then, that.... WIFE. That you kissed her! HUSBAND. No, it was she who kissed me. WIFE. How shameless! But minxes like her are regular apes! HUSBAND. Yes, they take after the grown-up people. WIFE. You seem to be pleased by her attentions anyhow. HUSBAND. Little used as I am to such attentions.... WIFE. On the part of young ladies, perhaps--but you seem less timid with the old ones.... HUSBAND. You saw that, too, did you? WIFE. No, but Rose told me. Apparently you are quite a lady-killer. HUSBAND. So it seems. It's too bad that I can't profit by it. WIFE. You'll soon be free to choose a younger and prettier wife. HUSBAND. I am not aware of any such freedom. WIFE. Now when I am old and ugly! HUSBAND. I can't make out what has happened. Let me have another look at you. [_He comes close to her_. WIFE. [_Hiding her face at his bosom_] You mustn't look at me! HUSBAND. What in the world does this mean? You are not jealous of a little schoolgirl or an old widow.... WIFE. I have broken--one of my front teeth. Please don't look at me! HUSBAND. Oh, you child!--With pain comes the first tooth, and with pain the first one goes. WIFE. And now you'll leave me, of course? HUSBAND. Not on your life! [_Closing the bag with a snap_] To-morrow we'll start for Augsburg to get you a new tooth of gold. WIFE. But we'll never come back here. HUSBAND. Not if you say so. WIFE. And now your fears are gone? HUSBAND. Yes--for another week. BARONESS. [_Enters carrying a tray; looks very embarrassed at seeing them together_] Excuse me, but I thought.... HUSBAND. Thank you, Baroness, I have had coffee already, but for your sake I'll have another cup. And if you--[ROSE, _dressed in white, appears in the doorway at that moment_] and Miss Rose care to keep us company, we have no objection. On the contrary, nothing could please us better, as my wife and I are leaving on the first train to-morrow morning. _Curtain_. GUSTAVUS VASA (GUSTAF VASA) HISTORIC DRAMA IN FIVE ACTS 1899 CHARACTERS GUSTAVUS I, _King of Sweden_ MARGARET LEIJONHUFVUD (_Lion-Head_), _his second Queen_ PRINCE ERIC, _the only son of the King's first marriage_ PRINCE JOHAN, _eldest son of the King's second marriage_ EBBA CARLSDAUGHTER, _a nun at the convent of Vreta and mother-in-law of the King_ MASTER OLAVUS PETRI, _commonly known as Master Olof_ CHRISTINE, _his wife_ REGINALD, _their son_ HERMAN ISRAEL, a _councillor of the free city of Luebeck_ JACOB ISRAEL, _his son_ MONS NILSSON OF ASPEBODA } ANDERS PERSSON OF RANKHYTTAN } _free miners of Dalecarlia_ INGHEL HANSSON } NILS OF SÖDERBY } JORGHEN PERSSON, _secretary to_ PRINCE ERIC MASTER STIG, _pastor at Copperberg (Falun), Dalecarlia_ MONS NILSSON'S WIFE BARBRO, _his daughter_ AGDA, a _barmaid_ KARIN MONSDAUGHTER, a _flower girl_ MARCUS } DAVID } _Hanseatic clerks_ ENGELBRECHT, a _free miner who was one of the Dalecarlian ski-runners that overtook_ GUSTAVUS VASA _on his flight to Norway and brought him back to head the Dalecarlian revolt against King Christian II of Denmark_ CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD A COURTIER A MESSENGER TWO BEGGARS SCENARIO ACT I. THE HOUSE OF MONS NILSSON AT COPPERBERG ACT II. SCENE I. THE HANSEATIC OFFICE AT STOCKHOLM SCENE II. THE BLUE DOVE INN ACT III. THE KING'S STUDY ACT IV. SCENE I. SQUARE IN FRONT OF THE HANSEATIC OFFICE SCENE II. THE STUDY OF MASTER OLAVUS ACT V. THE GARDEN TERRACE IN FRONT OF THE ROYAL PALACE AT STOCKHOLM ACT I _The main living-room in_ MONS NILSSON'S _house at Copperberg (which is the old name of the present city of Falun in Dalecarlia)._ _There is a door in the rear, with a window on either side, through which are visible small city houses with snow-covered roofs and the flames belching from many blast-furnaces. A large open fireplace with mantelpiece occupies the center of the right wall. A fine log fire is going in the fireplace. On the same side, nearer the footlights, is a door_. _A long tablefills the middle of the floor. At its farther end stands an armchair with cushions on the seat and bright textiles draped over the back and the arm supports. Wooden benches run along the two long sides of the table_. _Wooden seats are placed along the left wall_. _Above the wainscotting of the walls appear large, simple frescoes depicting the adventures of_ GUSTAVUS VASA _in Dalecarlia (at the beginning of the war of liberation). The one at the left of the rear door shows him at the home of Master John at Svärdsjö; the one at the right pictures him threshing in the barn of_ ANDERS PERSSON OF RANKHYTTAN _(while Danish soldiers are searching the place for him)_. _The ringing of a church-bell is heard from the outside as the curtain rises_. MONS NILSSON _is seated at the table, writing. His_ WIFE _is arranging tankards and beakers of silver on the mantelshelf_. MONS. That's four o'clock, is it not? WIFE. Of course. MONS. Sounds like fire. WIFE. Is that any special sound? MONS. Yes, it sounds like "help-help, help-help!" WIFE. That's the way it has sounded ever since the King carried off our bells, it seems to me. MONS. Be quiet! And don't talk behind anybody's back. The King will soon be here himself. WIFE. Has the King sent word of his visit, as you have put everything in order to receive him? MONS. Not exactly, but when he sends word that he is coming to Copperberg, it is not to be expected that he will pass by his friend Mons Nilsson, who helped him in the days of trial, and who has stood by him both against Master Knut and Peder the Chancellor, not to speak of the False Sture.[1] And he acted as godfather for my girl besides. WIFE. That was a good while ago; but when the King's bailiff came here to get the bells two years ago, you helped to kill him. MONS. That was two years ago, and I guess he was set on having our heads at that time. But just then King Christian broke into the country from Norway. Our own King turned meek as a lamb at once, and when he asked us for help, we Dalecarlians stood by him like one man, and gave him all the help he wanted. So I think we can call it even. WIFE. So _you_ think, but the King never calls it even except when it is to his own advantage. MONS. Perhaps not. But as long as Christian still is free, he will not dare to break with us. WIFE. Well, is Christian still free? MONS. I have heard nothing to the contrary. Anyhow, the King owes us such a lot of money that, leaving old friendship aside.... WIFE. God bless you! And I hope He will protect you from the friend that is always breaking his word and safe-conduct! MONS. Don't open the old wounds, but let bygones be bygones. WIFE. If you do that, and he won't, you can hardly call it a reconciliation. Take care! MONS. The sound of that bell is really dreadful! WIFE. So it is to my ears, because it always reminds me of the big Mary, which the bailiff took away. Do you remember when the Mary was cast out of the best refined copper and the whole town brought milk and cream to give the clay of the form more firmness--and then, when the melt was ready, we threw in one-half of our table silver to improve the tone? It was baptised at Candlemas and rung for the first time at the burial of my father.... And then it went to Herman Israel at Luebeck, who made coin out of it. MONS. All that is perfectly true, but now it _must_ be forgotten--or we shall never have peace. BARBRO, _their daughter, enters with a basket full of finely chopped spruce branches; she is dressed in black and white, and so are several younger children who follow her, also carrying baskets. All of them begin to spread the chopped spruce over the floor_. WIFE. [_To_ MONS] Is there to be a funeral? MONS. No, but not being the season, we couldn't get any leaves. WIFE. I think the children might put off their mourning at least. MONS. No, that's just what they should not do, because when the King asks whom they are mourning--well, what are you to answer, Barbro? BARBRO. "We mourn our beloved teacher, Pastor John at Svärdsjö." MONS. And what are you to say, if the King asks you why? BARBRO. "Because he was an early friend of King Gustavus and saved his precious life for our country." MONS. What year was that? BARBRO. "The very year when Christian the Tyrant cut the head off the Swedish nobility."[2] MONS. That's right, children. And over there you see the picture of Master John when he is holding the towel for the outlaw who has been threshing in the barn. [_To his_ WIFE] On the other hand, it is not necessary to tell the children that the King took his friend's head two years ago. WIFE. Have you really that much sense left?--Do you think the King likes any reminder of a deed that has brought him so little honour? MONS. Let him like it or dislike it, he'll have to swallow it. It was an ugly deed, and Master John was a saint and a martyr, who died for his faith--the faith of his childhood, which he would not forswear. BARBRO. [_Standing by the armchair at the end of the table_] Is the King to sit here? MONS. Yes, child, that's where the marvellous man of God is to sit when he visits his friend Mons Nilsson of Aspeboda. His whole life is like a miracle story, children: how the Lord guided him out of a Danish prison up to Dalecarlia, and how, after many hardships, he finally freed his country from oppression. Those pictures on the walls tell you the whole story, down to the moment when the ski-runner overtook him at Sälen, close by the Norwegian border-line. BARBRO. [_Looking at the picture just indicated_] Is it true, father, that the ski-runner was named Engelbrecht, like the great chieftain we had in the past century? MONS. Yes, it's true, child, and we used to speak of it as "the finger of God," but now we call it mere superstition. WIFE. Don't put that sort of thing into the children's heads! MONS. Oh, keep quiet! I teach the children nothing but what is right and proper.--And bear in mind, little girls, that, no matter what you may hear, you must never believe or say anything bad of the King. Earth bears no heavier burden than a thankless man. And for that reason you must sing the ballad of King Gustav when he comes here. Do you still remember it? BARBRO. Oh, yes! MONS. Let me hear you read it then. BARBRO. [_Reciting_], "King Gustav, he rode his trusty steed Across the battle-field; Have thanks, my brave Dalecarlians, For your true loyalty." CHILDREN. [_In chorus_], "Have thanks, my brave Dalecarlians, For your true loyalty!" BARBRO. "You have by my side been fighting Like faithful Swedish men. If God will spare my life-blood, I'll do you good in stead." CHILDREN. "If God will spare my life-blood, I'll do you good in stead!" MONS. That's good, children. Go back to your own room now, and be ready when the time comes. BARBRO _and the_ CHILDREN. [_As they start to go out to the right_] But won't the King frighten us? MONS. Oh, he is not at all dangerous, and he is very fond of children. Besides, he is your godfather, Barbro. BARBRO _and the_ CHILDREN _leave the room_. WIFE. Do you know what you are doing? MONS. Hope so! Of course, I know what you mean? WIFE. What do I mean? MONS. That I should take your advice. So I have done in the past, and it has ended badly every time. WIFE. Try it once more! MONS. No! WIFE. Then--may the will of God be done! [_Pause_, MONS. That's the longest afternoon I have ever lived through!--And my friends don't seem to be coming. WIFE. Yes, I think I hear them outside. MONS. Well, you were right that time! _The stamping of feet is heard from the hallway outside_. _Then enter_: ANDERS PERSSON OF RANKHYTTAN, NILS SÖDERBY, INGHEL HANSSON, _and_ MASTER STIG [_in clerical costume_]. _Each one says as he comes into the room_: "Good evening, everybody!" MONS. [_Shaking hands with them_] God be with you, Anders Persson! God be with you, Nils Söderby! God be with you, Inghel Hansson! God be with you, Master Stig! Come forward and be seated. _All seat themselves at the long table_. ANDERS. You are getting ready, I see. MONS. So we are.--And where's the King? ANDERS. The other side of the hill, says the ski-runner that just returned. MONS. As near as that?--And what errand is supposed to bring him here? ANDERS. Ask Nils of Söderby. NILS. They say he is headed for Norway to fight Christian. INGHEL. There are others who think that he is coming to thank us Dalecarlians for the good help rendered in his last fight. STIG. That would not be like him. ANDERS. To thank anybody--no, indeed! MONS. Do you think there is any cause for fear? NILS. Not while Christian is still free. INGHEL. It's queer that we should have to look to Christian for safety. STIG. We knew what we had, but not what we might get. Christian took the heads of the noble lords and left the people alone. This one leaves the lords alone and rides roughshod over the people. Who should be called a tyrant? MONS. Be quiet now! ANDERS. In other words, the last war of liberation was fought _against_ our liberator. Did we know at all what we were doing at that time? INGHEL. We were to clear the country of the Danes; and the first man to raise his hand for the King against the Danes in our parts was Rasmus Dane, who killed Nils Westgoth. That was a strange beginning.... NILS. A strange beginning, indeed, but just like the ending. [_To_ MONS'S WIFE] Look out for the silver, goodwife! _She turns and looks inquiringly at him_. NILS. The King is coming. MONS. In the name of the Lord, be quiet! That kind of talk will bring no peace.--All that you say is true, of course, but what has happened was the will of Providence-- STIG. Which let the children have their will in order that they should see their own folly. ANDERS. Are you quite sure that the King will visit you, Mons Nilsson? MONS. What a question! ANDERS. Remember Master John! MONS. Let us forget! Everything must be forgotten. ANDERS. No wonder if you and NILS want to forget that you burned the King's house at Hedemora and looted Räfvelstad two years ago! But _he_ will never forget it. _The roll of muffled drums is heard from the outside_. ALL. [_Leaping to their feet_] What's that? MONS. Don't you know the hornet that buzzes before it stings? ANDERS. That's the kind of noise he made that Ash Wednesday at Tuna Flat. INGHEL. Don't mention that blood-bath, or I can't control myself. [_Passionately_] Don't talk of it! NILS. Hear him spinning, spinning like a cat! No, don't trust him! _The roll of the drums comes nearer_. STIG. Might it not be wise for you, as personal friends of the King, to meet him and bid the stem master welcome? MONS. I wonder. Then he might not come here afterward.... WIFE. Stay, Mons! Stay where you are! MONS. Oh, the place smells of spruce, and the drums are flattened as for a funeral. [_Somebody raps three times at the door from the outside_] Who's that? [_He goes to the door and opens it_. WIFE. [_To_ Master Stig _as she leaves the room by the door_ _at__the right_] Pray for us! MASTER OLAVUS _and_ HERMAN ISRAEL _enter_. MONS. Who is doing me the honour? OLAVUS. I am the acting secretary of his Highness, the King. And this is the venerable representative of the free city of Luebeck. MONS. Come in, my good sirs, and--let us hear the news! OLAVUS. The King is here and has pitched his camp on Falu Flat. Personally he has taken his abode at the Gildhall of Saint Jorghen. MONS. What is the errand that has made the King cross Långhed Forest and Brunbeck Ford without permission and safe-conduct?[3] OLAVUS. He hasn't told. MONS. Then I had better go and ask him. OLAVUS. With your leave, this is the message our gracious lord, the King, sends you through us: "Greetings to the goodly miners of the Copperberg, and let every man stay in his own house." If he desires speech with any one, that one will be called. MONS. What is the meaning of it? OLAVUS. [_Seating himself_] I don't know. [_Pause_. ANDERS. Has the Danish war come to an end, sir? OLAVUS. I don't know. ANDERS. Do you know with whom you are talking? OLAVUS. No, I don't. ANDERS. I am Anders Persson of Rankhyttan. Have you ever heard that name before? OLAVUS. Yes--it's a good name. HERMAN ISRAEL _has in the meantime been studying the wall paintings and the silver on the mantelpiece. He wears a pair of large, horn-rimmed eye-glasses. At last he seats himself in the armchair at the end of the table_. MONS. [_Indicating_ ISRAEL _to_ OLAVUS] Is that chap from Luebeck a royal person, too? OLAVUS. [_In a low voice_] No, he is not, but he is in charge of the national debt, and we must never forget that our gracious King was able to free our country of the Danes _only_ with the help of Luebeck. MONS. With the help of Luebeck _only_? And how about the Dalecarlians? OLAVUS. Oh, of course, they helped, too. MONS. Does he speak Swedish? OLAVUS. I don't think so, but I am not sure of it. MONS. Is that so? OLAVUS. We happened to arrive together, but I have not yet spoken to him. MONS. Very strange! I suppose the King has sent him? OLAVUS. Probably. MONS. Perhaps he is the fellow who buys up the bells? OLAVUS. Perhaps. MONS. And the church silver? OLAVUS. And the church silver, too! MONS. What was his name again? OLAVUS. Herman Israel. MONS. Oh, Israel! _He whispers to_ ANDERS PERSSON, _who in turn whispers to the rest_. _A rap at the door is heard_. MASTER OLAVUS _gets up quickly and opens the door_. _A_ MESSENGER _in full armour enters, whispers something to_ MASTER OLAVUS, _and leaves again_. OLAVUS. Our gracious lord, the King, requests Inghel Hansson to meet him at Saint Jorghen's Gild. INGHEL. [_Rising_] Well, well, am I to be the first? NILS. The oldest first. MONS. Stand up for yourself, Inghel, and tell the truth. The King is a gracious gentleman who won't mind a plain word in proper time. INGHEL. Don't you worry. I have said my say to kings before now. [_He goes out_. OLAVUS. Well, Nils, how is the mining nowadays? NILS. Not bad, thank you. The last fall flood left a little water in the mine, but otherwise we have nothing to complain of. OLAVUS. Times are good, then? NILS. Well, you might say so.... Hm! Good times will mean better taxes, I suppose? OLAVUS. I know nothing about the taxes. [_Pause; then to_ ANDERS PERSSON] And how about the crops? I hear you have plenty of tilled ground, too. ANDERS. Oh, yes, and plenty of cattle in the pastures, too. OLAVUS. Old Dalecarlia is a pretty good country, is it not? MONS. [_Giving_ ANDERS _a poke with his elbow_] Yes, everything is fat here--dripping with fat, so that one can eat the bark off the trees even. OLAVUS. Yes, they have told me that you have to eat bark and chew resin now and then. Is that a common thing or does it happen only once in a while? NILS. When the famine comes, you have to eat what you can get. OLAVUS. [_To_ MASTER STIG, _who has been keeping in the background_] There is something you should know, Master Stig. How was it during the last famine, when the King sent grain to be distributed here: did it go to those who needed it? STIG. Yes, it did, although there was not enough of it. OLAVUS. [_To_ ANDERS] Was there not enough of it? ANDERS. That depends on what you mean by "enough." OLAVUS. [_To_ MONS] Do you know what is meant by "enough," Mons Nilsson? MONS. Oh, well, everybody knows that. OLAVUS. [_To_ STIG] As we now know what is meant by "enough," I ask you, Master Stig Larsson, if anybody perished from hunger during the last famine? STIG. Man doth not live by bread only.... OLAVUS. There you spoke a true word, Master Stig, but.... _A rap on the door is heard_. MASTER OLAVUS _opens. The same_ MESSENGER _appears, whispers to him, and leaves again_. OLAVUS. The King requests Nils Söderby to meet him at Saint Jorghen's Gildhall. NILS. Won't Inghel Hansson come back first? OLAVUS. I don't know. NILS. Well, nobody is afraid here, and.... OLAVUS. What have you to be afraid of? NILS. Nothing! [_To his friends_] The big bell at Mora has not been taken out of Siljan valley yet, Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson. That's a devil of a bell, and when it begins to tinkle, they can hear it way over in Norway, and fourteen thousand men stand like one! OLAVUS. I don't understand what you mean. NILS. [_Shaking hands with_ ANDERS _and_ MONS] But you two understand! God bless you and defend you! MONS. What do you mean? ANDERS. What are you thinking of, Nils? NILS. Oh, my thoughts are running so fast that I can't keep up with them. But one thing I am sure of: that it's going hard with Inghel Hansson. [_He goes out_. OLAVUS. Is this sulphur smoke always hanging over the place? MONS. Mostly when the wind is in the east. MONS _and_ ANDERS _withdraw to the left corner of the room and sit down there. Master Stig shows plainly that he is much alarmed_. OLAVUS. Is it the quartz or the pyrites that make the worst smoke? ANDERS. Why do you ask? OLAVUS. That's a poor answer! MONS. May I ask you in return whether King Christian still is free? OLAVUS. [_Looking hard at him_] Do you put your trust in the enemy? [_Pause_] What kind of a man is Nils of Söderby? MONS. His friends think him better and his enemies worse than anybody else. OLAVUS. What kind of a bell in the Siljan valley was that you spoke of? MONS. It's the largest one in all Dalecarlia. OLAVUS. Have you many bells of that kind? ANDERS. Of the kind that calls the people to arms we have still a lot. MONS _pokes him warningly_. OLAVUS. I am glad to hear it, and I am sure it will please his Highness still more.--Are the people attending church diligently, Master Stig? STIG. I can't say that they are. OLAVUS. Are the priests bad, or is the pure word of God not preached here? STIG. There are no bad priests here, and nothing but the pure word of God is preached! OLAVUS. That's the best thing I have heard yet! Nothing but the pure word of God, you say! [_Pause_] Nils intimated a while ago that fourteen thousand men will take up arms when you ring the big bell at Mora. That was mere boasting, I suppose? MONS. Oh, if you ring it the right way, I think sixteen thousand will come. What do you say, Anders Persson? ANDERS. Sixteen, you say? I should say eighteen! OLAVUS. Fine! Then we shall ring it the right way when the Dane comes next time. Only seven thousand answered the last call--to fight the _enemies_ of our country. MONS. [_To_ ANDERS] That fellow is dangerous. We had better keep quiet after this. STIG. [_To_ OLAVUS] Why has Inghel Hansson not come back? OLAVUS. I don't know. STIG. Then I'll go and find out. _He goes to the door and opens it, but is stopped by the_ MESSENGER, _who is now accompanied by several pike-men_. MASTER OLAVUS _meets the_ MESSENGER, _who whispers to him_. OLAVUS. Master Stig Larsson is commanded before the King at once! STIG. Commanded? Who commands here? OLAVUS. The King. MONS. [_Leaping to his feet_] Treachery! OLAVUS. Exactly: treachery and traitors!--If you don't go at once, Master Stig, you'll ride bareback! STIG. To hell! OLAVUS. Yes, _to_ hell!--Away! MONS _and_ ANDERS _rise and start for the door_. MONS. Do you know who I am--that I am a free miner and a friend of the King? OLAVUS. Be seated then, and keep your peace. If you are a friend of the King, there has been a mistake. Sit down, Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson! No harm will befall you or anybody else who is innocent. Let Master Stig go, and don't get excited. Where does the thought of violence come from, if not from your own bad conscience? STIG. That's true. We have done nothing wrong, and no one has threatened us.--Be quiet, friends. I shall soon be back. [_He goes out_. MONS. That's right! OLAVUS. Throw a stick at the pack, and the one that is hit will yelp. ANDERS. [_To_ MONS] That was stupid of us! Let us keep calm! [_Aloud_] You see, doctor, one gets suspicious as one grows old, particularly after having seen so many broken words and promises.... OLAVUS. I understand. In these days, when people change masters as the snake changes its skin, a certain instability of mind is easily produced. In young men it may be pardonable, but it is absolutely unpardonable in old and experienced persons. MONS. As far as age is concerned, there is nothing to say about the King, who still is in his best years.... OLAVUS. And for that reason pardonable.... MONS. [_To_ ANDERS] I think he must be the devil himself! ANDERS. [_To_ OLAVUS] How long are we to wait here? And what are we to wait for? OLAVUS. The King's commands, as you ought to know. MONS. Are we regarded as prisoners, then? OLAVUS. By no means, but it is not wise to venture out for a while yet. MONS _and_ ANDERS _move from one chair to another and give other evidence of agitation_. MONS. Some great evil is afoot. I can feel it within me. ANDERS. It must be very hot in here.... I am sweating. Would you like a glass of beer, doctor? OLAVUS. No, thank you. ANDERS. Or a glass of wine? OLAVUS. Not for me, thanks! MONS. But it's real hock. MASTER OLAVUS _shakes his head. At that moment drum-beats are heard outside_. ANDERS. [_Beyond himself_] In the name of Christ, will this never come to an end? OLAVUS. [_Rising_] Yes, this is the end! _He goes to the door and opens it_. _The_ MESSENGER _enters and throws on the table the bloodstained coats of_ INGHEL HANSSON, NILS OF SÖDERBY, _and_ MASTER STIG. OLAVUS. Look! MONS _and_ ANDERS. Another blood-bath! MONS. Without trial or hearing! OLAVUS. The trial took place two years age, and sentence was passed. But the King put mercy above justice and let the traitors remain at large to see whether their repentance was seriously meant. When he learned that they remained incorrigible and went on with their rebellious talk as before, he decided to execute the sentences. That's how the matter looks when presented truthfully. MONS. And yet there was a lot of talk about everything being forgiven and forgotten.... OLAVUS. So it was, provided the same offence was not repeated. But it was repeated, and what might have been forgotten was again remembered. All that is clear as logic. [_To_ HERMAN ISRAEL] These two trustworthy men.... [_To_ MONS _and_ ANDERS] You are trustworthy, are you not? MONS _and_ ANDERS. Hope so! OLAVUS. Answer yes or no! Are you trustworthy? MONS _and_ ANDERS. Yes! OLAVUS. [_To_ ISRAEL] In the presence of you as my witness, syndic, these two trustworthy men have given a true report of conditions in Dalecarlia. They have unanimously assured us that the mines are being worked profitably; that agriculture and cattle-breeding prosper no less than the mining; that famines occur but rarely, and that, during the last one, our gracious King distributed grain in quantities not insufficient, which went to those that really were in need. These trustworthy and upright miners have also confirmed the following facts: that bells to summon the congregations still remain in all the churches; that no bad priests are spreading devices of men, and that nothing is preached here but the pure word of God. You have likewise heard them say, syndic, that the province of Dalecarlia can raise from sixteen to eighteen thousand men capable of bearing arms--the figures vary as their courage falls or rises. Being in charge of the current debt, and for that reason entitled to know the actual _status_ of the country, you have now heard the people declare with their own lips, that all the Dalecarlian grievances are unwarranted, and that those who have spread reports to the contrary are traitors and liars. MONS. _Veto!_ ANDERS. I deny it! OLAVUS. If you deny your own words, then you are liars twice over! MONS. He is drawing the noose tighter! Better keep silent! ANDERS. No, I most speak. [_To_ OLAVUS] I want to know what our fate is to be. OLAVUS. So you shall. Your fate is in your own hands. You are invited to Stockholm and given full safe-conduct. You can travel freely by yourselves. This is granted you as old friends of the King, to whom he acknowledges a great debt of gratitude. MONS. More guile! OLAVUS. No guile at all. Here is the King's safe-conduct, signed by his own hand. ANDERS. We know all about his safe-conducts! MONS. [_To_ ANDERS] We must consent and submit in order to gain time! [_To_ OLAVUS] Will you let us go into the next room and talk the matter over? OLAVUS. You can now go wherever you want--except to the King. MONS _and_ ANDERS _go toward the left_. MONS. [_As he opens the door_] We'll bring you an answer shortly. OLAVUS. As you please, and when you please. MONS _and_ ANDERS _go out_. OLAVUS. [_To_ ISRAEL] A stiff-necked people, true as gold, but full of distrust. ISRAEL. A very fine people. OLAVUS. Rather stupid, however. Did you notice how I trapped them? ISRAEL. That was good work. How did you learn to do it? OLAVUS. By long observation of innumerable human beings I have been led to conclude at last that vanity the primal sin and mother of all the vices. To get the truth out of criminals, I have merely to set them boasting. ISRAEL. What wisdom! What wisdom! And you are not yet an old man!--But there are modest people, too, and out of these you cannot get the truth, according to what you have just said. OLAVUS. Modest people boast of their modesty, so that is all one. ISRAEL. [_Looking attentively at him_] If you'll pardon me--Master Olavus was your name, I think? You cannot be Olavus Petri? OLAVUS. I am. ISRAEL. [_Surprised_] Who carried out the Reformation? OLAVUS. I am that man. ISRAEL. And who was subsequently tried for high treason on suspicion of having known about a plot against the King's life? OLAVUS. Confidences given me under the seal of confession, so that I had no right to betray them. ISRAEL. [_Gazing curiously at_ OLAVUS] Hm-hm! [_Pause_] A mysterious story it was, nevertheless. OLAVUS. No, I don't think so. Gorius Holst and Hans Bökman were found guilty. And it was so little of a secret, that the people of Hamburg heard of the King's murder as an accomplished fact long before the plot was exposed at Stockholm. ISRAEL. That is just what I call mysterious, especially as we knew nothing about it at Luebeck. OLAVUS. Yes, I call that mysterious, too, because the road to Hamburg goes through Luebeck as a rule. [ISRAEL _makes no reply_] And it was rumoured at the time, that Marcus Meyer and Juerghen Wollenweber were no strangers to the plot. ISRAEL. I have never heard of it, and I don't believe it. [_Pause; then, pointing to the blood-stained coats_] Must those things stay here? OLAVUS. Yes, for the present. ISRAEL. It seems to me that these royal visits are rather sanguinary affairs. OLAVUS. I don't allow myself to pass judgment on the actions of my King, partly because I am not capable of doing so, and partly because I know there is a judge above too, who guides his destiny. ISRAEL. That is beautifully said and thought. Have you always been equally wise? OLAVUS. No, but what you have not been you frequently become. [_Pause_. ISRAEL. Won't those people in there try to get away? OLAVUS. That, too, has been foreseen, just as their desire to discuss the matter had been reckoned with. Do you know what they are talking of? ISRAEL. No, I have not the slightest idea. OLAVUS. They still imagine that King Christian is free, and they are planning to seek help from him. ISRAEL. What a senseless thought! OLAVUS. Especially as Christian is a prisoner. ISRAEL. It sounds like madness, but when you hear how devoted these good men of the mining districts are to their King, it cannot surprise you that they may have in mind the oath binding them to their only lawful sovereign.... OLAVUS. Now, with your pardon, I _am_ surprised.... ISRAEL. Oh, mercy, I am merely putting myself in their place. OLAVUS. It is always dangerous to put oneself in the place of traitors. [_Pause_. BARBRO. [_Entering from the right, followed by the smaller children_] Is father here? [_She looks around and discovers_ ISRAEL _seated in the armchair prepared for the King_] Goodness, here is the King! [_She kneels, the other children following her example_. ISRAEL. No, no, dear children, I am not the King. I am only a poor merchant from Luebeck. OLAVUS. A noble answer! [_To the children_] This is Herman Israel, the far-famed and influential councillor, who, with Cord König and Nils Bröms, saved our King out of Danish captivity and enabled him to carry out the war of liberation. You will find him on the picture in Saint Jorghen's Gildhall which represents Gustavus Vasa appearing before the City Council of Luebeck. Honour to the man who has honour deserved. Give homage to the friend of your country and your King. BARBRO _and the_ CHILDREN _clap their hands_. ISRAEL. [_Rises, evidently touched_] My dear little friends.... All I can do is to thank you.... I have really not deserved this.... You see, a merchant does nothing except for payment, and I have been richly paid. OLAVUS. Don't believe him! But bear in mind that there are services that can never be paid, and beautiful deeds that can never be wiped out by ingratitude or forgetfulness.--Go back to your own room now. Your father will come in a moment. BARBRO _and the_ CHILDREN _go out to the right_. ISRAEL. I had never expected such a thing of you, doctor. OLAVUS. I think I understand why. However, my dear syndic, don't ever compel us to become ungrateful. Ingratitude is such a heavy burden to carry. ISRAEL. What is the use of talking of it? There is nothing of that kind to be feared. MONS NILSSON _and_ ANDERS PERSSON _enter from the left_. MONS. After talking it over, we have decided to go to Stockholm with the King's good word and safe-conduct, so that we can quietly discuss the matter with him and the lords of the realm. OLAVUS. Then my errand here is done, and both of us can leave. I wish you, Mons Nilsson, and you, Anders Persson, welcome to the capital. MONS. Thank you, doctor. MASTER OLAVUS _and_ HERMAN ISRAEL _go out_. MONS. [_Picking up the bloodstained coats as soon as they are out of sight_] These shall be our blood-stained banners! King Christian will furnish the staffs, and then--on to Stockholm! ANDERS. And down with it! OLAVUS. [_Returning unexpectedly_] There was one thing I forgot to tell you. Do you hear? ANDERS. [_Angrily_] Well! OLAVUS. King Christian has been captured and made a prisoner at Sonderborg Castle, in the island of Als. MONS _and_ ANDERS _show how deeply the news hits them; neither one has a word to say_. OLAVUS. You understand, don't you?--Stinderborg Castle, in the island of Als? _Curtain_. [1] Peder Jacobsson Sunnanväder, bishop at Vesterås, and his archdeacon, Master Knut, both members of the old Catholic clergy, tried to raise the Dalecarlians against the King in 1524-5, when his hold on the new throne was still very precarious. The False Sture was a young Dalecarlian named John Hansson, who had acquired gentle manners as a servant in noble houses and who posed as the natural son of Sten Sture the Younger, "National Director" of Sweden until 1520. This pretender, who headed another Dalecarlian uprising in 1527, figures also in Ibsen's early historical drama, "Lady Inger." The taking of the church-bells mentioned by Mons Nilsson's wife took place in 1531 and resulted in the killing of several of the King's representatives by the Dalecarlians. [2] In 1520 Christian II of Denmark made a temporarily successful effort to bring Sweden back into the union with the other two Scandinavian kingdoms. Having defeated the Swedish "National Director," Sten Sture the Younger, and been admitted to the city of Stockholm, he caused about eighty of the most influential members of the Swedish nobility to be beheaded in a single day. That was the "Blood-bath of Stockholm," by which King Gustavus lost his father and brother-in-law. On the same occasion his mother and sister were imprisoned, and both died before they could be set free. [3] Långheden is a wooded upland plain on the southern border of Dalecarlia. Brunbeck Ferry or Ford was for centuries the main crossing point of the Dal River for all who entered the province of Dalecarlia from the south. Rendered arrogant by the part they had played in the wars of liberation between 1434 and 1524, the Dalecarlians had established a claim that not even the King himself had the right to pass those two border points at the head of an armed force without first having obtained their permission. ACT II FIRST SCENE _The office of_ HERMAN ISRAEL. _A large room, the walls of which are covered by cupboards. Door in the rear; doors in both side walls; few windows, and these very small. A fireplace on the left-hand side. A large table in the middle of the floor; armchairs about it. Above the rear door and the fireplace appears the coat of arms of Luebeck, in black, red, and silver_. _At the right, a desk with writing material and a pair of scales. The room contains also several sets of shelves filled with goods in bundles_. _One of the cupboard doors stands open, disclosing a number of altar vessels of gold and silver_. MARCUS _is weighing some of the vessels at the desk, while_ DAVID _is noting down the weights given him_. MARCUS. A crucifix of silver, gilded; weighs twelve ounces. DAVID. [_Writing_] Twelve ounces.... MARCUS. Item: a monstrance of gold--a perfect thumper. Weighs.... Let me see now.... Oh, it's hollow--and the base is filled with lead.... Put down a question-mark. DAVID. Question-mark it is. MARCUS. A paten of silver--well, I don't know. [_He tests the vessel with his teeth_] It tastes like copper at least. Put it down as "white metallic substance." DAVID. White metallic substance.--Do you think those rustics are cheating us? MARCUS. Us? Nobody can cheat us! DAVID. Don't be too certain. Niegels Bröms, the goldsmith, says that interlopers from Holland are going through the country selling church vessels full of coggery, probably meant to be exchanged for the genuine goods. MARCUS. We'll have to get it back on the bells, which contain a lot of silver, according to old traditions. DAVID. The bells--yes, they were to go to Luebeck, but instead they are going to the royal gun-foundry to be cast into culverins and bombards. MARCUS. So it is said. If only the Dalecarlians knew of it, they would come galloping across the border forests, I suppose. DAVID. I think their galloping came to an end with the recent fall slaughter. MARCUS. No, there will be no end to it while the two blackest rogues are still at leisure.... DAVID. You mean Mons Nilsson of Aspeboda and Anders Persson of Rankhyttan, who are still hanging about the town, hoping to get an audience with the King? MARCUS. Those are the ones. DAVID. Calling them rogues is rather an exaggeration, and our Principal seems to put great store on them. MARCUS. Now, David, don't forget the first and last duty of a Hanseatic clerk--which is to keep his mouth closed. And bear in mind the number of talkative young fellows who have vanished for ever through water-gates and cellar holes. You had better remember! DAVID. I'll try, although it seems about time for the Hansa itself to be thinking of the great silence. [_Pause_. MARCUS. Do you know where the Principal is? DAVID. With the King, I suppose, taking an inventory of Eskil's Chamber.[1] JACOB ISRAEL. [_Enters; he is the son of_ HERMAN ISRAEL; _a richly dressed young man, carrying a racket in his hand; his forehead is bandaged_] Is my father here? MARCUS. No, he is not. I think the Principal is with the King. JACOB. Then I'll sit down here and wait. Go on with your writing. I won't disturb you. [_He seats himself at the big table_. PRINCE ERIC. [_Enters; he is somewhat older than_ JACOB] Why did you leave me, Jacob? JACOB. I was tired of playing. ERIC. I don't think that was the reason. Some one offended you--some one who is not my friend. JACOB. No one has offended me, Prince, but I have such a strong feeling that I ought not to appear at court. ERIC. Oh, Jacob, my friend, why do you cease to call your old schoolmate by name? And why do you look at me like a stranger? Give me your hand You won't? And I, who have been lonely and deserted ever since my mother died; who am hated by my stepmother, by my father, and by my half-brother; I am begging for the friendship which you gave me once and which you are now taking back. JACOB. I am not taking back anything, Eric, but we are not allowed to be friends. The fact that we two, as mere boys, formed ties of friendship that were nursed by common sufferings, has been ignored or tolerated by our fathers so far. Now, when you are about to marry a foreign princess and take possession of a duchy, it has been deemed politic to separate us. ERIC. Your words are stilted, as if you meant to hide your own thoughts, but your feelings are not to be concealed.... JACOB. Pardon me, Eric, but this is not the place for a conversation like this.... ERIC. Because this is a place for trading, you mean--as if the parties to such a transaction were degraded by it? I don't object to it, although I am rather inclined to think the seller more broad-minded than the buyer. JACOB _indicates by a gesture the presence of the two clerks_. ERIC. Oh, let them hear. Marcus and I are old friends, and we met at the Blue Dove last night. JACOB. Ugh! Why do you visit a vulgar place like that, Prince? ERIC. Where can I go? I have no one to talk with at home; and it seems to me, for that matter, that people are equally good or bad everywhere--although I prefer what is generally called bad company.--Do you know John Andersson? JACOB. [_Embarrassed_] I have never heard his name even. Who is he? MARCUS _and_ DAVID _go quietly out to the left_. ERIC. A man from Småland who is full of sensible ideas.--Do you still need to have your forehead bandaged? JACOB. Do you think I wear the bandage as an ornament, or as a souvenir of the city mob? ERIC. You should not bear a grudge against the good folk because some scamp has misbehaved himself. JACOB. I don't, my friend, and I know perfectly well what a stranger must expect in a hostile country. If you come to Luebeck, you will see how they stone Swedes. ERIC. You talk just like Jorghen Persson. Do you know him? JACOB. I don't. ERIC. He looks at everything in the same way as you do. JACOB. How do you mean? ERIC. He thinks every one is right, and that whatever happens is _juste_. There is something sensible and enlightened in his view of life. That's why my father hates him.... JACOB. Don't talk badly of your father. It sounds dreadful--if you will pardon me! ERIC. But if he acts badly, why shouldn't I say so? And I hate him, for that matter! JACOB. Don't say that--don't! The greatness of your royal father is so boundless that you can't grasp it. ERIC. It only looks that way--I know! Last night he came up to me and put his arm around my shoulders--for the first time in my life--and I, who have been living in the belief that I barely came up to his hip, found to my surprise that I am as tall as he. But as soon as I looked at him from a distance again, he grew taller and turned into a giant. JACOB. That's what he is. And he resembles one of Buonarotti's prophets--Isaiah, I think. And, verily, the Lord on high is with him. ERIC. Do you really believe in God? JACOB. Are you not ashamed of yourself? ERIC. Well, what are you to believe in times like these, when kings and priests persecute the faithful and profane everything that used to be held sacred. And yet they call themselves "defenders of the faith." JACOB. Can't we talk of something else? Please, let us! ERIC. That's what the King always says when I go after him, and for that reason I hate him still more--as he hates me! Do you know that it was your father who brought my mother to him from Lauenburg?[2] JACOB. No, I didn't know that. ERIC. Yes, but the marriage turned out badly. They hated each other beyond all bounds--and one day [_he rises in a state of great agitation_] I saw him raise his stick against her--[_roaring out the words_] against my mother--and he struck her! That day I lost my youth[3]--and I can never forgive him--never! JACOB. [_Leaps to his feet and put his arms about_ Eric] Look at me, Eric! Look at me! I have a stepmother, too--who is always tormenting me when I am at home--but hush, hush! If it can help you to hear that I am worse off than you--very much worse--then--you know it now! Remember that it won't last for ever, as we are growing up to freedom.... ERIC. And you don't hate her? JACOB. Such a feeling has no place beside the new one that is now filling my soul. ERIC. That means--you are in love. JACOB. That's what we may call it.... And when your own time comes, you, too, will see your hatred change form and vanish. ERIC. I wonder!--Perhaps you are right The lovelessness in which I was born and brought up has turned into a flame that is consuming my soul. My blood was poisoned at my birth, and I doubt the existence of an antidote.... Why do you leave me? JACOB. Because ... because we are not allowed to be friends--because we cannot be friends. ERIC. Do you think me so vile? JACOB. No, no!--But I mustn't say anything more. Let us part. I shall always watch your fate with sympathy, for I think you were born to misfortune. ERIC. What makes you utter what I have thought so many times?--Do you know that I was also born to be in the way? I stand in the way of my father's desire to see Johan on the throne. I stand in the way of his wish to forget the hated German woman. My mind has not the true Swedish quality, and the fault lies in my German blood. Although I am a Vasa, I am Saxony, too, and Lauenburg, and Brunswick. I am so little of a Swede that it gives me pleasure when the free city of Luebeck imposes a penal tax on my country--and keeps it humiliated. JACOB. [_Looking hard at him_] Is that the truth, or do you merely talk like that out of politeness? ERIC. [_Puts his hand to his sword, bid regains self-control immediately_] Do you notice how much I love you, seeing that I pardon such a question?--Yes, my friend, the first words taught me by my mother were German, and in German I learned to say my evening prayers--that old and beautiful "Heil dir, Maria, Mutter Gottes".... Oh, that time--that time.... [_He weeps_] Oh, damn it! I am crying, I think!--Come to the Blue Dove to-night, Jacob There you'll find Rhine wine and merry maidens! Jorghen will be there, too. He's a man you should know. JACOB. [_Coldly and shrewdly_] I--shall--come. ERIC. Thank you, friend! [_Rising_] Really, the place has a look of pawn-shop. JACOB. [_Sharply_] That was just what I had in mind before. ERIC. Well, then we agree to that extent at least. Until to-night, then! Do you know Agda? JACOB. [_Brusquely_] No! ERIC. [_Haughtily, giving him two fingers to shake_, JACOB _pretending not to notice it_] Farewell!--What became of those two little pawnbrokers? JACOB _does not answer_. ERIC. [_Arrogantly_] Good-bye, then, Baruch!--Have you read the Book of Baruch? _Going toward the background, he jingles the altar vessels as he passes them_. "The ring of gold, and rattling dice, And wine brings light to tipsy eyes. But in the night that light must lack, To wenches leads each crooked track." That's a good one, isn't it? I made it myself! [_He goes out through the rear door_. HERMAN ISRAEL. [_Enters from the right_] Are you alone? JACOB. Yes, father. ISRAEL. I heard somebody speaking. JACOB. That was the Heir Apparent. ISRAEL. What did he want? JACOB. I don't think he has the slightest idea of what he wants. ISRAEL. Is he your friend? JACOB. Yes, so he calls himself, but I am not his. Because he thinks that he is honouring me with his friendship, he flatters himself with the belief that I return it. ISRAEL. You are frightfully wise for a young man of your age. JACOB. Why, it's an axiom in the art of living, that you must not be the friend of your enemy. ISRAEL. Can he be made useful? JACOB. Running errands, perhaps, provided you keep him wholesomely ignorant of the matter at stake. Otherwise I don't think I ever saw an heir apparent more useless than this one. ISRAEL. Do you hate him? JACOB. No, I pity him too much for that. He is more unfortunate than he deserves. That he will end badly, seems pretty certain. It seems clear to himself, too, and to such an extent that he appears anxious to hasten the catastrophe. ISRAEL. Listen, my son. I have long noticed that I can keep no secrets from you, and so I think it is better for me to tell you everything. Sit down and give me your attention while I walk back and forth.... I can think only when I am walking.... JACOB. Talk away, father. I am thinking all the time. ISRAEL. You have probably guessed that some great event is preparing under the surface You have probably noticed that our free city of Luebeck is fighting for its rights here in the North. I speak of rights, because we have the right of the pioneer who has broken new roads--roads of trade in this case--to demand compensation and profit from the country on which he has spent his energy. We have taught these people to employ their natural products and to exchange them with profit; and we have set Sweden free. Having used us, they wish now to cast us aside. That's always the way: use--and cast aside! But there are greater and more powerful interests than those of trade that should compel the North to join hands with the free cities. The Emperor and the Pope are one. Our free cities made themselves independent first of the Emperor and then of the Pope. Now, when this country has been helped by us and its great King to do the same, we must, willy-nilly, remain allies against the common enemy. And until quite recently we did stick together. Then an evil spirit seemed to take possession of this Vasa. Whether misled by pride or fatigue, he wishes now to enter a path that must lead us all to disaster. JACOB. Wait a little.--All of us, you say? You had better say "us of Luebeck," for the Swedes will gain by entering that path. ISRAEL. Are you on their side? JACOB. No, I am not. But I can perfectly well see where their advantage lies. And I beg you, father, don't try to fight against Vasa, for he is guided by the hand of the Lord! Have you not recognised that already? ISRAEL. I wonder how I could be such a fool as to give my confidence to one still in his nonage! JACOB. It won't hurt you to have your plans discussed from another point of view than your own while there is still time to correct them. And you know, of course, that you can rely on me. Go on, now! ISRAEL. No, I can't now. JACOB. The pen won't write when its point has been broken. If you will not get angry, I can tell you a little more myself. MARCUS. [_Enters_] The one you have been waiting for is outside, sir. JACOB. I suppose it is John Andersson. ISRAEL. Let him wait. [_Motions_ MARCUS _out of the room; then to_ Jacob] Do you know him, too? JACOB. I have never seen him, but now I can figure out who he is. ISRAEL. [_Astounded_] You can figure it out, you say? JACOB. I merely add one thing to another. Now, when the Dalecarlians have been squelched, a new beginning will have to be made with the good folk of Småland. ISRAEL. Of Småland, you say? JACOB. Yes, I understand that this John Andersson is from Småland. I don't think his name is John Andersson, however, but--[_in a lower voice_] Nils Dacke![4] ISRAEL. Have you been spying? JACOB. No, I merely listen, and look, and add together. ISRAEL. Well, you have made a false calculation this time. JACOB. Thus you tell me that there are two persons concerned in the matter, and that Nils Dacke is the silent partner who will not appear until the war has begun. ISRAEL. I am afraid of you. JACOB. You shouldn't be, father. I dare not do anything wrong, because then I am always made to suffer. ISRAEL. Do you think I am doing anything wrong? JACOB. You are more likely than I to do so, because, like Prince Eric, you believe in nothing. ISRAEL. And such a thing I must hear from my own child! JACOB. It is better than to hear it from other people's children--later on. MARCUS. [_Enters_] Two Dalecarlians ask to see you. ISRAEL. Tell them to wait. MARCUS _goes out_. JACOB. They'll pay for it with their heads. ISRAEL. Who are they, then? JACOB. Anders Persson of Rankhyttan and Mons Nilsson of Aspeboda, who have tried in vain to get an audience with the King, and who are now moved by their futile anger to turn to you for revenge. ISRAEL. So you know that, too? JACOB. Without wishing to show you any disrespect, father--how can a man of your age believe that secrets exist? ISRAEL. Time has run away from me. I don't know any longer where I stand. JACOB. Now you speak the truth! And I don't think that you estimate the results of your venture correctly. ISRAEL. That will appear in due time. But now you must go, for even if you know of my venture, you must not become involved in it. JACOB. I shall obey, but you must listen to me. ISRAEL. No, you must listen to me! Tell Marcus that I shall expect my visitors in the hall of state. You stay here with David and pack all valuables into boxes ready to be sent southward. JACOB. Father! ISRAEL. Silence! JACOB. One word: don't rely on me if you should do anything wrong! ISRAEL. There is one thing _you_ may rely on; that, having power of life and death in this house, I shall see that every traitor is tried and executed, whether he be my own son or no. First comes my country, then my family; but first and last--my Arty! [_He puts his hand on his sword_] And now--go! _Curtain_. SECOND SCENE _A large room in the Blue Dove Inn. Wainscotted walls, with tankards and jugs ranged along the shelf above the panels. Benches fastened to the walls and covered with cushions and draperies. In the background, a corner-stand with potted flowers and bird-cages. Sconces containing wax candles are hung on the walls; candelabra stand on a table that also contains bowls of fruit, beakers, goblets, tumblers, dice, playing-cards, and a lute_. _It is night_. PRINCE ERIC _and_ JORGHEN PERSSON _are seated at the table. They are looking pale and tired, and have ceased drinking_. ERIC. You want to go to sleep, Jorghen, and I prefer to dream while still awake. To go to bed is to me like dying: to be swathed in linen sheets and stretch out in a long bed like a coffin. And then the corpse has the trouble of washing itself and reading its own burial service. JORGHEN. Are you afraid of death, Prince? ERIC. As the children are afraid of going to bed, and I am sure I'll cry like a child when my turn comes. If I only knew what death is! JORGHEN. Some call it a sleep, and others an awakening, but no one knows anything with certainty. ERIC. How could we possibly know anything of that other life, when we know so little of this one? JORGHEN. Yes, what is life? ERIC. One large madhouse, it seems to me! Think of my sane and shrewd and sensible father--doesn't he act like a madman? He rids the country of foreigners and takes the heads of those that helped him. He rids the country of foreigners only to drag in a lot of others, like Peutinger and Norman,[5] whom he puts above the lords of the realm and all other authorities. He is mad, of course!--He rids the Church of human inventions only to demand the acceptance of new inventions at the penalty of death. This liberator is the greatest tyrant that ever lived, and yet this tyrant is the greatest liberator that ever lived! This evening, you know, he wanted to prohibit me from coming here; and when I insisted on going all the same, he threw his Hungarian war-hammer after me, as if he had been the god Thor chasing the trolls. He came within an inch of killing me, just as it is said--which you may not have heard--that he killed my mother. JORGHEN. [_Becoming attentive_] No, I never heard of that. ERIC. That's what they say. And I can understand it. There is greatness in it. To feel raised above all human considerations; to kill whatever stands in the way? and trample everything else.... Sometimes, you know, when I see him coming in his big, soft hat and his blue cloak, using his boar-spear in place of a stick, I think he is Odin himself. When he is angry, the people say that they can hear him from the top story down to the cellars, and that the sound of it is like thunder. But I am not afraid of him, and that's why he hates me. At the same time he has a great deal of respect for me. [JORGHEN _smiles sceptically_] Yes, you may smile! That's only because you have no respect for anything; not, even for yourself. JORGHEN. That least of all. ERIC. Are you really such a beast? JORGHEN. That's what every one thinks me, so I suppose I must believe it. ERIC. [_Returning to his previous idea_] And.... There is a thought that pursues me.... He looks like old Odin, I said: Odin who has returned to despoil the temples of the Christians just as they once robbed his temples.... You should have seen them weighing and counting church treasures at Herman Israel's yesterday. It was ghastly!... And do you know, he is lucky in everything he undertakes. There is favourable wind whenever he goes sailing; the fish bite whenever he goes fishing; he wins whenever he gambles. They say that he was born with a caul.... JORGHEN. A most unusual man. ERIC. Do you know young Jacob, the son of Herman Israel? He promised to come here to-night. Rather precocious, perhaps, but with sensible ideas on certain subjects--and I think I admire some of his qualities because I lack them myself. JORGHEN. Is that so? ERIC. Otherwise he is probably a perfect rascal like his father. JORGHEN. Then I shall be pleased to make his acquaintance. ERIC. Because he is a rascal?--Ha-ha! JORGHEN. In spite of it! AGDA. [_Enters from the left_] Did you call me, Prince? ERIC. No, but you are always welcome. Sit down here. AGDA. The honour is too great for me. ERIC. Of course, it is! AGDA. And so I leave--to save my honour. ERIC. Dare you sting, you gnat? AGDA. That's your fancy only. I am too sensible and humble to hurt the feelings of a great lord like yourself, my Prince. ERIC. Very good! Very good, indeed! Come here and talk to me a little more. AGDA. If your lordship commands, I must talk, of course, but.... ERIC. Give me the love that I have begged for so long! AGDA. What one does not have one cannot give away. ERIC. Alas! AGDA. Not loving your lordship, I cannot give you any love. ERIC. _Diantre_!--Give me your favour, then! AGDA. Favours are not given away, but sold. ERIC. Listen to that! It is as if I heard my wise Jacob himself philosophising. [_To_ JORGHEN] Did you ever hear anything like it? JORGHEN. All wenches learn that kind of patter from their lovers. ERIC. Don't talk like that! This girl has won my heart. JORGHEN. And some one else has won hers. ERIC. How do you know? JORGHEN. You can hear it at once, even though the proofs be not visible. ERIC. Do you believe in love? JORGHEN. In its existence, yes, but not in its duration. ERIC. Do you know how a woman's love is to be won? JORGHEN. All that's necessary is to be "the right one." If you are not, your case is hopeless. ERIC. That's a riddle. JORGHEN. One of the greatest. ERIC. Who do you think can be my rival? JORGHEN. Some clerk, or pikeman, or rich horsemonger. ERIC. And I who am not afraid of tossing my handkerchief to the proud virgin-queen that rules Britannia! JORGHEN. Yet it's true. ERIC. Perhaps Agda is too modest--and does not dare to believe in the sincerity of my feelings? JORGHEN. I don't believe anything of the kind. _A noise is heard outside the door in the rear_. PRINCE JOHAN [_Enters_] I hope my dear brother will pardon my intrusion at this late hour, but I have been sent by our father out of fond concern for my dear brother's.... ERIC. Be quick and brief, Jöns, or sit down and use a beaker as punctuation mark! The sum of it is: the old man wants me to come home and go to bed. Reply: the Heir Apparent decides for himself when he is to sleep. JOHAN. I shall not convey such a reply, especially as my dear brother's disobedience may have serious results in this case. ERIC. Won't you sit down and drink a goblet, Duke? JOHAN. Thank you, Prince, but I don't wish to cause my father sorrow. ERIC. How dreadfully serious that sounds! JOHAN. It is serious. Our father has new and greater worries to face because disturbances have been reported from the southern provinces, especially from Småland.... And as it is possible that the King may have to leave his capital, he looks to the Heir Apparent for assistance in the administration of the government. ERIC. Half of which is nothing but lies, of course--and then there are such a lot of people governing already. Go in peace, my brother. I shall come when I come. JOHAN. My duty is done, and all I regret is being unable to gain more of my brother's ear; of his heart I possess no part at all! [_He goes out_. ERIC. [_To_ JORGHEN] Can you make anything out of that boy? JORGHEN. I can't. ERIC. I wonder if he believes in his own preachings? JORGHEN. That is just the worst of it. Ordinary rascals like you and me, who don't believe in anything, can't get words of that kind over their lips; and for that reason we can never deceive anybody. ERIC. You _are_ a beast, Jorghen. JORGHEN. Of course, I am. ERIC. Is there nothing good in you at all? JORGHEN. Not a trace! And besides--what is good? [_Pause_] My mother was always saying that I should end on the gallows. Do you think one's destiny is predetermined? ERIC. That's what Master Dionysius asserts--the Calvinist who uses Holy Writ to prove that the dispensation of grace is not at all dependent on man. JORGHEN. Come on with the gallows then! That's the grace dispensed to me. ERIC. That fellow Jacob says always that I was born to misfortune, and that's what father says, too, when he gets angry. What do you think my end will be? JORGHEN. Was it not Saint Augustine who said that he who has been coined into a groat can never become a ducat? ERIC. That's right. But I don't think we have drunk enough to make us start any theological disputes. Here we have been disputing for a lifetime now, and every prophet has been fighting all the rest. Luther has refuted Augustine, Calvin has refuted Luther, Zwingli has refuted Calvin, and John of Leyden has refuted all of them. So we know now just where we stand! JORGHEN. Yes, it's nothing but humbug, and if it were not for that kind of humbug, I should never have been born. ERIC. What do you mean? JORGHEN. Oh, you know perfectly well that my father was a monk who went off and got married when they closed the monasteries. It means that I'm a product of perjury and incest, as my father broke his oath and established an illicit relationship like any unclean sheep. ERIC. You _are_ a beast, Jorghen! JORGHEN. Have I ever denied it? ERIC. No, but there are limits.... JORGHEN. Where? ERIC. Here and there! A certain innate sense of propriety generally suggests the--approximate limits. JORGHEN. Are you dreaming again, you dreamer? ERIC. Take care! There are limits even to friendship.... JORGHEN. No, mine is limitless! JACOB _is shown into the room by_ AGDA, _whose hand he presses_. ERIC. [_Rising_] There you are at last, Jacob! You have kept me waiting a long time, and just now I was longing for you. JACOB. Pardon me, Prince, but my thoughts were so heavy that I did not wish to bring them into a merry gathering. ERIC. Yes, we are devilishly merry, Jorghen and I! This is Jorghen Persson, you see--my secretary, and a very enlightened and clever man, but a perfect rascal otherwise, as you can judge from his horrible looks and treacherous eyes. JORGHEN. At your service, my dear sir! ERIC. Sit down and philosophise with us, Jacob. Of course, I promised you pretty maidens, but we have only one here, and she is engaged. JACOB. [_Startled_] What do you mean by--engaged? ERIC. That she has bestowed her heart on somebody, so that you may save yourself the trouble of searching her bosom for it. JACOB. Are you talking of Agda? ERIC. Do you know Agda the Chaste, who has told us that she would sell her favours, but never give them away? AGDA. My God, I never, never meant anything of the kind! JACOB. No, she cannot possibly have meant it that way. ERIC. She has said it. JACOB. It must be a lie. ERIC. [_His hand on his sword-hilt_] The devil, you say! JORGHEN. A tavern brawl of the finest water! The words have been given almost correctly, but they were not understood as they were meant. ERIC. Do you dare to takes sides against me, you rascal? JORGHEN. Listen, friends.... ERIC. _With_ a hussy _against_ your master.... JACOB. She's no hussy! AGDA. Thank you, Jacob! Please tell them everything.... ERIC. Oh, there is something to tell, then? Well, well! [_To_ JORGHEN] And you must needs appear as the defender of innocence! _He makes a lunge at_ JORGHEN, _who barely manages to get out of the way_. JORGHEN. Why the deuce must you always come poking after me when somebody else has made a fool of himself? Stop it, damn you! Eric. [_To_ JACOB] So this is my rival! Ha-ha-ha! A fellow like you! _Ventre-saint-gris!_ _He loses all control of himself and finally sinks on a chair, seized with an epileptic fit_. JACOB. Once you honoured me with your friendship, Prince, for which I could only give you pity in return. As I did not wish to be false, I asked you to let me go.... ERIC. [_Leaping to his feet_] Go to the devil! JACOB. Yes, I am going, but first you must hear what I and Agda have in common--something you can never understand, as you understand nothing but hatred, and for that reason never can win love.... ERIC. _Diantre!_ And I who can have the virgin-queen, the proud maiden of Britannia, at my feet any time I care ha-ha, ha-ha! JACOB. King David had five hundred proud maidens, but for happiness he turned to his humble servant's only wife.... ERIC. Must I hear more of that sort of thing? JACOB. A great deal more! ERIC. [_Rushing at_ JACOB] Die, then! _The guard enters by the rear door_. CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD [_An old, white-bearded_ man]. Your sword, if you please, Prince Eric! ERIC. What is this? CAPTAIN. [_Handing_ ERIC _a document_] The King's order. You are under arrest.... ERIC. Go to the devil, old Stenbock! CAPTAIN. That's not a princely answer to a royal command! ERIC. Yes, talk away! CAPTAIN. [_Goes up to_ ERIC _and forests the sword out of his hand; then he turns him over to the guard_] Away with him! And put him in the tower! That's order number one! [ERIC _is led toward the door_] Then comes number two--Mr. Secretary! [_To the guard_] Put on the handcuffs! And then--to the Green Vault with him! To-morrow at cockcrow--ten strokes of the rod! JORGHEN. [_As he is seized by the guard_] Must I be spanked because _he_ won't go to bed? ERIC. Do you dare to lay hands on the Heir Apparent? 'Sdeath! CAPTAIN. God is still alive, and so is the King!--March on!---- ERIC _and_ JORGHEN _are led out by the guard_. CAPTAIN. [_To_ AGDA] And now you'll close your drink-shop. That's the final word. And as there is no question about it, you need not make any answer. _He goes out after the guard and the prisoners_. JACOB. Always this titanic hand that is never seen and always felt! Now it has been thrust out of a cloud to alter our humble fates. The liberator of the country has descended during the darkness of night to set my little bird free.--Will you take flight with me? AGDA. Yes, with you--and far away! JACOB. But where? AGDA. The world is wide! JACOB. Come, then! _Curtain_. [1] A subterranean vault in the Royal Palace at Stockholm used by the thrifty King Gustavus for the storing of gold and silver and other valuables. Compare the warning of Nils Söderby to Mons Nilsson's wife in the first act: "Look out for the silver--the King is coming." [2] The first wife of Gustavus was the Princess Catherine of Saxe-Lauenburg, whom he married in 1531, and who died in 1535. She was of a very peculiar temperament and caused much trouble between the King and his relatives by her reckless talk. Prince Eric was born in 1533. [3] This is an excellent illustration of the freedom taken by Strindberg in regard to the actual chronology of the historical facts he is using. Eric was little more than a year old when his mother died. Strindberg knew perfectly well what he was doing, his reason being that the motive ascribed to Eric's hatred of his father strengthens the dramatic quality of the play in a very high degree. [4] A peasant chieftain, who headed the most dangerous rebellion Gustavus had to contend with during his entire reign. The southern province of Småland had for years been the scene of peasant disturbances when, in 1541, Dacke took command of the scattered flocks and merged them into an army which defied the King's troops for nearly two years. Dacke was as able as he was ambitious. He was in communication with the German Emperor and other foreign enemies of Gustavus, and on one occasion the latter had actually to enter into negotiations with the rebel. In accordance with his invariable custom, Gustavus did not rely on hired soldiery, but turned to the people of the other provinces, explaining and appealing to them with such success that a sufficient army was raised and Dacke beaten and killed in 1543. [5] In his effort to reorganise the country and its administration on a businesslike basis, Gustavus turned first to Swedes like Olavus Petri and Laurentius Andreæ, his first chancellor. But these were as independent of mind as he was himself, and there was not a sufficient number of them. Then Gustavus turned to Germany, whence a host of adventurers as well as able, honest men swarmed into the country. The two best known and most trusted of these foreigners were Georg Norman, who rendered valuable services in organising the civil administration, and Conrad von Pyhy, said to be a plain charlatan named Peutinger, who was made Chancellor of the Realm. ACT III _The King's study. The background consists almost wholly of large windows, some of which have panes of stained glass. Several of the windows are open, and through these may be seen trees in the first green of spring. Mast tops with flying flags, and church spires are visible above the tops of the trees_. _Beneath the windows are benches set in the walls. Their seats are covered by many-coloured cushions_. _At the right, a huge open fireplace, richly decorated. The recently adopted national coat of arms appears on the mantelpiece. A door on the same side leads to the waiting-room_. _A chair of state with canopy occupies the centre of the left wall. In front of it stands a long oak table covered with green cloth. On the table are a folio Bible, an inkstand, candlesticks, a war-hammer, and a number of other things. A door on the same side, nearer the background, leads to the royal apartments_. _The floor is covered with animal skins and rugs_. _The walls display paintings of Old Testament subjects. The most conspicuous of these represents "The Lord appearing unto Abraham in the plains of Mamre." The picture of Abraham bears a strong resemblance to the King_. _An Arabian water-bottle of clay and a silver cup stand on a small cabinet_. _Near the door at the right hang a long and wide blue cloak and a big black felt hat. A short boar-spear is leaned against the wall_. _The_ KING, _lost in thought, stands by one of the open windows where the full sunlight pours over him. He has on a black dress of Spanish cut, with yellow linings that show in the seams and through a number of slits. Over his shoulders is thrown a short cloak trimmed with sable. His hair is blond, and his tremendous beard, reaching almost to his waist, is still lighter in colour._ _The_ QUEEN _enters from the left. She wears a yellow dress with black trimmings_. KING. [_Kissing her brow_] Good morrow, my rose! QUEEN. A splendid morning! KING. The first spring day after a long winter. QUEEN. Is my King in a gracious mood to-day? KING. My graciousness is not dependent on weather or wind.--Go on now! Is it a question of Eric? QUEEN. It is. KING. Well, he has my good grace once more after having slept himself sober in the tower. And Jorghen comes next, I suppose? QUEEN. Yes. KING. He, on the other hand, will not have my good grace until he reforms. QUEEN. But.... KING. He is bad through and through, and he is spoiling Eric. Whatever may be the cause of his badness, I cannot dispose of it, but I can check the effects. Have you any more protégés of the same kind? QUEEN. I won't say anything more now. KING. Then we can talk of something else. How is my mother-in-law? QUEEN. Oh, you know. KING. And Johan? Where is Johan? QUEEN. He is not far away. KING. I wish he were still nearer--nearer to me--so near that he could succeed me when the time comes. QUEEN. It is not right to think like that, and still less to talk like that, when a higher Providence has already decided in favour of Prince Eric. KING. Well, I can't tell whether it was vanity that fooled me into looking for a foreign princess or wisdom that kept me away from the homes of our Swedish nobility--one hardly ever knows what one is doing. QUEEN. That's true. KING. But the feet that I became the brother-in-law of the Danish king helped the country to get peace, and so nobody has any right to complain. QUEEN. The country first! KING. The country first and last. That's why Eric must be married. QUEEN. Do you really think he has any hopes with the English queen. KING. I don't know, but we must find out--that is, without risking the honour of the country. It is not impossible. We have had a British princess on the throne before. QUEEN. Who was that? KING. Don't you know that Queen Philippa was a daughter of King Henry IV?[1] QUEEN. No, I didn't know that. KING. Then I suppose you don't know, either, that the Folkungs were among your ancestors, and that you are also descended from King Waldemar, the Conqueror of Denmark?[2] QUEEN. No, no! I thought the bloody tale of the Folkungs was ended long ago. KING. Let us hope it is! But your maternal ancestor was nevertheless a daughter of Eric Ploughpenny of Denmark and had a son with her brother-in-law, King Waldemar of Sweden, the son of Earl Birger.... QUEEN. Why do you tell me all these dreadful stories? KING. I thought it might amuse you to know that you have royal blood in your veins, while I have peasant blood. You are too modest, Margaret, and I wish to see you exalted--so high that that fool Eric will be forced to respect you. QUEEN. To have sprung from a crime should make one more modest. KING. Well, that's enough about that. Was there anything else? _The_ QUEEN _hesitates_. KING. You are thinking of Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson, but I won't let you talk of them. _The_ QUEEN _kneels before him_. KING. Please, get up! [_As she remains on her knees_] Then I must leave you. [_He goes out to the left_. PRINCE ERIC _enters from the right; he is pale and unkempt, and his face retains evidence of the night's carouse_. _The_ QUEEN _rises, frightened_. ERIC. Did I scare you? QUEEN. Not exactly. ERIC. I can take myself out of the way. I was only looking for a glass of water. _He goes to the water-bottle, fills a cup full of water and gulps it down; then another, and still another_. QUEEN. Are you sick? ERIC. [_Impertinently_] Only a little leaky. QUEEN. What do you mean? ERIC. Well, dry, if you please. The more wine you drink, the dryer gets your throat. The wetter, the dryer--that's madness, like everything else. QUEEN. Why do you hate me? ERIC. [_Cynically_] Because I am not allowed to love you. [_In the meantime he continues to pour down one glass of water after the other_] You must not be in love with your step-mother and yet you must love her: that's madness, too. QUEEN. Why do you call me stepmother? ERIC. Because that's the word, and that's what you are. Is that clear? If it is, then that isn't madness at least. QUEEN. You have the tongue of a viper. ERIC. And the reason, too. QUEEN, But no heart! ERIC. What could I do with it? Throw it at the feet of the women to be defiled by them?--My heart lies buried in my mother's coffin in the vault of the Upsala cathedral. I was only four years old when it was put there, but there it lies with her, and they tell me there was a hole in her head as if she had been struck by the hammer of Thor--which I did not see, however. When I asked to see my mother for the last time at the burial, they had already screwed on the coffin lid. Well, there lies my heart--the only one I ever had What have you to do with my entrails, for that matter? Or with my feelings?--Look out for my reason; that's all! I grasp your thoughts before you have squeezed them out of yourself. I understand perfectly that you would like to see the crown placed on the red hair of that red devil whom you call son, and whom I must needs call brother. He insists that he has more ancestors than I, and that he is descended from Danish kings. If that's so, he has a lot of fine relatives. Eric Ploughpenny had his head cut off. Abel killed his brother and was killed in turn. Christoffer was poisoned. Eric the Blinking was stuck like a pig.--I have no elegant relatives like those, but if heredity counts, I must keep an eye on my dear brother. QUEEN. Nobody can talk of anything but blood and poison to-day. The sun must have risen on the wrong side this fine morning! ERIC. The sun is a deceiver; don't trust it. Blood will be shed in this place before nightfall. Eric and Abel were the names of those elegant relatives; not Cain and Abel! And that time it was Abel who killed Cain--no, Eric, I mean! That's a fine omen to start with! Eric was killed! Poor Eric! QUEEN. Alas, alas! ERIC. But it is of no use to take any stock in superstition, as I entered this vale of misery with my fist full of blood. QUEEN. Now you do scare me! ERIC. [_Laughing_] That's more than Jorghen would believe--that I could scare anybody. QUEEN. What blood is to be shed here to-day? ERIC. I am not sure, but it is said that those Dalecarlians will have their heads cut off. QUEEN. Can it not be prevented? ERIC. If it is to be, it cannot be prevented, but must come as thunder must come after lightning. And besides, what does it matter? Heads are dropping off here like ripe apples. _The_ KING _enters reading a document. The_ QUEEN _meets him with a supplicating look_. KING. [_Hotly_] If you have any faith in me at all, Margaret, cease your efforts to judge in matters of state. I have been investigating for two years without being able to make up my mind. How can you, then, hope to grasp this matter?--Go in to the children now. I have a word to say to Eric! _The_ QUEEN _goes out_. KING. If you could see yourself as you are now, Eric, you would despise yourself! ERIC. So I do anyhow! KING. Nothing but talk! If you did despise yourself, you would change your ways. ERIC. I cannot make myself over. KING. Have you ever tried? ERIC. I have. KING. Then your bad company must counteract your good intentions. ERIC. Jorghen is no worse than anybody else, but he has the merit of knowing himself no better than the rest. KING. Do you bear in mind that you are to be king some time? ERIC. Once I am king, the old slips will be forgotten. KING. There you are mistaken again. I am still paying for old slips. However, if you are not willing to obey me as a son, you must obey me as a subordinate. ERIC. The Heir Apparent is no subject! KING. That's why I used the word "subordinate." And all are subordinate to the King. ERIC. Must I obey blindly? KING. As long as you are blind, you must obey blindly. When you get your sight, you will obey with open eyes. But obey you must!--Wait only till you have begun to command, and you will soon see how much more difficult that is, and how much more burdensome. ERIC. [_Pertly_] Pooh! KING. [_Angrily_] Idiot!--Go and wash the dirt off yourself, and see that your hair is combed. And rinse that filthy mouth of yours first of all, so that you don't stink up my rooms. Go now--or I'll give you a week in the tower to sober up. And if that should not be enough, I'll take off your ears, so that you can never wear a crown. Are those words plain enough? ERIC. The law of succession.... KING. I make laws of that kind to suit myself! Do you understand now?--That's all!--Away! PRINCE ERIC _goes out_. COURTIER. [_Enters from the right_] Herman Israel, Councillor of Luebeck! KING. Let him come. _The_ COURTIER _goes out_. HERMAN ISRAEL _enters shortly afterward_. KING. [_Meets him and shakes his hand; then he puts his arm about his neck and leads him across the floor in that manner]_ Good day, my dear old friend, and welcome! Sit down, sit down! [_He seats himself on the chair of state, and_ ISRAEL _sits down across the table_] So you have just come from Dalecarlia? ISRAEL. That's where I was lately. KING. I was there, too, as you know, to straighten out the mess left after the False Sture and the fight about the bells, but you stayed on when I left.--Did you keep an eye on Master Olavus Petri? What sort of a man has he turned out? Can I trust him? ISRAEL. Absolutely! He is not only the most faithful, but the cleverest negotiator I have seen. KING. Really, Herman? I am glad to hear that. Do you really think so, Herman? Well, you know the old affair between him and me, and how that was settled. But it _was_ settled!--So much for that. Let us talk of our affairs now. ISRAEL. As you say. But let us keep our words as well as actions under control. KING. [_Playing with the war-hammer_] All right! Control yours as much as you please. ISRAEL. [_Pointing at the hammer_] For the sake of old friendship and good faith, can't we put that away? KING. Ha-ha! With pleasure, if you are afraid of it, Herman!--Go on now! But cut it short! ISRAEL. Then I'll start at the end. The country's debt to Luebeck has been paid, and we are about to part. KING. That sounds like writing! However, we shall part as friends. ISRAEL. As allies rather.... KING. So _that's_ what you are aiming at, Israel?--No, I have had enough of dependence. ISRAEL. Listen, your Highness, or Majesty, or whatever I am to call you.... KING. Call me Gustav, as you used to do when I called you father. ISRAEL. Well, my son, there are many things that drive us apart--many, indeed--but there is one thing that keeps us together: our common, legitimate opposition to the Emperor.... KING. Right you are! And that's the reason why we can rely on each other without any written treaties. ISRAEL. You forget one thing, my son: that I am a merchant.... KING. And I the customer. Have you been paid? ISRAEL. Paid? Yes.... But there are things that cannot be paid in money.... KING. It is for me to speak of the gratitude I owe you and the free city of Luebeck ever since the day I first came to you--a young man who thought himself deserted by God, and who knew himself deserted by all humanity. Be satisfied to find my gratitude expressed in the friendly feelings I harbour and show toward you. A debt like that cannot be paid in money, and still less in treaties.--Why do you want any treaties? In order to tie me and the country for a future of uncertain duration?--Don't force me to become ungrateful, Herman! On my soul, I have enough as it is to burden me--far too much! ISRAEL. What is weighing on you, my son? KING. This.... Oh, will you believe me, Herman, old friend, that lawyer form a decision or pass a judgment without having turned to the Eternal and Almighty Lord for advice? When, after fasting, prayer, and meditation, I have got the answer from above that I was asking for, then I strike gladly, even if it be my own heart-roots that must be cut off. But you remember Master John.... John, the old friend of my youth, who assisted me in that first bout with Christian? He changed heart and incited the Dalecarlians to rise against me. His head had to fall, and it did fall! [_Rising_] Since that day my peace is gone. My nearest and dearest don't look at me in the same way they used to do. My own wife, my beloved Margaret.... She turns away from me when I want to kiss her pure brow, and can you imagine? Yesterday, at the dinner-table, she kept looking at my hand as if she had seen blood on it!--I don't regret what I did. I have no right to regret it. I was right--by God, I was right! But nevertheless--my peace is gone! ISRAEL. [_Pensively_] Those feelings are an honour to your heart, my son, and I must admit that I didn't think you quite as sensitive.... KING. Never mind! It was not meant as a boast. But now I find myself in the same situation again. Tell me, Herman, what you think of Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson. ISRAEL. [_Disturbed_] Will my opinion have any influence on their fate, or have you already made up your mind? KING. I am still in doubts, as you ought to know. ISRAEL. Then I must ask permission to remain silent. KING. Are you my friend? ISRAEL. Yes, up to a certain point. But you must not trust me too far, as I am not my own master and have no right to give away what is not mine. KING. Fie on such astuteness! ISRAEL. You should get some of it yourself! KING. I'll try.--First of all you must give me a final receipt for the country's paid-up debt. ISRAEL. I don't carry such documents with me, and the receipt has to be signed by the Council in regular session. KING. [_Smiting the table with the hammer_] Herman! ISRAEL. Please put that thing away! KING. I can see that you wish to lead me where I don't want to go. You have some purpose in mind that I can't make out. Speak out, old man, or you'll have me in a rage! You want to coax me into signing some kind of paper. What is it? ISRAEL. Nothing but a treaty providing for mutual friendship and mutual trade. That's all! KING. And that I will never sign! I know all about Luebeck's friendship as well as its trade. Talk of something else! ISRAEL. I have nothing else to talk of. Why don't you believe me? KING. Because you lie! ISRAEL. Because you are unfortunate enough to think that I lie, you will never know the truth. KING. Yes, unfortunate, indeed--as unfortunate as a man can be, for I have not a single friend. ISRAEL. It hurts me to hear you talk like that, Gustav, and--and it makes me sad to see that your greatness and your exalted office have brought you so little true happiness. I shall say nothing more about gratitude, because the idea of it is too vague in human minds, but I have loved you like a son ever since that hour when the Lord of Hosts put your fate in my hands. I have followed your brilliant course as if it had been my own. I have joyed over your successes, and I have sorrowed over your sorrows.... Frequently my duties toward my own people have kept me from lending you a helping hand. Frequently, too, your own hardness has stood between us. But now, when I behold you so deeply crushed, and when you have treated me with a confidence that I may well call filial, I shall forget for a moment that I am your enemy--which I must be as a man of Luebeck, while as Herman Israel I am your friend. I shall forget that I am a merchant, and--[_Pause_] I hope that I may never regret it--[_Pause_] and--and.... Do you know John Andersson? KING. I don't. ISRAEL. But I do, and I know Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson, too! They called on me yesterday, and--to-morrow the southern provinces will rise in rebellion! KING. So _that's_ what was coming? Oh! Who is John Andersson? ISRAEL. Hard to tell. But back of his face appears another one that looks like the devil's own. Have you heard the name of Dacke? KING. Yes, but only in a sort of dream. Dacke?--Dacke?--It sounds like the cawing of a jackdaw.--Who is he? ISRAEL. Nobody knows. It is the name of one invisible, whom all know and none have seen. But that name has been seen on a letter signed by--the Emperor. KING. The Emperor? ISRAEL. The Emperor of the Holy Roman and German Empire! KING. Fairy-tales! ISRAEL. You won't believe me? Investigate! KING. I believe you and I thank you!--You say that Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson have been plotting with the rebels right here in my own city? ISRAEL. As surely as I have ears to hear with. KING. My God! My God!--Then I know what to do with them! Two years of struggle with myself and my conscience, and at last I know what to do with them! At last! COURTIER. [_Bringing in_ JACOB ISRAEL] Jacob Israel of Luebeck! KING. Who dares to disturb me? JACOB. [_Throwing himself at the_ KING'S _feet without noticing his father_] My noble King, an humble youth has ventured to disturb you because your life is at stake! KING. Speak up! What more? Who are you? JACOB. I am Jacob Israel, your Highness. KING, [_to_ ISRAEL] It's your Jacob, is it not? JACOB _is thunderstruck at the sight of his father_. ISRAEL. It's my boy. KING. What do you want? Speak quickly, or away with you! JACOB _does not answer_. KING. Who is after my life? If you mean John Andersson or Dacke, I know it already.--For the sake of your good intention and your youth, but particularly for the sake of your father, I shall forgive you. ISRAEL. But I have no right to forgive so quickly.--You came here to accuse your father? Answer me yes or no. JACOB. Yes! ISRAEL. Go then, and take my curse with you! JACOB. [_Kneeling before_ ISRAEL] Forgive, father! ISRAEL. No more your father! You silly, impudent youth, who think that you understand the art of statesmanship and the laws of honour better than he who brought you into the world! What you did not foresee was that I might change my mind. KING. Oh, forgive him, Herman! ISRAEL. I have forgiven him already, but our sacred laws will never do so. Take this ring, Jacob, and go to--you know whom!--But bid me good-bye first. JACOB. [_Throwing himself into the arms of his father_] Take away your curse, father! ISRAEL _wets one of his fingers, makes a sign with it on his son's forehead, and mutters a few inaudible words. Then he kisses_ JACOB _on both cheeks and leads him to the door at the right, through which the young man disappears_. KING. What are you two doing? ISRAEL. [_Deeply stirred_] That is a family secret. Now we can go on. KING. Or quit. You have given me proof of your unswerving friendship, Herman, and I thank you for the last time. Give me your hand! ISRAEL. Not to promise anything that cannot be kept! KING. No promises, then! Farewell, and peace be with you! ISRAEL. [_Moved_] I thank you! KING. What is that? You are crying? ISRAEL. Perhaps, for now I am your equal in misfortune. I have lost my son! KING. He'll come back to you. ISRAEL. [_As he is leaving_] Never!--Good-bye! KING. [_Escorting him to the door_] Good-bye, Herman, old friend! HERMAN ISRAEL _goes out_. _The_ KING'S MOTHER-IN-LAW _enters from the left in the white dress of a Cistercian nun_. KING. [_Greeting her kindly_] Good morning, mother-in-law. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Are you busy? KING. Very much so. MOTHER-IN-LAW. But not so much that you cannot hear the justified complaint of a subject. KING. You are too modest. However, let me decide whether your complaint be justified or no. I must hear too many unjustified ones, God wot! MOTHER-IN-LAW. If I condescend to make a complaint, you may be sure that I have reasons for it. KING. But they must be good. Most reasons are no good at all.--Is it a question of Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson? MOTHER-IN-LAW. No, of myself. KING. Then you should be well informed at least. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Is there law and justice in this country? KING. Both law and justice, but also a lot of wrong-doing. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Do you know that the Queen's mother--that is, I--has been insulted by the mob? KING. No, I didn't know, but I have long expected it, as I have told you before this. MOTHER-IN-LAW. You think it right, then?... KING. No, I think it wrong of you to wear that dress in public, when it is forbidden. And it is only out of respect for yourself and your--hm!--sex, that I have not long ago ordered you to be stripped of it. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Ha-ha! KING. And it has been wrong of me to leave the Convent of Vreta standing for you to live in, when the law demands that it be tom down. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Ha-ha! KING. Since you, by persuading me into letting the convent remain, have placed me before the public in the awkward position of a perverter of justice, you should, at least, show me the consideration of not appearing on the streets in that dress. And as I have given you permission to come here _at your own risk_, you must bear that risk yourself. To show you that justice exists, however, I shall see that those who insulted you be found--they had no right to insult you, even if you had been the humblest woman of the people. Now that matter is settled! [_He goes to the door at the right and summons the_ COURTIER, _who appears in the doorway_] Call four of the guards. Put two at that door [_indicating the door at the left_] and two at the other [_indicating the right-hand door_. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Thus I am treated like a thief and a murderer by my own kinsman.... KING. No, you are not! But no one knows what may happen.... It depends on your own conduct. MOTHER-IN-LAW. [_With a threat in her glance_] Do you call that freedom? KING. It is freedom for me--to be free from unreasonable people. _Two guards enter from the right_. KING. [_Pointing at the left-hand door_] Outside that door. And no one can get in here; literally no one! [_As the guards hesitate_] If anybody should come, whoever it be--whoever it be, mind you--and try to force his way in here, cut him down--cut him down! [_To his_ MOTHER-IN-LAW] I cannot show you the door, but I must warn you that two executions will take place in this room within a few minutes. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Here? KING. Yes, here! Do you wish to look on? MOTHER-IN-LAW. [_Approaching the door at the left_] I shall go in a moment, but first you must hear something for your own benefit.... KING. If it is for _my_ benefit, I can guess the nature of it. Well, spit it out now! MOTHER-IN-LAW. This man Herman Israel, whom you regard as a friend, is speaking ill of you on your back. KING. When I do what's ill, he has the right to speak ill of me--has he not? MOTHER-EN-LAW. [_Going out in a huff_] Oh, it's impossible to reason with you! KING. Have you really discovered that at last?--At last! [_He goes to the door at the right_] Let Master Olavus Petri come in. MASTER OLAVUS _enters_. KING. Good day, Olof. I have read your report on the conditions at Copperberg, and I am pleased with you.--Have Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson been arrested? OLAVUS. They have been locked up since last night. KING. [_Goes to the door at the right_] Order Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson to be brought up here at once. [_To_ OLAVUS] Have you any proof that the prisoners have been plotting with John Andersson? OLAVUS. Proof and witnesses. KING. Good!--Tell me something What do you think of Herman Israel--as a man, and more particularly in his relationship to me? OLAVUS. He seems to me a good and faithful friend of your Highness. As a private person he is honest in every respect, big-minded, and straight in all his actions. KING. I am glad to hear it just now, when I have all but lost my faith in friendship. So you think I can rely on him? OLAVUS. Absolutely. KING. Have you heard of the restlessness in the southern provinces? OLAVUS. Yes, I am sorry to say. KING. They say that it is pretty serious. OLAVUS. So serious that nothing but quick and determined action can save the country. KING. Have you heard the Emperor's name mentioned in this connection? OLAVUS. I have. KING. I want a piece of advice, although I may not take it. What would you, in my place, do with Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson? OLAVUS. Have them executed before the sun has set. KING. You are a stem man, Olof! OLAVUS. Yes, why not? KING. Do you think you could sleep nights--having shown that kind of--sternness? OLAVUS. Only then should I be able to sleep in peace.... KING. Very well!--Have you anything to ask me about? OLAVUS. I have--but it's a delicate question. KING. Let's see! OLAVUS. It concerns the mother of the Queen.... KING. The people are muttering? OLAVUS. The people think that when the King has ordered the introduction of a new faith, he should not for family reasons overlook the violation of the established law.... KING. It's not the people, but you, who are saying that.... OLAVUS. Suppose I took the liberty of telling my King the truth.... KING. You're no court fool who needs to run about dropping truths wherever you go! [_Pause_] Now, I am willing to admit that the indiscretion of my gracious mother-in-law puts me in a false position toward the adherents of the new faith.... But this is not the bedchamber, and we'll let that question stay where it belongs; back of the bed curtains. Is there anything else? OLAVUS. Nothing else. But this question.... KING. [_Hotly_] I'll solve myself! OLAVUS. Can your Highness solve it? KING. I think you ask too many questions! OLAVUS. If it were a private matter, yes--but as it concerns the whole country.... KING. Which I am looking after! I am looking after the whole country. And if you must know, I have just settled that very question, so that your advice is a little belated. The Convent of Vreta will be closed before you have time to write another sermon. Do you realise now that I have a right to be angry with your needless and unsolicited questions? OLAVUS. I stand corrected! KING. I have got you on account of my sins, and I suppose I must take your faults with your merits, which are great. Now we are done with _that I_ Go back and roar in your pulpit now. Here I do the roaring! MASTER OLAVUS _goes out by the door at the right_. KING. [_Standing in front of that door with folded hands and speaking in a barely audible voice_] Eternal Lord, who rules the destinies of princes and of peoples, illumine my mind and strengthen my will, so that I may not judge unrighteously! [_He makes the sign of the cross and mutters a brief prayer; then he opens the door_] Bring in the prisoners! _The door remains open while the_ KING _seats himself in the chair of state_. ANDERS PERSSON _and_ MONS NILSSON _are brought in_. _They look around the room uneasily at first; then they start toward the_ KING. KING. Stay where you are! [_Pause_] Once I called you my friends, Anders Persson and Mons Nilsson. You know why. But that was long ago. I let you keep life and goods when you had forfeited both, and thus Providence rid me mercifully of the debt of gratitude I had come to owe you. Two years ago you withdrew your oath of loyalty and opened war on me for the sake of those bells. Being victorious, I had a right to your heads, but I let you go. That's how my debt was paid. Your ingratitude wiped out my gratitude, and so _that_ bill was settled. Now the time has come for a new settlement, and this time the balance is against you. To find out just where you stood, I invited you to my capital, and you might have guessed that I would keep my eyes on you. My ears have been open, too, and I have learned that you have begun plotting all over again. Do you know John Andersson? ANDERS _and_ MONS. No! KING. [_Rising and approaching them angrily_] Do you know Dacke? ANDERS _and_ MONS. [_Falling on their knees_] Mercy! KING. Yes, mercy! But there will be no more mercy. You have had it once, and twice is too much. ANDERS _and_ MONS _make movements to speak_. KING. Silence! I am doing the speaking now! You were going to talk about friendship, of course. I cannot be the friend of my enemies, and having cancelled your acquaintance, I don't even know you. Were I to let old devotion influence my judgment, I should not be acting as an unbiassed judge. And he who has incurred the disfavour of the law cannot be helped by any favour of mine! That's enough words spent on this matter! [_Goes to the door at the right_] Take away these culprits, guard! ANDERS. What is the sentence? KING. That you lose life, honour, and property. MONS _makes a gesture as if wishing to shake hands with the_ KING. KING. _My_ hand? Oh, no! Shake hands with the heads-man, and kiss the block--that's good enough for you! ANDERS. One word! KING. Not one! ANDERS PERSSON _and_ MONS NILSSON _are led out_. _The_ KING _turns his back on them and goes to the chair of state, where he sinks down, burying his face in his hands_. _Curtain_. [1] Philippa of England, who died in 1430, was the queen of Eric of Pomerania, who succeeded the great Queen Margaret on the united thrones of the three Scandinavian kingdoms. She was as sweet and fine as he was stupid and worthless, and to this day her memory survives among the people. [2] The Folkungs were the descendants of the puissant Earl Birger of Håtuna, who, as an uncrowned king, ruled Sweden in very much the same spirit as King Gustavus himself. The Folkung dynasty reigned from 1250 to 1389--and spent much of that time in fighting among themselves. King Waldemar II gained the name of "Conqueror" by adding Esthonia and other Baltic districts to Denmark. ACT IV FIRST SCENE _A square at the foot of Brunkeberg, A fountain stands in the centre. The Hansa House appears at the right. It is built of red bricks, with windows in Gothic style. The windows are barred outside and have shutters within. The gates are fastened with heavy wooden beams. Above the gateway appear the flag and coat of arms of Luebeck._ _At the left is a tavern with a sign-board bearing the inscription: "The Golden Apple." There are trees in front of it, and under these tables and benches. Next the foreground is a bower with a table and benches within it_. _The hillside of Brunkeberg forms the background. It contains a number of gallows, wheels, and similar paraphernalia._ _There is a bench in front of the Hanseatic office_. AGDA _and_ KARIN _are standing at the fountain when the curtain rises_. AGDA _carries a water-jar, while_ KARIN _has a basket full of flowers and wreaths_. AGDA. You ask what that big red house is? It used to be the Convent of St. Clara. Now it is the Hanseatic office. KAREN. Do they ever buy any flowers there? AGDA. Not now, I think. I used to bring flowers there when an image of the Virgin Mary stood at the corner.--I wish she were there still! KARIN. What do they do in that house? They tell so many queer stories about it, and no one is ever admitted.... AGDA. Have you heard that, too? I suppose they buy and sell, like all that come from Luebeck. KARIN. Of course, but they say that people have disappeared in that house and that those who live there are heathens who sacrifice.... AGDA. You have heard that, too? But it can't be true! Do you think so? KARIN. How could I tell? And why are you so disturbed by those stories? [AGDA _does not reply_] Gossip says that you used to have a friend in there. Is it true? AGDA. Well, as you have heard about it But whether he still be there Oh, if I only knew! KARIN. I'll ring and ask. AGDA. No, no! You don't know what kind of people they are! KARIN. Do you think they'll eat me? [_She goes up to the gateway and putts a string; a bell is heard ringing inside_] Listen! That's the old vesper bell! I know it! Bing-bong! Bing-bong! AGDA. Stop it! Somebody might come. KARIN. Isn't that what we want? But no one does come, my dear.--It's a gruesome place. And I shall leave it alone now.--Do you know Prince Eric, Agda? AGDA. Yes, it was on his account they closed up the Blue Dove. Now I am working over there, at the Golden Apple. KARIN. They say that he used to be very polite to you. AGDA. No, he was most impolite, not to say nasty. KARIN. He had been drinking then. Otherwise he is merely miserable, they say. AGDA. Do you know him? KARIN. No, I have only seen him, but I cannot forget his sad eyes and his long face. He looks so much like a doll I had once--I called it Blinkie Bloodless.... I suppose they are not kind to him at home, either. AGDA. Probably not, but a man has no right to act like a brute because he is unhappy. KARIN. Why do you talk like that? He drinks a lot of wine, like most young men and Hush! Somebody is coming.... AGDA. Good-bye, Karin. I have to run.... [_She hurries into the tavern at the left_. KARIN. [_As she goes to the right_] I'll be back. PRINCE ERIC _and_ JORGHEN PERSSON _enter from the rear_. ERIC. Here's my new well-spring of wine. Come quick to the bower here. JORGHEN. And Agda is here, too! ERIC. Well, what of it? [_Rapping on the table_. AGDA _appears_. ERIC. [_To_ AGDA] Bring us some Rhine wine and then make yourself invisible. [_To_ JORGHEN] You know, Jorghen, I am facing a crucial moment and must be ready to act at once. The King has lost his reason and is committing acts that cannot be defended! Yesterday he cut off the heads of those Dalecarlians. To-day comes the news that his troops have been beaten by the peasants of Småland, who are now crossing Holaved Forest.[1] Now the Dalecarlians will rise, of course, and everything is lost. JORGHEN. What does that concern us? Let the world perish, and I shall laugh at it. ERIC. But this is what beats everything else for madness. Finding his treasury empty, the King, in his incredible simplicity, tries to borrow money from these Luebeckians, who are his enemies. JORGHEN. Well, if you need money, your enemies are the best ones to take it from. ERIC. If I am not crazy already, you'll make me so! Please be serious a moment! JORGHEN. [_Recites_] "The ring of gold, and rattling dice, And wine brings light to tipsy eyes. But in the night, that light must lack, To wenches leads each crooked track." _At that moment_ AGDA _appears with the wine_. ERIC. [_Laughing idiotically at_ JORGHEN'S _recitation_] Ha-ha! That's a good one. But then, I made it myself.--Well, Agda, or Magda, or what it is, where's your pawnbroker to-day? AGDA _does not reply_. ERIC. Do you know that those Hanseatic people are in the habit of butchering little boys and selling them to the Turk? AGDA. Is that true? ERIC. There is some truth in it, I think. JORGHEN. Let the maiden go before she begins to cry. I can't bear tears. ERIC. I suppose you have never cried, Jorghen? JORGHEN. Twice: when I was born, and once after that--out of rage. ERIC. You are a beast, Jorghen. AGDA _goes back into the tavern_. JORGHEN. However--you wish to figure out what is to happen, and to form a decision on the basis of your false calculations. Have you not noticed how all our plans are foiled? That's the game of the gods. Sometimes we act wisely, and everything goes to the devil, and then we act like fools, and everything turns out right. It's nothing but humbug--all of it! ERIC. I think so, too, and yet there must be some sort of sense in it. JORGHEN. Not as far as I can see. It's just like dicing. ERIC. Let the dice rattle, then! JORGHEN. Let them rattle! That's the right word for it. Now it's a question of head or tail, however--whether the King is to be the tail, and the man from Småland the head.... Look, who comes here! KARIN _enters from the right_. ERIC. [_Staring at her_] Who--is--that? JORGHEN. A flower girl. ERIC. No--this is--something else! Do you see? JORGHEN. What? ERIC. What I see--but, of course, you can't. KARIN _comes forward, kneels before_ ERIC _and offers him a wreath_. ERIC. [_Rises, takes the wreath and places it on the head of_ KAREN; _then to_ JORGHEN] Look! Now the wreath has been added to the crown.[2] JORGHEN. What crown? ERIC. Didn't you see? [_To_ KARIN] Get up, child! You should not be kneeling to me, but I to you. I don't want to ask your name, for I know who you are, although I have never seen you or heard of you before.--What do you ask of me? Speak! KAREN. [_Unaffectedly_] That your Grace buy my flowers. ERIC. Put your flowers there. [_He takes a ring from one cf his fingers and gives it to her_] There! KARIN. No, I cannot wear that ring, your Grace--it's much too grand for me. And if I try to sell it, I shall be seized as a thief. ERIC. You are as wise as you are beautiful. [_He gives her money_. KARIN. I thank your Grace, but it is too much. ERIC. As you named no price, I can do so myself. KARIN _goes out. A long pause follows_. ERIC. Did you see? JORGHEN. Not a thing. ERIC. Didn't you hear, either? Didn't you notice her voice? JORGHEN. A voice like that of any jade--rather pert. ERIC. Stop your tongue, Jorghen! I love her! JORGHEN. She is not the first. ERIC. Yes, the first, and the only one! JORGHEN. Well, seduce her if you must. ERIC. [_Drawing his sword_] Take care, or by God!... JORGHEN. Have we now got to the poking point again? ERIC. I don't know what has happened, but this moment has made me despise you. The same city can't hold you and me. Your eyes defile me, and your whole being stinks. I shall leave you, and I don't want to see you face to face again.--It is as if an angel had come to take me away from the habitations of the damned. I despise my whole past, as I despise you and myself. [_He goes out in the same direction as_ KARIN _went before_. JORGHEN. Seems to be serious this time. But I guess you'll come back. [_He raps on the table_. AGDA _appears_. JORGHEN. Do you know Karin, the flower girl? AGDA. Yes, I do. JORGHEN. What kind of a piece is she? AGDA. A nice and decent girl, of whom I have never heard anything bad. JORGHEN. Can you see anything beautiful about her? AGDA. No, but she is rather pretty, and there is like a halo of sweetness about her. JORGHEN. Oh, it was that he saw, then! AGDA. Tell me, secretary, are you really as hard as people say? JORGHEN. I am not hard to anybody, child, but the world has been hard to me ever since I was born. AGDA. Why don't you always speak like that? JORGHEN However, the Prince is enamoured, bewitched. AGDA. Poor fellow!--Tell me, secretary, is the Prince quite right? JORGHEN. You and your questions are very amusing. Let me ask you one now. Hm! Do you think a woman could possibly--hm!--love me? AGDA. No, I don't. [JORGHEN _looks offended_] Not unless you try to be good. JORGHEN. How the devil is that to be done? AGDA. Shame! Shame! JORGHEN. If you never see anything good, how can you believe in it? AGDA. Tell me, secretary, did the Prince mean what he said about the Hanseatic people and what they are doing in that house? JORGHEN. No, child! That was only a cruel jest. But no Swedish authority can interfere with what they are doing in there. That much you should know, if you are worrying about your Jacob. AGDA. Will you do me a favour? It won't cost you anything. JORGHEN. With the greatest pleasure, my dear girl. AGDA. Find Jacob for me! He had promised to meet me, and he never came. We have been ringing the bell at the door, but no one answers. JORGHEN. I don't want to hurt you, Agda, but unfortunately I have reason to believe that all the Luebeck people have gone away on account of the new rebellion. AGDA. And he won't come back, you think? JORGHEN. I don't like to prophesy, because it generally turns out the other way, but I don't think he will be back soon. AGDA. [_Sinking to the ground_] Lord Jesus! JORGHEN. [_Rises and helps her to her feet_] What is it, girl?--Tell me! [_in a lower voice_] A child? AGDA. He had given me his promise. JORGHEN. [_Genuinely moved_] Poor woman! AGDA _watches him closely_. JORGHEN. Misery, always misery, wherever love gets in its work! AGDA. And you don't despise me? JORGHEN. I pity you, as I pity all of us. AGDA. Can you see now that good exists? JORGHEN. Where? AGDA. Within yourself. JORGHEN. Pooh!--Is there anything else I can do for you? AGDA. Yes, secretary, if you would write to Luebeck and ask Jacob.... JORGHEN. I have not much use for love-affairs, but I'll write, nevertheless, provided we find that he really has gone away. AGDA. [_Tries to kiss his hand, which he pulls away_] Thank you! JORGHEN. What are you doing, woman? I am no bishop!--But hush! Here comes illustrious company. So I think I'll sneak off! _The stage has grown darker in the meantime_. AGDA. Please, secretary, don't forget me now! JORGHEN. So you don't trust me? Well, there is not much to trust in! [_He goes out to the left_. _The_ KING _enters, wearing his big blue cloak and his soft black hat. He is using his boarspear as a staff._ PRINCE JOHAN _is with him, dressed very simply, as if to avoid recognition_. KING. [_Looking about_] Do you think we have been recognised? JOHAN. No, I don't think so, father. KING. Bing, then. JOHAN. [_Putts the bell-rope outside the Hanseatic office]_ The bell does not ring. KING. Knock. JOHAN. [_Rapping on the door_] Nobody seems to answer. KING. [_Seating himself on the bench outside_] I must get hold of Herman Israel this very evening--I must! JOHAN. You are worried, father? KING. I am certainly not at ease. [_Pause_. JOHAN. Money cares again? KING. Oh, don't talk of it!--Knock again. JOHAN. [_Rapping at the door_] There is no one there. _A crowd of beggars enter and kneel in front of the_ KING _with hands held out in supplication_. KING. Are you mocking me? FIRST BEGGAR. We are perishing, my noble lord! KING. I am perishing, too!--Why are you begging, anyhow? SECOND BEGGAR. I'll tell you. Because the King has seized the tithes that went to the poor before. And when he did so, he said: "You can beg!" KING. And what is he doing with the tithes of the poor? FIRST BEGGAR. Paying Prince Eric's le-lecheries! KING. No, paying the country's debt, you knaves! [_To_ JOHAN] Give them money, so we get rid of them. JOHAN. [_Distributing coins_] You'll have to share it between you, and then away--at once! _The beggars leave_. KING. I wonder who sent them? Somebody must have sent them!--Knock again. [JOHAN _does so_] What unspeakable humiliation! You see, my son, that no matter how high up you get, new and then you have to climb down again. But of anything like this I never dreamt. [_He takes off his hat and wipes his forehead_. JOHAN. May I speak? KING. No, you may not, for I know what you mean to say. MONS NILSSON'S _widow enters, led by_ BARBRO. _Both are in mourning, and_ BARBRO _carries a document in her hand_. BARBRO. [_To her mother_] That must be the Councillor himself. WIDOW. Can that be Herman Israel who is sitting there? My eyes have grown blind with sorrow. BARBRO. It must be him. _The two women approach the_ KING. BARBRO. [To _the_ KING] Are you the Councillor? KING. What do you want of him? BARBRO. Mr. Syndic, we are the bereaved dependents of Mons Nilsson, and we have come to pray that you put in a good word for us with the King. KING. Why do you think the Councillor's word will be of any help? BARBRO. We have been told that he is the King's only friend, and we thought he might help us to get back the property of which we have been unjustly deprived. KING. Unjustly, you say? As a traitor, Mons Nilsson was judged forfeit of life _and_ goods--which was only just! BARBRO. But the dower of the innocent widow should not have been taken with the rest. KING. What is your name? BARBRO. I was baptised with the name of Barbro, and the King himself acted as my godfather when he was in Dalecarlia at that time. KING. [_Rises, but sits down again immediately_] Barbro?--Have you ever seen the King? BARBRO. Not since I was too small to know him. But the last time he visited Copperberg, my father was expecting him, and we children were to greet him with a song. KING. What song was that? BARBRO. I cannot sing since my father came to his death so miserably, but it was a song about King Gustavus and the Dalecarlians, and this is the way it ended: "You have by my side been fighting Like sturdy Swedish men. If God will spare my life-blood, I'll do you good in stead." KING. Say something really bad about the King! BARBRO. No, father told us we must never do that, no matter what we might hear other people say. KING. Did your father tell you that? BARBRO. Yes, he did. KING. Go in peace now. I shall speak to the King, and you shall have your rights, for he wants to do right, and he tries to do it. BARBRO. [_Kneels and takes hold of the_ KING'S _hand, which she kisses_] If the King were as gracious as you are, Councillor, there would be no cause for worry. KING. [_Placing his hand on_ BARBRO'S _head_] He is, my child, and I know that he won't refuse his goddaughter anything. Go in peace now! _The two women leave_. KING. [_To_ JOHAN] Who can have sent them? Who?--Here I have to sit like a defendant--I, the highest judge of the land! JOHAN. May I say a word? KING. No, because I can tell myself what you want to say. I can tell that the hand of the Lord has been laid heavily upon me, although I cannot tell why. If the Lord speaks through conscience and prayer, then it is he who has made me act as I have acted. Why my obedience should be punished, I cannot grasp. But I submit to a higher wisdom that lies beyond my reason.--That girl was my goddaughter, and her father was my friend, and I had to take his head.... Oh, cruel life, that has to be lived nevertheless! [_Pause_] Knock again. MARCUS. [_In travelling clothes, enters from the right_] Your Highness! [_He kneels_. KING. Still more? MARCUS. A message from Herman Israel. KING. At last!--Speak! MARCUS. Herman Israel has this afternoon set sail for Luebeck. KING. [_Rising_] Then I am lost!--God help me! JOHAN. And all of us! _The_ KING _and_ JOHAN _go out_. MARCUS _goes over to the tavern and raps on one of the tables_. AGDA. [_Appearing_] Is that you, Marcus? MARCUS. Yes, Agda, it's me. AGDA. Where is Jacob? MARCUS. He has started on a journey--a very long one. AGDA. Where? MARCUS. I cannot tell. But he asked me to bring you his greeting and to give you this ring. AGDA. As a keepsake only, or as a plight of his troth? MARCUS. Read what it says. AGDA. [_Studying the ring_] Yes, I can spell a little "For ever," it says. What does it mean? MARCUS. I fear it means--farewell for ever. AGDA. [_With a cry_] No, no, it means that he is dead! MARCUS _does not answer_. AGDA. Who killed him? MARCUS. The law and his own crime. He rebelled against his father and his country. AGDA. To save mine!--Oh, what is to become of me? MARCUS. [_Shrugging his shoulders_] That's the way of the world. Nothing but deceit and uncertainty. AGDA. Alas, he was like all the rest! MARCUS. Yes, all human beings are pretty much alike. He who is no worse than the rest is no better, either. Good-bye! _Curtain_. SECOND SCENE _The study of_ MASTER OLAVUS PETRI. _There is a door on either side of the room_. OLAVUS _is writing at a table_. CHRISTINE _is standing beside the table with a letter in her hand._ CHRISTINE. Do I disturb you? OLAVUS. [_Quietly and coldly_] Naturally, as I am writing. CHRISTINE. Are you sure that you are writing? OLAVUS. Absolutely sure. CHRISTINE. But I have not seen your pen move for a long while. OLAVUS. That was because I was thinking. CHRISTINE. Once.... OLAVUS. Yes, once upon a time! CHRISTINE. Can Reginald come in and say good-bye? OLAVUS. Are we that far already? CHRISTINE. The carriage is waiting and all his things have been packed. OLAVUS. Let him come, then. CHRISTINE. Are you certain that he is going to Wittenberg to study? OLAVUS. I have seen too much uncertainty, as you know, to be certain of anything. If you have reason to doubt the feasibility of his plans, you had better say so. CHRISTINE. If I had any doubts, I would not disturb you with them. OLAVUS. Always equally amiable! Will you please ask Reginald to come here? CHRISTINE. I'll do whatever you command. OLAVUS. And as I never command, but merely ask.... CHRISTINE. If you would command your precious son now and then, he might be a little more polite and obedient to his mother. OLAVUS. Reginald is hard, I admit, but you do wrong in trying to educate him to suit your own high pleasure. CHRISTINE. Do you side with the children against their parents? OLAVUS. If I am not mistaken, I have always done so when the natural rights of the children were concerned. CHRISTINE. Have the children any natural rights to anything? OLAVUS. Of course, they have! You haven't forgotten how we.... CHRISTINE. Yes, I have forgotten every bit of that old tommy-rot! I have forgotten how you swore to love me. I have forgotten the noise made about the pope's beard, and the stealing of the church silver, and the humbug with the bells, and the _pure_ faith, and roast ducks and cackling swans, and martyrs with a taste for fighting, and the following of Christ with wine and women, and the scratching of eyes and tearing of hair, until we now have twenty-five brand new faiths in place of a holy Catholic Church.... I have forgotten every bit of it! OLAVUS. Perhaps that was the best thing you could do. And will you please ask Reginald to come here now? CHRISTINE. Certainly, I'll ask him to come here, and it will be a great pleasure to do so. [_She goes out to the left_. OLAVUS. [_Alone, speaking to himself_] Happy she, who has been able to forget! I remember everything! CHRISTINE _returns with_ REGINALD. REGINALD. I want mother to go out, because I can't talk when she is here. OLAVUS. There won't be so very much to talk about. CHRISTINE. I won't say a word; only listen--and look at you. [_She seats herself_. REGINALD. No, you mustn't look at us. OLAVUS. Be quiet, boy, and be civil to your mother! When you go travelling, there is no telling whether you ever come back. REGINALD. So much the better! OLAVUS. [_Painfully impressed_] What's that? REGINALD. I am tired of everything, and I just wish I were dead! OLAVUS. Yes, that's the way youth talks nowadays! REGINALD. And why? Because we don't know what to believe! OLAVUS. Oh, you don't? And how about the articles of confession? Don't you believe in them? REGINALD. Believe, you say? Don't you know that belief comes as a grace of God? OLAVUS. Are you a Calvinist? REGINALD. I don't know what I am. When I talk with Prince Johan, he says I am a papist, and when I meet Prince Eric, he tells me I am a follower of Zwingli. OLAVUS. And now you wish to go to Wittenberg to learn the true faith from Doctor Martin Luther? REGINALD. I know his teachings and don't believe in them, OLAVUS. Is that so? REGINALD. To him belief is everything, and deeds nothing. I have believed, but it didn't make my deeds any better at all, and so I felt like a perfect hypocrite in the end. OLAVUS. Is Prince Johan a Catholic? REGINALD. So he must be, as he sticks to deeds, which ought to be the main thing. OLAVUS. And Prince Eric belongs to the Reformed Church, you say? REGINALD. Yes, in so far as he believes in the dispensation of grace. And Jorghen Persson must be a Satanist, I think. And young Sture is absolutely an Anabaptist.... OLAVUS. Well, this is news to me! I thought the days of schism were past.... REGINALD. Schism, yes--that's the word Prince Johan is using always. We had a Catholic Church, and then.... OLAVUS. Oh, shut your mouth and go to Wittenberg! REGINALD. As it is your wish, father--but I won't study any more theology. OLAVUS. Why not? REGINALD. I think it is device of the devil to make people hate each other. CHRISTINE. Good for you, Reginald! OLAVUS. And it had to come to this in my own house! _Pulchre, bene, rede!_--Who, Reginald, do you think has caused this dissension under which you young people are suffering now? REGINALD. That's easily answered. OLAVUS. Of course! We old ones, you mean? But we, too, were children of our time, and were stripped of our faith by our prophets. Who is, then, to blame? REGINALD. No one. OLAVUS. And what do you mean to do with your future? REGINALD. My future? It appears to me like a grey mist without a ray of sunlight. And should a ray ever break through, it will at once be proved a will-o'-the-wisp leading us astray. OLAVUS. That's just how I felt once! At your age I could see my whole future as in vision. I foresaw the bitter cup and the pillory. And yet I had to go on. I had to enter the mist, and I myself had to carry the will-o'-the-wisp that _must_ lead the wanderers astray. I foretold this very moment, even, when my son would stand before me saying: "Thus I am, because thus you have made me!" You noticed, perhaps, that I was not surprised--and this is the reason. REGINALD. What am I to do? Advise me! OLAVUS. You, no more than I, will follow the advices given you. REGINALD. Inform me, then! Tell me: what is life? OLAVUS. That's more than I know. But I think it must be a punishment or an ordeal. At your years I thought I knew everything and understood everything. Now I know nothing and understand nothing. For that reason I rest satisfied with doing my duty and bearing what comes my way. REGINALD. But I want to know! OLAVUS. You want to know what is not allowed to be known. Try to know and you will perish!--However, do you want to go or stay? REGINALD. I am going to Wittenberg to pull Luther to pieces! OLAVUS. [_Wholly without irony_] That's the way to speak! O thou splendid youth with thy Alexandrian regret that there are no more things to pull to pieces! REGINALD. Are you not a Lutheran? OLAVUS. I am a Protestant. CHRISTINE. If you have finished now, I shall ask permission to tell in a single word what Luther is--just one word! OLAVUS. Oh, do, before you burst! CHRISTINE. Luther is dead! OLAVUS. Dead? CHRISTINE. That's what my brother-in-law writes me in this letter from Magdeburg. OLAVUS. [_Rising_] Dead! [_To_ REGINALD] My poor Alexander, what will you pull to pieces now? REGINALD. First the universe, and then myself. OLAVUS. [_Pushing him toward the door at the left_] Go ahead, then, but begin with yourself. The universe will always remain. CHRISTINE. [_As she rises and is about to go out with_ REGINALD] Will there be peace on earth now? OLAVUS. That will never be!--Let me have that letter. CHRISTINE _and_ REGINALD _go out to the left_. _While_ OLAVUS _is reading the letter, a hard knock is heard at the right-hand door_. OLAVUS. Come! _The knock is repeated_. OLAVUS _goes to the door and opens it. The_ KING _enters, wearing his big hat and his cloak, which he throws of_. OLAVUS. The King! KING. [_Very excited_] Yes, but for how long? Do you know who Dacke is?--A farm labourer who has killed a bailiff; a common thief and incendiary, who is now writing to me with a demand of answer. I am to take pen in hand and open correspondence with a scamp like him! Do you know that he has crossed the Kolmord Forests and stands with one foot in West Gothia and the other in East Gothia?--Who is back of him? The Emperor, the Elector Frederick of the Palatinate, Magnus Haraldsson, the runaway Bishop of Skara, the Duke of Mecklenburg. The Emperor wishes to put the children of Christian the Tyrant back on the throne.[3] But what troubles me more than anything else is to find the Luebeckians and Herman Israel on the same side--my old friend Herman! I ask you how it can be possible. And who has done this to me? Who?--Have you not a word to say? OLAVUS. What can I say, and what--_may_ I say? KING. Don't be hard on me, Olof, and don't be vengeful, I am nothing but an unfortunate human creature who has had to drink humiliation like water, and I come to you as my spiritual guide. I am in despair because I fear that the Lord has deserted me for ever.--What an infernal notion of mine that was to take the head of the Dalecarlians just now, when I am in such need of them! Do you think that deed was displeasing to the Lord? But if I have sinned like David, you must be my Nathan. OLAVUS. I have lost the power of prophecy, and I am not the right man to inflict punishment. KING. Console me, then, Olof. OLAVUS. I cannot, because only those who repent can accept consolation. KING. You mean that I have transgressed--that I have gone too far? Speak up! But do it like a servant of the Lord, and not like a conceited schoolmaster.... Have I gone too far? OLAVUS. That is not the way to put the question. The proper way is to ask whether the others have any right on their side. KING. Go ahead and ask! OLAVUS. Dacke is the mouthpiece of warranted dissatisfaction. Being the brother-in-law of Christian II, the Emperor is the guardian of his children, and they have inherited a claim to the Swedish throne, as the constitution cannot be cancelled by a rebellion.[4] Bishop Magnus Haraldsson is the spokesman of all the illegally exiled bishops. KING. Illegally, you say? OLAVUS. [_Raising his voice_] Yes, because the law of Sweden does not drive any man away on account of his faith. KING. Take care! OLAVUS. Too late now!--The dissatisfaction of the peasants is warranted, because the Riksdag at Vesterås authorised the King to seize only the property of bishops and convents. When he took what belonged to parish churches and private persons, he became guilty of a crime. KING. You are a daring man! OLAVUS. Nothing compared with what I used to be!--As far as Herman Israel is concerned, he called recently on the King to offer a treaty of friendship, and it was stupid of the King to reject it. KING. Stop! OLAVUS. Not yet!--The gold and silver of the churches was meant to pay the debt to Luebeck, and much of it was used for that purpose, but a considerable part found its way to Eskil's Chamber under the Royal Palace, and has since been wasted on Prince Eric's silly courtships among other things.... KING. The devil you say! OLAVUS. Well, Queen Elizabeth is merely making fun of him. KING. Do you know that? OLAVUS. I do.--The bells were also to be used in payment of the debt to Luebeck, but a part of them went to the foundry and were turned into cannon, which was not right. KING. Is that so? OLAVUS. Add also that the Convent of Vreta was left unmolested in violation of the ordinance concerning the closing of all such places--and for no other reason than that the King's mother-in-law happened to be a Catholic. This is a cowardly and mischievous omission that has caused much bad blood. KING. The convent is to be closed. OLAVUS. It should be closed _now_, and it is not!--If I were to sum up what is reprehensible in my great King, I should call it a lack of piety. KING. That's the worst yet! What do you mean? OLAVUS. Piety is the respect shown by the stronger even if he be a man of destiny--for the feelings of the weaker, when these spring from a childlike, and for that reason religious, mind. KING. Oh, is that what it is? OLAVUS. Now I have said my say. KING. Yes, so you have--time and again. OLAVUS. And if my King had been willing to listen now and then, he would have learned a great deal more. But it is a common fault of princes that they won't listen to anybody but themselves. KING. Well, I never heard the like of it! I am astounded--most of all because I haven't killed you on the spot! OLAVUS. Why don't you? KING. [_Rises and goes toward_ OLAVUS, _who remains standing unabashed, looking firmly at the approaching_ KING; _the latter withdraws backward and sits down again; for a few moments the two men stare at each other in silence; then the_ KING _says]_ Who are you? OLAVUS. A humble instrument of the Lord, shaped to serve what is really great--that marvellous man of God, to whom it was granted to unite all Swedish men and lands. KING. That was granted Engelbrecht, too, and his reward was the axe that split his head.[5] Is that to be my reward, too? OLAVUS. I don't think so, your Highness, but it depends on yourself. KING. What am I to do? OLAVUS. What you advised me to do when I was carried away by the zeal of my youth. KING. And you think it necessary to return that advice to me now? OLAVUS. Why not? I have learned from life, and you have forgotten. KING. What am I to do? OLAVUS. Answer Dacke's letter. KING. Never! Am I to bow down to a vagabond? OLAVUS. The Lord sometimes uses mere vagabonds for our humiliation. Picture it to yourself as an ordeal by fire. KING. [_Rising and walking the floor_] There is truth in what you say. I can feel it, but it does not fetch bottom in my mind. Say one word more. OLAVUS. Dacke will be right as long as you are in the wrong, and God will be with him until you take your place on the side of right. KING. I can't bend! OLAVUS. Then you'll be broken by someone else. KING. [_Walking back and forth_] Are you thinking of the Dalecarlians? Have you heard of a rising among them on account of the executions? OLAVUS. Such a thing has been rumoured. KING. I am lost. OLAVUS. Write to Dacke! KING. [_Without conviction_] I won't. OLAVUS. The Emperor does. KING. That's true! If the Emperor can write to him, why shouldn't I?--But it is perfectly senseless. Who is this mysterious man who never appears? OLAVUS. Perhaps another marvellous man of God--in his own way. KING. I must see him face to face. I'll write and offer him safe-conduct, so that I can talk with him. That's what I'll do.--Bring me pen and paper! Or you write, and I'll dictate. OLAVUS _seats himself at the table_. KING. How do we begin? What am I to call him? OLAVUS. Let us merely put down "To Nils Dacke." KING. Oh, his name is Nils? After St. Nicolaus, who comes with rods for children on the sixth of December?[6] [_Pause_] Write now.... No, I'll go home and do the writing myself.... Have you heard that Luther is dead? OLAVUS. I have, your Highness. KING. He was a splendid man! May he rest in peace!--Yes, such as he was, he was a fine man, but we got rather too much of him. OLAVUS. Too many dogmas and not enough of religion. KING. He was an obstinate fellow and went too far. What he needed was a taskmaster like you to call him to terms now and then. OLAVUS. I hope the time of schism and dissension will come to an end now. KING. A time of dissension you may well call it!--Good-bye, Olof. [_As_ OLAVUS _makes a mien of saying something_] Yes, yes, I _will_ write! _Curtain_. [1] A rough and inaccessible forest region on the eastern shore of Lake Vettern, marking the border-line between the province of Småland in the south and Ostergötland (East Gothia) in the north. [2] As far back as we know the two principal ornaments of a Swedish bride have been the crown--sometimes woven out of myrtle and sometimes made of metal and semi-precious stones--and the wreath, always made of myrtle. [3] The Elector Frederick was a son-in-law of the deposed Christian II of Denmark, and also one of the trusted liegemen of Emperor Charles V, who hoped to see him the head of a reunited Scandinavia dominated by German influences. [4] Christian II was married to Isabelle, sister of Charles V. [5] Engelbrecht Engelbrechtsson, a free miner of Dalecarlia, was the first one of a series of notable chieftains who led the Swedish people in their determination to rid the country of the Danish kings after these had shown a growing inclination to treat Sweden as a Danish province, and not as an independent kingdom, united on equal terms with Denmark and Norway. At the head of the Dalecarlians, Engelbrecht began the work of liberation in 1434, and was remarkably successful in a short time. Unfortunately, he was treacherously and shamefully killed while crossing the Lake Maelaren only two years later. To the Swedes he has ever since been the symbol of their national independence and unity, and he, the simple country squire, remains to this day one of the most beloved and revered figures in Swedish history. It is to him Barbro refers in the opening scenes of the play, and his name is heard again in the closing scenes, with the appearance of his simpler namesake. [6] An old Swedish custom and superstition, prescribing that every child must be spanked on the date mentioned in order to insure its obedience during the whole ensuing year. That custom still survived when the translator was a child, although for many decades the spanking had been a mere formality serving as an excuse for some little gift or treat. ACT V _The terrace in front of the Royal Palace, with trimmed hedges, statuary, and a fountain. Chairs, benches, and tables are placed about. The near background shows a balustrade with Tuscan columns, on which are placed flowers in faïence pots. Beyond the balustrade appear tree tops, and over these tower the tops of masts, from which blue and yellow flags are flying. In the far background, a number of church spires_. _The_ MOTHER-IN-LAW _of the_ KING _is on the terrace in her Cistercian dress_. QUEEN. [_Enters_] For the last time I beg you, mother, don't wear that dress! MOTHER-IN-LAW. It is my festive garb, and I am as proud of it as you of your ermine robe. QUEEN. What is the use of being proud? The day of disaster is upon us all, and we must hold together. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Let us do so then, and have peace. QUEEN. Yes, so you say, but you won't even change dress for the sake of the country's peace. MOTHER-IN-LAW. I don't change faith as you change clothes, and there is a solemn vow to God connected with this dress. The people are making threats against my life. Let them take it! I have my grave-clothes on. QUEEN. Don't you know that we may have to flee this very day, if the news should prove as bad as yesterday? MOTHER-IN-LAW. I will not flee. QUEEN. Everything has already been packed by order of the King, and our sloop lies at the foot of the southern hills, ready to hoist sail. MOTHER-IN-LAW. I have nothing to pack, because I own nothing. "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life." That's what I used to learn. But you have sold your birthright for a crown which soon will no longer be yours. QUEEN. Go on and punish me; it feels like a relief. PRINCE ERIC _appears on the terrace; his dress and appearance are orderly, and his mien subdued_. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Can you tell me what has come over Eric these last days? He looks quite submissive, and something new has come into his face that used to be so hard. QUEEN. I don't know, but they say that he has changed his ways and cannot bear the company of Jorghen. I have heard whispers about a serious affection.... MOTHER-IN-LAW. No! QUEEN. [_To_ ERIC] What news do you bring? ERIC. [_Gently and respectfully_] No news at all, mother. QUEEN. [_To her mother_] He called me mother! [_To_ ERIC] How fare you, Eric? Is life heavy? ERIC. Heavier than it was the day before yesterday. QUEEN. What happened yesterday? ERIC. What happens to a human being only once in a lifetime.--Are you much wiser now? QUEEN. [_To her mother_] How childlike he has grown! [_To_ Eric] Have you heard anything of your friend Jacob? ERIC. Yes, he was my real friend, and so they took his head. QUEEN. Now you are unjust. There has been no attempt to take the head of Jorghen.... ERIC. He is no longer my friend. [_Peevishly_] But now I don't want to be questioned any longer, least of all about my secrets--that is, about the secrets of my heart. Queen. [_To her mother_] He is quite charming in his childishness. Apparently he would love to talk of his secret. PRINCE JOHAN _enters_. ERIC. [_Going to meet him_] Soon we may have nothing left to fight over, brother Johan, and so--it seems to me we may as well be friends. JOHAN. With a right good heart, brother! Nothing could give me greater pleasure. ERIC. Give me your hand! [_They shake hands_] I don't want to be the enemy of any human being after this. [_He goes out, deeply moved_. MOTHER-IN-LAW. [_To_ Johan] What's the matter with Eric? JOHAN. He has found a sweetheart, they say. QUEEN. What did I say? MOTHER-IN-LAW. Are you coming with me to the mass in the chapel, Johan? [_When_ JOHAN _hesitates and does not answer, she says sharply_] Johan! QUEEN. Mother! MOTHER-IN-LAW. Is he free to follow his conscience, or is he not? QUEEN. If you will leave his conscience alone, he will be free. MOTHER-IN-LAW. Well, I am going, and you know where, Johan. [_She goes out_. QUEEN. Johan! JOHAN. What do you wish? QUEEN. That you do not desert your childhood faith. JOHAN. My childhood faith, which I got from my nurse, and not from you, was also the childhood faith of my father. Why did you not give me yours? QUEEN. Yes, punish me. You have a right to do so. Everything comes home to us now. I was young then. Life was nothing but a game. The King demanded my company at banquets and festivities, and so your cradle was left unattended and unguarded. Those were the days when we were drunk with victory and happiness. And now!--Go where you find it possible to worship, Johan, and pray for your mother! JOHAN. If it hurts my gracious mother, I won't go. QUEEN. Pray for us all! [_In a lowered voice_] I do not know the new prayers and must not use the old ones!--Hush now! The King is coming. PRINCE JOHAN _goes in the direction previously taken by the_ KING'S MOTHER-IN-LAW. _The_ KING _enters, holding a letter in his hand. He is accompanied by_ MASTER OLAVUS PETRI. KING. [_To the_ QUEEN] Have everything ready for the start. We are lost! QUEEN. The will of God be done! KING. That's what seems to be happening. Go and look after your house, child. _The_ QUEEN _goes out_. KING. [_To_ OLAVUS] This is the situation. Dacke answers that he does not care to see "that rebel, and perjurer, and breaker of safe-conducts, Ericsson." He rails me Ericsson, mind you. His people have reached as far north as Södermanland--which means that they are right at our gates! Furthermore, two thousand Dalecarlians are encamped at the North Gate. Their intentions are not known, but can easily be guessed. A fine prophet you are, Olof! OLAVUS. We have not seen the end yet. KING. Where do you get your confidence from? OLAVUS. That's more than I can tell, but I know that everything will end well. KING. You say that you know? How do you know? I have ceased to believe anything--except in the wrath of God, which has been turned against me. I am now waiting for the axe. Good and well! I have done my service and am now to be discharged. That's why I wish to leave before I am kicked out.--Do you know what day it is to-day? Nobody has thought of it, and I didn't remember until just now.... It is Midsummer Day: _my_ day, which no one celebrates. A generation ago I made my entry into the capital on this day. That was the greatest moment of my life. I thought the work of liberation was done, and I thanked God for it!--But it had not been done, and I am not done with it yet.--The Dalecarlians rose. I subdued them, and thought that I was done, which I was not. Twice more they rose, and each time I gave thanks to God, thinking I had done--which was not the case. The lords of West Gothia rose. I squelched them, and was happy, thinking that I surely must have done by that time--which I had not. And now, Olof?--We are never done until done for--and that's where I am now! OLAVUS. Oh, no, there is a whole lot left. KING. Where do you get your fixed ideas from? Have you heard some bird sing, or have you been dreaming? OLAVUS. Neither. KING. [_Listening_] Listen! That's the sound of birch-horns. Do they mean to give me a crown of birch, like the one I gave to Peder the Chancellor and Master Knut? Or is it the scaffold that.... that?... OLAVUS. Oh, don't! KING. What was it you called that thing--piety? Much it would have availed me to have piety at Larv Heath or Tuna Plain![1]--No, I have been right, right, right, so God help me, amen! OLAVUS _makes no answer_. KING. [_Listening_] They have drums, too.--Oh, everything comes home!--Do you think I can get out of this, Olof? OLAVUS. I do! And let me give you a final piece of advice: don't leave! KING. I don't see how it can be avoided. Do you think I'll let them take my head?--Do you know, I can actually hear the tramp-tramp of their feet as they come marching through the North Gate. And that's the Dalecarlians--my own Dalecarlians! Oh, life is cruel! Can you hear it? Tramp--tramp--tramp! Do you think I can get out of this? OLAVUS. I do. KING. When the sun rises to-morrow I shall know my fate. I wish I were that far already!--Now I hear something else! [_The reading of a litany in Latin is faintly heard from the outside_] What is that? OLAVUS. [_Goes to the balustrade and looks over it_] The Queen's mother is reading the Romish litany. KING. But I hear a male voice, too. OLAVUS. That's Prince Johan. KING. Johan?--So I must drink that cup, too! I wonder if the cup is full yet? Is everything that I have built to be torn down? OLAVUS. Everything you have torn down must be built up again. KING. Johan a papist, and Eric a Calvinist!--Do you remember the days when we were crying in the words of Von Hutten: "The souls are waking up, and it is a joy to live"? A joy to live, indeed--ha-ha! And the souls woke up to find their feet on the pillows! Was it you who said that the gods are playing with us?--Hush! I was mistaken a while ago! It's the North Bridge they are crossing! Can't you hear their heavy tread on the planking of the bridge? Let us fly! [_He puts a document on a table_] Here I place my resignation. OLAVUS. [_Seizing the document_] I'll take care of that. I'll keep it--as a memento! And now we'll hoist a flag of truce. _He pulls a white cloth from one of the tables and ties it to the branch of a tree_. PRINCE ERIC. [_Enters_] Father! KING. Croak away, raven! ERIC. Our last hope is gone! The sloop has dragged its anchor and gone ashore. KING. [_In desperation_] And lightning has struck the nursery, and the grasshoppers have eaten the crops, and the waters are rising, and.... ERIC. The Dalecarlians are negotiating with the palace guards, and they are awfully drunk. KING. [_Sitting down_] Come on, death! ERIC. [_Listening_] I can hear their wooden shoes on the garden stairs! [_He goes to the balustrade_. KING. [_Counting on his fingers_] Anders Persson, Mons Nilsson, Master John. ERIC. [_Drawing his sword_] Now he is here! _He can be seen following somebody on the other side of the balustrade with his eyes_. KING. [_As before_] Inghel Hansson, Master Stig, Nils of Söderby. God is just! ENGELBRECHT. [_Enters; he is in the happy stage of intoxication, but in full control of his movements for all that; he looks about with a broad grin on his face, a little embarrassed, and yet pleased; then he says to_ ERIC] Are you the King? _He puts his hat on the ground and takes off his wooden shoes_. KING. [_Rising and pushing_ ERIC _aside_] No, I am the King! ENGELBRECHT. Yes, so I see now! KING. Who are you? ENGELBRECHT. [_Faltering_] Don't you know me?... KING. I don't. ENGELBRECHT. [_Pulls a dagger with silver handle out of his long stocking and shows it to the_ KING, _grinning more broadly than ever_] Well, don't you know this one? KING. I don't understand at all. What is your name? ENGELBRECHT. Well--it happens to be Engelbrecht! KING. Eng-el-brecht? ENGELBRECHT. It sounds mighty big, but I am not of _that_ family.--You see, it was like this--once upon a time the King--who was no king at all then--oh, mercy, but I am drunk!... Well, it was me who followed you on skis to the border of Norway, and that time you gave me this here dagger and said: "If you ever need me, come on!" Now I've come, and here I am! And I wish only that I was not so frightfully drunk! KING. And what do you want? ENGELBRECHT. What I want?--I want to fight that man Dacke, of course, and that's what the rest of them want, too. KING. You want to _fight_ Dacke? ENGELBRECHT. Why do you think we have come, anyhow? KING. [_Raising his arms toward heaven_] Eternal God, now you have punished me! ENGELBRECHT. Is it all right? You see, the rest are down there and they'd like to do something to celebrate the day. KING. _Is it all right?_--Ask me for a favour! ENGELBRECHT. [_After thinking hard_] I'd like to shake hands! _The_ KING _holds out his hand_. ENGELBRECHT. [_Looking at the_ King's _hand_] My, what a fist! Hard as nails, but clean! Yes, and a devil of a fellow you are, all in all!--I must say I was rather scared when I came here! KING. Are all the rest of them as drunk as you are? ENGELBRECHT. About the same! But they can toot the horns for all that. [_He goes to the balustrade, waves his hand and utters the yell used by the Dalecarlians in calling their cows_] Poo-ala! Poo-ala! Poo Oy-ala! Oy-ala! Oy! _The blowing of horns and beating of drums is heard from the outside_. _The_ KING _goes to the balustrade and waxes his hand_. _The_ MOTHER-IN-LAW _appears in court dress_. _The_ QUEEN _enters and goes to the_ KING, _who folds her in his arms_. PRINCE JOHAN _enters and goes to the balustrade_. KING. [_With raised arms_] You have punished me, O Lord, and I thank thee! _Curtain_ [1] Larv Heath was the place where the dissatisfied lords of West Gothia summoned the peasants to meet them in 1529, when they tried to raise the province against the King. Tuna Plain, to which Mons Nilsson and his friends refer a number of times in the first act, was the place where Gustav settled his first score with the obstreperous Dalecarlians. MUSICAL APPENDIX TO "THE BRIDAL CROWN" MELODY No. 1.--Kersti plays on the alpenhorn MELODY No. 2.--Kersti sings through the horn MELODY No. 3.--Mats sings in the distance MELODY No. 4.--The Mother Sings MELODY No. 5.--Kersti plays on the alpenhorn MELODY No. 6.--Mats sings in the distance MELODY No. 7.--Kersti sings MELODY No. 8.--Mats sings MELODY No. 9.--Kersti sings MELODY No. 10.--Mats sings MELODY No. 11.--Canon played by ten hunting-horns MELODY No. 12.--The Neck sings and plays MELODY No. 13.--Mats sings outside MELODY No. 14.--Bridesmaids sing outside MELODY No. 15.--Bugle-call in the distance MELODY No. 16.--Six girls sing MELODY No. 17.--Swedish Dance played by fiddlers MELODY No. 18.--Neck plays (two violins) MELODY No. 19.--Song of the long-tailed duck MELODY No. 20.--The Neck sings to the harp NOTE TO THE MUSIC The song of the long-tailed duck is given by Strindberg in the first part of his "The Swedish People in War and Peace." Melody No. 20 does not appear in the Swedish edition of the play. It is given by Emil Schering in an appendix to his German version of it--apparently from a manuscript placed at his disposal by Strindberg himself. Melodies Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 12, 13, 14, 16, and 17 have been taken by Strindberg--without any changes--from Richard Dybeck's "Svenska Vallvisor och Hornlåtar" ("Swedish Herd-Songs and Horn-Melodies"), Stockholm, 1846. 
8499	----	PLAYS: THE FATHER; COUNTESS JULIE; THE OUTLAW; THE STRONGER By August Strindberg Translated by Edith and Warner Oland To M. C. S. and J. H. S., Under whose rooftree these translations were made. CONTENTS. THE FATHER A Tragedy in III Acts. COUNTESS JULIE A Tragedy in I Act. THE OUTLAW A play in I Act. THE STRONGER An Episode in I Scene. PUBLISHER'S NOTE. Since the accompanying biographical note, which aims solely at outlining the principal events of Strindberg's life up to 1912, was put in type, the news of his death from cancer, at Stockholm on May 14, 1912, has been reported. Of the plays included in the present volume, "The Father" and "Countess Julie" are representative of Strindberg's high water mark in dramatic technique and have successfully maintained their claim to a permanent place, not only in dramatic literature, but, as acting plays. "The Stronger," than which no better example of Strindberg's uncanny power for analysis of the female mind exists, while essentially a chamber play, is from time to time presented at the theatre, and affords a splendid test of the dramatic ability of the actors, only one of whom speaks. The author has boldly thrown on the other the burden of maintaining her share in the development of the action by pantomime, facial expression, and an occasional laugh. "The Outlaw," although inferior in construction to the others, is still played with success and is full of dignity and atmosphere. The important part it played in promoting the fortunes of the author lends to it an added interest which fully justifies its inclusion in this volume. BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE "I tell you, you must have chaos in you, if you would give birth to a dancing star."--Nietzsche. In Stockholm, living almost as a recluse, August Strindberg is dreaming life away. The dancing stars, sprung from the chaos of his being, shine with an ever-increasing refulgence from the high-arched dome of dramatic literature, but he no longer adds to their number. The constellation of the Lion of the North is complete. At sixty-three, worn by the emotional intensity of a life, into which has been crowded the stress and storm of a universe, he sits at his desk, every day transcribing to his diary a record of those mystical forces which he says regulate his life. Before him lies a crucifix, Hardly as a symbol of sectarian faith, for Strindberg is a Swedenborgian, but a fitting accompaniment, nevertheless, to a state of mind which he expresses in saying "One gets more and more humble the longer one lives, and in the shadow of death many things look different." A softer light beams from those blue eyes, which, under that tossing crown of tawny hair flung high from a speaking forehead, in times past flashed defiance at every opposition. For him the fierce, unyielding, never-ceasing, ever-pressing strife of mind and unrest of life is passing, an eddy in the tide has borne him into quieter waters, and if the hum of the world reaches his solitude, it no longer rouses him to headlong action. Secure in his position as the foremost man of letters Sweden has produced in modern times, the last representative of that distinguished group of Scandinavian writers which included Ibsen, Bjornson and Brandes, with a Continental reputation surpassing that of any one of them, Strindberg well may be entitled to dream of the past. One day when in the evolution of the drama Strindberg's technique shall have served its purpose and like Ibsen's, be forced to give way before the advance of younger artists, when his most radical views shall have become the commonplaces of pseudo-culture, the scientific psychologist will take the man in hand and, from the minute record of his life, emotions, thoughts, fancies, speculations and nightmares, which he has embodied in autobiographical novels and that most remarkable perhaps of all his creations, abysmal in its pessimism, "The Inferno," will be drawn a true conception of the man. That the individual will prove quite as interesting a study as his literary work, even the briefest outline of Strindberg's life will suggest. The lack of harmony in his soul that has permeated his life and work with theses and antitheses Strindberg tries to explain through heredity, a by no means satisfying or complete solution for the motivation of his frequently unusual conduct and exceptional temperamental qualities, which the abnormal psychologist is in the habit of associating with that not inconsiderable group of cases in which the emotional and temperamental characteristics of the opposite sex are dominant in the individual. His ancestry has been traced back to the sixteenth century, when his father's family was of the titled aristocracy, later, generation after generation, becoming churchmen, although Strindberg's father, Carl Oscar, undertook a commercial career. His mother, Ulrica Eleanora Norling, was the daughter of a poor tailor, whom Strindberg's father first met as a waitress in a hotel, and, falling in love with her, married, after she had borne him three children. August, christened Johann August, the fourth child, was born at Stockholm, January 22, 1849, soon after his father had become a bankrupt. There was little light or cheer in the boy's home; the misfortune that overtook the family at the time of August's birth always hung over them like a dark cloud; the mother became nervous and worn from the twelve child-births she survived, the father serious and reserved. The children were brought up strictly and as August was no favorite, loneliness and hostility filled even his earliest years. His first school days were spent among boys of the better class, who turned up their noses at his leather breeches and heavy boots. He was taken away from that school and sent where there was a lower class of boys, whose leader he soon became, but in his studies he was far from precocious, though not dull. As he grew up the family fortunes bettered, and he attended a private school patronized by cultivated and wealthy people. Mixing so with both classes meant much in the development of the youth, and he began to realize that he belonged to both and neither, felt homeless, torn in his sympathies and antipathies, plebian and aristocratic at the same time. In his thirteenth year, his mother died, a loss for which his father was apparently soon consoled, as in less than a year he married his housekeeper. This was another blow to the boy, for he disliked the woman, and there was soon war between them. At fifteen he fell in love with it woman of thirty of very religious character, and its this was a period of fervent belief with the youth himself, she became an influence in his life for Home time, but one day a young comrade asked him to luncheon at a cafe, and for the first time Strindberg partook of schnaps and ale with a hearty meal. This little luncheon was the event which broke up the melancholy introspection of his youth and stirred him to activity. He went to Upsala University for one term and then left, partly on account of the lack of funds for books, and partly because the slow, pedantic methods of learning were distasteful to his restless, active nature. He then became a school teacher; next interested in medical science, which he studied energetically, until the realities of suffering drove him from it. About this time, the same time, by the way, that Ibsen's "The League of Youth" was being hissed down at Christiana, the creative artist in Strindberg began to stir, and after six months more of turmoil of soul, he turned to the stage as a possible solution, making his debut at the Dramatiska Theatre in 1869 in Bjornson's "Mary Stuart," in the part of a lord with one line to speak. After two months of no advancement he found courage to ask to be heard in one of the classical roles he had been studying. The director, tired from a long rehearsal, reluctantly consented to listen to him, likewise, the bored company of actors. Strindberg went on "to do or die," and was soon shouting like a revivalist, and made such it bad impression that he was advised to go to the dramatic school to study. He went home disgusted and heartsick, and, determined to take his life, swallowed an opium pill which he had long been keeping for that purpose. However, it was not sufficiently powerful, and, a friend coming to see him, he was persuaded to go out, and together they drowned his chagrin in an evening at it café. The day after was a memorable one, for it was Strindberg's birthday as a dramatist. He was lying on a sofa at home, his body still hot from the shame of his defeat--and wine, trying to figure out how he could persuade his stepmother to effect a reconciliation between him and his father. He saw the scenes played as clearly as though on a stage, and with his brain working at high pressure, in two hours had the scheme for two acts of a comedy worked out. In four days it was finished--Strindberg's first play! It was refused production, but he was complimented, and felt that his honor was saved. The fever of writing took possession of him and within two months he had finished two comedies, and a tragedy in verse called "Hermione," which was later produced. Giving so much promise as a dramatist he was persuaded to leave the stage and, unwilling of spirit, returned to Upsala in the spring of 1870, as he was advised that he would never be recognized as a writer unless he had secured is university degree. The means with which to continue his studies were derived from the two hundred crowns left him by his mother, which he now forced his father to allow him to use. Despite this, however, his fortunes often ran to the lowest ebb. One day Strindberg announced that he had a one act play called "In Rome" to read to the "Runa" (Song) Club, a group of six students whom he had gotten together, and which was devoted exclusively to the reading of the poetry of its members. The play, based upon an incident in the life of Thorvaldsen, was received enthusiastically by the "Runa," and the rest of the night was spent in high talk of Strindberg's future over a champagne supper in his honor given by one of the well-to-do members. These days of homage and appreciation from this student group Strindberg cherishes as the happiest time in his life, but notwithstanding their worshipful attitude, he himself was full of doubts and misgivings about his abilities. One of these friends sent the manuscript of "In Rome" to the Dramatiska Theatre at Stockholm, where it was accepted and produced anonymously in August of the same year, 1870. Strindberg was present at the premiere and although it was well received, to him it was all a fine occasion--except the play! He was ashamed of his self-confession in it and fled before the final curtain. He soon finished another play, "The Outlaw," which is included in the present volume. In this drama, which retains a high place among his plays, Strindberg shows for the first time his lion's claw and in it began to speak with his own voice. It was accepted by the Court Theatre at Stockholm for production during the next autumn, that of 1871. At the close of the summer, after a violent quarrel with his father, he returned to the University in the hope of finding help from his comrades. Arrived at Upsala, with just one crown, he found that many of his old and more prosperous friends were no longer there. Times were harder than ever. But at last a gleam of hope came with the news that "The Outlaw" was actually to be produced. And his wildest dreams were then realized, for, despite the unappreciative attitude of the critics toward this splendid Viking piece, the King, Carl XV, after seeing the play, commanded Strindberg to appear before him. Strindberg regarded the summons as the perpetration of a practical joke, and only obeyed it after making sure by telegraph that it was not a hoax. Strindberg tells of the kindly old king standing with a big pipe in his hand as the young author strode between chamberlains and other court dignitaries into the royal presence. The king, a grandson of Napoleon's marshal Bernadotte, and as a Frenchman on the throne of Sweden, diplomatic enough to desire at least the appearance of being more Swedish than the Swedes, spoke of the pleasure the ancient Viking spirit of "The Outlaw" had given him, and, after talking genially for some time, said, "You are the son of Strindberg, the steamship agent, I believe and so, of course, are not in need." "Quite the reverse," Strindberg replied, explaining that his father no longer gave him the meager help in his university course, which he had formerly done. "How much can you get along on per annum until you graduate?" asked the king. Strindberg was unable to say in a moment. "I'm rather short of coin myself," said the king quite frankly, "but do you think you could manage on eight hundred riksdaler a year?" Strindberg was overwhelmed by such munificence, and the interview was concluded by his introduction to the court treasurer, from whom he received his first quarter's allowance of two hundred crowns. Full of thankfulness for this unexpected turn of fate, the young dramatist returned to Upsala. For once he appeared satisfied with his lot, and took up his studies with more earnestness than ever. The year 1871 closed brilliantly for the young writer, for in addition to the kingly favor be received honorable mention from the Swedish Academy for his Greek drama "Hermione." The following year, 1872, life at the university again began to pall on his restless mind, and he took to painting. Then followed a serious disagreement with one of the professors, so that when he received word from the court treasurer that it was uncertain whether his stipend could be continued on account of the death of the king, he decided to leave the University for good. At a farewell banquet in his honor, he expressed his appreciation of all he had received from his student friends, saying, "A personality does not develop from itself, but out of each soul it comes in contact with, it sucks a drop, just as the bee gathers its honey from a million flowers giving it forth eventually as its own." Strindberg went to Stockholm to become a literateur and, if possible, a creative artist. He gleaned a living from newspaper work for a few months, but in the summer went to a fishing village on a remote island in Bothnia Bay where, in his twenty-third year, he wrote his great historical drama, "Master Olof." Breaking away from traditions and making flesh and blood creations instead of historical skeletons in this play, it was refused by all the managers of the theatres, who assured Strindberg that the public would not tolerate any such unfamiliar methods. Strindberg protested, and defended and tried to elucidate his realistic handling of the almost sacred historical personages, but in vain, for "Master Olof" was not produced until seven years later, when it was put on at the Swedish Theatre at Stockholm in 1880, the year Ibsen was writing "Ghosts" at Sorrento. In 1874, after a year or two of unsuccessful effort to make a living in various employments, he became assistant at the Court library, which was indeed a haven of refuge, a position providing both leisure for study and an assured income. Finding in the library some Chinese parchments which had not been catalogued; he plunged into the study of that language. A treatise which he wrote on the subject won him medals from various learned societies at home, as well as recognition from the French Institute. This success induced the many other treatises that followed, for which he received a variety of decorations, and along with the honors nearly brought upon himself "a salubrious idiocy," to use his own phrase. Then something happened that stirred the old higher voice in him,--he fell in love. He had been invited through a woman friend to go to the home of Baron Wrangel, where his name as an author was esteemed. He refused the invitation, but the next day, walking in the city streets with this same woman friend, they encountered the Baroness Wrangel to whom Strindberg was introduced. The Baroness asked him once more to come. He promised to do so, and they separated. As Strindberg's friend went into a shop, he turned to look down the street; noting the beautiful lines of the disappearing figure of the Baroness, noting, too, a stray lock of her golden hair, that had escaped from her veil, and played against the white ruching at her throat. He gazed after her long, in fact, until she disappeared in the crowded street. From that moment he was not a free man. The friendship which followed resulted in the divorce of the Baroness from her husband and her marriage to Strindberg, December 30, 1877, when he was twenty-eight years old. At last Strindberg had someone to love, to take care of, to worship. This experience of happiness, so strange to him, revived the creative impulse. The following year, 1878, "Master Olof" was finally accepted for publication, and won immediate praise and appreciation. This, to his mind, belated success, roused in Strindberg a smoldering resentment, which lack of confidence and authority of position had heretofore caused him to repress. He broke out with a burning satire, in novel form, called "The Red Room," the motto of which he made Voltaire's words "Rien n'est si désagréable que s'etre pendu obscurément." Hardly more than mention can be made of the important work of this dramatist, poet, novelist, historian, scientist and philosopher. In 1888 he left Sweden, as the atmosphere there had become too disagreeable for him through controversy after controversy in which lie became involved. He joined a group of painters and writers of all nationalities in it little village in France. There he wrote "La France," setting forth the relations between France and Sweden in olden times. This was published in Paris and the French government, tendered him the decoration of the legion of honor which, however, he refused very politely, explaining that he never wore a frock coat! The episode ends amusingly with the publisher, a Swede, receiving the decoration instead. In 1884 the first volume of his famous short stories, called "Marriages" appeared. It was aimed at the cult that had sprung up from Ibsen's "A Doll's House," which was threatening the peace of all households. A few days after the publication of "Marriages" the first edition was literally swallowed up. As the book dealt frankly with the physical facts of sex relations, it was confiscated by the Swedish government a month after its publication, and Strindberg was obliged to go to Stockholm to defend his cause in the courts, which he won, and in another month "Marriages" was again on the market. The next year, 1885, his "Real Utopias" was written in Switzerland, an attack, in the form of four short stories, on over-civilization, which won him much applause in Germany. He went to Italy as a special correspondent for the "Daily News" of Stockholm. In 1886 the much anticipated second volume of "Marriages" appeared. These were the short stories, satisfying to the simplest as well as to the most discriminating minds, that attracted Nietzsche's attention to Strindberg. A correspondence sprung up between the two men, referring to which in a letter to Peter Gast, Nietzsche said, "Strindberg has written to me, and for the first time I sense an answering note of universality." The mutual admiration and intellectual sympathies of these two conspicuous creative geniuses has led a number of critics, including Edmund Gosse, into the error of attributing to Nietzsche a dominating influence over Strindberg. It should be remembered, however, the "Countess Julie" and "The Father," which are cited its the most obvious examples of that supposed influence, were completed before Strindberg's acquaintance with Nietzsche's philosophy, and that among others, the late John Davidson, is also charged with having drawn largely from Nietzsche. The fact is, that, during the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the most original thinkers of many countries were quite independently, though less clearly, evolving the same philosophic principals that the master mind of Nietzsche was radiating in the almost blinding flashes of his genius. Then came the period during which Strindberg attained the highest peaks of his work, the years 1886-90, with his autobiography, "The Servant Woman's Son," the tragedies, "The Father," and "Countess Julie," the comedies, "Comrades," and "The Stronger," and the tragi-comedies, "The Creditors" and "Simoon." Of these, "The Father" and "Countess Julie" soon made Strindberg's name known and honored throughout Europe, except in his home country. In "The Father" perhaps his biggest vision is felt. It was published in French soon after it appeared in Sweden, with an introduction by Zola in which he says, "To be brief, you have written a mighty and captivating work. It is one of the few dramas that have had the power to stir me to the depths." Of his choice of theme in "Countess Julie," Strindberg says: "When I took this motive from life, as it was related to me a few years ago, it made a strong impression on me. I found it suitable for tragedy, and it still makes a sorrowful impression on me to see an individual to whom happiness has been allotted go under, much more, to see a line become extinct." And in defence of his realism he has said further in his preface to "Countess Julie": "The theatre has for a long time seemed to me the Biblia pauperum in the fine arts, a bible with pictures for those who can neither read nor write, and the dramatist is the revivalist, and the revivalist dishes tap the ideas of the day in popular form, so popular that the middle class, of whom the bulk of theatre-goers is comprised, can without burdening their brains understand what it is all about. The theatre therefore has always been a grammar school for the young, the half-educated, and women, who still possess the primitive power of being able to delude themselves and of allowing themselves to be deluded, that is to say, receive illusions and accept suggestions from the dramatist. *** Some people have accused my tragedy, 'The Father' of being too sad, as though one desired a merry tragedy. People call authoritatively for the 'Joy of Life' and theatrical managers call for farces, as though the Joy of Life lay in being foolish, and in describing people who each and every one are suffering from St. Vitus' dance or idiocy. I find the joy of life in the powerful, terrible struggles of life; and the capability of experiencing something, of learning something, is a pleasure to me. And therefore I have chosen an unusual but instructive subject; in other words, an exception, but a great exception, that will strengthen the rules which offend the apostle of the commonplace. What will further create antipathy in some, is the fact that my plan of action is not simple, and that there is not one view alone to be taken of it. An event in life--and that is rather a new discovery--is usually occasioned by a series of more or less deep-seated motifs, but the spectator generally chooses that one which his power of judgment finds simplest to grasp, or that his gift of judgment considers the most honorable. For example, someone commits suicide: 'Bad business!' says the citizen; 'Unhappy love!' says the woman; 'Sickness!' says the sick man; 'Disappointed hopes?' the bankrupt. But it may be that none of these reasons is the real one, and that the dead man hid the real one by pretending another that would throw the most favorable light on his memory. *** In the following drama ('Julie') I have not sought to do anything new, because that cannot be done, but only to modernize the form according to the requirements I have considered present-day people require." Following the mighty output, of those years, in 1891 Strindberg went out: to the islands where he had lived years before, and led a hermit's life. Many of his romantic plays were written there, and much of his time was spent at painting. In 1892 he was divorced from his wife. After a few months Strindberg went to Berlin, where he was received with all honors by literary Germany. Richard Dehmel, one of their foremost minstrels, celebrated the event by a poem called "An Immortal,--To Germany's Guest." In the shop windows his picture hung alongside that of Bismarck, and at the theatres his plays were being produced. About this time he heard of the commotion that "Countess Julie" had created in Paris, where it had been produced by Antoine. During these victorious times Strindberg met a young Austrian writer, Frida Uhl, to whom he was married in April 1898. Although the literary giant of the hour, he was nevertheless in very straightened pecuniary circumstances, which led to his allowing the publication of "A Fool's Confession," written in French, and later, with out his permission or knowledge, issued in German and Swedish, which entangled him in a lawsuit, as the subject matter contained much of his marital miseries. Interest in chemistry had long been stirring in Strindberg's mind; it now began to deepen. About this time also he passed through that religious crisis which swept artistic Europe, awakened nearly a century after his death by that Swedenborgian poet and artist, William Blake. To this period belongs "To Damascus," a play of deepest soul probing, which was not finished however until 1904. Going to Paris in the fall of 1894, to pursue chemical research most seriously, he ran into his own success at the theatres there. "The Creditors" had been produced and Strindberg was induced to undertake the direction of "The Father" at the Theatre de l'Oeuvre, where it was a tremendous success. A Norwegian correspondent was forced to send word home that with "The Father" Strindberg had overreached Ibsen in Paris, because what it had never been possible to do with an Ibsen play, have a run in Paris, they were now doing with Strindberg. At the same time the Theâtre des Ecaliers put on "The Link," the Odean produced "The Secret of the Guild," and the Chat Noir "The Kings of Heaven," and translations of his novels were running in French periodicals. But Strindberg turned his back on all this success and shut himself up in his laboratory to delve into chemistry. This he did with such earnestness that with his discovery of Swedenborg his experimentations and speculations reduced him to a condition of mind that unfitted him for any kind of companionship, so that when his wife left him to go to their child who was ill and far away, he welcomed the complete freedom. Strindberg says of their parting at the railway station that although they smiled and waved to each other as they called out "Auf wiedersehen" they both knew that they were saying good bye forever, which proved to be true, as they were divorced a year later. In 1896 he returned to Sweden so broken in health through his tremendous wrestling with the riddle of life that he went into the sanitorium of his friend, Dr. Aliasson at Wstad. After two months he was sufficiently restored to go to Austria, at the invitation of his divorced wife's family, to see his child. Then back to Sweden, to Lund, a university town, where he lived solely to absorb Swedenborg. By May of that year he was able to go to work on "The Inferno," that record of a soul's nightmare, which in all probability will remain unique in the history of literature. Then came the writing of the great historical dramas, then the realistically symbolic plays of Swedenborgian spirit, of which "Easter" is representative, and the most popular. When "Easter" was produced in Stockholm a young Norwegian, Harriet Bosse, played Eleanora, the psychic, and in 1901 this young actress became Strindberg's wife. This third marriage ended in divorce three years later. In 1906, the actor manager, August Folk, produced "Countess Julie" in Stockholm, seventeen years after it had been written. To Strindberg's amazement, it won such tremendous attention that the other theatres became deserted. In consequence of this success an intimate theatre was founded for the production of none but Strindberg's plays. How he is estimated today in his own country may be judged by the following extract from an article which appeared in a recent issue of the leading periodical of Stockholm: "For over thirty years he has dissected us from every point of view; during that time his name has always been conspicuous in every book-shop window and his books gradually push out the others from our shelves; every night his plays are produced at the theatres; every conversation turns on him, and his is the name the pigmies quarrel over daily; the cry is heard that he has become hysterical, sentimental, out of his mind, but the next one knows, he is robustness itself, and enduring beyond belief, despite great need, enmity, sorrow. One hour one is angry over some extravagance which he has allowed himself, the next captivated by one of his plays, stirred, melted, strengthened and uplifted by his sublime genius." THE FATHER CHARACTERS A CAPTAIN OF CAVALRY LAURA, his wife BERTHA, their daughter DOCTOR OSTERMARK THE PASTOR THE NURSE NÖJD AN ORDERLY ACT I. [The sitting room at the Captain's. There is a door a little to the right at the back. In the middle of the room, a large, round table strewn with newspapers and magazines. To right a leather-covered sofa and table. In the right-hand corner a private door. At left there is a door leading to the inner room and a desk with a clock on it. Gamebags, guns and other arms hang on the walls. Army coats hang near door at back. On the large table stands a lighted lamp.] CAPTAIN [rings, an orderly comes in.] ORDERLY. Yes, Captain. CAPTAIN. Is Nöjd out there? ORDERLY. He is waiting for orders in the kitchen. CAPTAIN. In the kitchen again, is he? Send him in at once. ORDERLY. Yes, Captain. [Goes.] PASTOR. What's the matter now? CAPTAIN. Oh the rascal has been cutting up with the servant-girl again; he's certainly a bad lot. PASTOR. Why, Nöjd got into the same trouble year before last, didn't he? CAPTAIN. Yes, you remember? Won't you be good enough to give him a friendly talking to and perhaps you can make some impression on him. I've sworn at him and flogged him, too, but it hasn't had the least effect. PASTOR. And so you want me to preach to him? What effect do you suppose the word of God will have on a rough trooper? CAPTAIN. Well, it certainly has no effect on me. PASTOR. I know that well enough. CAPTAIN. Try it on him, anyway. [Nöjd comes in.] CAPTAIN. What have you been up to now, Nöjd? NÖJD. God save you, Captain, but I couldn't talk about it with the Pastor here. PASTOR. Don't be afraid of me, my boy. CAPTAIN. You had better confess or you know what will happen. NÖJD. Well, you see it was like this; we were at a dance at Gabriel's, and then--then Ludwig said-- CAPTAIN. What has Ludwig got to do with it? Stick to the truth. NÖJD. Yes, and Emma said "Let's go into the barn--" CAPTAIN.--Oh, so it was Emma who led you astray, was it? NÖJD. Well, not far from it. You know that unless the girl is willing nothing ever happens. CAPTAIN. Never mind all that: Are you the father of the child or not? NÖJD. Who knows? CAPTAIN. What's that? Don't you know? NÖJD. Why no--that is, you can never be sure. CAPTAIN. Weren't you the only one? NÖJD. Yes, that time, but you can't be sure for all that. CAPTAIN. Are you trying to put the blame on Ludwig? Is that what you are up to? NÖJD. Well, you see it isn't easy to know who is to blame. CAPTAIN. Yes, but you told Emma you would marry her. NÖJD. Oh, a fellow's always got to say that-- CAPTAIN [to Pastor.] This is terrible, isn't it? PASTOR. It's the old story over again. See here, Nöjd, you surely ought to know whether you are the father or not? NÖJD. Well, of course I was mixed up with the girl--but you know yourself, Pastor, that it needn't amount to anything for all that. PASTOR. Look here, my lad, we are talking about you now. Surely you won't leave the girl alone with the child. I suppose we can't compel you to marry her, but you should provide for the child--that you shall do! NÖJD. Well, then, so must Ludwig, too. CAPTAIN. Then the case must go to the courts. I cannot ferret out the truth of all this, nor is it to my liking. So now be off. PASTOR. One moment, Nöjd. H'm--don't you think it dishonorable to leave a girl destitute like that with her child? Don't you think so? Don't you see that such conduct-- -- --h'm-- --h'm-- -- -- NÖJD. Yes, if I only knew for sure that I was father of the child, but you can't be sure of that, Pastor, and I don't see much fun slaving all your life for another man's child. Surely you, Pastor, and the Captain can understand for yourselves. CAPTAIN. Be off. NÖJD. God save you, Captain. [Goes.] CAPTAIN. But keep out of the kitchen, you rascal! [To Pastor.] Now, why didn't you get after him? PASTOR. What do you mean? CAPTAIN. Why, you only sat and mumbled something or other. PASTOR. To tell the truth I really don't know what to say. It is a pity about the girl, yes, and a pity about the lad, too. For think if he were not the father. The girl can nurse the child for four months at the orphanage, and then it will be permanently provided for, but it will be different for him. The girl can get a good place afterwards in some respectable family, but the lad's future may be ruined if he is dismissed from the regiment. CAPTAIN. Upon my soul I should like to be in the magistrate's shoes and judge this case. The lad is probably not innocent, one can't be sure, but we do know that the girl is guilty, if there is any guilt in the matter. PASTOR. Well, well, I judge no one. But what were we talking about when this stupid business interrupted us? It was about Bertha and her confirmation, wasn't it? CAPTAIN. Yes, but it was certainly not in particular about her confirmation but about her whole welfare. This house is full of women who all want to have their say about my child. My mother-in-law wants to make a Spiritualist of her. Laura wants her to be an artist; the governess wants her to be a Methodist, old Margret a Baptist, and the servant-girls want her to join the Salvation Army! It won't do to try to make a soul in patches like that. I, who have the chief right to try to form her character, am constantly opposed in my efforts. And that's why I have decided to send her away from home. PASTOR. You have too many women trying to run this house. CAPTAIN. You're right! It's like going into a cage full of tigers, and if I didn't hold a red-hot iron under their noses they would tear me to pieces any moment. And you laugh, you rascal! Wasn't it enough that I married your sister, without your palming off your old stepmother on me? PASTOR. But, good heavens, one can't have stepmothers in one's own house! CAPTAIN. No, you think it is better to have mothers-in-law in some one else's house! PASTOR. Oh well, we all have some burden in life. CAPTAIN. But mine is certainly too heavy. I have my old nurse into the bargain, who treats me as if I ought still to wear a bib. She is a good old soul, to be sure, and she must not be dragged into such talk. PASTOR. You must keep a tight rein on the women folks. You let them run things too much. CAPTAIN. Now will you please inform me how I'm to keep order among the women folk? PASTOR. Laura was brought up with a firm hand, but although she is my own sister, I must admit she _was_ pretty troublesome. CAPTAIN. Laura certainly has her faults, but with her it isn't so serious. PASTOR. Oh, speak out--I know her. CAPTAIN. She was brought up with romantic ideas, and it has been hard for her to find herself, but she is my wife-- PASTOR And because she is your wife she is the best of wives? No, my dear fellow, it is she who really wears on you most. CAPTAIN. Well, anyway, the whole house is topsy-turvy. Laura won't let Bertha leave her, and I can't allow her to remain in this bedlam. PASTOR. Oh, so Laura won't? Well, then, I'm afraid you are in for trouble. When she was a child if she set her mind on anything she used to play dead dog till she got it, and then likely as not she would give it back, explaining that it wasn't the thing she wanted, but having her own way. CAPTAIN. So she was like that even then? H'm--she really gets into such a passion sometimes that I am anxious about her and afraid she is ill. PASTOR. But what do you want to do with Bertha that is so unpardonable? Can't you compromise? CAPTAIN. You mustn't think I want to make a prodigy of her or an image of myself. I don't want to be it procurer for my daughter and educate her exclusively for matrimony, for then if she were left unmarried she might have bitter days. On the other hand, I don't want to influence her toward a career that requires a long course of training which would be entirely thrown away if she should marry. PASTOR. What do you want, then? CAPTAIN. I want her to be it teacher. If she remains unmarried she will be able to support herself, and at any rate she wouldn't be any worse off than the poor schoolmasters who have to share their salaries with a family. If she marries she can use her knowledge in the education of her children. Am I right? PASTOR. Quite right. But, on the other hand, hasn't she shown such talent for painting that it would be a great pity to crush it? CAPTAIN. No! I have shown her sketches to an eminent painter, and he says they are only the kind of thing that can be learned at schools. But then a young fop came here in the summer who, of course, understands the matter much better, and he declared that she had colossal genius, and so that settled it to Laura's satisfaction. PASTOR. Was he quite taken with Bertha? CAPTAIN. That goes without saying. PASTOR. Then God help you, old man, for in that case I see no hope. This is pretty bad--and, of course, Laura has her supporters--in there? CAPTAIN. Yes, you may be sure of that; the whole house is already up in arms, and, between ourselves, it is not exactly a noble conflict that is being waged from that quarter. PASTOR. Don't you think I know that? CAPTAIN. You do? PASTOR. I do. CAPTAIN. But the worst of it is, it strikes me that Bertha's future is being decided from spiteful motives. They hint that men better be careful, because women can do this or that now-a-days. All day long, incessantly, it is a conflict between man and woman. Are you going? No, stay for supper. I have no special inducements to offer, but do stay. You know I am expecting the new doctor. Have you seen him? PASTOR. I caught a glimpse of him as I came along. He looked pleasant, and reliable. CAPTAIN. That's good. Do you think it possible he may become my ally? PASTOR. Who can tell? It depends on how much he has been among women. CAPTAIN. But won't you really stay? PASTOR. No thanks, my dear fellow; I promised to be home for supper, and the wife gets uneasy if I am late. CAPTAIN. Uneasy? Angry, you mean. Well, as you will. Let me help you with your coat. PASTOR. It's certainly pretty cold tonight. Thanks. You must take care of your health, Adolf, you seem rather nervous. CAPTAIN. Nervous? PASTOR. Yes, you are not, really very well. CAPTAIN. Has Laura put that into your head? She has treated me for the last twenty years as if I were at the point of death. PASTOR. Laura? No, but you make me uneasy about you. Take care of yourself--that's my advice! Good-bye, old man; but didn't you want to talk about the confirmation? CAPTAIN. Not at all! I assure you that matter will have to take its course in the ordinary way at the cost of the clerical conscience for I am neither a believer nor a martyr. PASTOR. Good-bye. Love to Laura. [Goes.] [The Captain opens his desk and seats himself at it. Takes up account books.] CAPTAIN [Figuring.] Thirty-four--nine, forty-three--seven, eight, fifty-six-- LAURA [Coming in from inner room.] Will you be kind enough-- CAPTAIN. Just a moment! Sixty-six--seventy-one, eighty-four, eighty-nine, ninety-two, a hundred. What is it? LAURA. Am I disturbing you? CAPTAIN. Not at all. Housekeeping money, I suppose? LAURA. Yes, housekeeping money. CAPTAIN. Put the accounts down there and I will go over them. LAURA. The accounts? CAPTAIN. Yes. LAURA. Am I to keep accounts now? CAPTAIN. Of course you are to keep accounts. Our affairs are in a precarious condition, and in case of a liquidation, accounts are necessary, or one is liable to punishment for being careless. LAURA. It's not my fault that our affairs are in a precarious condition. CAPTAIN. That is exactly what the accounts will decide. LAURA. It's not my fault that our tenant doesn't pay. CAPTAIN. Who recommended this tenant so warmly? You! Why did you recommend a--good-for-nothing, we'll call him? LAURA. But why did you rent to this good-for-nothing? CAPTAIN. Because I was not allowed to eat in peace, nor sleep in peace, nor work in peace, till you women got that man here. You wanted him so that your brother might be rid of him, your mother wanted him because I didn't want him, the governess wanted him because he reads his Bible, and old Margret because she had known his grandmother from childhood. That's why he was taken, and if he hadn't been taken, I'd be in a madhouse by now or lying in my grave. However, here is the housekeeping money and your pin money. You may give me the accounts later. LAURA [Curtesies.] Thanks so much. Do you too keep an account of what you spend besides the housekeeping money? CAPTAIN. That doesn't concern you. LAURA. No, that's true--just as little as my child's education concerns me. Have the gentlemen come to a decision after this evening's conference? CAPTAIN. I had already come to a decision, and therefore it only remained for me to talk it over with the one friend I and the family have in common. Bertha is to go to boarding school in town, and starts in a fortnight. LAURA. To which boarding school, if I may venture to ask? CAPTAIN. Professor Säfberg's. LAURA. That free thinker! CAPTAIN. According to the law, children are to be brought up in their father's faith. LAURA. And the mother has no voice in the matter? CAPTAIN. None whatever. She has sold her birthright by a legal transaction, and forfeited her rights in return for the man's responsibility of caring for her and her children. LAURA. That is to say she has no rights concerning her child. CAPTAIN. No, none at all. When once one has sold one's goods, one cannot have them back and still keep the money. LAURA. But if both father and mother should agree? CAPTAIN. Do you think that could ever happen? I want her to live in town, you want her to stay at home. The arithmetical result would be that she remain at the railway station midway between train and home. This is a knot that cannot be untied, you see. LAURA. Then it must be broken. What did Nöjd want here? CAPTAIN. That is an official secret. LAURA. Which the whole kitchen knows! CAPTAIN. Good, then you must know it. LAURA. I do know it. CAPTAIN. And have your judgment ready-made? LAURA. My judgment is the judgment of the law. CAPTAIN. But it is not written in the law who the child's father is. LAURA. No, but one usually knows that. CAPTAIN. Wise minds claim that one can never know. LAURA. That's strange. Can't one ever know who the father of a child is? CAPTAIN. No; so they claim. LAURA. How extraordinary! How can the father have such control over the children then? CAPTAIN. He has control only when he has assumed the responsibilities of the child, or has had them forced upon him. But in wedlock, of course, there is no doubt about the fatherhood. LAURA. There are no doubts then? CAPTAIN. Well, I should hope not. LAURA. But if the wife has been unfaithful? CAPTAIN. That's another matter. Was there anything else you wanted to say? LAURA. Nothing. CAPTAIN. Then I shall go up to my room, and perhaps you will be kind enough to let me know when the doctor arrives. [Closes desk and rises] LAURA. Certainly. [Captain goes through the primate door right.] CAPTAIN. As soon as he comes. For I don't want to seem rude to him, you understand. [Goes.] LAURA. I understand. [Looks at the money she holds in her hands.] MOTHER-IN-LAW'S VOICE [Within.] Laura! LAURA. Yes. MOTHER-IN-LAW'S VOICE. Is my tea ready? LAURA [In doorway to inner room]. In just a moment. [Laura goes toward hall door at back as the orderly opens it.] ORDERLY. Doctor Ostermark. DOCTOR. Madam! LAURA [Advances and offers her hand]. Welcome, Doctor--you are heartily welcome. The Captain is out, but he will be back soon. DOCTOR. I hope you will excuse my coming so late, but I have already been called upon to pay some professional visits. LAURA. Sit down, won't you? DOCTOR. Thank you. LAURA. Yes, there is a great deal of illness in the neighborhood just now, but I hope it will agree with you here. For us country people living in such isolation it is of great value to find a doctor who is interested in his patients, and I hear so many nice things of you, Doctor, that I hope the pleasantest relations will exist between us. DOCTOR. You are indeed kind, and I hope for your sake my visits to you will not often be caused by necessity. Your family is, I believe, as a rule in good health-- LAURA. Fortunately we have bear spared acute illnesses, but still things are not altogether as they should be. DOCTOR. Indeed? LAURA. Heaven knows, things are not as might be wished. DOCTOR. Really, you alarm me. LAURA. There are some circumstances in a family which through honor and conscience one is forced to conceal from the whole world-- DOCTOR. Excepting the doctor. LAURA. Exactly. It is, therefore, my painful duty to tell you the whole truth immediately. DOCTOR. Shouldn't we postpone this conference until I have had the honor of being introduced to the Captain? LAURA. No! You must hear me before seeing him. DOCTOR. It relates to him then? LAURA. Yes, to him, my poor, dear husband. DOCTOR. You alarm me, indeed, and believe me, I sympathize with your misfortune. LAURA [Taking out handkerchief]. My husband's mind is affected. Now you know all, and may judge for yourself when you see him. DOCTOR. What do you say? I have read the Captain's excellent treatises on mineralogy with admiration, and have found that they display a clear and powerful intellect. LAURA. Really? How happy I should be if we should all prove to be mistaken. DOCTOR. But of course it is possible that his mind might be affected in other directions. LAURA. That is just what we fear, too. You see he has sometimes the most extraordinary ideas which, of course, one might expect in a learned man, if they did not have a disastrous effect on the welfare of his whole family. For instance, one of his whims is buying all kinds of things. DOCTOR. That is serious; but what does he buy? LAURA. Whole boxes of books that he never reads. DOCTOR. There is nothing strange about a scholar's buying books. LAURA. You don't believe what I am saying? DOCTOR. Well, Madam, I am convinced that you believe what you are saying. LAURA. Tell me, is it reasonable to think that one can see what is happening on another planet by looking through a microscope? DOCTOR. Does he say he can do that? LAURA. Yes, that's what he says. DOCTOR. Through a microscope? LAURA. Through a microscope, yes. DOCTOR. This is serious, if it is so. LAURA. If it is so! Then you have no faith in me, Doctor, and here I sit confiding the family secret to-- DOCTOR. Indeed, Madam, I am honored by your confidence, but as a physician I must investigate and observe before giving an opinion. Has the Captain ever shown any symptoms of indecision or instability of will? LAURA. Has he! We have been married twenty years, and he has never yet made a decision without changing his mind afterward. DOCTOR. Is he obstinate? LAURA. He always insists on having his own way, but once he has got it he drops the whole matter and asks me to decide. DOCTOR. This is serious, and demands close observation. The will, you see, is the mainspring of the mind, and if it is affected the whole mind goes to pieces. LAURA. God knows how I have taught myself to humor his wishes through all these long years of trial. Oh, if you knew what a life I have endured with him--if you only knew. DOCTOR. Your misfortune touches me deeply, and I promise you to see what can be done. I pity you with all my heart, and I beg you to trust me completely. But after what I have heard I must ask you to avoid suggesting any ideas that might make a deep impression on the patient, for in a weak brain they develop rapidly and quickly turn to monomania or fixed ideas. LAURA. You mean to avoid arousing suspicions? DOCTOR. Exactly. One can make the insane believe anything, just because they are receptive to everything. LAURA. Indeed? Then I understand. Yes--yes. [A bell rings within.] Excuse me, my mother wishes to speak to me. One moment-- --Ah, here is Adolf. [Captain comes in through private door.] CAPTAIN. Oh, here already, Doctor? You are very welcome. DOCTOR. Captain! It is a very great pleasure to me to make the acquaintance of so celebrated a man of science. CAPTAIN. Oh, I beg of you. The duties of service do not allow me to make any very profound investigations, but I believe I am now really on the track of a discovery. DOCTOR. Indeed? CAPTAIN. You see, I have submitted meteoric stones to spectrum analysis, with the result that I have found carbon, that, is to say, a clear trace of organic life. What do you say to that? DOCTOR. Can you see that with it microscope? CAPTAIN. Lord, no--with the spectroscope. DOCTOR. The spectroscope! Pardon. Then you will soon be able to tell us what is happening on Jupiter. CAPTAIN. Not what is happening, but what has happened. If only the confounded booksellers in Paris would send me the books; but I believe all the booksellers in the universe have conspired against me. Think of it, for the last two months not a single one has ever answered my communications, neither letters nor abusive telegrams. I shall go mad over it, and I can't imagine what's the matter. DOCTOR. Oh, I suppose it's the usual carelessness; you mustn't let it vex you so. CAPTAIN. But the devil of it is I shall not get my treatise done in time, and I know they are working along the same lines in Berlin. But we shouldn't be talking about this--but about you. If you care to live here we have rooms for you in the wing, or perhaps you would rather live in the old quarters? DOCTOR. Just as you like. CAPTAIN. No, as you like. Which is it to be? DOCTOR. You must decide that, Captain. CAPTAIN. No, it's not for me to decide. You must say which you prefer. I have no preference in the matter, none at all. DOCTOR. Oh, but I really cannot decide. CAPTAIN. For heaven's sake, Doctor, say which you prefer. I have no choice in the matter, no opinion, no wishes. Haven't you got character enough to know what you want? Answer me, or I shall be provoked. DOCTOR. Well, if it rests with me, I prefer to live here. CAPTAIN. Thank you--forgive me, Doctor, but nothing annoys me so touch as to see people undecided about anything. [Nurse comes in.] Oh, there you are, Margret. Do you happen to know whether the rooms in the wing are in order for the Doctor? NURSE. Yes, sir, they are. CAPTAIN. Very well. Then I won't detain you, Doctor; you must be tired. Good bye, and welcome once more. I shall see you tomorrow, I hope. DOCTOR. Good evening, Captain. CAPTAIN. I daresay that my wife explained conditions here to you a little, so that you have some idea how the land lies? DOCTOR. Yes, your excellent wife has given me a few hints about this and that, such as were necessary to a stranger. Good evening, Captain. CAPTAIN [To Nurse]. What do you want, you old dear? What is it? NURSE. Now, little Master Adolf, just listen-- CAPTAIN. Yes, Margret, you are the only one I can listen to without having spasms. NURSE. Now, listen, Mr. Adolf. Don't you think you should go half-way and come to an agreement with Mistress in this fuss over the child? Just think of a mother-- CAPTAIN. Think of a father, Margret. NURSE. There, there, there. A father has something besides his child, but a mother has nothing but her child. CAPTAIN. Just so, you old dear. She has only one burden, but I have three, and I have her burden too. Don't you think that I should hold a better position in the world than that of a poor soldier if I had not had her and her child? NURSE. Well, that isn't what I wanted to talk about. CAPTAIN. I can well believe that, for you wanted to make it appear that I am in the wrong. NURSE. Don't you believe, Mr. Adolf, that I wish you well? CAPTAIN. Yes, dear friend, I do believe it; but you don't know what is for my good. You see it isn't enough for me to have given the child life, I want to give her my soul, too. NURSE. Such things I don't understand. But I do think that you ought to be able to agree. CAPTAIN. You are not my friend, Margret. NURSE. I? Oh, Lord, what are you saying, Mr. Adolf? Do you think I can forget that you were my child when you were little? CAPTAIN. Well, you dear, have I forgotten it? You have been like a mother to me, and always have stood by me when I had everybody against me, but now, when I really need you, you desert me and go over to the enemy. NURSE. The enemy! CAPTAIN, Yes, the enemy! You know well enough how things are in this house! You have seen everything from the beginning. NURSE. Indeed I have seen! But, God knows, why two people should torment the life out of each other; two people who are otherwise so good and wish all others well. Mistress is never like that to me or to others-- CAPTAIN. Only to me, I know it. But let me tell you, Margret, if you desert me now, you will do wrong. For now they have begun to weave a plot against me, and that doctor is not my friend. NURSE. Oh, Mr. Adolf, you believe evil about everybody. But you see it's because you haven't the true faith; that's just what it is. CAPTAIN. Yes, you and the Baptists have found the only true faith. You are indeed lucky! NURSE. Anyway, I'm not unhappy like you, Mr. Adolf. Humble your heart and you will see that God will make you happy in your love for your neighbor. CAPTAIN. It's a strange thing that you no sooner speak of God and love than your voice becomes hard and your eyes fill with hate. No, Margret, surely you have not the true faith. NURSE. Yes, go on being proud and hard in your learning, but it won't amount to much when it comes to the test. CAPTAIN. How mightily you talk, humble heart. I know very well that knowledge is of no use to you women. NURSE. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. But in spite of everything old Margret cares most for her great big boy, and he will come back to the fold when it's stormy weather. CAPTAIN. Margret! Forgive me, but believe me when I say that there is no one here who wishes me well but you. Help me, for I feel that something is going to happen here. What it is, I don't know, but something evil is on the way. [Scream from within.] What's that? Who's that screaming? [Berths enters from inner room.] BERTHA. Father! Father! Help me; save me. CAPTAIN. My dear child, what is it? Speak! BERTHA. Help me. She wants to hurt me. CAPTAIN. Who wants to hurt you? Tell me! Speak! BERTHA. Grandmother! But it's my fault for I deceived her. CAPTAIN. Tell me more. BERTHA. Yes, but you mustn't say anything about it. Promise me you won't. CAPTAIN. Tell me what it is then. [Nurse goes.] BERTHA. In the evening she generally turns down the lamp and then she makes me sit at a table holding a pen over a piece of paper. And then she says that the spirits are to write. CAPTAIN. What's all this--and you have never told me about it? BERTHA. Forgive me, but I dared not, for Grandmother says the spirits take revenge if one talks about them. And then the pen writes, but I don't know whether I'm doing it or not. Sometimes it goes well, but sometimes it won't go at all, and when I am tired nothing comes, but she wants it to come just the same. And tonight I thought I was writing beautifully, but then grandmother said it was all from Stagnelius, and that I had deceived her, and then she got terribly angry. CAPTAIN. Do you believe that there are spirits? BERTHA. I don't know. CAPTAIN. But I know that there are none. BERTHA. But Grandmother says that you don't understand, Father, and that you do much worse things--you who can see to other planets. CAPTAIN. Does she say that! Does she say that? What else does she say? BERTHA. She says that you can't work witchery. CAPTAIN. I never said that I could. You know what meteoric stones are,--stones that fall from other heavenly bodies. I can examine them and learn whether they contain the same elements as our world. That is all I can tell. BERTHA. But Grandmother says that there are things that she can see which you cannot see. CAPTAIN. Then she lies. BERTHA. Grandmother doesn't tell lies. CAPTAIN. Why doesn't she? BERTHA. Then Mother tells lies too. CAPTAIN. H'm! BERTHA. And if you say that Mother lies, I can never believe in you again. CAPTAIN. I have not said so; and so you must believe in me when I tell you that it is for your future good that you should leave home. Will you? Will you go to town and learn something useful? BERTHA. Oh, yes, I should love to go to town, away from here, anywhere. If I can only see you sometimes--often. Oh, it is so gloomy and awful in there all the time, like a winter night, but when you come home Father, it is like a morning in spring when they take off the double windows. CAPTAIN. My beloved child! My dear child! BERTHA. But, Father, you'll be good to Mother, won't you? She cries so often. CAPTAIN. H'm--then you want to go to town? BERTHA. Yes, yes. CAPTAIN. But if Mother doesn't want you to go? BERTHA. But she must let me. CAPTAIN. But if she won't? BERTHA. Well, then, I don't know what will happen. But she must! She must! CAPTAIN. Will you ask her? BERTHA. You must ask her very nicely; she wouldn't pay any attention to my asking. CAPTAIN. H'm! Now if you wish it, and I wish it, and she doesn't wish it, what shall we do then? BERTHA. Oh, then it will all be in a tangle again! Why can't you both-- [Laura comes in.] LAURA. Oh, so Bertha is here. Then perhaps we may have her own opinion as the question of her future has to be decided. CAPTAIN. The child can hardly have any well-grounded opinion about what a young girl's life is likely to be, while we, on the contrary, can more easily estimate what it may be, as we have seen so many young girls grow up. LAURA. But as we are of different opinions Bertha must be the one to decide. CAPTAIN. No, I let no one usurp my rights, neither women nor children. Bertha, leave us. [Bertha goes out.] LAURA. You were afraid of hearing her opinion, because you thought it would be to my advantage. CAPTAIN. I know that she wishes to go away from home, but I know also that you possess the power of changing her mind to suit your pleasure. LAURA. Oh, am I really so powerful? CAPTAIN. Yes, you have a fiendish power of getting your own way; but so has anyone who does not scruple about, the way it is accomplished. How did you get Doctor Norling away, for instance, and how did you get this new doctor here? LAURA. Yes, how did I manage that? CAPTAIN. You insulted the other one so much that he left, and made your brother recommend this fellow. LAURA. Well, that was quite simple and legitimate. Is Bertha to leave home now? CAPTAIN. Yes, she is to start in a fortnight. LAURA. That is your decision? CAPTAIN. Yes. LAURA. Then I must try to prevent it. CAPTAIN. You cannot. LAURA. Can't I? Do you really think I would trust my daughter to wicked people to have her taught that everything her mother has implanted in her child is mere foolishness? Why, afterward, she would despise me all the rest of her life! CAPTAIN. Do you think that a father should allow ignorant and conceited women to teach his daughter that he is a charlatan? LAURA. It means less to the father. CAPTAIN. Why so? LAURA. Because the mother is closer to the child, as it has been discovered that no one can tell for a certainty who the father of a child is. CAPTAIN. How does that apply to this case? LAURA. You do not know whether you are Bertha's father or not. CAPTAIN. I do not know? LAURA. No; what no one knows, you surely cannot know. CAPTAIN. Are you joking? LAURA. No; I am only making use of your own teaching. For that matter, how do you know that I have not been unfaithful to you? CAPTAIN. I believe you capable of almost anything, but not that, nor that you would talk about it if it were true. LAURA. Suppose that I was prepared to bear anything, even to being despised and driven out, everything for the sake of being able to keep and control my child, and that I am truthful now when I declare that Bertha is my child, but not yours. Suppose-- CAPTAIN. Stop now! LAURA. Just suppose this. In that case your power would be at an end. CAPTAIN. When you had proved that I was not the father. LAURA. That would not be difficult! Would you like me to do so? CAPTAIN. Stop! LAURA. Of course I should only need to declare the name of the real father, give all details of place and time. For instance--when was Bertha born? In the third year of our marriage. CAPTAIN. Stop now, or else-- LAURA. Or else, what? Shall we stop now? Think carefully about all you do and decide, and whatever you do, don't make yourself ridiculous. CAPTAIN. I consider all this most lamentable. LAURA. Which makes you all the more ridiculous. CAPTAIN. And you? LAURA. Oh, we women are really too clever. CAPTAIN. That's why one cannot contend with you. LAURA. Then why provoke contests with a superior enemy? CAPTAIN. Superior? LAURA. Yes, it's queer, but I have never looked at a man without knowing myself to be his superior. CAPTAIN. Then you shall be made to see your superior for once, so that you shall never forget it. LAURA. That will be interesting. NURSE [comes in]. Supper is served. Will you come in? LAURA. Very well. [Captain lingers; sits down with a magazine in an arm chair near table.] LAURA. Aren't you coming in to supper? CAPTAIN. No, thanks. I don't want anything. LAURA. What, are you annoyed? CAPTAIN. No, but I am not hungry. LAURA. Come, or they will ask unnecessary questions--be good now. You won't? Stay there then. [Goes.] NURSE. Mr. Adolf! What is this all about? CAPTAIN. I don't know what it is. Can you explain to me why you women treat an old man as if he were a child? NURSE. I don't understand it, but it must be because all you men, great and small, are women's children, every man of you. CAPTAIN. But no women are born of men. Yes, but I am Bertha's father. Tell me, Margret, don't you believe it? Don't you? NURSE. Lord, how silly you are. Of course you are your own child's father. Come and eat now, and don't sit there and sulk. There, there, come now. CAPTAIN. Get out, woman. To hell with the hags. [Goes to private door.] Svärd, Svärd! [Orderly comes in.] ORDERLY. Yes, Captain. CAPTAIN. Hitch into the covered sleigh at once. NURSE. Captain, listen to me. CAPTAIN. Out, woman! At once! [Orderly goes.] NURSE. Good Lord, what's going to happen now. [Captain puts on his cap and coat and prepares to go out.] CAPTAIN. Don't expect me home before midnight. [Goes.] NURSE. Lord preserve us, whatever will be the end of this! ACT II. [The same scene as in previous act. A lighted lamp is on the table; it is night. The Doctor and Laura are discovered at rise of curtain.] DOCTOR. From what I gathered during my conversation with him the case is not fully proved to me. In the first place you made a mistake in saying that he had arrived at these astonishing results about other heavenly bodies by means of a microscope. Now that I have learned that it was a spectroscope, he is not only cleared of any suspicion of insanity, but has rendered a great service to science. LAURA. Yes, but I never said that. DOCTOR. Madam, I made careful notes of our conversation, and I remember that I asked about this very point because I thought I had misunderstood you. One must be very careful in making such accusations when a certificate in lunacy is in question. LAURA. A certificate in lunacy? DOCTOR. Yes, you must surely know that an insane person loses both civil and family rights. LAURA. No, I did not know that. DOCTOR. There was another matter that seemed to me suspicious. He spoke of his communications to his booksellers not being answered. Permit me to ask if you, through motives of mistaken kindness, have intercepted them? LAURA. Yes, I have. It was my duty to guard the interests of the family, and I could not let him ruin us all without some intervention. DOCTOR. Pardon me, but I think you cannot have considered the consequences of such an act. If he discovers your secret interference in his affairs, he will have grounds for suspicions, and they will grow like an avalanche. And besides, in doing this you have thwarted his will and irritated him still more. You must have felt yourself how the mind rebels when one's deepest desires are thwarted and one's will is crossed. LAURA. Haven't I felt that! DOCTOR. Think, then, what he must have gone through. LAURA [Rising]. It is midnight and he hasn't come home. Now we may fear the worst. DOCTOR. But tell me what actually happened this evening after I left. I must know everything. LAURA. He raved in the wildest way and had the strangest ideas. For instance, that he is not the father of his child. DOCTOR. That is strange. How did such an idea come into his head? LAURA. I really can't imagine, unless it was because he had to question one of the men about supporting a child, and when I tried to defend the girl, he grew excited and said no one could tell who was the father of a child. God knows I did everything to calm him, but now I believe there is no help for him. [Cries.] DOCTOR. But this cannot go on. Something must be done here without, of course, arousing his suspicions. Tell me, has the Captain ever had such delusions before? LAURA. Six years ago things were in the same state, and then he, himself, confessed in his own letter to the doctor that he feared for his reason. DOCTOR. Yes, yes, yes, this is a story that has deep roots and the sanctity of the family life--and so on--of course I cannot ask about everything, but must limit myself to appearances. What is done can't be undone, more's the pity, yet the remedy should be based upon all the past.--Where do you think he is now? LAURA. I have no idea, he has such wild streaks. DOCTOR. Would you like to have me stay until he returns? To avoid suspicion, I could say that I had come to see your mother who is not well. LAURA. Yes, that will do very nicely. Don't leave us, Doctor; if you only knew how troubled I am! But wouldn't it be better to tell him outright what you think of his condition. DOCTOR. We never do that unless the patient mentions the subject himself, and very seldom even then. It depends entirely on the case. But we mustn't sit here; perhaps I had better go into the next room; it will look more natural. LAURA. Yes, that will be better, and Margret can sit here. She always waits up when he is out, and she is the only one who has any power over him. [Goes to the door left] Margret, Margret! NURSE. Yes, Ma'am. Has the master come home? LAURA. No; but you are to sit here and wait for him, and when he does come you are to say my mother is ill and that's why the doctor is here. NURSE. Yes, yes. I'll see that everything is all right. LAURA [Opens the door to inner rooms]. Will you come in here, Doctor? DOCTOR. Thank you. [Nurse seats herself at the table and takes up a hymn book and spectacles and reads.] NURSE. Ah, yes, ah yes! [Reads half aloud] Ah woe is me, how sad a thing Is life within this vale of tears, Death's angel triumphs like a king, And calls aloud to all the spheres-- Vanity, all is vanity. Yes, yes! Yes, yes! [Reads again] All that on earth hath life and breath To earth must fall before his spear, And sorrow, saved alone from death, Inscribes above the mighty bier. Vanity, all is vanity. Yes, Yes. BERTHA [Comes in with a coffee-pot and some embroidery. She speaks in a low voice]. Margret, may I sit with you? It is so frightfully lonely up there. NURSE. For goodness sake, are you still up, Bertha? BERTHA. You see I want to finish Father's Christmas present. And here's something that you'll like. NURSE. But bless my soul, this won't do. You must be up in the morning, and it's after midnight now. BERTHA. What does it matter? I don't dare sit up there alone. I believe the spirits are at work. NURSE. You see, just what I've said. Mark my words, this house was not built on a lucky spot. What did you hear? BERTHA. Think of it, I heard some one singing up in the attic! NURSE. In the attic? At this hour? BERTHA. Yes, it was such it sorrowful, melancholy song! I never heard anything like it. It sounded as if it came from the store-room, where the cradle stands, you know, to the left-- -- -- NURSE. Dear me, Dear me! And such a fearful night. It seems as if the chimneys would blow down. "Ah, what is then this earthly life, But grief, afliction and great strife? E'en when fairest it has seemed, Nought but pain it can be deemed." Ah, dear child, may God give us a good Christmas! BERTHA. Margret, is it true that Father is ill? NURSE. Yes, I'm afraid he is. BERTHA. Then we can't keep Christmas eve? But how can he be up and around if he is 111? NURSE. You see, my child, the kind of illness he has doesn't keep him from being up. Hush, there's some one out in the hall. Go to bed now and take the coffee pot away or the master will be angry. BERTHA [Going out with tray]. Good night, Margret. NURSE. Good night, my child. God bless you. [Captain comes in, takes off his overcoat.] CAPTAIN. Are you still up? Go to bed. NURSE. I was only waiting till-- -- [Captain lights a candle, opens his desk, sits down at it and takes letters and newspapers out of his pocket.] NURSE. Mr. Adolf. CAPTAIN. What do you want? NURSE. Old mistress is ill and the doctor is here. CAPTAIN. Is it anything dangerous? NURSE. No, I don't think so. Just a cold. CAPTAIN [Gets up]. Margret, who was the father of your child? NURSE. Oh, I've told you many and many a time; it was that scamp Johansson. CAPTAIN. Are you sure that it was he? NURSE. How childish you are; of course I'm sure when he was the only one. CAPTAIN. Yes, but was he sure that he was the only one? No, he could not be, but you could be sure of it. There is a difference, you see. NURSE. Well, I can't see any difference. CAPTAIN. No, you cannot see it, but the difference exists, nevertheless. [Turns over the pages of a photograph album which is on the table.] Do you think Bertha looks like me? NURSE. Of course! Why, you are as like as two peas. CAPTAIN. Did Johansson confess that he was the father? NURSE. He was forced to! CAPTAIN. How terrible! Here is the Doctor. [Doctor comes in.] Good evening, Doctor. How is my mother-in-law? DOCTOR. Oh, it's nothing serious; merely a slight sprain of the left ankle. CAPTAIN. I thought Margret said it was a cold. There seem to be different opinions about the same case. Go to bed, Margret. [Nurse goes. A pause.] CAPTAIN. Sit down, Doctor. DOCTOR [Sits]. Thanks. CAPTAIN. Is it true that you obtain striped foals if you cross a zebra and a mare? DOCTOR [Astonished]. Perfectly true. CAPTAIN. Is it true that the foals continue to be striped if the breed is continued with a stallion? DOCTOR. Yes, that is true, too. CAPTAIN. That is to say, under certain conditions a stallion can be sire to striped foals or the opposite? DOCTOR. Yes, so it seems. CAPTAIN. Therefore an offspring's likeness to the father proves nothing? DOCTOR. Well-- -- -- CAPTAIN. That is to say, paternity cannot be proven. DOCTOR. H'm-- --well-- -- CAPTAIN. You are a widower, aren't you, and have had children? DOCTOR. Ye-es. CAPTAIN. Didn't you ever feel ridiculous as a. father? I know of nothing so ludicrous as to see a father leading his children by the hand around the streets, or to hear it father talk about his children. "My wife's children," he ought to say. Did you ever feel how false your position was? Weren't you ever afflicted with doubts, I won't say suspicions, for, as a gentleman, I assume that your wife was above suspicion. DOCTOR. No, really, I never was; but, Captain, I believe Goethe says a man must take his children on good faith. CAPTAIN. It's risky to take anything on good faith where a woman is concerned. DOCTOR. Oh, there are so many kinds of women. CAPTAIN. Modern investigations have pronounced that there is only one kind! Lately I have recalled two instances in my life that make me believe this. When I was young I was strong and, if I may boast, handsome. Once when I was making a trip on a steamer and sitting with a few friends in the saloon, the young stewardess came and flung herself down by me, burst into tears, and told us that her sweetheart was drowned. We sympathized with her, and I ordered some champagne. After the second glass I touched her foot; after the fourth her knee, and before morning I had consoled her. DOCTOR. That was just a winter fly. CAPTAIN. Now comes the second instance--and that was a real summer fly. I was at Lyskil. There was a young married woman stopping there with her children, but her husband was in town. She was religious, had extremely strict principles, preached morals to me, and was, I believe, entirely honorable. I lent her a book, two books, and when she was leaving, she returned them, strange to say! Three months later, in those very books I found her card with a declaration on it. It was innocent, as innocent its it declaration of love can be from a married woman to a strange man who never made any advances. Now comes the moral: Just don't have too much faith. DOCTOR. Don't have too little faith either. CAPTAIN. No, but just enough. But, you see, Doctor, that woman was so unconsciously dishonest that she talked to her husband about the fancy she had taken to me. That's what makes it dangerous, this very unconsciousness of their instinctive dishonesty. That is a mitigating circumstance, I admit, but it cannot nullify judgment, only soften it. DOCTOR. Captain, your thoughts are taking a morbid turn, and you ought to control them. CAPTAIN. You must not use the word morbid. Steam boilers, as you know, explode at it certain pressure, but the same pressure is not needed for all boiler explosions. You understand? However, you are here to watch me. If I were not a man I should have the right to make accusations or complaints, as they are so cleverly called, and perhaps I should be able to give you the whole diagnosis, and, what is more, the history of my disease. But unfortunately, I am a man, and there is nothing for me to do but, like a Roman, fold my arms across my breast and hold my breath till I die. DOCTOR. Captain, if you are ill, it will not reflect upon your honor as a man to tell me all. In fact, I ought to hear the other side. CAPTAIN. You have had enough in hearing the one, I imagine. Do you know when I heard Mrs. Alving eulogizing her dead husband, I thought to myself what a damned pity it was the fellow was dead. Do you suppose that he would have spoken if he had been alive? And do you suppose that if any of the dead husbands came back they would be believed? Good night, Doctor. You see that I am calm, and you can retire without fear. DOCTOR. Good night, then, Captain. I'm afraid. I can be of no further use in this case. CAPTAIN. Are we enemies? DOCTOR. Far from it. But it is too bad we cannot be friends. Good night. [Goes. The Captain follows the Doctor to the door at back and then goes to the door at left and opens it slightly.] CAPTAIN. Come in, and we'll talk. I heard you out there listening. [Laura, embarrassed. Captain sits at desk.] It is late, but we must come to some decision. Sit down. [Pause.] I have been at the post office tonight to get my letters. From these it appears that you have been keeping back my mail, both coming and going. The consequence of which is that the loss of time has its good as destroyed the result I expected from my work. LAURA. It was an act of kindness on my part, as you neglected the service for this other work. CAPTAIN. It was hardly kindness, for you were quite sure that some day I should win more honor from that, than from the service; but you were particularly anxious that I should not win such honors, for fear your own insignificance would be emphasized by it. In consequence of all this I have intercepted letters addressed to you. LAURA. That was a noble act. CAPTAIN. You see, you have, as you might say, a high opinion of me. It appears from these letters that, for some time past you have been arraying my old friends against me by spreading reports about my mental condition. And you Dave succeeded in your efforts, for now not more than one person exists from the Colonel down to the cook, who believes that I am sane. Now these are the facts about my illness; my mind is sound, as you know, so that I can take care of my duties in the service as well its my responsibilities as a father; my feelings are more or less under my control, as my will has not been completely undermined; but you have gnawed and nibbled at it so that it will soon slip the cogs, and then the whole mechanism will slip and go to smash. I will not appeal to your feelings, for you have none; that is your strength; but I will appeal to your interests. LAURA. Let me hear. CAPTAIN. You have succeeded in arousing my suspicions to such an extent that my judgment is no longer clear, and my thoughts begin to wander. This is the approaching insanity that you are waiting for, which may come at any time now. So you are face to face with the question whether it is more to your interest that I should be sane or insane. Consider. If I go under I shall lose the service, and where will you be then? If I die, my life insurance will fall to you. But if I take my own life, you will get nothing. Consequently, it is to your interest that I should live out my life. LAURA. Is this a trap? CAPTAIN. To be sure. But it rests with you whether you will run around it or stick your head into it. LAURA. You say that you will kill yourself! You won't do that! CAPTAIN. Are you sure? Do you think a man can live when he has nothing and no one to live for? LAURA. You surrender, then? CAPTAIN. No, I offer peace. LAURA. The conditions? CAPTAIN. That I may keep my reason. Free me from my suspicions and I give up the conflict. LAURA. What suspicions? CAPTAIN. About Bertha's origin. LAURA. Are there any doubts about that? CAPTAIN. Yes, I have doubts, and you have awakened them. LAURA. I? CAPTAIN. Yes, you have dropped them like henbane in my ears, and circumstances have strengthened them. Free me from the uncertainty; tell me outright that it is true and I will forgive you beforehand. LAURA. How can I acknowledge a sin that I have not committed? CAPTAIN. What does it matter when you know that I shall not divulge it? Do you think a man would go and spread his own shame broadcast? LAURA. If I say it isn't true, you won't be convinced; but if I say it is, then you will be convinced. You seem to hope it is true! CAPTAIN. Yes, strangely enough; it must be, because the first supposition can't be proved; the latter can be. LAURA. Have you tiny ground for your suspicions? CAPTAIN. Yes, and no. LAURA. I believe you want to prove me guilty, so that you can get rid of me and then have absolute control over the child. But you won't catch me in any such snare. CAPTAIN. Do you think that I would want to be responsible for another man's child, if I were convinced of your guilt? LAURA. No, I'm sure you wouldn't, and that's what makes me know you lied just now when you said that you would forgive me beforehand. CAPTAIN. [Rises]. Laura, save me and my reason. You don't seem to understand what I say. If the child is not mine I have no control over her and don't want to have any, and that is precisely what you do want, isn't it? But perhaps you want even more--to have power over the child, but still have me to support you. LAURA. Power, yes! What has this whole life and death struggle been for but power? CAPTAIN. To me it has meant more. I do not believe in a hereafter; the child was my future life. That was my conception of immortality, and perhaps the only one that has any analogy in reality. If you take that away from me, you cut off my life. LAURA. Why didn't we separate in time? CAPTAIN. Because the child bound us together; but the link became a chain. And how did it happen; how? I have never thought about this, but now memories rise up accusingly, condemningly perhaps. We had been married two years, and had no children; you know why. I fell ill and lay at the point of death. During a conscious interval of the fever I heard voices out in the drawing-room. It was you and the lawyer talking about the fortune that I still possessed. He explained that you could inherit nothing because we had no children, and he asked you if you were expecting to become a mother. I did not hear your reply. I recovered and we had a child. Who is its father? LAURA. You. CAPTAIN. No, I am not. Here is a buried crime that begins to stench, and what a hellish crime! You women have been compassionate enough to free the black slaves, but you have kept the white ones. I have worked and slaved for you, your child, your mother, your servants; I have sacrificed promotion and career; I have endured torture, flagellation, sleeplessness, worry for your sake, until my hair has grown gray; and all that you might enjoy a life without care, and when you grew old, enjoy life over again in your child. I have borne everything without complaint, because I thought myself the father of your child. This is the commonest kind of theft, the most brutal slavery. I have had seventeen years of penal servitude and have been innocent. What can you give me in return for that? LAURA. Now you are quite mad. CAPTAIN. That is your hope!--And I see how you have labored to conceal your crime. I sympathized with you because I did not understand your grief. I have often lulled your evil conscience to rest when I thought I was driving away morbid thoughts. I have heard you cry out in your sleep and not wanted to listen. I remember now night before last--Bertha's birthday--it was between two and three in the morning, and I was sitting up reading; you shrieked, "Don't, don't!" as if someone were strangling you; I knocked on the wall--I didn't want to hear any more. I have had my suspicions for a long time but I did not dare to hear them confirmed. All this I have suffered for you. What will you do for me? LAURA. What can I do? I will swear by God and all I hold sacred that you are Bertha's father. CAPTAIN. What use is that when you have often said that a mother can and ought to commit any crime for her child? I implore you as a wounded man begs for a death blow, to tell me all. Don't you see I'm as helpless as a child? Don't you hear me complaining as to a mother? Won't you forget that I am a man, that I am a soldier who can tame men and beasts with a word? Like a sick man I only ask for compassion. I lay down the tokens of my power and implore you to have mercy on my life. [Laura approaches him and lays her hand on his brow.] LAURA. What! You are crying, man! CAPTAIN. Yes, I am crying although I am a man. But has not a man eyes! Has not a man hands, limbs, senses, thoughts, passions? Is he not fed with the wine food, hurt by the same weapons, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter as a woman? If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? And if you poison us, do we not die? Why shouldn't a man complain, a soldier weep? Because it is unmanly? Why is it unmanly? LAURA. Weep then, my child, as if you were with your mother once more. Do you remember when I first came into your life, I was like a second mother? Your great strong body needed nerves; you were a giant child that had either come too early into the world, or perhaps was not wanted at all. CAPTAIN. Yes, that's how it was. My father's and my mother's will was against my coming into the world, and consequently I was born without a will. I thought I was completing myself when you and I became one, and therefore you were allowed to rule, and I, the commander at the barracks and before the troops, became obedient to you, grew through you, looked up to you as to it more highly-gifted being, listened to you as if I had been your undeveloped child. LAURA. Yes, that's the way it was, and therefore I loved you as my child. But you know, you must have seen, when the nature of your feelings changed and you appeared as my lover that I blushed, and your embraces were joy that was followed by a remorseful conscience as if my blood were ashamed. The mother became the mistress. Ugh! CAPTAIN. I saw it, but I did not understand. I believed you despised me for my unmanliness, and I wanted to win you as a woman by being a man. LAURA. Yes, but there was the mistake. The mother was your friend, you see, but the woman was your enemy, and love between the sexes is strife. Do not think that I gave myself; I did not give, but I took--what I wanted. But you had one advantage. I felt that, and I wanted you to feel it. CAPTAIN. You always had the advantage. You could hypnotize me when I was wide awake, so that I neither saw nor heard, but merely obeyed; you could give me a raw potato and make me imagine it was a peach; you could force me to admire your foolish caprices as though they were strokes of genius. You could have influenced me to crime, yes, even to mean, paltry deeds. Because you lacked intelligence, instead of carrying out my ideas you acted on your own judgment. But when at last I awoke, I realized that my honor had been corrupted and I wanted to blot out the memory by a great deed, an achievement, a discovery, or an honorable suicide. I wanted to go to war, but was not permitted. It was then that I threw myself into science. And now when I was about to reach out my hand to gather in its fruits, you chop off my arm. Now I am dishonored and can live no longer, for a man cannot live without honor. LAURA. But a woman? CAPTAIN. Yes, for she has her children, which he has not. But, like the rest of mankind, we lived our lives unconscious as children, full of imagination, ideals, and illusions, and then we awoke; it was all over. But we awoke with our feet on the pillow, and he who waked us was himself a sleep-walker. When women grow old and cease to be women, they get beards on their chins; I wonder what men get when they grow old and cease to be men. Those who crowed were no longer cocks but capons, and the pullets answered their call, so that when we thought the sun was about to rise we found ourselves in the bright moon light amid ruins, just as in the good old times. It had only been a little morning slumber with wild dreams, and there was no awakening. LAURA. Do you know, you should have been a poet! CAPTAIN. Who knows. LAURA. Now I am sleepy, so if you have any more fantastic visions keep them till to-morrow. CAPTAIN. First, a word more about realities. Do you hate me? LAURA. Yes, sometimes, when you are a man. CAPTAIN. This is like race hatred. If it is true that we are descended from monkeys, at least it must be from two separate species. We are certainly not like one another, are we? LAURA. What do you mean to say by all this? CAPTAIN. I feel that one of us must go under in this struggle. LAURA. Which? CAPTAIN. The weaker, of course. LAURA. And the stronger will be in the right? CAPTAIN. Always, since he has the power. LAURA. Then I am in the right. CAPTAIN. Have you the power already then? LAURA. Yes, and a legal power with which I shall put you under the control of a guardian. CAPTAIN. Under a guardian? LAURA. And then I shall educate my child without listening to your fantastic notions. CAPTAIN. And who will pay for the education when I am no longer here? LAURA. Your pension will pay for it. CAPTAIN [Threateningly]. How can you have me put under a guardian? LAURA [Takes out a letter]. With this letter of which an attested copy is in the hands of the board of lunacy. CAPTAIN. What letter? LAURA [Moving backward toward the door left]. Yours! Your declaration to the doctor that you are insane. [The Captain stares at her in silence.] Now you have fulfilled your function as an unfortunately necessary father and breadwinner, you are not needed any longer and you must go. You must go, since you have realized that my intellect is as strong as my will, and since you will not stay and acknowledge it. [The Captain goes to the table, seizes the lighted lamp and hurls it at Laura, who disappears backward through the door.] CURTAIN DROP. ACT III. [Same Scene. Another lamp on the table. The private door is barricaded with a chair.] LAURA [to Nurse]. Did he give you the keys? NURSE. Give them to me, no! God help me, but I took them from the master's clothes that Nöjd had out to brush. LAURA. Oh, Nöjd is on duty today? NURSE. Yes, Nöjd. LAURA. Give me the keys. NURSE. Yes, but this seems like downright stealing. Do you hear him walking up there, Ma'am? Back and forth, back and forth. LAURA. Is the door well barred? NURSE. Oh, yes, it's barred well enough! LAURA. Control your feelings, Margret. We must be calm if we are to be saved. [Knock.] Who is it? NURSE [Opens door to hall]. It is Nöjd. LAURA. Let him come in. NÖJD [Comes in]. A message from the Colonel. LAURA. Give it to me [Reads] Ah!--Nöjd, have you taken all the cartridges out of the guns and pouches? NÖJD. Yes, Ma'am. LAURA. Good, wait outside while I answer the Colonel's letter. [Nöjd goes. Laura writes.] NURSE. Listen. What in the world is he doing up there now? LAURA. Be quiet while I write. [The sound of sawing is heard.] NURSE [Half to herself]. Oh, God have mercy on us all! Where will this end! LAURA. Here, give this to Nöjd. And my mother must not know anything about all this. Do you hear? [Nurse goes out, Laura opens drawers in desk and takes out papers. The Pastor comes in, he takes a chair and sits near Laura by the desk.] PASTOR. Good evening, sister. I have been away all day, as you know, and only just got back. Terrible things have been happening here. LAURA. Yes, brother, never have I gone through such a night and such a day. PASTOR. I see that you are none the worse for it all. LAURA. No, God be praised, but think what might have happened! PASTOR. Tell me one thing, how did it begin? I have heard so many different versions. LAURA. It began with his wild idea of not being Bertha's father, and ended with his throwing the lighted lamp in my face. PASTOR. But this is dreadful! It is fully developed insanity. And what is to be done now? LAURA. We must try to prevent further violence and the doctor has sent to the hospital for a straightjacket. In the meantime I have sent a message to the Colonel, and I am now trying to straighten out the affairs of the household, which he has carried on in a most reprehensible manner. PASTOR. This is a deplorable story, but I have always expected something of the sort. Fire and powder must end in an explosion. What have you got in the drawer there? LAURA [Has pulled out a drawer in the desk]. Look, he has hidden everything here. PASTOR [Looking into drawer]. Good Heavens, here is your doll and here is your christening cap and Bertha's rattle; and your letters; and the locket. [Wipes his eyes.] After all he must have loved you very dearly, Laura. I never kept such things! LAURA. I believe he used to love me, but time--time changes so many things. PASTOR. What is that big paper? The receipt for a grave! Yes, better the grave than the lunatic asylum! Laura, tell me, are you blameless in all this? LAURA. I? Why should I be to blame because a man goes out of his mind? PASTOR. Well, well, I shan't say anything. After all, blood is thicker than water. LAURA. What do you dare to intimate? PASTOR [Looking at her penetratingly]. Now, listen! LAURA. Yes? PASTOR. You can hardly deny that it suits you pretty well to be able to educate your child as you wish? LAURA. I don't understand. PASTOR. How I admire you! LAURA. Me? H'm! PASTOR. And I am to become the guardian of that free-thinker! Do you know I have always looked on him as a weed in our garden. [Laura gives a short laugh, and then becomes suddenly serious.] LAURA. And you dare say that to me--his wife? PASTOR. You are strong, Laura, incredibly strong. You are like a fox in a trap, you would rather gnaw off your own leg than let yourself be caught! Like a master thief--no accomplice, not even your own conscience. Look at yourself in the glass! You dare not! LAURA. I never use a looking glass! PASTOR. No, you dare not! Let me look at your hand. Not a tell-tale blood stain, not a trace of insidious poison! A little innocent murder that the law cannot reach, an unconscious crime--unconscious! What a splendid idea! Do you hear how he is working up there? Take care! If that man gets loose he will make short work of you. LAURA. You talk so much, you must have a bad conscience. Accuse me if you can! PASTOR. I cannot. LAURA. You see! You cannot, and therefore I am innocent. You take care of your ward, and I will take care of mine! Here's the doctor. [Doctor comes in.] LAURA [Rising]. Good evening, Doctor. You at least will help me, won't you? But unfortunately there is not much that can be done. Do you hear how he is carrying on up there? Are you convinced now? DOCTOR. I am convinced that an act of violence has been committed, but the question now is whether that act of violence can be considered an outbreak of passion or madness. PASTOR. But apart from the actual outbreak, you must acknowledge that he has "fixed ideas." DOCTOR. I think that your ideas, Pastor, are much more fixed. PASTOR. My settled views about the highest things are-- DOCTOR. We'll leave settled views out of this. Madam, it rests with you to decide whether your husband is guilty to the extent of imprisonment and fine or should be put in an asylum! How do you class his behavior? LAURA. I cannot answer that now. DOCTOR. That is to say you have no decided opinion as to what will be most advantageous to the interests of the family? What do you say, Pastor? PASTOR. Well, there will be a scandal in either case. It is not easy to say. LAURA. But if he is only sentenced to a fine for violence, he will be able to repeat the violence. DOCTOR. And if he is sent to prison he will soon be out again. Therefore we consider it most advantageous for all parties that he should be immediately treated as insane. Where is the nurse? LAURA. Why? DOCTOR. She must put the straightjacket on the patient when I have talked to him and given the order! But not before. I have--the--garment out here. [Goes out into the hall rind returns with a large bundle.] Please ask the nurse to come in here. [Laura rings.] PASTOR. Dreadful! Dreadful! [Nurse comes in.] DOCTOR [Takes out the straightjacket]. I want you to pay attention to this. We want you to slip this jacket on the Captain, from behind, you understand, when I find it necessary to prevent another outbreak of violence. You notice it has very long sleeves to prevent his moving and they are to be tied at the back. Here are two straps that go through buckles which are afterwards fastened to the arm of a chair or the sofa or whatever is convenient. Will you do it? NURSE. No, Doctor, I can't do that; I can't. LAURA. Why don't you do it yourself, Doctor? DOCTOR. Because the patient distrusts me. You, Madam, would seem to be the one to do it, but I fear he distrusts even you. [Laura's face changes for an instant.] DOCTOR. Perhaps you, Pastor-- PASTOR. No, I must ask to be excused. [Nöjd comes in.] LAURA. Have you delivered the message already? NÖJD. Yes, Madam. DOCTOR. Oh, is it you, Nöjd? You know the circumstances here; you know that the Captain is out of his mind and you must help us to take care of him. NÖJD. If there is anything I can do for the Captain, you may be sure I will do it. DOCTOR. You must put this jacket on him-- NURSE. No, he shan't touch him. Nöjd might hurt him. I would rather do it myself, very, very gently. But Nöjd can wait outside and help me if necessary. He can do that. [There is loud knocking on the private door.] DOCTOR. There he is! Put the jacket under your shawl on the chair, and you must all go out for the time being and the Pastor and I will receive him, for that door will not hold out many minutes. Now go. NURSE [Going out left.] The Lord help us! [Laura locks desk, then goes out left. Nöjd goes out back. After a moment the private door is forced open, with such violence that the lock is broken and the chair is thrown into the middle of the room. The Captain comes in with a pile of books under his arm, which he puts on the table.] CAPTAIN. The whole thing is to be read here, in every book. So I wasn't out of my mind after all! Here it is in the Odyssey, book first, verse 215, page 6 of the Upsala translation. It is Telemachus speaking to Athene. "My mother indeed maintains that he, Odysseus, is my father, but I myself know it not, for no man yet hath known his own origin." And this suspicion is harbored by Telemachus about Penelope, the most virtuous of women! Beautiful, eh? And here we have the prophet Ezekiel: "The fool saith; behold here is my father, but who can tell whose loins engendered him." That's quite clear! And what have we here? The History of Russian Literature by Mersläkow. Alexander Puschkin, Russia's greatest poet, died of torture front the reports circulated about his wife's unfaithfulness rather than by the bullet in his breast, from a duel. On his death-bed he swore she was innocent. Ass, ass! How could he swear to it? You see, I read my books. Ah, Jonas, art you here? and the doctor, naturally. Have you heard what I answered when an English lady complained about Irishmen who used to throw lighted lamps in their wives' faces? "God, what women," I cried. "Women," she gasped. "Yes, of course," I answered. "When things go so far that a man, a man who loved and worshipped a woman, takes a lighted lamp and throws it in her face, then one may know." PASTOR. Know what? CAPTAIN. Nothing. One never knows anything. One only believes. Isn't that true, Jonas? One believes and then one is saved! Yes, to be sure. No, I know that one can be damned by his faith. I know that. DOCTOR. Captain! CAPTAIN. Silence! I don't want to talk to you; I won't listen to you repeating their chatter in there, like a telephone! In there! You know! Look here, Jonas; do you believe that you are the father of your children? I remember that you had a tutor in your house who had a handsome face, and the people gossiped about him. PASTOR. Adolf, take care! CAPTAIN. Grope under your toupee and feel if there are not two bumps there. By my soul, I believe he turns pale! Yes, yes, they will talk; but, good Lord, they talk so much. Still we are a lot of ridiculous dupes, we married men. Isn't that true, Doctor? How was it with your marriage bed? Didn't you have a lieutenant in the house, eh? Wait a moment and I will make a guess--his name was--[whispers in the Doctor's ear]. You see he turns pale, too! Don't be disturbed. She is dead and buried and what is done can't be undone. I knew him well, by the way, and he is now--look at me, Doctor--No, straight in my eyes--a major in the cavalry! By God, if I don't believe he has horns, too. DOCTOR [Tortured]. Captain, won't you talk about something else? CAPTAIN. Do you see? He immediately wants to talk of something else when I mention horns. PASTOR. Do you know, Adolf, that you are insane? CAPTAIN. Yes; I know that well enough. But if I only had the handling of your illustrious brains for awhile I'd soon have you shut up, too! I am mad, but how did I become so? That doesn't concern you, and it doesn't concern anyone. But you want to talk of something else now. [Takes the photograph album from the table.] Good Lord, that is my child! Mine? We can never know. Do you know what we would have to do to make sure? First, one should marry to get the respect of society, then be divorced soon after and become lovers, and finally adopt the children. Then one would at least be sure that they were one's adopted children. Isn't that right? But how can all that help us now? What can keep me now that you have taken my conception of immortality from me, what use is science and philosophy to me when I have nothing to live for, what can I do with life when I am dishonored? I grafted my right arm, half my brain, half my marrow on another trunk, for I believed they would knit themselves together and grow into a more perfect tree, and then someone came with a knife and cut below the graft, and now I am only half a tree. But the other half goes on growing with my arm and half my brain, while I wither and die, for they were the best parts I gave away. Now I want to die. Do with me as you will. I am no more. [Buries his head on his arms on table. The Doctor whispers to the Pastor, and they go out through the door left. Soon after Bertha comes in.] BERTRA [Goes up to Captain]. Are you ill, Father? CAPTAIN [Looks up dazed]. I? BERTHA. Do you know what you have done? Do you know that you threw the lamp at Mother? CAPTAIN. Did I? BERTHA. Yes, you did. Just think if she had been hurt. CAPTAIN. What would that have mattered? BERTHA. You are not my father when you talk like that. CAPTAIN. What do you say? Am I not your father? How do you know that? Who told you that? And who is your father, then? Who? BERTHA. Not you at any rate. CAPTAIN. Still not I? Who, then? Who? You seem to be well informed. Who told you? That I should live to see my child come and tell me to my face that I am not her father! But don't you know that you disgrace your mother when you say that? Don't you know that it is to her shame if it is so? BERTHA. Don't say anything bad about Mother; do you hear? CAPTAIN. No; you hold together, every one of you, against me! and you have always done so. BERTHA. Father! CAPTAIN. Don't use that word again! BERTHA. Father, father! CAPTAIN [Draws her to him]. Bertha, dear, dear child, you are my child! Yes, Yes; it cannot be otherwise. It is so. The other was only sickly thoughts that come with the wind like pestilence and fever. Look at me that I may see my soul in your eyes!--But I see her soul, too! You have two souls and you love me with one and hate me with the other. But you must only love me! You must have only one soul, or you will never have peace, nor I either. You must have only one mind, which is the child of my mind and one will, which is my will. BERTHA. But I don't want to, I want to be myself. CAPTAIN. You must not. You see, I am a cannibal, and I want to eat you. Your mother wanted to eat me, but she was not allowed to. I am Saturn who ate his children because it had been prophesied that they would eat him. To eat or be eaten! That is the question. If I do not eat you, you will eat me, and you have already shown your teeth! But don't be frightened my dear child; I won't harm you. [Goes and takes a revolver from the wall.] BERTHA [Trying to escape]. Help, Mother, help, he wants to kill me. NURSE [Comes in]. Mr. Adolf, what is it? CAPTAIN [Examining revolver]. Have you taken out the cartridges? NURSE. Yes, I put them away when I was tidying up, but sit down and be quiet and I'll get them out again! [She takes the Captain by the arm and gets him into a chair, into which he sinks feebly. Then she takes out the straitjacket and goes behind the chair. Bertha slips out left.] NURSE. Mr. Adolf, do you remember when you were my dear little boy and I tucked you in at night and used to repeat: "God who holds his children dear" to you, and do you remember how I used to get up in the night and give you a drink, how I would light the candle and tell you stories when you had bad dreams and couldn't sleep? Do you remember all that? CAPTAIN. Go on talking, Margret, it soothes my head so. Tell me some more. NURSE. O yes, but you must listen then! Do you remember when you took the big kitchen knife and wanted to cut out boats with it, and how I came in and had to get the knife away by fooling you? You were just a little child who didn't understand, so I had to fool you, for you didn't know that it was for your own good. "Give me that snake," I said, "or it will bite you!" and then you let go of the knife. [Takes the revolver out of the Captain's hand.] And then when you had to be dressed and didn't want to, I had to coax you and say that you should have a coat of gold and be dressed like a prince. And then I took your little blouse that was just made of green wool and held it in front of you and said: "In with both arms," and then I said, "Now sit nice and still while I button it down the back," [She puts the straightjacket on] and then I said, "Get up now, and walk across the floor like a good boy so I can see how it fits." [She leads him to the sofa.] And then I said, "Now you must go to bed." CAPTAIN. What did you say? Was I to go to bed when I was dressed--damnation! what have you done to me? [Tries to get free.] Ah! you cunning devil of a woman! Who would have thought you had so much wit. [Lies down on sofa.] Trapped, shorn, outwitted, and not to be able to die! NURSE. Forgive me, Mr. Adolf, forgive me, but I wanted to keep you from killing your child. CAPTAIN. Why didn't you let me? You say life is hell and death the kingdom of heaven, and children belong to heaven. NURSE. How do you know what comes after death? CAPTAIN. That is the only thing we do know, but of life we know nothing! Oh, if one had only known from the beginning. NURSE. Mr. Adolf, humble your hard heart and cry to God for mercy; it is not yet too late. It was not too late for the thief on the cross, when the Saviour said, "Today shalt thou be with me in Paradise." CAPTAIN. Are you croaking for a corpse already, you old crow? [Nurse takes a hymnbook out of her pocket.] CAPTAIN [Calls]. Nöjd, is Nöjd out there? [Nöjd comes in.] CAPTAIN. Throw this woman out! She wants to suffocate me with her hymn-book. Throw her out of the window, or up the chimney, or anywhere. NÖJD. [Looks at Nurse]. Heaven help you, Captain, but I can't do that, I can't. If it were only six men, but a woman! CAPTAIN. Can't you manage one woman, eh? NÖJD. Of course I can,--but--well, you see, it's queer, but one never wants to lay hands on a woman. CAPTAIN. Why not? Haven't they laid hands on me? NÖJD. Yes, but I can't, Captain. It's just as if you asked me to strike the Pastor. It's second nature, like religion, I can't! [Laura comes in, she motions Nöjd to go.] CAPTAIN. Omphale, Omphale! Now you play with the club while Hercules spins your wool. LAURA [Goes to sofa]. Adolf, look at me. Do you believe that I am your enemy? CAPTAIN. Yes, I do. I believe that you are all my enemies! My mother was my enemy when she did not want to bring me into the world because I was to be born with pain, and she robbed my embryonic life of its nourishment, and made a weakling of me. My sister was my enemy when she taught me that I must be submissive to her. The first woman I embraced was my enemy, for she gave me ten years of illness in return for the love I gave her. My daughter became my enemy when she had to choose between me and you. And you, my wife, you have been my arch enemy, because you never let up on me till I lay here lifeless. LAURA. I don't know that. I ever thought or even intended what you think I did. It may be that a dim desire to get rid of you as an obstacle lay at the bottom of it, and if you see any design in my behavior, it is possible that it existed, although I was unconscious of it. I have never thought how it all came about, but it is the result of the course you yourself laid out, and before God and my conscience I feel that I am innocent, even if I am not. Your existence has lain like a stone on my heart--lain so heavily that I tried to shake off the oppressive burden. This is the truth, and if I have unconsciously struck you down, I ask your forgiveness. CAPTAIN. All that sounds plausible. But how does it help me? And whose fault is it? Perhaps spiritual marriages! Formerly one married a wife, now, one enters into partnership with a business woman, or goes to live with a friend--and then one ruins the partner, and dishonors the friend!--What has become of love, healthy sensuous love? It died in the transformation. And what is the result of this love in shares, payable to the bearer without joint liability? Who is the bearer when the crash comes? Who is the fleshly father of the spiritual child? LAURA. And as for your suspicions about the child, they are absolutely groundless. CAPTAIN. That's just what makes it so horrible. If at least there were any grounds for them, it would be something to get hold of, to cling to. Now there are only shadows that hide themselves in the bushes, and stick out their heads and grin; it is like fighting with the air, or firing blank cartridges in a sham fight. A fatal reality would have called forth resistance, stirred life and soul to action; but now my thoughts dissolve into air, and my brain grinds a void until it is on fire.--Put a pillow under my head, and throw something over me, I am cold. I am terribly cold! [Laura takes her shawl and spreads it over him. Nurse goes to get a pillow.] LAURA. Give me your hand, friend. CAPTAIN. My band! The hand that you have bound! Omphale! Omphale!--But I feel your shawl against my mouth; it is as warm and soft as your arm, and it smells of vanilla, like your hair when you were young! Laura, when you were young, and we walked in the birch woods, with the primroses and the thrushes--glorious, glorious! Think how beautiful life was, and what it is now. You didn't want to have it like this, nor did I, and yet it happened. Who then rules over life? LAURA. God alone rules-- CAPTAIN. The God of strife then! Or the Goddess perhaps, nowadays.--Take away the cat that is lying on me! Take it away! [Nurse brings in a pillow and takes the shawl away.] CAPTAIN. Give me my army coat!--Throw it over me! [Nurse gets the coat and puts it over him.] Ah, my rough lion skin that, you wanted to take away from me! Omphale! Omphale! You cunning woman, champion of peace and contriver of man's disarmament. Wake, Hercules, before they take your club away from you! You would wile our armor from us too, and make believe that it is nothing but glittering finery. No, it was iron, let me tell you, before it ever glittered. In olden days the smith made the armor, now it is the needle woman. Omphale! Omphale! Rude strength has fallen before treacherous weakness. Out on you infernal woman, and damnation on your sex! [He raises himself to spit but falls back on the sofa.] What have you given me for a pillow, Margret? It is so hard, and so cold, so cold. Come and sit near me. There. May I put my head on your knee? So!--This is warm! Bend over me so that I can feel your breast! Oh, it is sweet to sleep against a woman's breast, a mother's, or a mistress's, but the mother's is sweetest. LAURA. Would you like to see your child, Adolf? CAPTAIN. My child? A man has no children, it is only woman who has children, and therefore the future is hers when we die childless. Oh, God, who holds his children dear! NURSE. Listen, he is praying to God. CAPTAIN. No, to you to put me to sleep, for I am tired, so tired. Good night, Margret, and blessed be you among women. [He raises himself, but falls with a cry on the nurses's lap. Laura goes to left and calls the Doctor who comes in with the Pastor.] LAURA. Help us, Doctor, if it isn't too late. Look, he has stopped breathing. DOCTOR [Feels the Captain's pulse.] It is a stroke. PASTOR. Is he dead? DOCTOR. No, he may yet cone back to life, but to what an awakening we cannot tell. PASTOR. "First death, and then the judgment." DOCTOR. No judgment, and no accusations, you who believe that a God shapes man's destiny must go to him about this. NURSE. Ah, Pastor, with his last breath he prayed to God. PASTOR [To Laura]. Is that true? LAURA. It is. DOCTOR. In that case, which I can understand as little as the cause of his illness, my skill is at an end. You try yours now, Pastor. LAURA. Is that all you have to say at this death-bed, Doctor? DOCTOR. That is all! I know no more. Let him speak who knows more. [Bertha comes in from left and runs to her mother.] BERTHA. Mother, Mother! LAURA. My child, my own child! PASTOR. Amen. CURTAIN. ***** COUNTESS JULIE CHARACTERS COUNTESS JULIE, twenty-five years old JEAN, a valet, thirty KRISTIN, a cook, thirty-five FARM SERVANTS The action takes place on Saint John's night, the mid-summer festival surviving from pagan times. [SCENE.--A large kitchen. The ceiling and walls are partially covered by draperies and greens. The back wall slants upward from left side of scene. On back wall, left, are two shelves filled with copper kettles, iron casseroles and tin pans. The shelves are trimmed with fancy scalloped paper. To right of middle a large arched entrance with glass doors through which one sees a fountain with a statue of Cupid, syringa bushes in bloom and tall poplars. To left corner of scene a large stove with hood decorated with birch branches. To right, servants' dining table of white pine and a few chairs. On the end of table stands a Japanese jar filled with syringa blossoms. The floor is strewn with juniper branches.] [Near stove, an ice-box, sink and dish-table. A large old-fashioned bell, hangs over the door, to left of door a speaking tube.] [Kristin stands at stove engaged in cooking something. She wears a light cotton dress and kitchen apron. Jean comes in wearing livery; he carries a large pair of riding-boots with spurs, which he puts on floor.] JEAN. Tonight Miss Julie is crazy again, perfectly crazy. KRISTIN. So--you're back at last. JEAN. I went to the station with the Count and coming back I went in to the barn and danced and then I discovered Miss Julie there leading the dance with the gamekeeper. When she spied me, she rushed right toward me and asked me to waltz, and then she waltzed so--never in my life have I seen anything like it! Ah--she is crazy tonight. KRISTIN. She has always been. But never so much as in the last fortnight, since her engagement was broken off. JEAN. Yes, what about that gossip? He seemed like a fine fellow although he wasn't rich! Ach! they have so much nonsense about them. [Seats himself at table.] It's queer about Miss Julie though--to prefer staying here at home among these people, eh, to going away with her father to visit her relatives, eh? KRISTIN. She's probably shamefaced about breaking off with her intended. JEAN. No doubt! but he was a likely sort just the same. Do you know, Kristin, how it happened? I saw it, although I didn't let on. KRISTIN. No--did you see it? JEAN. Yes, indeed, I did. They were out in the stable yard one evening and she was "training" him as she called it. Do you know what happened? She made him leap over her riding whip, the way you teach a dog to jump. He jumped it twice and got a lash each time; but the third time he snatched the whip from her hand and broke it into pieces. And then he vanished! KRISTIN. Was that the way it happened? No, you don't say so! JEAN. Yes, that's the way the thing happened. But what have you got to give me that's good, Kristin? KRISTIN. [She takes things from the pans on stove and serves them to him.] Oh, it's only a bit of kidney that I cut out of the veal steak for you. JEAN [Smelling the food]. Splendid! My favorite delicacy. [Feeling of plate]. But you might have warmed the plate. KRISTIN. You're fussier than the Count, when you get started. [Tweaks his hair.] JEAN. Don't pull my hair! You know how sensitive I am. KRISTIN. Oh--there, there! you know I was only loving you. [Jean eats, and Kristin opens bottle of beer.] JEAN. Beer on midsummer night--thank you, no! I have something better than that myself. [Takes bottle of wine from drawer of table.] Yellow seal, how's that? Now give me a glass--a wine glass you understand, of course, when one drinks the genuine. KRISTIN. [Fetches a glass. Then goes to stove and puts on casserole.] Heaven help the woman who gets you for her husband. Such a fuss budget! JEAN. Oh, talk! You ought to be glad to get such a fine fellow as I am. And I don't think it's done you any harm because I'm considered your intended. [Tastes wine.] Excellent, very excellent! Just a little too cold. [Warms glass with hands]. We bought this at Dijon. It stood at four francs a litre in the bulk; then of course there was the duty besides. What are you cooking now that smells so infernally? KRISTIN. Oh, it's some devil's mess that Miss Julie must have for Diana. JEAN. Take care of your words, Kristin. But why should you stand there cooking for that damned dog on a holiday evening? Is it sick, eh? KRISTIN. Yes, it's sick. Diana sneaked out with the gatekeeper's mongrels and now something is wrong. Miss Julie can't stand that. JEAN. Miss Julie has a great deal of pride about some things--but not enough about others! Just like her mother in her lifetime; she thrived best in the kitchen or the stable, but she must always drive tandem--never one horse! She would go about with soiled cuffs but she had to have the Count's crest on her cuff buttons. And as for Miss Julie, she doesn't take much care of her appearance either. I should say she isn't refined. Why just now out there she pulled the forester from Anna's side and asked him to dance with her. We wouldn't do things that way. But when the highborn wish to unbend they become vulgar. Splendid she is though! Magnificent! Ah, such shoulders and-- KRISTIN. Oh, don't exaggerate. I've heard what Clara says who dresses her sometimes, I have. JEAN. Ha! Clara--you women are always jealous of each other. I who've been out riding with her--!!! And such a dancer! KRISTIN. Come now, Jean, don't you want to dance with me when I'm through? JEAN. Of course I want to. KRISTIN. That is a promise? JEAN. Promise! When I say I will do a thing I do it! Thanks for the supper--it was excellent. [Pushes cork in the bottle with a bang. Miss Julie appears in doorway, speaking to someone outside.] JULIE. I'll be back soon, but don't let things wait for me. [Jean quickly puts bottle in table drawer and rises very respectfully.] [Enter Miss Julie and goes to Kristin.] JULIE. Is it done? [Kristin indicating Jean's presence.] JEAN [Gallantly]. Have you secrets between you? JULIE. [Flipping handkerchief in his face]. Curious, are you? JEAN. How sweet that violet perfume is! JULIE [Coquettishly]. Impudence! Do you appreciate perfumes too? Dance--that you can do splendidly. [Jean looks towards the cooking stove]. Don't look. Away with you. JEAN [Inquisitive but polite]. Is it some troll's dish that you are both concocting for midsummer night? Something to pierce the future with and evoke the face of your intended? JULIE [Sharply]. To see him one must have sharp eyes. [To Kristin]. Put it into a bottle and cork it tight. Come now, Jean and dance a schottische with me. [Jean hesitates.] JEAN. I don't wish to be impolite to anyone but--this dance I promised to Kristin. JULIE. Oh, she can have another--isn't that so, Kristin? Won't you lend Jean to me. KRISTIN. It's not for me to say, if Miss Julie is so gracious it's not for me to say no. [To Jean]. Go you and be grateful for the honor. JEAN. Well said--but not wishing any offense I wonder if it is prudent for Miss Julie to dance twice in succession with her servant, especially as people are never slow to find meaning in-- JULIE [Breaking out]. In what? What sort of meaning? What were you going to say? JEAN [Taken aback]. Since Miss Julie does not understand I must speak plainly. It may look strange to prefer one of your--underlings--to others who covet the same honor-- JULIE. To prefer--what a thought! I, the lady of the house! I honor the people with my presence and now that I feel like dancing I want to have a partner who knows how to lead to avoid being ridiculous. JEAN. As Miss Julie commands. I'm here to serve. JULIE [Mildly]. You mustn't look upon that as a command. Tonight we are all in holiday spirits--full of gladness and rank is flung aside. So, give me your arm! Don't be alarmed, Kristin, I shall not take your sweetheart away from you. [Jean offers arm. They exit.] [PANTOMIME.--Played as though the actress were really alone. Turns her back to the audience when necessary. Does not look out into the auditorium. Does not hurry as though fearing the audience might grow restless. Soft violin music from the distance, schottische time. Kristin hums with the music. She cleans the table; washes plate, wipes it and puts it in the china closet. Takes off her apron and then opens drawer of table and takes a small hand glass and strands it against a flower pot on table. Lights a candle and heats a hair pin with which she crimps her hair around her forehead. After that she goes to door at back and listens. Then she returns to table and sees the Countess' handkerchief, picks it up, smells of it, then smooths it out and folds it. Enter Jean.] JEAN. She is crazy I tell you! To dance like that! And the people stand grinning at her behind the doors. What do you say to that, Kristin? KRISTIN. Oh, didn't I say she's been acting queer lately? But isn't it my turn to dance now? JEAN. You are not angry because I let myself be led by the forelock? KRISTIN. No, not for such a little thing. That you know well enough. And I know my place too-- JEAN [Puts arm around her waist]. You're a pretty smart girl, Kristin, and you ought to make a good wife. [Enter Miss Julie.] JULIE [Disagreeably surprised, but with forced gaiety]. You're a charming cavalier to run away from your partner. JEAN. On the contrary, Miss Julie, I have hastened to my neglected one as you see. JULIE [Changing subject]. Do you know, you dance wonderfully well! But why are you in livery on a holiday night? Take it off immediately. JEAN. Will you excuse me--my coat hangs there. [Goes R. and takes coat.] JULIE. Does it embarrass you to change your coat in my presence? Go to your room then--or else stay and I'll turn my back. JEAN. With your permission, Miss Julie. [Exit Jean R. One sees his arm as he changes coat.] JULIE [To Kristin]. Is Jean your sweetheart, that he is so devoted? KRISTIN. Sweetheart? Yes, may it please you. Sweetheart--that's what they call it. JULIE. Call it? KRISTIN. Oh Miss Julie has herself had a sweetheart and-- JULIE. Yes, we were engaged-- KRISTIN. But it came to nothing. [Enter Jean in black frock coat.] JULIE. Tres gentil, Monsieur Jean, tres gentil. JEAN. Vous voulez plaisanter, Mademoiselle. JULIE. Et vous voulez parler francais? Where did you learn that? JEAN. In Switzerland where I was butler in the largest hotel at Lucerne. JULIE. Why, you look like a gentleman in your frock coat. Charmant! [Seats herself by table.] JEAN. You flatter me! JULIE. Flatter! [Picking him up on the word.] JEAN. My natural modesty forbids me to believe that you could mean these pleasant things that you say to a--such as I am--and therefore I allowed myself to fancy that you overrate or, as it is called, flatter. JULIE. Where did you learn to use words like that? Have you frequented the theatres much? JEAN. I have frequented many places, I have! JULIE. But you were born here in this neighborhood? JEAN. My father was a deputy under the public prosecutor, and I saw Miss Julie as a child--although she didn't see me! JULIE. No, really? JEAN. Yes, I remember one time in particular. But I mustn't talk about that. JULIE. Oh yes, do, when was it? JEAN. No really--not now, another time perhaps. JULIE. "Another time" is a good for nothing. Is it so dreadful then? JEAN. Not dreadful--but it goes against the grain. [Turns and points to Kristin, who has fallen asleep in a chair near stove]. Look at her. JULIE. She'll make a charming wife! Does she snore too? JEAN. No, but she talks in her sleep. JULIE [Cynically]. How do you know that she talks in her sleep? JEAN [Boldly]. I have heard her.[Pause and they look at each other.] JULIE. Why don't you sit down? JEAN. I can't allow myself to do so in your presence. JULIE. But if I command you? JEAN. Then I obey. JULIE. Sit down then. But wait--can't you get me something to drink first? JEAN. I don't know what there is in the icebox. Nothing but beer, probably. JULIE. Is beer nothing? My taste is so simple that I prefer it to wine. [Jean takes out beer and serves it on plate.] JEAN. Allow me. JULIE. Won't you drink too? JEAN. I am no friend to beer--but if Miss Julie commands. JULIE [Gaily]. Commands! I should think as a polite cavalier you might join your lady. JEAN. Looking at it in that way you are quite right. [Opens another bottle of beer and fills glass.] JULIE. Give me a toast! [Jean hesitates.] JULIE [Mockingly]. Old as he is, I believe the man is bashful! JEAN [On his knee with mock gallantry, raises glass]. A health to my lady of the house! JULIE. Bravo! Now you must kiss my slipper. Then the thing is perfect. [Jean hesitates and then seizes her foot and kisses it lightly.] JULIE. Splendid! You should have been an actor. JEAN [Rising]. But this mustn't go any further, Miss Julie. What if someone should come in and see us? JULIE. What harm would that do? JEAN. Simply that it would give them a chance to gossip. And if Miss Julie only knew how their tongues wagged just now--then-- JULIE. What did they say? Tell me. And sit down now. JEAN [Sitting]. I don't wish to hurt you, but they used an expression--threw hints of a certain kind--but you are not a child, you can understand. When one sees a lady drinking alone with a man--let alone a servant--at night--then-- JULIE. Then what? And for that matter, we are not alone. Kristin is here. JEAN. Sleeping! Yes. JULIE. Then I shall wake her. [Rises]. Kristin, are you asleep? KRISTIN. [In her sleep]. Bla--bla--bla--bla. JULIE. Kristin! She certainly can sleep. [Goes to Kristin.] KRISTIN. [In her sleep]. The Count's boots are polished--put on the coffee--soon--soon--soon. Oh--h-h-h--puh! [Breathes heavily. Julie takes her by the nose.] JULIE. Won't you wake up? JEAN [Sternly]. Don't disturb the sleeping. JULIE [Sharply]. What? JEAN. Anyone who has stood over the hot stove all day long is tired when night comes. One should respect the weary. JULIE. That's a kind thought--and I honor it. [Offers her hand.] Thanks for the suggestion. Come out with me now and pick some syringas. [Kristin has awakened and goes to her room, right, in a sort of sleep stupified way.] JEAN. With Miss Julie? JULIE. With me. JEAN. But that wouldn't do--decidedly not. JULIE. I don't understand you. Is it possible that you fancy that I-- JEAN. No--not I, but people. JULIE. What? That I'm in love with my coachman? JEAN. I am not presumptuous, but we have seen instances--and with the people nothing is sacred. JULIE. I believe he is an aristocrat! JEAN. Yes, I am. JULIE. But I step down-- -- JEAN. Don't step down, Miss Julie. Listen to me--no one would believe that you stepped down of your own accord; people always say that one falls down. JULIE. I think better of the people than you do. Come--and try them--come! [Dares him with a look.] JEAN. Do you know that you are wonderful? JULIE. Perhaps. But you are too. Everything is wonderful for that matter. Life, people--everything. Everything is wreckage, that drifts over the water until it sinks, sinks. I have the same dream every now and then and at this moment I am reminded of it. I find myself seated at the top of a high pillar and I see no possible way to get down. I grow dizzy when I look down, but down I must. But I'm not brave enough to throw myself; I cannot hold fast and I long to fall--but I don't fall. And yet I can find no rest or peace until I shall come down to earth; and if I came down to earth I would wish myself down in the ground. Have you ever felt like that? JEAN. No, I dream that I'm lying in a dark wood under a tall tree and I would up--up to the top, where I can look far over the fair landscape, where the sun is shining. I climb--climb, to plunder the birds' nests up there where the golden eggs lie, but the tree trunk is so thick, so smooth, and the first limb is so high! But I know if I reached the first limb I should climb as though on a ladder, to the top. I haven't reached it yet, but I shall reach it, if only in the dream. JULIE. Here I stand talking about dreams with you. Come now, just out in the park. [She offers her arm and they start.] JEAN. We should sleep on nine midsummer flowers tonight and then our dreams would come true. [She turns, Jean quickly holds a hand over his eye.] JULIE. What is it, something in your eye? JEAN. Oh, it is nothing--just a speck. It will be all right in a moment. JULIE. It was some dust from my sleeve that brushed against you. Now sit down and let me look for it. [Pulls him into a chair, looks into his eye.] Now sit still, perfectly still. [Uses corner of her handkerchief in his eye. Strikes his hand.] So--will you mind? I believe you are trembling, strong man that you are. [Touching his arm.] And such arms! JEAN [Warningly.] Miss Julie! JULIE. Yes, Monsieur Jean! JEAN. Attention. Je ne suis qu'un homme! JULIE. Will you sit still! So, now it is gone! Kiss my hand and thank me! [Jean rises.] JEAN. Miss Julie, listen to me. Kristin has gone to bed now--will you listen to me-- JULIE. Kiss my hand first. JEAN. Listen to me-- JULIE. Kiss my hand first. JEAN. Yes, but blame yourself. JULIE. For what? JEAN. For what? Are you a child at twenty-five? Don't you know that it is dangerous to play with fire? JULIE. Not for me. I am insured! JEAN. No, you are not. But even if you are, there is inflammable material in the neighborhood. JULIE. Might that be you? JEAN. Yes, not because it is I, but because I'm a young man-- JULIE [Scornfully]. With a grand opportunity--what inconceivable presumption! A Don Juan perhaps! Or a Joseph! On my soul, I believe he is a Joseph! JEAN. You do? JULIE. Almost. [Jean rushes towards her and tries to take her in his arms to kiss her.] JULIE [Gives him a box on the ear]. Shame on you. JEAN. Are you in earnest, or fooling? JULIE. In earnest. JEAN. Then you were in earnest a moment ago, too. You play too seriously with what is dangerous. Now I'm tired of playing and beg to be excused that I may go on with my work. The Count must have his boots in time, and it is long past midnight. [Jean picks up boots.] JULIE. Put those boots away. JEAN. No, that is my work which it is my duty to do, but I was not hired to be your play thing and that I shall never be. I think too well of myself for that. JULIE. You are proud. JEAN. In some things--not in others. JULIE. Were you ever in love? JEAN. We do not use that word, but I have liked many girls. One time I was sick because I couldn't have the one I wanted--sick, you understand, like the princesses in the Arabian Nights who could not eat nor drink for love sickness. JULIE. Who was she? [Jean is silent.] Who was she? JEAN. That you could not make me tell. JULIE. Not if I ask you as an equal, as a--friend? Who was she? JEAN. It was you! [Julie seats herself.] JULIE. How extravagant! JEAN. Yes, if you will, it was ridiculous. That was the story I hesitated to tell, but now I'm going to tell it. Do you know how people in high life look from the under world? No, of course you don't. They look like hawks and eagles whose backs one seldom sees, for they soar up above. I lived in a hovel provided by the state, with seven brothers and sisters and a pig; out on a barren stretch where nothing grew, not even a tree, but from the window I could see the Count's park walls with apple trees rising above them. That was the garden of paradise; and there stood many angry angels with flaming swords protecting it; but for all that I and other boys found the way to the tree of life--now you despise me. JULIE. Oh, all boys steal apples. JEAN. You say that, but you despise me all the same. No matter! One time I entered the garden of paradise--it was to weed the onion beds with my mother! Near the orchard stood a Turkish pavilion, shaded and overgrown with jessamine and honeysuckle. I didn't know what it was used for and I had never seen anything so beautiful. People passed in and out and one day--the door was left open. I sneaked in and beheld walls covered with pictures of kings and emperors and there were red-fringed curtains at the windows--now you understand what I mean--I--[Breaks off a spray of syringes and puts it to her nostrils.] I had never been in the castle and how my thoughts leaped--and there they returned ever after. Little by little the longing came over me to experience for once the pleasure of--enfin, I sneaked in and was bewildered. But then I heard someone coming--there was only one exit for the great folk, but for me there was another, and I had to choose that. [Julie who has taken the syringa lets it fall on table.] Once out I started to run, scrambled through a raspberry hedge, rushed over a strawberry bed and came to a stop on the rose terrace. For there I saw a figure in a white dress and white slippers and stockings--it was you! I hid under a heap of weeds, under, you understand, where the thistles pricked me, and lay on the damp, rank earth. I gazed at you walking among the roses. And I thought if it is true that the thief on the cross could enter heaven and dwell among the angels it was strange that a pauper child on God's earth could not go into the castle park and play with the Countess' daughter. JULIE [Pensively]. Do you believe that all poor children would have such thoughts under those conditions? JEAN [Hesitates, then in a positive voice]. That all poor children--yes, of course, of course! JULIE. It must be a terrible misfortune to be poor. JEAN [With deep pain and great chagrin]. Oh, Miss Julie, a dog may lie on the couch of a Countess, a horse may be caressed by a lady's hand, but a servant--yes, yes, sometimes there is stuff enough in a man, whatever he be, to swing himself up in the world, but how often does that happen! But to return to the story, do you know what I did? I ran down to the mill dam and threw myself in with my clothes on--and was pulled out and got a thrashing. But the following Sunday when all the family went to visit my grandmother I contrived to stay at home; I scrubbed myself well, put on my best clothes, such as they were, and went to church so that I might see you. I saw you. Then I went home with my mind made up to put an end to myself. But I wanted to do it beautifully and without pain. Then I happened to remember that elderberry blossoms are poisonous. I knew where there was a big elderberry bush in full bloom and I stripped it of its riches and made a bed of it in the oat-bin. Have you ever noticed how smooth and glossy oats are? As soft as a woman's arm.--Well, I got in and let down the cover, fell asleep, and when I awoke I was very ill, but didn't die--as you see. What I wanted--I don't know. You were unattainable, but through the vision of you I was made to realize how hopeless it was to rise above the conditions of my birth. JULIE. You tell it well! Were you ever at school? JEAN. A little, but I have read a good deal and gone to the theatres. And besides, I have always heard the talk of fine folks and from them I have learned most. JULIE. Do you listen then to what we are saying? JEAN. Yes, indeed, I do. And I have heard much when I've been on the coachbox. One time I heard Miss Julie and a lady-- JULIE. Oh, what was it you heard? JEAN. Hm! that's not so easy to tell. But I was astonished and could not understand where you had heard such things. Well, perhaps at bottom there's not so much difference between people and--people. JULIE. Oh, shame! We don't behave as you do when we are engaged. JEAN. [Eyeing her]. Are you sure of that? It isn't worthwhile to play the innocent with me. JULIE. I gave my love to a rascal. JEAN. That's what they always say afterward. JULIE. Always? JEAN. Always, I believe, as I have heard the expression many times before under the same circumstances. JULIE. What circumstances? JEAN. Those we've been talking about. The last time I-- -- JULIE. Silence. I don't wish to hear any more. JEAN. Well, then I beg to be excused so I may go to bed. JULIE. Go to bed! On midsummer night? JEAN. Yes, for dancing out there with that pack has not amused me. JULIE. Then get the key for the boat and row me out over the lake. I want to see the sun rise. JEAN. Is that prudent? JULIE. One would think that you were afraid of your reputation. JEAN. Why not? I don't want to be made ridiculous. I am not willing to be driven out without references, now that I am going to settle down. And I feel I owe something to Kristin. JULIE. Oh, so it's Kristin now-- JEAN. Yes, but you too. Take my advice, go up and go to bed. JULIE. Shall I obey you? JEAN. For once--for your own sake. I beg of you. Night is crawling along, sleepiness makes one irresponsible and the brain grows hot. Go to your room. In fact--if I hear rightly some of the people are coming for me. If they find us here--then you are lost. [Chorus is heard approaching, singing.] "There came two ladies out of the woods Tridiridi-ralla tridiridi-ra. One of them had wet her foot, Tridiridi-ralla-la. "They talked of a hundred dollars, Tridiridi-ralla tridiridi-ra. But neither had hardly a dollar, Tridiridi-ralla-la. "The mitten I'm going to send you, Tridirichi-ralla tridiridi-ra. For another I'm going to jilt you, Tridiridi-ralla tridiridi-ra." JULIE. I know the people and I love them and they respect me. Let them come, you shall see. JEAN. No, Miss Julie, they don't love you. They take your food and spit upon your kindness, believe me. Listen to them, listen to what they're singing! No! Don't listen! JULIE [Listening]. What are they singing? JEAN. It's something suggestive, about you and me. JULIE. Infamous! Oh horrible! And how cowardly! JEAN. The pack is always cowardly. And in such a battle one can only run away. JULIE. Run away? Where? We can't get out and we can't go to Kristin. JEAN. Into my room then. Necessity knows no law. You can depend on me for I am your real, genuine, respectful friend. JULIE. But think if they found you there. JEAN. I will turn the key and if they try to break in I'll shoot. Come--come! JULIE. [Meaningly]. You promise me--? JEAN. I swear... [She exits R. Jean follows her.] [BALLET.--The farm folk enter in holiday dress with flowers in their hats, a fiddler in the lead. They carry a keg of home-brewed beer and a smaller keg of gin, both decorated with greens which are placed on the table. They help themselves to glasses and drink. Then they sing and dance a country dance to the melody of "There came two ladies out of the woods." When that is over they go out, singing.] [Enter Julie alone, sees the havoc the visitors have made, clasps her hands, takes out powder box and powders her face. Enter Jean exuberant.] JEAN. There, you see, and you heard them. Do you think it's possible for us to remain here any longer? JULIE. No, I don't. But what's to be done? JEAN. Fly! Travel--far from here! JULIE. Travel--yes--but where? JEAN. To Switzerland--to the Italian lakes. You have never been there? JULIE. No--is it beautiful there? JEAN. Oh, an eternal summer! Oranges, trees, laurels--oh! JULIE. But what shall we do there? JEAN. I'll open a first-class hotel for first-class patrons. JULIE. Hotel? JEAN. That is life--you shall see! New faces constantly, different languages. Not a moment for boredom. Always something to do night and day--the bell ringing, the trains whistling, the omnibus coming and going and all the time the gold pieces rolling into the till--that is life! JULIE. Yes, that is life. And I--? JEAN. The mistress of the establishment--the ornament of the house. With your looks--and your manners--oh, it's a sure success! Colossal! You could sit like a queen in the office and set the slaves in action by touching an electric button. The guests line up before your throne and shyly lay their riches on your desk. You can't believe how people tremble when they get their bills--I can salt the bills and you can sweeten them with your most bewitching smile--ha, let us get away from here--[Takes a time table from his pocket] immediately--by the next train. We can be at Malmö at 6.30, Hamburg at 8.40 tomorrow morning, Frankfort the day after and at Como by the St. Gothard route in about--let me see, three days. Three days! JULIE. All that is well enough, but Jean--you must give me courage. Take me in your arms and tell me that you love me. JEAN [Hesitatingly]. I will--but I daren't--not again in this house. I love you of course--do you doubt that? JULIE [Shyly and with womanliness]. You! Say thou to me! Between us there can be no more formality. Say thou. JEAN. I can't--There must be formality between us--as long as we are in this house. There is the memory of the past--and there is the Count, your father. I have never known anyone else for whom I have such respect. I need only to see his gloves lying in a chair to feel my own insignificance. I have only to hear his bell to start like a nervous horse--and now as I see his boots standing there so stiff and proper I feel like bowing and scraping. [Gives boots a kick]. Superstitions and prejudices taught in childhood can't be uprooted in a moment. Let us go to a country that is a republic where they'll stand on their heads for my coachman's livery--on their heads shall they stand--but I shall not. I am not born to bow and scrape, for there's stuff in me--character. If I only get hold of the first limb, you shall see me climb. I'm a coachman today, but next year I shall be a proprietor, in two years a gentleman of income; then for Roumania where I'll let them decorate me and can, mark you, _can_ end a count! JULIE. Beautiful, beautiful! JEAN. Oh, in Roumania, one can buy a title cheap--and so you can be a countess just the same--my countess! JULIE. What do I care for all that--which I now cast behind me. Say that you love me--else, what am I, without it? JEAN. I'll say it a thousand times afterwards, but not here. Above all, let us have no sentimentality now or everything will fall through. We must look at this matter coldly like sensible people. [Takes out a cigar and lights it.] Now sit down there and I'll sit here and we'll talk it over as if nothing had happened. JULIE [Staggered]. Oh, my God, have you no feeling? JEAN. I? No one living has more feeling than I but I can restrain myself. JULIE. A moment ago you could kiss my slipper and now-- JEAN [Harshly]. That was--then. Now we have other things to think about. JULIE. Don't speak harshly to me. JEAN. Not harshly, but wisely. One folly has been committed--commit no more. The Count may be here at any moment, and before he comes, our fate must be settled. How do my plans for the future strike you? Do you approve of them? JULIE. They seem acceptable enough. But one question. For such a great undertaking a large capital is necessary, have you that? JEAN [Chewing his cigar]. I? To be sure. I have my regular occupation, my unusual experience, my knowledge of different languages--that is capital that counts, I should say. JULIE. But with all that you could not buy a railway ticket. JEAN. That's true, and for that reason I'm looking for a backer who can furnish the funds. JULIE. How can that be done at a moment's notice? JEAN. That is for you to say, if you wish to be my companion. JULIE. I can't--as I have nothing myself. [A pause.] JEAN. Then the whole matter drops-- -- JULIE. And-- -- JEAN. Things remain as they are. JULIE. Do you think I could remain under this roof after----Do you think I will allow the people to point at me in scorn, or that I can ever look my father in the face again? Never! Take me away from this humiliation and dishonor. Oh, what have I done! Oh, my God, what have I done! [Weeping.] JEAN. So, you are beginning in that tune now. What have you done? The same as many before you. JULIE. And now you despise me. I am falling! I am falling! JEAN. Fall down to my level, I'll lift you up afterwards. JULIE. What strange power drew me to you--the weak to the strong--the falling to the rising, or is this love! This--love! Do you know what love is? JEAN. I? Yes! Do you think it's the first time? JULIE. What language, what thoughts. JEAN. I am what life has made me. Don't be nervous and play the high and mighty, for now we are on the same level. Look here, my little girl, let me offer you a glass of something extra fine. [Opens drawer of table and takes out wine bottle, then fills two glasses that have been already used.] JULIE. Where did you get that wine? JEAN. From the cellar. JULIE. My father's Burgundy. JEAN. What's the matter, isn't that good enough for the son-in-law? JULIE. And I drink beer--I! JEAN. That only goes to prove that your taste is poorer than mine. JULIE. Thief! JEAN. Do you intend to tattle? JULIE. Oh ho! Accomplice to a house thief. Was I intoxicated--have I been walking in my sleep this night--midsummer night, the night for innocent play-- JEAN. Innocent, eh! JULIE [Pacing back and forth]. Is there a being on earth so miserable as I. JEAN. Why are you, after such a conquest. Think of Kristin in there, don't you think she has feelings too? JULIE. I thought so a little while ago, but I don't any more. A servant is a servant. JEAN. And a whore is a whore. JULIE [Falls on her knees with clasped hands]. Oh, God in heaven, end my wretched life, save me from this mire into which I'm sinking--Oh save me, save me. JEAN. I can't deny that it hurts me to see you like this. JULIE. And you who wanted to die for me. JEAN. In the oat-bin? Oh, that was only talk. JULIE. That is to say--a lie! JEAN [Beginning to show sleepiness]. Er--er almost. I believe I read something of the sort in a newspaper about a chimney-sweep who made a death bed for himself of syringa blossoms in a wood-bin--[laughs] because they were going to arrest him for non-support of his children. JULIE. So you are such a-- JEAN. What better could I have hit on! One must always be romantic to capture a woman. JULIE. Wretch! Now you have seen the eagle's back, and I suppose I am to be the first limb-- JEAN. And the limb is rotten-- JULIE [Without seeming to hear]. And I am to be the hotel's signboard-- JEAN. And I the hotel-- JULIE. And sit behind the desk and allure guests and overcharge them-- JEAN. Oh, that'll be my business. JULIE. That a soul can be so degraded! JEAN. Look to your own soul. JULIE. Lackey! Servant! Stand up when I speak. JEAN. Don't you dare to moralize to me. Lackey, eh! Do you think you have shown yourself finer than any maid-servant tonight? JULIE [Crushed]. That is right, strike me, trample on me, I deserve nothing better. I have done wrong, but help me now. Help me out of this if there is any possible way. JEAN [Softens somewhat]. I don't care to shirk my share of the blame, but do you think any one of my position would ever have dared to raise his eyes to you if you yourself had not invited it? Even now I am astonished-- JULIE. And proud. JEAN. Why not? Although I must confess that the conquest was too easy to be exciting. JULIE. Go on, strike me again-- JEAN [Rising]. No, forgive me, rather, for what I said. I do not strike the unarmed, least of all, a woman. But I can't deny that from a certain point of view it gives me satisfaction to know that it is the glitter of brass, not gold, that dazzles us from below, and that the eagle's back is grey like the rest of him. On the other hand, I'm sorry to have to realize that all that I have looked up to is not worth while, and it pains me to see you fallen lower than your cook as it pains me to see autumn blossoms whipped to pieces by the cold rain and transformed into--dirt! JULIE. You speak as though you were already my superior. JEAN. And so I am! For I can make you a countess and you could never make me a count. JULIE. But I am born of a count, that you can never be. JEAN. That is true, but I can be the father of counts--if-- JULIE. But you are a thief--that I am not. JEAN. There are worse things than that, and for that matter when I serve in a house I regard myself as a member of the family, a child of the house as it were. And one doesn't consider it theft if children snoop a berry from full bushes. [With renewed passion]. Miss Julie, you are a glorious woman--too good for such as I. You have been the victim of an infatuation and you want to disguise this fault by fancying that you love me. But you do not--unless perhaps my outer self attracts you. And then your love is no better than mine. But I cannot be satisfied with that, and your real love I can never awaken. JULIE. Are you sure of that? JEAN. You mean that we could get along with such an arrangement? There's no doubt about my loving you--you are beautiful, you are elegant--[Goes to her and takes her hand] accomplished, lovable when you wish to be, and the flame that you awaken in man does not die easily. [Puts arm around her.] You are like hot wine with strong spices, and your lips-- [Tries to kiss her. Julie pulls herself away slowly.] JULIE. Leave me--I'm not to be won this way. JEAN. How then? Not with caresses and beautiful words? Not by thoughts for the future, to save humiliation? How then? JULIE. How? I don't know. I don't know! I shrink from you as I would from a rat. But I cannot escape from you. JEAN. Escape with me. JULIE. Escape? Yes, we must escape.--But I'm so tired. Give me a glass of wine. [Jean fills a glass with wine, Julie looks at her watch.] We must talk it over first for we have still a little time left. [She empties the glass and puts it out for more.] JEAN. Don't drink too much. It will go to your head. JULIE. What harm will that do? JEAN. What harm? It's foolish to get intoxicated. But what did you want to say? JULIE. We must go away, but we must talk first. That is, I must speak, for until now you have done all the talking. You have told me about your life--now I will tell you about mine, then we will know each other through and through before we start on our wandering together. JEAN. One moment, pardon. Think well whether you won't regret having told your life's secrets. JULIE. Aren't you my friend? JEAN. Yes. Sometimes. But don't depend on me. JULIE. You only say that. And for that matter I have no secrets. You see, my mother was not of noble birth. She was brought up with ideas of equality, woman's freedom and all that. She had very decided opinions against matrimony, and when my father courted her she declared that she would never be his wife--but she did so for all that. I came into the world against my mother's wishes, I discovered, and was brought up like a child of nature by my mother, and taught everything that a boy must know as well; I was to be an example of a woman being as good as a man--I was made to go about in boy's clothes and take care of the horses and harness and saddle and hunt, and all such things; in fact, all over the estate women servants were taught to do men's work, with the result that the property came near being ruined--and so we became the laughing stock of the countryside. At last my father must have awakened from his bewitched condition, for he revolted, and ran things according to his ideas. My mother became ill--what it was I don't know, but she often had cramps and acted queerly--sometimes hiding in the attic or the orchard, and would even be gone all night at times. Then came the big fire which of course you have heard about. The house, the stables--everything was burned, under circumstances that pointed strongly to an incendiary, for the misfortune happened the day after the quarterly insurance was due and the premiums sent in by father were strangely delayed by his messenger so that they arrived too late. [She fills a wine glass and drinks.] JEAN. Don't drink any more. JULIE. Oh, what does it matter? My father was utterly at a loss to know where to get money to rebuild with. Then my mother suggested that he try to borrow from a man who had been her friend in her youth--a brick manufacturer here in the neighborhood. My father made the loan, but wasn't allowed to pay any interest, which surprised him. Then the house was rebuilt. [Julie drinks again.] Do you know who burned the house? JEAN. Her ladyship, your mother? JULIE. Do you know who the brick manufacturer was? JEAN. Your mother's lover? JULIE. Do you know whose money it was? JEAN. Just a moment, that I don't know. JULIE. It was my mother's. JEAN. The Count's--that is to say, unless there was a contract. JULIE. There was no contract. My mother had some money which she had not wished to have in my father's keeping and therefore, she had entrusted it to her friend's care. JEAN. Who kept it. JULIE. Quite right--he held on to it. All this came to my father's knowledge. He couldn't proceed against him, wasn't allowed to pay his wife's friend, and couldn't prove that it was his wife's money. That was my mother's revenge for his taking the reins of the establishment into his own hands. At that time he was ready to shoot himself. Gossip had it that he had tried and failed. Well, he lived it down--and my mother paid full penalty for her misdeed. Those were five terrible years for me, as you can fancy. I sympathized with my father, but I took my mother's part, for I didn't know the true circumstances. Through her I learned to distrust and hate men, and I swore to her never to be a man's slave. JEAN. But you became engaged to the Lieutenant Governor. JULIE. Just to make him my slave. JEAN. But that he didn't care to be. JULIE. He wanted to be, fast enough, but I grew tired of him. JEAN. Yes--I noticed that--in the stable-yard! JULIE. What do you mean? JEAN. I saw how he broke the engagement. JULIE. That's a lie. It was I who broke it. Did he say he broke it--the wretch! JEAN. I don't believe that he was a wretch. You hate men, Miss Julie. JULIE. Most of them. Sometimes one is weak-- JEAN. You hate me? JULIE. Excessively. I could see you shot-- JEAN. Like a mad dog? JULIE. Exactly! JEAN. But there is nothing here to shoot with. What shall we do then? JULIE [Rousing herself].We must get away from here--travel. JEAN. And torture each other to death? JULIE. No--to enjoy, a few days, a week--as long as we can. And then to die. JEAN. Die! How silly. I think it's better to start the hotel. JULIE [Not heeding him]. By the Lake of Como where the sun is always shining, where the laurel is green at Christmas and the oranges glow. JEAN. The Lake of Como is a rain hole, I never saw any oranges there except on fruit stands. But it's a good resort, and there are many villas to rent to loving couples. That's a very paying industry. You know why? They take leases for half a year at least, but they usually leave in three weeks. JULIE [Naively]. Why after three weeks? JEAN. Why? They quarrel of course, but the rent must be paid all the same. Then you re-let, and so one after another they come and go, for there is plenty of love, although it doesn't last long. JULIE. Then you don't want to die with me? JEAN. I don't want to die at all, both because I enjoy living and because I regard suicide as a crime to Him who has given us life. JULIE. Then you believe in God? JEAN. Yes. Of course I do, and I go to church every other Sunday--But I'm tired of all this and I'm going to bed. JULIE. Do you think I would allow myself to be satisfied with such an ending? Do you know what a man owes to a woman he hits-- -- JEAN [Takes out a silver coin and throws it on the table]. Allow me, I don't want to owe anything to anyone. JULIE [Pretending not to notice the insult]. Do you know what the law demands? JEAN. I know that the law demands nothing of a woman who seduces a man. JULIE [Again not heeding him]. Do you see any way out of it but to travel?--wed--and separate? JEAN. And if I protest against this misalliance? JULIE. Misalliance! JEAN. Yes, for me. For you see I have a finer ancestry than you, for I have no fire-bug in my family. JULIE. How do you know? JEAN. You can't prove the contrary. We have no family record except that which the police keep. But your pedigree I have read in a book on the drawing room table. Do you know who the founder of your family was? It was a miller whose wife found favor with the king during the Danish War. Such ancestry I have not. JULIE. This is my reward for opening my heart to anyone so unworthy, with whom I have talked about my family honor. JEAN. Dishonor--yes, I said it. I told you not to drink because then one talks too freely and one should never talk. JULIE. Oh, how I repent all this. If at least you loved me! JEAN. For the last time--what do you mean? Shall I weep, shall I jump over your riding whip, shall I kiss you, lure you to Lake Como for three weeks, and then--what do you want anyway? This is getting tiresome. But that's the way it always is when you get mixed up in women's affairs. Miss Julie, I see that you are unhappy, I know that you suffer, but I can't understand you. Among my kind there is no nonsense of this sort; we love as we play when work gives us time. We haven't the whole day and night for it like you. JULIE. You must be good to me and speak to me as though I were a human being. JEAN. Be one yourself. You spit on me and expect me to stand it. JULIE. Help me, help me. Only tell me what to do--show me a way out of this! JEAN. In heaven's name, if I only knew myself. JULIE. I have been raving, I have been mad, but is there no means of deliverance? JEAN. Stay here at home and say nothing. No one knows. JULIE. Impossible. These people know it, and Kristin. JEAN. They don't know it and could never suspect such a thing. JULIE [Hesitating]. But--it might happen again. JEAN. That is true. JULIE. And the consequences? JEAN [Frightened]. Consequences--where were my wits not to have thought of that! There is only one thing to do. Get away from here immediately. I can't go with you or they will suspect. You must go alone--away from here--anywhere. JULIE. Alone? Where? I cannot. JEAN. You must--and before the Count returns. If you stay, we know how it will be. If one has taken a false step it's likely to happen again as the harm has already been done, and one grows more and more daring until at last all is discovered. Write the Count afterward and confess all--except that it was I. That he could never guess, and I don't think he'll be so anxious to know who it was, anyway. JULIE. I will go if you'll go with me. JEAN. Are you raving again? Miss Julie running away with her coachman? All the papers would be full of it and that the Count could never live through. JULIE. I can't go--I can't stay. Help me, I'm so tired--so weary. Command me, set me in motion--I can't think any more,--can't act-- JEAN. See now, what creatures you aristocrats are! Why do you bristle up and stick up your noses as though you were the lords of creation. Very well--I will command you! Go up and dress yourself and see to it that you have travelling money and then come down. [She hesitates.] Go immediately. [She still hesitates. He takes her hand and leads her to door.] JULIE. Speak gently to me, Jean. JEAN. A command always sounds harsh. Feel it yourself now. [Exit Julie.] [Jean draws a sigh of relief, seats himself by the table, takes out a notebook and pencil and counts aloud now and then until Kristin comes in, dressed for church.] KRISTIN. My heavens, how it looks here. What's been going on? JEAN. Oh, Miss Julie dragged in the people. Have you been sleeping so soundly that you didn't hear anything? KRISTIN. I've slept like a log. JEAN. And already dressed for church! KRISTIN. Ye-es, [Sleepily] didn't you promise to go to early service with me? JEAN. Yes, quite so, and there you have my stock and front. All right. [He seats himself. Kristin putting on his stock.] JEAN [Sleepily]. What is the text today? KRISTIN. St. John's Day! It is of course about the beheading of John the Baptist. JEAN. I'm afraid it will be terribly long drawn out--that. Hey, you're choking me. I'm so sleepy, so sleepy. KRISTIN. What have you been doing up all night? You are actually green in the face. JEAN. I have been sitting here talking to Miss Julie. KRISTIN. Oh you don't know your place. [Pause.] JEAN. Listen, Kristin. KRISTIN. Well? JEAN. It's queer about her when you think it over. KRISTIN. What is queer? JEAN. The whole thing. [Pause. Kristin looks at half empty glasses on table.] KRISTIN. Have you been drinking together, too? JEAN. Yes! KRISTIN. For shame. Look me in the eye. JEAN. Yes. KRISTIN. Is it possible? Is it possible? JEAN [After reflecting]. Yes, it is. KRISTIN. Ugh! That I would never have believed. For shame, for shame! JEAN. You are not jealous of her? KRISTIN. No, not of her. But if it had been Clara or Sophie--then I would have scratched your eyes out. So that is what has happened--how I can't understand! No, that wasn't very nice! JEAN. Are you mad at her? KRISTIN. No, but with you. That was bad of you, very bad. Poor girl. Do you know what--I don't want to be here in this house any longer where one cannot respect one's betters. JEAN. Why should one respect them? KRISTIN. Yes, you can say that, you are so smart. But I don't want to serve people who behave so. It reflects on oneself, I think. JEAN. Yes, but it's a comfort that they're not a bit better than we. KRISTIN. No, I don't think so, for if they are not better there's no use in our trying to better ourselves in this world. And to think of the Count! Think of him who has had so much sorrow all his days? No, I don't want to stay in this house any longer! And to think of it being with such as you! If it had been the Lieutenant-- JEAN. What's that? KRISTIN. Yes! He was good enough, to be sure, but there's a difference between people just the same. No, this I can never forget. Miss Julie who was always so proud and indifferent to men! One never would believe that she would give herself--and to one like you! She who was ready to have Diana shot because she would run after the gatekeeper's mongrels. Yes, I say it--and here I won't stay any longer and on the twenty-fourth of October I go my way. JEAN. And then? KRISTIN. Well, as we've come to talk about it, it's high time you looked around for something else, since we're going to get married. JEAN. Well, what'll I look for? A married man couldn't get a place like this. KRISTIN. No, of course not. But you could take a gatekeeper's job or look for a watchman's place in some factory. The government's plums are few, but they are sure. And then the wife and children get a pension-- JEAN [With a grimace]. That's all very fine--all that, but it's not exactly in my line to think about dying for my wife and children just now. I must confess that I have slightly different aspirations. KRISTIN. Aspirations? Aspirations--anyway you have obligations. Think of those, you. JEAN. Don't irritate me with talk about my obligations. I know my own business. [He listens.] We'll have plenty of time for all this some other day. Go and get ready and we'll be off to church. KRISTIN [Listening]. Who's that walking upstairs? JEAN. I don't know--unless it's Clara. KRISTIN [Starting to go]. It could never be the Count who has come home without anyone hearing him? JEAN [Frightened]. The Count! I can't believe that. He would have rung the bell. KRISTIN. God help us! Never have I been mixed up in anything like this! [Exit Kristin. The sun has risen and lights up the scene. Presently the sunshine comes in through windows at an angle. Jean goes to door and motions. Enter Julie, dressed for travelling, carrying a small bird cage covered with a cloth, which she places on a chair.] JULIE. I am ready! JEAN. Hush, Kristin is stirring! [Julie frightened and nervous throughout following scene.] JULIE. Does she suspect anything? JEAN. She knows nothing. But, good heavens, how you look! JULIE. Why? JEAN. You are pale as a ghost. JULIE [Sighs]. Am I? Oh, the sun is rising, the sun! JEAN. And now the troll's spell is broken. JULIE. The trolls have indeed been at work this night. But, Jean, listen--come with me, I have money enough. JEAN. Plenty? JULIE. Enough to start with. Go with me for I can't go alone--today, midsummer day. Think of the stuffy train, packed in with the crowds of people staring at one; the long stops at the stations when one would be speeding away. No, I cannot, I cannot! And then the memories, childhood's memories of midsummer day--the church decorated with birch branches and syringa blossoms; the festive dinner table with relations and friends, afternoon in the park, music, dancing, flowers and games--oh, one may fly, fly, but anguish and remorse follow in the pack wagon. JEAN. I'll go with you--if we leave instantly--before it's too late. JULIE. Go and dress then. [She takes up bird cage.] JEAN. But no baggage! That would betray us. JULIE. Nothing but what we can take in the coupé. [Jean has picked up his hat.] JEAN. What have you there? JULIE. It's only my canary. I cannot, will not, leave it behind. JEAN. So we are to lug a bird cage with us. Are you crazy? Let go of it. JULIE. It is all I take from home. The only living creature that cares for me. Don't be hard--let me take it with me. JEAN. Let go the cage and don't talk so loud. Kristin will hear us. JULIE. No, I will not leave it to strange hands. I would rather see it dead. JEAN. Give me the creature. I'll fix it. JULIE. Yes, but don't hurt it. Don't--no, I cannot. JEAN. Let go. I can. JULIE [Takes the canary from cage]. Oh, my little siren. Must your mistress part with you? JEAN. Be so good as not to make a scene. Your welfare, your life, is at stake. So--quickly. [Snatches bird from her and goes to chopping block and takes up meat chopper]. You should have learned how to chop off a chicken's head instead of shooting with a revolver. [He chops off the bird's head]. Then you wouldn't swoon at a drop of blood. JULIE [Shrieks]. Kill me, too. Kill me! You who can butcher an innocent bird without a tremble. Oh, how I shrink from you. I curse the moment I first saw you. I curse the moment I was conceived in my mother's womb. JEAN. Come now! What good is your cursing, let's be off. JULIE [Looks toward chopping block as though obsessed by thought of the slain bird]. No, I cannot. I must see-- --hush, a carriage is passing. Don't you think I can stand the sight of blood? You think I am weak. Oh, I should like to see your blood flowing--to see your brain on the chopping block, all your sex swimming in a sea of blood. I believe I could drink out of your skull, bathe my feet in your breast and eat your heart cooked whole. You think I am weak; you believe that I love you because my life has mingled with yours; you think that I would carry your offspring under my heart, and nourish it with my blood--give birth to your child and take your name! Hear, you, what are you called, what is your family name? But I'm sure you have none. I should be "Mrs. Gate-Keeper," perhaps, or "Madame Dumpheap." You dog with my collar on, you lackey with my father's hallmark on your buttons. I play rival to my cook--oh--oh--oh! You believe that I am cowardly and want to run away. No, now I shall stay. The thunder may roll. My father will return--and find his desk broken into--his money gone! Then he will ring--that bell. A scuffle with his servant--then sends for the police--and then I tell all--everything! Oh, it will be beautiful to have it all over with--if only that were the end! And my father--he'll have a shock and die, and then that will be the end. Then they will place his swords across the coffin--and the Count's line is extinct. The serf's line will continue in an orphanage, win honors in the gutter and end in prison. JEAN. Now it is the king's blood talking. Splendid, Miss Julie! Only keep the miller in his sack. [Enter Kristin with prayer-book in hand.] JULIE [Hastening to Kristin and falls in her arms as though seeking protection]. Help me, Kristin, help me against this man. KRISTIN [Cold and unmoved]. What kind of performance is this for a holy day morning? What does this mean--this noise and fuss? JULIE. Kristin, you are a woman,--and my friend. Beware of this wretch. JEAN [A little embarrassed and surprised]. While the ladies are arguing I'll go and shave myself. [Jean goes, R.] JULIE. You must understand me--you must listen to me. KRISTIN. No--I can't understand all this bosh. Where may you be going in your traveling dress?--and he had his hat on! Hey? JULIE. Listen to me, Kristin, listen to me and I'll tell you everything. KRISTIN. I don't want to know anything-- JULIE. You must listen to me-- KRISTIN. What about? Is it that foolishness with Jean? That doesn't concern me at all. That I won't be mixed up with, but if you're trying to lure him to run away with you then we must put a stop to it. JULIE [Nervously]. Try to be calm now Kristin, and listen to me. I can't stay here and Jean can't stay here. That being true, we must leave-- --Kristin. KRISTIN. Hm, hm! JULIE [Brightening up]. But I have an idea--what if we three should go--away--to foreign parts. To Switzerland and set up a hotel together--I have money you see--and Jean and I would back the whole thing, you could run the kitchen. Won't that be fine? Say yes, now--and come with us--there everything would be arranged--say yes! [Throws her arms around Kristin and coaxes her]. KRISTIN [Cold and reflecting]. Hm--hm! JULIE [Presto tempo]. You have never been out and traveled, Kristin. You shall look about you in the world. You can't believe how pleasant traveling on a train is--new faces continually, new countries--and we'll go to Hamburg--and passing through we'll see the zoological gardens--that you will like--then we'll go to the theatre and hear the opera--and when we reach Munich there will be the museum--there are Rubins and Raphaels and all the big painters that you know--you have heard of Munich--where King Ludwig lived--the King, you know, who went mad. Then we'll see his palace--a palace like those in the Sagas--and from there it isn't far to Switzerland--and the Alps, the Alps mind you with snow in mid-summer. And there oranges grow and laurel--green all the year round if--[Jean is seen in the doorway R. stropping his razor on the strop which he holds between his teeth and left hand. He listens and nods his head favorably now and then. Julie continues, tempo prestissimo] And there we'll take a hotel and I'll sit taking the cash while Jean greets the guests--goes out and markets--writes letters--that will be life, you may believe--then the train whistles--then the omnibus comes--then a bell rings upstairs, then in the restaurant--and then I make out the bills--and I can salt them--you can't think how people tremble when they receive their bill--and you--you can sit like a lady--of course you won't have to stand over the stove--you can dress finely and neatly when you show yourself to the people--and you with your appearance--Oh, I'm not flattering, you can catch a husband some fine day--a rich Englishman perhaps--they are so easy to--[Slowing up] to catch-- --Then we'll be rich--and then we'll build a villa by Lake Como--to be sure it rains sometimes--but [becoming languid] the sun must shine too sometimes-- -- --although it seems dark-- -- --and if not--we can at least travel homeward--and come back--here--or some other place. KRISTIN. Listen now. Does Miss Julie believe in all this? [Julie going to pieces.] JULIE. Do I believe in it? KRISTIN. Yes. JULIE [Tired]. I don't know. I don't believe in anything any more. [Sinks down on bench, and takes head in her hand on table.] In nothing--nothing! KRISTIN [Turns to R. and looks toward Jean]. So--you intended to run away? JEAN [Rather shamefaced comes forward and puts razor on table]. Run away? That's putting it rather strong. You heard Miss Julie's project, I think it might be carried out. KRISTIN. Now listen to that! Was it meant that I should be her cook-- JEAN [Sharply]. Be so good as to use proper language when you speak of your mistress. KRISTIN. Mistress? JEAN. Yes. KRISTIN. No--hear! Listen to him! JEAN. Yes, you listen--you need to, and talk less. Miss Julie is your mistress and for the same reason that you do not respect her now you should not respect yourself. KRISTIN. I have always had so much respect for myself-- JEAN. That you never had any left for others! KRISTIN. I have never lowered my position. Let any one say, if they can, that the Count's cook has had anything to do with the riding master or the swineherd. Let them come and say it! JEAN. Yes, you happened to get a fine fellow. That was your good luck. KRISTIN. Yes, a fine fellow--who sells the Count's oats from his stable. JEAN. Is it for you to say anything--you who get a commission on all the groceries and a bribe from the butcher? KRISTIN. What's that? JEAN. And you can't have respect for your master and mistress any longer--you, you! KRISTIN [Glad to change the subject]. Are you coming to church with me? You need a good sermon for your actions. JEAN. No, I'm not going to church today. You can go alone--and confess your doings. KRISTIN. Yes, that I shall do, and I shall return with so much forgiveness that there will be enough for you too. The Savior suffered and died on the cross for all our sins, and when we go to Him in faith and a repentant spirit he takes our sins on Himself. JULIE. Do you believe that, Kristin? KRISTIN. That is my life's belief, as true as I stand here. And that was my childhood's belief that I have kept since my youth, Miss Julie. And where sin overflows, there mercy overflows also. JULIE. Oh, if I only had your faith. Oh, if-- KRISTIN. Yes, but you see that is not given without God's particular grace, and that is not allotted to all, that! JULIE. Who are the chosen? KRISTIN. That is the great secret of the Kingdom of Grace, and the Lord has no respect for persons. But there the last shall be first. JULIE. But then has he respect for the last--the lowliest person? KRISTIN [Continuing]. It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. That's the way it is, Miss Julie. However--now I am going--alone. And on my way I shall stop in and tell the stable boy not to let any horses go out in case any one wants to get away before the Count comes home. Good bye. [Exit Kristin.] JEAN. Such a devil. And all this on account of your confounded canary! JULIE [Tired]. Oh, don't speak of the canary--do you see any way out--any end to this? JEAN [Thinking]. No. JULIE. What would you do in my place? JEAN. In your place--wait. As a noble lady, as a woman--fallen--I don't know. Yes, now I know. JULIE [She takes up razor from table and makes gestures saying] This? JEAN. Yes. But _I_ should not do it, mark you, for there is a difference between us. JULIE. Because you are a man and I am a woman? What other difference is there? JEAN. That very difference--of man and woman. JULIE [Razor in hand]. I want to do it--but I can't. My father couldn't either that time when he should have done it. JEAN. No, he was right, not to do it--he had to avenge himself first. JULIE. And now my mother revenges herself again through me. JEAN. Haven't you loved your father, Miss Julie? JULIE. Yes, deeply. But I have probably hated him too, I must have--without being aware of it. And it is due to my father's training that I have learned to scorn my own sex. Between them both they have made me half man, half woman. Whose is the fault for what has happened--my father's? My mother's? My own? I haven't anything of my own. I haven't a thought which was not my father's--not a passion that wasn't my mother's. And last of all from my betrothed the idea that all people are equal. For that I now call him a wretch. How can it be my own fault then? Throw the burden on Jesus as Kristin did? No, I am too proud, too intelligent, thanks to my father's teaching.-- --And that a rich man cannot enter the Kingdom of Heaven--that is a lie, and Kristin, who has money in the savings bank--she surely cannot enter there. Whose is the fault? What does it concern us whose fault it is? It is I who must bear the burden and the consequences. JEAN. Yes, but-- -- [Two sharp rings on bell are heard. Julie starts to her feet. Jean changes his coat.] JEAN. The Count--has returned. Think if Kristin has-- [Goes up to speaking tube and listens.] JULIE. Now he has seen the desk! JEAN [Speaking in the tube]. It is Jean, Excellency. [Listens]. Yes, Excellency. [Listens].Yes, Excellency,--right away--immediately, Excellency. Yes--in half an hour. JULIE [In great agitation]. What did he say? In Heaven's name, what did he say? JEAN. He wants his boots and coffee in a half hour. JULIE. In half an hour then. Oh, I'm so tired--I'm incapable of feeling, not able to be sorry, not able to go, not able to stay, not able to live--not able to die. Help me now. Command me--I will obey like a dog. Do me this last service--save my honor. Save his name. You know what I have the will to do--but cannot do. You will it and command me to execute your will. JEAN. I don't know why--but now I can't either.--I don't understand myself. It is absolutely as though this coat does it--but I can't command you now. And since the Count spoke to me-- --I can't account for it--but oh, it is that damned servant in my back--I believe if the Count came in here now and told me to cut my throat I would do it on the spot. JULIE. Make believe you are he--and I you. You could act so well a little while ago when you knelt at my feet. Then you were a nobleman--or haven't you ever been at the theatre and seen the hypnotist--[Jean nods] He says to his subject "Take the broom," and he takes it; he says, "Sweep," and he sweeps. JEAN. Then the subject must be asleep! JULIE [Ecstatically]. I sleep already. The whole room is like smoke before me--and you are like a tall black stove, like a man clad in black clothes with a high hat; and your eyes gleam like the hot coals when the fire is dying; and your face a white spot like fallen ashes. [The sunshine is coming in through the windows and falls on Jean. Julie rubs her hands as though warming them before a fire]. It is so warm and good--and so bright and quiet! JEAN [Takes razor and puts it in her hand]. There is the broom, go now while it's bright--out to the hay loft--and--[He whispers in her ear.] JULIE [Rousing herself]. Thanks. And now I go to rest. But tell me this--the foremost may receive the gift of Grace? Say it, even if you don't believe it. JEAN. The foremost? No, I can't say that. But wait, Miss Julie--you are no longer among the foremost since you are of the lowliest. JULIE. That's true, I am the lowliest--the lowliest of the lowly. Oh, now I can't go. Tell me once more that I must go. JEAN. No, now I cannot either--I cannot. JULIE. And the first shall be last-- -- -- JEAN. Don't think. You take my strength from me, too, so that I become cowardly.--What-- --I thought I heard the bell!-- -- No! To be afraid of the sound of a bell! But it's not the bell--it's someone behind the bell, the hand that sets the bell in motion--and something else that sets the hand in motion. But stop your ears, stop your ears. Then he will only ring louder and keep on ringing until it's answered--and then it is too late! Then come the police and then--[Two loud rings on bell are heard, Jean falls in a heap for a moment, but straightens up immediately.] It is horrible! But there is no other way. Go! [Countess Julie goes out resolutely.] CURTAIN. ***** THE OUTLAW CHARACTERS THORFINN, Erl of Iceland VALGERD, his wife GUNLÖD, their daughter GUNNAR, a Crusader ORM, a minstrel, foster brother to Thorfinn A THRALL A MESSENGER Action takes place in Iceland. [SCENE--A hut, door at back, window-holes, right and, left, closed by big heavy wooden shutters. Wooden benches against walls, the high bench, a sort of rude throne, at left. The uprights of this high beach are carved with images of the gods Odin and Thor. From the wall beams hang swords, battle axes and shields. Near the high bench stands a harp. Gunlöd stands at an open window-hole peering out; through the opening one gets a glimpse of the sea lighted by the aurora borealis. Valgerd sits by the fire, which is in the middle of the room, spinning.] VALGERD. Close the window-hole. [Gunlöd is silent.] VALGERD. Gunlöd! GUNLÖD. Did you speak, mother? VALGERD. What are you doing? GUNLÖD. I am watching the sea. VALGERD. When will you learn to forget? GUNLÖD. Take everything away from me but memories! VALGERD. Look forward--not back. GUNLÖD. Who reproaches the strong viking who looks back when he is quitting his native strand? VALGERD. You have had three winters to make your farewell. GUNLÖD. You speak truly--three winters! For here never came a summer! VALGERD. When the floating ice melts, then shall spring be here. GUNLÖD. The Northern Lights melt no ice. VALGERD. Nor your tears. GUNLÖD. You never saw me weep. VALGERD. But I have heard you. As long as you do that, you are a child. GUNLÖD. I am not a child. VALGERD. If you would be a woman, suffer in silence. GUNLÖD. I'll cast sorrow from me, mother. VALGERD. No, no--bury it, as your deepest treasure. The seed must not lie on top of the earth if it would sprout and ripen. You have a deep sorrow. It should bear great gladness--and great peace. GUNLÖD [After a pause]. I shall forget. VALGERD. Everything? GUNLÖD. I shall try. VALGERD. Can you forget your father's hardness? GUNLÖD. That I have forgotten. VALGERD. Can you forget that there was a time when your fore-fathers' dwelling stood on Brövikens' strand? Where the south wind sang in the oak wood when the ice-bound seas ran free--where the hemlocks gave forth their fragrance and the finches twittered among the linden trees--and Balder, the God of spring and joy, lulled you to sleep on the green meadows? Can you forget all this, while you listen to the sea gulls' plaints on these bare rocks and cliffs, and the cold storms out of the north howl through the stunted birches? GUNLÖD. Yes! VALGERD. Can you forget the friend of your childhood from whom your father tore you to save you from the white Christ? GUNLÖD [in desperation]. Yes, yes! VALGERD. You are weeping. GUNLÖD [Disturbed]. Some one is walking out there. Perhaps father is coming home. VALGERD. Will you bear in mind every day without tears that we now dwell in the land of ice--fugitives from the kingdom of Svea and hated here by the Christ-men? But we have suffered no loss of greatness, although we have not been baptized and kissed the bishop's hand. Have you ever spoken to any of the Christians since we have been here? GUNLÖD [After a pause]. No. Tell me, mother, is it true that father is to be Erl here in Iceland, too? VALGERD. Don't let that trouble you, child. GUNLÖD. Then I'm afraid he will fare badly with the Christians. VALGERD. You fear that? GUNLÖD. Some one is out there. VALGERD [Anxiously]. Did you see the ship lying in the inlet this morning? GUNLÖD. With heart-felt gladness! VALGERD. Bore it the figure-head of Thorfinn? GUNLÖD. That I could not make out. VALGERD. Have a care, girl. GUNLÖD. Is it tonight that I may go out? VALGERD. Tomorrow--that you know well. GUNLÖD Mother! VALGERD [Going]. Mind the fire. [Valgerd goes.] [Gunlöd looks after her mother, then cautiously takes from her breast a crucifix, puts it on the high bench and falls on her knees.] GUNLÖD. Christ, Christ, forgive me the lie I told. [Springs up noticing the images of the gods on the high bench.] No, I cannot pray before these wicked images. [She looks for another place.] Holy St. Olof, holy--oh, I can't remember how the bishop named her! God! God! Cast me not into purgatory for this sin! I will repeat the whole long prayer of the monks--credo, credo--in patrem--oh, I have forgotten that too. I shall give five tall candles for the altar of the mother of God the next time I go to the chapel--Credo, in patrem omnipotentem--[Kissing the crucifix eagerly.] [A song is heard outside the hut accompanied by a lyre.] A crusader went out to the Holy Land, O, Christ, take the maiden's soul in hand, And to your kingdom bring her! I'll return, mayhap, when the spruce trees bloom. Summers three he wanders far from thee, Where nightingales sing their delight, And masses he holds both day and night, At the holy sepulchre's chapel. I'll return, mayhap, when the spruce trees bloom. When the palm trees bud on Jordan's strand, Then makes he a prayer to God, That he may return to his native land, And press to his heart his love. I'll return, my love, when the spruce trees bloom. GUNLÖD [At beginning of song springs up and then listens with more and more agitation and eagerness. When the song is over she goes toward door to bolt it, but so slowly that Gunnar is able to enter before she slips the bolt. Gunnar is clad in the costume of a crusader with a lyre swung across his shoulder.] GUNNAR. Gunlöd! [They embrace. Gunlöd pulls away and goes toward door.] You are afraid of me? What is it, Gunlöd? GUNLÖD. You never took me in your arms before! GUNNAR. We were children then! GUNLÖD You are right--we were children then. What means that silver falcon on your shield? I saw it on your ship's bow this morning, too. GUNNAR. You saw my ship--you knew my song, and you would have barred the door against me! What am I to understand, Gunlöd? GUNLÖD. Oh, ask me nothing! I am so unquiet of spirit but sit and let me talk to you. GUNNAR [Sits]. You are silent. GUNLÖD. You are silent, too. GUNNAR [Pulls her to his side]. Gunlöd, Gunlöd--has the snow fallen so heavily that memories have been chilled even the mountains here burst forth with fire--and you are cold as a snow wind--but speak--speak! Why are you here in Iceland--and what has happened? GUNLÖD. Terrible things--and more may follow if you stay here longer.--[Springs up]. Go, before my father comes. GUNNAR. Do you think I would leave you now--I, who have sought you for long years? When I could not find you in the home land I went to the wars against the Saracens to seek you the other side of the grave. But my time had not yet come; when the fourth spring came, I heard through wandering merchants that you were to be found here. Now I have found you--and you wish me to leave you in this heathen darkness. GUNLÖD. I am not alone! GUNNAR. Your father does not love you--your mother does not understand you, and they are both heathen. GUNLÖD. I have friends among the Christians. GUNNAR. Then you have become a Christian, Gunlöd!--the holy virgin has heard my prayer. GUNLÖD. Yes, yes! Oh, let me kiss the cross you bear on your shoulder--that you got at the holy sepulchre! GUNNAR. Now I give you a brother Christian's kiss--the first, Gunlöd, you have from me. GUNLÖD. You must never kiss me again. GUNNAR. But tell me, how did you become a Christian? GUNLÖD. First I believed in my father--he was so strong; then I believed in my mother--she was so good; last I believed in you--you were so strong and good--and so beautiful; and when you went away--I stood alone--myself I could never believe in--I was so weak; then I thought of your God, whom you so often begged me to love--and I prayed to Him. GUNNAR. And the old gods-- GUNLÖD. I have never been able to believe in them--although my father commanded me to do so--they are wicked. GUNNAR. Who has taught you to pray? Who gave you the crucifix? GUNLÖD. The bishop. GUNNAR. And that no one knows? GUNLÖD. No--I have had to lie to my mother and that troubles me. GUNNAR. And your father hid you here so that the Christians should not get you? GUNLÖD. Yes--and now he is expected home from Norway with followers as he is to be Erl of the island. GUNNAR. God forbid! GUNLÖD. Yes--yes--but you must not delay. He is expected home tonight. GUNNAR. Good--there beyond Hjärleif's headland lies my ship.--Out to sea! There is a land wind, and before the first cock's crow we shall be beyond pursuit. GUNLÖD. Yes! Yes! GUNNAR. Soon we should be at Ostergötland--where the summer is still green--and there you shall live in my castle which I have built where your father's house stood. GUNLÖD. Does not that still stand? GUNNAR. No--it was burned. GUNLÖD. By the Christians? GUNNAR. You are so passionate, Gunlöd! GUNLÖD. I suffer to say I would rather be a heathen. GUNNAR. What are you saying, girl! GUNLÖD. [After a pause]. Forgive me, forgive me--I am in such a wild mood--and when I see the Christians, who should be examples, commit such deeds-- GUNNAR. Crush out that thought, Gunlöd--it is ungodly. Do you see this wreath? GUNLÖD. Where did you gather it? GUNNAR. You recognize the flowers, Gunlöd? GUNLÖD. They grew in my father's garden--may I keep them? GUNNAR. Gladly--but, why do you care to have them when we are going to journey there ourselves? GUNLÖD. I shall look at them the long winter through--the hemlock shall remind me of the green woods and the anemones of the blue sky. GUNNAR. And when they are withered-- GUNLÖD. Of that I do not think. GUNNAR. Then go with me from this drear land--far away, and there where our childhood was spent we will live as free as the birds among the flowers and sunshine. There you shall not go in stealth to the temple of the Lord when the bells tell you of the Sabbath. Oh, you shall see the new chapel with its vaulted roof and high pillared aisles. And hear the acolytes singing when the bishop lights the incense on the high altar. There shall you solemnize the God service with those of Christ and you shall feel you heart cleansed of sin. GUNLÖD. Shall I fly--leave my mother? GUNNAR. She will forgive you some time. GUNLÖD. But my father would call me cowardly and that I would never allow. GUNNAR. That you must endure for the sake of your belief. GUNLÖD. Thorfinn's daughter was never cowardly. GUNNAR. Your father does not love you, and he will hate you when he knows of your conversion. GUNLÖD. That he may do--but he shall never despise me. GUNNAR. You surrender your love, Gunlöd. GUNLÖD. Love!--I remember--there was a maiden--she had a friend who went away--after, she was never again glad--she only sat sewing silk and gold--what she was making no one knew--and when they asked her she would only weep. And when they asked her why she wept, she never answered--only wept. She grew pale of cheek and her mother made ready her shroud.--Then there came an old woman and she said it was love. Gunnar,--I never wept when you went away as father says it is weak to shed tears; I never sewed silk and gold for that my mother has never taught me to do--then had I not love? GUNNAR. You have often thought of me during these years? GUNLÖD. I have dreamed so often of you, and this morning when I stood by the window where I linger so willingly and, gazing over the sea, I saw your ship come up out of the east, I became unquiet although I did not know it was your ship. GUNNAR. Why do you gaze so willingly over the sea? GUNLÖD. You ask many questions! GUNNAR. Why did you want to close the door against me? GUNLÖD. [Silent]. GUNNAR. Why didn't you close it? GUNLÖD. [Silent]. GUNNAR. Why are you silent? [Gunlöd bursts into tears.] GUNNAR. You weep, Gunlöd, and you know why? I know,--you love! [Takes her in his arms and kisses her.] GUNLÖD. [Tearing herself away]. You must not kiss me! Go! GUNNAR. Yes--and you shall go with me. GUNLÖD. I do not care to be commanded by you--and I shall not obey. GUNNAR. The volcano gives forth fire--and burns itself out! GUNLÖD. You have destroyed my peace--forever! Go and let me forget you. GUNNAR. Do you know what the silver falcon with the ribbon stands for? It is the symbol of the wild girl I shall tame. GUNLÖD. [With force]. You! Go before I hate you!--No one yet has bent my will! GUNNAR. The wild fire of the viking's blood still burns in your veins, but it shall be quenched. A day and a night shall I wait for you. And you will come--mild as a dove seeking shelter, although you now would fly above the clouds like a wild falcon. But I still hold the ribbon in my hand--that is your love, which you cannot tear away. When twilight falls again you will come. Till then, farewell. [Goes to the door and stops.] GUNLÖD. [Silent.] GUNNAR. [Going.] Farewell. GUNLÖD. We shall see, proud knight, who comes first. When this garland shall bloom again, then shall I come. [Throws garland in fire. She watches it burn in a thoughtful mood. When it is quite burnt she breaks into tears again and falls on her knees.] God! God! Soften my proud spirit! Oh, that he should leave me! [Hastens to door. At same moment Valgerd enters, passes Gunlöd, and goes to fire.] VALGERD. Why did you not tend the fire? GUNLÖD. [Silent.] VALGERD [Putting her hand against Gunlöd's heart]. You have a secret! GUNLÖD. Yes, mother, yes. VALGERD. Hide it well. GUNLÖD. Oh, I must speak--I can't bear it any longer. VALGERD. When saw you a mother who did not know a daughter's secrets? GUNLÖD. Who told you mine? VALGERD [Harshly]. Dry your tears. [A pause.] GUNLÖD. Oh, let me go out--on the mountains--on the strand. It is so stifling here. VALGERD. Go up to the loft--and you can be alone. [Enter a thrall.] What would you? THRALL. The Erl's trumpets are heard beyond the rocks and the storm is growing. VALGERD. Has darkness fallen? THRALL. Yes, and a terrible darkness it is. [A pause.] GUNLÖD. Send out a boat--two--as many as can be found. THRALL. All the boats are out for the hunt. GUNLÖD. Light beacon fires. THRALL. All the fuel is so rain-soaked that we haven't had so much as a twig on the hearth all the evening. VALGERD. Away! THRALL. How will it go with the Erl? VALGERD. Does that concern you? [Thrall goes.] GUNLÖD. You have not forgotten your wrong! VALGERD. Nor my revenge! One should not lay hands on the daughter of an Erl! GUNLÖD. So be it. Now your moment has come--take your revenge--I'll show you how--like this. [Takes a lighted torch.] Put this torch in the window-hole on the right and you wreck him. Put it in the left and you save him-- VALGERD [Interrupts]. Give me the torch and leave me. GUNLÖD. There is a sacrifice which can pacify your god's. Sacrifice your revenge. VALGERD. [Takes torch, hesitates, and goes quickly to left window-hole and places it there. Trumpets are heard]. You struck me, Thorfinn--I swore revenge--I shall humble you with a kind deed. GUNLÖD [Unseen by Valgerd has entered and falls on her mother's neck]. Thanks, mother. VALGERD [Disconcerted]. Haven't you gone-- GUNLÖD. Now I shall go. [Gunlöd goes.] VALGERD [Alone by the window-hole]. You shout for help, you mighty man, who always helped yourself. [Trumpets are heard.] Where is now your might--where is your kingdom--[A gust of wind blows out the lighted torch. Valgerd, terribly frightened, takes torch and lights it.] Oh, he will perish! What shall I do? Pray? To whom? Odin? Njard? Ogir? I have called to them for four times ten years, but never have they answered. I have sacrificed, but never have they helped. Thou, God, however you may be called--Thou mighty one, who bids the sun to rise and set, thou tremendous one who rules over the winds and water--to you will I pray, to you will I sacrifice my revenge if you will save him. [Orm enters unnoticed.] ORM. Good evening to you, Valgerd. Put on your cloak--the wind is sharp. VALGERD [Disconcerted, takes down torch and closes window-hole.] Welcome, Orm. ORM. Thanks. VALGERD. How is it with you, Orm? ORM. Tolerable enough---when one gets near the big logs. VALGERD [Irritated]. How went the journey I mean? ORM. That is a long saga. VALGERD. Make it short. ORM. Well, as you know, we fared to Norway, seeking men and timber. VALGERD. Orm! ORM. Valgerd! VALGERD. You have not spoken a word of the Erl. ORM. Have you asked a word about your mate? VALGERD. Where is he? Lives he? ORM. I know not. VALGERD. You know not!--you, his foster brother? Where did you part from him? ORM. Far out in the gulf. It was merry out there you may believe. You should have seen him swimming with my lyre in his hand. The sea-weed was so tangled in his beard and hair that one was tempted to believe that it was Neptune himself. Just then came a wave as big as a house-- VALGERD. And then? ORM. And then--I saw my lyre no more. VALGERD. Orm! You jest while your lord and brother is perhaps perishing out there! I command you--go at once and seek him! Do you hear? ORM. Why, what is the matter? You were never before so concerned about your mate! You might find time to give me a drink of ale before I go. VALGERD. Warm your knees by the hearth. I shall go--and defy wind and storm. ORM. [Taking her hounds]. Woman, woman--after all, you are a woman! VALGERD [Angry]. Let go my hand. ORM. Now the Erl is saved! VALGERD. Saved? ORM. Yes, you have been given back to him--and that is his voice now. [Goes.] [Voices of Thorfinn and Orm are heard outside, Thorfinn laughing loudly.] VALGERD. The Erl comes--he laughs--that I have never heard before--oh, there is something terrible approaching! [Wrings her hands.] [Enter Thorfinn and Orm.] THORFINN [Laughing]. That was a murderous sight-- ORM. Yes, I promise you! VALGERD. Welcome home, mate. THORFINN. Thanks, wife. Have you been out in the rain? Your eyes are wet. VALGERD. You are so merry! THORFINN. Merry? Yes--yes. VALGERD. What became of your ships? ORM. They went to the bottom--all but one. VALGERD [To Thorfinn]. And you can nevertheless be so gay? THORFINN. Ho! Ho! Timber grows in plenty in the north! ORM. Now perhaps we might have something life-giving. THORFINN. Well said! Fetch some ale, wife, and let's be merry. ORM. And we'll thank the gods who saved us. THORFINN. When will you ever outgrow those sagas, Orm? ORM. Why do you force your wife and daughter to believe in them? THORFINN. Women folk should have gods. ORM. Whom do you believe helped you out there in the storm? THORFINN. I helped myself. ORM. And yet you cried out to Ake-Thor when the big wave swallowed you. THORFINN. There you lie. ORM. Orm never lies. THORFINN. Orm is a poet! ORM. Thorfinn must have swallowed too much sea water when he cried for help to have such a bitter tongue. THORFINN. Take care of your own tongue, Orm. [Valgerd with drinking horns.] VALGERD. Here, foster brothers, I drink to your oath of friendship and better luck for your next voyage. THORFINN. I forbid you to speak of that again. [They drink. Thorfinn takes horn hastily from mouth and asks] Where is the child? VALGERD [Troubled]. She is in the loft. THORFINN. Call her hither. VALGERD. She's not well. THORFINN [Looks sharply at Valgerd]. She shall--come! VALGERD. You don't mean that. THORFINN. Did you hear the word? VALGERD. It is not your last. THORFINN. A man has but one, though woman must always have the last. VALGERD [Weakly]. You mock me. THORFINN. You are angry I believe. VALGERD. You laugh so much tonight. [Goes out.] THORFINN. Orm! A thought comes to me. ORM. If it's a great one you had better hide it. Great thoughts are scarce these days. THORFINN. Did you notice my wife? ORM. I never notice other men's wives. THORFINN. How kindly and mild she was. ORM. She pitied you. THORFINN. Pitied me? ORM. Yes, because sorrow that laughs is the laughter of death, she thought. THORFINN. Woman cannot think. ORM. No, not with her head, but with her heart. That's why she has a smaller head but a bigger breast than we. THORFINN. Forebodings of evil torture me. ORM. Poor Thorfinn. THORFINN. My child! Orm! When she comes do you bid her drink from the horn to Asa-Odin. ORM. The fox scents against, the wind. I understand. THORFINN. Be ready--they come. ORM. Be not hard with the child, Thorfinn, or you will have me to reckon with. [Valgerd and Gunlöd enter. The latter heavy with sleepiness.] GUNLÖD. Welcome home, father. THORFINN. Do you speak truthfully? GUNLÖD. [Silent.] THORFINN. You are ill, are you not? GUNLÖD. I am not quite myself. THORFINN. I fear so. ORM [Waning a drinking horn over the fire]. Come, Gunlöd, and empty this sacred horn to Odin who saved your father from shipwreck. [All empty their horns except Gunlöd.] THORFINN [Tremblingly]. Drink, Gunlöd. [Gunlöd throws the horn on floor and goes to Thorfinn and buries her head in his lap.] GUNLÖD. Hear me, father. I am a Christian. Do with me what you will--my soul you cannot destroy. God and the Saints will protect it. [Thorfinn is beside himself with grief and rage. Rises and pushes Gunlöd away from him and tries to speak, but words fail him. Sits on his high bench again in silence. Orm goes to the women and speaks quietly to them. They go toward door. Suddenly Gunlöd turns.] GUNLÖD. No! I won't go. I must speak that you, my father, may not go to the grave with a lie--for your whole life has been a lie! I shall sacrifice the child's respect--love I have never felt--and prove to you what terrible guilt you have gathered on your head. Know then, you have taught me to hate--for when did you ever give me love--you taught me to fear the great Erl Thorfinn and you have succeeded, because I tremble before your harshness. I respect your many scars and great deeds, but you never taught me to love my father. You always thrust me away when I wanted to come to you--you poisoned my soul and now you see God's punishment. You have made me a criminal--for such I am at this moment, but it cannot be otherwise. Why do you hate my belief? Because it is love and yours is hate! Oh, father, father, I want to kiss the clouds from your brow. I wanted to caress your white locks and make you forget the sorrows that whitened them. I wanted to support you when your steps began to falter--Oh! forget what I have said--open your arms [falls on her knees] and take me to your heart. Look at me tenderly--just once before it is too late. Speak one word--[springs to her feet] Oh, your glance freezes me! You will not! I shall pray for power to love you. [Bursts into tears and goes out, followed by Valgerd, Orm goes forward to Thorfinn.] THORFINN. Sing for me, Orm. ORM. Orm sings nothing but lies. THORFINN. Lie then. ORM. Was the truth so bitter? THORFINN. What do you say? ORM. Never mind. You shall hear more from me later. THORFINN. Orm, you are my friend! ORM. H'm--of course! THORFINN. I lack peace. ORM. There are two ways to gain peace: one is never to do anything one regrets--the other never to regret anything one does! THORFINN. But if one has already done what one regrets? ORM. Thorfinn! That is to say, you regret your harshness toward your child? THORFINN [Angry]. I regret nothing. And as far as the child is concerned you had better hold your tongue! ORM. Hear you, Thorfinn--have you ever thought about what your life has been? THORFINN. Thinking is for old women--doing has been my life. ORM. What do you intend to do now? THORFINN. What do I intend to do now? ORM. Yes. THORFINN [Shaken, is silent.] ORM. You see how even a little thought struck you--think then if a big thought should come. Why don't you dare to look back? Because you are afraid of the sights you would see. THORFINN. Let the past remain buried. ORM. No, I shall tear the corpses from their graves and they shall stare at you with their empty orbits until you quake with anguish and fear--and you shall see that with all your strength you were not a man. THORFINN. What are you saying, madman? ORM. Yes, shout--you are still a boy. Yes, you--I have seen big, tall children with bushy beards and gray hairs and crooked backs as well. THORFINN. Hold your tongue, Orm. ORM. Shout until the hut trembles--the truth you cannot shout down. THORFINN. Silence, before I strike you! ORM. Strike! Strike me to death--tear the tongue out of my mouth--with copper trumpets shall the truth be blasted into your ears, "Your life has been a lie." THORFINN [With repressed anger and pain]. Orm, I beg of you--speak no more. ORM. Yes, Thorfinn, I shall speak. Feel how the earth trembles under you. That means an earthquake! The whole earth trembles these days, for she is about to give birth. She is to bring forth in dire pain a glorious hero. Open your eyes and look. Do you see how the east wars with the west? It is love's first conflict--the new bride trembles under the elder's embraces, she struggles and suffers--but soon she shall rejoice, and thousands of torches shall be lighted and radiate peace and gladness, because he shall be born, the young, the strong, the beautiful princeling, who shall rule over all peoples and whose sceptre is called love and whose crown is called light and whose name is the new age! Thorfinn! do you remember the saga about Thor at Utgorda Loake? He lifted the cat so high that the trolls turned pale; he drank so deep from the horn that the trolls trembled--but when the old woman felled him to his knees then the trolls laughed. It was the age that vanquished him, and it is the age that you have warred against, and which has slain you--it is the lord of the age, it is God who has crushed you. THORFINN. I have never known any god but my own strength, and that god I believe in! ORM. You don't know him--you who have so long been lying at feud with him. It was he who drove you from your native land, and you thought you were escaping him. It was he who struck your ships to splinters and swallowed up your treasures and ended your power. It was he who tore your child from you--and you said you lacked peace! It was he--[Messenger enters.] MESSENGER. Are you the Erl Thorfinn. THORFINN. I am. MESSENGER. You committed the coast massacre at Reyd-fiord last spring? THORFINN [Undisturbed]. I did. MESSENGER. You plundered and burned Hallfred at Thorvalla? THORFINN. Yes. MESSENGER. And then you disappeared. THORFINN [Silent.] MESSENGER. The Allting has now declared you an outlaw and pronounced you a felon. Your house is to be burned to the ground, and whomsoever will may take your life. Your enemies are at hand, therefore fly while there is yet time--make your escape this night. [Messenger goes out and there is a long pause.] ORM. Do you know who that was? THORFINN. You may well ask that. ORM. It--was a messenger from that old woman who felled Thor--the age! THORFINN. You talk like an old woman. ORM. This age does not want to use force, but you have violated it and it strikes you. THORFINN. This age cannot suffer strength, therefore it worships weakness. ORM. When you came to this island you swore peace. You have broken your oath, you have violated your honor, therefore you must die like a felon. THORFINN. Do you too call me a felon? ORM. Yes. THORFINN. Would you dare to break an oath? Would you dare to in called a felon? ORM [Silent.] THORFINN. Poor wretch! It is you who put shackles on me when I want to fly! Like a snake you coil yourself around my legs. Let go of me! ORM. We have sworn the oath of foster-brothers. THORFINN. I break it! ORM. You cannot. THORFINN. Then I'll kick you out of the way. ORM. That will be our death. THORFINN. Are you a man, Orm? ORM. I've become a poet only. THORFINN. Therefore you have become nothing. ORM. I knew what I wanted, but I could not attain it. You could attain anything, but did not know what you wanted. THORFINN. Thanks for your song. Farewell. ORM. Who will sing your death song? THORFINN. The ravens no doubt. ORM. Do you dare to die, Thorfinn? THORFINN. I dare more! I dare to be forgotten! ORM. You were always stronger than I. Farewell. We'll meet again. [Orm goes out.] THORFINN. Alone! Alone! Alone! [Pause.] I remember one autumn when the equinoctial storm raged over England's sun my dragon ship was wrecked and I was tossed up on the rocks alone. Afterward everything grew calm. Oh, what long days and nights! Only the cloudless sky above and endlessly the deep blue sea around me. Not a sound of any living creature! Not even the gulls to wake me with their screeching! Not even a breeze stirred the waves to lap against the stones. It seemed as if I myself were dead! Loudly I talked and shouted, but the sound of my voice frightened me, and thirst bound my tongue. Only the even beat of my heart in my breast told me that I was alive! But after a moment's listening I heard it no longer and, trembling, I rose to my feet, and so it was each time until, senseless, I swooned. When at last I revived I heard the slow beats of a heart beside me and a deep breathing that was not mine, and courage revived in my soul. I looked about--it was a seal seeking rest; it gazed at me with its moist eyes as if filled with compassion for me. Now I was no longer alone! I stretched out my hand to caress its rough body; then it fled and I was doubly alone. Again I am on the rocks! What do I fear? Yes, loneliness! What is loneliness? It is I, myself! Who am I then to fear myself? Am I not Erl Thorfinn, the strong, who has bowed thousands of wills to his? Who never asked for friendship or love but himself bore his own sorrows! No! No! I am another! And therefore Thorfinn the strong fears Thorfinn the weak! Who stole my strength? Who struck me down? Was it the sea? Have I not vanquished the sea three times ten voyages? And it, has defeated me but once--but then to the death! It was the stronger. It was a God. But who subdued the sea that lately raged? Who? Who? Who? It was the stronger! Who are you then, the stronger! Oh, answer, that I may believe! He does not answer!--All is silent!--Again I hear my heart beating. Oh, help, help! I am cold, I freeze--[Goes to door and calls Valgerd.] [Enter a thrall.] THRALL. You called, Master Erl? THORFINN [Recovering himself]. You were mistaken. THRALL. Yes, master. THORFINN. How many men are we? THRALL. Oh--half three score I think. THORFINN. Are you afraid to die, thrall? THRALL. How can I be when I believe that I shall be saved? [Crosses himself.] THORFINN. What does that mean? THRALL. The bishop has taught us to do that. THORFINN. I forgot that you are a Christian. THRALL. Do you wish me to stay in your service when you are a heathen? THORFINN. I want to prove how little I respect their belief. We must put double bolts on the north gate! THRALL. Yes, Master, but the belief is stronger than a hundred bolts. THORFINN. Who questioned you? [Pause.] What happened when you became Christians here on the island? THRALL. Oh, it was easier than any one would think. They only poured water on us and the bishop read from a big book and then they gave us each a white shirt. THORFINN. Tell the twelve strongest to take their new axes--do you hear? THRALL [Starting to go]. Yes, Master. THORFINN. Wait. [Pause.] Do you remember what was written in that big book? THRALL. I don't remember much of it, but there was something about two thieves who were hanged on crosses along with the Son of God. But one of them went to heaven. THORFINN. Did they pour water on him, too? THRALL. The bishop didn't say. THORFINN. Do you know whether there are any horses in the stable? THRALL. They must be out at pasture--but I'll see. [Starts to go.] THORFINN. You mustn't leave me--Stay. [Pause.] Could you die in peace this night? THRALL. Yes, if I only had time for a prayer first. THORFINN. Does that bring peace to one? THRALL. Oh, yes, Master. THORFINN [Rises, takes up a goblet]. This you shall have if you will pray for me. THRALL. That's not enough. THORFINN. You shall have ten, but if you ever tell of it--I'll take your life. THRALL. It would not help even if you gave me a hundred. You must pray yourself. THORFINN. I cannot, but I command you to pray. THRALL. I will obey--but you will see that it does not help. [Praying.] Jesus Christ, have pity on this poor sinner who begs for mercy. THORFINN. That's a lie. I never begged for anything! THRALL. You see now that it doesn't help. THORFINN. Give me my armor and help me buckle. THRALL [Helping]. You are not keeping still. I can't fasten the buckles. THORFINN. Wretch! THRALL. But your whole body is shaking. THORFINN. That's a lie! [Valgerd and Gunlöd enter.] THRALL. May I go now? THORFINN. Go. VALGERD [Coming forward]. You called me. THORFINN. That's not true. VALGERD. Your enemies are upon you. THORFINN. What does that concern you? VALGRED. Make ready. I have heard what has come to pass. THORFINN. Then it is best that you [indicating both Valgerd and Gunlöd] hide yourselves in the cellar passage. [Another messenger enters.] MESSENGER. Erl Thorfinn, we are here. Will you surrender to our superior strength? THORFINN [Silent.] MESSENGER. You do not answer. Let the women go as we shall burn your home. [Thorfinn is silent.] Your answer! [Gunlöd who has been standing by the door, comes forward and takes a battle axe from wall.] GUNLÖD. I give you your answer! Ill must Erl Thorfinn have brought up his daughter and little would his wife have loved him if they should desert him now. Here is your answer. [Throws battle axe at messenger's feet.] MESSENGER. You are stronger than I thought, Thorfinn. For your daughter's sake you shall have a chance to fall like a hero and not as a felon. Make ready for open conflict--out on the field. [Goes out.] THORFINN [to Valgerd]. Out on you, cowardly, faithless woman, to guard my treasure so ill! To make my child mine enemy. GUNLÖD. O, my father, am I your enemy? THORFINN. You are a Christian; but it is not too late yet. Will you deny the white Christ? GUNLÖD. Never! But I will follow you to death. VALGERD. Thorfinn, you call me cowardly. I can suffer that, but faithless--there you wrong me. I have not loved you as warmly as the southern women are said to love, yet have I been faithful to you throughout life and I have sworn to go with you in death--as is the ancient custom. [Opens a trap door in floor.] Look, here have I prepared my grave, here would I die under these smoky beams that have witnessed my sorrows--and with those [points to the carved images of Thor and Odin on uprights of high bench] who guided us here. I want to go with the flames, and in the smoke shall my spirit rise to Ginde to receive charity and peace. GUNLÖD. And I to be alone afterward! Oh, let me follow you. VALGERD. No, child, you are young. You may yet flourish in a milder clime. But the old fir tree dies on its roots. GUNLÖD. Father, father, you must not die. I will save you! THORFINN. You? GUNLÖD. Your kinsman Gunnar lies off Hjärleif's headland with his men. Send one of the thralls to him by a roundabout route and he will come. THORFINN. So! It wax out of that well that you drew your courage. Keep your help and go if you will. GUNLÖD. You shall not think me a coward. I go with you, mother. You cannot hinder me. [Thorfinn goes to the door, trying to conceal his emotion.] VALGERD. No! Stay, Thorfinn, and for once bare your big soul that I may read its dim runics. THORFINN. If you cannot interpret them now then may this runic stone crumble to air unread. VALGERD. You are not the hard stone you would seem. You have feelings. Show them. Let them flow forth and you shall know peace! THORFINN. My feelings are my heart's blood. Would you see it? [The clatter of arms is heard outside which continues until Thorfinn returns. Thorfinn starts to go out when he hears the chatter.] VALGERD. Oh, stay and say a word of farewell! THORFINN. Woman, you tear down my strength with your feelings. Let me go! The play has begun! VALGERD. Say farewell, at least. THORNFINN [Restraining his feelings with effort]. Farewell, child. [Goes out.] VALGERD. That man no one will bend. GUNLÖD. God will! VALGERD. His hardness is great. GUNLÖD. God's mercy is greater! VALGERD. Farewell, my child. GUNLÖD. Do you dare leave me behind, alone? VALGERD [Embracing Gunlöd]. Are you prepared? GUNLÖD. The holy virgin prays for me. VALGERD. I trust in the God of love. GUNLÖD. And in the mother of God. VALGERD. I know her not. GUNLÖD. You must believe in her. VALGERD. My belief is not your belief. GUNLÖD [Embracing Valgerd]. Forgive me. VALGERD. Now to your place. [Gunlöd opens the wooden shutter at window-hole and looks out. Valgerd takes it torch and places herself by the trap door in floor.] GUNLÖD. The strife is sharp. VALGERD. Do you see the Erl? GUNLÖD. He stands at the gate. VALGERD. How fares he? GUNLÖD. Everything falls before him. VALGERD. Does he weary? GUNLÖD. Still is he straight-- -- --See what terrible northern lights. VALGERD. Have many fallen? GUNLÖD. I cannot tell. They are drawing away from the threshing yard. Oh, the heavens are red as blood! [Pause.] VALGERD. Speak! What do you see? GUNLÖD [With joy]. The silver falcon! VALGERD. It's an ill-omen. GUNLÖD. Father comes. VALGERD. Is he wounded? GUNLÖD. Oh, now he is falling! VALGERD. Close the window-hole and trust in God. GUNLÖD. No, not yet. A moment. VALGRED. Are you afraid? GUNLÖD [Going toward door]. No! No! [The sounds of the conflict gradually die away.] THORFINN [Comes in pale and wounded.] Stay! [Valgerd goes towards him. Pause.] THORFINN [On high bench]. Come here. [Valgerd and Gunlöd go to him. Thorfinn caresses Gunlöd's hair, kisses her forehead, then presses Valgerd's hand.] THORFINN [Kissing Valgerd]. Now you see my heart's blood. [Valgerd rises to get torch.] VALGERD. Now is our parting over. THORFINN. Stay and live with your child. VALGERD. My oath! THORFINN. My whole life has been a broken oath and yet I hope-- -- --It is better to live-- -- -- [Orm comes in wounded. Stops at door.] ORM. May I come? THORFINN. Come. ORM. Have you found peace now? THORFINN [Caressing the woman]. Soon, soon! ORM. Then we are ready for the journey. THORFINN [Looks at Valgerd and Gunlöd]. Not yet. ORM [Sits on bench]. Hurry if you want company. THORFINN. Orm, are you a Christian? ORM. You may ask indeed. THORFINN. What are you then, riddle? ORM. I was everything. I was nothing. I was a poet. THORFINN. Do you believe in anything? ORM. I've come to have a belief. THORFINN. What gave it to you? ORM. Doubt, misfortune, sorrow. THORFINN [To Valgerd]. Valgerd, give me your hand, so. Hold fast--tighter--you must not let go until--the end. [Gunnar comes in and stops by door.] THORFINN. Who comes? GUNNAR. You know me! THORFINN. I know your voice, but my eyes see you not. GUNNAR. I am your kinsman, Gunnar. THORFINN [After a pause]. Step forth. [Gunnar remains where he is, looking questioningly at Gunlöd.] THORFINN. Is he here? [Gunlöd rises, goes with slow steps and bowed head to Gunnar. Takes his hand and leads him to Thorfinn. They kneel.] THORFINN [Putting hands on their heads]. Eternal -- -- -- Creating -- -- -- God--[Dies.] CURTAIN. ***** THE STRONGER CHARACTERS MME. X., an actress, married MLLE. Y., an actress, unmarried A WAITRESS [SCENE--The corner of a ladies' cafe. Two little iron tables, a red velvet sofa, several chairs. Enter Mme. X., dressed in winter clothes, carrying a Japanese basket on her arm.] [MLLE. Y. sits with a half empty beer bottle before her, reading an illustrated paper, which she changes later for another.] MME. X. Good afternoon, Amelie. You're sitting here alone on Christmas eve like a poor bachelor! MLLE. Y. [Looks up, nods, and resumes her reading.] MME. X. Do you know it really hurts me to see you like this, alone, in a cafe, and on Christmas eve, too. It makes me feel as I did one time when I saw a bridal party in a Paris restaurant, and the bride sat reading a comic paper, while the groom played billiards with the witnesses. Huh, thought I, with such a beginning, what will follow, and what will be the end? He played billiards on his wedding eve! [Mlle. Y. starts to speak]. And she read a comic paper, you mean? Well, they are not altogether the same thing. [A waitress enters, places a cup of chocolate before Mme. X. and goes out.] MME. X. You know what, Amelie! I believe you would have done better to have kept him! Do you remember, I was the first to say "Forgive him?" Do you remember that? You would be married now and have a home. Remember that Christmas when you went out to visit your fiance's parents in the country? How you gloried in the happiness of home life and really longed to quit the theatre forever? Yes, Amelie dear, home is the best of all, the theatre next and children--well, you don't understand that. MLLE. Y. [Looks up scornfully.] [Mme. X. sips a few spoonfuls out of the cup, then opens her basket and shows Christmas presents.] MME. X. Now you shall see what I bought for my piggywigs. [Takes up a doll.] Look at this! This is for Lisa, ha! Do you see how she can roll her eyes and turn her head, eh? And here is Maja's popgun. [Loads it and shoots at Mlle. Y.] MLLE. Y. [Makes a startled gesture.] MME. X. Did I frighten you? Do you think I would like to shoot you, eh? On my soul, if I don't think you did! If you wanted to shoot _me_ it wouldn't be so surprising, because I stood in your way--and I know you can never forget that--although I was absolutely innocent. You still believe I intrigued and got you out of the Stora theatre, but I didn't. I didn't do that, although you think so. Well, it doesn't make any difference what I say to you. You still believe I did it. [Takes up a pair of embroidered slippers.] And these are for my better half. I embroidered them myself--I can't bear tulips, but he wants tulips on everything. MLLE. Y. [Looks up ironically and curiously.] MME. X. [Putting a hand in each slipper.] What little feet Bob has! What? And you should see what a splendid stride he has! You've never seen him in slippers! [Mlle. Y. laughs aloud.] Look! [She makes the slippers walk on the table. Mlle. Y. laughs loudly.] And when he is grumpy he stamps like this with his foot. "What! damn those servants who can never learn to make coffee. Oh, now those creatures haven't trimmed the lamp wick properly!" And then there are draughts on the floor and his feet are cold. "Ugh, how cold it is; the stupid idiots can never keep the fire going." [She rubs the slippers together, one sole over the other.] MLLE. Y. [Shrieks with laughter.] MME. X. And then he comes home and has to hunt for his slippers which Marie has stuck under the chiffonier--oh, but it's sinful to sit here and make fun of one's husband this way when he is kind and a good little man. You ought to have had such a husband, Amelie. What are you laughing at? What? What? And you see he's true to me. Yes, I'm sure of that, because he told me himself--what are you laughing at?--that when I was touring in Norway that that brazen Frêdêrique came and wanted to seduce him! Can you fancy anything so infamous? [Pause.] I'd have torn her eyes out if she had come to see him when I was at home. [Pause.] It was lucky that Bob told me about it himself and that it didn't reach me through gossip. [Pause.] But would you believe it, Frêdêrique wasn't the only one! I don't know why, but the women are crazy about my husband. They must think he has influence about getting them theatrical engagements, because he is connected with the government. Perhaps you were after him yourself. I didn't use to trust you any too much. But now I know he never bothered his head about you, and you always seemed to have a grudge against him someway. [Pause. They look at each other in a puzzled way.] MME. X. Come and see us this evening, Amelie, and show us that you're not put out with us,--not put out with me at any rate. I don't know, but I think it would be uncomfortable to have you for an enemy. Perhaps it's because I stood in your way [rallentando] or--I really--don't know why--in particular. [Pause. Mlle. Y. stares at Mme. X curiously.] MME. X [Thoughtfully]. Our acquaintance has been so queer. When I saw you for the first time I was afraid of you, so afraid that I didn't dare let you out of my sight; no matter when or where, I always found myself near you--I didn't dare have you for an enemy, so I became your friend. But there was always discord when you came to our house, because I saw that my husband couldn't endure you, and the whole thing seemed as awry to me as an ill-fitting gown--and I did all I could to make him friendly toward you, but with no success until you became engaged. Then came a violent friendship between you, so that it looked all at once as though you both dared show your real feelings only when you were secure--and then--how was it later? I didn't get jealous--strange to say! And I remember at the christening, when you acted as godmother, I made him kiss you--he did so, and you became so confused--as it were; I didn't notice it then--didn't think about it later, either--have never thought about it until--now! [Rises suddenly.] Why are you silent? You haven't said a word this whole time, but you have let me go on talking! You have sat there, and your eyes have reeled out of me all these thoughts which lay like raw silk in its cocoon--thoughts--suspicious thoughts, perhaps. Let me see--why did you break your engagement? Why do you never come to our house any more? Why won't you come to see us tonight? [Mlle. Y. appears as if about to speak.] MME. X. Hush, you needn't speak--I understand it all! It was because--and because--and because! Yes, yes! Now all the accounts balance. That's it. Fie, I won't sit at the same table with you. [Moves her things to another table.] That's the reason I had to embroider tulips--which I hate--on his slippers, because you are fond of tulips; that's why [Throws slippers on the floor] we go to Lake Mälarn in the summer, because you don't like salt water; that's why my boy is named Eskil--because it's your father's name; that's why I wear your colors, read your authors, eat your favorite dishes, drink your drinks--chocolate, for instance; that's why--oh--my God--it's terrible, when I think about it; it's terrible. Everything, everything came from you to me, even your passions. Your soul crept into mine, like a worm into an apple, ate and ate, bored and bored, until nothing was left but the rind and a little black dust within. I wanted to get away from you, but I couldn't; you lay like a snake and charmed me with your black eyes; I felt that when I lifted my wings they only dragged me down; I lay in the water with bound feet, and the stronger I strove to keep up the deeper I worked myself down, down, until I sank to the bottom, where you lay like a giant crab to clutch me in your claws--and there I am lying now. I hate you, hate you, hate you! And you only sit there silent--silent and indifferent; indifferent whether it's new moon or waning moon, Christmas or New Year's, whether others are happy or unhappy; without power to hate or to love; as quiet as a stork by a rat hole--you couldn't scent your prey and capture it, but you could lie in wait for it! You sit here in your corner of the cafê--did you know it's called "The Rat Trap" for you?--and read the papers to see if misfortune hasn't befallen some one, to see if some one hasn't been given notice at the theatre, perhaps; you sit here and calculate about your next victim and reckon on your chances of recompense like a pilot in a shipwreck. Poor Amelie, I pity you, nevertheless, because I know you are unhappy, unhappy like one who has been wounded, and angry because you are wounded. I can't be angry with you, no matter how much I want to be--because you come out the weaker one. Yes, all that with Bob doesn't trouble me. What is that to me, after all? And what difference does it make whether I learned to drink chocolate from you or some one else. [Sips a spoonful from her cup.] Besides, chocolate is very healthful. And if you taught me how to dress--tant mieux!--that has only made me more attractive to my husband; so you lost and I won there. Well, judging by certain signs, I believe you have already lost him; and you certainly intended that I should leave him--do as you did with your fiancê and regret as you now regret; but, you see, I don't do that--we mustn't be too exacting. And why should I take only what no one else wants? Perhaps, take it all in all, I am at this moment the stronger one. You received nothing from me, but you gave me much. And now I seem like a thief since you have awakened and find I possess what is your loss. How could it be otherwise when everything is worthless and sterile in your hands? You can never keep a man's love with your tulips and your passions--but I can keep it. You can't learn how to live from your authors, as I have learned. You have no little Eskil to cherish, even if your father's name was Eskil. And why are you always silent, silent, silent? I thought that was strength, but perhaps it is because you have nothing to say! Because you never think about anything! [Rises and picks up slippers.] Now I'm going home--and take the tulips with me--_your_ tulips! You are unable to learn from another; you can't bend--therefore, you broke like a dry stalk. But I won't break! Thank you, Amelie, for all your good lessons. Thanks for teaching my husband how to love. Now I'm going home to love him. [Goes.] 
5053	----	CREDITORS and PARIAH Two Plays By August Strindberg Translated From The Swedish, With Introductions By Edwin Bjorkman CREDITORS INTRODUCTION This is one of the three plays which Strindberg placed at the head of his dramatic production during the middle ultra-naturalistic period, the other two being "The Father" and "Miss Julia." It is, in many ways, one of the strongest he ever produced. Its rarely excelled unity of construction, its tremendous dramatic tension, and its wonderful psychological analysis combine to make it a masterpiece. In Swedish its name is "Fordringsagare." This indefinite form may be either singular or plural, but it is rarely used except as a plural. And the play itself makes it perfectly clear that the proper translation of its title is "Creditors," for under this aspect appear both the former and the present husband of Tekla. One of the main objects of the play is to reveal her indebtedness first to one and then to the other of these men, while all the time she is posing as a person of original gifts. I have little doubt that Strindberg, at the time he wrote this play--and bear in mind that this happened only a year before he finally decided to free himself from an impossible marriage by an appeal to the law--believed Tekla to be fairly representative of womanhood in general. The utter unreasonableness of such a view need hardly be pointed out, and I shall waste no time on it. A question more worthy of discussion is whether the figure of Tekla be true to life merely as the picture of a personality--as one out of numerous imaginable variations on a type decided not by sex but by faculties and qualities. And the same question may well be raised in regard to the two men, both of whom are evidently intended to win our sympathy: one as the victim of a fate stronger than himself, and the other as the conqueror of adverse and humiliating circumstances. Personally, I am inclined to doubt whether a Tekla can be found in the flesh--and even if found, she might seem too exceptional to gain acceptance as a real individuality. It must be remembered, however, that, in spite of his avowed realism, Strindberg did not draw his men and women in the spirit generally designated as impressionistic; that is, with the idea that they might step straight from his pages into life and there win recognition as human beings of familiar aspect. His realism is always mixed with idealism; his figures are always "doctored," so to speak. And they have been thus treated in order to enable their creator to drive home the particular truth he is just then concerned with. Consciously or unconsciously he sought to produce what may be designated as "pure cultures" of certain human qualities. But these he took great pains to arrange in their proper psychological settings, for mental and moral qualities, like everything else, run in groups that are more or less harmonious, if not exactly homogeneous. The man with a single quality, like Moliere's Harpagon, was much too primitive and crude for Strindberg's art, as he himself rightly asserted in his preface to "Miss Julia." When he wanted to draw the genius of greed, so to speak, he did it by setting it in the midst of related qualities of a kind most likely to be attracted by it. Tekla is such a "pure culture" of a group of naturally correlated mental and moral qualities and functions and tendencies--of a personality built up logically around a dominant central note. There are within all of us many personalities, some of which remain for ever potentialities. But it is conceivable that any one of them, under circumstances different from those in which we have been living, might have developed into its severely logical consequence--or, if you please, into a human being that would be held abnormal if actually encountered. This is exactly what Strindberg seems to have done time and again, both in his middle and final periods, in his novels as well as in his plays. In all of us a Tekla, an Adolph, a Gustav--or a Jean and a Miss Julia--lie more or less dormant. And if we search our souls unsparingly, I fear the result can only be an admission that--had the needed set of circumstances been provided--we might have come unpleasantly close to one of those Strindbergian creatures which we are now inclined to reject as unhuman. Here we have the secret of what I believe to be the great Swedish dramatist's strongest hold on our interest. How could it otherwise happen that so many critics, of such widely differing temperaments, have recorded identical feelings as springing from a study of his work: on one side an active resentment, a keen unwillingness to be interested; on the other, an attraction that would not be denied in spite of resolute resistance to it! For Strindberg DOES hold us, even when we regret his power of doing so. And no one familiar with the conclusions of modern psychology could imagine such a paradox possible did not the object of our sorely divided feelings provide us with something that our minds instinctively recognise as true to life in some way, and for that reason valuable to the art of living. There are so many ways of presenting truth. Strindberg's is only one of them--and not the one commonly employed nowadays. Its main fault lies perhaps in being too intellectual, too abstract. For while Strindberg was intensely emotional, and while this fact colours all his writings, he could only express himself through his reason. An emotion that would move another man to murder would precipitate Strindberg into merciless analysis of his own or somebody else's mental and moral make-up. At any rate, I do not proclaim his way of presenting truth as the best one of all available. But I suspect that this decidedly strange way of Strindberg's--resulting in such repulsively superior beings as Gustav, or in such grievously inferior ones as Adolph--may come nearer the temper and needs of the future than do the ways of much more plausible writers. This does not need to imply that the future will imitate Strindberg. But it may ascertain what he aimed at doing, and then do it with a degree of perfection which he, the pioneer, could never hope to attain. CREDITORS A TRAGICOMEDY 1889 PERSONS TEKLA ADOLPH, her husband, a painter GUSTAV, her divorced husband, a high-school teacher (who is travelling under an assumed name) SCENE (A parlor in a summer hotel on the sea-shore. The rear wall has a door opening on a veranda, beyond which is seen a landscape. To the right of the door stands a table with newspapers on it. There is a chair on the left side of the stage. To the right of the table stands a sofa. A door on the right leads to an adjoining room.) (ADOLPH and GUSTAV, the latter seated on the sofa by the table to the right.) ADOLPH. [At work on a wax figure on a miniature modelling stand; his crutches are placed beside him]--and for all this I have to thank you! GUSTAV. [Smoking a cigar] Oh, nonsense! ADOLPH. Why, certainly! During the first days after my wife had gone, I lay helpless on a sofa and did nothing but long for her. It was as if she had taken away my crutches with her, so that I couldn't move from the spot. When I had slept a couple of days, I seemed to come to, and began to pull myself together. My head calmed down after having been working feverishly. Old thoughts from days gone by bobbed up again. The desire to work and the instinct for creation came back. My eyes recovered their faculty of quick and straight vision--and then you showed up. GUSTAV. I admit you were in a miserable condition when I first met you, and you had to use your crutches when you walked, but this is not to say that my presence has been the cause of your recovery. You needed a rest, and you had a craving for masculine company. ADOLPH. Oh, that's true enough, like everything you say. Once I used to have men for friends, but I thought them superfluous after I married, and I felt quite satisfied with the one I had chosen. Later I was drawn into new circles and made a lot of acquaintances, but my wife was jealous of them--she wanted to keep me to herself: worse still--she wanted also to keep my friends to herself. And so I was left alone with my own jealousy. GUSTAV. Yes, you have a strong tendency toward that kind of disease. ADOLPH. I was afraid of losing her--and I tried to prevent it. There is nothing strange in that. But I was never afraid that she might be deceiving me-- GUSTAV. No, that's what married men are never afraid of. ADOLPH. Yes, isn't it queer? What I really feared was that her friends would get such an influence over her that they would begin to exercise some kind of indirect power over me--and THAT is something I couldn't bear. GUSTAV. So your ideas don't agree--yours and your wife's? ADOLPH. Seeing that you have heard so much already, I may as well tell you everything. My wife has an independent nature--what are you smiling at? GUSTAV. Go on! She has an independent nature-- ADOLPH. Which cannot accept anything from me-- GUSTAV. But from everybody else. ADOLPH. [After a pause] Yes.--And it looked as if she especially hated my ideas because they were mine, and not because there was anything wrong about them. For it used to happen quite often that she advanced ideas that had once been mine, and that she stood up for them as her own. Yes, it even happened that friends of mine gave her ideas which they had taken directly from me, and then they seemed all right. Everything was all right except what came from me. GUSTAV. Which means that you are not entirely happy? ADOLPH. Oh yes, I am happy. I have the one I wanted, and I have never wanted anybody else. GUSTAV. And you have never wanted to be free? ADOLPH. No, I can't say that I have. Oh, well, sometimes I have imagined that it might seem like a rest to be free. But the moment she leaves me, I begin to long for her--long for her as for my own arms and legs. It is queer that sometimes I have a feeling that she is nothing in herself, but only a part of myself--an organ that can take away with it my will, my very desire to live. It seems almost as if I had deposited with her that centre of vitality of which the anatomical books tell us. GUSTAV. Perhaps, when we get to the bottom of it, that is just what has happened. ADOLPH. How could it be so? Is she not an independent being, with thoughts of her own? And when I met her I was nothing--a child of an artist whom she undertook to educate. GUSTAV. But later you developed her thoughts and educated her, didn't you? ADOLPH. No, she stopped growing and I pushed on. GUSTAV. Yes, isn't it strange that her "authoring" seemed to fall off after her first book--or that it failed to improve, at least? But that first time she had a subject which wrote itself--for I understand she used her former husband for a model. You never knew him, did you? They say he was an idiot. ADOLPH. I never knew him, as he was away for six months at a time. But he must have been an arch-idiot, judging by her picture of him. [Pause] And you may feel sure that the picture was correct. GUSTAV. I do!--But why did she ever take him? ADOLPH. Because she didn't know him well enough. Of course, you never DO get acquainted until afterward! GUSTAV. And for that reason one ought not to marry until--afterward.--And he was a tyrant, of course? ADOLPH. Of course? GUSTAV. Why, so are all married men. [Feeling his way] And you not the least. ADOLPH. I? Who let my wife come and go as she pleases-- GUSTAV. Well, that's nothing. You couldn't lock her up, could you? But do you like her to stay away whole nights? ADOLPH. No, really, I don't. GUSTAV. There, you see! [With a change of tactics] And to tell the truth, it would only make you ridiculous to like it. ADOLPH. Ridiculous? Can a man be ridiculous because he trusts his wife? GUSTAV. Of course he can. And it's just what you are already--and thoroughly at that! ADOLPH. [Convulsively] I! It's what I dread most of all--and there's going to be a change. GUSTAV. Don't get excited now--or you'll have another attack. ADOLPH. But why isn't she ridiculous when I stay out all night? GUSTAV. Yes, why? Well, it's nothing that concerns you, but that's the way it is. And while you are trying to figure out why, the mishap has already occurred. ADOLPH. What mishap? GUSTAV. However, the first husband was a tyrant, and she took him only to get her freedom. You see, a girl cannot have freedom except by providing herself with a chaperon--or what we call a husband. ADOLPH. Of course not. GUSTAV. And now you are the chaperon. ADOLPH. I? GUSTAV. Since you are her husband. (ADOLPH keeps a preoccupied silence.) GUSTAV. Am I not right? ADOLPH. [Uneasily] I don't know. You live with a woman for years, and you never stop to analyse her, or your relationship with her, and then--then you begin to think--and there you are!--Gustav, you are my friend. The only male friend I have. During this last week you have given me courage to live again. It is as if your own magnetism had been poured into me. Like a watchmaker, you have fixed the works in my head and wound up the spring again. Can't you hear, yourself, how I think more clearly and speak more to the point? And to myself at least it seems as if my voice had recovered its ring. GUSTAV. So it seems to me also. And why is that? ADOLPH. I shouldn't wonder if you grew accustomed to lower your voice in talking to women. I know at least that Tekla always used to accuse me of shouting. GUSTAV. And so you toned down your voice and accepted the rule of the slipper? ADOLPH. That isn't quite the way to put it. [After some reflection] I think it is even worse than that. But let us talk of something else!--What was I saying?--Yes, you came here, and you enabled me to see my art in its true light. Of course, for some time I had noticed my growing lack of interest in painting, as it didn't seem to offer me the proper medium for the expression of what I wanted to bring out. But when you explained all this to me, and made it clear why painting must fail as a timely outlet for the creative instinct, then I saw the light at last--and I realised that hereafter it would not be possible for me to express myself by means of colour only. GUSTAV. Are you quite sure now that you cannot go on painting--that you may not have a relapse? ADOLPH. Perfectly sure! For I have tested myself. When I went to bed that night after our talk, I rehearsed your argument point by point, and I knew you had it right. But when I woke up from a good night's sleep and my head was clear again, then it came over me in a flash that you might be mistaken after all. And I jumped out of bed and got hold of my brushes and paints--but it was no use! Every trace of illusion was gone--it was nothing but smears of paint, and I quaked at the thought of having believed, and having made others believe, that a painted canvas could be anything but a painted canvas. The veil had fallen from my eyes, and it was just as impossible for me to paint any more as it was to become a child again. GUSTAV. And then you saw that the realistic tendency of our day, its craving for actuality and tangibility, could only find its proper form in sculpture, which gives you body, extension in all three dimensions-- ADOLPH. [Vaguely] The three dimensions--oh yes, body, in a word! GUSTAV. And then you became a sculptor yourself. Or rather, you have been one all your life, but you had gone astray, and nothing was needed but a guide to put you on the right road--Tell me, do you experience supreme joy now when you are at work? ADOLPH. Now I am living! GUSTAV. May I see what you are doing? ADOLPH. A female figure. GUSTAV. Without a model? And so lifelike at that! ADOLPH. [Apathetically] Yes, but it resembles somebody. It is remarkable that this woman seems to have become a part of my body as I of hers. GUSTAV. Well, that's not so very remarkable. Do you know what transfusion is? ADOLPH. Of blood? Yes. GUSTAV. And you seem to have bled yourself a little too much. When I look at the figure here I comprehend several things which I merely guessed before. You have loved her tremendously! ADOLPH. Yes, to such an extent that I couldn't tell whether she was I or I she. When she is smiling, I smile also. When she is weeping, I weep. And when she--can you imagine anything like it?--when she was giving life to our child--I felt the birth pangs within myself. GUSTAV. Do you know, my dear friend--I hate to speak of it, but you are already showing the first symptoms of epilepsy. ADOLPH. [Agitated] I! How can you tell? GUSTAV. Because I have watched the symptoms in a younger brother of mine who had been worshipping Venus a little too excessively. ADOLPH. How--how did it show itself--that thing you spoke of? [During the following passage GUSTAV speaks with great animation, and ADOLPH listens so intently that, unconsciously, he imitates many of GUSTAV'S gestures.] GUSTAV. It was dreadful to witness, and if you don't feel strong enough I won't inflict a description of it on you. ADOLPH. [Nervously] Yes, go right on--just go on! GUSTAV. Well, the boy happened to marry an innocent little creature with curls, and eyes like a turtle-dove; with the face of a child and the pure soul of an angel. But nevertheless she managed to usurp the male prerogative-- ADOLPH. What is that? GUSTAV. Initiative, of course. And with the result that the angel nearly carried him off to heaven. But first he had to be put on the cross and made to feel the nails in his flesh. It was horrible! ADOLPH. [Breathlessly] Well, what happened? GUSTAV. [Lingering on each word] We might be sitting together talking, he and I--and when I had been speaking for a while his face would turn white as chalk, his arms and legs would grow stiff, and his thumbs became twisted against the palms of his hands--like this. [He illustrates the movement and it is imitated by ADOLPH] Then his eyes became bloodshot, and he began to chew--like this. [He chews, and again ADOLPH imitates him] The saliva was rattling in his throat. His chest was squeezed together as if it had been closed in a vice. The pupils of his eyes flickered like gas-jets. His tongue beat the saliva into a lather, and he sank--slowly--down--backward--into the chair--as if he were drowning. And then--- ADOLPH. [In a whisper] Stop now! GUSTAV. And then--Are you not feeling well? ADOLPH. No. GUSTAV. [Gets a glass of water for him] There: drink now. And we'll talk of something else. ADOLPH. [Feebly] Thank you! Please go on! GUSTAV. Well--when he came to he couldn't remember anything at all. He had simply lost consciousness. Has that ever happened to you? ADOLPH. Yes, I have had attacks of vertigo now and then, but my physician says it's only anaemia. GUSTAV. Well, that's the beginning of it, you know. But, believe me, it will end in epilepsy if you don't take care of yourself. ADOLPH. What can I do? GUSTAV. To begin with, you will have to observe complete abstinence. ADOLPH. For how long? GUSTAV. For half a year at least. ADOLPH. I cannot do it. That would upset our married life. GUSTAV. Good-bye to you then! ADOLPH. [Covers up the wax figure] I cannot do it! GUSTAV. Can you not save your own life?--But tell me, as you have already given me so much of your confidence--is there no other canker, no secret wound, that troubles you? For it is very rare to find only one cause of discord, as life is so full of variety and so fruitful in chances for false relationships. Is there not a corpse in your cargo that you are trying to hide from yourself?--For instance, you said a minute ago that you have a child which has been left in other people's care. Why don't you keep it with you? ADOLPH. My wife doesn't want us to do so. GUSTAV. And her reason? Speak up now! ADOLPH. Because, when it was about three years old, it began to look like him, her former husband. GUSTAV. Well? Have you seen her former husband? ADOLPH. No, never. I have only had a casual glance at a very poor portrait of him, and then I couldn't detect the slightest resemblance. GUSTAV. Oh, portraits are never like the original, and, besides, he might have changed considerably since it was made. However, I hope it hasn't aroused any suspicions in you? ADOLPH. Not at all. The child was born a year after our marriage, and the husband was abroad when I first met Tekla--it happened right here, in this very house even, and that's why we come here every summer. GUSTAV. No, then there can be no cause for suspicion. And you wouldn't have had any reason to trouble yourself anyhow, for the children of a widow who marries again often show a likeness to her dead husband. It is annoying, of course, and that's why they used to burn all widows in India, as you know.--But tell me: have you ever felt jealous of him--of his memory? Would it not sicken you to meet him on a walk and hear him, with his eyes on your Tekla, use the word "we" instead of "I"?--We! ADOLPH. I cannot deny that I have been pursued by that very thought. GUSTAV. There now!--And you'll never get rid of it. There are discords in this life which can never be reduced to harmony. For this reason you had better put wax in your ears and go to work. If you work, and grow old, and pile masses of new impressions on the hatches, then the corpse will stay quiet in the hold. ADOLPH. Pardon me for interrupting you, but--it is wonderful how you resemble Tekla now and then while you are talking. You have a way of blinking one eye as if you were taking aim with a gun, and your eyes have the same influence on me as hers have at times. GUSTAV. No, really? ADOLPH. And now you said that "no, really" in the same indifferent way that she does. She also has the habit of saying "no, really" quite often. GUSTAV. Perhaps we are distantly related, seeing that all human beings are said to be of one family. At any rate, it will be interesting to make your wife's acquaintance to see if what you say is true. ADOLPH. And do you know, she never takes an expression from me. She seems rather to avoid my vocabulary, and I have never caught her using any of my gestures. And yet people as a rule develop what is called "marital resemblance." GUSTAV. And do you know why this has not happened in your case?--That woman has never loved you. ADOLPH. What do you mean? GUSTAV. I hope you will excuse what I am saying--but woman's love consists in taking, in receiving, and one from whom she takes nothing does not have her love. She has never loved you! ADOLPH. Don't you think her capable of loving more than once? GUSTAV. No, for we cannot be deceived more than once. Then our eyes are opened once for all. You have never been deceived, and so you had better beware of those that have. They are dangerous, I tell you. ADOLPH. Your words pierce me like knife thrusts, and I fool as if something were being severed within me, but I cannot help it. And this cutting brings a certain relief, too. For it means the pricking of ulcers that never seemed to ripen.--She has never loved me!--Why, then, did she ever take me? GUSTAV. Tell me first how she came to take you, and whether it was you who took her or she who took you? ADOLPH. Heaven only knows if I can tell at all!--How did it happen? Well, it didn't come about in one day. GUSTAV. Would you like to have me tell you how it did happen? ADOLPH. That's more than you can do. GUSTAV. Oh, by using the information about yourself and your wife that you have given me, I think I can reconstruct the whole event. Listen now, and you'll hear. [In a dispassionate tone, almost humorously] The husband had gone abroad to study, and she was alone. At first her freedom seemed rather pleasant. Then came a sense of vacancy, for I presume she was pretty empty when she had lived by herself for a fortnight. Then he appeared, and by and by the vacancy was filled up. By comparison the absent one seemed to fade out, and for the simple reason that he was at a distance--you know the law about the square of the distance? But when they felt their passions stirring, then came fear--of themselves, of their consciences, of him. For protection they played brother and sister. And the more their feelings smacked of the flesh, the more they tried to make their relationship appear spiritual. ADOLPH. Brother and sister? How could you know that? GUSTAV. I guessed it. Children are in the habit of playing papa and mamma, but when they grow up they play brother and sister--in order to hide what should be hidden!--And then they took the vow of chastity--and then they played hide-and-seek--until they got in a dark corner where they were sure of not being seen by anybody. [With mock severity] But they felt that there was ONE whose eye reached them in the darkness--and they grew frightened--and their fright raised the spectre of the absent one--his figure began to assume immense proportions--it became metamorphosed: turned into a nightmare that disturbed their amorous slumbers; a creditor who knocked at all doors. Then they saw his black hand between their own as these sneaked toward each other across the table; and they heard his grating voice through that stillness of the night that should have been broken only by the beating of their own pulses. He did not prevent them from possessing each other but he spoiled their happiness. And when they became aware of his invisible interference with their happiness; when they took flight at last--a vain flight from the memories that pursued them, from the liability they had left behind, from the public opinion they could not face--and when they found themselves without the strength needed to carry their own guilt, then they had to send out into the fields for a scapegoat to be sacrificed. They were free-thinkers, but they did not have the courage to step forward and speak openly to him the words: "We love each other!" To sum it up, they were cowards, and so the tyrant had to be slaughtered. Is that right? ADOLPH. Yes, but you forget that she educated me, that she filled my head with new thoughts-- GUSTAV. I have not forgotten it. But tell me: why could she not educate the other man also--into a free-thinker? ADOLPH. Oh, he was an idiot! GUSTAV. Oh, of course--he was an idiot! But that's rather an ambiguous term, and, as pictured in her novel, his idiocy seems mainly to have consisted in failure to understand her. Pardon me a question: but is your wife so very profound after all? I have discovered nothing profound in her writings. ADOLPH. Neither have I.--But then I have also to confess a certain difficulty in understanding her. It is as if the cogs of our brain wheels didn't fit into each other, and as if something went to pieces in my head when I try to comprehend her. GUSTAV. Maybe you are an idiot, too? ADOLPH. I don't THINK so! And it seems to me all the time as if she were in the wrong--Would you care to read this letter, for instance, which I got today? [Takes out a letter from his pocket-book.] GUSTAV. [Glancing through the letter] Hm! The handwriting seems strangely familiar. ADOLPH. Rather masculine, don't you think? GUSTAV. Well, I know at least ONE man who writes that kind of hand--She addresses you as "brother." Are you still playing comedy to each other? And do you never permit yourselves any greater familiarity in speaking to each other? ADOLPH. No, it seems to me that all mutual respect is lost in that way. GUSTAV. And is it to make you respect her that she calls herself your sister? ADOLPH. I want to respect her more than myself. I want her to be the better part of my own self. GUSTAV. Why don't you be that better part yourself? Would it be less convenient than to permit somebody else to fill the part? Do you want to place yourself beneath your wife? ADOLPH. Yes, I do. I take a pleasure in never quite reaching up to her. I have taught her to swim, for example, and now I enjoy hearing her boast that she surpasses me both in skill and daring. To begin with, I merely pretended to be awkward and timid in order to raise her courage. And so it ended with my actually being her inferior, more of a coward than she. It almost seemed to me as if she had actually taken my courage away from me. GUSTAV. Have you taught her anything else? ADOLPH. Yes--but it must stay between us--I have taught her how to spell, which she didn't know before. But now, listen: when she took charge of our domestic correspondence, I grew out of the habit of writing. And think of it: as the years passed on, lack of practice made me forget a little here and there of my grammar. But do you think she recalls that I was the one who taught her at the start? No--and so I am "the idiot," of course. GUSTAV. So you are an idiot already? ADOLPH. Oh, it's just a joke, of course! GUSTAV. Of course! But this is clear cannibalism, I think. Do you know what's behind that sort of practice? The savages eat their enemies in order to acquire their useful qualities. And this woman has been eating your soul, your courage, your knowledge--- ADOLPH. And my faith! It was I who urged her to write her first book--- GUSTAV. [Making a face] Oh-h-h! ADOLPH. It was I who praised her, even when I found her stuff rather poor. It was I who brought her into literary circles where she could gather honey from our most ornamental literary flowers. It was I who used my personal influence to keep the critics from her throat. It was I who blew her faith in herself into flame; blew on it until I lost my own breath. I gave, gave, gave--until I had nothing left for myself. Do you know--I'll tell you everything now--do you know I really believe--and the human soul is so peculiarly constituted--I believe that when my artistic successes seemed about to put her in the shadow--as well as her reputation--then I tried to put courage into her by belittling myself, and by making my own art seem inferior to hers. I talked so long about the insignificant part played by painting on the whole--talked so long about it, and invented so many reasons to prove what I said, that one fine day I found myself convinced of its futility. So all you had to do was to breathe on a house of cards. GUSTAV. Pardon me for recalling what you said at the beginning of our talk--that she had never taken anything from you. ADOLPH. She doesn't nowadays. Because there is nothing more to take. GUSTAV. The snake being full, it vomits now. ADOLPH. Perhaps she has been taking a good deal more from me than I have been aware of? GUSTAV. You can be sure of that. She took when you were not looking, and that is called theft. ADOLPH. Perhaps she never did educate me? GUSTAV. But you her? In all likelihood! But it was her trick to make it appear the other way to you. May I ask how she set about educating you? ADOLPH. Oh, first of all--hm! GUSTAV. Well? ADOLPH. Well, I--- GUSTAV. No, we were speaking of her. ADOLPH. Really, I cannot tell now. GUSTAV. Do you see! ADOLPH. However--she devoured my faith also, and so I sank further and further down, until you came along and gave me a new faith. GUSTAV. [Smiling] In sculpture? ADOLPH. [Doubtfully] Yes. GUSTAV. And have you really faith in it? In this abstract, antiquated art that dates back to the childhood of civilisation? Do you believe that you can obtain your effect by pure form--by the three dimensions--tell me? That you can reach the practical mind of our own day, and convey an illusion to it, without the use of colour--without colour, mind you--do you really believe that? ADOLPH. [Crushed] No! GUSTAV. Well, I don't either. ADOLPH. Why, then, did you say you did? GUSTAV. Because I pitied you. ADOLPH. Yes, I am to be pitied! For now I am bankrupt! Finished!--And worst of all: not even she is left to me! GUSTAV. Well, what could you do with her? ADOLPH. Oh, she would be to me what God was before I became an atheist: an object that might help me to exercise my sense of veneration. GUSTAV. Bury your sense of veneration and let something else grow on top of it. A little wholesome scorn, for instance. ADOLPH. I cannot live without having something to respect--- GUSTAV. Slave! ADOLPH.--without a woman to respect and worship! GUSTAV. Oh, HELL! Then you had better take back your God--if you needs must have something to kow-tow to! You're a fine atheist, with all that superstition about woman still in you! You're a fine free-thinker, who dare not think freely about the dear ladies! Do you know what that incomprehensible, sphinx-like, profound something in your wife really is? It is sheer stupidity!--Look here: she cannot even distinguish between th and t. And that, you know, means there is something wrong with the mechanism. When you look at the case, it looks like a chronometer, but the works inside are those of an ordinary cheap watch.--Nothing but the skirts-that's all! Put trousers on her, give her a pair of moustaches of soot under her nose, then take a good, sober look at her, and listen to her in the same manner: you'll find the instrument has another sound to it. A phonograph, and nothing else--giving you back your own words, or those of other people--and always in diluted form. Have you ever looked at a naked woman--oh yes, yes, of course! A youth with over-developed breasts; an under-developed man; a child that has shot up to full height and then stopped growing in other respects; one who is chronically anaemic: what can you expect of such a creature? ADOLPH. Supposing all that to be true--how can it be possible that I still think her my equal? GUSTAV. Hallucination--the hypnotising power of skirts! Or--the two of you may actually have become equals. The levelling process has been finished. Her capillarity has brought the water in both tubes to the same height.--Tell me [taking out his watch]: our talk has now lasted six hours, and your wife ought soon to be here. Don't you think we had better stop, so that you can get a rest? ADOLPH. No, don't leave me! I don't dare to be alone! GUSTAV. Oh, for a little while only--and then the lady will come. ADOLPH. Yes, she is coming!--It's all so queer! I long for her, but I am afraid of her. She pets me, she is tender to me, but there is suffocation in her kisses--something that pulls and numbs. And I feel like a circus child that is being pinched by the clown in order that it may look rosy-cheeked when it appears before the public. GUSTAV. I feel very sorry for you, my friend. Without being a physician, I can tell that you are a dying man. It is enough to look at your latest pictures in order to see that. ADOLPH. You think so? How can you see it? GUSTAV. Your colour is watery blue, anaemic, thin, so that the cadaverous yellow of the canvas shines through. And it impresses me as if your own hollow, putty-coloured checks were showing beneath-- ADOLPH. Oh, stop, stop! GUSTAV. Well, this is not only my personal opinion. Have you read to-day's paper? ADOLPH. [Shrinking] No! GUSTAV. It's on the table here. ADOLPH. [Reaching for the paper without daring to take hold of it] Do they speak of it there? GUSTAV. Read it--or do you want me to read it to you? ADOLPH. No! GUSTAV. I'll leave you, if you want me to. ADOLPH. No, no, no!--I don't know--it seems as if I were beginning to hate you, and yet I cannot let you go.--You drag me out of the hole into which I have fallen, but no sooner do you get me on firm ice, than you knock me on the head and shove me into the water again. As long as my secrets were my own, I had still something left within me, but now I am quite empty. There is a canvas by an Italian master, showing a scene of torture--a saint whose intestines are being torn out of him and rolled on the axle of a windlass. The martyr is watching himself grow thinner and thinner, while the roll on the axle grows thicker.--Now it seems to me as if you had swelled out since you began to dig in me; and when you leave, you'll carry away my vitals with you, and leave nothing but an empty shell behind. GUSTAV. How you do let your fancy run away with you!--And besides, your wife is bringing back your heart. ADOLPH. No, not since you have burned her to ashes. Everything is in ashes where you have passed along: my art, my love, my hope, my faith! GUSTAV. All of it was pretty nearly finished before I came along. ADOLPH. Yes, but it might have been saved. Now it's too late--incendiary! GUSTAV. We have cleared some ground only. Now we'll sow in the ashes. ADOLPH. I hate you! I curse you! GUSTAV. Good symptoms! There is still some strength left in you. And now I'll pull you up on the ice again. Listen now! Do you want to listen to me, and do you want to obey me? ADOLPH. Do with me what you will--I'll obey you! GUSTAV. [Rising] Look at me! ADOLPH. [Looking at GUSTAV] Now you are looking at me again with that other pair of eyes which attracts me. GUSTAV. And listen to me! ADOLPH. Yes, but speak of yourself. Don't talk of me any longer: I am like an open wound and cannot bear being touched. GUSTAV. No, there is nothing to say about me. I am a teacher of dead languages, and a widower--that's all! Take my hand. ADOLPH. What terrible power there must be in you! It feels as if I were touching an electrical generator. GUSTAV. And bear in mind that I have been as weak as you are now.--Stand up! ADOLPH. [Rises, but keeps himself from falling only by throwing his arms around the neck of GUSTAV] I am like a boneless baby, and my brain seems to lie bare. GUSTAV. Take a turn across the floor! ADOLPH. I cannot! GUSTAV. Do what I say, or I'll strike you! ADOLPH. [Straightening himself up] What are you saying? GUSTAV. I'll strike you, I said. ADOLPH. [Leaping backward in a rage] You! GUSTAV. That's it! Now you have got the blood into your head, and your self-assurance is awake. And now I'll give you some electriticy: where is your wife? ADOLPH. Where is she? GUSTAV. Yes. ADOLPH. She is--at--a meeting. GUSTAV. Sure? ADOLPH. Absolutely! GUSTAV. What kind of meeting? ADOLPH. Oh, something relating to an orphan asylum. GUSTAV. Did you part as friends? ADOLPH. [With some hesitation] Not as friends. GUSTAV. As enemies then!--What did you say that provoked her? ADOLPH. You are terrible. I am afraid of you. How could you know? GUSTAV. It's very simple: I possess three known factors, and with their help I figure out the unknown one. What did you say to her? ADOLPH. I said--two words only, but they were dreadful, and I regret them--regret them very much. GUSTAV. Don't do it! Tell me now? ADOLPH. I said: "Old flirt!" GUSTAV. What more did you say? ADOLPH. Nothing at all. GUSTAV. Yes, you did, but you have forgotten it--perhaps because you don't dare remember it. You have put it away in a secret drawer, but you have got to open it now! ADOLPH. I can't remember! GUSTAV. But I know. This is what you said: "You ought to be ashamed of flirting when you are too old to have any more lovers!" ADOLPH. Did I say that? I must have said it!--But how can you know that I did? GUSTAV. I heard her tell the story on board the boat as I came here. ADOLPH. To whom? GUSTAV. To four young men who formed her company. She is already developing a taste for chaste young men, just like-- ADOLPH. But there is nothing wrong in that? GUSTAV. No more than in playing brother and sister when you are papa and mamma. ADOLPH. So you have seen her then? GUSTAV. Yes, I have. But you have never seen her when you didn't--I mean, when you were not present. And there's the reason, you see, why a husband can never really know his wife. Have you a portrait of her? (Adolph takes a photograph from his pocketbook. There is a look of aroused curiosity on his face.) GUSTAV. You were not present when this was taken? ADOLPH. No. GUSTAV. Look at it. Does it bear much resemblance to the portrait you painted of her? Hardly any! The features are the same, but the expression is quite different. But you don't see this, because your own picture of her creeps in between your eyes and this one. Look at it now as a painter, without giving a thought to the original. What does it represent? Nothing, so far as I can see, but an affected coquette inviting somebody to come and play with her. Do you notice this cynical line around the mouth which you are never allowed to see? Can you see that her eyes are seeking out some man who is not you? Do you observe that her dress is cut low at the neck, that her hair is done up in a different way, that her sleeve has managed to slip back from her arm? Can you see? ADOLPH. Yes--now I see. GUSTAV. Look out, my boy! ADOLPH. For what? GUSTAV. For her revenge! Bear in mind that when you said she could not attract a man, you struck at what to her is most sacred--the one thing above all others. If you had told her that she wrote nothing but nonsense, she would have laughed at your poor taste. But as it is--believe me, it will not be her fault if her desire for revenge has not already been satisfied. ADOLPH. I must know if it is so! GUSTAV. Find out! ADOLPH. Find out? GUSTAV. Watch--I'll assist you, if you want me to. ADOLPH. As I am to die anyhow--it may as well come first as last! What am I to do? GUSTAV. First of all a piece of information: has your wife any vulnerable point? ADOLPH. Hardly! I think she must have nine lives, like a cat. GUSTAV. There--that was the boat whistling at the landing--now she'll soon be here. ADOLPH. Then I must go down and meet her. GUSTAV. No, you are to stay here. You have to be impolite. If her conscience is clear, you'll catch it until your ears tingle. If she is guilty, she'll come up and pet you. ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? GUSTAV. Not quite, because a rabbit will sometimes turn and run in loops, but I'll follow. My room is nest to this. [He points to the door on the right] There I shall take up my position and watch you while you are playing the game in here. But when you are done, we'll change parts: I'll enter the cage and do tricks with the snake while you stick to the key-hole. Then we meet in the park to compare notes. But keep your back stiff. And if you feel yourself weakening, knock twice on the floor with a chair. ADOLPH. All right!--But don't go away. I must be sure that you are in the next room. GUSTAV. You can be quite sure of that. But don't get scared afterward, when you watch me dissecting a human soul and laying out its various parts on the table. They say it is rather hard on a beginner, but once you have seen it done, you never want to miss it.--And be sure to remember one thing: not a word about having met me, or having made any new acquaintance whatever while she was away. Not one word! And I'll discover her weak point by myself. Hush, she has arrived--she is in her room now. She's humming to herself. That means she is in a rage!--Now, straight in the back, please! And sit down on that chair over there, so that she has to sit here--then I can watch both of you at the same time. ADOLPH. It's only fifteen minutes to dinner--and no new guests have arrived--for I haven't heard the bell ring. That means we shall be by ourselves--worse luck! GUSTAV. Are you weak? ADOLPH. I am nothing at all!--Yes, I am afraid of what is now coming! But I cannot keep it from coming! The stone has been set rolling--and it was not the first drop of water that started it--nor wad it the last one--but all of them together. GUSTAV. Let it roll then--for peace will come in no other way. Good-bye for a while now! [Goes out] (ADOLPH nods back at him. Until then he has been standing with the photograph in his hand. Now he tears it up and flings the pieces under the table. Then he sits down on a chair, pulls nervously at his tie, runs his fingers through his hair, crumples his coat lapel, and so on.) TEKLA. [Enters, goes straight up to him and gives him a kiss; her manner is friendly, frank, happy, and engaging] Hello, little brother! How is he getting on? ADOLPH. [Almost won over; speaking reluctantly and as if in jest] What mischief have you been up to now that makes you come and kiss me? TEKLA. I'll tell you: I've spent an awful lot of money. ADOLPH. You have had a good time then? TEKLA. Very! But not exactly at that creche meeting. That was plain piffle, to tell the truth.--But what has little brother found to divert himself with while his Pussy was away? (Her eyes wander around the room as if she were looking for somebody or sniffing something.) ADOLPH. I've simply been bored. TEKLA. And no company at all? ADOLPH. Quite by myself. TEKLA. [Watching him; she sits down on the sofa] Who has been sitting here? ADOLPH. Over there? Nobody. TEKLA. That's funny! The seat is still warm, and there is a hollow here that looks as if it had been made by an elbow. Have you had lady callers? ADOLPH. I? You don't believe it, do you? TEKLA. But you blush. I think little brother is not telling the truth. Come and tell Pussy now what he has on his conscience. (Draws him toward herself so that he sinks down with his head resting in her lap.) ADOLPH. You're a little devil--do you know that? TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all about myself. ADOLPH. You never think about yourself, do you? TEKLA. [Sniffing and taking notes] I think of nothing but myself--I am a dreadful egoist. But what has made you turn so philosophical all at once? ADOLPH. Put your hand on my forehead. TEKLA. [Prattling as if to a baby] Has he got ants in his head again? Does he want me to take them away, does he? [Kisses him on the forehead] There now! Is it all right now? ADOLPH. Now it's all right. [Pause] TEKLA. Well, tell me now what you have been doing to make the time go? Have you painted anything? ADOLPH. No, I am done with painting. TEKLA. What? Done with painting? ADOLPH. Yes, but don't scold me for it. How can I help it that I can't paint any longer! TEKLA. What do you mean to do then? ADOLPH. I'll become a sculptor. TEKLA. What a lot of brand new ideas again! ADOLPH. Yes, but please don't scold! Look at that figure over there. TEKLA. [Uncovering the wax figure] Well, I declare!--Who is that meant for? ADOLPH. Guess! TEKLA. Is it Pussy? Has he got no shame at all? ADOLPH. Is it like? TEKLA. How can I tell when there is no face? ADOLPH. Yes, but there is so much else--that's beautiful! TEKLA. [Taps him playfully on the cheek] Now he must keep still or I'll have to kiss him. ADOLPH. [Holding her back] Now, now!--Somebody might come! TEKLA. Well, what do I care? Can't I kiss my own husband, perhaps? Oh yes, that's my lawful right. ADOLPH. Yes, but don't you know--in the hotel here, they don't believe we are married, because we are kissing each other such a lot. And it makes no difference that we quarrel now and then, for lovers are said to do that also. TEKLA. Well, but what's the use of quarrelling? Why can't he always be as nice as he is now? Tell me now? Can't he try? Doesn't he want us to be happy? ADOLPH. Do I want it? Yes, but-- TEKLA. There we are again! Who has put it into his head that he is not to paint any longer? ADOLPH. Who? You are always looking for somebody else behind me and my thoughts. Are you jealous? TEKLA. Yes, I am. I'm afraid somebody might take him away from me. ADOLPH. Are you really afraid of that? You who know that no other woman can take your place, and that I cannot live without you! TEKLA. Well, I am not afraid of the women--it's your friends that fill your head with all sorts of notions. ADOLPH. [Watching her] You are afraid then? Of what are you afraid? TEKLA. [Getting up] Somebody has been here. Who has been here? ADOLPH. Don't you wish me to look at you? TEKLA. Not in that way: it's not the way you are accustomed to look at me. ADOLPH. How was I looking at you then? TEKLA. Way up under my eyelids. ADOLPH. Under your eyelids--yes, I wanted to see what is behind them. TEKLA. See all you can! There is nothing that needs to be hidden. But--you talk differently, too--you use expressions--[studying him] you philosophise--that's what you do! [Approaches him threateningly] Who has been here? ADOLPH. Nobody but my physician. TEKLA. Your physician? Who is he? ADOLPH. That doctor from Stromstad. TEKLA. What's his name? ADOLPH. Sjoberg. TEKLA. What did he have to say? ADOLPH. He said--well--among other things he said--that I am on the verge of epilepsy-- TEKLA. Among other things? What more did he say? ADOLPH. Something very unpleasant. TEKLA. Tell me! ADOLPH. He forbade us to live as man and wife for a while. TEKLA. Oh, that's it! Didn't I just guess it! They want to separate us! That's what I have understood a long time! ADOLPH. You can't have understood, because there was nothing to understand. TEKLA. Oh yes, I have! ADOLPH. How can you see what doesn't exist, unless your fear of something has stirred up your fancy into seeing what has never existed? What is it you fear? That I might borrow somebody else's eyes in order to see you as you are, and not as you seem to be? TEKLA. Keep your imagination in check, Adolph! It is the beast that dwells in man's soul. ADOLPH. Where did you learn that? From those chaste young men on the boat--did you? TEKLA. [Not at all abashed] Yes, there is something to be learned from youth also. ADOLPH. I think you are already beginning to have a taste for youth? TEKLA. I have always liked youth. That's why I love you. Do you object? ADOLPH. No, but I should prefer to have no partners. TEKLA. [Prattling roguishly] My heart is so big, little brother, that there is room in it for many more than him. ADOLPH. But little brother doesn't want any more brothers. TEKLA. Come here to Pussy now and get his hair pulled because he is jealous--no, envious is the right word for it! (Two knocks with a chair are heard from the adjoining room, where GUSTAV is.) ADOLPH. No, I don't want to play now. I want to talk seriously. TEKLA. [Prattling] Mercy me, does he want to talk seriously? Dreadful, how serious he's become! [Takes hold of his head and kisses him] Smile a little--there now! ADOLPH. [Smiling against his will] Oh, you're the--I might almost think you knew how to use magic! TEKLA. Well, can't he see now? That's why he shouldn't start any trouble--or I might use my magic to make him invisible! ADOLPH. [Gets up] Will you sit for me a moment, Tekla? With the side of your face this way, so that I can put a face on my figure. TEKLA. Of course, I will. [Turns her head so he can see her in profile.] ADOLPH. [Gazes hard at her while pretending to work at the figure] Don't think of me now--but of somebody else. TEKLA. I'll think of my latest conquest. ADOLPH. That chaste young man? TEKLA. Exactly! He had a pair of the prettiest, sweetest moustaches, and his cheek looked like a peach--it was so soft and rosy that you just wanted to bite it. ADOLPH. [Darkening] Please keep that expression about the mouth. TEKLA. What expression? ADOLPH. A cynical, brazen one that I have never seen before. TEKLA. [Making a face] This one? ADOLPH. Just that one! [Getting up] Do you know how Bret Harte pictures an adulteress? TEKLA. [Smiling] No, I have never read Bret Something. ADOLPH. As a pale creature that cannot blush. TEKLA. Not at all? But when she meets her lover, then she must blush, I am sure, although her husband or Mr. Bret may not be allowed to see it. ADOLPH. Are you so sure of that? TEKLA. [As before] Of course, as the husband is not capable of bringing the blood up to her head, he cannot hope to behold the charming spectacle. ADOLPH. [Enraged] Tekla! TEKLA. Oh, you little ninny! ADOLPH. Tekla! TEKLA. He should call her Pussy--then I might get up a pretty little blush for his sake. Does he want me to? ADOLPH. [Disarmed] You minx, I'm so angry with you, that I could bite you! TEKLA. [Playfully] Come and bite me then!--Come! [Opens her arms to him.] ADOLPH. [Puts his hands around her neck and kisses her] Yes, I'll bite you to death! TEKLA. [Teasingly] Look out--somebody might come! ADOLPH. Well, what do I care! I care for nothing else in the world if I can only have you! TEKLA. And when, you don't have me any longer? ADOLPH. Then I shall die! TEKLA. But you are not afraid of losing me, are you--as I am too old to be wanted by anybody else? ADOLPH. You have not forgotten my words yet, Tekla! I take it all back now! TEKLA. Can you explain to me why you are at once so jealous and so cock-sure? ADOLPH. No, I cannot explain anything at all. But it's possible that the thought of somebody else having possessed you may still be gnawing within me. At times it appears to me as if our love were nothing but a fiction, an attempt at self-defence, a passion kept up as a matter of honor--and I can't think of anything that would give me more pain than to have HIM know that I am unhappy. Oh, I have never seen him--but the mere thought that a person exists who is waiting for my misfortune to arrive, who is daily calling down curses on my head, who will roar with laughter when I perish--the mere idea of it obsesses me, drives me nearer to you, fascinates me, paralyses me! TEKLA. Do you think I would let him have that joy? Do you think I would make his prophecy come true? ADOLPH. No, I cannot think you would. TEKLA. Why don't you keep calm then? ADOLPH. No, you upset me constantly by your coquetry. Why do you play that kind of game? TEKLA. It is no game. I want to be admired--that's all! ADOLPH. Yes, but only by men! TEKLA. Of course! For a woman is never admired by other women. ADOLPH. Tell me, have you heard anything--from him--recently? TEKLA. Not in the last sis months. ADOLPH. Do you ever think of him? TEKLA. No!--Since the child died we have broken off our correspondence. ADOLPH. And you have never seen him at all? TEKLA. No, I understand he is living somewhere down on the West Coast. But why is all this coming into your head just now? ADOLPH. I don't know. But during the last few days, while I was alone, I kept thinking of him--how he might have felt when he was left alone that time. TEKLA. Are you having an attack of bad conscience? ADOLPH. I am. TEKLA. You feel like a thief, do you? ADOLPH. Almost! TEKLA. Isn't that lovely! Women can be stolen as you steal children or chickens? And you regard me as his chattel or personal property. I am very much obliged to you! ADOLPH. No, I regard you as his wife. And that's a good deal more than property--for there can be no substitute. TEKLA. Oh, yes! If you only heard that he had married again, all these foolish notions would leave you.--Have you not taken his place with me? ADOLPH. Well, have I?--And did you ever love him? TEKLA. Of course, I did! ADOLPH. And then-- TEKLA. I grew tired of him! ADOLPH. And if you should tire of me also? TEKLA. But I won't! ADOLPH. If somebody else should turn up--one who had all the qualities you are looking for in a man now--suppose only--then you would leave me? TEKLA. No. ADOLPH. If he captivated you? So that you couldn't live without him? Then you would leave me, of course? TEKLA. No, that doesn't follow. ADOLPH. But you couldn't love two at the same time, could you? TEKLA. Yes! Why not? ADOLPH. That's something I cannot understand. TEKLA. But things exist although you do not understand them. All persons are not made in the same way, you know. ADOLPH. I begin to see now! TEKLA. No, really! ADOLPH. No, really? [A pause follows, during which he seems to struggle with some--memory that will not come back] Do you know, Tekla, that your frankness is beginning to be painful? TEKLA. And yet it used to be my foremost virtue In your mind, and one that you taught me. ADOLPH. Yes, but it seems to me as if you were hiding something behind that frankness of yours. TEKLA. That's the new tactics, you know. ADOLPH. I don't know why, but this place has suddenly become offensive to me. If you feel like it, we might return home--this evening! TEKLA. What kind of notion is that? I have barely arrived and I don't feel like starting on another trip. ADOLPH. But I want to. TEKLA. Well, what's that to me?--You can go! ADOLPH. But I demand that you take the next boat with me! TEKLA. Demand?--What are you talking about? ADOLPH. Do you realise that you are my wife? TEKLA. Do you realise that you are my husband? ADOLPH. Well, there's a difference between those two things. TEKLA. Oh, that's the way you are talking now!--You have never loved me! ADOLPH. Haven't I? TEKLA. No, for to love is to give. ADOLPH. To love like a man is to give; to love like a woman is to take.--And I have given, given, given! TEKLA. Pooh! What have you given? ADOLPH. Everything! TEKLA. That's a lot! And if it be true, then I must have taken it. Are you beginning to send in bills for your gifts now? And if I have taken anything, this proves only my love for you. A woman cannot receive anything except from her lover. ADOLPH. Her lover, yes! There you spoke the truth! I have been your lover, but never your husband. TEKLA. Well, isn't that much more agreeable--to escape playing chaperon? But if you are not satisfied with your position, I'll send you packing, for I don't want a husband. ADOLPH. No, that's what I have noticed. For a while ago, when you began to sneak away from me like a thief with his booty, and when you began to seek company of your own where you could flaunt my plumes and display my gems, then I felt, like reminding you of your debt. And at once I became a troublesome creditor whom you wanted to get rid of. You wanted to repudiate your own notes, and in order not to increase your debt to me, you stopped pillaging my safe and began to try those of other people instead. Without having done anything myself, I became to you merely the husband. And now I am going to be your husband whether you like it or not, as I am not allowed to be your lover any longer. TEKLA. [Playfully] Now he shouldn't talk nonsense, the sweet little idiot! ADOLPH. Look out: it's dangerous to think everybody an idiot but oneself! TEKLA. But that's what everybody thinks. ADOLPH. And I am beginning to suspect that he--your former husband--was not so much of an idiot after all. TEKLA. Heavens! Are you beginning to sympathise with--him? ADOLPH. Yes, not far from it, TEKLA. Well, well! Perhaps you would like to make his acquaintance and pour out your overflowing heart to him? What a striking picture! But I am also beginning to feel drawn to him, as I am growing more and more tired of acting as wetnurse. For he was at least a man, even though he had the fault of being married to me. ADOLPH. There, you see! But you had better not talk so loud--we might be overheard. TEKLA. What would it matter if they took us for married people? ADOLPH. So now you are getting fond of real male men also, and at the same time you have a taste for chaste young men? TEKLA. There are no limits to what I can like, as you may see. My heart is open to everybody and everything, to the big and the small, the handsome and the ugly, the new and the old--I love the whole world. ADOLPH. Do you know what that means? TEKLA. No, I don't know anything at all. I just FEEL. ADOLPH. It means that old age is near. TEKLA. There you are again! Take care! ADOLPH. Take care yourself! TEKLA. Of what? ADOLPH. Of the knife! TEKLA. [Prattling] Little brother had better not play with such dangerous things. ADOLPH. I have quit playing. TEKLA. Oh, it's earnest, is it? Dead earnest! Then I'll show you that--you are mistaken. That is to say--you'll never see it, never know it, but all the rest of the world will know It. And you'll suspect it, you'll believe it, and you'll never have another moment's peace. You'll have the feeling of being ridiculous, of being deceived, but you'll never get any proof of it. For that's what married men never get. ADOLPH. You hate me then? TEKLA. No, I don't. And I don't think I shall either. But that's probably because you are nothing to me but a child. ADOLPH. At this moment, yes. But do you remember how it was while the storm swept over us? Then you lay there like an infant in arms and just cried. Then you had to sit on my lap, and I had to kiss your eyes to sleep. Then I had to be your nurse; had to see that you fixed your hair before going out; had to send your shoes to the cobbler, and see that there was food in the house. I had to sit by your side, holding your hand for hours at a time: you were afraid, afraid of the whole world, because you didn't have a single friend, and because you were crushed by the hostility of public opinion. I had to talk courage into you until my mouth was dry and my head ached. I had to make myself believe that I was strong. I had to force myself into believing in the future. And so I brought you back to life, when you seemed already dead. Then you admired me. Then I was the man--not that kind of athlete you had just left, but the man of will-power, the mesmerist who instilled new nervous energy into your flabby muscles and charged your empty brain with a new store of electricity. And then I gave you back your reputation. I brought you new friends, furnished you with a little court of people who, for the sake of friendship to me, let themselves be lured into admiring you. I set you to rule me and my house. Then I painted my best pictures, glimmering with reds and blues on backgrounds of gold, and there was not an exhibition then where I didn't hold a place of honour. Sometimes you were St. Cecilia, and sometimes Mary Stuart--or little Karin, whom King Eric loved. And I turned public attention in your direction. I compelled the clamorous herd to see you with my own infatuated vision. I plagued them with your personality, forced you literally down their throats, until that sympathy which makes everything possible became yours at last--and you could stand on your own feet. When you reached that far, then my strength was used up, and I collapsed from the overstrain--in lifting you up, I had pushed myself down. I was taken ill, and my illness seemed an annoyance to you at the moment when all life had just begun to smile at you--and sometimes it seemed to me as if, in your heart, there was a secret desire to get rid of your creditor and the witness of your rise. Your love began to change into that of a grown-up sister, and for lack of better I accustomed myself to the new part of little brother. Your tenderness for me remained, and even increased, but it was mingled with a suggestion of pity that had in it a good deal of contempt. And this changed into open scorn as my talent withered and your own sun rose higher. But in some mysterious way the fountainhead of your inspiration seemed to dry up when I could no longer replenish it--or rather when you wanted to show its independence of me. And at last both of us began to lose ground. And then you looked for somebody to put the blame on. A new victim! For you are weak, and you can never carry your own burdens of guilt and debt. And so you picked me for a scapegoat and doomed me to slaughter. But when you cut my thews, you didn't realise that you were also crippling yourself, for by this time our years of common life had made twins of us. You were a shoot sprung from my stem, and you wanted to cut yourself loose before the shoot had put out roots of its own, and that's why you couldn't grow by yourself. And my stem could not spare its main branch--and so stem and branch must die together. TEKLA. What you mean with all this, of course, is that you have written my books. ADOLPH. No, that's what you want me to mean in order to make me out a liar. I don't use such crude expressions as you do, and I spoke for something like five minutes to get in all the nuances, all the halftones, all the transitions--but your hand-organ has only a single note in it. TEKLA. Yes, but the summary of the whole story is that you have written my books. ADOLPH. No, there is no summary. You cannot reduce a chord into a single note. You cannot translate a varied life into a sum of one figure. I have made no blunt statements like that of having written your books. TEKLA. But that's what you meant! ADOLPH. [Beyond himself] I did not mean it. TEKLA. But the sum of it-- ADOLPH. [Wildly] There can be no sum without an addition. You get an endless decimal fraction for quotient when your division does not work out evenly. I have not added anything. TEKLA. But I can do the adding myself. ADOLPH. I believe it, but then I am not doing it. TEKLA. No, but that's what you wanted to do. ADOLPH. [Exhausted, closing his eyes] No, no, no--don't speak to me--you'll drive me into convulsions. Keep silent! Leave me alone! You mutilate my brain with your clumsy pincers--you put your claws into my thoughts and tear them to pieces! (He seems almost unconscious and sits staring straight ahead while his thumbs are bent inward against the palms of his hands.) TEKLA. [Tenderly] What is it? Are you sick? (ADOLPH motions her away.) TEKLA. Adolph! (ADOLPH shakes his head at her.) TEKLA. Adolph. ADOLPH. Yes. TEKLA. Do you admit that you were unjust a moment ago? ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, yes, I admit! TEKLA. And do you ask my pardon? ADOLPH. Yes, yes, yes, I ask your pardon--if you only won't speak to me! TEKLA. Kiss my hand then! ADOLPH. [Kissing her hand] I'll kiss your hand--if you only don't speak to me! TEKLA. And now you had better go out for a breath of fresh air before dinner. ADOLPH. Yes, I think I need it. And then we'll pack and leave. TEKLA. No! ADOLPH. [On his feet] Why? There must be a reason. TEKLA. The reason is that I have promised to be at the concert to-night. ADOLPH. Oh, that's it! TEKLA. Yes, that's it. I have promised to attend-- ADOLPH. Promised? Probably you said only that you might go, and that wouldn't prevent you from saying now that you won't go. TEKLA. No, I am not like you: I keep my word. ADOLPH. Of course, promises should be kept, but we don't have to live up to every little word we happen to drop. Perhaps there is somebody who has made you promise to go. TEKLA. Yes. ADOLPH. Then you can ask to be released from your promise because your husband is sick. TEKLA, No, I don't want to do that, and you are not sick enough to be kept from going with me. ADOLPH. Why do you always want to drag me along? Do you feel safer then? TEKLA. I don't know what you mean. ADOLPH. That's what you always say when you know I mean something that--doesn't please you. TEKLA. So-o! What is it now that doesn't please me? ADOLPH. Oh, I beg you, don't begin over again--Good-bye for a while! (Goes out through the door in the rear and then turns to the right.) (TEKLA is left alone. A moment later GUSTAV enters and goes straight up to the table as if looking for a newspaper. He pretends not to see TEKLA.) TEKLA. [Shows agitation, but manages to control herself] Oh, is it you? GUSTAV. Yes, it's me--I beg your pardon! TEKLA. Which way did you come? GUSTAV. By land. But--I am not going to stay, as-- TEKLA. Oh, there is no reason why you shouldn't.--Well, it was some time ago-- GUSTAV. Yes, some time. TEKLA. You have changed a great deal. GUSTAV. And you are as charming as ever, A little younger, if anything. Excuse me, however--I am not going to spoil your happiness by my presence. And if I had known you were here, I should never-- TEKLA. If you don't think it improper, I should like you to stay. GUSTAV. On my part there could be no objection, but I fear--well, whatever I say, I am sure to offend you. TEKLA. Sit down a moment. You don't offend me, for you possess that rare gift--which was always yours--of tact and politeness. GUSTAV. It's very kind of you. But one could hardly expect--that your husband might regard my qualities in the same generous light as you. TEKLA. On the contrary, he has just been speaking of you in very sympathetic terms. GUSTAV. Oh!--Well, everything becomes covered up by time, like names cut in a tree--and not even dislike can maintain itself permanently in our minds. TEKLA. He has never disliked you, for he has never seen you. And as for me, I have always cherished a dream--that of seeing you come together as friends--or at least of seeing you meet for once in my presence--of seeing you shake hands--and then go your different ways again. GUSTAV. It has also been my secret longing to see her whom I used to love more than my own life--to make sure that she was in good hands. And although I have heard nothing but good of him, and am familiar with all his work, I should nevertheless have liked, before it grew too late, to look into his eyes and beg him to take good care of the treasure Providence has placed in his possession. In that way I hoped also to lay the hatred that must have developed instinctively between us; I wished to bring some peace and humility into my soul, so that I might manage to live through the rest of my sorrowful days. TEKLA. You have uttered my own thoughts, and you have understood me. I thank you for it! GUSTAV. Oh, I am a man of small account, and have always been too insignificant to keep you in the shadow. My monotonous way of living, my drudgery, my narrow horizons--all that could not satisfy a soul like yours, longing for liberty. I admit it. But you understand--you who have searched the human soul--what it cost me to make such a confession to myself. TEKLA. It is noble, it is splendid, to acknowledge one's own shortcomings--and it's not everybody that's capable of it. [Sighs] But yours has always been an honest, and faithful, and reliable nature--one that I had to respect--but-- GUSTAV. Not always--not at that time! But suffering purifies, sorrow ennobles, and--I have suffered! TEKLA. Poor Gustav! Can you forgive me? Tell me, can you? GUSTAV. Forgive? What? I am the one who must ask you to forgive. TEKLA. [Changing tone] I believe we are crying, both of us--we who are old enough to know better! GUSTAV. [Feeling his way] Old? Yes, I am old. But you--you grow younger every day. (He has by that time manoeuvred himself up to the chair on the left and sits down on it, whereupon TEKLA sits down on the sofa.) TEKLA. Do you think so? GUSTAV. And then you know how to dress. TEKLA. I learned that from you. Don't you remember how you figured out what colors would be most becoming to me? GUSTAV. No. TEKLA. Yes, don't you remember--hm!--I can even recall how you used to be angry with me whenever I failed to have at least a touch of crimson about my dress. GUSTAV. No, not angry! I was never angry with you. TEKLA. Oh, yes, when you wanted to teach me how to think--do you remember? For that was something I couldn't do at all. GUSTAV. Of course, you could. It's something every human being does. And you have become quite keen at it--at least when you write. TEKLA. [Unpleasantly impressed; hurrying her words] Well, my dear Gustav, it is pleasant to see you anyhow, and especially in a peaceful way like this. GUSTAV. Well, I can hardly be called a troublemaker, and you had a pretty peaceful time with me. TEKLA. Perhaps too much so. GUSTAV. Oh! But you see, I thought you wanted me that way. It was at least the impression you gave me while we were engaged. TEKLA. Do you think one really knows what one wants at that time? And then the mammas insist on all kinds of pretensions, of course. GUSTAV. Well, now you must be having all the excitement you can wish. They say that life among artists is rather swift, and I don't think your husband can be called a sluggard. TEKLA. You can get too much of a good thing. GUSTAV. [Trying a new tack] What! I do believe you are still wearing the ear-rings I gave you? TEKLA. [Embarrassed] Why not? There was never any quarrel between us--and then I thought I might wear them as a token--and a reminder--that we were not enemies. And then, you know, it is impossible to buy this kind of ear-rings any longer. [Takes off one of her ear-rings.] GUSTAV. Oh, that's all right, but what does your husband say of it? TEKLA. Why should I mind what he says? GUSTAV. Don't you mind that?--But you may be doing him an injury. It is likely to make him ridiculous. TEKLA. [Brusquely, as if speaking to herself almost] He was that before! GUSTAV. [Rises when he notes her difficulty in putting back the ear-ring] May I help you, perhaps? TEKLA. Oh--thank you! GUSTAV. [Pinching her ear] That tiny ear!--Think only if your husband could see us now! TEKLA. Wouldn't he howl, though! GUSTAV. Is he jealous also? TEKLA. Is he? I should say so! [A noise is heard from the room on the right.] GUSTAV. Who lives in that room? TEKLA. I don't know.--But tell me how you are getting along and what you are doing? GUSTAV. Tell me rather how you are getting along? (TEKLA is visibly confused, and without realising what she is doing, she takes the cover off the wax figure.) GUSTAV. Hello! What's that?--Well!--It must be you! TEKLA. I don't believe so. GUSTAV. But it is very like you. TEKLA. [Cynically] Do you think so? GUSTAV. That reminds me of the story--you know it--"How could your majesty see that?" TEKLA, [Laughing aloud] You are impossible!--Do you know any new stories? GUSTAV. No, but you ought to have some. TEKLA. Oh, I never hear anything funny nowadays. GUSTAV. Is he modest also? TEKLA. Oh--well-- GUSTAV. Not an everything? TEKLA. He isn't well just now. GUSTAV. Well, why should little brother put his nose into other people's hives? TEKLA. [Laughing] You crazy thing! GUSTAV. Poor chap!--Do you remember once when we were just married--we lived in this very room. It was furnished differently in those days. There was a chest of drawers against that wall there--and over there stood the big bed. TEKLA. Now you stop! GUSTAV. Look at me! TEKLA. Well, why shouldn't I? [They look hard at each other.] GUSTAV. Do you think a person can ever forget anything that has made a very deep impression on him? TEKLA. No! And our memories have a tremendous power. Particularly the memories of our youth. GUSTAV. Do you remember when I first met you? Then you were a pretty little girl: a slate on which parents and governesses had made a few scrawls that I had to wipe out. And then I filled it with inscriptions that suited my own mind, until you believed the slate could hold nothing more. That's the reason, you know, why I shouldn't care to be in your husband's place--well, that's his business! But it's also the reason why I take pleasure in meeting you again. Our thoughts fit together exactly. And as I sit here and chat with you, it seems to me like drinking old wine of my own bottling. Yes, it's my own wine, but it has gained a great deal in flavour! And now, when I am about to marry again, I have purposely picked out a young girl whom I can educate to suit myself. For the woman, you know, is the man's child, and if she is not, he becomes hers, and then the world turns topsy-turvy. TEKLA. Are you going to marry again? GUSTAV. Yes, I want to try my luck once more, but this time I am going to make a better start, so that it won't end again with a spill. TEKLA. Is she good looking? GUSTAV. Yes, to me. But perhaps I am too old. It's queer--now when chance has brought me together with you again--I am beginning to doubt whether it will be possible to play the game over again. TEKLA. How do you mean? GUSTAV. I can feel that my roots stick in your soil, and the old wounds are beginning to break open. You are a dangerous woman, Tekla! TEKLA. Am I? And my young husband says that I can make no more conquests. GUSTAV. That means he has ceased to love you. TEKLA. Well, I can't quite make out what love means to him. GUSTAV. You have been playing hide and seek so long that at last you cannot find each other at all. Such things do happen. You have had to play the innocent to yourself, until he has lost his courage. There ARE some drawbacks to a change, I tell you--there are drawbacks to it, indeed. TEKLA. Do you mean to reproach-- GUSTAV. Not at all! Whatever happens is to a certain extent necessary, for if it didn't happen, something else would--but now it did happen, and so it had to happen. TEKLA. YOU are a man of discernment. And I have never met anybody with whom I liked so much to exchange ideas. You are so utterly free from all morality and preaching, and you ask so little of people, that it is possible to be oneself in your presence. Do you know, I am jealous of your intended wife! GUSTAV. And do you realise that I am jealous of your husband? TEKLA. [Rising] And now we must part! Forever! GUSTAV. Yes, we must part! But not without a farewell--or what do you say? TEKLA. [Agitated] No! GUSTAV. [Following after her] Yes!--Let us have a farewell! Let us drown our memories--you know, there are intoxications so deep that when you wake up all memories are gone. [Putting his arm around her waist] You have been dragged down by a diseased spirit, who is infecting you with his own anaemia. I'll breathe new life into you. I'll make your talent blossom again in your autumn days, like a remontant rose. I'll---- (Two LADIES in travelling dress are seen in the doorway leading to the veranda. They look surprised. Then they point at those within, laugh, and disappear.) TEKLA. [Freeing herself] Who was that? GUSTAV. [Indifferently] Some tourists. TEKLA. Leave me alone! I am afraid of you! GUSTAV. Why? TEKLA. You take my soul away from me! GUSTAV. And give you my own in its place! And you have no soul for that matter--it's nothing but a delusion. TEKLA. You have a way of saying impolite things so that nobody can be angry with you. GUSTAV. It's because you feel that I hold the first mortgage on you--Tell me now, when--and--where? TEKLA. No, it wouldn't be right to him. I think he is still in love with me, and I don't want to do any more harm. GUSTAV. He does not love you! Do you want proofs? TEKLA, Where can you get them? GUSTAV. [Picking up the pieces of the photograph from the floor] Here! See for yourself! TEKLA. Oh, that's an outrage! GUSTAV. Do you see? Now then, when? And where? TEKLA. The false-hearted wretch! GUSTAV. When? TEKLA. He leaves to-night, with the eight-o'clock boat. GUSTAV. And then-- TEKLA. At nine! [A noise is heard from the adjoining room] Who can be living in there that makes such a racket? GUSTAV. Let's see! [Goes over and looks through the keyhole] There's a table that has been upset, and a smashed water caraffe--that's all! I shouldn't wonder if they had left a dog locked up in there.--At nine o'clock then? TEKLA. All right! And let him answer for it himself.--What a depth of deceit! And he who has always preached about truthfulness, and tried to teach me to tell the truth!--But wait a little--how was it now? He received me with something like hostility--didn't meet me at the landing--and then--and then he made some remark about young men on board the boat, which I pretended not to hear--but how could he know? Wait--and then he began to philosophise about women--and then the spectre of you seemed to be haunting him--and he talked of becoming a sculptor, that being the art of the time--exactly in accordance with your old speculations! GUSTAV. No, really! TEKLA. No, really?--Oh, now I understand! Now I begin to see what a hideous creature you are! You have been here before and stabbed him to death! It was you who had been sitting there on the sofa; it was you who made him think himself an epileptic--that he had to live in celibacy; that he ought to rise in rebellion against his wife; yes, it was you!--How long have you been here? GUSTAV. I have been here a week. TEKLA. It was you, then, I saw on board the boat? GUSTAV. It was. TEKLA. And now you were thinking you could trap me? GUSTAV. It has been done. TEKLA. Not yet! GUSTAV. Yes! TEKLA. Like a wolf you went after my lamb. You came here with a villainous plan to break up my happiness, and you were carrying it out, when my eyes were opened, and I foiled you. GUSTAV. Not quite that way, if you please. This is how it happened in reality. Of course, it has been my secret hope that disaster might overtake you. But I felt practically certain that no interference on my part was required. And besides, I have been far too busy to have any time left for intriguing. But when I happened to be moving about a bit, and happened to see you with those young men on board the boat, then I guessed the time had come for me to take a look at the situation. I came here, and your lamb threw itself into the arms of the wolf. I won his affection by some sort of reminiscent impression which I shall not be tactless enough to explain to you. At first he aroused my sympathy, because he seemed to be in the same fix as I was once. But then he happened to touch old wounds--that book, you know, and "the idiot"--and I was seized with a wish to pick him to pieces, and to mix up these so thoroughly that they couldn't be put together again--and I succeeded, thanks to the painstaking way in which you had done the work of preparation. Then I had to deal with you. For you were the spring that had kept the works moving, and you had to be taken apart--and what a buzzing followed!--When I came in here, I didn't know exactly what to say. Like a chess-player, I had laid a number of tentative plans, of course, but my play had to depend on your moves. One thing led to the other, chance lent me a hand, and finally I had you where I wanted you.--Now you are caught! TEKLA. No! GUSTAV. Yes, you are! What you least wanted has happened. The world at large, represented by two lady tourists--whom I had not sent for, as I am not an intriguer--the world has seen how you became reconciled to your former husband, and how you sneaked back repentantly into his faithful arms. Isn't that enough? TEKLA. It ought to be enough for your revenge--But tell me, how can you, who are so enlightened and so right-minded--how is it possible that you, who think whatever happens must happen, and that all our actions are determined in advance-- GUSTAV. [Correcting her] To a certain extent determined. TEKLA. That's the same thing! GUSTAV. No! TEKLA. [Disregarding him] How is it possible that you, who hold me guiltless, as I was driven by my nature and the circumstances into acting as I did--how can you think yourself entitled to revenge--? GUSTAV. For that very reason--for the reason that my nature and the circumstances drove me into seeking revenge. Isn't that giving both sides a square deal? But do you know why you two had to get the worst of it in this struggle? (TEKLA looks scornful.) GUSTAV. And why you were doomed to be fooled? Because I am stronger than you, and wiser also. You have been the idiot--and he! And now you may perceive that a man need not be an idiot because he doesn't write novels or paint pictures. It might be well for you to bear this in mind. TEKLA. Are you then entirely without feelings? GUSTAV. Entirely! And for that very reason, you know, I am capable of thinking--in which you have had no experience whatever-and of acting--in which you have just had some slight experience. TEKLA. And all this merely because I have hurt your vanity? GUSTAV. Don't call that MERELY! You had better not go around hurting other people's vanity. They have no more sensitive spot than that. TEKLA. Vindictive wretch--shame on you! GUSTAV. Dissolute wretch--shame on you! TEKLA. Oh, that's my character, is it? GUSTAV. Oh, that's my character, is it?--You ought to learn something about human nature in others before you give your own nature free rein. Otherwise you may get hurt, and then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth. TEKLA. You can never forgive:-- GUSTAV. Yes, I have forgiven you! TEKLA. You! GUSTAV. Of course! Have I raised a hand against you during all these years? No! And now I came here only to have a look at you, and it was enough to burst your bubble. Have I uttered a single reproach? Have I moralised or preached sermons? No! I played a joke or two on your dear consort, and nothing more was needed to finish him.--But there is no reason why I, the complainant, should be defending myself as I am now--Tekla! Have you nothing at all to reproach yourself with? TEKLA. Nothing at all! Christians say that our actions are governed by Providence; others call it Fate; in either case, are we not free from all liability? GUSTAV. In a measure, yes; but there is always a narrow margin left unprotected, and there the liability applies in spite of all. And sooner or later the creditors make their appearance. Guiltless, but accountable! Guiltless in regard to one who is no more; accountable to oneself and one's fellow beings. TEKLA. So you came here to dun me? GUSTAV. I came to take back what you had stolen, not what you had received as a gift. You had stolen my honour, and I could recover it only by taking yours. This, I think, was my right--or was it not? TEKLA. Honour? Hm! And now you feel satisfied? GUSTAV. Now I feel satisfied. [Rings for a waiter.] TEKLA. And now you are going home to your fiancee? GUSTAV. I have no fiancee! Nor am I ever going to have one. I am not going home, for I have no home, and don't want one. (A WAITER comes in.) GUSTAV. Get me my bill--I am leaving by the eight o'clock boat. (THE WAITER bows and goes out.) TEKLA. Without making up? GUSTAV. Making up? You use such a lot of words that have lost their--meaning. Why should we make up? Perhaps you want all three of us to live together? You, if anybody, ought to make up by making good what you took away, but this you cannot do. You just took, and what you took you consumed, so that there is nothing left to restore.--Will it satisfy you if I say like this: forgive me that you tore my heart to pieces; forgive me that you disgraced me; forgive me that you made me the laughing-stock of my pupils through every week-day of seven long years; forgive me that I set you free from parental restraints, that I released you from the tyranny of ignorance and superstition, that I set you to rule my house, that I gave you position and friends, that I made a woman out of the child you were before? Forgive me as I forgive you!--Now I have torn up your note! Now you can go and settle your account with the other one! TEKLA. What have you done with him? I am beginning to suspect--something terrible! GUSTAV. With him? Do you still love him? TEKLA. Yes! GUSTAV. And a moment ago it was me! Was that also true? TEKLA. It was true. GUSTAV. Do you know what you are then? TEKLA. You despise me? GUSTAV. I pity you. It is a trait--I don't call it a fault--just a trait, which is rendered disadvantageous by its results. Poor Tekla! I don't know--but it seems almost as if I were feeling a certain regret, although I am as free from any guilt--as you! But perhaps it will be useful to you to feel what I felt that time.--Do you know where your husband is? TEKLA. I think I know now--he is in that room in there! And he has heard everything! And seen everything! And the man who sees his own wraith dies! (ADOLPH appears in the doorway leading to the veranda. His face is white as a sheet, and there is a bleeding scratch on one cheek. His eyes are staring and void of all expression. His lips are covered with froth.) GUSTAV. [Shrinking back] No, there he is!--Now you can settle with him and see if he proves as generous as I have been.--Good-bye! (He goes toward the left, but stops before he reaches the door.) TEKLA. [Goes to meet ADOLPH with open arms] Adolph! (ADOLPH leans against the door-jamb and sinks gradually to the floor.) TEKLA. [Throwing herself upon his prostrate body and caressing him] Adolph! My own child! Are you still alive--oh, speak, speak!--Please forgive your nasty Tekla! Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me!--Little brother must say something, I tell him!--No, good God, he doesn't hear! He is dead! O God in heaven! O my God! Help! GUSTAV. Why, she really must have loved HIM, too!--Poor creature! (Curtain.) PARIAH INTRODUCTION Both "Creditors" and "Pariah" were written in the winter of 1888-89 at Holte, near Copenhagen, where Strindberg, assisted by his first wife, was then engaged in starting what he called a "Scandinavian Experimental Theatre." In March, 1889, the two plays were given by students from the University of Copenhagen, and with Mrs. von Essen Strindberg as Tekla. A couple of weeks later the performance was repeated across the Sound, in the Swedish city of Malmo, on which occasion the writer of this introduction, then a young actor, assisted in the stage management. One of the actors was Gustav Wied, a Danish playwright and novelist, whose exquisite art since then has won him European fame. In the audience was Ola Hansson, a Swedish novelist and poet who had just published a short story from which Strindberg, according to his own acknowledgment on playbill and title-page, had taken the name and the theme of "Pariah." Mr. Hansson has printed a number of letters (Tilskueren, Copenhagen, July, 1912) written to him by Strindberg about that time, as well as some very informative comments of his own. Concerning the performance of Malmo he writes: "It gave me a very unpleasant sensation. What did it mean? Why had Strindberg turned my simple theme upsidedown so that it became unrecognisable? Not a vestige of the 'theme from Ola Hansson' remained. Yet he had even suggested that he and I act the play together, I not knowing that it was to be a duel between two criminals. And he had at first planned to call it 'Aryan and Pariah'--which meant, of course, that the strong Aryan, Strindberg, was to crush the weak Pariah, Hansson, coram populo." In regard to his own story Mr. Hansson informs us that it dealt with "a man who commits a forgery and then tells about it, doing both in a sort of somnambulistic state whereby everything is left vague and undefined." At that moment "Raskolnikov" was in the air, so to speak. And without wanting in any way to suggest imitation, I feel sure that the groundnote of the story was distinctly Dostoievskian. Strindberg himself had been reading Nietzsche and was--largely under the pressure of a reaction against the popular disapproval of his anti-feministic attitude--being driven more and more into a superman philosophy which reached its climax in the two novels "Chandalah" (1889) and "At the Edge of the Sea" (1890). The Nietzschean note is unmistakable in the two plays contained in the present volume. But these plays are strongly colored by something else--by something that is neither Hansson-Dostoievski nor Strindberg-Nietzsche. The solution of the problem is found in the letters published by Mr. Hansson. These show that while Strindberg was still planning "Creditors," and before he had begun "Pariah," he had borrowed from Hansson a volume of tales by Edgar Allan Poe. It was his first acquaintance with the work of Poe, though not with American literature--for among his first printed work was a series of translations from American humourists; and not long ago a Swedish critic (Gunnar Castren in Samtiden, Christiania, June, 1912) wrote of Strindberg's literary beginnings that "he had learned much from Swedish literature, but probably more from Mark Twain and Dickens." The impression Poe made on Strindberg was overwhelming. He returns to it in one letter after another. Everything that suits his mood of the moment is "Poesque" or "E. P-esque." The story that seems to have made the deepest impression of all was "The Gold Bug," though his thought seems to have distilled more useful material out of certain other stories illustrating Poe's theories about mental suggestion. Under the direct influence of these theories, Strindberg, according to his own statements to Hansson, wrote the powerful one-act play "Simoom," and made Gustav in "Creditors" actually CALL FORTH the latent epileptic tendencies in Adolph. And on the same authority we must trace the method of: psychological detection practised by Mr. X. in "Pariah" directly to "The Gold Bug." Here we have the reason why Mr. Hansson could find so little of his story in the play. And here we have the origin of a theme which, while not quite new to him, was ever afterward to remain a favourite one with Strindberg: that of a duel between intellect and cunning. It forms the basis of such novels as "Chandalah" and "At the Edge of the Sea," but it recurs in subtler form in works of much later date. To readers of the present day, Mr. X.--that striking antithesis of everything a scientist used to stand for in poetry--is much less interesting as a superman in spe than as an illustration of what a morally and mentally normal man can do with the tools furnished him by our new understanding of human ways and human motives. And in giving us a play that holds our interest as firmly as the best "love plot" ever devised, although the stage shows us only two men engaged in an intellectual wrestling match, Strindberg took another great step toward ridding the drama of its old, shackling conventions. The name of this play has sometimes been translated as "The Outcast," whereby it becomes confused with "The Outlaw," a much earlier play on a theme from the old Sagas. I think it better, too, that the Hindu allusion in the Swedish title be not lost, for the best of men may become an outcast, but the baseness of the Pariah is not supposed to spring only from lack of social position. PARIAH AN ACT 1889 PERSONS MR. X., an archaeologist, Middle-aged man. MR. Y., an American traveller, Middle-aged man. SCENE (A simply furnished room in a farmhouse. The door and the windows in the background open on a landscape. In the middle of the room stands a big dining-table, covered at one end by books, writing materials, and antiquities; at the other end, by a microscope, insect cases, and specimen jars full of alchohol.) (On the left side hangs a bookshelf. Otherwise the furniture is that of a well-to-do farmer.) (MR. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying a butterfly-net and a botany-can. He goes straight up to the bookshelf and takes down a book, which he begins to read on the spot.) (The landscape outside and the room itself are steeped in sunlight. The ringing of church bells indicates that the morning services are just over. Now and then the cackling of hens is heard from the outside.) (MR. X. enters, also in his shirt-sleeves.) (MR. Y. starts violently, puts the book back on the shelf upside-down, and pretends to be looking for another volume.) MR. X. This heat is horrible. I guess we are going to have a thunderstorm. MR. Y. What makes you think so? MR. X. The bells have a kind of dry ring to them, the flies are sticky, and the hens cackle. I meant to go fishing, but I couldn't find any worms. Don't you feel nervous? MR. Y. [Cautiously] I?--A little. MR. X. Well, for that matter, you always look as if you were expecting thunderstorms. MR. Y. [With a start] Do I? MR. X. Now, you are going away tomorrow, of course, so it is not to be wondered at that you are a little "journey-proud."--Anything new?--Oh, there's the mail! [Picks up some letters from the table] My, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter! Nothing but debts, debts, debts! Have you ever had any debts? MR. Y. [After some reflection] N-no. MR. X. Well, then you don't know what it means to receive a lot of overdue bills. [Reads one of the letters] The rent unpaid--the landlord acting nasty--my wife in despair. And here am I sitting waist-high in gold! [He opens an iron-banded box that stands on the table; then both sit down at the table, facing each other] Just look--here I have six thousand crowns' worth of gold which I have dug up in the last fortnight. This bracelet alone would bring me the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I might make a fine career for myself. Then I could get the illustrations made for my treatise at once; I could get my work printed, and--I could travel! Why don't I do it, do you suppose? MR. Y. I suppose you are afraid to be found out. MR. X. That, too, perhaps. But don't you think an intelligent fellow like myself might fix matters so that he was never found out? I am alone all the time--with nobody watching me--while I am digging out there in the fields. It wouldn't be strange if I put something in my own pockets now and then. MR. Y. Yes, but the worst danger lies in disposing of the stuff. MR. X. Pooh! I'd melt it down, of course--every bit of it--and then I'd turn it into coins--with just as much gold in them as genuine ones, of course--- MR. Y. Of course! MR. X. Well, you can easily see why. For if I wanted to dabble in counterfeits, then I need not go digging for gold first. [Pause] It is a strange thing anyhow, that if anybody else did what I cannot make myself do, then I'd be willing to acquit him--but I couldn't possibly acquit myself. I might even make a brilliant speech in defence of the thief, proving that this gold was res nullius, or nobody's, as it had been deposited at a time when property rights did not yet exist; that even under existing rights it could belong only to the first finder of it, as the ground-owner has never included it in the valuation of his property; and so on. MR. Y. And probably it would be much easier for you to do this if the--hm!--the thief had not been prompted by actual need, but by a mania for collecting, for instance--or by scientific aspirations--by the ambition to keep a discovery to himself. Don't you think so? MR. X. You mean that I could not acquit him if actual need had been the motive? Yes, for that's the only motive which the law will not accept in extenuation. That motive makes a plain theft of it. MR. Y. And this you couldn't excuse? MR. X. Oh, excuse--no, I guess not, as the law wouldn't. On the other hand, I must admit that it would be hard for me to charge a collector with theft merely because he had appropriated some specimen not yet represented in his own collection. MR. Y. So that vanity or ambition might excuse what could not be excused by need? MR. X. And yet need ought to be the more telling excuse--the only one, in fact? But I feel as I have said. And I can no more change this feeling than I can change my own determination not to steal under any circumstances whatever. MR. Y. And I suppose you count it a great merit that you cannot--hm!--steal? MR. X. No, my disinclination to steal is just as irresistible as the inclination to do so is irresistible with some people. So it cannot be called a merit. I cannot do it, and the other one cannot refrain!--But you understand, of course, that I am not without a desire to own this gold. Why don't I take it then? Because I cannot! It's an inability--and the lack of something cannot be called a merit. There! [Closes the box with a slam. Stray clouds have cast their shadows on the landscape and darkened the room now and then. Now it grows quite dark as when a thunderstorm is approaching.] MR. X. How close the air is! I guess the storm is coming all right. [MR. Y. gets up and shuts the door and all the windows.] MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder? MR. Y. It's just as well to be careful. (They resume their seats at the table.) MR. X. You're a curious chap! Here you come dropping down like a bomb a fortnight ago, introducing yourself as a Swedish-American who is collecting flies for a small museum--- MR. Y. Oh, never mind me now! MR. X. That's what you always say when I grow tired of talking about myself and want to turn my attention to you. Perhaps that was the reason why I took to you as I did--because you let me talk about myself? All at once we seemed like old friends. There were no angles about you against which I could bump myself, no pins that pricked. There was something soft about your whole person, and you overflowed with that tact which only well-educated people know how to show. You never made a noise when you came home late at night or got up early in the morning. You were patient in small things, and you gave in whenever a conflict seemed threatening. In a word, you proved yourself the perfect companion! But you were entirely too compliant not to set me wondering about you in the long run--and you are too timid, too easily frightened. It seems almost as if you were made up of two different personalities. Why, as I sit here looking at your back in the mirror over there--it is as if I were looking at somebody else. (MR. Y. turns around and stares at the mirror.) MR. X. No, you cannot get a glimpse of your own back, man!--In front you appear like a fearless sort of fellow, one meeting his fate with bared breast, but from behind--really, I don't want to be impolite, but--you look as if you were carrying a burden, or as if you were crouching to escape a raised stick. And when I look at that red cross your suspenders make on your white shirt--well, it looks to me like some kind of emblem, like a trade-mark on a packing-box-- MR. Y. I feel as if I'd choke--if the storm doesn't break soon-- MR. X. It's coming--don't you worry!--And your neck! It looks as if there ought to be another kind of face on top of it, a face quite different in type from yours. And your ears come so close together behind that sometimes I wonder what race you belong to. [A flash of lightning lights up the room] Why, it looked as if that might have struck the sheriff's house! MR. Y. [Alarmed] The sheriff's! MR. X. Oh, it just looked that way. But I don't think we'll get much of this storm. Sit down now and let us have a talk, as you are going away to-morrow. One thing I find strange is that you, with whom I have become so intimate in this short time--that you are one of those whose image I cannot call up when I am away from them. When you are not here, and I happen to think of you, I always get the vision of another acquaintance--one who does not resemble you, but with whom you have certain traits in common. MR. Y. Who is he? MR. X. I don't want to name him, but--I used for several years to take my meals at a certain place, and there, at the side-table where they kept the whiskey and the otter preliminaries, I met a little blond man, with blond, faded eyes. He had a wonderful faculty for making his way through a crowd, without jostling anybody or being jostled himself. And from his customary place down by the door he seemed perfectly able to reach whatever he wanted on a table that stood some six feet away from him. He seemed always happy just to be in company. But when he met anybody he knew, then the joy of it made him roar with laughter, and he would hug and pat the other fellow as if he hadn't seen a human face for years. When anybody stepped on his foot, he smiled as if eager to apologise for being in the way. For two years I watched him and amused myself by guessing at his occupation and character. But I never asked who he was; I didn't want to know, you see, for then all the fun would have been spoiled at once. That man had just your quality of being indefinite. At different times I made him out to be a teacher who had never got his licence, a non-commissioned officer, a druggist, a government clerk, a detective--and like you, he looked as if made out of two pieces, for the front of him never quite fitted the back. One day I happened to read in a newspaper about a big forgery committed by a well-known government official. Then I learned that my indefinite gentleman had been a partner of the forger's brother, and that his name was Strawman. Later on I learned that the aforesaid Strawman used to run a circulating library, but that he was now the police reporter of a big daily. How in the world could I hope to establish a connection between the forgery, the police, and my little man's peculiar manners? It was beyond me; and when I asked a friend whether Strawman had ever been punished for something, my friend couldn't answer either yes or no--he just didn't know! [Pause.] MR. Y. Well, had he ever been--punished? MR. X. No, he had not. [Pause.] MR. Y. And that was the reason, you think, why the police had such an attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of offending people? MR. X. Exactly! MR. Y. And did you become acquainted with him afterward? MR. X. No, I didn't want to. [Pause.] MR. Y. Would you have been willing to make his acquaintance if he had been--punished? MR. X. Perfectly! (MR. Y. rises and walks back and forth several times.) MR. X. Sit still! Why can't you sit still? MR. Y. How did you get your liberal view of human conditions? Are you a Christian? MR. X. Oh, can't you see that I am not? (MR. Y. makes a face.) MR. X. The Christians require forgiveness. But I require punishment in order that the balance, or whatever you may call it, be restored. And you, who have served a term, ought to know the difference. MR. Y. [Stands motionless and stares at MR. X., first with wild, hateful eyes, then with surprise and admiration] How--could--you--know--that? MR. X. Why, I could see it. MR. Y. How? How could you see it? MR. X, Oh, with a little practice. It is an art, like many others. But don't let us talk of it any more. [He looks at his watch, arranges a document on the table, dips a pen in the ink-well, and hands it to MR. Y.] I must be thinking of my tangled affairs. Won't you please witness my signature on this note here? I am going to turn it in to the bank at Malmo tomorrow, when I go to the city with you. MR. Y. I am not going by way of Malmo. MR. X. Oh, you are not? MR. Y. No. MR. X. But that need not prevent you from witnessing my signature. MR. Y. N-no!--I never write my name on papers of that kind-- MR. X.--any longer! This is the fifth time you have refused to write your own name. The first time nothing more serious was involved than the receipt for a registered letter. Then I began to watch you. And since then I have noticed that you have a morbid fear of a pen filled with ink. You have not written a single letter since you came here--only a post-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. You understand now that I have figured out the exact nature of your slip? Furthermore! This is something like the seventh time you have refused to come with me to Malmo, which place you have not visited at all during all this time. And yet you came the whole way from America merely to have a look at Malmo! And every morning you walk a couple of miles, up to the old mill, just to get a glimpse of the roofs of Malmo in the distance. And when you stand over there at the right-hand window and look out through the third pane from the bottom on the left side, you can see the spired turrets of the castle and the tall chimney of the county jail.--And now I hope you see that it's your own stupidity rather than my cleverness which has made everything clear to me. MR. Y. This means that you despise me? MR. X. Oh, no! MR. Y. Yes, you do--you cannot but do it! MR. X. No--here's my hand. (MR. Y. takes hold of the outstretched hand and kisses it.) MR. X. [Drawing back his hand] Don't lick hands like a dog! MR. Y. Pardon me, sir, but you are the first one who has let me touch his hand after learning-- MR. X. And now you call me "sir!"--What scares me about you is that you don't feel exonerated, washed clean, raised to the old level, as good as anybody else, when you have suffered your punishment. Do you care to tell me how it happened? Would you? MR. Y. [Twisting uneasily] Yes, but you won't believe what I say. But I'll tell you. Then you can see for yourself that I am no ORDINARY criminal. You'll become convinced, I think, that there are errors which, so to speak, are involuntary--[twisting again] which seem to commit themselves--spontaneously--without being willed by oneself, and for which one cannot be held responsible--May I open the door a little now, since the storm seems to have passed over? MR. X. Suit yourself. MR. Y. [Opens the door; then he sits down at the table and begins to speak with exaggerated display of feeling, theatrical gestures, and a good deal of false emphasis] Yes, I'll tell you! I was a student in the university at Lund, and I needed to get a loan from a bank. I had no pressing debts, and my father owned some property--not a great deal, of course. However, I had sent the note to the second man of the two who were to act as security, and, contrary to expectations, it came back with a refusal. For a while I was completely stunned by the blow, for it was a very unpleasant surprise--most unpleasant! The note was lying in front of me on the table, and the letter lay beside it. At first my eyes stared hopelessly at those lines that pronounced my doom--that is, not a death-doom, of course, for I could easily find other securities, as many as I wanted--but as I have already said, it was very annoying just the same. And as I was sitting there quite unconscious of any evil intention, my eyes fastened upon the signature of the letter, which would have made my future secure if it had only appeared in the right place. It was an unusually well-written signature--and you know how sometimes one may absent-mindedly scribble a sheet of paper full of meaningless words. I had a pen in my hand--[picks up a penholder from the table] like this. And somehow it just began to run--I don't want to claim that there was anything mystical--anything of a spiritualistic nature back of it--for that kind of thing I don't believe in! It was a wholly unreasoned, mechanical process--my copying of that beautiful autograph over and over again. When all the clean space on the letter was used up, I had learned to reproduce the signature automatically--and then--[throwing away the penholder with a violent gesture] then I forgot all about it. That night I slept long and heavily. And when I woke up, I could feel that I had been dreaming, but I couldn't recall the dream itself. At times it was as if a door had been thrown ajar, and then I seemed to see the writing-table with the note on it as in a distant memory--and when I got out of bed, I was forced up to the table, just as if, after careful deliberation, I had formed an irrevocable decision to sign the name to that fateful paper. All thought of the consequences, of the risk involved, had disappeared--no hesitation remained--it was almost as if I was fulfilling some sacred duty--and so I wrote! [Leaps to his feet] What could it be? Was it some kind of outside influence, a case of mental suggestion, as they call it? But from whom could it come? I was sleeping alone in that room. Could it possibly be my primitive self--the savage to whom the keeping of faith is an unknown thing--which pushed to the front while my consciousness was asleep--together with the criminal will of that self, and its inability to calculate the results of an action? Tell me, what do you think of it? MR. X. [As if he had to force the words out of himself] Frankly speaking, your story does not convince me--there are gaps in it, but these may depend on your failure to recall all the details--and I have read something about criminal suggestion--or I think I have, at least--hm! But all that is neither here nor there! You have taken your medicine--and you have had the courage to acknowledge your fault. Now we won't talk of it any more. MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we must talk of it--till I become sure of my innocence. MR. X. Well, are you not? MR. Y. No, I am not! MR. X. That's just what bothers me, I tell you. It's exactly what is bothering me!--Don't you feel fairly sure that every human being hides a skeleton in his closet? Have we not, all of us, stolen and lied as children? Undoubtedly! Well, now there are persons who remain children all their lives, so that they cannot control their unlawful desires. Then comes the opportunity, and there you have your criminal.--But I cannot understand why you don't feel innocent. If the child is not held responsible, why should the criminal be regarded differently? It is the more strange because--well, perhaps I may come to repent it later. [Pause] I, for my part, have killed a man, and I have never suffered any qualms on account of it. MR. Y. [Very much interested] Have--you? MR. X, Yes, I, and none else! Perhaps you don't care to shake hands with a murderer? MR. Y. [Pleasantly] Oh, what nonsense! MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished, ME. Y. [Growing more familiar and taking on a superior tone] So much the better for you!--How did you get out of it? MR. X. There was nobody to accuse me, no suspicions, no witnesses. This is the way it happened. One Christmas I was invited to hunt with a fellow-student a little way out of Upsala. He sent a besotted old coachman to meet me at the station, and this fellow went to sleep on the box, drove the horses into a fence, and upset the whole equipage in a ditch. I am not going to pretend that my life was in danger. It was sheer impatience which made me hit him across the neck with the edge of my hand--you know the way--just to wake him up--and the result was that he never woke up at all, but collapsed then and there. MR. Y. [Craftily] And did you report it? MR. X. No, and these were my reasons for not doing so. The man left no family behind him, or anybody else to whom his life could be of the slightest use. He had already outlived his allotted period of vegetation, and his place might just as well be filled by somebody more in need of it. On the other hand, my life was necessary to the happiness of my parents and myself, and perhaps also to the progress of my science. The outcome had once for all cured me of any desire to wake up people in that manner, and I didn't care to spoil both my own life and that of my parents for the sake of an abstract principle of justice. MR. Y. Oh, that's the way you measure the value of a human life? MR. X. In the present case, yes. MR. Y. But the sense of guilt--that balance you were speaking of? MR. X. I had no sense of guilt, as I had committed no crime. As a boy I had given and taken more than one blow of the same kind, and the fatal outcome in this particular case was simply caused by my ignorance of the effect such a blow might have on an elderly person. MR. Y. Yes, but even the unintentional killing of a man is punished with a two-year term at hard labour--which is exactly what one gets for--writing names. MR. X. Oh, you may be sure I have thought of it. And more than one night I have dreamt myself in prison. Tell me now--is it really as bad as they say to find oneself behind bolt and bar? MR. Y. You bet it is!--First of all they disfigure you by cutting off your hair, and if you don't look like a criminal before, you are sure to do so afterward. And when you catch sight of yourself in a mirror you feel quite sure that you are a regular bandit. MR. X. Isn't it a mask that is being torn off, perhaps? Which wouldn't be a bad idea, I should say. MR. Y. Yes, you can have your little jest about it!--And then they cut down your food, so that every day and every hour you become conscious of the border line between life and death. Every vital function is more or less checked. You can feel yourself shrinking. And your soul, which was to be cured and improved, is instead put on a starvation diet--pushed back a thousand years into outlived ages. You are not permitted to read anything but what was written for the savages who took part in the migration of the peoples. You hear of nothing but what will never happen in heaven; and what actually does happen on the earth is kept hidden from you. You are torn out of your surroundings, reduced from your own class, put beneath those who are really beneath yourself. Then you get a sense of living in the bronze age. You come to feel as if you were dressed in skins, as if you were living in a cave and eating out of a trough--ugh! MR. X. But there is reason back of all that. One who acts as if he belonged to the bronze age might surely be expected to don the proper costume. MR. Y. [Irately] Yes, you sneer! You who have behaved like a man from the stone age--and who are permitted to live in the golden age. MR. X. [Sharply, watching him closely] What do you mean with that last expression--the golden age? MR. Y. [With a poorly suppressed snarl] Nothing at all. MR. X. Now you lie--because you are too much of a coward to say all you think. MR. Y. Am I a coward? You think so? But I was no coward when I dared to show myself around here, where I had had to suffer as I did.--But can you tell what makes one suffer most while in there?--It is that the others are not in there too! MR. X. What others? MR. Y. Those that go unpunished. MR. X. Are you thinking of me? MR. Y. I am. MR. X. But I have committed no crime. MR. Y. Oh, haven't you? MR. X. No, a misfortune is no crime. MR. Y. So, it's a misfortune to commit murder? MR. X. I have not committed murder. MR. Y. Is it not murder to kill a person? MR. X. Not always. The law speaks of murder, manslaughter, killing in self-defence--and it makes a distinction between intentional and unintentional killing. However--now you really frighten me, for it's becoming plain to me that you belong to the most dangerous of all human groups--that of the stupid. MR. Y. So you imagine that I am stupid? Well, listen--would you like me to show you how clever I am? MR. X. Come on! MR. Y. I think you'll have to admit that there is both logic and wisdom in the argument I'm now going to give you. You have suffered a misfortune which might have brought you two years at hard labor. You have completely escaped the disgrace of being punished. And here you see before you a man--who has also suffered a misfortune--the victim of an unconscious impulse--and who has had to stand two years of hard labor for it. Only by some great scientific achievement can this man wipe off the taint that has become attached to him without any fault of his own--but in order to arrive at some such achievement, he must have money--a lot of money--and money this minute! Don't you think that the other one, the unpunished one, would bring a little better balance into these unequal human conditions if he paid a penalty in the form of a fine? Don't you think so? MR. X. [Calmly] Yes. MR. Y. Then we understand each other.--Hm! [Pause] What do you think would be reasonable? MR. X. Reasonable? The minimum fine in such a case is fixed by the law at fifty crowns. But this whole question is settled by the fact that the dead man left no relatives. MR. Y. Apparently you don't want to understand. Then I'll have to speak plainly: it is to me you must pay that fine. MR. X. I have never heard that forgers have the right to collect fines imposed for manslaughter. And, besides, there is no prosecutor. MR. Y. There isn't? Well--how would I do? MR. X. Oh, NOW we are getting the matter cleared up! How much do you want for becoming my accomplice? MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. MR. X. That's too much. And where am I to get them? (MR. Y. points to the box.) MR. X. No, I don't want to do that. I don't want to become a thief. MR. Y. Oh, don't put on any airs now! Do you think I'll believe that you haven't helped yourself out of that box before? MR. X. [As if speaking to himself] Think only, that I could let myself be fooled so completely. But that's the way with these soft natures. You like them, and then it's so easy to believe that they like you. And that's the reason why I have always been on my guard against people I take a liking to!--So you are firmly convinced that I have helped myself out of the box before? MR. Y. Certainly! MR. X. And you are going to report me if you don't get six thousand crowns? MR. Y. Most decidedly! You can't get out of it, so there's no use trying. MR. X. You think I am going to give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, my fellow-workers a thief for colleague? No, that will never happen!--Now I am going over to the sheriff to report the killing myself. MR. Y. [Jumps up and begins to pick up his things] Wait a moment! MR. X. For what? MR. Y. [Stammering] Oh, I thought--as I am no longer needed--it wouldn't be necessary for me to stay--and I might just as well leave. MR. X. No, you may not!--Sit down there at the table, where you sat before, and we'll have another talk before you go. MR. Y. [Sits down after having put on a dark coat] What are you up to now? MR. X. [Looking into the mirror back of MR. Y.] Oh, now I have it! Oh-h-h! MR. Y. [Alarmed] What kind of wonderful things are you discovering now? MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief--a plain, ordinary thief! A moment ago, while you had only the white shirt on, I could notice that there was something wrong about my book-shelf. I couldn't make out just what it was, for I had to listen to you and watch you. But as my antipathy increased, my vision became more acute. And now, with your black coat to furnish the needed color contrast For the red back of the book, which before couldn't be seen against the red of your suspenders--now I see that you have been reading about forgeries in Bernheim's work on mental suggestion--for you turned the book upsidedown in putting it back. So even that story of yours was stolen! For tins reason I think myself entitled to conclude that your crime must have been prompted by need, or by mere love of pleasure. MR. Y. By need! If you only knew-- MR. X. If YOU only knew the extent of the need I have had to face and live through! But that's another story! Let's proceed with your case. That you have been in prison--I take that for granted. But it happened in America, for it was American prison life you described. Another thing may also be taken for granted, namely, that you have not borne your punishment on this side. MR. Y. How can you imagine anything of the kind? MR. X. Wait until the sheriff gets here, and you'll learn all about it. (MR. Y. gets up.) ME. X. There you see! The first time I mentioned the sheriff, in connection with the storm, you wanted also to run away. And when a person has served out his time he doesn't care to visit an old mill every day just to look at a prison, or to stand by the window--in a word, you are at once punished and unpunished. And that's why it was so hard to make you out. [Pause.] MR. Y. [Completely beaten] May I go now? MR. X. Now you can go. MR. Y. [Putting his things together] Are you angry at me? MR. X. Yes--would you prefer me to pity you? MR. Y. [Sulkily] Pity? Do you think you're any better than I? MR. X. Of course I do, as I AM better than you. I am wiser, and I am less of a menace to prevailing property rights. MR. Y. You think you are clever, but perhaps I am as clever as you. For the moment you have me checked, but in the next move I can mate you--all the same! MR. X. [Looking hard at MR. Y.] So we have to have another bout! What kind of mischief are you up to now? MR. Y. That's my secret. MR. X. Just look at me--oh, you mean to write my wife an anonymous letter giving away MY secret! MR. Y. Well, how are you going to prevent it? You don't dare to have me arrested. So you'll have to let me go. And when I am gone, I can do what I please. MR. X. You devil! So you have found my vulnerable spot! Do you want to make a real murderer out of me? MR. Y. That's more than you'll ever become--coward! MR. X. There you see how different people are. You have a feeling that I cannot become guilty of the same kind of acts as you. And that gives you the upper hand. But suppose you forced me to treat you as I treated that coachman? [He lifts his hand as if ready to hit MR. Y.] MR. Y. [Staring MR. X. straight in the face] You can't! It's too much for one who couldn't save himself by means of the box over there. ME. X. So you don't think I have taken anything out of the box? MR. Y. You were too cowardly--just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she had married a murderer. MR. X. You are a different man from what I took you to be--if stronger or weaker, I cannot tell--if more criminal or less, that's none of my concern--but decidedly more stupid; that much is quite plain. For stupid you were when you wrote another person's name instead of begging--as I have had to do. Stupid you were when you stole things out of my book--could you not guess that I might have read my own books? Stupid you were when you thought yourself cleverer than me, and when you thought that I could be lured into becoming a thief. Stupid you were when you thought balance could be restored by giving the world two thieves instead of one. But most stupid of all you were when you thought I had failed to provide a safe corner-stone for my happiness. Go ahead and write my wife as many anonymous letters as you please about her husband having killed a man--she knew that long before we were married!--Have you had enough now? MR. Y. May I go? MR. X. Now you HAVE to go! And at once! I'll send your things after you!--Get out of here! (Curtain.) 
45375	----	(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG [Illustration--August Strindberg] PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG THE DREAM PLAY THE LINK THE DANCE OF DEATH, Part I THE DANCE OF DEATH, Part II TRANSLATED WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1912 NOTE This translation is authorised by Mr. Strindberg, and he has also approved the selection of the plays included in this volume. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF AUGUST STRINDBERG'S MAIN WORKS THE DREAM PLAY THE LINK THE DANCE of DEATH, PART I THE DANCE of DEATH, PART II INTRODUCTION To the first volume of his remarkable series of autobiographical novels, August Strindberg gave the name of "The Bondwoman's Son." The allusion was twofold--to his birth and to the position which fate, in his own eyes, seemed to have assigned him both as man and artist. If we pass on to the third part of his big trilogy, "To Damascus," also an autobiographical work, but written nearly twenty years later, we find _The Stranger_, who is none but the author, saying: "I was the Bondwoman's Son, concerning whom it was writ--Cast out this bondwoman and her son; for the son of the bondwoman shall not be heir with the free woman's son.'" And _The Lady_, back of whom we glimpse Strindberg's second wife, replies: "Do you know why Ishmael was cast out? It is to be read a little further back--because he was a scoffer! And then it is also said: 'He will be a wild man; his hand will be against every man, and every man's hand against him; and he shall dwell in opposition to all his brethren.'" These quotations should be read in conjunction with still another, taken from Strindberg's latest play, "The Great Highway," which, while being a sort of symbolical summary of his life experience, yet pierces the magic circle of self-concern within which too often he has remained a captive. There _The Hermit_ asks: "You do not love your fellow-men?" And Strindberg, masquerading as _The Hunter_, cries in answer: "Yes, far too much, and fear them for that reason, too." August Strindberg was born at Stockholm, Sweden, on January 22, 1849. His father was a small tradesman, who had lost his business just before August was born, but who had the energy and ability to start all over again as a steam-ship agent, making a decided success of his second venture. The success, however, was slow in coming, and the boy's earliest years were spent in the worst kind of poverty--that poverty which has to keep up outward appearances. The mother had been a barmaid in one of the numerous inns forming one of the Swedish capital's most characteristic features. There the elder Strindberg had met her and fallen deeply in love with her. August was their third child, born a couple of months after their relationship had become legalized in spite of bitter opposition from the husband's family. Other children followed, many of them dying early, so that August could write in later years that one of his first concrete recollections was of the black-jacketed candy which used to be passed around at every Swedish funeral. Though the parents were always tired, and though the little home was hopelessly overcrowded--ten persons living in three rooms--yet the family life was not without its happiness. Only August seemed to stand apart from the rest, having nothing in common with his parents or with the other children. In fact, a sort of warfare seems to have been raging incessantly between him and his elder brothers. Thus a character naturally timid and reserved had those traits developed to a point where its whole existence seemed in danger of being warped. At school he was not much happier, and as a rule he regarded the tasks set him there as so much useless drudgery. Always and everywhere he seemed in fear of having his personality violated, until at last that apprehension, years later, took on a form so morbid that it all but carried him across the limits of rationality. With this suspiciousness of his environment went, however, a keen desire to question and to understand. He has said of himself that the predominant traits of his character have been "doubt and sensitiveness to pressure." In these two traits much of his art will, indeed, find its explanation. At the age of thirteen he lost his mother, and less than a year later his father remarried--choosing for his second wife the former housekeeper. That occurrence made the boy's isolation at home complete. During the years that followed he threw himself with his usual passionate surrender into religious broodings and practices. This mood lasted until he left for the university at Upsala. He was then eighteen. During his first term at the university he was so poor that he could buy no books. Worse even--he could not buy the wood needed to heat the bare garret where he lived. Returning to Stockholm, he tried to teach in one of the public schools--the very school which he had attended during the unhappiest part of his childhood. From that time dates the theme of eternal repetition, of forced return to past experiences, which recurs constantly in his works. Another recurring theme is that of unjust punishment, and it has also come out of his own life--from an occasion when, as a boy of eight, he was suspected of having drunk some wine that was missing, and when, in spite of his indignant protests, he was held guilty and finally compelled to acknowledge himself so in order to escape further punishment. But while still teaching school, he made certain acquaintances that set his mind groping for some sort of literary expression. He tried time and again to write verse, only to fail--until one day, in a sort of trance, he found himself shaping words into measured lines, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had accomplished the feat held beyond him. From the first the stage drew him, and his initial work was a little comedy, concerning which nothing is known now. Then he wrote another one-act play with the Danish sculptor Thorvaldsen for central figure, and this was accepted by the Royal Theatre and actually played with some success. Finally he produced a brief historical play in prose, "The Outlaw," which was spurned by the critics and the public, but which brought him the personal good-will and financial support of King Charles XV. Thus favoured, he returned to the university with the thought of taking a degree. Instead he read everything not required in the courses, quarrelled with every professor to whom he had to submit himself for examination, and spent the major part of his time with a set of youngsters whose sole ambition was to make literature. Of that coterie, Strindberg was the only one to reach the goal which all dreamt of. On the sudden death of the king, when his little stipend ceased, he went up to the capital again, bent on staying away for ever from the university. During the next couple of years, he studied medicine for a while, tried himself as an actor, conducted a trade journal, and failed rather than succeeded to make a living as a hack writer for various obscure newspapers. All this life he has pictured with biting humour in his first big novel, "The Red Room." At last, when he was twenty-three and had withdrawn in sheer desperation to one of the little islands between Stockholm and the open sea, he conceived and completed a five-act historical play, named "Master Olof," after Arch-bishop Olaus Petri, the Luther of Sweden. The three main figures of that play, _Master Olof, King Gustavus Vasa_, and _Gert the Printer_, were designed by the author to represent three phases of his own character. The _King_ was the opportunist, _Olof_ the idealist, and _Gert_ the "impossibilist." The title first chosen for the play was "The Renegade." It was suggested by the cry with which _Gert_ greets the surrender of _Olof_ in the final scene. The indifference shown that first big work came near turning Strindberg away from a literary career for ever. It took him several years to recover from the shock of disappointment--a shock the more severe because he felt so uncertain of his own gifts. But those years of seeming inactivity were not lost. He had obtained a position in the Royal Library, which gave him a living and free access to all the books he wanted. At first he sought forgetfulness in the most exotic studies, such as the Chinese language. The honours of the savant tempted him, and he wrote a monograph which was accepted by the French Institute. Gradually, however, he was drawn back to his own time. And there was hardly a field of human thought to which he did not give some attention. Already as a student at Upsala, his conception of life had been largely determined by the study of the Danish individualistic philosopher Kierkegaard, the English determinist Buckle, and the German pessimist Eduard von Hartmann. Among novelists, Hugo and Dickens were his favourites. They together with the brothers de Goncourt, and not Zola, helped principally to shape his artistic form until he was strong enough to stand wholly on his own feet. At the age of twenty-six he met the woman who was to play the double part of muse and fate to him. She was already married. In the end she obtained a divorce and became Strindberg's wife. To begin with they were very happy, and under the stimulus of this unfamiliar feeling Strindberg began once more to write--but now in a manner such that recognition could no longer be denied him. The novel already mentioned was his first popular success. It drew bitter attacks from the conservative elements, but the flavour of real life pervading it conquered all opposition. To this day that first work of social criticism has not been forgiven Strindberg by the official guardians of Swedish literature. After a while Strindberg threw himself with passion into the study of Swedish history. One of the results was a daring work named "The Swedish People," which is still, next to the Bible, the most read book among the Swedes in this country. He wrote also a series of short stories on historical themes which combined artistic value with a truly remarkable insight into the life of by-gone days. This series was named "Swedish Events and Adventures." About the same time he administered some scathing strictures on social and political conditions in a volume of satirical essays entitled "The New Kingdom." His plays from this period include "The Secret of the Guild" and "Sir Bengt's Lady," both historical dramas of romantic nature. To these must be added his first fairy play, "The Wanderings of Lucky-Per," concerning which he declared recently that it was meant for children only and must not be counted among his more serious efforts. But this play has from the start been a great favourite with the public, combining in its rapidly moving scenes something of a modern "Everyman" and not a little of a Swedish "Peer Gynt." After he had resigned from the Royal Library and retired to Switzerland for the purpose of devoting all his time to writing, he produced the volume of short stories, "Marriage," which led him up to the first turning point in his artistic career. It dealt with modern marital conditions in a manner meant to reveal the economic reefs on which so many unions are wrecked. His attitude toward women had already become critical in that work, but it was not yet hostile. The book was confiscated. Criminal proceedings were brought against its publisher. The charge was that it spoke offensively of rites held sacred by the established religion of Sweden. Everybody knew that this was a mere pretext, and that the true grievance against the book lay in its outspoken utterances on questions of sex morality. Urged by friends, Strindberg hastened home and succeeded in assuming the part of defendant in place of the publisher. The jury freed him, and the youth of the country proclaimed him their leader and spokesman. But the impression left on Strindberg's mind by that episode was very serious and distinctly unfavourable. As in his childhood, when he found himself disbelieved though telling the truth, so he felt now more keenly than anything else the questioning of his motives, which he knew to be pure. And the leaders of the feminist movement, then particularly strong in Sweden, turned against him with a bitterness not surpassed by that which Ibsen had to face from directly opposite quarters after the publication of "A Doll's House." Add finally that his marriage, which had begun so auspiciously, was rapidly changing into torture for both parties concerned in it. Yet his growing embitterment did not make itself felt at once. In 1885 he published four short stories meant to em-body the onward trend of the modern spirit and the actual materialisation of some of its fondest dreams. Collectively he named those stories "Real Utopias," and they went far toward winning him a reputation in Germany, where he was then living. But with the appearance of the second part of "Marriage" in 1886, it was plain that a change had come over him. Its eighteen stories constituted an unmistakable protest against everything for which the feminist movement stood. The efforts of Ibsen and Björnson to abolish the so-called "double code of morality"--one for men and another one for women were openly challenged on the ground that different results made male and female "immorality" two widely different things. Right here it should be pointed out, however, that Strindberg always, and especially in his later years, has demanded as high a measure of moral purity from men as from women--the real distinction between him and the two great Norwegians lying in the motives on which he based that demand. The second part of "Marriage" shows a change not only in spirit but in form, and this change becomes more accentuated in every work published during the next few years. Until then Strindberg had shown strong evidence of the Romantic origin of his art. From now on, and until the ending of the great mental crisis in the later nineties, he must be classed as an ultra-naturalist, with strong materialistic and sceptical leanings. At the same time he becomes more and more individualistic in his social outlook, spurning the mass which, as he then felt, had spurned him. And after a while the works of Nietzsche came to complete what his personal experience had begun. His attitude toward woman, as finally developed during this period, may be summed up in an allegation not only of moral and mental but of biological inferiority. And though during his later life he has retracted much and softened more of what he said in those years of rampant masculine rebellion, he continues to this day to regard women as an intermediary biological form, standing between the man and the child. With the publication, in 1887, of "The Father," a modern three-act tragedy, Strindberg reached a double climax. That work has been hailed as one of his greatest, if not the greatest, as far as technical perfection is concerned. At the same time it presents that duel of the sexes--which to him had taken the place of love--in its most startling and hideous aspects. The gloom of the play is almost unsurpassed. The ingeniousness of its plot may well be called infernal. By throwing doubt on her husband's rights as father of the child held to be theirs in common, the woman in the play manages to undermine the reason of a strong and well-balanced man until he becomes transformed into a raving maniac. "The Comrades," a modern four-act comedy, portrays the marriage of two artists and shows the woman as a mental parasite, drawing both her inspiration and her skill from the husband, whom she tries to shake off when she thinks him no longer needed for her success. Then came the play of his which is perhaps the most widely known--I mean the realistic drama which, for want of a better English equivalent, must be named here "Miss Juliet." It embodied some startling experiments in form and has undoubtedly exercised a distinct influence on the subsequent development of dramatic technique. On the surface it appears to offer little more than another version of the sex duel, but back of the conflict between man and woman we discover another one, less deep-going perhaps, but rendered more acute by existing conditions. It is the conflict between the upper and partly outlived elements of society and its still unrefined, but vitally unimpaired, strata. And it is the stronger vitality, here represented by the man, which carries the day. The rest of Strindberg's dramatic productions during this middle, naturalistic period, lasting from 1885 to 1894, included eight more one-act plays, several of which rank very high, and another fairy play, "The Keys to Heaven," which probably marks his nearest approach to a purely negative conception of life. Paralleling the plays, we find a series of novels and short stories dealing with the people on those islands where Strindberg fifteen years earlier had written his "Master Olof." Two things make these works remarkable: first, the rare understanding shown in them of the life led by the tough race that exists, so to speak, between land and sea; and secondly, their genuine humour, which at times, as in the little story named "The Tailor Has a Dance," rises into almost epic expression. The last of these novels, "At the Edge of the Sea," embodies Strindberg's farthest advance into Nietzschean dreams of supermanhood. But led by his incorruptible logic, he is forced to reduce those dreams to the absurdity which they are sure to involve whenever the superman feels himself standing apart from ordinary humanity. Finally he wrote, during the earlier part of this marvellously prolific period, five autobiographical novels. One of these was not published until years later. Three others were collectively known as "The Bondwoman's Son," and carried his revelations up to the time of his marriage. The first volume in the series is especially noteworthy because of its searching and sympathetic study of child psychology. But all the novels in this series are of high value because of the sharp light they throw on social conditions. Strindberg's power as an acute and accurate observer has never been questioned, and it has rarely been more strikingly evidenced than in his autobiographical writings. A place by itself, though belonging to the same series, is held by "A Fool's Confession," wherein Strindberg laid bare the tragedy of his first marriage. It is the book that has exposed him to more serious criticism than any other. He wrote it in French and consented to its publication only as a last means of escaping unendurable financial straits. Against his vain protests, unauthorised translations were brought out in German and Swedish. The dissolution of his marriage occurred in 1891. The circumstances surrounding that break were extremely painful to Strindberg. Both the facts of the legal procedure and the feelings it evoked within himself have been almost photographically portrayed in the one-act play, "The Link," which forms part of this volume. The "link" which binds man and woman together even when their love is gone and the law has severed all external ties is the child--and it is always for the offspring that Strindberg reserves his tenderest feelings and greatest concern. After the divorce Strindberg left for Germany, where his works in the meantime had been making steady headway. A couple of years later he was taken up in France, and there was a time during the first half of the nineties, when he had plays running simultaneously at half a dozen Parisian theatres. While at Berlin, he met a young woman writer of Austrian birth who soon after became his second wife. Their marriage lasted only a few years, and while it was not as unhappy as the first one, it helped to bring on the mental crisis for which Strindberg had been heading ever since the prosecution of "Marriage," in 1884. He ceased entirely to write and plunged instead into scientific speculation and experimentation. Chemistry was the subject that had the greatest fascination for him, and his dream was to prove the transmutability of the elements. In the course of a prolonged stay at Paris, where he shunned everybody and risked both health and life in his improvised laboratory, his mental state became more and more abnormal, without ever reaching a point where he ceased to realise just what was going on within himself. He began to have psychic experiences of a character that to him appeared distinctly supernatural. At the same time he was led by the reading of Balzac to the discovery of Swedenborg. By quick degrees, though not without much mental suffering, he rejected all that until then had to him represented life's highest truths. From being a materialistic sceptic, he became a believing mystic, to whom this world seemed a mere transitory state of punishment, a "hell" created by his own thoughts. The crisis took him in the end to a private sanitarium kept by an old friend in the southern part of Sweden, but it would be far from safe to assume that he ever reached a state of actual insanity. His return to health began in 1896 and was completed in a year. In 1897 he resumed his work of artistic creation once more, and with a new spirit that startled those who had held him lost for ever. First of all a flood of personal experiences and impressions needed expression. This he accomplished by his two autobiographical novels, "Inferno" and "Legends," the former of which must be counted one of the most remarkable studies in abnormal psychology in the world's literature. Next came "The Link" and another one-act play. In 1898 he produced the first two parts of "To Damascus," a play that--in strikingly original form, and with a depth of thought and feeling not before achieved--embodied his own soul's long pilgrimage in search of internal and external harmony. The last part of the trilogy was not added until 1904. Then followed ten years of production so amazing that it surpassed his previous high-water mark during the middle eighties, both in quality and quantity. Once for all the mood and mode of his creation had been settled. He was still a realist in so far as faithfulness to life was concerned, but the reality for which he had now begun to strive was spiritual rather than material. He can, during this final period, only be classed as a symbolist, but of the kind typified by Ibsen in the series of masterpieces beginning with "Rosmersholm" and ending with "Little Eyolf." More and more as he pushes on from one height to another, he manages to fuse the two offices of artist and moralist without injury to either of them. His view of life is still pessimistic, but back of man's earthly disappointments and humiliations and sufferings he glimpses a higher existence to which this one serves merely as a preparation. Everything that happens to himself and to others seems to reveal the persistent influence of secret powers, pulling and pushing, rewarding and punishing, but always urging and leading man to some goal not yet bared to his conscious vision. Resignation, humility, kindness become the main virtues of human existence. And the greatest tragedy of that existence he sees in man's--that is, his own--failure to make all his actions conform to those ideals. Thus, in the closing line of his last play, "The Great Highway," he pleads for mercy as one who has suffered more than most "from the inability to be that which we will to be." Among the earliest results of his autumnal renascence was a five-act historical drama named "Gustavus Vasa." It proved the first of a dozen big plays dealing with the main events in his country's history from the fifteenth to the eighteenth century. As a rule they were built about a monarch whose reign marked some national crisis. Five stand out above the rest in artistic value: "Gustavus Vasa," "Erie XIV," "Gustavus Adolphus," "Charles XII," and "The Last Knight." At once intensely national and broadly human in their spirit, these plays won for Strindberg a higher place in his countrymen's hearts than he had ever before held--though notes of discord were not missing on account of the freedom with which he exposed and demolished false idols and outlived national ideals. As they stand to-day, those dramas have in them so much of universal appeal that I feel sure they must sooner or later win the same attention in the English-speaking countries that they have already received in Germany. While thus recalling the past to new life, he was also busy with another group of plays embodying what practically amounts to a new dramatic form. The literary tendency underlying them might be defined as realistic symbolism or impressionistic mysticism--you can take your choice! The characters in those plays are men and women very much belonging to our own day. They speak as you or I might do. And yet there is in them and about them a significance surpassing not only that of the ordinary individual, but also that of ordinary poetical portrayals of such individuals. "There Are Crimes and Crimes," "Christmas," "Easter," and "Midsummer" are the principal plays belonging to this group. With them must be classed the trio of fairy or "dream" plays written under the acknowledged influence of Maeterlinck. In the first of these, the charming dramatic legend named "Swanwhite," the impetus received from the Belgian makes itself clearly felt. In the last of them, "The Dream Play," Strindberg has worked out a form that is wholly new and wholly his own. As the play in question forms part of this volume, I shall not need to speak of it here in the manner it would otherwise deserve. Related to the group just described, and yet not confinable within it, stands the double drama, "The Dance of Death," which also appears in this volume. Numerous critics have declared it Strindberg's greatest play, and there is much in the work to warrant such a judgment. Its construction is masterly. Its characters are almost shockingly real. And yet the play as a whole is saturated with that sense of larger relationships which we are wont to dispose of by calling it "mysticism." Like all of Strindberg's work belonging to this period, it constitutes a huge piece of symbolism--but the subject of its symbolical interpretation seems to be nothing less than the sum of human interrelationships. During the last three or four years of the decade we are now dealing with, Strindberg was very much interested in the project of establishing a theatre at Stockholm, where nothing but his own productions were to be staged. The plan was actually carried out and a building arranged that held only about two hundred people. It was called the Intimate Theatre. There Strindberg made some highly interesting experiments in the simplification and standardising of scenery, until at last some of his plays were given with no other accessories than draperies. The effects thus obtained proved unexpectedly successful. For this stage Strindberg wrote five dramas which he defined as "chamber plays." In form they harked back to "Miss Juliet," and they were meant to be played without interruptions. But in spirit they were marked by the same blend of mysticism and realism that forms such a striking feature of "The Dream Play," for instance. Add to these another fairy play, "The Slippers of Abu Casem," and a final autobiographical drama named "The Great Highway," and we get a total of twenty-nine dramatic works in ten years. For more critical treatment of Strindberg's art I would refer the reader to my articles in _The Forum_ of February and March, 1912. But at the same time Strindberg's pen was no less active in other fields. There are two more autobiographical volumes, two novels displaying vast social canvasses, four collections of short stories, and one collection of poems; also three bulky volumes named collectively "The Blue Books" and containing the most wonderful medley of scientific speculations, philosophical pronouncements, personal polemics, and aphoristic embodiments of the author's rich store of wisdom; and finally a score of pamphlets--analytical studies of Shakespeare plays, instructions to the members of the Intimate Theatre, satirical studies of contemporary social and literary conditions, propositions for a more complete democratisation of the government, and so on almost endlessly. And notwithstanding much supercilious criticism as well as some warranted regrets for the tone at times employed in these works, it is pretty generally admitted that Strindberg never has approached any topic without saying something worth while about it. Outwardly Strindberg's life has been very quiet since he returned to his native country in 1897. A third marriage, contracted in 1901 and dissolved three years later, served only to reconcile him once for all to the solitude that has always surrounded him more or less, even in the midst of admiring or condemning multitudes. He is now sixty-three years old, and the last news indicates that, at last, his iron health is failing him. In the sheltered nook which he has established for himself at Stockholm, he busies himself with philological studies, interrupted mainly by visits from his children, of which there are five from the three marriages. Two of these--his eldest daughter, who is now happily married, and the youngest, a vivacious lass of nine to whom "The Slippers of Abu Casem" was dedicated--are in the habit of calling daily. Flowers and music are what he loves next to his children and his work. From that corner where he hears nothing but echoes of the storms that are still raging at times about his public utterances, he follows with keen eye whatever is happening in the world of deeds as well as in the world of letters. And in the meantime his fame is steadily spreading and growing. On the European continent his name is constantly mentioned together with those of Ibsen and Björnson. In the English-speaking countries it has hitherto remained merely a name. The time has surely come for a realisation of some of the things that name stands for, and it is my earnest hope that this volume may help to change a condition that reflects more on those who do not know than on him who is not known. In regard to the style of my translations, I wish to quote some words written before the task now finished had ever been suggested to me. They are from an article on "Slaughtering Strindberg," which appeared in "The Drama," of August, 1911: "Strindberg is the man who has raised modern Swedish to its utmost potency of beauty and power. It may also be said, and with equal truth, that he has made the literary language of this country truly modern. This he has achieved not by polishing study-born mannerisms, but by watching and developing the living idiom that flows from the lips of men and women around him--observed at home and in the office, on the street and in the restaurant, while loving and dying, while chatting and quarrelling. Never was a man more keen on catching the life breath of his own time, and never was a man more scornful of mere fads and fashions, born one moment and forgotten in the next. To transplant the work of such a man may be difficult, but it involves no impossibility, provided only that we observe his own practical attitude toward what constitutes 'good form' and 'bad form' in a pulsing and growing language. We, on this side of the ocean, ought to be able to read Strindberg and receive impressions virtually identical with those received by a Swedish reader at Stockholm. And I believe that it will be easier to find equivalents for his clean-cut and flexible prose out of what is called English here than out of what bears that name in England." Finally, I wish to mention that the prologue now attached to "The Dream Play" has never before been published in any language. It was written last year as an afterthought, and was by the author kindly placed at my disposal in manuscript. A CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF AUGUST STRINDBERG'S MAIN WORKS _Plays_: "Hermione," 1869; "The Outlaw," 1871; "Master Olof," 1872; "The Secret of the Guild," 1880; "Sir Bengt's Lady," 1882; "The Wanderings of Lucky-Per," 1883; "The Father," 1887; "The Comrades," 1888; "Miss Juliet," 1888; "Creditors," 1890; "Pariah," 1890; "Samum," 1890; "The Stronger," 1890; "The Keys of Heaven," 1892; "The First Warning," 1893; "Debit and Credit," 1893; "Mother-Love," 1893; "Facing Death," 1893; "Playing with Fire," 1897; "The Link," 1897; "To Damascus," I and II, 1898; "There are Crimes and Crimes," 1899; "Christmas," 1899; "Gustavus Vasa," 1899; "Eric XIV," 1899; "The Saga of the Folkungs," 1899; "Gustavus Adolphus," 1900; "The Dance of Death," I and II, 1901; "Easter," 1901; "Midsummer," 1901; "Engelbreckt," 1901; "Charles XII," 1901; "The Crown Bride," 1902; "Swanwhite," 1902; "The Dream Play," 1902; "Gustavus III," 1903; "Queen Christina," 1903; "The Nightingale of Wittenberg," 1903; "To Damascus," III, 1904; "Storm," 1907; "The Burned Lot," 1907; "The Spook Sonata," 1907; "The Pelican," 1907; "The Slippers of Abu Casem," 1908; "The Last Knight," 1908; "The National Director," 1909; "The Earl of Bjällbo," 1909; "The Black Glove," 1909; "The Great Highway," 1909. _Novels and Short-story Collections_: "The Red Room," 1879; "Swedish Events and Adventures," 1882-91; "Marriage," I, 1884; "Real Utopias," 1885; "Marriage," II, 1886; "The People at Hemsö," 1887; "Fisher Folks," 1888; "Chandalah," 1889; "At the Edge of the Sea," 1890; "Fables," 1890-7; "Sagas," 1903; "The Gothic Rooms," 1904; "Historical Miniatures," 1905; "New Swedish Events," 1906; "Black Flags," 1907; "The Scapegoat," 1907. _Autobiographical Fiction_: "The Bondwoman's Son," I--III, 1886-7; "The Author," 1887; "A Fool's Confession," 1888; "Inferno," 1897; "Legends," 1898; "Fairhaven and Foulstrand," 1902; "Alone," 1903. _History, Essays, Etc_.: "The New Kingdom," 1882; "The Swedish People," 1882; "Little Studies of Plants and Animals," 1888; "Among French Peasants," 1889; "A Blue Book," I--III, 1907-8; "Speeches to the Swedish Nation," 1910; "Religious Renascence," 1910; "The Origins of Our Mother Tongue," 1910; "Biblical Proper Names," 1910. THE DREAM PLAY 1902 A REMINDER As he did in his previous dream play,[1] so in this one the author has tried to imitate the disconnected but seemingly logical form of the dream. Anything may happen; everything is possible and probable. Time and space do not exist. On an insignificant background of reality, imagination designs and embroiders novel patterns: a medley of memories, experiences, free fancies, absurdities and improvisations. The characters split, double, multiply, vanish, solidify, blur, clarify. But one consciousness reigns above them all--that of the dreamer; and before it there are no secrets, no incongruities, no scruples, no laws. There is neither judgment nor exoneration, but merely narration. And as the dream is mostly painful, rarely pleasant, a note of melancholy and of pity with all living things runs right through the wabbly tale. Sleep, the liberator, plays often a dismal part, but when the pain is at its worst, the awakening comes and reconciles the sufferer with reality, which, however distressing it may be, nevertheless seems happy in comparison with the torments of the dream. [Footnote 1: The trilogy "To Damascus."] PROLOGUE _The background represents cloud banks that resemble corroding slate cliffs with ruins of castles and fortresses_. _The constellations of Leo, Virgo, and Libra are visible, and from their midst the planet Jupiter is shining with a strong light_. THE DAUGHTER OF INDRA _stands on the topmost cloud_. THE VOICE OF INDRA [_from above_]. Where are you, daughter, where? THE DAUGHTER. Here, father, here. THE VOICE. You've lost your way, my child--beware, you sink--How got you there? THE DAUGHTER. I followed from ethereal heights the ray Of lightning, and for car a cloud I took-- It sank, and now my journey downward tends. O, noble father, Indra, tell what realms I now draw near? The air is here so close, And breathing difficult. THE VOICE. Behind you lies the second world; the third Is where you stand. From Cukra, morning star You have withdrawn yourself to enter soon The vapoury circle of the earth. For mark The Seventh House you take. It's Libra called: There stands the day-star in the balanced hour When Fall gives equal weight to night and day. THE DAUGHTER. You named the earth--is that the ponderous world And dark, that from the moon must take its light? THE VOICE. It is the heaviest and densest sphere Of all that travel through the space. THE DAUGHTER. And is it never brightened by the sun? THE VOICE. Of course, the sun does reach it--now and then-- THE DAUGHTER. There is a rift, and downward goes my glance---- THE VOICE. What sees my child? THE DAUGHTER. I see--O beautiful!--with forests green, With waters blue, white peaks, and yellow fields THE VOICE. Yes, beautiful as all that Brahma made-- But still more beautiful it was of yore, In primal morn of ages. Then occurred Some strange mishap; the orbit was disturbed; Rebellion led to crime that called for check---- THE DAUGHTER. Now from below I hear some sounds arise-- What sort of race is dwelling there? THE VOICE. See for yourself--Of Brahma's work no ill I say: but what you hear, it is their speech. THE DAUGHTER. It sounds as if--it has no happy ring! THE VOICE. I fear me not--for even their mother-tongue Is named complaint. A race most hard to please, And thankless, are the dwellers on the earth THE DAUGHTER. O, say not so--for I hear cries of joy, Hear noise and thunder, see the lightnings flash-- Now bells are ringing, fires are lit, And thousand upon thousand tongues Sing praise and thanks unto the heavens on high-- Too harshly, father, you are judging them. THE VOICE. Descend, that you may see and hear, and then Return and let me know if their complaints And wailings have some reasonable ground---- THE DAUGHTER. Well then, I go; but, father, come with me. THE VOICE. No, there below I cannot breathe---- THE DAUGHTER. Now sinks the cloud--what sultriness--I choke! I am not breathing air, but smoke and steam-- With heavy weight it drags me down, And I can feel already how it rolls-- Indeed, the best of worlds is not the third THE VOICE. The best I cannot call it, nor the worst. Its name is Dust; and like them all, it rolls: And therefore dizzy sometimes grows the race, And seems to be half foolish and half mad-- Take courage, child--a trial, that is all! THE DAUGHTER. [_Kneeling as the cloud sinks downward_] I sink! _Curtain_. _The background represents a forest of gigantic hollyhocks in bloom. They are white, pink, crimson, sulphureous, violet; and above their tops is seen the gilded roof of a castle, the apex of which is formed by a bud resembling a crown. At the foot of the castle walls stand a number of straw ricks, and around these stable litter is scattered. The side-scenes, which remain unchanged throughout the play, show conventionalised frescoes, suggesting at once internal decoration, architecture, and landscape_. _Enter_ THE GLAZIER _and_ THE DAUGHTER. THE DAUGHTER. The castle is growing higher and higher above the ground. Do you see how much it has grown since last year? THE GLAZIER. [_To himself_] I have never seen this castle before--have never heard of a castle that grew, but--[_To_ THE DAUGHTER, _with firm conviction_] Yes, it has grown two yards, but that is because they have manured it--and it you notice, it has put out a wing on the sunny side. THE DAUGHTER. Ought it not to be blooming soon, as we are already past midsummer? THE GLAZIER. Don't you see the flower up there? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, I see! [_Claps her hands_] Say, father, why do flowers grow out of dirt? THE GLAZIER, [_Simply_] Because they do not feel at home in the dirt, and so they make haste to get up into the light in order to blossom and die. THE DAUGHTER. Do you know who lives in that castle? THE GLAZIER. I have known it, but cannot remember. THE DAUGHTER. I believe a prisoner is kept there--and he must be waiting for me to set him free. THE GLAZIER. And what is he to pay for it? THE DAUGHTER. One does not bargain about one's duty. Let us go into the castle. THE GLAZIER. Yes, let us go in. _They go toward the background, which opens and slowly disappears to either side_. _The stage shows now a humble, bare room, containing only a table and a few chairs. On one of the chairs sits an officer, dressed in a very unusual yet modern uniform. He is tilting the chair backward and beating the table with his sabre_. THE DAUGHTER. [_Goes to the officer, from whose hand she gently takes the sabre_] Don't! Don't! THE OFFICER. Oh, Agnes dear, let me keep the sabre. THE DAUGHTER. No, you break the table. [_To_ THE GLAZIER] Now you go down to the harness-room and fix that window pane. We'll meet later. [THE GLAZIER _goes out_. THE DAUGHTER. You are imprisoned in your own rooms--I have come to set you free. THE OFFICER. I have been waiting for you, but I was not sure you were willing to do it. THE DAUGHTER. The castle is strongly built; it has seven walls, but--it can be done!--Do you want it, or do you not? THE OFFICER. Frankly speaking, I cannot tell--for in either case I shall suffer pain. Every joy that life brings has to be paid for with twice its measure of sorrow. It is hard to stay where I am, but if I buy the sweets of freedom, then I shall have to suffer twice as much--Agnes, I'll rather endure it as it is, if I can only see you. THE DAUGHTER. What do you see in me? THE OFFICER. Beauty, which is the harmony of the universe--There are lines of your body which are nowhere to be found, except in the orbits of the solar system, in strings that are singing softly, or in the vibrations of light--You are a child of heaven---- THE DAUGHTER. So are you. THE OFFICER. Why must I then keep horses, tend stable, and cart straw? THE DAUGHTER. So that you may long to get away from here. THE OFFICER. I am longing, but it is so hard to find one's way out. THE DAUGHTER. But it is a duty to seek freedom in the light. THE OFFICER. Duty? Life has never recognised any duties toward me. THE DAUGHTER. You feel yourself wronged by life? THE OFFICER. Yes, it has been unjust---- _Now voices are heard from behind a 'partition, which a moment later is pulled away_. THE OFFICER _and_ THE DAUGHTER _look in that direction and stop as if paralysed in the midst of a gesture_. _At a table sits_ THE MOTHER, _looking very sick. In front of her a tallow candle is burning, and every little while she trims it with, a pair of snuffers. The table is piled with new-made shirts, and these she is marking with a quill and ink. To the left stands a brown-coloured wardrobe_. THE FATHER. [_Holds out a silk mantilla toward_ THE MOTHER _and says gently_] You don't want it? THE MOTHER. A silk mantilla for me, my dear--of what use would that be when I am going to die shortly? THE FATHER. Do you believe what the doctor says? THE MOTHER. Yes, I believe also what he says, but still more what the voice says in here. THE FATHER. [_Sadly_] It is true then?--And you are thinking of your children first and last. THE MOTHER. That has been my life and my reason for living--my joy and my sorrow THE FATHER. Christine, forgive me--everything! THE MOTHER. What have I to forgive? Dearest, you forgive _me_! We have been tormenting each other. Why? That we may not know. We couldn't do anything else--However, here is the new linen for the children. See that they change twice a week--Wednesdays and Sundays--and that Louise washes them--their whole bodies--Are you going out? THE FATHER. I have to be in the Department at eleven o'clock. THE MOTHER. Ask Alfred to come in before you go. THE FATHER. [_Pointing to_ THE OFFICER] Why, he is standing right there, dear heart. THE MOTHER. So my eyes are failing, too--Yes, it is turning dark. [_Trims the candle_] Come here, Alfred. THE FATHER _goes out through the middle of the wall, nodding good-bye as he leaves_. THE OFFICER _goes over to_ THE MOTHER. THE MOTHER. Who is that girl? THE OFFICER, [_Whispers_] It is Agnes. THE MOTHER. Oh, is that Agnes?--Do you know what they say?--That she is a daughter of the god Indra who has asked leave to descend to the earth in order that she may find out what the conditions of men are--But don't say anything about it. THE OFFICER. A child of the gods, indeed! THE MOTHER. [_Aloud_] My Alfred, I must soon part from you and from the other children--But let me first speak a word to you that bears on all the rest of your life. THE OFFICER. [_Sadly_] Speak, mother. THE MOTHER. Only a word: don't quarrel with God! THE OFFICER. What do you mean, mother? THE MOTHER. Don't go around feeling that life has wronged you. THE OFFICER. But when I am treated unjustly---- THE MOTHER. You are thinking of the time when you were unjustly punished for having taken a penny that later turned up? THE OFFICER. Yes, and that one wrong gave a false twist to my whole life---- THE MOTHER. Perhaps. But please take a look into that wardrobe now---- THE OFFICER. [_Embarrassed_] You know, then? It is---- THE MOTHER. The Swiss Family Robinson--for which---- THE OFFICER. Don't say any more! THE MOTHER. For which your brother was punished--and which you had torn and hidden away. THE OFFICER. Just think that the old wardrobe is still standing there after twenty years--We have moved so many times, and my mother died ten years ago. THE MOTHER. Yes, and what of it? You are always asking all sorts of questions, and in that way you spoil the better part of your life--There is Lena, now. LENA. [_Enters_] Thank you very much, ma'am, but I can't go to the baptism. THE MOTHER. And why not, my girl? LENA. I have nothing to put on. THE MOTHER. I'll let you use my mantilla here LENA. Oh, no, ma'am, that wouldn't do! THE MOTHER. Why not?--It is not likely that I'll go to any more parties. THE OFFICER. And what will father say? It is a present from him---- THE MOTHER. What small minds---- THE FATHER. [_Puts his head through the wall_] Are you going to lend my present to the servant girl? THE MOTHER. Don't talk that way! Can you not remember that I was a servant girl also? Why should you offend one who has done nothing? THE FATHER. Why should you offend me, your husband? THE MOTHER. Oh, this life! If you do anything nice, there is always somebody who finds it nasty. If you act kindly to one, it hurts another. Oh, this life! _She trims the candle so that it goes out. The stage turns dark and the partition is pushed back to its former position_. THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied. THE OFFICER. You think so? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, life is hard--but love overcomes everything. You shall see for yourself. [_They go toward the background. The background is raised and a new one revealed, showing an old, dilapidated party-wall. In the centre of it is a gate closing a passageway. This opens upon a green, sunlit space, where is seen a tremendous blue monk's-hood (aconite). To the left of the gate sits_ THE PORTRESS. _Her head and shoulders are covered by a shawl, and she is crocheting at a bed-spread with a star-like pattern. To the right of the gate is a billboard, which_ THE BILLPOSTER _is cleaning. Beside him stands a dipnet with a green pole. Further to the right is a door that has an air-hole shaped like a four-leaved clover. To the left of the gate stands a small linden tree with coal-black trunk and a few pale-green leaves. Near it is a small air-hole leading into a cellar._[1] THE DAUGHTER. [_Going to_ THE PORTRESS] Is the spread not done yet? THE PORTRESS. No, dear. Twenty-six years on such a piece of work is not much. THE DAUGHTER. And your lover never came back? THE PORTRESS. No, but it was not his fault. He had to go--poor thing! That was thirty years ago now. THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE BILLPOSTER] She belonged to the ballet? Up there in the opera-house? THE BILLPOSTER. She was number one--but when _he_ went, it was as if her dancing had gone with him--and so she didn't get any more parts. THE DAUGHTER. Everybody complains--with their eyes, at least, and often with words also---- THE BILLPOSTER. I don't complain very much--not now, since I have a dipnet and a green cauf[2]---- THE DAUGHTER. And that can make you happy? THE BILLPOSTER. Oh, I'm so happy, so--It was the dream of my youth, and now it has come true. Of course, I have grown to be fifty years---- THE DAUGHTER. Fifty years for a dipnet and a cauf---- THE BILLPOSTER. A _green_ cauf--mind you, _green_---- THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE PORTRESS] Let me have the shawl now, and I shall sit here and watch the human children. But you must stand behind me and tell me about everything. [_She takes the shawl and sits down at the gate._ THE PORTRESS. This is the last day, and the house will be closed up for the season. This is the day when they learn whether their contracts are to be renewed. THE DAUGHTER. And those that fail of engagement---- THE PORTRESS. O, Lord have mercy! I pull the shawl over my head not to see them. THE DAUGHTER. Poor human creatures! THE PORTRESS. Look, here comes one--She's not one of the chosen. See, how she cries. THE SINGER _enters from the right; rushes through the gate with her handkerchief to her eyes; stops for a moment in the passageway beyond the gate and leans her head against the wall; then out quickly_. THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied! THE PORTRESS. But look at this one. That's the way a happy person looks. THE OFFICER _enters through the passageway; dressed in Prince Albert coat and high hat, and carrying a bunch of roses in one hand; he is radiantly happy_. THE PORTRESS. He's going to marry Miss Victoria. THE OFFICER. [_Far down on the stage, looks up and sings_] Victoria! THE PORTRESS. The young lady will be coming in a moment. THE OFFICER. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table is set, the wine is on ice--Oh, permit me to embrace you, ladies! [_He embraces_ THE PORTRESS _and_ THE DAUGHTER. _Sings_] Victoria! A WOMAN'S VOICE FROM ABOVE. [_Sings_] I am here! THE DAUGHTER. Do you know me? THE OFFICER. No, I know one woman only--Victoria. Seven years I have come here to wait for her--at noon, when the sun touched the chimneys, and at night, when it was growing dark. Look at the asphalt here, and you will see the path worn by the steps of a faithful lover. Hooray! She is mine. [_Sings_] Victoria! [_There is no reply_] Well, she is dressing, I suppose. [_To_ THE BILLPOSTER] There is the dipnet, I see. Everybody belonging to the opera is crazy about dipnets--or rather about fishes--because the fishes are dumb and cannot sing!--What is the price of a thing like that? THE BILLPOSTER. It is rather expensive. THE OFFICER. [_Sings_] Victoria! [_Shakes the linden tree_] Look, it is turning green once more. For the eighth time. [_Sings_] Victoria!--Now she is fixing her hair. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Look here, madam, could I not go up and get my bride? THE PORTRESS. Nobody is allowed on the stage. THE OFFICER. Seven years I have been coming here. Seven times three hundred and sixty-five makes two thousand five hundred and fifty-five. [_Stops and pokes at the door with the four-leaved clover hole_] And I have been looking two thousand five hundred and fifty-five times at that door without discovering where it leads. And that clover leaf which is to let in light--for whom is the light meant? Is there anybody within? Does anybody live there? THE PORTRESS. I don't know. I have never seen it opened. THE OFFICER. It looks like a pantry door which I saw once when I was only four years old and went visiting with the maid on a Sunday afternoon. We called at several houses--on other maids--but I did not get beyond the kitchen anywhere, and I had to sit between the water barrel and the salt box. I have seen so many kitchens in my days, and the pantry was always just outside, with small round holes bored in the door, and one big hole like a clover leaf--But there cannot be any pantry in the opera-house as they have no kitchen. [_Sings_] Victoria!--Tell me, madam, could she have gone out any other way? THE PORTRESS. No, there is no other way. THE OFFICER. Well, then I shall see her here. STAGE PEOPLE _rush out and are closely watched by_ THE OFFICER _as they pass_. THE OFFICER. Now she must soon be coming--Madam, that blue monk's-hood outside--I have seen it since I was a child. Is it the same?--I remember it from a country rectory where I stopped when I was seven years old--There are two doves, two blue doves, under the hood--but that time a bee came flying and went into the hood. Then I thought: now I have you! And I grabbed hold of the flower. But the sting of the bee went through it, and I cried--but then the rector's wife came and put damp dirt on the sting--and we had strawberries and cream for dinner--I think it is getting dark already. [_To_ THE BILLPOSTER] Where are you going? THE BILLPOSTER. Home for supper. THE OFFICER. [_Draws his hand across his eyes_] Evening? At this time?--O, please, may I go in and telephone to the Growing Castle? THE DAUGHTER. What do you want there? THE OFFICER. I am going to tell the Glazier to put in double windows, for it will soon be winter, and I am feeling horribly cold. [_Goes into the gatekeeper's lodge_. THE DAUGHTER. Who is Miss Victoria? THE PORTRESS. His sweetheart. THE DAUGHTER. Right said! What she is to us and others matters nothing to him. And what she is to him, that alone is her real self. _It is suddenly turning dark_. THE PORTRESS. [_Lights a lantern_] It is growing dark early to-day. THE DAUGHTER. To the gods a year is as a minute. THE PORTRESS. And to men a minute may be as long as a year. THE OFFICER. [_Enters again, looking dusty; the roses are withered_] She has not come yet? THE PORTRESS. No. THE OFFICER. But she will come--She will come! [_Walks up and down_] But come to think of it, perhaps I had better call off the dinner after all--as it is late? Yes, I will do that. [_Goes back into the lodge and telephones_. THE PORTRESS. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Can I have my shawl back now? THE DAUGHTER. No, dear, be free a while. I shall attend to your duties--for I want to study men and life, and see whether things really are as bad as they say. THE PORTRESS. But it won't do to fall asleep here--never sleep night or day---- THE DAUGHTER. No sleep at night? THE PORTRESS. Yes, if you are able to get it, but only with the bell string tied around the wrist--for there are night watchmen on the stage, and they have to be relieved every third hour. THE DAUGHTER. But that is torture! THE PORTRESS. So you think, but people like us are glad enough to get such a job, and if you only knew how envied I am---- THE DAUGHTER. Envied?--Envy for the tortured? THE PORTRESS. Yes--But I can tell you what is harder than all drudging and keeping awake nights, harder to bear than draught and cold and dampness--it is to receive the confidences of all the unhappy people up there--They all come to me. Why? Perhaps they read in the wrinkles of my face some runes that are graved by suffering and that invite confessions--In that shawl, dear, lie hidden thirty years of my own and other people's agonies. THE DAUGHTER. It is heavy, and it burns like nettles. THE PORTRESS. As it is your wish, you may wear it. When it grows too burdensome, call me, and I shall relieve you. THE DAUGHTER. Good-bye. What can be done by you ought not to surpass my strength. THE PORTRESS. We shall see!--But be kind to my poor friends, and don't grow impatient of their complaints. [_She disappears through the passageway. Complete darkness covers the stage, and while it lasts the scene is changed so that the linden tree appears stripped of all its leaves. Soon the blue monk's-hood is withered, and when the light returns, the verdure in the open space beyond the passageway has changed into autumnal brown_. THE OFFICER. [_Enters when it is light again. He has gray hair and a gray beard. His clothes are shabby, his collar is soiled and wrinkled. Nothing but the bare stems remain of the bunch of roses. He walks to and fro_] To judge by all signs, Summer is gone and Fall has come. The linden shows it, and the monk's-hood also. [_Walks_] But the Fall is _my_ Spring, for then the opera begins again, and then she must come. Please, madam, may I sit down a little on this chair? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, sit down, friend--I am able to stand. THE OFFICER. [_Sits down_] If I could only get some sleep, then I should feel better--[_He falls asleep for a few moments. Then he jumps up and walks back and forth again. Stops at last in front of the door with the clover leaf and pokes at_] This door here will not leave me any peace--what is behind it? There must be something. [_Faint dance music is heard from above_] Oh, now the rehearsals have begun. [_The light goes out and flares up again, repeating this rhythmically as the rays of a lighthouse come and go_] What does this mean? [_Speaking in time with the blinkings of the light_] Light and dark--light and dark? THE DAUGHTER. [_Imitating him_] Night and day--night and day! A merciful Providence wants to shorten your wait. Therefore the days are flying in hot pursuit of the nights. _The light shines unbrokenly once more_. THE BILLPOSTER _enters with his dipnet and his implements_. THE OFFICER. There is the Billposter with his dipnet. Was the fishing good? THE BILLPOSTER. I should say so. The Summer was hot and a little long--the net turned out pretty good, but not as I had expected. THE OFFICER. [_With emphasis_] Not as I had expected!--That is well said. Nothing ever was as I expected it to be--because the thought is more than the deed, more than the thing. _Walks to and fro, striking at the wall with the rose stems so that the last few leaves fall off_. THE BILLPOSTER. Has she not come down yet? THE OFFICER. Not yet, but she will soon be here--Do you know what is behind that door, Billposter? THE BILLPOSTER. No, I have never seen that door open yet. THE OFFICER. I am going to telephone for a locksmith to come and open it. [_Goes into the lodge_. [THE BILLPOSTER _posts a bill and goes toward the right_. THE DAUGHTER. What is the matter with the dipnet? THE BILLPOSTER. Matter? Well, I don't know as there is anything the matter with it--but it just didn't turn out as I had expected, and the pleasure of it was not so much after all. THE DAUGHTER. How did you expect it to be? THE BILLPOSTER. How?--Well, I couldn't tell exactly---- THE DAUGHTER. I can tell you! You had expected it to be what it was not. It had to be green, but not that kind of green. THE BILLPOSTER. You have it, madam. You understand it all--and that is why everybody goes to you with his worries. If you would only listen to me a little also---- THE DAUGHTER. Of course, I will!--Come in to me and pour out your heart. [_She goes into the lodge_. [THE BILLPOSTER _remains outside, speaking to her. The stage is darkened again. When the light is turned on, the tree has resumed its leaves, the monk's-hood is blooming once more, and the sun is shining on the green space beyond the passageway_. THE OFFICER _enters. Now he is old and white-haired, ragged, and wearing worn-out shoes. He carries the bare remnants of the rose stems. Walks to and fro slowly, with the gait of an aged man. Reads on the posted bill_. A BALLET GIRL _comes in from the right_. THE OFFICER. Is Miss Victoria gone? THE BALLET GIRL. No, she has not gone yet. THE OFFICER. Then I shall wait. She will be coming soon, don't you think? THE BALLET GIRL. Oh, yes, I am sure. THE OFFICER. Don't go away now, for I have sent word to the locksmith, so you will soon see what is behind that door. THE BALLET GIRL. Oh, it will be awfully interesting to see that door opened. That door, there, and the Growing Castle--have you heard of the Growing Castle? THE OFFICER. Have I?--I have been a prisoner in it. THE BALLET GIRL. No, was that you? But why do they keep such a lot of horses there? THE OFFICER. Because it is a stable castle, don't you know. THE BALLET GIRL. [_With confusion_] How stupid of me not to guess that! A MALE CHORUS SINGER _enters from the right_. THE OFFICER. Has Miss Victoria gone yet? THE CHORUS SINGER. [_Earnestly_] No, she has not. She never goes away. THE OFFICER. That is because she loves me--See here, don't go before the locksmith comes to open the door here. THE CHORUS SINGER. No, is the door going to be opened? Well, that will be fun!--I just want to ask the Portress something. THE PROMPTER enters from the right. THE OFFICER. Is Miss Victoria gone yet? THE PROMPTER. Not that I know of. THE OFFICER. Now, didn't I tell you she was waiting for me!--Don't go away, for the door is going to be opened. THE PROMPTER. Which door? THE OFFICER. Is there more than one door? THE PROMPTER. Oh, I know--that one with the clover leaf. Well, then I have got to stay--I am only going to have a word with the Portress. THE BALLET GIRL, THE CHORUS SINGER, and THE PROMPTER gather beside THE BILLPOSTER in front of the lodge window and talk by turns to THE DAUGHTER. THE GLAZIER enters through the gate. THE OFFICER. Are you the locksmith? THE GLAZIER. No, the locksmith had visitors, and a glazier will do just as well. THE OFFICER. Yes, of course, of course--but did you bring your diamond along? THE GLAZIER. Why, certainly!--A glazier without his diamond, what would that be? THE OFFICER. Nothing at all!--Let us get to work then. [_Claps his hands together_. ALL _gather in a ring around the door_. _Male members of the chorus dressed as Master Singers and Ballet Girls in costumes from the opera "Aïda" enter from the right and join the rest_. THE OFFICER. Locksmith--or glazier--do your duty! THE GLAZIER _goes up to the door with the diamond in his hand_. THE OFFICER. A moment like this will not occur twice in a man's life. For this reason, my friends, I ask you--please consider carefully---- A POLICEMAN. [_Enters_] In the name of the law, I forbid the opening of that door! THE OFFICER. Oh, Lord! What a fuss there is as soon as anybody wants to do anything new or great. But we will take the matter into court--let us go to the Lawyer. Then we shall see whether the laws still exist or not--Come along to the Lawyer. _Without lowering of the curtain, the stage changes to a lawyer's office, and in this manner. The gate remains, but as a wicket in the railing running clear across the stage. The gatekeeper's lodge turns into the private enclosure of the Lawyer, and it is now entirely open to the front. The linden, leafless, becomes a hat tree. The billboard is covered with legal notices and court decisions. The door with the four-leaved clover hole forms part of a document chest_. THE LAWYER, _in evening dress and white necktie, is found sitting to the left, inside the gate, and in front of him stands a desk covered with papers. His appearance indicates enormous sufferings. His face is chalk-white and full of wrinkles, and its shadows have a purple effect. He is ugly, and his features seem to reflect all the crimes and vices with which he has been forced by his profession to come into contact_. _Of his two clerks, one has lost an arm, the other an eye_. _The people gathered to witness "the opening of the door" remain as before, bid they appear now to be waiting for an audience with the Lawyer. Judging by their attitudes, one would think they had been standing there forever_. THE DAUGHTER, _still wearing the shawl, and_ THE OFFICER _are near the footlights_. THE LAWYER. [Goes _over to_ THE DAUGHTER] Tell me, sister, can I have that shawl? I shall keep it here until I have a fire in my grate, and then I shall burn it with all its miseries and sorrows. THE DAUGHTER. Not yet, brother. I want it to hold all it possibly can, and I want it above all to take up your agonies --all the confidences you have received about crime, vice, robbery, slander, abuse---- THE LAWYER. My dear girl, for such a purpose your shawl would prove totally insufficient. Look at these walls. Does it not look as if the wall-paper itself had been soiled by every conceivable sin? Look at these documents into which I write tales of wrong. Look at myself--No smiling man ever comes here; nothing is to be seen here but angry glances, snarling lips, clenched fists--And everybody pours his anger, his envy, his suspicions, upon me. Look--my hands are black, and no washing will clean them. See how they are chapped and bleeding--I can never wear my clothes more than a few days because they smell of other people's crimes--At times I have the place fumigated with sulphur, but it does not help. I sleep near by, and I dream of nothing but crimes--Just now I have a murder case in court--oh, I can stand that, but do you know what is worse than anything else?--That is to separate married people! Then it is as if something cried way down in the earth and up there in the sky--as if it cried treason against the primal force, against the source of all good, against love--And do you know, when reams of paper have been filled with mutual accusations, and at last a sympathetic person takes one of the two apart and asks, with a pinch of the ear or a smile, the simple question: what have you really got against your husband?--or your wife?--then he, or she, stands perplexed and cannot give the cause. Once--well, I think a lettuce salad was the principal issue; another time it was just a word--mostly it is nothing at all. But the tortures, the sufferings--these I have to bear--See how I look! Do you think I could ever win a woman's love with this countenance so like a criminal's? Do you think anybody dares to be friendly with me, who has to collect all the debts, all the money obligations, of the whole city?--It is a misery to be man! THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied! THE LAWYER. They are. And what people are living on puzzles me. They marry on an income of two thousand, when they need four thousand. They borrow, of course--everybody borrows. In some sort of happy-go-lucky fashion, by the skin of their teeth, they manage to pull through--and thus it continues to the end, when the estate is found to be bankrupt. Who pays for it at last no one can tell. THE DAUGHTER. Perhaps He who feeds the birds. THE LAWYER. Perhaps. But if He who feeds the birds would only pay a visit to this earth of His and see for Himself how the poor human creatures fare--then His heart would surely fill with compassion. THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied! THE LAWYER. Yes, that is the truth!--[_To_ THE OFFICER] What do you want? THE OFFICER. I just wanted to ask if Miss Victoria has gone yet. THE LAWYER. No, she has not; you can be sure of it--Why are you poking at my chest over there? THE OFFICER. I thought the door of it looked exactly---- THE LAWYER. Not at all! Not at all! _All the church bells begin to ring_. THE OFFICER. Is there going to be a funeral? THE LAWYER. No, it is graduation day--a number of degrees will be conferred, and I am going to be made a Doctor of Laws. Perhaps you would also like to be graduated and receive a laurel wreath? THE OFFICER. Yes, why not. That would be a diversion, at least. THE LAWYER. Perhaps then we may begin upon this solemn function at once--But you had better go home and change your clothes. [THE OFFICER _goes out_. _The stage is darkened and the following changes are made. The railing stays, but it encloses now the chancel of a church. The billboard displays hymn numbers. The linden hat tree becomes a candelabrum. The Lawyer's desk is turned into the desk of the presiding functionary, and the door with the clover leaf leads to the vestry_. _The chorus of Master Singers become heralds with staffs, and the Ballet Girls carry laurel wreaths. The rest of the people act as spectators_. _The background is raised, and the new one thus discovered represents a large church organ, with the keyboards below and the organist's mirror above_. _Music is heard. At the sides stand figures symbolising the four academic faculties: Philosophy, Theology, Medicine, and Jurisprudence_. _At first the stage is empty for a few moments_. HERALDS _enter from the right_. BALLET GIRLS _follow with laurel wreaths carried high before them_. THREE GRADUATES _appear one after another from the left, receive their wreaths from the_ BALLET GIRLS, _and go out to the right_. THE LAWYER _steps forward to get his wreath_. The BALLET GIRLS _turn away from him and refuse to place the wreath on his head. Then they withdraw from the stage_. THE LAWYER, _shocked, leans against a column. All the others withdraw gradually until only_ THE LAWYER _remains on the stage_. THE DAUGHTER. [_Enters, her head and shoulders covered by a white veil_] Do you see, I have washed the shawl! But why are you standing there? Did you get your wreath? THE LAWYER. No, I was not held worthy. THE DAUGHTER. Why? Because you have defended the poor, put in a good word for the wrong-doing, made the burden easier for the guilty, obtained a respite for the condemned? Woe upon men: they are not angels--but they are to be pitied! THE LAWYER. Say nothing evil of men--for after all it is my task to voice their side. THE DAUGHTER. [_Leaning against the organ_] Why do they strike their friends in the face? THE LAWYER. They know no better. THE DAUGHTER. Let us enlighten them. Will you try? Together with me? THE LAWYER. They do not accept enlightenment--Oh, that our plaint might reach the gods of heaven! THE DAUGHTER. It shall reach the throne--[_Turns toward the organ_] Do you know what I see in this mirror?--The world turned the right way!--Yes indeed, for naturally we see it upside down. THE LAWYER. How did it come to be turned the wrong way? THE DAUGHTER. When the copy was taken---- THE LAWYER. You have said it! The copy--I have always had the feeling that it was a spoiled copy. And when I began to recall the original images, I grew dissatisfied with everything. But men called it soreheadedness, looking at the world through the devil's eyes, and other such things. THE DAUGHTER. It is certainly a crazy world! Look at the four faculties here. The government, to which has fallen the task of preserving society, supports all four of them. Theology, the science of God, is constantly attacked and ridiculed by philosophy, which declares itself to be the sum of all wisdom. And medicine is always challenging philosophy, while refusing entirely to count theology a science and even insisting on calling it a mere superstition. And they belong to a common Academic Council, which has been set to teach the young respect--for the university. It is a bedlam. And woe unto him who first recovers his reason! THE LAWYER. Those who find it out first are the theologians. As a preparatory study, they take philosophy, which teaches them that theology is nonsense. Later they learn from theology that philosophy is nonsense. Madmen, I should say! THE DAUGHTER. And then there is jurisprudence which serves all but the servants. THE LAWYER. Justice, which, when it wants to do right, becomes the undoing of men. Equity, which so often turns into iniquity! THE DAUGHTER. What a mess you have made of it, you man-children. Children, indeed!--Come here, and I will give you a wreath--one that is more becoming to you. [_Puts a crown of thorns on his head_] And now I will play for you. _She sits down at the keyboards, but instead of organ-notes human voices are heard_. VOICES OF CHILDREN. O Lord everlasting! [_Last note sustained_. VOICES OF WOMEN. Have mercy upon us! [_Last note sustained_. VOICES OF MEN. [_Tenors_] Save us for Thy mercy's sake! [_Last note sustained_. VOICES OF MEN. [Basses] Spare Thy children, O Lord, and deliver us from Thy wrath! ALL. Have mercy upon us! Hear us! Have pity upon the mortals!--? O Lord eternal, why art Thou afar?--Out of the depths we call unto Thee: Make not the burden of Thy children too heavy! Hear us! Hear us! _The stage turns dark_. THE DAUGHTER _rises and draws close to_ THE LAWYER. _By a change of light, the organ becomes Fingal's Cave. The ground-swell of the ocean, which can be seen rising and falling between the columns of basalt, produces a deep harmony that blends the music of winds and waves_. THE LAWYER. Where are we, sister? THE DAUGHTER. What do you hear? THE LAWYER. I hear drops falling---- THE DAUGHTER. Those are the tears that men are weeping--What more do you hear? THE LAWYER. There is sighing--and whining--and wailing---- THE DAUGHTER. Hither the plaint of the mortals has reached--and no farther. But why this never-ending wailing? Is there then nothing in life to rejoice at? THE LAWYER. Yes, what is most sweet, and what is also most bitter--love--wife and home--the highest and the lowest! THE DAUGHTER. May I try it? THE LAWYER. With me? THE DAUGHTER. With you--You know the rocks, the stumbling-stones. Let us avoid them. THE LAWYER. I am so poor. THE DAUGHTER. What does that matter if we only love each other? And a little beauty costs nothing. THE LAWYER. I have dislikes which may prove your likes. THE DAUGHTER. They can be adjusted. THE LAWYER. And if we tire of it? THE DAUGHTER. Then come the children and bring with them a diversion that remains for ever new. THE LAWYER. You, you will take me, poor and ugly, scorned and rejected? THE DAUGHTER. Yes--let us unite our destinies. THE LAWYER. So be it then! _Curtain_. [Footnote 1: Though the author says nothing about it here, subsequent stage directions indicate a door and a window behind the place occupied by THE PORTRESS. Both lead into her room or lodge, which contains a telephone.] [Footnote 2: A floating wooden box with holes in it used to hold fish.] _An extremely plain room inside_ THE LAWYER's _office. To the right, a big double bed covered by a canopy and curtained in. Next to it, a window. To the left, an iron heater with cooking utensils on top of it_. CHRISTINE _is pasting paper strips along the cracks of the double windows. In the background, an open door to the office. Through the door are visible a number of poor clients waiting for admission_. CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste. THE DAUGHTER. [_Pale and emaciated, sits by the stove_] You shut out all the air. I choke! CHRISTINE. Now there is only one little crack left. THE DAUGHTER. Air, air--I cannot breathe! CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste. THE LAWYER. That's right, Christine! Heat is expensive. THE DAUGHTER. Oh, it feels as if my lips were being glued together. THE LAWYER. [_Standing in the doorway, with a paper in his hand_] Is the child asleep? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, at last. THE LAWYER. [_Gently_] All this crying scares away my clients. THE DAUGHTER. [_Pleasantly_] What can be done about it? THE LAWYER. Nothing. THE DAUGHTER. We shall have to get a larger place. THE LAWYER. We have no money for it. THE DAUGHTER. May I open the window--this bad air is suffocating. THE LAWYER. Then the heat escapes, and we shall be cold. THE DAUGHTER. It is horrible!--May we clean up out there? THE LAWYER. You have not the strength to do any cleaning, nor have I, and Christine must paste. She must put strips through the whole house, on every crack, in the ceiling, in the floor, in the walls. THE DAUGHTER. Poverty I was prepared for, but not for dirt. THE LAWYER. Poverty is always dirty, relatively speaking. THE DAUGHTER. This is worse than I dreamed! THE LAWYER. We are not the worst off by far. There is still food in the pot. THE DAUGHTER. But what sort of food? THE LAWYER. Cabbage is cheap, nourishing, and good to eat. THE DAUGHTER. For those who like cabbage--to me it is repulsive. THE LAWYER. Why didn't you say so? THE DAUGHTER. Because I loved you, I wanted to sacrifice my own taste. THE LAWYER. Then I must sacrifice my taste for cabbage to you--for sacrifices must be mutual. THE DAUGHTER. What are we to eat, then? Fish? But you hate fish? THE LAWYER. And it is expensive. THE DAUGHTER. This is worse than I thought it! THE LAWYER. [_Kindly_] Yes, you see how hard it is--And the child that was to become a link and a blessing--it becomes our ruin. THE DAUGHTER. Dearest, I die in this air, in this room, with its backyard view, with its baby cries and endless hours of sleeplessness, with those people out there, and their whinings, and bickerings, and incriminations--I shall die here! THE LAWYER. My poor little flower, that has no light and no air---- THE DAUGHTER. And you say that people exist who are still worse off? THE LAWYER. I belong with the envied ones in this locality. THE DAUGHTER. Everything else might be borne if I could only have some beauty in my home. THE LAWYER. I know you are thinking of flowers--and especially of heliotropes--but a plant costs half a dollar, which will buy us six quarts of milk or a peck of potatoes. THE DAUGHTER. I could gladly get along without food if I could only have some flowers. THE LAWYER. There is a kind of beauty that costs nothing--but the absence of it in the home is worse than any other torture to a man with a sense for the beautiful. THE DAUGHTER. What is it? THE LAWYER. If I tell, you will get angry. THE DAUGHTER. We have agreed not to get angry. THE LAWYER. We have agreed--Everything can be over-come, Agnes, except the short, sharp accents--Do you know them? Not yet! THE DAUGHTER. They will never be heard between us. THE LAWYER. Not as far as it lies on me! THE DAUGHTER. Tell me now. THE LAWYER. Well--when I come into a room, I look first of all at the curtains--[_Goes over to the window and straightens out the curtains_] If they hang like ropes or rags, then I leave soon. And next I take a glance at the chairs--if they stand straight along the wall, then I stay. [_Puts a chair back against the wall_] Finally I look at the candles in their sticks--if they point this way and that, then the whole house is askew. [_Straightens up a candle on the chest of drawers_] This is the kind of beauty, dear heart, that costs nothing. THE DAUGHTER. _With bent head_] Beware of the short accents, Axel! THE LAWYER. They were not short. THE DAUGHTER. Yes, they were. THE LAWYER. Well, I'll be---- THE DAUGHTER. What kind of language is that? THE LAWYER. Pardon me, Agnes! But I have suffered as much from your lack of orderliness as you have suffered from dirt. And I have not dared to set things right myself, for when I do so, you get as angry as if I were reproaching you--ugh! Hadn't we better quit now? THE DAUGHTER. It is very difficult to be married--it is more difficult than anything else. One has to be an angel, I think! THE LAWYER. I think so, too. THE DAUGHTER. I fear I shall begin to hate you after this! THE LAWYER. Woe to us then!--But let us forestall hatred. I promise never again to speak of any untidiness--although it is torture to me! THE DAUGHTER. And I shall eat cabbage though it means agony to me. THE LAWYER. A life of common suffering, then! One's pleasure, the other one's pain! THE DAUGHTER. Men are to be pitied! THE LAWYER. You see that? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, but for heaven's sake, let us avoid the rocks, now when we know them so well. THE LAWYER. Let us try! Are we not decent and intelligent persons? Able to forbear and forgive? THE DAUGHTER. Why not smile at mere trifles? THE LAWYER. We--only we--can do so. Do you know, I read this morning--by the bye, where is the newspaper? THE DAUGHTER. [_Embarrassed_] Which newspaper? THE LAWYER. [_Sharply_] Do I keep more than one? THE DAUGHTER. Smile now, and don't speak sharply--I used your paper to make the fire with---- THE LAWYER. [_Violently_] Well, I'll be damned! THE DAUGHTER. Why don't you smile?--I burned it because it ridiculed what is holy to me. THE LAWYER. Which is unholy to me! Yah! [_Strikes one clenched fist against the open palm of the other hand_] I smile, I smile so that my wisdom teeth show--Of course, I am to be nice, and I am to swallow my own opinions, and say yes to everything, and cringe and dissemble! [_Tidies the curtains around the bed_] That's it! Now I am going to fix things until you get angry again--Agnes, this is simply impossible! THE DAUGHTER. Of course it is! THE LAWYER. And yet we must endure--not for the sake of our promises, but for the sake of the child! THE DAUGHTER. You are right--for the sake of the child. Oh, oh--we have to endure! THE LAWYER. And now I must go out to my clients. Listen to them--how they growl with impatience to tear each other, to get each other fined and jailed--Lost souls! THE DAUGHTER. Poor, poor people! And this pasting! [_She drops her head forward in dumb despair_. CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste. THE LAWYER _stands at the door, twisting the door-knob nervously_. THE DAUGHTER. How that knob squeaks! It is as if you were twisting my heart-strings---- THE LAWYER. I twist, I twist! THE DAUGHTER. Don't! THE LAWYER. I twist! THE DAUGHTER. No! THE LAWYER. I---- THE OFFICER. [_In the office, on the other side of the door, takes hold of the knob_] Will you permit me? THE LAWYER. [_Lets go his hold_] By all means. Seeing that you have your degree! THE OFFICER. Now all life belongs to me. Every road lies open. I have mounted Parnassus. The laurel is won. Immortality, fame, all is mine! THE LAWYER. And what are you going to live on? THE OFFICER. Live on? THE LAWYER. You must have a home, clothes, food---- THE OFFICER. Oh, that will come--if you can only find somebody to love you! THE LAWYER. You don't say so!--You don't--Paste, Christine, paste until they cannot breathe! [_Goes out backward, nodding_. CHRISTINE. I paste, I paste--until they cannot breathe. THE OFFICER. Will you come with me now? THE DAUGHTER. At once! But where? THE OFFICER. To Fairhaven. There it is summer; there the sun is shining; there we find youth, children, and flowers, singing and dancing, feasting and frolicking. THE DAUGHTER. Then I will go there. THE OFFICER. Come! THE LAWYER. [_Enters again_] Now I go back to my first hell--this was the second and greater. The sweeter the hell, the greater--And look here, now she has been dropping hair-pins on the floor again. [_He picks up some hair-pins_. THE OFFICER. My! but he has discovered the pins also. THE LAWYER. Also?--Look at this one. You see two prongs, but it is only one pin. It is two, yet only one. If I bend it open, it is a single piece. If I bend it back, there are two, but they remain one for all that. It means: these two are one. But if I break--like this!--then they become two. [_Breaks the pin and throws the pieces away_. THE OFFICER. All that he has seen!--But before breaking, the prongs must diverge. If they point together, then it holds. THE LAWYER. And if they are parallel, then they will never meet--and it neither breaks nor holds. THE OFFICER. The hair-pin is the most perfect of all created things. A straight line which equals two parallel ones. THE LAWYER. A lock that shuts when it is open. THE OFFICER. And thus shuts in a braid of hair that opens up when the lock shuts. THE LAWYER. It is like this door. When I close it, then I open--the way out--for you, Agnes! [_Withdraws and closes the door behind him_. THE DAUGHTER. Well then? _The stage changes. The bed with its curtains becomes a tent_. _The stove stays as it was. The background is raised. To the right, in the foreground, are seen hills stripped of their trees by fire, and red heather growing between the blackened tree stumps. Red-painted pig-sties and outhouses. Beyond these, in the open, apparatus for mechanical gymnastics, where sick persons are being treated on machines resembling instruments of torture_. _To the left, in the foreground, the quarantine station, consisting of open sheds, with ovens, furnaces, and pipe coils_. _In the middle distance, a narrow strait_. _The background shows a beautiful wooded shore. Flags are flying on its piers, where ride white sailboats, some with sails set and some without. Little Italian villas, pavilions, arbors, marble statues are glimpsed through the foliage along the shore_. THE MASTER OF QUARANTINE, _made up like a blackamoor, is walking along the shore_. THE OFFICER. [_Meets him and they shake hands_] Why, Ordström![3] Have you landed here? MASTER OF Q. Yes, here I am. THE OFFICER. Is this Fairhaven? MASTER OF Q. No, that is on the other side. This is Foulstrand. THE OFFICER. Then we have lost our way. MASTER OF Q. We?--Won't you introduce me? THE OFFICER. No, that wouldn't do. [_In a lowered voice_] It is Indra's own daughter. MASTER OF Q. Indra's? And I was thinking of Varuna himself--Well, are you not surprised to find me black in the face? THE OFFICER. I am past fifty, my boy, and at that age one has ceased to be surprised. I concluded at once that you were bound for some fancy ball this afternoon. MASTER OF Q. Right you were! And I hope both of you will come along. THE OFFICER. Why, yes--for I must say--the place does not look very tempting. What kind of people live here anyhow? MASTER OF Q. Here you find the sick; over there, the healthy. THE OFFICER. Nothing but poor folk on this side, I suppose. MASTER OF Q. No, my boy, it is here you find the rich. Look at that one on the rack. He has stuffed himself with paté de foie gras and truffles and Burgundy until his feet have grown knotted. THE OFFICER. Knotted? MASTER OF Q. Yes, he has a case of knotted feet. And that one who lies under the guillotine--he has swilled brandy so that his backbone has to be put through the mangle. THE OFFICER. There is always something amiss! MASTER OF Q. Moreover, everybody living on this side has some kind of canker to hide. Look at the fellow coming here, for instance. _An old dandy is pushed on the stage in a wheel-chair, he is accompanied by a gaunt and grisly coquette in the sixties, to whom_ THE FRIEND, _a man of about forty, is paying court_. THE OFFICER. It is the major--our schoolmate! MASTER OF Q. Don Juan. Can you see that he is still enamored of that old spectre beside him? He does not notice that she has grown old, or that she is ugly, faithless, cruel. THE OFFICER. Why, that is love! And I couldn't have dreamt that a fickle fellow like him would prove capable of loving so deeply and so earnestly. MASTER OF Q. That is a mighty decent way of looking at it. THE OFFICER. I have been in love with Victoria myself--in fact I am still waiting for her in the passageway---- MASTER OF Q. Oh, you are the fellow who is waiting in the passageway? THE OFFICER. I am the man. MASTER OF Q. Well, have you got that door opened yet? THE OFFICER. No, the case is still in court--THE BILLPOSTER is out with his dipnet, of course, so that the taking of evidence is always being put off--and in the meantime the Glazier has mended all the window panes in the castle, which has grown half a story higher--This has been an uncommonly good year--warm and wet---- MASTER OF Q. But just the same you have had no heat comparing with what I have here. THE OFFICER. How much do you have in your ovens? MASTER OF Q. When we fumigate cholera suspects, we run it up to one hundred and forty degrees. THE OFFICER. Is the cholera going again? MASTER OF Q. Don't you know that? THE OFFICER. Of course, I know it, but I forget so often what I know. MASTER OF Q. I wish often that I could forget--especially myself. That is why I go in for masquerades and carnivals and amateur theatricals. THE OFFICER. What have you been up to then? MASTER OF Q. If I told, they would say that I was boasting; and if I don't tell, then they call me a hypocrite. THE OFFICER. That is why you blackened your face? MASTER OF Q. Exactly--making myself a shade blacker than I am. THE OFFICER. Who is coming there? MASTER OF Q. Oh, a poet who is going to have his mud bath. THE POET _enters with his eyes raised toward the sky and carrying a pail of mud in one hand_. THE OFFICER. Why, he ought to be having light baths and air baths. MASTER OF Q. No, he is roaming about the higher regions so much that he gets homesick for the mud--and wallowing in the mire makes the skin callous like that of a pig. Then he cannot feel the stings of the wasps. THE OFFICER. This is a queer world, full of contradictions. THE POET. [_Ecstatically_] Man was created by the god Phtah out of clay on a potter's wheel, or a lathe--[_sceptically_], or any damned old thing! [_Ecstatically_] Out of clay does the sculptor create his more or less immortal masterpieces--[_sceptically_], which mostly are pure rot. [_Ecstatically_] Out of clay they make those utensils which are so indispensable in the pantry and which generically are named pots and plates--[_sceptically_], but what in thunder does it matter to me what they are called anyhow? [_Ecstatically_] Such is the clay! When clay becomes fluid, it is called mud--C'est mon affaire!--[_shouts_] Lena! Lena _enters with a pail in her hand_. THE POET. Lena, show yourself to Miss Agnes--She knew you ten years ago, when you were a young, happy and, let us say, pretty girl--Behold how she looks now. Five children, drudgery, baby-cries, hunger, ill-treatment. See how beauty has perished and joy vanished in the fulfilment of duties which should have brought that inner satisfaction which makes each line in the face harmonious and fills the eye with a quiet glow. MASTER OF Q. [_Covering the poet's mouth with his hand_] Shut up! Shut up! THE POET. That is what they all say. And if you keep silent, then they cry: speak! Oh, restless humanity! THE DAUGHTER. [_Goes to_ Lena] Tell me your troubles. LENA. No, I dare not, for then they will be made worse. THE DAUGHTER. Who could be so cruel? LENA. I dare not tell, for if I do, I shall be spanked. THE POET. That is just what will happen. But I will speak, even though the blackamoor knock out all my teeth--I will tell that justice is not always done--Agnes, daughter of the gods, do you hear music and dancing on the hill over there?--Well, it is Lena's sister who has come home from the city where she went astray--you understand? Now they are killing the fatted calf; but Lena, who stayed at home, has to carry slop pails and feed the pigs. THE DAUGHTER. There is rejoicing at home because the stray has left the paths of evil, and not merely because she has come back. Bear that in mind. THE POET. But then they should give a ball and banquet every night for the spotless worker that never strayed into paths of error--Yet they do nothing of the kind, but when Lena has a free moment, she is sent to prayer-meetings where she has to hear reproaches for not being perfect. Is this justice? THE DAUGHTER. Your question is so difficult to answer because--There are so many unforeseen cases THE POET. That much the Caliph, Haroun the Just, came to understand. He was sitting on his throne, and from its height he could never make out what happened below. At last complaints penetrated to his exalted ears. And then, one fine day, he disguised himself and descended unobserved among the crowds to find out what kind of justice they were getting. THE DAUGHTER. I hope you don't take me for Haroun the Just! THE OFFICER. Let us talk of something else--Here come visitors. _A white boat, shaped like a viking ship, with a dragon for figure-head, with a pale-blue silken sail on a gilded yard, and with a rose-red standard flying from the top of a gilded mast, glides through the strait from the left._ He _and_ She _are seated in the stern with their arms around each other_. THE OFFICER. Behold perfect happiness, bliss without limits, young love's rejoicing! _The stage grows brighter_. HE. [_Stands up in the boat and sings_] Hail, beautiful haven, Where the Springs of my youth were spent, Where my first sweet dreams were dreamt-- To thee I return, But lonely no longer! Ye hills and groves, Thou sky o'erhead, Thou mirroring sea, Give greeting to her: My love, my bride, My light and my life! _The flags at the landings of Fairhaven are dipped in salute; white handkerchiefs are waved from verandahs and boats, and the air is filled with tender chords from harps and violins_. THE POET. See the light that surrounds them! Hear how the air is ringing with music!--Eros! THE OFFICER. It is Victoria. MASTER OF Q. Well, what of it? THE OFFICER. It is his Victoria--My own is still mine. And nobody can see _her_--Now you hoist the quarantine flag, and I shall pull in the net. [The MASTER OF QUARANTINE _waves a yellow flag._ THE OFFICER. [_Pulling a rope that turns the boat toward Foulstrand_] Hold on there! HE _and_ SHE _become aware of the hideous view and give vent to their horror_. MASTER OF Q. Yes, it comes hard. But here every one must stop who hails from plague-stricken places. THE POET. The idea of speaking in such manner, of acting in such a way, within the presence of two human beings united in love! Touch them not! Lay not hands on love! It is treason!--Woe to us! Everything beautiful must now be dragged down--dragged into the mud! [HE _and_ SHE _step ashore, looking sad and shamefaced_. HE. Woe to us! What have we done? MASTER OF Q. It is not necessary to have done anything in order to encounter life's little pricks. SHE. So short-lived are joy and happiness! HE. How long must we stay here? MASTER OF Q. Forty days and nights. SHE. Then rather into the water! HE. To live here--among blackened hills and pig-sties? THE POET. Love overcomes all, even sulphur fumes and carbolic acid. MASTER OF Q. [_Starts a fire in the stove; blue, sulphurous flames break forth_] Now I set the sulphur going. Will you please step in? SHE. Oh, my blue dress will fade. MASTER OF Q. And become white. So your roses will also turn white in time. HE. Even your cheeks--in forty days! SHE. [_To_ The OFFICER] That will please you. THE OFFICER. No, it will not!--Of course, your happiness was the cause of my suffering, but--it doesn't matter--for I am graduated and have obtained a position over there--heigh-ho and alas! And in the Fall I shall be teaching school--teaching boys the same lessons I myself learned during my childhood and youth--the same lessons throughout my manhood and, finally, in my old age--the self-same lessons! What does twice two make? How many times can four be evenly divided by two?--Until I get a pension and can do nothing at all--just wait around for meals and the newspapers--until at last I am carted to the crematorium and burned to ashes--Have you nobody here who is entitled to a pension? Barring twice two makes four, it is probably the worst thing of all--to begin school all over again when one already is graduated; to ask the same questions until death comes---- _An elderly man goes by, with his hands folded behind his back_. THE OFFICER. There is a pensioner now, waiting for himself to die. I think he must be a captain who missed the rank of major; or an assistant judge who was not made a chief justice. Many are called but few are chosen--He is waiting for his breakfast now. THE PENSIONER. No, for the newspaper--the morning paper. THE OFFICER. And he is only fifty-four years old. He may spend twenty-five more years waiting for meals and newspapers--is it not dreadful? THE PENSIONER. What is not dreadful? Tell me, tell me! THE OFFICER. Tell that who can!--Now I shall have to teach boys that twice two makes four. And how many times four can be evenly divided by two. [_He clutches his head in despair_] And Victoria, whom I loved and therefore wished all the happiness life can give--now she has her happiness, the greatest one known to her, and for this reason I suffer--suffer, suffer! SHE. Do you think I can be happy when I see you suffering? How can you think it? Perhaps it will soothe your pains that I am to be imprisoned here for forty days and nights? Tell me, does it soothe your pains? THE OFFICER. Yes and no. How can I enjoy seeing you suffer? Oh! SHE. And do you think my happiness can be founded on your torments? THE OFFICER. We are to be pitied--all of us! ALL. [_Raise their arms toward the sky and utter a cry of anguish that sounds like a dissonant chord_] Oh! THE DAUGHTER. Everlasting One, hear them! Life is evil! Men are to be pitied! ALL. [_As before_] Oh! _For a moment the stage is completely darkened, and during that moment everybody withdraws or takes up a new position. When the light is turned on again, Foulstrand is seen in the background, lying in deep shadow. The strait is in the middle distance and Fairhaven in the foreground, both steeped in light. To the right, a corner of the Casino, where dancing couples are visible through the open windows. Three servant maids are standing outside on top of an empty box, with arms around each other, staring at the dancers within. On the verandah of the Casino stands a bench, where_ "Plain" EDITH _is sitting. She is bare-headed, with an abundance of tousled hair, and looks sad. In front of her is an open piano_. _To the left, a frame house painted yellow. Two children in light dresses are playing ball outside_. _In the centre of the middle distance, a pier with white sailboats tied to it, and flag poles with hoisted flags. In the strait is anchored a naval vessel, brig-rigged, with gun ports. But the entire landscape is in winter dress, with snow on the ground and on the bare trees_. THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE OFFICER _enter_. THE DAUGHTER. Here is peace, and happiness, and leisure. No more toil; every day a holiday; everybody dressed up in their best; dancing and music in the early morning. [_To the maids_] Why don't you go in and have a dance, girls? THE MAIDS. We? THE OFFICER. They are servants, don't you see! THE DAUGHTER. Of course!--But why is Edith sitting there instead of dancing? [EDITH _buries her face in her hands_. THE OFFICER. Don't question her! She has been sitting there three hours without being asked for a dance. [_Goes into the yellow house on the left_. THE DAUGHTER. What a cruel form of amusement! THE MOTHER. [_In a low-necked dress, enters from the Casino and goes up to_ EDITH] Why don't you go in as I told you? EDITH. Because--I cannot throw myself at them. That I am ugly, I know, and I know that nobody wants to dance with me, but I might be spared from being reminded of it. _Begins to play on the piano, the Toccata Con Fuga, Op_. 10, by Sebastian Bach. [Illustration: music.] _The waltz music from within is heard faintly at first. Then it grows in strength, as if to compete with the Bach Toccata_. EDITH _prevails over it and brings it to silence. Dancers appear in the doorway to hear her play. Everybody on the stage stands still and listens reverently_. A NAVAL OFFICER. [_Takes_ ALICE, _one of the dancers, around the waist and drags her toward the pier_] Come quick! EDITH _breaks off abruptly, rises and stares at the couple with an expression of utter despair; stands as if turned to stone_. _Now the front wall of the yellow house disappears, revealing three benches full of schoolboys. Among these_ THE OFFICER _is seen, looking worried and depressed. In front of the boys stands_ THE TEACHER, _bespectacled and holding a piece of chalk in one hand, a rattan cane in the other_. THE TEACHER. [_To_ THE OFFICER] Well, my boy, can you tell me what twice two makes? THE OFFICER _remains seated while he racks his mind without finding an answer_. THE TEACHER. You must rise when I ask you a question. THE OFFICER. [_Harassed, rises_] Two--twice--let me see. That makes two-two. THE TEACHER. I see! You have not studied your lesson. THE OFFICER. [_Ashamed_] Yes, I have, but--I know the answer, but I cannot tell it---- THE TEACHER. You want to wriggle out of it, of course. You know it, but you cannot tell. Perhaps I may help you. [_Pulls his hair_. THE OFFICER. Oh, it is dreadful, it is dreadful! THE TEACHER. Yes, it is dreadful that such a big boy lacks all ambition---- THE OFFICER. [_Hurt_] Big boy--yes, I am big--bigger than all these others--I am full-grown, I am done with school--[_As if waking up_] I have graduated--why am I then sitting here? Have I not received my doctor's degree? THE TEACHER. Certainly, but you are to sit here and mature, you know. You have to mature--isn't that so? THE OFFICER. [_Feels his forehead_] Yes, that is right, one must mature--Twice two--makes two--and this I can demonstrate by analogy, which is the highest form of all reasoning. Listen!--Once one makes one; consequently twice two must make two. For what applies in one case must also apply in another. THE TEACHER. Your conclusion is based on good logic, but your answer is wrong. THE OFFICER. What is logical cannot be wrong. Let us test it. One divided by one gives one, so that two divided by two must give two. THE TEACHER. Correct according to analogy. But how much does once three make? THE OFFICER. Three, of course. THE TEACHER. Consequently twice three must also make three. THE OFFICER. [_Pondering_] No, that cannot be right--it cannot--or else--[_Sits down dejectedly_] No, I am not mature yet. THE TEACHER. No, indeed, you are far from mature. THE OFFICER. But how long am I to sit here, then? THE TEACHER. Here--how long? Do you believe that time and space exist?--Suppose that time does exist, then you should be able to say what time is. What is time? THE OFFICER. Time--[_Thinks_] I cannot tell, but I know what it is. Consequently I may also know what twice two is without being able to tell it. And, teacher, can you tell what time is? THE TEACHER. Of course I can. ALL THE BOYS. Tell us then! THE TEACHER. Time--let me see. [_Stands immovable until one finger on his nose_] While we are talking, time flies. Consequently time is something that flies while we talk. A BOY. [_Rising_] Now you are talking, teacher, and while you are talking, I fly: consequently I am time. [_Runs out_. THE TEACHER. That accords completely with the laws of logic. THE OFFICER. Then the laws of logic are silly, for Nils who ran away, cannot be time. THE TEACHER. That is also good logic, although it is silly. THE OFFICER. Then logic itself is silly. THE TEACHER. So it seems. But if logic is silly, then all the world is silly--and then the devil himself wouldn't stay here to teach you more silliness. If anybody treats me to a drink, we'll go and take a bath. THE OFFICER. That is a _posterus prius_, or the world turned upside down, for it is customary to bathe first and have the drink afterward. Old fogy! THE TEACHER. Beware of a swelled head, doctor! THE OFFICER. Call me captain, if you please. I am an officer, and I cannot understand why I should be sitting here to get scolded like a schoolboy---- THE TEACHER. [_With raised index finger_] We were to mature! MASTER OF Q. [_Enters_] The quarantine begins. THE OFFICER. Oh, there you are. Just think of it, this fellow makes me sit among the boys although I am graduated. MASTER OF Q. Well, why don't you go away? THE OFFICER. Heaven knows!--Go away? Why, that is no easy thing to do. THE TEACHER. I guess not--just try! THE OFFICER. [_To_ MASTER OF QUARANTINE] Save me! Save me from his eye! MASTER OF Q. Come on. Come and help us dance--We have to dance before the plague breaks out. We must! THE OFFICER. Is the brig leaving? MASTER OF Q. Yes, first of all the brig must leave--Then there will be a lot of tears shed, of course. THE OFFICER. Always tears: when she comes and when she goes--Let us get out of here. _They go out_. THE TEACHER _continues his lesson in silence_. THE MAIDS _that were staring through the window of the dance hall walk sadly down to the pier_. EDITH, _who has been standing like a statue at the piano, follows them_. THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE OFFICER] Is there not one happy person to be found in this paradise? THE OFFICER. Yes, there is a newly married couple. Just watch them. THE NEWLY MARRIED COUPLE _enter_. HUSBAND. [_To his_ WIFE] My joy has no limits, and I could now wish to die---- WIFE. Why die? HUSBAND. Because at the heart of happiness grows the seed of disaster. Happiness devours itself like a flame--it cannot burn for ever, but must go out some time. And this presentiment of the coming end destroys joy in the very hour of its culmination. WIFE. Let us then die together--this moment! HUSBAND. Die? All right! For I fear happiness--that cheat! [_They go toward the water_. THE DAUGHTER. Life is evil! Men are to be pitied! THE OFFICER. Look at this fellow. He is the most envied mortal in this neighbourhood. THE BLIND MAN _is led in_. THE OFFICER. He is the owner of these hundred or more Italian villas. He owns all these bays, straits, shores, forests, together with the fishes in the water, the birds in the air, the game in the woods. These thousand or more people are his tenants. The sun rises upon his sea and sets upon his land---- THE DAUGHTER. Well--is he complaining also? THE OFFICER. Yes, and with right, for he cannot see. MASTER OF Q. He is blind. THE DAUGHTER. The most envied of all! THE OFFICER. Now he has come to see the brig depart with his son on board. THE BLIND MAN. I cannot see, but I hear. I hear the anchor bill claw the clay bottom as when the hook is torn out of a fish and brings up the heart with it through the neck--My son, my only child, is going to journey across the wide sea to foreign lands, and I can follow him only in my thought! Now I hear the clanking of the chain--and--there is something that snaps and cracks like clothes drying on a line--wet handkerchiefs perhaps. And I hear it blubber and snivel as when people are weeping--maybe the splashing of the wavelets among the seines--or maybe girls along the shore, deserted and disconsolate--Once I asked a child why the ocean is salt, and the child, which had a father on a long trip across the high seas, said immediately: the ocean is salt because the sailors shed so many tears into it. And why do the sailors cry so much then?--Because they are always going away, replied the child; and that is why they are always drying their handkerchiefs in the rigging--And why does man weep when he is sad? I asked at last--Because the glass in the eyes must be washed now and then, so that we can see clearly, said the child. _The brig has set sail and is gliding off. The girls along the shore are alternately waving their handkerchiefs and wiping off their tears with them. Then a signal is set on the foremast--a red ball in a white field, meaning "yes." In response to it_ Alice _waves her handkerchief triumphantly_. THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE OFFICER] What is the meaning of that flag? THE OFFICER. It means "yes." It is the lieutenant's troth--red as the red blood of the arteries, set against the blue cloth of the sky. THE DAUGHTER. And how does "no" look? THE OFFICER. It is blue as the spoiled blood in the veins--but look, how jubilant Alice is. THE DAUGHTER. And how Edith cries. THE BLIND MAN. Meet and part. Part and meet. That is life. I met his mother. And then she went away from me. He was left to me; and now he goes. THE DAUGHTER. But he will come back. THE BLIND MAN. Who is speaking to me? I have heard that voice before--in my dreams; in my youth, when vacation began; in the early years of my marriage, when my child was born. Every time life smiled at me, I heard that voice, like a whisper of the south wind, like a chord of harps from above, like what I feel the angels' greeting must be in the Holy Night---- THE LAWYER _enters and goes up to whisper something into_ THE BLIND MAN's _ear_. THE BLIND MAN. Is that so? THE LAWYER. That's the truth. [_Goes to_ THE DAUGHTER] Now you have seen most of it, but you have not yet tried the worst of it. THE DAUGHTER. What can that be? THE LAWYER. Repetition--recurrence. To retrace one's own tracks; to be sent back to the task once finished--come! THE DAUGHTER. Where? THE LAWYER. To your duties. THE DAUGHTER. What does that mean? THE LAWYER. Everything you dread. Everything you do not want but must. It means to forego, to give up, to do without, to lack--it means everything that is unpleasant, repulsive, painful. THE DAUGHTER. Are there no pleasant duties? THE LAWYER. They become pleasant when they are done. THE DAUGHTER. When they have ceased to exist--Duty is then something unpleasant. What is pleasant then? THE LAWYER. What is pleasant is sin. THE DAUGHTER. Sin? THE LAWYER. Yes, something that has to be punished. If I have had a pleasant day or night, then I suffer infernal pangs and a bad conscience the next day. THE DAUGHTER. How strange! THE LAWYER. I wake up in the morning with a headache; and then the repetitions begin, but so that everything becomes perverted. What the night before was pretty, agreeable, witty, is presented by memory in the morning as ugly, distasteful, stupid. Pleasure seems to decay, and all joy goes to pieces. What men call success serves always as a basis for their next failure. My own successes have brought ruin upon me. For men view the fortune of others with an instinctive dread. They regard it unjust that fate should favour any one man, and so they try to restore balance by piling rocks on the road. To have talent is to be in danger of one's life, for then one may easily starve to death!--However, you will have to return to your duties, or I shall bring suit against you, and we shall pass through every court up to the highest--one, two, three! THE DAUGHTER. Return?--To the iron stove, and the cabbage pot, and the baby clothes---- THE LAWYER. Exactly! We have a big wash to-day, for we must wash all the handkerchiefs---- THE DAUGHTER. Oh, must I do it all over again? THE LAWYER. All life is nothing but doing things over again. Look at the teacher in there--He received his doctor's degree yesterday, was laurelled and saluted, climbed Parnassus and was embraced by the monarch--and to-day he starts school all over again, asks how much twice two makes, and will continue to do so until his death--However, you must come back to your home! THE DAUGHTER. I shall rather die! THE LAWYER. Die?--That is not allowed. First of all, it is a disgrace--so much so that even the dead body is subjected to insults; and secondly, one goes to hell--it is a mortal sin! THE DAUGHTER. It is not easy to be human! ALL. Hear! THE DAUGHTER. I shall not go back with you to humiliation and dirt--I am longing for the heights whence I came--but first the door must be opened so that I may learn the secret--It is my will that the door be opened! THE LAWYER. Then you must retrace your own steps, cover the road you have already travelled, suffer all annoyances, repetitions, tautologies, recopyings, that a suit will bring with it---- THE DAUGHTER. May it come then--But first I must go into the solitude and the wilderness to recover my own self. We shall meet again! [_To_ THE POET] Follow me. _Cries of anguish are heard from a distance_. Woe! Woe! Woe! THE DAUGHTER. What is that? THE LAWYER. The lost souls at Foulstrand. THE DAUGHTER. Why do they wail more loudly than usual to-day? THE LAWYER. Because the sun is shining here; because here we have music, dancing, youth. And it makes them feel their own sufferings more keenly. THE DAUGHTER. We must set them free. THE LAWYER. Try it! Once a liberator appeared, and he was nailed to a cross. THE DAUGHTER. By whom? THE LAWYER. By all the right-minded. THE DAUGHTER. Who are they? THE LAWYER. Are you not acquainted with all the right-minded? Then you must learn to know them. THE DAUGHTER. Were they the ones that prevented your graduation? THE LAWYER. Yes. THE DAUGHTER. Then I know them! _Curtain_. _On the shores of the Mediterranean. To the left, in the foreground, a white wall, and above it branches of an orange tree with ripe fruit on them. In the background, villas and a Casino placed on a terrace. To the right, a huge pile of coal and two wheel-barrows. In the background, to the right, a corner of blue sea_. _Two coalheavers, naked to the waist, their faces, hands, and bodies blackened by coal dust, are seated on the wheel-barrows. Their expressions show intense despair_. THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE LAWYER _in the background_. THE DAUGHTER. This is paradise! FIRST COALHEAVER. This is hell! SECOND COALHEAVER. One hundred and twenty degrees in the shadow. FIRST HEAVER. Let's have a bath. SECOND HEAVER. The police won't let us. No bathing here. FIRST HEAVER. Couldn't we pick some fruit off that tree? SECOND HEAVER. Then the police would get after us. FIRST HEAVER. But I cannot do a thing in this heat--I'll just chuck the job---- SECOND HEAVER. Then the police will get you for sure!-- [_Pause_] And you wouldn't have anything to eat anyhow. FIRST HEAVER. Nothing to eat? We, who work hardest, get least food; and the rich, who do nothing, get most. Might one not--without disregard of truth--assert that this is injustice --What has the daughter of the gods to say about it? THE DAUGHTER. I can say nothing at all--But tell me, what have you done that makes you so black and your lot so hard? FIRST HEAVER. What have we done? We have been born of poor and perhaps not very good parents--Maybe we have been punished a couple of times. THE DAUGHTER. Punished? FIRST HEAVER. Yes, the unpunished hang out in the Casino up there and dine on eight courses with wine. THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE LAWYER] Can that be true? THE LAWYER. On the whole, yes. THE DAUGHTER. You mean to say that every man at some time has deserved to go to prison? THE LAWYER. Yes. THE DAUGHTER. You, too? THE LAWYER. Yes. THE DAUGHTER. Is it true that the poor cannot bathe in the sea? THE LAWYER. Yes. Not even with their clothes on. None but those who intend to take their own lives escape being fined. And those are said to get a good drubbing at the police station. THE DAUGHTER. But can they not go outside of the city, out into the country, and bathe there? THE LAWYER. There is no place for them--all the land is fenced in. THE DAUGHTER. But I mean in the free, open country. THE LAWYER. There is no such thing--it all belongs to somebody. THE DAUGHTER. Even the sea, the great, vast sea---- THE LAWYER. Even that! You cannot sail the sea in a boat and land anywhere without having it put down in writing and charged for. It is lovely! THE DAUGHTER. This is not paradise. THE LAWYER. I should say not! THE DAUGHTER. Why don't men do something to improve their lot? THE LAWYER. Oh, they try, of course, but all the improvers end in prison or in the madhouse---- THE DAUGHTER. Who puts them in prison? THE LAWYER. All the right-minded, all the respectable---- THE DAUGHTER. Who sends them to the madhouse? THE LAWYER. Their own despair when they grasp the hopelessness of their efforts. THE DAUGHTER. Has the thought not occurred to anybody, that for secret reasons it must be as it is? THE LAWYER. Yes, those who are well off always think so. THE DAUGHTER. That it is all right as it is? FIRST HEAVER. And yet we are the foundations of society. If the coal is not unloaded, then there will be no fire in the kitchen stove, in the parlour grate, or in the factory furnace; then the light will go out in streets and shops and homes; then darkness and cold will descend upon you--and, therefore, we have to sweat as in hell so that the black coals may be had--And what do you do for us in return? THE LAWYER. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Help them!--[_Pause_] That conditions cannot be quite the same for everybody, I understand, but why should they differ so widely? A GENTLEMAN _and_ A LADY _pass across the stage_. THE LADY. Will you come and play a game with us? THE GENTLEMAN. No, I must take a walk, so I can eat something for dinner. FIRST HEAVER. So that he _can_ eat something? SECOND HEAVER. So that he _can_----? _Children enter and cry with horror when they catch sight of the grimy workers_. FIRST HEAVER. They cry when they see us. They cry---- SECOND HEAVER. Damn it all!--I guess we'll have to pull out the scaffolds soon and begin to operate on this rotten body---- FIRST HEAVER. Damn it, I say, too! [_Spits_. THE LAWYER. [_To_ THE DAUGHTER] Yes, it is all wrong. And men are not so very bad--but---- THE DAUGHTER. But---- THE LAWYER. But the government---- THE DAUGHTER. [_Goes out, hiding her face in her hands_] This is not paradise. COALHEAVERS. No, hell, that's what it is! _Curtain_. [Footnote 3: Means literally "wordspout."] _Fingal's Cave. Long green waves are rolling slowly into the cave. In the foreground, a siren buoy is swaying to and fro in time with the waves, but without sounding except at the indicated moment. Music of the winds. Music of the waves_. THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE POET. THE POET. Where are you leading me? THE DAUGHTER. Far away from the noise and lament of the man-children, to the utmost end of the ocean, to the cave that we name Indra's Ear because it is the place where the king of the heavens is said to listen to the complaints of the mortals. THE POET. What? In this place? THE DAUGHTER. Do you see how this cave is built like a shell? Yes, you can see it. Do you know that your ear, too, is built in the form of a shell? You know it, but have not thought of it. [_She picks up a shell from the beach_] Have you not as a child held such a shell to your ear and listened--and heard the ripple of your heart-blood, the humming of your thoughts in the brain, the snapping of a thousand little worn-out threads in the tissues of your body? All that you hear in this small shell. Imagine then what may be heard in this larger one! THE POET. [_Listening_] I hear nothing but the whispering of the wind. THE DAUGHTER. Then I shall interpret it for you. Listen. The wail of the winds. [_Recites to subdued music_: Born beneath the clouds of heaven, Driven we were by the lightnings of Indra Down to the sand-covered earth. Straw from the harvested fields soiled our feet; Dust from the high-roads, Smoke from the cities, Foul-smelling breaths, Fumes from cellars and kitchens, All we endured. Then to the open sea we fled, Filling our lungs with air, Shaking our wings, And laving our feet. Indra, Lord of the Heavens, Hear us! Hear our sighing! Unclean is the earth; Evil is life; Neither good nor bad Can men be deemed. As they can, they live, One day at a time. Sons of dust, through dust they journey; Born out of dust, to dust they return. Given they were, for trudging, Feet, not wings for flying. Dusty they grow-- Lies the fault then with them, Or with Thee? THE POET. Thus I heard it once---- THE DAUGHTER. Hush! The winds are still singing. [_Recites to subdued music_: We, winds that wander, We, the air's offspring, Bear with us men's lament. Heard us you have During gloom-filled Fall nights, In chimneys and pipes, In key-holes and door cracks, When the rain wept on the roof: Heard us you have In the snowclad pine woods Midst wintry gloom: Heard us you have, Crooning and moaning In ropes and rigging On the high-heaving sea. It was we, the winds, Offspring of the air, Who learned how to grieve Within human breasts Through which we passed-- In sick-rooms, on battle-fields, But mostly where the newborn Whimpered and wailed At the pain of living. We, we, the winds, We are whining and whistling: Woe! Woe! Woe! THE POET. It seems to me that I have already---- THE DAUGHTER. Hush! Now the waves are singing. [_Recites to subdued music_: We, we waves, That are rocking the winds To rest-- Green cradles, we waves! Wet are we, and salty; Leap like flames of fire-- Wet flames are we: Burning, extinguishing; Cleansing, replenishing; Bearing, engendering. We, we waves, That are rocking the winds To rest! THE DAUGHTER. False waves and faithless! Everything on earth that is not burned, is drowned--by the waves. Look at this. [_Pointing to pile of debris_] See what the sea has taken and spoiled! Nothing but the figure-heads remain of the sunken ships--and the names: _Justice_, _Friendship, Golden Peace, Hope_--this is all that is left of _Hope_--of fickle _Hope_--Railings, tholes, bails! And lo: the life buoy--which saved itself and let distressed men perish. THE POET. [_Searching in the pile_] Here is the name-board of the ship _Justice_. That was the one which left Fairhaven with the Blind Man's son on board. It is lost then! And with it are gone the lover of Alice, the hopeless love of Edith. THE DAUGHTER. The Blind Man? Fairhaven? I must have been dreaming of them. And the lover of Alice, "Plain" Edith, Foulstrand and the Quarantine, sulphur and carbolic acid, the graduation in the church, the Lawyer's office, the passageway and Victoria, the Growing Castle and the Officer--All this I have been dreaming---- THE POET. It was in one of my poems. THE DAUGHTER. You know then what poetry is---- THE POET. I know then what dreaming is--But what is poetry? THE DAUGHTER. Not reality, but more than reality--not dreaming, but daylight dreams---- THE POET. And the man-children think that we poets are only playing--that we invent and make believe. THE DAUGHTER. And fortunate it is, my friend, for otherwise the world would lie fallow for lack of ministration. Everybody would be stretched on his back, staring into the sky. Nobody would be touching plough or spade, hammer or plane. THE POET. And you say this, Indra's daughter, you who belong in part up there---- THE DAUGHTER. You do right in reproaching me. Too long have I stayed down here taking mud baths like you--My thoughts have lost their power of flight; there is clay on their wings--mire on their feet--and I myself--[_raising her arms_] I sink, I sink--Help me, father, Lord of the Heavens! [_Silence_] I can no longer hear his answer. The ether no longer carries the sound from his lips to my ear's shell the silvery thread has snapped--Woe is me, I am earthbound! THE POET. Do you mean to ascend--soon? THE DAUGHTER. As soon as I have consigned this mortal shape to the flames--for even the waters of the ocean cannot cleanse me. Why do you question me thus? THE POET. Because I have a prayer---- THE DAUGHTER. What kind of prayer? THE POET. A written supplication from humanity to the ruler of the universe, formulated by a dreamer. THE DAUGHTER. To be presented by whom? THE POET. By Indra's daughter. THE DAUGHTER. Can you repeat what you have written? THE POET. I can. THE DAUGHTER. Speak it then. THE POET. Better that you do it. THE DAUGHTER. Where can I read it? THE POET. In my mind--or here. [_Hands her a roll of paper._ THE DAUGHTER. [_Receives the roll, but reads without looking at it_] Well, by me it shall be spoken then: "Why must you be born in anguish? Why, O man-child, must you always Wring your mother's heart with torture When you bring her joy maternal, Highest happiness yet known? Why to life must you awaken, Why to light give natal greeting, With a cry of anger and of pain? Why not meet it smiling, man-child, When the gift of life is counted In itself a boon unmatched? Why like beasts should we be coming, We of race divine and human? Better garment craves the spirit Than one made of filth and blood! Need a god his teeth be changing----" --Silence, rash one! Is it seemly For the work to blame its maker? No one yet has solved life's riddle. "Thus begins the human journey O'er a road of thorns and thistles; If a beaten path be offered. It is named at once forbidden; If a flower you covet, straightway You are told it is another's; If a field should bar your progress, And you dare to break across it, You destroy your neighbour's harvest; Others then your own will trample, That the measure may be evened! Every moment of enjoyment Brings to some one else a sorrow, But your sorrow gladdens no one, For from sorrow naught but sorrow springs. "Thus you journey till you die, And your death brings others' bread." --Is it thus that you approach, Son of Dust, the One Most High? THE POET. Could the son of dust discover Words so pure and bright and simple That to heaven they might ascend----? Child of gods, wilt thou interpret Mankind's grievance in some language That immortals understand? THE DAUGHTER. I will. THE POET. [_Pointing to the buoy_] What is that floating there?--A buoy? THE DAUGHTER. Yes. THE POET. It looks like a lung with a windpipe. THE DAUGHTER. It is the watchman of the seas. When danger is abroad, it sings. THE POET. It seems to me as if the sea were rising and the waves growing larger---- THE DAUGHTER. Not unlikely. THE POET. Woe! What do I see? A ship bearing down upon the reef. THE DAUGHTER. What ship can that be? THE POET. The ghost ship of the seas, I think. THE DAUGHTER. What ship is that? THE POET. The _Flying Dutchman_. THE DAUGHTER. Oh, that one. Why is he punished so hard, and why does he not seek harbour? THE POET. Because he had seven faithless wives. THE DAUGHTER. And for this he should be punished? THE POET. Yes, all the right-minded condemned him---- THE DAUGHTER. Strange world, this!--How can he then be freed from his curse? THE POET. Freed?--Oh, they take good care that none is set free. THE DAUGHTER. Why? THE POET. Because--No, it is not the _Dutchman_! It is an ordinary ship in distress. Why does not the buoy cry out now? Look, how the sea is rising--how high the waves are--soon we shall be unable to get out of the cave! Now the ship's bell is ringing--Soon we shall have another figure-head. Cry out, buoy! Do your duty, watchman! [_The buoy sounds a four-voice chord of fifths and sixths, reminding one of fog horns_] The crew is signalling to us--but we are doomed ourselves. THE DAUGHTER. Do you not wish to be set free? THE POET. Yes, of course--of course, I wish it--but not just now, and not by water. THE CREW. [_Sings in quartet_] Christ Kyrie! [Illustration: music.] THE POET. Now they are crying aloud, and so is the sea, but no one gives ear. THE CREW. [_As before_] Christ Kyrie! THE DAUGHTER. Who is coming there? THE POET. Walking on the waters? There is only one who does that--and it is not Peter, the Rock, for he sank like a stone---- _A white light is seen shining over the water at some distance_. THE CREW. Christ Kyrie! THE DAUGHTER. Can this be He? THE POET. It is He, the crucified---- THE DAUGHTER. Why--tell me--why was He crucified? THE POET. Because He wanted to set free---- THE DAUGHTER. Who was it--I have forgotten--that crucified Him? THE POET. All the right-minded. THE DAUGHTER. What a strange world! THE POET. The sea is rising. Darkness is closing in upon us. The storm is growing---- [THE CREW _set up a wild outcry_. THE POET. The crew scream with horror at the sight of their Saviour--and now--they are leaping overboard for fear of the Redeemer---- [THE CREW _utter another cry_. THE POET. Now they are crying because they must die. Crying when they are born, and crying when they pass away! [_The rising waves threaten to engulf the two in the cave_. THE DAUGHTER. If I could only be sure that it is a ship---- THE POET. Really--I don't think it is a ship--It is a two-storied house with trees in front of it--and--a telephone tower--a tower that reaches up into the skies--It is the modern Tower of Babel sending wires to the upper regions--to communicate with those above---- THE DAUGHTER. Child, the human thought needs no wires to make a way for itself--the prayers of the pious penetrate the universe. It cannot be a Tower of Babel, for if you want to assail the heavens, you must do so with prayer. THE POET. No, it is no house--no telephone tower--don't you see? THE DAUGHTER. What are you seeing? THE POET. I see an open space covered with snow--a drill ground--The winter sun is shining from behind a church on a hill, and the tower is casting its long shadow on the snow--Now a troop of soldiers come marching across the grounds. They march up along the tower, up the spire. Now they have reached the cross, but I have a feeling that the first one who steps on the gilded weathercock at the top must die. Now they are near it--a corporal is leading them--ha-ha! There comes a cloud sweeping across the open space, and right in front of the sun, of course--now everything is gone--the water in the cloud put out the sun's fire!--The light of the sun created the shadow picture of the tower, but the shadow picture of the cloud swallowed the shadow picture of the tower---- _While_ THE POET _is still speaking, the stage is changed and shows once more the passageway outside the opera-house_. THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE PORTRESS] Has the Lord Chancellor arrived yet? THE PORTRESS. No. THE DAUGHTER. And the Deans of the Faculties? THE PORTRESS. No. THE DAUGHTER. Call them at once, then, for the door is to be opened---- THE PORTRESS. Is it so very pressing? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, it is. For there is a suspicion that the solution of the world-riddle may be hidden behind it. Call the Lord Chancellor, and the Deans of the Four Faculties also. [THE PORTRESS _blows in a whistle_. THE DAUGHTER. And do not forget the Glazier and his diamond, for without them nothing can be done. STAGE PEOPLE _enter from the left as in the earlier scene_. THE OFFICER. [_Enters from the background, in Prince Albert and high hat, with a bunch of roses in his hand, looking radiantly happy_] Victoria! THE PORTRESS. The young lady will be coming in a moment. THE OFFICER. Good! The carriage is waiting, the table is set, the wine is on ice--Permit me to embrace you, madam! [_Embraces_ THE PORTRESS] Victoria! A WOMAN'S VOICE FROM ABOVE. [_Sings_] I am here! THE OFFICER. [_Begins to walk to and fro_] Good! I am waiting. THE POET. It seems to me that all this has happened before---- THE DAUGHTER. So it seems to me also. THE POET. Perhaps I have dreamt it. THE DAUGHTER. Or put it in a poem, perhaps. THE POET. Or put it in a poem. THE DAUGHTER. Then you know what poetry is. THE POET. Then I know what dreaming is. THE DAUGHTER. It seems to me that we have said all this to each other before, in some other place. THE POET. Then you may soon figure out what reality is. THE DAUGHTER. Or dreaming! THE POET. Or poetry! _Enter the_ LORD CHANCELLOR _and the_ DEANS _of the_ THEOLOGICAL, PHILOSOPHICAL, MEDICAL, _and_ LEGAL FACULTIES. LORD CHANCELLOR. It is about the opening of that door, of course--What does the Dean of the Theological Faculty think of it? DEAN OF THEOLOGY. I do not think--I believe--_Credo_---- DEAN OF PHILOSOPHY. I hold---- DEAN OF MEDICINE. I know---- DEAN OF JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt until I have evidence and witnesses. LORD CHANCELLOR. Now they are fighting again!--Well, what does Theology believe? THEOLOGY. I believe that this door must not be opened, because it hides dangerous truths---- PHILOSOPHY. Truth is never dangerous. MEDICINE. What is truth? JURISPRUDENCE. What can be proved by two witnesses. THEOLOGY. Anything can be proved by two false witnesses--thinks the pettifogger. PHILOSOPHY. Truth is wisdom, and wisdom, knowledge, is philosophy itself--Philosophy is the science of sciences, the knowledge of knowing, and all other sciences are its servants. MEDICINE. Natural science is the only true science--and philosophy is no science at all. It is nothing but empty speculation. THEOLOGY. Good! PHILOSOPHY. [_To_ THEOLOGY] Good, you say! And what are you, then? You are the arch-enemy of all knowledge; you are the very antithesis of knowledge; you are ignorance and obscuration---- MEDICINE. Good! THEOLOGY. [_To_ MEDICINE] You cry "good," you, who cannot see beyond the length of your own nose in the magnifying glass; who believes in nothing but your own unreliable senses--in your vision, for instance, which may be far-sighted, near-sighted, blind, purblind, cross-eyed, one-eyed, colour-blind, red-blind, green-blind---- MEDICINE. Idiot! THEOLOGY. Ass! [_They fight_. LORD CHANCELLOR. Peace! One crow does not peck out the other's eye. PHILOSOPHY. If I had to choose between those two, Theology and Medicine, I should choose--neither! JURISPRUDENCE. And if I had to sit in judgment on the three of you, I should find--all guilty! You cannot agree on a single point, and you never could. Let us get back to the case in court. What is the opinion of the Lord Chancellor as to this door and its opening? LORD CHANCELLOR. Opinion? I have no opinion whatever. I am merely appointed by the government to see that you don't break each other's arms and legs in the Council--while you are educating the young! Opinion? Why, I take mighty good care to avoid everything of the kind. Once I had one or two, but they were refuted at once. Opinions are always refuted--by their opponents, of course--But perhaps we might open the door now, even with the risk of finding some dangerous truths behind it? JURISPRUDENCE. What is truth? What is truth? THEOLOGY. I am the truth and the life---- PHILOSOPHY. I am the science of sciences---- MEDICINE. I am the only exact science---- JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt---- [_They fight_. THE DAUGHTER. Instructors of the young, take shame! JURISPRUDENCE. Lord Chancellor, as representative of the government, as head of the corps of instructors, you must prosecute this woman's offence. She has told all of you to take shame, which is an insult; and she has--in a sneering, ironical sense--called you instructors of the young, which is a slanderous speech. THE DAUGHTER. Poor youth! JURISPRUDENCE. She pities the young, which is to accuse us. Lord Chancellor, you must prosecute the offence. THE DAUGHTER. Yes, I accuse you--you in a body--of sowing doubt and discord in the minds of the young. JURISPRUDENCE. Listen to her--she herself is making the young question our authority, and then she charges us with sowing doubt. Is it not a criminal act, I ask all the right-minded? ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Yes, it is criminal. JURISPRUDENCE. All the right-minded have condemned you. Leave in peace with your lucre, or else---- THE DAUGHTER. My lucre? Or else? What else? JURISPRUDENCE. Else you will be stoned. THE POET. Or crucified. THE DAUGHTER. I leave. Follow me, and you shall learn the riddle. THE POET. Which riddle? THE DAUGHTER. What did he mean with "my lucre"? THE POET. Probably nothing at all. That kind of thing we call talk. He was just talking. THE DAUGHTER. But it was what hurt me more than anything else! THE POET. That is why he said it, I suppose--Men are that way. ALL RIGHT-MINDED. Hooray! The door is open. LORD CHANCELLOR. What was behind the door? THE GLAZIER. I can see nothing. LORD CHANCELLOR. He cannot see anything--of course, he cannot! Deans of the Faculties: what was behind that door? THEOLOGY. Nothing! That is the solution of the world-riddle. In the beginning God created heaven and the earth out of nothing---- PHILOSOPHY. Out of nothing comes nothing. MEDICINE. Yes, bosh--which is nothing! JURISPRUDENCE. I doubt. And this is a case of deception. I appeal to all the right-minded. THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE POET] Who are the right-minded? THE POET. Who can tell? Frequently all the right-minded consist of a single person. To-day it is me and mine; to-morrow it is you and yours. To that position you are appointed--or rather, you appoint yourself to it. ALL RIGHT-MINDED. We have been deceived. LORD CHANCELLOR. Who has deceived you? ALL RIGHT-MINDED. The Daughter! LORD CHANCELLOR. Will the Daughter please tell us what she meant by having this door opened? THE DAUGHTER. No, friends. If I did, you would not believe me. MEDICINE. Why, then, there is nothing there. THE DAUGHTER. You have said it--but you have not understood. MEDICINE. It is bosh, what she says! ALL. Bosh! THE DAUGHTER. [_To_ THE POET] They are to be pitied. THE POET. Are you in earnest? THE DAUGHTER. Always in earnest. THE POET. Do you think the right-minded are to be pitied also? THE DAUGHTER. They most of all, perhaps. THE POET. And the four faculties, too? THE DAUGHTER. They also, and not the least. Four heads, four minds, and one body. Who made that monster? ALL. She has not answered! LORD CHANCELLOR. Stone her then! THE DAUGHTER. I have answered. LORD CHANCELLOR. Hear--she answers. ALL. Stone her! She answers! THE DAUGHTER. Whether she answer or do not answer, stone her! Come, prophet, and I shall tell you the riddle--but far away from here--out in the desert, where no one can hear us, no one see us, for---- THE LAWYER. [_Enters and takes_ THE DAUGHTER _by the arm_] Have you forgotten your duties? THE DAUGHTER. Oh, heavens, no! But I have higher duties. THE LAWYER. And your child? THE DAUGHTER. My child--what of it? THE LAWYER. Your child is crying for you. THE DAUGHTER. My child! Woe, I am earth-bound! And this pain in my breast, this anguish--what is it? THE LAWYER. Don't you know? THE DAUGHTER. No. THE LAWYER. It is remorse. THE DAUGHTER. Is that remorse? THE LAWYER. Yes, and it follows every neglected duty; every pleasure, even the most innocent, if innocent pleasures exist, which seems doubtful; and every suffering inflicted upon one's fellow-beings. THE DAUGHTER. And there is no remedy? THE LAWYER. Yes, but only one. It consists in doing your duty at once---- THE DAUGHTER. You look like a demon when you speak that word duty--And when, as in my case, there are two duties to be met? THE LAWYER. Meet one first, and then the other. THE DAUGHTER. The highest first--therefore, you look after my child, and I shall do my duty---- THE LAWYER. Your child suffers because it misses you--can you bear to know that a human being is suffering for your sake? THE DAUGHTER. Now strife has entered my soul--it is rent in two, and the halves are being pulled in opposite directions! THE LAWYER. Such, you know, are life's little discords. THE DAUGHTER. Oh, how it is pulling! THE POET. If you could only know how I have spread sorrow and ruin around me by the exercise of my calling--and note that I say _calling_, which carries with it the highest duty of all--then you would not even touch my hand. THE DAUGHTER. What do you mean? THE POET. I had a father who put his whole hope on me as his only son, destined to continue his enterprise. I ran away from the business college. My father grieved himself to death. My mother wanted me to be religious, and I could not do what she wanted--and she disowned me. I had a friend who assisted me through trying days of need--and that friend acted as a tyrant against those on whose behalf I was speaking and writing. And I had to strike down my friend and benefactor in order to save my soul. Since then I have had no peace. Men call me devoid of honour, infamous--and it does not help that my conscience says, "you have done right," for in the next moment it is saying, "you have done wrong." Such is life. THE DAUGHTER. Come with me into the desert. THE LAWYER. Your child! THE DAUGHTER. [_Indicating all those present_] Here are my children. By themselves they are good, but if they only come together, then they quarrel and turn into demons--Farewell! _Outside the castle. The same scenery as in the first scene of the first act. But now the ground in front of the castle wall is covered with flowers--blue monk's-hood or aconite. On the roof of the castle, at the very top of its lantern, there is a chrysanthemum bud ready to open. The castle windows are illuminated with candles_. THE DAUGHTER _and_ THE POET. THE DAUGHTER. The hour is not distant when, with the help of the flames, I shall once more ascend to the ether. It is what you call to die, and what you approach in fear. THE POET. Fear of the unknown. THE DAUGHTER. Which is known to you. THE POET. Who knows it? THE DAUGHTER. All! Why do you not believe your prophets? THE POET. Prophets have always been disbelieved. Why is that so? And "if God has spoken, why will men not believe then?" His convincing power ought to be irresistible. THE DAUGHTER. Have you always doubted? THE POET. No. I have had certainty many times. But after a while it passed away, like a dream when you wake up. THE DAUGHTER. It is not easy to be human! THE POET. You see and admit it? THE DAUGHTER. I do. THE POET. Listen! Was it not Indra that once sent his son down here to receive the complaints of mankind? THE DAUGHTER. Thus it happened--and how was he received? THE POET. How did he fill his mission?--to answer with another question. THE DAUGHTER. And if I may reply with still another--was not man's position bettered by his visit to the earth? Answer truly! THE POET. Bettered?--Yes, a little. A very little--But instead of asking questions--will you not tell the riddle? THE DAUGHTER. Yes. But to what use? You will not believe me. THE POET. In you I shall believe, for I know who you are. THE DAUGHTER. Then I shall tell! In the morning of the ages, before the sun was shining, Brahma, the divine primal force, let himself be persuaded by Maya, the world-mother, to propagate himself. This meeting of the divine primal matter with the earth-matter was the fall of heaven into sin. Thus the world, existence, mankind, are nothing but a phantom, an appearance, a dream-image---- THE POET. My dream! THE DAUGHTER. A dream of truth! But in order to free themselves from the earth-matter, the offspring of Brahma seek privation and suffering. There you have suffering as a liberator. But this craving for suffering comes into conflict with the craving for enjoyment, or love--do you now understand what love is, with its utmost joys merged into its utmost sufferings, with its mixture of what is most sweet and most bitter? Can you now grasp what woman is? Woman, through whom sin and death found their way into life? THE POET. I understand!--And the end? THE DAUGHTER. You know it: conflict between the pain of enjoyment and the pleasure of suffering--between the pangs of the penitent and the joys of the prodigal---- THE POET. A conflict it is then? THE DAUGHTER. Conflict between opposites produces energy, as fire and water give the power of steam---- THE POET. But peace? Rest? THE DAUGHTER. Hush! You must ask no more, and I can no longer answer. The altar is already adorned for the sacrifice--the flowers are standing guard--the candles are lit--there are white sheets in the windows--spruce boughs have been spread in the gateway---- THE POET. And you say this as calmly as if for you suffering did not exist! THE DAUGHTER. You think so?--I have suffered all your sufferings, but in a hundredfold degree, for my sensations were so much more acute---- THE POET. Relate your sorrow! THE DAUGHTER. Poet, could you tell yours so that not one word went too far? Could your word at any time approach your thought? THE POET. No, you are right! To myself I appeared like one struck dumb, and when the mass listened admiringly to my song, I found it mere noise--for this reason, you see, I have always felt ashamed when they praised me. THE DAUGHTER. And then you ask me--Look me straight in the eye! THE POET. I cannot bear your glance---- THE DAUGHTER. How could you bear my word then, were I to speak in your tongue? THE POET. But tell me at least before you go: from what did you suffer most of all down here? THE DAUGHTER. From--_being_: to feel my vision weakened by an eye, my hearing blunted by an ear, and my thought, my bright and buoyant thought, bound in labyrinthine coils of fat. You have seen a brain--what roundabout and sneaking paths---- THE POET. Well, that is because all the right-minded think crookedly! THE DAUGHTER. Malicious, always malicious, all of you! THE POET. How could one possibly be otherwise? THE DAUGHTER. First of all I now shake the dust from my feet--the dirt and the clay-- [_Takes off her shoes and puts them into the fire_. THE PORTRESS. [_Puts her shawl into the fire_] Perhaps I may burn my shawl at the same time? [_Goes out_. THE OFFICER. [_Enters_] And I my roses, of which only the thorns are left. [_Goes out_. THE BILLPOSTER. [_Enters_] My bills may go, but never the dipnet! [_Goes out_. THE GLAZIER. [_Enters_] The diamond that opened the door--good-bye! [_Goes out_. THE LAWYER. [_Enters_] The minutes of the great process concerning the pope's beard or the water loss in the sources of the Ganges. [_Goes out_. MASTER OF QUARANTINE. [_Enters_] A small contribution in shape of the black mask that made me a blackamoor against my will! [_Goes out_. VICTORIA. [_Enters_] My beauty, my sorrow! [_Goes out_. EDITH. [_Enters_] My plainness, my sorrow! [_Goes out_. THE BLIND MAN. [_Enters; puts his hand into the fire_] I give my hand for my eye. [_Goes out_. DON JUAN _in his wheel chair_; SHE _and_ THE FRIEND. DON JUAN. Hurry up! Hurry up! Life is short! [_Leaves with the other two_. THE POET. I have read that when the end of life draws near, everything and everybody rushes by in continuous review--Is this the end? THE DAUGHTER. Yes, it is my end. Farewell! THE POET. Give us a parting word. THE DAUGHTER. No, I cannot. Do you believe that your words can express our thoughts? DEAN OF THEOLOGY. [_Enters in a rage_] I am cast off by God and persecuted by man; I am deserted by the government and scorned by my colleagues! How am I to believe when nobody else believes? How am I to defend a god that does not defend his own? Bosh, that's what it is! [_Throws a book on the fire and goes out_. THE POET. [_Snatches the book out of the fire_] Do you know what it is? A martyrology, a calendar with a martyr for each day of the year. THE DAUGHTER. Martyr? THE POET. Yes, one that has been tortured and killed on account of his faith! Tell me why?--Do you think that all who are tortured suffer, and that all who are killed feel pain? Suffering is said to be salvation, and death a liberation. CHRISTINE. [_With slips of paper_] I paste, I paste until there is nothing more to paste---- THE POET. And if heaven should split in twain, you would try to paste it together--Away! CHRISTINE. Are there no double windows in this castle? THE POET. Not one, I tell you. CHRISTINE. Well, then I'll go. [_Goes out_. THE DAUGHTER. The parting hour has come, the end draws near. And now farewell, thou dreaming child of man, Thou singer, who alone knows how to live! When from thy winged flight above the earth At times thou sweepest downward to the dust, It is to touch it only, not to stay! And as I go--how, in the parting hour, As one must leave for e'er a friend, a place, The heart with longing swells for what one loves, And with regret for all wherein one failed! O, now the pangs of life in all their force I feel: I know at last the lot of man Regretfully one views what once was scorned; For sins one never sinned remorse is felt; To stay one craves, but equally to leave: As if to horses tied that pull apart, One's heart is split in twain, one's feelings rent, By indecision, contrast, and discord. Farewell! To all thy fellow-men make known That where I go I shall forget them not; And in thy name their grievance shall be placed Before the throne. Farewell! _She goes into the castle. Music is heard. The background is lit up by the burning castle and reveals a wall of human faces, questioning, grieving, despairing. As the castle breaks into flames, the bud on the roof opens into a gigantic chrysanthemum flower_. _Curtain_. THE LINK A TRAGEDY IN ONE ACT 1877 CHARACTERS THE JUDGE, 27 _years_ THE PASTOR, 60 _years_ THE BARON, 42 _years_ THE BARONESS, 40 _years_ ALEXANDER EKLUND } EMMANUEL WICKBERG } CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG } ERIC OTTO BOMAN } ÄRENFRID SÖDERBERG } OLOF ANDERSSON OF WIK } _Jurors_ CARL PETER ANDERSSON OF BERGA } ALEX WALLIN } ANDERS ERIC RUTH } SWEN OSCAR ERLIN } AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS } LUDWIG ÖSTMAN } THE CLERK OF THE COURT THE SHERIFF THE CONSTABLE THE LAWYER ALEXANDERSSON, _a farmer_ ALMA JONSSON, _a servant girl_ THE MILKMAID THE FARM HAND SPECTATORS THE LINK _A court-room. Door and windows in the background. Through the windows are seen the churchyard and the bell-tower. Door on the right. On the left, the desk of the judge on a platform. The front side of the desk is decorated in gold, with the judicial emblems of the sword and the scales. On both sides of the desk are placed chairs and small tables for the twelve jurors. In the centre of the room, benches for the spectators. Along the sides of the room are cupboards built into the walls. On the doors of these are posted court notices and schedules of market tolls_. SCENE I THE SHERIFF _and_ THE CONSTABLE THE SHERIFF. Did you ever see such a lot of people at the summer sessions before? THE CONSTABLE. Not in fifteen years, or since we had the big murder at Alder Lake. SHERIFF. Well, this story here is almost as good as a double parricide. That the Baron and the Baroness are going to separate is scandal enough, but when on top of it the families take to wrangling about properties and estates, then it's easy to see that there's going to be a hot time. The only thing wanting now is that they get to fighting over the child, too, and then King Solomon himself can't tell what's right. CONSTABLE. What is there behind this case anyhow? Some say this and some say that, but the blame ought to rest on somebody? SHERIFF. I don't know about that. Sometimes it is nobody's fault when two quarrel, and then again one alone is to blame for the quarrel of two. Now take my old shrew, for instance, she's running around at home scolding for dear life all by herself when I am away, they tell me. Besides, this is not just a quarrel, but a full-fledged criminal case, and in most such one party is complainant, or the one that has been wronged, and the other is defendant, or the one that has committed the crime. But in this case it is not easy to tell who is guilty, for both parties are at once complainants and defendants. CONSTABLE. Well, well, queer things do happen these days. It's as if the women had gone crazy. My old one has spells when she says that I should bear children also, if there was any justice in things--just as if the Lord didn't know how he made his own creatures. And then I get long rigmaroles about her being human also, just as if I didn't know that before, or had said anything to the contrary; and of her being tired of acting as my servant girl, when, for a fact, I am not much better than her hired man. SHERIFF. So-o. So you have got that kind of plague in your house too. Mine reads a paper she gets at the manor, and then she tells me as something wonderful, one day, that some farmer's lass has turned mason, and the next that an old woman has set upon and beaten her sick husband. I cannot quite get at what's the meaning of it all, but it looks most as if she was mad at me for being a man. CONSTABLE. Mighty queer, that's what it is. [_Offers snuff_] Fine weather we're having. The rye is standing as thick as the hairs in a fox fell, and we got over the black frosts without a hitch. SHERIFF. There is nothing of mine growing, and good years are bad for me: no executions and no auctions. Do you know anything about the new judge who is going to hold court to-day? CONSTABLE. Not much, but I understand he's a youngster who has just got his appointment and is going to sit for the first time now---- SHERIFF. And they say he is religious. Hm! CONSTABLE. Hm-hm!--They're taking an awful time over the church services this year. SHERIFF. [_Puts a big Bible on the judge's desk and a smaller one on each one of the jurors' tables_] It cannot be long till they're done now, for they have been at it most of an hour. CONSTABLE. He's a wonder at preaching, is the Pastor, once he gets going. [_Pause_] Are the parties to put in a personal appearance? SHERIFF. Both of them, so I guess we'll have some scrapping-- [_The bell in the tower begins to ring_] There, now they're done--Just give the tables a wiping, and I think we are ready to start. CONSTABLE. And there's ink in all the wells? SCENE II _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _enter_. BARON. [_In a low voice to the_ BARONESS] Then, before we part for a year, we are perfectly agreed on all points. First, no recriminations in court? BARONESS. Do you think I would care to lay open the intimate details of our common life before a lot of curious peasants? BARON. So much the better! And further: you keep the child during the year of separation, provided it may visit me when I so desire, and provided it is educated in accordance with the principles laid down by me and approved by you? BARONESS. Exactly! BARON. And out of the income from the estate I give you three thousand crowns during the year of separation? BARONESS. Agreed. BARON. Then I have nothing more to add, but ask only to bid you good-bye. Why we part is known only to you and me, and for the sake of our son no one else must know it. But for his sake I beg you also: start no fight, lest we be goaded into soiling the names of his parents. It is more than likely, anyhow, that life in its cruelty will make him suffer for our divorce. BARONESS. I don't care to fight as long as I may keep my child. BARON. Let us then concentrate our attention on the child's welfare and forget what has happened between us. And remember another thing: if we fight about the child and question each other's fitness to take care of it, the judge may take it away from both of us and put it with some of those religious people who will bring it up in hatred and contempt for its parents. BARONESS. That's impossible! BARON. Such, my dear, is the law. BARONESS. It is a stupid law. BARON. Maybe, but it holds; and for you no less than for others. BARONESS. It is unnatural! And I should never submit to it. BARON. You don't have to, as we have decided to raise no objections against each other. We have never agreed before, but on this one point we are at one, are we not: to part without any kind of hostility? [_To the_ SHERIFF] Could the Baroness be permitted to wait in that room over there? SHERIFF. Certainly, walk right in. _The_ BARON _escorts the_ BARONESS _to the door on the right and leaves then himself through the door in the background_. SCENE III _The_ SHERIFF. _The_ CONSTABLE. _The_ LAWYER. ALMA JONSSON. _The_ MILKMAID. _The_ FARM HAND. LAWYER. [_To_ ALMA JONSSON] Look here, my girl: that you have stolen, I don't doubt for a moment; but as your master has no witnesses to it, you are not guilty. But as your master has called you a thief in the presence of two witnesses, he is guilty of slander. And now you are complainant and he defendant. Remember this one thing: the first duty of a criminal is--to deny! ALMA JONSSON. But please, sir, didn't you just say I was no criminal, and master was? LAWYER. You are a criminal because you have committed a theft, but as you have called for a lawyer, it is my unmistakable duty to clear you and convict your master. Therefore, and for the last time: deny! [_To the witnesses_] And as to the witnesses, what are they going to testify? Listen: a good witness sticks to the case. Now you must bear in mind that the question is not whether Alma has stolen anything or not, but only whether Alexandersson said that she had stolen. For, mark you, he has no right to prove his assertions, but we have. Why it should be so, the devil only knows! But that's none of your business. Therefore: keep your tongues straight and your fingers on the Bible! MILKMAID. Lord, but I'm that scared, for I don't know what I'm going to say! FARM HAND. You say as I do, and then you won't be lying. SCENE IV _The_ JUDGE _and the_ PASTOR _enter_. JUDGE. Permit me to thank you for the sermon, Pastor. PASTOR. Oh, don't mention it, Judge. JUDGE. Yes--for, as you know, this is my first court. To tell the truth, I have felt some fear of this career, into which I have been thrown almost against my will. For one thing, the laws are so imperfect, the judicial practices so uncertain, and human nature so full of falsehood and dissimulation, that I have often wondered how a judge could dare to express any definite opinion at all. And to-day you have revived all my old fears. PASTOR. To be conscientious is a duty, of course, but to be sentimental about it won't do. And as everything else on this earth is imperfect, there is no reason why we should expect judges and judgments to be perfect. JUDGE. That may be, but it does not prevent me from harbouring a sense of tremendous responsibility, as I have men's fates in my hand, and a word spoken by me may show its effects through generations. I am especially thinking of this separation suit started by the Baron and his wife, and I have to ask you--you who have administered the two prescribed warnings before the Vestry Board--what is your view concerning their mutual relations and relative guilt? PASTOR. In other words, Judge, you would either put me in your own place or base your decision on my testimony. And all I can do is to refer you to the minutes of the board. JUDGE. Yes, the minutes--I know them. But it is just what does not appear in the minutes that I need to know. PASTOR. What charges the couple made against each other at the private hearings must be my secret. And besides, how can I know who told the truth and who lied? I have to tell you what I told them: there is no reason why I should believe more in one than in the other. JUDGE. But were you not able to form some kind of opinion in the matter during the hearings? PASTOR. When I heard one, I formed one opinion, and another when I was hearing the other. In a word: I have no settled view in this question. JUDGE. But I am to express a definite view--I, who know nothing at all. PASTOR. That is the heavy task of the judge, which I could never undertake. JUDGE. But there are witnesses to be heard? Evidence to be obtained? PASTOR. No, they are not accusing each other in public. And furthermore: two false witnesses will furnish sufficient proof, and a perjurer will do just as well. Do you think I would base my judgment on servant gossip, on the loose-tongued chatter of envious neighbours, or on the spiteful partisanship of relatives? JUDGE. You are a terrible sceptic, Pastor. PASTOR. Well, one gets to be so after sixty, and particularly after having tended souls for forty years. The habit of lying clings like original sin, and I believe that all men lie. As children we lie out of fear; as grown-ups, out of interest, need, instinct for self-preservation; and I have known those who lied out of sheer kindliness. In the present case, and in so far as this married couple is concerned, I fear you will find it very hard to figure out who has told most of the truth, and all I can do is to warn you against being caught in the snares set by preconceived opinions. You were married not long ago yourself, and you are still under the spell of the young woman's witchery. For this reason you may easily become prejudiced in favor of a young and charming lady, who is an unhappy wife and a mother besides. On the other hand, you have also recently become a father, and as such you cannot escape being moved by the impending separation of the father from his child. Beware of sympathy with either side, for sympathy with one is cruelty to the other. JUDGE. One thing will make my task more easy at least, and that is their mutual agreement on the principal points. PASTOR. Don't rely too much on that, for it is what they all say. And when they appear in court, the smouldering fire breaks into open flames. In this case a tiny spark will be enough to start a conflagration. Here comes the jury. Well, good-by for a while! I stay, although I shall not be seen. SCENE V _The_ TWELVE JURORS _enter. The_ SHERIFF _rings a bell from the open doorway in the background. The members of the Court take their seats_. SPECTATORS _pour into the room_. JUDGE. With a reminder of the provisions in Chapter Eleven, Sections Five, Six, and Eight, of the Criminal Code, as to the peace and order that must be maintained in Court, I hereby declare the proceedings of the Court opened. [_Whispers to the_ CLERK OF THE COURT; _then_] Will the newly chosen jury please take the oath. JURORS. [_Rise, each one putting the fingers of one hand on the Bible in front of him; then they speak in unison except when their names are being read out_] I, Alexander Eklund; I, Emmanuel Wickberg; I, Carl Johan Sjöberg; I, Eric Otto Boman; I, Ärenfrid Söderberg; I, Olof Andersson of Wik; I, Carl Peter Andersson of Berga; I, Axel Wallin; I, Anders Eric Ruth; I, Swen Oscar Erlin; I, August Alexander Vass; I, Ludwig Östman; [_all at once, keeping time and speaking with low voices in a low pitch_] promise and swear by God and His Holy Gospel, that I will and shall, according to my best reason and conscience, judge rightly in all cases, no less for the poor than for the rich, and decide in accordance with the law of God and that of this country, as well as its legal statutes: [_in a higher pitch and with raised voices_] never tamper with the law or further any wrong, for the sake of either kinship by blood, kinship by marriage, friendship, envy, ill-will, or fear; nor for the sake of bribe or gift or any other cause, under any form whatsoever: and not make him responsible who has no guilt, or set him free who is guilty. [_Raising their voices still further_] Neither before judgment nor afterward, neither to parties in court nor to others, am I to discover such counsel as may be taken by the Court behind closed doors. All this I will and shall faithfully keep as an honest and upright judge, without fell deceit or design--[_Pause_] So help God my life and soul! [_The_ JURORS _sit down._ JUDGE. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call the case of Alma Jonsson against the farmer Alexandersson. SCENE VI _Enter the_ LAWYER, ALEXANDERSSON, ALMA JONSSON, _the_ MILKMAID, _the_ FARM HAND. SHERIFF, [_Calls out_] The servant girl Alma Jonsson and the farmer Alexandersson. LAWYER. I wish to present my power of attorney for the complainant. JUDGE. [_Examines the submitted document; then_] The servant girl Alma Jonsson has had writ served on her former master, Alexandersson, bringing charges under Chapter Sixteen, Section Eight, of the Criminal Code, providing for imprisonment of not more than six months, or a fine, because Alexandersson has called her a thief without supporting his accusation or making legal charges. What have you to say, Alexandersson? ALEXANDERSSON. I called her a thief because I caught her stealing. JUDGE. Have you witnesses to her theft? ALEXANDERSSON. No, as luck would have it, there's no witnesses, for I mostly go about by myself. JUDGE. Why did you not make a charge against her? ALEXANDERSSON. Well, I never go to court. And then it isn't the usage among us masters to prosecute household thefts, partly because there are so many of 'em, and partly because we don't like to spoil a servant's whole future. JUDGE. Alma Jonsson, what have you to say in answer to this? ALMA JONSSON. Ya-es---- LAWYER. You keep quiet! Alma Jonsson, who is not a defendant in this case, but the complainant, asks to have her witnesses heard in order that she may prove the slander uttered against her by Alexandersson. JUDGE. As Alexandersson has admitted the slander, I shall ask for no witnesses. On the other hand, it is of importance for me to know whether Alma Jonsson be guilty of the offence mentioned, for if Alexandersson had reasonable grounds for his utterance, this will be held a mitigating circumstance when sentence is passed. LAWYER. I must take exception to the statement made by the Court, for by Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the Criminal Code, one charged with slander is denied the right to bring evidence as to the truth of his defamation. JUDGE. Parties, witnesses, and spectators will retire so that the Court may consider the case. [_All go out except the members of the Court_. SCENE VII The COURT. JUDGE. Is Alexandersson an honest and reliable man? ALL THE JURORS. Alexandersson is a reliable man. JUDGE. Is Alma Jonsson known as an honest servant? ERIC OTTO BOMAN. I had to discharge Alma Jonsson last year for petty thievery. JUDGE. And nevertheless I have now to fine Alexandersson. There is no way out of it. Is he poor? LUDWIG ÖSTMAN. He's behind with his Crown taxes, and his crop failed last year. So I guess the fine will be more than he can carry. JUDGE. And yet I can find no reason to postpone the case, as it is a clear one, and Alexandersson has no right to prove anything on his side. Has any one here anything to add or object? ALEXANDER EKLUND. I would just ask leave to make a general reflection. A case like this, where one not only innocent, but offended against, has to take the punishment, while the thief has his so-called honour restored, may easily bring about that people grow less forbearing toward their fellow-men, and that taking cases to court grows more common. JUDGE. This is quite possible, but general reflections have no place in the proceedings, and the Court has to make a decision. Consequently my one question to the jury is: can Alexandersson be held guilty under Chapter Sixteen, Section Thirteen, of the Criminal Code? ALL THE JURORS. Yes. JUDGE. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call in the parties and the witnesses. SCENE VIII ALL _return_. JUDGE. In the case of Alma Jonsson against the farmer Alexandersson, Alexandersson is sentenced to pay a fine of one hundred crowns for slander. ALEXANDERSSON. But I saw her stealing with my own eyes!--That's what one gets for being kind! LAWYER. [_To_ ALMA JONSSON] What did I tell you! If you only deny, everything is all right. Alexandersson acted like a fool and denied nothing. If I had been his counsel, and he had denied the charge, I should have challenged your witnesses, and there you would have been!--Now we'll go out and settle up this business. [_Goes out with_ ALMA JONSSON _and the witnesses_. ALEXANDERSSON. [_To the_ Sheriff] And perhaps I have now got to give Alma her papers and write down that she has been honest and faithful? SHERIFF. That's none of my concern! ALEXANDERSSON. [_To the_ Constable] And for a thing like this I am to lose house and land! Who'd believe it, that justice means honour for the thief and a flogging for him that's robbed! Damn it!--Come and have a cup of coffee with a stick in it afterward, Öman. CONSTABLE. I'll come, but don't make a row. ALEXANDERSSON. Yes, I'll be damned if I don't, even if it should cost me three months! CONSTABLE. Now please don't make a row--don't make a row! SCENE IX _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _enter after awhile_. JUDGE. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call the separation suit of Baron Sprengel and his wife, born Malmberg. SHERIFF. Separation suit of Baron Sprengel and his wife, born Malmberg. _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _enter_. JUDGE. In the proceedings entered against his wife, Baron Sprengel declares his intention of not continuing the marriage, and requests that, as the warnings of the Vestry Board have proved fruitless, order be issued for a year's separation in bed and board. What objection have you to make to this, Baroness? BARONESS. To the separation I make no objection at all; if I can only have my child. That is my condition. JUDGE. The law recognises no conditions in a case like this, and it is for the Court to dispose of the child. BARONESS. Why, that's very peculiar! JUDGE. For this reason it is of utmost importance that the Court learn who has caused the dissension leading to this suit. According to appended minutes of the Vestry Board, it appears that the wife has admitted having at times shown a quarrelsome and difficult disposition, while the husband has admitted no fault. Thus, Baroness, you appear to have admitted---- BARONESS. That's a lie! JUDGE. I find it difficult to believe that the minutes of the Vestry Board, countersigned by the Pastor and eight other trustworthy men, can be inaccurate. BARONESS. The report is false! JUDGE. Such remarks cannot be made with impunity before this Court. BARON. May I call attention to the fact that I have voluntarily surrendered the child to the Baroness on certain conditions? JUDGE. And I have to repeat once more what I said before, namely, that the case will be decided by the Court and not by the parties to it. Therefore: you deny having caused any dissension, Baroness? BARONESS. Indeed, I do! And it is not the fault of one that two quarrel. JUDGE. This is no quarrel, Baroness, but a criminal case; and furthermore, you seem now to be displaying a contentious temperament as well as inconsiderate behaviour. BARONESS. Then you don't know my husband. JUDGE. Will you please explain yourself, for I can base no decision on mere insinuations. BARON. Then I must ask to have the case dismissed, so that I can obtain separation in other ways. JUDGE. The case is already before the Court and will have to be carried to its conclusion--Baroness, you maintain then that your husband has caused the estrangement. Can this be proved? BARONESS. Yes, it can be proved. JUDGE. Please do so then, but bear in mind that it is a question of depriving the Baron of his parental rights and also of his rights to the property. BARONESS. He has forfeited it many times over, and not the least when he denied me sleep and food. BARON. I feel compelled to state that I have never refused to let the Baroness sleep. I have merely asked her not to sleep in the afternoon, because thereby the house was neglected and the child left without proper care. As to food, I have always left such matters to my wife, and I have only objected to some extravagant entertainments, as the neglected household could not bear such expenses. BARONESS. And he has let me lie sick without calling in a physician. BARON. The Baroness would always be taken sick when she could not have her own way, but that kind of ailment did not last long as a rule. After I had brought a specialist from the city, and he had declared it to be nothing but tricks, I did not judge it necessary to call a physician the next time the Baroness was taken sick--because the new pier-glass cost fifty crowns less than originally intended. JUDGE. All this is not of such nature that it can be considered when such a serious case has to be decided. There must be some deeper motives. BARONESS. It ought to be counted a motive that the father will not permit the mother to bring up her own child. BARON. First of all, the Baroness left the care of the child to a maid, and whenever she tried to assist, things went wrong. Secondly, she tried to bring up the boy as a woman, and not as a man. For instance, she dressed him as a girl until he was four years old; and to this very day, when he is eight years old, he carries his hair long as a girl, is forced to sew and crochet, and plays with dolls; all of which I regard as injurious to the child's normal development into a man. On the other hand, she has amused herself by dressing up the daughters of our tenants as boys, cutting their hair short, and putting them to work on things generally handled by boys. In a word, I took charge of my son's education because I noticed symptoms of mental derangement which before this have led to offences against the Eighteenth Chapter of the Criminal Code. JUDGE. And yet you are now willing to leave the child in the hands of the mother? BARON. Yes, for I have never been able to contemplate such a cruelty as to separate mother and child--and also because the mother has promised to mend her ways. And for that matter, I had only promised conditionally, and with the understanding that the law was not to be invoked in the matter. But since we have not been able to keep away from recriminations, I have changed my mind--especially as, from being the complainant, I have been turned into a defendant. BARONESS. That's the way this man always keeps his promises. BARON. My promises, like those of other people, have always been conditional, and I have kept them as long as the conditions were observed. BARONESS. In the same way he had promised me personal freedom within the marriage. BARON. Naturally with the provision that the laws of decency were kept inviolate; but when all bounds were exceeded, and when ideas of license appeared under the name of freedom, then I regarded my promise as annulled. BARONESS. And for this reason he tormented me with the most absurd jealousy, and that is generally enough to make a common life unbearable. He even made himself ridiculous to the extent of being jealous of the doctor. BARON. This alleged jealousy may be reduced to an advice on my part against the employment of a notorious and tattling masseur for an ailment commonly treated by women--unless the Baroness is having in mind the occasion when I showed our steward the door for smoking in my drawing-room and offering cigars to my wife. BARONESS. AS we have not been able to keep away from scandal-mongering, it is just as well that the whole truth should get out: the Baron has been guilty of adultery. Is not this enough to make him unworthy of bringing up my child alone? JUDGE. Can you prove this, Baroness? BARONESS. Yes, I can, and here are letters that show. JUDGE. [_Receiving the letters_] How long ago did this happen? BARONESS. A year ago. JUDGE. Of course, the time limit for prosecution has already expired, but the fact itself weighs heavily against the husband and may cause him to lose the child entirely as well as a part of the marriage portion. Do you admit the truth of this charge, Baron? BARON. Yes, with remorse and mortification; but there were circumstances which ought to be held extenuating. I was forced into humiliating celibacy by the calculated coldness of the Baroness, although I, and in all courtesy, asked as a favour, what the law allowed me to demand as a right. I tired of buying her love, she having prostituted our marriage by selling her favours first for power and later for presents and money; and in the end I found myself compelled, with the express consent of the Baroness, to take up an irregular relationship. JUDGE. Had you given your consent, Baroness? BARONESS. No, that is not true! I demand proofs! BARON. It is true, but I cannot prove it, since the only witness, my wife, denies it. JUDGE. What is unproved need not be untrue, but a com-pact of this kind, trespassing upon prevailing laws, must be held a _pactum turpe_ and invalid in itself. Baron, so far everything is against you. BARONESS. And as the Baron has confessed his guilt with remorse and shame, I, who have now become complainant instead of defendant, ask that the Court proceed to render a decision, as further details are not needed. JUDGE. In my capacity as presiding officer of this Court, I wish to hear what the Baron has to say in justification, or at least in palliation. BARON. I have just admitted the charge of adultery and have advanced as extenuating circumstances, partly that it was the result of pressing need when, after ten years of married life, I suddenly found myself unmarried, and partly that it was done with the consent of the Baroness herself. As I have now come to believe that all this was a trap set to make a case against me, it is my duty, for the sake of my son, to hold back no further---- BARONESS. [_Exclaims instinctively_] Axel! BARON. What caused me to break my marital vows was the faithlessness of the Baroness. JUDGE. Baron, can you prove that the Baroness has been faithless to you? BARON. No! For I was concerned about the honour of the family, and I destroyed all proofs that I obtained. But I still venture to believe that, in this matter, the Baroness will stand by the confession she once made to me. JUDGE. Baroness, do you admit this offence as preceding and, therefore, probably causing the lapse of the Baron? BARONESS. No! JUDGE. Are you willing to repeat under oath that you are innocent of this charge? BARONESS. Yes! BARON. Good heavens! No, she must not do that! No perjury for my sake! JUDGE. I ask once more: is the Baroness willing to take the oath? BARONESS. Yes. BARON. Permit me to suggest that the Baroness just now appears as complainant, and a complaint is not made under oath. JUDGE. As you have charged her with a criminal offence, she is defendant. What does the Jury hold? EMMANUEL WICKBERG. As the Baroness is a party to this suit, it seems to me that she can hardly be allowed to testify in her own behalf. SWEN OSCAR ERLIN. It seems to me that if the Baroness is to testify under oath, then the Baron should also be allowed to do so in the same matter, but as oath may not be put against oath, the whole matter remains in the dark. AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS. I should say that it is not a question of testifying under oath here, but of taking an oath on one's own innocence. ANDERS ERIC RUTH. Well, isn't that the question which has to be settled first of all? AXEL WALLIN. But not in the presence of the parties, as the deliberations of the Court are not public. CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG. The right of the jury to express itself is not limited or conditioned by secrecy. JUDGE. Out of so many meanings I can get no guidance. But as the guilt of the Baron can be proved, and that of the Baroness still remains unproved, I must demand that the Baroness take oath on her innocence. BARONESS. I am ready! JUDGE. No, wait a moment!--Baron, if you were granted time, would you be able to produce evidence or witnesses in support of your charge? BARON. This I neither can nor will do, as I am not anxious to see my dishonour made public. JUDGE. The proceedings of the Court will be adjourned while I consult with the chairman of the Vestry Board. [_Steps down and goes out to the right_. SCENE X _The_ JURORS _confer in low tones among themselves_. _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS _in the background_. _The_ SPECTATORS _form groups and talk_. BARON. [_To the_ BARONESS] You do not shrink from perjuring yourself? BARONESS. I shrink from nothing when my child is concerned. BARON. But if I have proofs? BARONESS. Well, you have not. BARON. The letters were burned, but certified copies of them are still in existence. BARONESS. You lie to frighten me! BARON. To show you how deeply I love my child, and to save the mother at least, as I seem to be lost, you--may have the proofs. But don't be ungrateful. [_Hands her a bundle of letters_. BARONESS. That you are a liar, I knew before, but that you were scoundrel enough to have the letters copied, that I could never have believed. BARON. That is your thanks! But now both of us are lost. BARONESS. Yes, let both go down--then there will be an end to the fight---- BARON. Is it better for the child to lose both its parents and be left alone in the world? BARONESS. That will never occur! BARON. Your absurd conceit, which makes you think yourself above all laws and above other human beings, has lured you into starting this fight, in which there can be only one loser: our son! What were you thinking of when you began this attack, which could not fail to provoke a defence? Not of the child, I am sure. But of revenge, I suppose? Revenge for what? For my discovery of your guilt? BARONESS. The child? Were you thinking of the child when you dragged me in the mire before this rabble? BARON. Helen!--Like wild beasts we have clawed each other bloody. We have laid our disgrace open to all these who take pleasure in our ruin, for in this room we have not a single friend. Our child will after this never be able to speak of his parents as respectable people; he will not be able to start life with a recommendation from father and mother; he will see the home shunned, the old parents isolated and despised, and so the time must come when he will flee us! BARONESS. What do you want then? BARON. Let us leave the country after selling the property. BARONESS. And begin the same squabble all over again! I know what will happen: for a week you will be tame, and then you will abuse me. BARON. Just think--now they are settling our fate in there. You cannot hope for a good word from the Pastor, whom you have just called a liar; and I, who am known to be no Christian, can expect no mercy either. Oh, I wish I were in the woods, so that I could crawl in under some big roots or put my head under a rock--this is more shame than I can bear! BARONESS. It is true that the minister hates both of us, and it may happen as you say. Why don't you speak to him? BARON. Of what? Making up? BARONESS. Of anything you please, if it only be not too late! Oh, if it should be too late!--What can that man Alexandersson want that makes him prowl about us two all the time? I am afraid of that man! BARON. Alexandersson is a nice fellow. BARONESS. Yes, he is nice to you, but not to me--I have observed those glances before--Go and see the Pastor now; but take my hand first--I am scared! BARON. Of what, dear, of what? BARONESS. I don't know--Everything, everybody! BARON. But not of me? BARONESS. No, not now! It is as if our clothes had been caught in the mill wheels, and we had been dragged into the machinery. What have we been doing? What have we been doing in our anger? How they will enjoy themselves, all these who are now seeing the Baron and the Baroness stripped naked and flogging each other--Oh, I feel as if I were standing here without a rag to cover me. [_She buttons her coat_. BARON. Calm yourself, my dear. It is not exactly the proper place to tell you what I have said before: that there is only one friend and one home--but we might start over again!--Well, heaven knows! No, we cannot do it. You have gone too far. It is all over. And this last--yes, let it be the last! And it had to come after all the rest. No, we are enemies for life! And if I let you go away with the child now, then you might marry again--I see that now. And my child might have a step-father; and I should have to watch another man going about with my wife and child--Or I might myself be going about with somebody else's wench hanging on my arm. No! Either you or I! One of us must be struck down! You or I! BARONESS. You! For if I let you take the child, you might marry again, and I might have to see another woman taking my place with my own child. The mere thought of it could make me a murderess! A step-mother for _my_ child! BARON. You might have thought of it before! But when you saw me champing at the chain of love that bound me to you, then you believed me incapable of loving anybody but yourself. BARONESS. Do you think I ever loved you? BARON. Yes, once at least. When I had been faithless to you. Then your love grew sublime. And your pretended scorn made you irresistible. But my error caused you to respect me, too. Whether it was the male or the criminal you admired most, I don't know, but I believe it was both--it must have been both, for you are the most typical woman I have ever met. And now you are already jealous of a new wife whom I have never thought of. What a pity that you became my mate! As my mistress, your victory would have been unchallenged, and your infidelities would only have seemed the bouquet of my new wine. BARONESS. Yes, your love was always material. BARON. Material as everything spiritual, and spiritual as all that is material! My weakness for you, which gave strength to my feeling, made you believe yourself the stronger, when you were simply coarser, more ill-natured, and more unscrupulous than I. BARONESS. You the stronger? You, who never want the same thing two minutes in a stretch! You, who as a rule never know what you want! BARON. Yes, I know perfectly well what I want, but there is room in me for both love and hatred, and while I love you one minute, I hate you the next. And just now I hate you! BARONESS. Are you now thinking of the child also? BARON. Yes, now and always! And do you know why? Because he is our love that has taken flesh. He is the memory of our beautiful hours, the link that unites our souls, the common ground where we must ever meet without wishing to do so. And that is why we shall never be able to part, even if our separation be declared--Oh, if I could only hate you as I want to! SCENE XI _The_ JUDGE _and the_ PASTOR _enter in conversation and remain in the foreground_. JUDGE. Thus I recognize the utter hopelessness of seeking justice or discovering truth. And it seems to me as if the laws were a couple of centuries behind our ideas of right. Did I not have to punish Alexandersson, who was innocent, and exonerate the girl, who was guilty of theft? And as for this separation suit, I know nothing at all about it at this minute, and I cannot take upon my conscience to render a decision. PASTOR. But a decision has to be rendered. JUDGE. Not by me! I shall give up my place and choose another profession. PASTOR. Why, such a scandal would only bring you notoriety and close every career to you. Keep on judging a few years, and you will come to think it quite easy to crush human fates like egg shells. And for that matter, if you want to stand clear of this case, let yourself be outvoted by the jury. Then they must take the responsibility on themselves. JUDGE. That is a way--and I suspect that they will be practically at one against me, for I have formed an opinion in this matter, which, however, is wholly intuitive and, therefore, not to be trusted--I thank you for your advice. SHERIFF. [_Who has been talking with_ Alexandersson, _steps up to the_ JUDGE] In my capacity of public prosecutor, I have to report the farmer Alexandersson as a witness against Baroness Sprengel. JUDGE. In relation to the adultery charge? SHERIFF. Yes. JUDGE. [_To the_ PASTOR] Here is a new clue that may lead to a solution. PASTOR. Oh, there are lots of clues, if you can only get hold of them. JUDGE. But nevertheless it is horrible to see two persons who have loved trying to ruin each other. It is like being in a slaughter-house! PASTOR. Well, that is love, Judge! JUDGE. What then is hatred? PASTOR. It is the lining of the coat. [_The_ JUDGE _goes over and speaks to the_ Jurors. BARONESS. [_Comes forward to the_ PASTOR] Help us, Pastor! Help us! PASTOR. I cannot, and as a clergyman, I must not. And furthermore, did I not warn you not to play with such serious matters? You thought it so simple to part! Well, part then! The law will not prevent you, so don't put the blame on it. SCENE XII All _as before_. JUDGE. The Court will now resume its proceedings. According to the report of the public prosecutor, Sheriff Wiberg, a new witness has appeared against the Baroness and is ready to affirm her guilt under the charge of adultery. Farmer Alexandersson! ALEXANDERSSON. I am here. JUDGE. How can you prove your assertion? ALEXANDERSSON. I saw the offence committed. BARONESS. He is lying! Let him bring proof! ALEXANDERSSON. Proof? I'm a witness now, ain't I? BARONESS. Your assertion is no proof, although you happen to be called a witness for the moment. ALEXANDERSSON. Maybe the witness has to have two more witnesses, and those still others? BARONESS. Yes, it might be needed when one cannot tell whether the whole lot are lying or not. BARON. The testimony of Alexandersson will not be required. I beg leave to offer the Court all the correspondence by which the marital infidelity of the Baroness stands completely proved--Here are the originals; copies of them will be found in the possession of defendant. [_The_ BARONESS _utters a cry but controls herself quickly_. JUDGE. And yet, Baroness, you were willing to take the oath a little while ago? BARONESS. But I didn't take it! And now I think the Baron and I may cry quits. JUDGE. We do not let one crime cancel another. The account of each one has to be settled separately. BARONESS. Then I want to file a claim at once against the Baron for my dowry which he has squandered. JUDGE. If you have squandered your wife's dowry, Baron, it might be well to settle that matter right here. BARON. The Baroness brought with her six thousand crowns in stock that was then unsalable and soon became wholly worthless. As at the time of our marriage she held a position as a telegrapher and declared herself unwilling to take support from her husband, we made a marriage contract and agreed that each one should be self-supporting. But she lost her position after the marriage, and I have been supporting her ever since. To this I had no objection whatever, but as she is now putting in bills, I shall ask leave to present one of my own to meet hers. It totals up to thirty-five thousand crowns, this being one-third of the household expenses since the beginning of our marriage, and I being willing to take two-thirds upon myself. JUDGE. Have you this agreement in black and white, Baron? BARON. I have not. JUDGE. Have you any documents to prove the disposition of your dowry, Baroness? BARONESS. I didn't think at the time it would be necessary to get anything in writing, as I supposed myself to be dealing with honourable people. JUDGE. Then this whole question cannot come under consideration here. The jury will please step into the small court-room for discussion of the case and formulation of a decision. SCENE XIII _The_ JURY _and the_ JUDGE _go out to the right_. ALEXANDERSSON. [_To the_ Sheriff] This here justice is more than I can get any sense out of. SHERIFF. I think it would be wiser for you to go right home now, or you might have the same experience as the farmer from Mariestad. Did you ever hear of it? ALEXANDERSSON. No. SHERIFF. Well, he went to court as spectator, was dragged into the case as witness, became a party to it, and ended up with a flogging at the whipping-post. ALEXANDERSSON. Oh, hell! But I believe it of 'em! I believe anything of 'em! [_Goes out_. _The_ BARON _joins the_ BARONESS _in the foreground_. BARONESS. You find it hard to keep away from me. BARON. Now I have struck you down, and I am bleeding to death myself, for your blood is mine---- BARONESS. And how clever you are at making out bills! BARON. Only when it comes to counter-claims! Your courage is that of despair, or that of a person sentenced to death. And when you leave here, you will collapse. Then you will no longer be able to load your sorrow and guilt on me, and you will be suffering from remorse. Do you know why I have not killed you? BARONESS. Because you did not dare! BARON. No! Not even the thought of hell could have held me back--for I don't believe in it. But this was the thought that did it: even if you get the child, you will be gone in five years. That is what the doctor tells me. And then the child might be left without either father or mother. Think of it--all alone in the world! BARONESS. Five years!--It is a lie! BARON. In five years! And then I am left behind with the child whether you want it or not. BARONESS. Oh no! For then my family will bring suit to get the child away from you. I don't die when I die! BARON. Evil never dies! That is so! But can you explain why you grudge me the child, and grudge the child me, whom it needs? Is it sheer malice--a craving for revenge that punishes the child? [_The_ BARONESS _remains silent_] Do you know, I remarked to the Pastor that I thought possibly you might have some doubts concerning the child's parentage, and that this might be a reason why you would not let me have the child, lest my happiness be built on a false foundation. And he replied: No, I don't think her capable of it--not of such a fine motive--I don't think you know yourself what makes you so fanatical about this one thing: it is the yearning for continued existence that goads you into maintaining your hold. Our son has your body, but my soul, and that soul you cannot rid him of. In him you will have me back when you least expect it; in him you will find my thoughts, my tastes, my passions, and for this reason you will hate him one day, as you hate me now. That is what I fear! BARONESS. You seem still a little afraid that he may become mine? BARON. In your quality of mother and woman, you have a certain advantage over me with our judges, and although justice may throw dice blindfolded, there is always a little lead on one side of each die. BARONESS. You know how to pay compliments even in the moment of separation. Perhaps you don't hate me as much as you pretend? BARON. Frankly speaking, I think that I hate not so much you as my dishonour, though you, too, come in for a share. And why this hatred? Perhaps I have overlooked that you are near the forties, and that a masculine element is making its appearance in you. Perhaps it is this element that I notice in your kisses, in your embraces--perhaps that is what I find so repulsive? BARONESS. Perhaps. For the sorrow of my life has been, as you well know, that I was not born a man. BARON. Perhaps that became the sorrow of my life! And now you try to avenge yourself on nature for having played with you, and so you want to bring up your son as a woman. Will you promise me one thing? BARONESS. Will you promise me one thing? BARON. What is the use of promising? BARONESS. No, let us give no more promises. BARON. Will you answer a question truthfully? BARONESS. If I told the truth, you would think I lied. BARON. Yes, so I should! BARONESS. Can you see now that all is over, for ever? BARON. For ever! It was for ever that we once swore to love each other. BARONESS. It is too bad that such oaths must be taken! BARON. Why so? It is always a bond, such as it is. BARONESS. I never could bear with bonds! BARON. Do you think it would have been better for us not to bind ourselves? BARONESS. Better for me, yes. BARON. I wonder. For then you could not have bound me. BARONESS. Nor you me. BARON. And so the result would have been the same--as when you reduce fractions. Consequently: not the law's fault; not our own; not anybody else's. And yet we have to assume the responsibility! [_The_ SHERIFF _approaches_] So! Now the verdict has been pronounced--Good-bye, Helen! BARONESS. Good-bye--Axel! BARON. It is hard to part! And impossible to live together. But the fight is over at least! BARONESS. If it were! I fear it is just about to begin. SHERIFF. The parties will retire while the Court takes action. BARONESS. Axel, a word before it is too late! After all, they might take the child away from both of us. Drive home and take the boy to your mother, and then we will flee from here, far away! BARON. I think you are trying to fool me again. BARONESS. No, I am not. I am no longer thinking of you, or of myself, or of my revenge. Save the child only! Listen, Axel--you must do it! BARON. I will. But if you are deceiving me--Never mind: I'll do it! _Goes out quickly. The_ BARONESS _leaves through the door in the background_. SCENE XIV _The_ JURY _and the_ JUDGE _enter and resume their seats_. JUDGE. As we now have the case complete before us, I shall ask each juror separately to state his opinion before decision is rendered. Personally, I can only hold it reasonable that the child be given to the mother, as both parties are equally to blame for the estrangement, and as the mother must be held better adapted to the care of the child than the father. [_Silence_. ALEXANDER EKLUND. According to prevailing law, it is the wife who takes her rank and condition from the husband, not the husband from the wife. EMMANUEL WICKBERG. And the husband is the proper guardian of his wife. CARL JOHAN SJÖBERG. The ritual, which gives binding force to the marriage, says that the wife should obey her husband, and so it is clear to me that the man takes precedence of the woman. ERIC OTTO BOMAN. And the children are to be brought up in the faith of the father. ÄRENFRID SÖDERBERG. From which may be concluded that children follow the father and not the mother. OLOF ANDERSSON OF WIK. But as in the case before us both man and wife are equally guilty, and, judging by what has come to light, equally unfit to rear a child, I hold that the child should be taken away from both. CARL PETER ANDERSSON OF BERGA. In concurring with Olof Andersson, I may call to mind that in such cases the Court names two good men as guardians to take charge of children and property, so that out of the latter man and wife may have their support together with the child. AXEL WALLIN. And for guardians I wish in this case to propose Alexander Eklund and Ärenfrid Söderberg, both of whom are well known to be of honest character and Christian disposition. ANDERS ERIC RUTH. I concur with Olof Andersson of Wik as to the separation of the child from both father and mother, and with Axel Wallin as to the guardians, whose Christian disposition makes them particularly fitted to bring up the child. SWEN OSCAR ERLING. I concur in what has just been said. AUGUST ALEXANDER VASS. I concur. LUDWIG ÖSTMAN. I concur. JUDGE. AS the opinion expressed by a majority of the jurors is contrary to my own, I must ask the Jury to take a vote on the matter. And I think it proper first to put the motion made by Olof Andersson for the separation of the child from both father and mother, and for the appointment of guardians. Is it the unanimous will of the Jury that such action be taken? ALL THE JURORS. Yes. JUDGE. If anybody objects to the motion, he will hold up his hand. [_Silence_] The opinion of the Jury has won out against my own, and I shall enter an exception on the minutes against what seems to me the needless cruelty of the decision--The couple will then be sentenced to a year's separation of bed and board, at the risk of imprisonment if, during that period, they should seek each other. [_To the_ SHERIFF] Call in the parties. SCENE XV _The_ BARONESS _and_ SPECTATORS _enter_. JUDGE. Is Baron Sprengel not present? BARONESS. The Baron will be here in a moment. JUDGE. Whoever does not observe the time, has only himself to blame. This is the decision of the County Court: that husband and wife be sentenced to a year's separation of bed and board, and that the child be taken from the parents and placed in charge of two guardians for education. For this purpose the Court has selected and appointed the jurors Alexander Eklund and Ärenfrid Söderberg. _The_ BARONESS _cries out and sinks to the floor. The_ SHERIFF _and the_ CONSTABLE _raise her up and place her on a chair. Some of the_ SPECTATORS _leave in the meantime_. BARON. [_Enters_] Your Honor! I heard the sentence of the Court from the outside, and I wish to enter a challenge, first against the Jury as a whole, it being made up of my personal enemies, and secondly against the guardians, Alexander Eklund and Ärenfrid Söderberg, neither of whom possesses the financial status demanded of guardians. Furthermore, I shall enter proceedings against the judge for incompetence displayed in the exercise of his office, in so far as he has failed to recognise that the primary guilt of one led to the subsequent guilt of the other, so that both cannot be held equally responsible. JUDGE. Whosoever be not satisfied with the decision rendered may appeal to the higher court within the term set by law. Will the Jury please accompany me on house visitation to the Rectory in connection with the suit pending against the communal assessors? _The_ JUDGE _and the_ JURY _go out through the door in the background_. SCENE XVI _The_ BARON _and the_ BARONESS. _The_ SPECTATORS _withdraw gradually_. BARONESS. Where is Emil? BARON. He was gone! BARONESS. That's a lie! BARON. [_After a pause_] Yes--I did not bring him to my mother, whom I cannot trust, but to the Rectory. BARONESS. To the minister! BARON. Your one reliable enemy! Yes. Who was there else that I might trust? And I did it because a while ago I caught a glance in your eye which made me think that you possibly might kill yourself and the child. BARONESS. You saw that!--Oh, why did I let myself be fooled into believing you. BARON. Well, what do you say of all this? BARONESS. I don't know. But I am so tired that I no longer feel the blows. It seems almost a relief to have received the final stab. BARON. You give no thought to what is now going to happen: how your son is going to be brought up by two peasants, whose ignorance and rude habits will kill the child by slow torture; how he is going to be forced down into their narrow sphere; how his intelligence is going to be smothered by religious superstition; how he is going to be taught contempt for his father and mother---- BARONESS. Hush! Don't say another word, or I shall lose my reason! My Emil in the hands of peasant women, who don't know enough to wash themselves, who have their beds full of vermin, and who cannot even keep a comb clean! My Emil! No, it is impossible! BARON. It is the actual reality, and you have nobody but yourself to blame for it. BARONESS. Myself? But did I make myself? Did I put evil tendencies, hatred, and wild passions into myself? No! And who was it that denied me the power and will to combat all those things?--When I look at myself this moment, I feel that I am to be pitied. Am I not? BARON. Yes, you are! Both of us are to be pitied. We tried to avoid the rocks that beset marriage by living unmarried as husband and wife; but nevertheless we quarrelled, and we were sacrificing one of life's greatest joys, the respect of our fellow-men--and so we were married. But we must needs steal a march on the social body and its laws. We wanted no religious ceremony, but instead we wriggled into a civil marriage. We did not want to depend on each other--we were to have no common pocket-book and to insist on no personal ownership of each other--and with that we fell right back into the old rut again. Without wedding ceremony, but with a marriage contract! And then it went to pieces. I forgave your faithlessness, and for the child's sake we lived together in voluntary separation--and freedom! But I grew tired of introducing my friend's mistress as my wife--and so we had to get a divorce. Can you guess--do you know against whom we have been fighting? You call him God, but I call him nature. And that was the master who egged us on to hate each other, just as he is egging people on to love each other. And now we are condemned to keep on tearing each other as long as a spark of life remains. New proceedings in the higher court, reopening of the case, report by the Vestry Board, opinion from the Diocesan Chapter, decision by the Supreme Court. Then comes my complaint to the Attorney-General, my application for a guardian, your objections and counter-suits: from pillory to post! Without hope of a merciful executioner! Neglect of the property, financial ruin, scamped education for the child! And why do we not put an end to these two miserable lives? Because the child stays our hands! You cry, but I cannot! Not even when my thought runs ahead to the night that is waiting for me in a home laid waste! And you, poor Helen, who must go back to your mother! That mother whom you once left with such eagerness in order to get a home of your own. To become her daughter once more--and perhaps find it worse than being a wife! One year! Two years! Many years! How many more do you think we can bear to suffer? BARONESS. I shall never go back to my mother. Never! I shall go out on the high-roads and into the woods so that I may find a hiding-place where I can scream--scream myself tired against God, who has put this infernal love into the world as a torment for us human creatures--and when night comes, I shall seek shelter in the Pastor's barn, so that I may sleep near my child. BARON. You hope to sleep to-night--you? _Curtain_. THE DANCE OF DEATH 1901 PART I CHARACTERS EDGAR, _Captain in the Coast Artillery_ ALICE, _his wife_, _a former actress_ CURT, _Master of Quarantine_ JENNY } THE OLD WOMAN } _Subordinate characters_ THE SENTRY } THE DANCE OF DEATH PART I _The scene is laid inside of a round fort built of granite_. _In the background, a gateway, closed by huge, swinging double doors; in these, small square window panes, through which may be seen a sea shore with batteries and the sea beyond_. _On either side of the gateway, a window with flower pots and bird cages_. _To the right of the gateway, an upright piano; further down the stage, a sewing-table and two easy-chairs_. _On the left, half-way down the stage, a writing-table with a telegraph instrument on it; further down, a what-not full of framed photographs. Beside it, a couch that can be used to sleep on. Against the wall, a buffet_. _A lamp suspended from the ceiling. On the wall near the piano hang two large laurel wreaths with ribbons. Between them, the picture of a woman in stage dress_. _Beside the door, a hat-stand on which hang accoutrements, sabres, and so forth. Near it, a chiffonier_. _To the left of the gateway hangs a mercurial barometer_. _It is a mild Fall evening. The doors stand open, and a sentry is seen pacing back and forth on the shore battery. He wears a helmet with a forward pointed brush for a crest. Now and then his drawn sabre catches the red glare of the setting sun. The sea lies dark and quiet_. _The_ CAPTAIN _sits in the easy-chair to the left of the sewing-table, fumbling an extinguished cigar. He has on a much-worn undress uniform and riding-boots with spurs. Looks tired and bored_. ALICE _sits in the easy-chair on the right, doing nothing at all. Looks tired and expectant_. CAPTAIN. Won't you play something for me? ALICE. [_Indifferently, but not snappishly_] What am I to play? CAPTAIN. Whatever suits you. ALICE. You don't like my repertory. CAPTAIN. Nor you mine. ALICE. [_Evasively_] Do you want the doors to stay open? CAPTAIN. If you wish it. ALICE. Let them be, then. [_Pause_] Why don't you smoke? CAPTAIN. Strong tobacco is beginning not to agree with me. ALICE. [_In an almost friendly tone_] Get weaker tobacco then. It is your only pleasure, as you call it. CAPTAIN. Pleasure--what is that? ALICE. Don't ask me. I know it as little as you--Don't you want your whiskey yet? CAPTAIN. I'll wait a little. What have you for supper? ALICE. How do I know? Ask Christine. CAPTAIN. The mackerel ought to be in season soon--now the Fall is here. ALICE. Yes, it is Fall! CAPTAIN. Within and without. But leaving aside the cold that comes with the Fall, both within and without, a little broiled mackerel, with a slice of lemon and a glass of white Burgundy, wouldn't be so very bad. ALICE. Now you grow eloquent. CAPTAIN. Have we any Burgundy left in the wine-cellar? ALICE. So far as I know, we have had no wine-cellar these last five years---- CAPTAIN. You never know anything. However, we _must_ stock up for our silver wedding. ALICE. Do you actually mean to celebrate it? CAPTAIN. Of course! ALICE. It would be more seemly to hide our misery--our twenty-five years of misery---- CAPTAIN. My dear Alice, it has been a misery, but we have also had some fun--now and then. One has to avail one-self of what little time there is, for afterward it is all over. ALICE. Is it over? Would that it were! CAPTAIN. It is over! Nothing left but what can be put on a wheel-barrow and spread on the garden beds. ALICE. And so much trouble for the sake of the garden beds! CAPTAIN. Well, that's the way of it. And it is not of my making. ALICE. So much trouble! [_Pause_] Did the mail come? CAPTAIN. Yes. ALICE. Did the butcher send his bill? CAPTAIN. Yes. ALICE. How large is it? CAPTAIN. [_Takes a paper from his pocket and puts on his spectacles, but takes them off again at once_] Look at it yourself. I cannot see any longer. ALICE. What is wrong with your eyes? CAPTAIN. Don't know. ALICE. Growing old? CAPTAIN. Nonsense! I? ALICE. Well, not I! CAPTAIN. Hm! ALICE. [_Looking at the bill_] Can you pay it? CAPTAIN. Yes, but not this moment. ALICE. Some other time, of course! In a year, when you have been retired with a small pension, and it is too late! And then, when your trouble returns---- CAPTAIN. Trouble? I never had any trouble--only a slight indisposition once. And I can live another twenty years. ALICE. The doctor thought otherwise. CAPTAIN. The doctor! ALICE. Yes, who else could express any valid opinion about sickness? CAPTAIN. I have no sickness, and never had. I am not going to have it either, for I shall die all of a sudden--like an old soldier. ALICE. Speaking of the doctor--you know they are having a party to-night? CAPTAIN. [_Agitated_] Yes, what of it? We are not invited because we don't associate with those people, and we don't associate with them because we don't want to--because we despise both of them. Rabble--that's what they are! ALICE. You say that of everybody. CAPTAIN. Because everybody is rabble. ALICE. Except yourself. CAPTAIN. Yes, because I have behaved decently under all conditions of life. That's why I don't belong to the rabble. [_Pause_. ALICE. Do you want to play cards? CAPTAIN. All right. ALICE. [_Takes a pack of cards from the drawer in the sewing-table and begins to shuffle them_] Just think, the doctor is permitted to use the band for a private entertainment! CAPTAIN. [_Angrily_] That's because he goes to the city and truckles to the Colonel. Truckle, you know--if one could only do that! ALICE. [_Deals_] I used to be friendly with Gerda, but she played me false---- CAPTAIN. They are all false! What did you turn up for trumps? ALICE. Put on your spectacles. CAPTAIN. They are no help--Well, well! ALICE. Spades are trumps. CAPTAIN. [_Disappointed_] Spades----? ALICE. [_Leads_] Well, be that as it may, our case is settled in advance with the wives of the new officers. CAPTAIN. [_Taking the trick_] What does it matter? We never give any parties anyhow, so nobody is the wiser. I can live by myself--as I have always done. ALICE. I, too. But the children? The children have to grow up without any companionship. CAPTAIN. Let them find it for themselves in the city--I take that! Got any trumps left? ALICE. One--That's mine! CAPTAIN. Six and eight make fifteen---- ALICE. Fourteen--fourteen! CAPTAIN. Six and eight make fourteen. I think I am also forgetting how to count. And two makes sixteen--[_Yawns_] It is your deal. ALICE. You are tired? CAPTAIN. [_Dealing_] Not at all. ALICE. [_Listening in direction of the open doors_] One can hear the music all this way. [_Pause_] Do you think Curt is invited also? CAPTAIN. He arrived this morning, so I guess he has had time to get out his evening clothes, though he has not had time to call on us. ALICE. Master of Quarantine--is there to be a quarantine station here? CAPTAIN. Yes. ALICE. He is my own cousin after all, and once I bore the same name as he---- CAPTAIN. In which there was no particular honour---- ALICE. See here! [_Sharply_] You leave my family alone, and I'll leave yours! CAPTAIN. All right, all right--don't let us begin again! ALICE. Must the Master of Quarantine be a physician? CAPTAIN. Oh, no, he's merely a sort of superintendent or book-keeper--and Curt never became anything in particular. ALICE. He was not much good---- CAPTAIN. And he has cost us a lot of money. And when he left wife and children, he became disgraced. ALICE. Not quite so severe, Edgar! CAPTAIN. That's what happened! What has he been doing in America since then? Well, I cannot say that I am longing for him--but he was a nice chap, and I liked to argue with him. ALICE. Because he was so tractable---- CAPTAIN. [_Haughtily_] Tractable or not, he was at least a man one could talk to. Here, on this island, there is not _one_ person who understands what I say--it's a community of idiots! ALICE. It is rather strange that Curt should arrive just in time for our silver wedding--whether we celebrate it or not---- CAPTAIN. Why is that strange? Oh, I see! It was he who brought us together, or got you married, as they put it. ALICE. Well, didn't he? CAPTAIN. Certainly! It was a kind of fixed idea with him--I leave it for you to say what kind. ALICE. A wanton fancy---- CAPTAIN. For which we have had to pay, and not he! ALICE. Yes, think only if I had remained on the stage! All my friends are stars now. CAPTAIN. [_Rising_] Well, well, well! Now I am going to have a drink. [_Goes over to the buffet and mixes a drink, which he takes standing up_] There should be a rail here to put the foot on, so that one might dream of being at Copenhagen, in the American Bar. ALICE. Let us put a rail there, if it will only remind us of Copenhagen. For there we spent our best moments. CAPTAIN. [_Drinks quickly_] Yes, do you remember that "navarin aux pommes"? ALICE. No, but I remember the concerts at the Tivoli. CAPTAIN. Yes, your tastes are so--exalted! ALICE. It ought to please you to have a wife whose taste is good. CAPTAIN. So it does. ALICE. Sometimes, when you need something to brag of---- CAPTAIN. [_Drinking_] I guess they must be dancing at the doctor's--I catch the three-four time of the tuba: boom-boom-boom! ALICE. I can hear the entire melody of the Alcazar Waltz. Well, it was not yesterday I danced a waltz---- CAPTAIN. You think you could still manage? ALICE. Still? CAPTAIN. Ye-es. I guess you are done with dancing, you like me! ALICE. I am ten years younger than you. CAPTAIN. Then we are of the same age, as the lady should be ten years younger. ALICE. Be ashamed of yourself! You are an old man--and I am still in my best years. CAPTAIN. Oh, I know, you can be quite charming--to others, when you make up your mind to it. ALICE. Can we light the lamp now? CAPTAIN. Certainly. ALICE. Will you ring, please. _The_ CAPTAIN _goes languidly to the writing-table and rings a bell_. JENNY _enters from the right_. CAPTAIN. Will you be kind enough to light the lamp, Jenny? ALICE. [_Sharply_] I want you to light the hanging lamp. JENNY. Yes, ma'am. [_Lights the lamp while the_ CAPTAIN _watches her_. ALICE. [_Stiffly_] Did you wipe the chimney? JENNY. Sure. ALICE. What kind of an answer is that? CAPTAIN. Now--now---- ALICE. [_To_ Jenny] Leave us. I will light the lamp myself. That will be better. JENNY: I think so too. [_Starts for the door_. ALICE. [_Rising_] Go! JENNY. [_Stops_] I wonder, ma'am, what you'd say if I did go? ALICE _remains silent_. JENNY _goes out_. _The_ CAPTAIN _comes forward and lights the lamp_. ALICE. [_With concern_] Do you think she will go? CAPTAIN. Shouldn't wonder. And then we are in for it---- ALICE. It's your fault! You spoil them. CAPTAIN. Not at all. Can't you see that they are always polite to me? ALICE. Because you cringe to them. And you always cringe to inferiors, for that matter, because, like all despots, you have the nature of a slave. CAPTAIN. There--there! ALICE. Yes, you cringe before your men, and before your sergeants, but you cannot get on with your equals or your superiors. CAPTAIN. Ugh! ALICE. That's the way of all tyrants--Do you think she will go? CAPTAIN. Yes, if you don't go out and say something nice to her. ALICE. I? CAPTAIN. Yes, for if I should do it, you would say that I was flirting with the maids. ALICE. Mercy, if she should leave! Then I shall have to do the work, as I did the last time, and my hands will be spoiled. CAPTAIN. That is not the worst of it. But if Jenny leaves, Christine will also leave, and then we shall never get a servant to the island again. The mate on the steamer scares away every one that comes to look for a place--and if he should miss his chance, then my corporals attend to it. ALICE. Yes, your corporals, whom I have to feed in my kitchen, and whom you dare not show the door---- CAPTAIN. No, for then they would also go when their terms were up--and we might have to close up the whole gun shop! ALICE. It will be our ruin. CAPTAIN. That's why the officers have proposed to petition His Royal Majesty for special expense money. ALICE. For whom? CAPTAIN. For the corporals. ALICE. [_Laughing_] You are crazy! CAPTAIN. Yes, laugh a little for me. I need it. ALICE. I shall soon have forgotten how to laugh---- CAPTAIN. [_Lighting his cigar_] That is something one should never forget--it is tedious enough anyhow! ALICE. Well, it is not very amusing--Do you want to play any more? CAPTAIN. No, it tires me. ALICE. Do you know, it irritates me nevertheless that my cousin, the new Master of Quarantine, makes his first visit to our enemies. CAPTAIN. Well, what's the use of talking about it? ALICE. But did you see in the paper that he was put down as _rentier_? He must have come into some money then. CAPTAIN. _Rentier_! Well, well--a rich relative. That's really the first one in this family. ALICE. In your family, yes. But among my people many have been rich. CAPTAIN. If he has money, he's conceited, I suppose, but I'll hold him in check--and he won't get a chance to look at my cards. _The telegraph receiver begins to click_. ALICE. Who is it? CAPTAIN. [_Standing still_] Keep quiet, please. ALICE. Well, are you not going to look---- CAPTAIN. I can hear--I can hear what they are saying--It's the children. _Goes over to the instrument and sends an answer; the receiver continues to click for awhile, and then the_ CAPTAIN _answers again_. ALICE. Well? CAPTAIN. Wait a little--[_Gives a final click_] The children are at the guard-house in the city. Judith is not well again and is staying away from school. ALICE. Again! What more did they say? CAPTAIN. Money, of course! ALICE. Why is Judith in such a hurry? If she didn't pass her examinations until next year, it would be just as well. CAPTAIN. Tell her, and see what it helps. ALICE. You should tell her. CAPTAIN. How many times have I not done so? But children have their own wills, you know. ALICE. Yes, in this house at least. [_The_ CAPTAIN _yawns_] So, you yawn in your wife's presence! CAPTAIN. Well, what can I do? Don't you notice how day by day we are saying the same things to each other? When, just now, you sprang that good old phrase of yours, "in this house at least," I should have come back with my own stand-by, "it is not my house only." But as I have already made that reply some five hundred times, I yawned instead. And my yawn could be taken to mean either that I was too lazy to answer, or "right you are, my angel," or "supposing we quit." ALICE. You are very amiable to-night. CAPTAIN. Is it not time for supper soon? ALICE. Do you know that the doctor ordered supper from the city--from the Grand Hotel? CAPTAIN. No! Then they are having ptarmigans--tschk! Ptarmigan, you know, is the finest bird there is, but it's clear barbarism to fry it in bacon grease---- ALICE. Ugh! Don't talk of food. CAPTAIN. Well, how about wines? I wonder what those barbarians are drinking with the ptarmigans? ALICE. Do you want me to play for you? CAPTAIN. [_Sits down at the writing-table_] The last resource! Well, if you could only leave your dirges and lamentations alone--it sounds too much like music with a moral. And I am always adding within myself: "Can't you hear how unhappy I am! Meow, meow! Can't you hear what a horrible husband I have! Brum, brum, brum! If he would only die soon! Beating of the joyful drum, flourishes, the finale of the Alcazar Waltz, Champagne Galop!" Speaking of champagne, I guess there are a couple of bottles left. What would you say about bringing them up and pretending to have company? ALICE. No, we won't, for they are mine--they were given to me personally. CAPTAIN. You are so economical. ALICE. And you are always stingy--to your wife at least! CAPTAIN. Then I don't know what to suggest. Perhaps I might dance for you? ALICE. No, thank you--I guess you are done with dancing. CAPTAIN. You should bring some friend to stay with you. ALICE. Thanks! You might bring a friend to stay with you. CAPTAIN. Thanks! It has been tried, and with mutual dissatisfaction. But it was interesting in the way of an experiment, for as soon as a stranger entered the house, we became quite happy--to begin with---- ALICE. And then! CAPTAIN. Oh, don't talk of it! _There is a knock at the door on the left_. ALICE. Who can be coming so late as this? CAPTAIN. Jenny does not knock. ALICE. Go and open the door, and don't yell "come"--it has a sound of the workshop. CAPTAIN. [_Goes toward the door on the left_] You don't like workshops. ALICE. Please, open! CAPTAIN. [_Opens the door and receives a visiting-card that is held out to him_] It is Christine--Has Jenny left? [_As the public cannot hear the answer, to_ ALICE] Jenny has left. ALICE. Then I become servant girl again! CAPTAIN. And I man-of-all-work. ALICE. Would it not be possible to get one of your gunners to help along in the kitchen? CAPTAIN. Not these days. ALICE. But it couldn't be Jenny who sent in her card? CAPTAIN. [_Looks at the card through his spectacles and then turns it over to_ ALICE] You see what it is--I cannot. ALICE. [_Looks at the card_] Curt--it is Curt! Hurry up and bring him in. CAPTAIN. [_Goes out to the left_] Curt! Well, that's a pleasure! [ALICE _arranges her hair and seems to come to life_. CAPTAIN. [_Enters from the left with_ CURT] Here he is, the traitor! Welcome, old man! Let me hug you! ALICE. [_Goes to_ CURT] Welcome to my home, Curt! CURT. Thank you--it is some time since we saw each other. CAPTAIN. How long? Fifteen years! And we have grown old---- ALICE. Oh, Curt has not changed, it seems to me. CAPTAIN. Sit down, sit down! And first of all--the programme. Have you any engagement for to-night? CURT. I am invited to the doctor's, but I have not promised to go. ALICE. Then you will stay with your relatives. CURT. That would seem the natural thing, but the doctor is my superior, and I might have trouble afterward. CAPTAIN. What kind of talk is that? I have never been afraid of my superiors---- CURT. Fear or no fear, the trouble cannot be escaped. CAPTAIN. On this island I am master. Keep behind my back, and nobody will dare to touch you. ALICE. Oh, be quiet, Edgar! [_Takes_ CURT _by the hand_] Leaving both masters and superiors aside, you must stay with us. That will be found both natural and proper. CURT. Well, then--especially as I feel welcome here. CAPTAIN. Why should you not be welcome? There is nothing between us--[CURT _tries vainly to hide a sense of displeasure_] What could there be? You were a little careless as a young man, but I have forgotten all about it. I don't let things rankle. ALICE _looks annoyed. All three sit down at the sewing-table_. ALICE. Well, you have strayed far and wide in the world? CURT. Yes, and now I have found a harbour with you---- CAPTAIN. Whom you married off twenty-five years ago. CURT. It was not quite that way, but it doesn't matter. It is pleasing to see that you have stuck together for twenty-five years. CAPTAIN. Well, we have borne with it. Now and then it has been so-so, but, as you say, we have stuck together. And Alice has had nothing to complain of. There has been plenty of everything--heaps of money. Perhaps you don't know that I am a celebrated author--an author of text-books---- CURT. Yes, I recall that, when we parted, you had just published a volume on rifle practice that was selling well. Is it still used in the military schools? CAPTAIN. It is still in evidence, and it holds its place as number one, though they have tried to substitute a worse one --which is being used now, but which is totally worthless. [_Painful silence_. CURT. You have been travelling abroad, I have heard. ALICE. We have been down to Copenhagen five times--think of it? CAPTAIN. Well, you see, when I took Alice away from the stage---- ALICE. Oh, you took me? CAPTAIN. Yes, I took you as a wife should be taken---- ALICE. How brave you have grown! CAPTAIN. But as it was held up against me afterward that I had spoiled her brilliant career--hm!--I had to make up for it by promising to take my wife to Copenhagen--and this I have kept--fully! Five times we have been there. Five [_holding up the five fingers of the left hand_] Have you been in Copenhagen? CURT. [_Smiling_] No, I have mostly been in America. CAPTAIN. America? Isn't that a rotten sort of a country? CURT. [_Unpleasantly impressed_] It is not Copenhagen. ALICE. Have you--heard anything--from your children? CURT. No. ALICE. I hope you pardon me--but was it not rather inconsiderate to leave them like that---- CURT. I didn't leave them, but the court gave them to the mother. CAPTAIN. Don't let us talk of that now. I for my part think it was lucky for you to get out of that mess. CURT. [_To_ ALICE] How are your children? ALICE. Well, thank you. They are at school in the city and will soon be grown up. CAPTAIN. Yes, they're splendid kids, and the boy has a brilliant head--brilliant! He is going to join the General Staff---- ALICE. If they accept him! CAPTAIN. Him? Who has the making of a War Minister in him! CURT. From one thing to another. There is to be a quarantine station here--against plague, cholera, and that sort of thing. And the doctor will be my superior, as you know--what sort of man is he? CAPTAIN. Man? He is no man! He's an ignorant rascal! CURT. [_To_ ALICE] That is very unpleasant for me. ALICE. Oh, it is not quite as bad as Edgar makes it out, but I must admit that I have small sympathy for the man---- CAPTAIN. A rascal, that's what he is. And that's what the others are, too--the Collector of Customs, the Postmaster, the telephone girl, the druggist, the pilot--what is it they call him now?--the Pilot Master--rascals one and all--and that's why I don't associate with them. CURT. Are you on bad terms with all of them? CAPTAIN. Every one! ALICE. Yes, it is true that intercourse with those people is out of the question. CAPTAIN. It is as if all the tyrants of the country had been sent to this island for safe-keeping. ALICE. [_Ironically_] Exactly! CAPTAIN. [_Good-naturedly_] Hm! Is that meant for me? I am no tyrant--not in my own house at least. ALICE. You know better! CAPTAIN. [_To_ CURT] Don't believe her! I am a very reasonable husband, and the old lady is the best wife in the world. ALICE. Would you like something to drink, Curt? CURT. No, thank you, not now. CAPTAIN. Have you turned---- CURT. A little moderate only---- CAPTAIN. Is that American? CURT. Yes. CAPTAIN. No moderation for me, or I don't care at all. A man should stand his liquor. CURT. Returning to our neighbours on the island--my position will put me in touch with all of them--and it is not easy to steer clear of everything, for no matter how little you care to get mixed up in other people's intrigues, you are drawn into them just the same. ALICE. You had better take up with them--in the end you will return to us, for here you find your true friends. CURT. Is it not dreadful to be alone among a lot of enemies as you are? ALICE. It is not pleasant. CAPTAIN. It isn't dreadful at all. I have never had anything but enemies all my life, and they have helped me on instead of doing me harm. And when my time to die comes, I may say that I owe nothing to anybody, and that I have never got a thing for nothing. Every particle of what I own I have had to fight for. ALICE. Yes, Edgar's path has not been strewn with roses---- CAPTAIN. No, with thorns and stones--pieces of flint--but a man's own strength: do you know what that means? CURT. [_Simply_] Yes, I learned to recognise its insufficiency about ten years ago. CAPTAIN. Then you are no good! ALICE. [_To the_ CAPTAIN] Edgar! CAPTAIN. He is no good, I say, if he does not have the strength within himself. Of course it is true that when the mechanism goes to pieces there is nothing left but a barrowful to chuck out on the garden beds; but as long as the mechanism holds together the thing to do is to kick and fight, with hands and feet, until there is nothing left. That is my philosophy. CURT. [_Smiling_] It is fun to listen to you. CAPTAIN. But you don't think it's true? CURT. No, I don't. CAPTAIN. But true it is, for all that. _During the preceding scene the wind has begun to blow hard, and now one of the big doors is closed with a bang_. CAPTAIN. [_Rising_] It's blowing. I could just feel it coming. _Goes back and closes both doors. Knocks on the barometer_. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] You will stay for supper? CURT. Thank you. ALICE. But it will be very simple, as our housemaid has just left us. CURT. Oh, it will do for me, I am sure. ALICE. You ask for so little, dear Curt. CAPTAIN. [_At the barometer_] If you could only see how the mercury is dropping! Oh, I felt it coming! ALICE. [_Secretly to_ CURT] He is nervous. CAPTAIN. We ought to have supper soon. ALICE. [_Rising_] I am going to see about it now. You can sit here and philosophise--[_secretly to_ CURT], but don't contradict him, for then he gets into bad humour. And don't ask him why he was not made a major. [CURT _nods assent_. [ALICE _goes toward the right_. CAPTAIN. See that we get something nice now, old lady! ALICE. You give me money, and you'll get what you want. CAPTAIN. Always money! [ALICE _goes out_. CAPTAIN. [_To_ CURT] Money, money, money! All day long I have to stand ready with the purse, until at last I have come to feel as if I myself were nothing but a purse. Are you familiar with that kind of thing? CURT. Oh, yes--with the difference that I took myself for a pocket-book. CAPTAIN. Ha-ha! So you know the flavour of the brand! Oh, the ladies! Ha-ha! And you had one of the proper kind! CURT. [_Patiently_] Let that be buried now. CAPTAIN. She was a jewel! Then I have after all--in spite of everything--one that's pretty decent. For she is straight, in spite of everything. CURT. [_Smiling good-humouredly_] In spite of everything. CAPTAIN. Don't you laugh! CURT. [_As before_] In spite of everything! CAPTAIN. Yes, she has been a faithful mate, a splendid mother--excellent--but [_with a glance at the door on the right_] she has a devilish temper. Do you know, there have been moments when I cursed you for saddling me with her. CURT. [_Good-naturedly_] But I didn't. Listen, man---- CAPTAIN. Yah, yah, yah! You talk nonsense and forget things that are not pleasant to remember. Don't take it badly, please--I am accustomed to command and raise Cain, you see, but you know me, and don't get angry! CURT. Not at all. But I have not provided you with a wife--on the contrary. CAPTAIN. [_Without letting his flow of words be checked_] Don't you think life is queer anyhow? CURT. I suppose so. CAPTAIN. And to grow old--it is no fun, but it is interesting. Well, my age is nothing to speak of, but it does begin to make itself felt. All your friends die off, and then you become so lonely. CURT. Lucky the man who can grow old in company with a wife. CAPTAIN. Lucky? Well, it is luck, for the children go their way, too. You ought not to have left yours. CURT. Well, I didn't. They were taken away from me---- CAPTAIN. Don't get mad now, because I tell you---- CURT. But it was not so. CAPTAIN. Well, whichever way it was, it has now become forgotten--but you are alone! CURT. You get accustomed to everything. CAPTAIN. Do you--is it possible to get accustomed--to being quite alone also? CURT. Here am I! CAPTAIN. What have you been doing these fifteen years? CURT. What a question! These fifteen years! CAPTAIN. They say you have got hold of money and grown rich. CURT. I can hardly be called rich---- CAPTAIN. I am not going to ask for a loan. CURT. If you were, you would find me ready. CAPTAIN. Many thanks, but I have my bank account. You see [_with a glance toward the door on the right_], nothing must be lacking in this house; and the day I had no more money--she would leave me! CURT. Oh, no! CAPTAIN. No? Well, I know better. Think of it, she makes a point of asking me when I happen to be short, just for the pleasure of showing me that I am not supporting my family. CURT. But I heard you say that you have a large income. CAPTAIN. Of course, I have a large income--but it is not enough. CURT. Then it is not large, as such things are reckoned---- CAPTAIN. Life is queer, and we as well! _The telegraph receiver begins to click_. CURT. What is that? CAPTAIN. Nothing but a time correction. CURT. Have you no telephone? CAPTAIN. Yes, in the kitchen. But we use the telegraph because the girls at the central report everything we say. CURT. Social conditions out here by the sea must be frightful! CAPTAIN. They are simply horrible! But all life is horrible. And you, who believe in a sequel, do you think there will be any peace further on? CURT. I presume there will be storms and battles there also. CAPTAIN. There also--if there be any "there"! I prefer annihilation! CURT. Are you sure that annihilation will come without pain? CAPTAIN. I am going to die all of a sudden, without pain CURT. So you know that? CAPTAIN. Yes, I know it. CURT. You don't appear satisfied with your life? CAPTAIN. [_Sighing_] Satisfied? The day I could die, I should be satisfied. CURT. [_Rising_] That you don't know! But tell me: what is going on in this house? What is happening here? There is a smell as of poisonous wall-paper, and one feels sick the moment one enters. I should prefer to get away from here, had I not promised Alice to stay. There are dead bodies beneath the flooring, and the place is so filled with hatred that one can hardly breathe. [_The_ CAPTAIN _sinks together and sits staring into vacancy_] What is the matter with you? Edgar! [_The_ CAPTAIN _does not move. Slaps the_ CAPTAIN _on the shoulder_] Edgar! CAPTAIN. [_Recovering consciousness_] Did you say anything? [_Looks around_] I thought it was--Alice!--Oh, is that you?--Say--[_Relapses into apathy_. CURT. This is horrible! [_Goes over to the door on the right and opens it_] Alice! ALICE. [_Enters, wearing a kitchen apron_] What is it? CURT. I don't know. Look at him. ALICE. [_Calmly_] He goes off like that at times--I'll play and then he will wake up. CURT. No, don't! Not that way! Leave it to me--Does he hear? Or see? ALICE. Just now he neither hears nor sees. CURT. And you can speak of that with such calm? Alice, what is going on in this house? ALICE. Ask him there. CURT. Him there? But he is your husband! ALICE. A stranger to me--as strange as he was twenty-five years ago. I know nothing at all about that man--nothing but---- CURT. Stop! He may overhear you. ALICE. Now he cannot hear anything. _A trumpet signal is sounded outside_. CAPTAIN. [_Leaps to his feet and grabs sabre and cap_] Pardon me. I have to inspect the sentries. [_Goes out through the door in the background_. CURT. Is he ill? ALICE. I don't know. CURT. Has he lost his reason? ALICE. I don't know. CURT. Does he drink? ALICE. He boasts more of it than he really drinks. CURT. Sit down and talk--but calmly and truthfully. ALICE. [_Sitting down_] What am I to talk about? That I have spent a lifetime in this tower, locked up, guarded by a man whom I have always hated, and whom I now hate so beyond all bounds that the day he died I should be laughing until the air shook. CURT. Why have you not parted? ALICE. You may well ask! While still engaged we parted twice; since then we have been trying to part every single day--but we are chained together and cannot break away. Once we were separated--within the same house--for five whole years. Now nothing but death can part us. This we know, and for that reason we are waiting for him as for a liberator. CURT. Why are you so lonely? ALICE. Because he isolates me. First he "exterminated" all my brothers and sisters from our home--he speaks of it himself as "extermination"--and then my girl friends and everybody else. CURT. But _his_ relatives? He has not "exterminated" them? ALICE. Yes, for they came near taking my life, after having taken my honour and good name. Finally I became forced to keep up my connection with the world and with other human beings by means of that telegraph--for the telephone was watched by the operators. I have taught myself telegraphy, and he doesn't know it. You must not tell him, for then he would kill me. CURT. Frightful! Frightful!--But why does he hold me responsible for your marriage? Let me tell you now how it was. Edgar was my childhood friend. When he saw you he fell in love at once. He came to me and asked me to plead his cause. I said no at once--and, my dear Alice, I knew your tyrannical and cruel temperament. For that reason I warned him--and when he persisted, I sent him to get your brother for his spokesman. ALICE. I believe what you say. But he has been deceiving himself all these years, so that now you can never get him to believe anything else. CURT. Well, let him put the blame on me if that can relieve his sufferings. ALICE. But that is too much---- CURT. I am used to it. But what does hurt me is his unjust charge that I have deserted my children---- ALICE. That's the manner of man he is. He says what suits him, and then he believes it. But he seems to be fond of you, principally because you don't contradict him. Try not to grow tired of us now. I believe you have come in what was to us a fortunate moment; I think it was even providential--Curt, you must not grow tired of us, for we are undoubtedly the most unhappy creatures in the whole world! [_She weeps_. CURT. I have seen _one_ marriage at close quarters, and it was dreadful--but this is almost worse! ALICE. Do you think so? CURT. Yes. ALICE. Whose fault is it? CURT. The moment you quit asking whose fault it is, Alice, you will feel a relief. Try to regard it as a fact, a trial that has to be borne---- ALICE. I cannot do it! It is too much! [Rising] It is beyond help! CURT. I pity both of you!--Do you know why you are hating each other? ALICE. No, it is the most unreasoning hatred, without cause, without purpose, but also without end. And can you imagine why he is principally afraid of death? He fears that I may marry again. CURT. Then he loves you. ALICE. Probably. But that does not prevent him from hating me. CURT. [_As if to himself_] It is called love-hatred, and it hails from the pit!--Does he like you to play for him? ALICE. Yes, but only horrid melodies--for instance, that awful "The Entry of the Boyars." When he hears it he loses his head and wants to dance. CURT. Does he dance? ALICE. Oh, he is very funny at times. CURT. One thing--pardon me for asking. Where are the children? ALICE. Perhaps you don't know that two of them are dead? CURT. So you have had that to face also? ALICE. What is there I have not faced? CURT. But the other two? ALICE. In the city. They couldn't stay at home. For he set them against me. CURT. And you set them against him? ALICE. Of course. And then parties were formed, votes bought, bribes given--and in order not to spoil the children completely we had to part from them. What should have been the uniting link became the seed of dissension; what is held the blessing of the home turned into a curse--well, I believe sometimes that we belong to a cursed race! CURT. Yes, is it not so--ever since the Fall? ALICE. [_With a venomous glance and sharp voice_] What fall? CURT. That of our first parents. ALICE. Oh, I thought you meant something else! [_Embarrassed silence_. ALICE. [_With folded hands_] Curt, my kinsman, my childhood friend--I have not always acted toward you as I should. But now I am being punished, and you are having your revenge. CURT. No revenge! Nothing of that kind here! Hush! ALICE. Do you recall one Sunday while you were engaged--and I had invited you for dinner---- CURT. Never mind! ALICE. I must speak! Have pity on me! When you came to dinner, we had gone away, and you had to leave again. CURT. You had received an invitation yourselves--what is that to speak of! ALICE. Curt, when to-day, a little while ago, I asked you to stay for supper, I thought we had something left in the pantry. [_Hiding her face in her hands_] And there is not a thing, not even a piece of bread---- CURT. _Weeping_] Alice--poor Alice! ALICE. But when he comes home and wants something to eat, and there is nothing--then he gets angry. You have never seen him angry! O, God, what humiliation! CURT. Will you not let me go out and arrange for something? ALICE. There is nothing to be had on this island. CURT. Not for my sake, but for his and yours--let me think up something--something. We must make the whole thing seem laughable when he comes. I'll propose that we have a drink, and in the meantime I'll think of something. Put him in good humour; play for him, any old nonsense. Sit down at the piano and make yourself ready---- ALICE. Look at my hands--are they fit to play with? I have to wipe glasses and polish brass, sweep floors, and make fires---- CURT. But you have two servants? ALICE. So we have to pretend because he is an officer--but the servants are leaving us all the time, so that often we have none at all--most of the time, in fact. How am I to get out of this--this about supper? Oh, if only fire would break out in this house! CURT. Don't, Alice, don't! ALICE. If the sea would rise and take us away! CURT. No, no, no, I cannot listen to you! ALICE. What will he say, what will he say--Don't go, Curt, don't go away from me! CURT. No, dear Alice--I shall not go. ALICE. Yes, but when you are gone---- CURT. Has he ever laid hands on you? ALICE. On me? Oh, no, for he knew that then I should have left him. One has to preserve some pride. _From without is heard_: "_Who goes there_?--_Friend_." CURT. [_Rising_] Is he coming? ALICE. [_Frightened_] Yes, that's he. [_Pause_. CURT. What in the world are we to do? ALICE. I don't know, I don't know! CAPTAIN. [_Enters from the background_, _cheerful_] There! Leisure now! Well, has she had time to make her complaints? Is she not unhappy--hey? CURT. How's the weather outside?-- CAPTAIN. Half storm--[_Facetiously; opening one of the doors ajar_] Sir Bluebeard with the maiden in the tower; and outside stands the sentry with drawn sabre to guard the pretty maiden--and then come the brothers, but the sentry is there. Look at him. Hip--hip! That's a fine sentry. Look at him. _Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre_! Let us dance the sword dance! Curt ought to see it! CURT. No, let us have "The Entry of the Boyars" instead! CAPTAIN. Oh, you know that one, do you?--Alice in the kitchen apron, come and play. Come, I tell you! [ALICE _goes reluctantly to the piano_. CAPTAIN. [_Pinching her arm_] Now you have been black-guarding me! ALICE. I? CURT _turns away from them_. ALICE _plays_ "_The Entry of the Boyars_." _The_ CAPTAIN _performs some kind of Hungarian dance step behind the writing-table so that his spurs are set jingling. Then he sinks down on the floor without being noticed by_ CURT _and_ ALICE, _and the latter goes on playing the piece to the end_. ALICE. [_Without turning around_] Shall we have it again? [_Silence. Turns around and becomes aware of the_ CAPTAIN, _who is lying unconscious on the floor in such a way that he is hidden from the public by the writing-table_] Lord Jesus! _She stands still, with arms crossed over her breast, and gives vent to a sigh as of gratitude and relief_. CURT. [_Turns around; hurries over to the_ CAPTAIN] What is it? What is it? ALICE. [_In a high state of tension_] Is he dead? CURT. I don't know. Come and help me. ALICE. [_Remains still_] I cannot touch him--is he dead? CURT. No--he lives. ALICE _sighs_. CURT _helps the_ CAPTAIN _to his feet and places him in a chair_. CAPTAIN. What was it? [_Silence_] What was it? CURT. You fell down. CAPTAIN. Did anything happen? CURT. You fell on the floor. What is the matter with you? CAPTAIN. With me? Nothing at all. I don't know of anything. What are you staring at me for? CURT. You are ill. CAPTAIN. What nonsense is that? You go on playing, Alice--Oh, now it's back again! [_Puts both hands up to his head._ ALICE. Can't you see that you are ill? CAPTAIN. Don't shriek! It is only a fainting spell. CURT. We must call a doctor--I'll use your telephone---- CAPTAIN. I don't want any doctor. CURT. You must! We have to call him for our own sake--otherwise we shall be held responsible---- CAPTAIN. I'll show him the door if he comes here. I'll shoot him. Oh, now it's there again! [_Takes hold of his head._ CURT. [_Goes toward the door on the right_] Now I am going to telephone! [_Goes out_. [ALICE _takes off her apron._ CAPTAIN. Will you give me a glass of water? ALICE. I suppose I have to! [_Gives him a glass of water._ CAPTAIN. How amiable! ALICE. Are you ill? CAPTAIN. Please pardon me for not being well. ALICE. Will you take care of yourself then? CAPTAIN. _You_ won't do it, I suppose? ALICE. No, of that you may be sure! CAPTAIN. The hour is come for which you have been waiting so long. ALICE. The hour you believed would never come. CAPTAIN. Don't be angry with me! CURT. [_Enters from the right_] Oh, it's too bad---- ALICE. What did he say? CURT. He rang off without a word. ALICE. [_To the_ Captain] There is the result of your limitless arrogance! CAPTAIN. I think I am growing worse--Try to get a doctor from the city. ALICE. [_Goes to the telegraph instrument_] We shall have to use the telegraph then. CAPTAIN. [_Rising half-way from the chair; startled_] Do you--know--how to use it? ALICE. [_Working the key_] Yes, I do. CAPTAIN. So-o! Well, go on then--But isn't she treacherous! [_To_ CURT] Come over here and sit by me. [CURT _sits down beside the_ CAPTAIN] Take my hand. I sit here and fall--can you make it out? Down something--such a queer feeling. CURT. Have you had any attack like this before? CAPTAIN. Never---- CURT. While you are waiting for an answer from the city, I'll go over to the doctor and have a talk with him. Has he attended you before? CAPTAIN. He has. CURT. Then he knows your case. [Goes _toward the left_. ALICE. There will be an answer shortly. It is very kind of you, Curt. But come back soon. CURT. As soon as I can. [_Goes out_. CAPTAIN. Curt _is_ kind! And how he has changed. ALICE. Yes, and for the better. It is too bad, however, that he must be dragged into our misery just now. CAPTAIN. But good for us--I wonder just how he stands. Did you notice that he wouldn't speak of his own affairs? ALICE. I did notice it, but then I don't think anybody asked him. CAPTAIN. Think, what a life! And ours! I wonder if it is the same for all people? ALICE. Perhaps, although they don't speak of it as we do. CAPTAIN. At times I have thought that misery draws misery, and that those who are happy shun the unhappy. That is the reason why we see nothing but misery. ALICE. Have you known anybody who was happy? CAPTAIN. Let me see! No--Yes--the Ekmarks. ALICE. You don't mean it! She had to have an operation last year---- CAPTAIN. That's right. Well, then I don't know--yes, the Von Kraffts. ALICE. Yes, the whole family lived an idyllic life, well off, respected by everybody, nice children, good marriages--right along until they were fifty. Then that cousin of theirs committed a crime that led to a prison term and all sorts of after-effects. And that was the end of their peace. The family name was dragged in the mud by all the newspapers. The Krafft murder case made it impossible for the family to appear anywhere, after having been so much thought of. The children had to be taken out of school. Oh, heavens! CAPTAIN. I wonder what my trouble is? ALICE. What do you think? CAPTAIN. Heart or head. It is as if the soul wanted to fly off and turn into smoke. ALICE. Have you any appetite? CAPTAIN. Yes, how about the supper? ALICE. [_Crosses the stage, disturbed_] I'll ask Jenny. CAPTAIN. Why, she's gone! ALICE. Yes, yes, yes! CAPTAIN. Ring for Christine so that I can get some fresh water. ALICE. [_Rings_] I wonder--[_Rings again_] She doesn't hear. CAPTAIN. Go and look--just think, if she should have left also! ALICE. [_Goes over to the door on the left and opens it_] What is this? Her trunk is in the hallway--packed. CAPTAIN. Then she has gone. ALICE. This is hell! _Begins to cry, falls on her knees, and puts her head on a chair, sobbing_. CAPTAIN. And everything at once! And then Curt had to turn up just in time to get a look into this mess of ours! If there be any further humiliation in store, let it come this moment! ALICE. Do you know what I suspect? Curt went away and will not come back. CAPTAIN. I believe it of him. ALICE. Yes, we are cursed---- CAPTAIN. What are you talking of? ALICE. Don't you see how everybody shuns us? CAPTAIN. I don't mind! [_The telegraph receiver clicks_] There is the answer. Hush, I can hear it--Nobody can spare the time. Evasions! The rabble! ALICE. That's what you get because you have despised your physicians--and failed to pay them. CAPTAIN. That is not so! ALICE. Even when you could, you didn't care to pay their bills because you looked down upon their work, just as you have looked down upon mine and everybody else's. They don't want to come. And the telephone is cut off because you didn't think that good for anything either. Nothing is good for anything but your rifles and guns! CAPTAIN. Don't stand there and talk nonsense---- ALICE. Everything comes back. CAPTAIN. What sort of superstition is that? Talk for old women! ALICE. You will see! Do you know that we owe Christine six months' wages? CAPTAIN. Well, she has stolen that much. ALICE. But I have also had to borrow money from her. CAPTAIN. I think you capable of it. ALICE. What an ingrate you are! You know I borrowed that money for the children to get into the city. CAPTAIN. Curt had a fine way of coming back! A rascal, that one, too! And a coward! He didn't dare to say he had had enough, and that he found the doctor's party more pleasant--He's the same rapscallion as ever! CURT. [_Enters quickly from the left_] Well, my dear Edgar, this is how the matter stands--the doctor knows everything about your heart---- CAPTAIN. My heart? CURT. You have long been suffering from calcification of the heart---- CAPTAIN. Stone heart? CURT. And---- CAPTAIN. Is it serious? CURT. Well, that is to say---- CAPTAIN. It is serious. CURT. Yes. CAPTAIN. Fatal? CURT. You must be very careful. First of all: the cigar must go. [_The_ CAPTAIN _throws away his cigar_] And next: no more whiskey! Then, to bed! CAPTAIN. [_Scared_] No, I don't want _that_! Not to bed! That's the end! Then you never get up again. I shall sleep on the couch to-night. What more did he say? CURT. He was very nice about it and will come at once if you call him. CAPTAIN. Was he nice, the hypocrite? I don't want to see him! I can at least eat? CURT. Not to-night. And during the next few days nothing but milk. CAPTAIN. Milk! I cannot take that stuff into my mouth. CURT. Better learn how! CAPTAIN. I am too old to learn. [_Puts his hand up to his head_] Oh, there it is again now! [_He sits perfectly still, staring straight ahead_. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] What did the doctor tell you? CURT. That he _may_ die. ALICE. Thank God! CURT. Take care, Alice, take care! And now, go and get a pillow and a blanket and I'll put him here on the couch. Then I'll sit on the chair here all night. ALICE. And I? CURT. You go to bed. Your presence seems only to make him worse. ALICE. Command! I shall obey, for you seem to mean well toward both of us. [_Goes out to the left_. CURT. Mark you--toward both of you! And I shall not mix in any partisan squabbles. CURT _takes the water bottle and goes out to the right. The noise of the wind outside is clearly heard. Then one of the doors is blown open and an old woman of shabby, unprepossessing appearance peeps into the room_. CAPTAIN. [_Wakes up, rises, and looks around_] So, they have left me, the rascals! [_Catches sight of the old woman and is frightened by her_] Who is it? What do you want? OLD WOMAN. I just wanted to close the door, sir. CAPTAIN. Why should you? Why should you? OLD WOMAN. Because it blew open just as I passed by. CAPTAIN. Wanted to steal, did you? OLD WOMAN. Not much here to take away, Christine said. CAPTAIN. Christine? OLD WOMAN. Good night, sir, and sleep well! [_Closes the door and disappears._ ALICE _comes in from the left with pillows and a blanket._ CAPTAIN. Who was that at the door? Anybody? ALICE. Why, it was old Mary from the poorhouse who just went by. CAPTAIN. Are you sure? ALICE. Are you afraid? CAPTAIN. I, afraid? Oh, no! ALICE. As you don't want to go to bed, you can lie here. CAPTAIN. [_Goes over to the couch and lies down_] I'll lie here. [_Tries to take_ ALICE'S _hand, but she pulls it away._ CURT _comes in with the water bottle_. CAPTAIN. Curt, don't go away from me! CURT. I am going to stay up with you all night. Alice is going to bed. CAPTAIN. Good night then, Alice. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Good night, Curt. CURT. Good night. [ALICE _goes out_. CURT. [_Takes a chair and sits down beside the couch_] Don't you want to take off your boots? CAPTAIN. No, a warrior should always be armed. CURT. Are you expecting a battle then? CAPTAIN. Perhaps! [_Rising up in bed_] Curt, you are the only human being to whom I ever disclosed anything of myself. Listen to me!--If I die to-night--look after my children! CURT. I will do so. CAPTAIN. Thank you--I trust in you! CURT. Can you explain why you trust me? CAPTAIN. We have not been friends, for friendship is something I don't believe in, and our families were born enemies and have always been at war---- CURT. And yet you trust me? CAPTAIN. Yes, and I don't know why. [_Silence_] Do you think I am going to die? CURT. You as well as everybody. There will be no exception made in your case. CAPTAIN. Are you bitter? CURT. Yes--are you afraid of death? Of the wheelbarrow and the garden bed? CAPTAIN. Think, if it were not the end! CURT. That's what a great many think! CAPTAIN. And then? CURT. Nothing but surprises, I suppose. CAPTAIN. But nothing at all is known with certainty? CURT. No, that's just it! That is why you must be prepared for everything. CAPTAIN. You are not childish enough to believe in a hell? CURT. Do you not believe in it--you, who are right in it? CAPTAIN. That is metaphorical only. CURT. The realism with which you have described yours seems to preclude all thought of metaphors, poetical or otherwise. [_Silence_. CAPTAIN. If you only knew what pangs I suffer! CURT. Of the body? CAPTAIN. No, not of the body. CURT. Then it must be of the spirit, for no other alternative exists. [_Pause._ CAPTAIN. [_Rising up in bed_] I don't want to die! CURT. Not long ago you wished for annihilation. CAPTAIN. Yes, if it be painless. CURT. Apparently it is not! CAPTAIN. Is this annihilation then? CURT. The beginning of it. CAPTAIN. Good night. CURT. Good night. _Curtain_. _The same setting, but note the lamp is at the point of going out. Through the windows and the glass panes of the doors a gray morning is visible. The sea is stirring. The sentry is on the battery as before_. _The_ CAPTAIN _is lying on the couch, asleep_. CURT _sits on a chair beside him, looking pale and wearied from his watch_. ALICE. [_In from the left_] Is he asleep? CURT. Yes, since the time when the sun should have risen. ALICE. What kind of night did he have? CURT. He slept now and then, but he talked a good deal. ALICE. Of what? CURT. He argued about religion like a schoolboy, but with a pretension of having solved all the world riddles. Finally, toward morning, he invented the immortality of the soul. ALICE. For his own glory. CURT. Exactly! He is actually the most conceited person I have ever met. "I am; consequently God must be." ALICE. You have become aware of it? Look at those boots. With those he would have trampled the earth flat, had he been allowed to do so. With those he has trampled down other people's fields and gardens. With those he has trampled on some people's toes and other people's heads--Man-eater, you have got your bullet at last! CURT. He would be comical were he not so tragical; and there are traces of greatness in all his narrow-mindedness--Have you not a single good word to say about him? ALICE. [_Sitting down_] Yes, if he only does not hear it; for if he hears a single word of praise he develops megalomania on the spot. CURT. He can hear nothing now, for he has had a dose of morphine. ALICE. Born in a poor home, with many brothers and sisters, Edgar very early had to support the family by giving lessons, as the father was a ne'er-do-well if nothing worse. It must be hard for a young man to give up all the pleasures of youth in order to slave for a bunch of thankless children whom he has not brought into the world. I was a little girl when I saw him, as a young man, going without an overcoat in the winter while the mercury stood at fifteen below zero--his little sisters wore kersey coats--it was fine, and I admired him, but his ugliness repelled me. Is he not unusually ugly? CURT. Yes, and his ugliness has a touch of the monstrous at times. Whenever we fell out, I noticed it particularly. And when, at such times, he went away, his image assumed enormous forms and proportions, and he literally haunted me. ALICE. Think of me then! However, his earlier years as an officer were undoubtedly a martyrdom. But now and then he was helped by rich people. This he will never admit, and whatever has come to him in that way he has accepted as a due tribute, without giving thanks for it. CURT. We were to speak well of him. ALICE. Yes--after he is dead. But then I recall nothing more. CURT. Have you found him cruel? ALICE. Yes--and yet he can show himself both kind and susceptible to sentiment. As an enemy he is simply horrible. CURT. Why did he not get the rank of major? ALICE. Oh, you ought to understand that! They didn't want to raise a man above themselves who had already proved himself a tyrant as an inferior. But you must never let on that you know this. He says himself that he did not want promotion--Did he speak of the children? CURT. Yes, he was longing for Judith. ALICE. I thought so--Oh! Do you know what Judith is? His own image, whom he has trained for use against me. Think only, that my own daughter--has raised her hand against me! CURT. That is too much! ALICE. Hush! He is moving--Think if he overheard us! He is full of trickery also. CURT. He is actually waking up. ALICE. Does he not look like an ogre? I am afraid of him! [_Silence_. CAPTAIN. [_Stirs, wakes up, rises in bed, and looks around_] It is morning--at last! CURT. How are you feeling? CAPTAIN. Not so very bad. CURT. Do you want a doctor? CAPTAIN. No--I want to see Judith--my child! CURT. Would it not be wise to set your house in order before--or if something should happen? CAPTAIN. What do you mean? What could happen? CURT. What may happen to all of us. CAPTAIN. Oh, nonsense! Don't you believe that I die so easily! And don't rejoice prematurely, Alice! CURT. Think of your children. Make your will so that your wife at least may keep the household goods. CAPTAIN. Is she going to inherit from me while I am still alive? CURT. No, but if something happens she ought not to be turned into the street. One who has dusted and polished and looked after these things for twenty-five years should have some right to remain in possession of them. May I send word to the regimental lawyer? CAPTAIN. No! CURT. You are a cruel man--more cruel than I thought you! CAPTAIN. Now it is back again! [_Falls back on the bed unconscious_. ALICE. [_Goes toward the right_] There are some people in the kitchen--I have to go down there. CURT. Yes, go. Here is not much to be done. [ALICE _goes out_. CAPTAIN. [_Recovers_] Well, Curt, what are you going to do about your quarantine? CURT. Oh, that will be all right. CAPTAIN. No; I am in command on this island, so you will have to deal with me--don't forget that! CURT. Have you ever seen a quarantine station? CAPTAIN. Have I? Before you were born. And I'll give you a piece of advice: don't place your disinfection plant too close to the shore. CURT. I was thinking that the nearer I could get to the water the better---- CAPTAIN. That shows how much you know of your business. Water, don't you see, is the element of the bacilli, their life element? CURT. But the salt water of the sea is needed to wash away all the impurity. CAPTAIN. Idiot! Well, now, when you get a house for yourself I suppose you'll bring home your children? CURT. Do you think they will let themselves be brought? CAPTAIN. Of course, if you have got any backbone! It would make a good impression on the people if you fulfilled your duties in that respect also---- CURT. I have always fulfilled my duties in that respect. CAPTAIN. [_Raising his voice_]--in the one respect where you have proved yourself most remiss---- CURT. Have I not told you---- CAPTAIN. [_Paying no attention_]--for one does not desert one's children like that---- CURT. Go right on! CAPTAIN. As your relative--a relative older than yourself--I feel entitled to tell you the truth, even if it should prove bitter--and you should not take it badly---- CURT. Are you hungry? CAPTAIN. Yes, I am. CURT. Do you want something light? CAPTAIN. No, something solid. CURT. Then you would be done for. CAPTAIN. Is it not enough to be sick, but one must starve also? CURT. That's how the land lies. CAPTAIN. And neither drink nor smoke? Then life is not worth much! CURT. Death demands sacrifices, or it comes at once. ALICE. [_Enters with several bunches of flowers and some telegrams and letters_] These are for you. [_Throws the flowers on the writing-table_. CAPTAIN. [_Flattered_] For me! Will you please let me look? ALICE. Oh, they are only from the non-commissioned officers, the bandmen, and the gunners. CAPTAIN. You are jealous. ALICE. Oh, no. If it were laurel wreaths, that would be another matter--but those you can never get. CAPTAIN. Hm!--Here's a telegram from the Colonel--read it, Curt. The Colonel is a gentleman after all--though he is something of an idiot. And this is from--what does it say? It is from Judith! Please telegraph her to come with the next boat. And here--yes, one is not quite without friends after all, and it is fine to see them take thought of a sick man, who is also a man of deserts above his rank, and a man free of fear or blemish. ALICE. I don't quite understand--are they congratulating you because you are sick? CAPTAIN. Hyena! ALICE. Yes, we had a doctor here on the island who was so hated that when he left they gave a banquet--after him, and not for him! CAPTAIN. Put the flowers in water--I am not easily caught, and all people are a lot of rabble, but, by heavens, these simple tributes are genuine--they cannot be anything but genuine! ALICE. Fool! CURT. [_Reading the telegram_] Judith says she cannot come because the steamer is held back by the storm. CAPTAIN. Is that all? CURT. No-o--there is a postscript. CAPTAIN. Out with it! CURT. Well, she asks her father not to drink so much. CAPTAIN. Impudence! That's like children! That's my only beloved daughter--my Judith--my idol! ALICE. And your image! CAPTAIN. Such is life. Such are its best joys--Hell! ALICE. Now you get the harvest of your sowing. You have set her against her own mother and now she turns against the father. Tell me, then, that there is no God! CAPTAIN. [_To_ CURT] What does the Colonel say? CURT. He grants leave of absence without any comment. CAPTAIN. Leave of absence? I have not asked for it. ALICE. No, but I have asked for it. CAPTAIN. I don't accept it. ALICE. Order has already been issued. CAPTAIN. That's none of my concern! ALICE. Do you see, Curt, that for this man exist no laws, no constitutions, no prescribed human order? He stands above everything and everybody. The universe is created for his private use. The sun and the moon pursue their courses in order to spread his glory among the stars. Such is this man: this insignificant captain, who could not even reach the rank of major, and at whose strutting everybody laughs, while he thinks himself feared; this poor wretch who is afraid in the dark and believes in barometers: and all this in conjunction with and having for its climax--a barrowful of manure that is not even prime quality! CAPTAIN. [_Fanning himself with a bunch of flowers, conceitedly, without listening to_ ALICE] Have you asked Curt to breakfast? ALICE. No. CAPTAIN. Get us, then, at once two nice tenderloin steaks. ALICE. Two? CAPTAIN. I am going to have one myself. ALICE. But we are three here. CAPTAIN. Oh, you want one also? Well, make it three then. ALICE. Where am I to get them? Last night you asked Curt to supper, and there was not a crust of bread in the house. Curt has been awake all night without anything to eat, and he has had no coffee because there is none in the house and the credit is gone. CAPTAIN. She is angry at me for not dying yesterday. ALICE. No, for not dying twenty-five years ago--for not dying before you were born! CAPTAIN. [_To_ CURT] Listen to her! That's what happens when you institute a marriage, my dear Curt. And it is perfectly clear that it was not instituted in heaven. [ALICE _and_ CURT _look at each other meaningly_. CAPTAIN. [_Rises and goes toward the door_] However, say what you will, now I am going on duty. [_Puts on an old-fashioned helmet with a brush crest, girds on the sabre, and shoulders his cloak_] If anybody calls for me, I am at the battery. [ALICE _and_ CURT _try vainly to hold him back_] Stand aside! [_Goes out_. ALICE. Yes, go! You always go, always show your back, whenever the fight becomes too much for you. And then you let your wife cover the retreat--you hero of the bottle, you arch-braggart, you arch-liar! Fie on you! CURT. This is bottomless! ALICE. And you don't know everything yet. CURT. Is there anything more---- ALICE. But I am ashamed---- CURT. Where is he going now? And where does he get the strength? ALICE. Yes, you may well ask! Now he goes down to the non-commissioned officers and thanks them for the flowers--and then he eats and drinks with them. And then he speaks ill of all the other officers--If you only knew how many times he has been threatened with discharge! Nothing but sympathy for his family has saved him. And this he takes for fear of his superiority. And he hates and maligns the very women--wives of other officers--who have been pleading our cause. CURT. I have to confess that I applied for this position in order to find peace by the sea--and of your circumstances I knew nothing at all. ALICE. Poor Curt! And how will you get something to eat? CURT. Oh, I can go over to the doctor's--but you? Will you not permit me to arrange this for you? ALICE. If only he does not learn of it, for then he would kill me. CURT. [_Looking out through the window_] Look, he stands right in the wind out there on the rampart. ALICE. He is to be pitied--for being what he is! CURT. Both of you are to be pitied! But what can be done? ALICE. I don't know--The mail brought a batch of unpaid bills also, and those he did not see. CURT. It may be fortunate to escape seeing things at times. ALICE. [_At the window_] He has unbuttoned his cloak and lets the wind strike his chest. Now he wants to die! CURT. That is not what he wants, I think, for a while ago, when he felt his life slipping away, he grabbed hold of mine and began to stir in my affairs as if he wanted to crawl into me and live my life. ALICE. That is just his vampire nature--to interfere with other people's destinies, to suck interest out of other existences, to regulate and arrange the doings of others, since he can find no interest whatever in his own life. And remember, Curt, don't ever admit him into your family life, don't ever make him acquainted with your friends, for he will take them away from you and make them his own. He is a perfect magician in this respect. Were he to meet your children, you would soon find them intimate with _him_, and he would be advising them and educating them to suit himself--but principally in opposition to _your_ wishes. CURT. Alice, was it not he who took my children away from me at the time of the divorce? ALICE. Since it is all over now--yes, it was he. CURT. I have suspected it, but never had any certainty. It was he! ALICE. When you placed your full trust in my husband and sent him to make peace between yourself and your wife, he made love to her instead, and taught her the trick that gave her the children. CURT. Oh, God! God in heaven! ALICE. There you have another side of him. [_Silence_. CURT. Do you know, last night--when he thought himself dying--then--he made me promise that I should look after his children! ALICE. But you don't want to revenge yourself on my children? CURT. Yes--by keeping my promise. I shall look after your children. ALICE. You could take no worse revenge, for there is nothing he hates so much as generosity. CURT. Then I may consider myself revenged--without any revenge. ALICE. I love revenge as a form of justice, and I am yearning to see evil get its punishment. CURT. You still remain at that point? ALICE. There I shall always remain, and the day I forgave or loved an enemy I should be a hypocrite. CURT. It may be a duty not to say everything, Alice, not to see everything. It is called forbearance, and all of us need it. ALICE. Not I! My life lies clear and open, and I have always played my cards straight. CURT. That is saying a good deal. ALICE. No, it is not saying enough. Because what I have suffered innocently for the sake of this man, whom I never loved---- CURT. Why did you marry? ALICE. Who can tell? Because he took me, seduced me! I don't know. And then I was longing to get up on the heights---- CURT. And deserted your art? ALICE. Which was despised! But you know, he cheated me! He held out hopes of a pleasant life, a handsome home--and there was nothing but debts; no gold except on the uniform--and even that was not real gold. He cheated me! CURT. Wait a moment! When a young man falls in love, he sees the future in a hopeful light: that his hopes are not always realized, one must pardon. I have the same kind of deceit on my own conscience without thinking myself dishonest--What is it you see on the rampart? ALICE. I want to see if he has fallen down. CURT. Has he? ALICE. No--worse luck! He is cheating me all the time. CURT. Then I shall call on the doctor and the lawyer. ALICE. [_Sitting down at the window_] Yes, dear Curt, go. I shall sit here and wait. And I have learned how to wait! _Curtain_. _Same setting in full daylight. The sentry is pacing back and forth on the battery as before_. ALICE _sits in the right-hand easy-chair. Her hair is now gray_. CURT. [_Enters from the left after having knocked_] Good day, Alice. ALICE. Good day, Curt. Sit down. CURT. [_Sits down in the left-hand easy-chair_] The steamer is just coming in. ALICE. Then I know what's in store, for he is on board. CURT. Yes, he is, for I caught the glitter of his helmet--What has he been doing in the city? ALICE. Oh, I can figure it out. He dressed for parade, which means that he saw the Colonel, and he put on white gloves, which means that he made some calls. CURT. Did you notice his quiet manner yesterday? Since he has quit drinking and become temperate, he is another man: calm, reserved, considerate---- ALICE. I know it, and if that man had always kept sober he would have been a menace to humanity. It is perhaps fortunate for the rest of mankind that he made himself ridiculous and harmless through his whiskey. CURT. The spirit in the bottle has chastised him--But have you noticed since death put its mark on him that he has developed a dignity which elevates? And is it not possible that with this new idea of immortality may have come a new outlook upon life? ALICE. You are deceiving yourself. He is conjuring up something evil. And don't you believe what he says, for he lies with premeditation, and he knows the art of intriguing as no one else---- CURT. [_Watching_ ALICE] Why, Alice, what does this mean? Your hair has turned gray in these two nights! ALICE. No, my friend, it has long been gray, and I have simply neglected to darken it since my husband is as good as dead. Twenty-five years in prison--do you know that this place served as a prison in the old days? CURT. Prison--well, the walls show it. ALICE. And my complexion! Even the children took on prison color in here. CURT. I find it hard to imagine children prattling within these walls. ALICE. There was not much prattling done either. And those two that died perished merely from lack of light. CURT. What do you think is coming next? ALICE. The decisive blow at us two. I caught a familiar glimmer in his eye when you read out that telegram from Judith. It ought, of course, to have been directed against her, but she, you know, is inviolate, and so his hatred sought you. CURT. What are his intentions in regard to me, do you think? ALICE. Hard to tell, but he possesses a marvellous skill in nosing out other people's secrets--and did you notice how, all day yesterday, he seemed to be living in your quarantine; how he drank a life-interest out of your existence; how he ate your children alive? A cannibal, I tell you--for I know him. His own life is going, or has gone---- CURT. I also have that impression of his being already on the other side. His face seems to phosphoresce, as if he were in a state of decay--and his eyes flash like will-o'-the-wisps over graves or morasses--Here he comes! Tell him you thought it possible he might be jealous. ALICE. No, he is too self-conceited. "Show me the man of whom I need to be jealous!" Those are his own words. CURT. So much the better, for even his faults carry with them a certain merit--Shall I get up and meet him anyhow? ALICE. No, be impolite, or he will think you false. And if he begins to lie, pretend to believe him. I know perfectly how to translate his lies, and get always at the truth with the help of my dictionary. I foresee something dreadful--but, Curt, don't lose your self-control! My own advantage in our long struggle has been that I was always sober, and for that reason in full control of myself. He was always tripped by his whiskey--Now we shall see! CAPTAIN. [_In from the left in full uniform, with helmet, cloak, and white gloves. Calm, dignified, but pale and hollow-eyed. Moves forward with a tottering step and sinks down, his helmet and cloak still on, in a chair at the right of the stage, far from_ CURT _and_ ALICE] Good day. Pardon me for sitting down like this, but I feel a little tired. ALICE _and_ CURT. Good day. Welcome home. ALICE. How are you feeling? CAPTAIN. Splendid! Only a little tired---- ALICE. What news from the city? CAPTAIN. Oh, a little of everything. I saw the doctor, among other things, and he said it was nothing at all--that I might live twenty years, if I took care of myself. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Now he is lying. [_To the_ CAPTAIN] Why, that's fine, my dear. CAPTAIN. So much for that. _Silence, during which the_ CAPTAIN _is looking at_ ALICE _and_ CURT _as if expecting them to speak_. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Don't say a word, but let him begin--then he will show his cards. CAPTAIN. [_To_ ALICE] Did you say anything? ALICE. No, not a word. CAPTAIN. [_Dragging on the words_] Well, Curt! ALICE. [_To_ CURT] There--now he is coming out. CAPTAIN. Well, I went to the city, as you know. [CURT _nods assent_] Mm-mm, I picked up acquaintances--and among others--a young cadet [_dragging_] in the artillery. [_Pause, during which_ CURT _shows some agitation_] As--we are in need of cadets right here, I arranged with the Colonel to let him come here. This ought to please you, especially when I inform you that--he is--your own son! ALICE. [_To_ CURT] The vampire--don't you see? CURT. Under ordinary circumstances that ought to please a father, but in my case it will merely be painful. CAPTAIN. I don't see why it should! CURT. You don't need to--it is enough that I don't want it. CAPTAIN. Oh, you think so? Well, then, you ought to know that the young man has been ordered to report here, and that from now on he has to obey me. CURT. Then I shall force him to seek transfer to another regiment. CAPTAIN. You cannot do it, as you have no rights over your son. CURT. No? CAPTAIN. No, for the court gave those rights to the mother. CURT. Then I shall communicate with the mother. CAPTAIN. You don't need to. CURT. Don't need to? CAPTAIN. No, for I have already done so. Yah! [CURT _rises but sinks back again_. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Now he must die! CURT. Why, he _is_ a cannibal! CAPTAIN. So much for that! [_Straight to_ ALICE _and_ CURT] Did you say anything? ALICE. No--have you grown hard of hearing? CAPTAIN. Yes, a little--but if you come nearer to me I can tell you something between ourselves. ALICE. That is not necessary--and a witness is sometimes good to have for both parties. CAPTAIN. You are right; witnesses are sometimes good to have! But, first of all, did you get that will? ALICE. [_Hands him a document_] The regimental lawyer drew it up himself. CAPTAIN. In your favor--good! [_Reads the document and then tears it carefully into strips which he throws on the floor_] So much for that! Yah! ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Did you ever see such a man? CURT. That is no man! CAPTAIN. Well, Alice, this was what I wanted to say---- ALICE. [_Alarmed_] Go on, please. CAPTAIN. [_Calmly as before_] On account of your long cherished desire to quit this miserable existence in an unhappy marriage; on account of the lack of feeling with which you have treated your husband and children, and on account of the carelessness you have shown in the handling of our domestic economy, I have, during this trip to the city, filed an application for divorce in the City Court. ALICE. Oh--and your grounds? CAPTAIN. [_Calmly as before_] Besides the grounds already mentioned, I have others of a purely personal nature. As it has been found that I may live another twenty years, I am contemplating a change from this unhappy marital union to one that suits me better, and I mean to join my fate to that of some woman capable of devotion to her husband, and who also may bring into the home not only youth, but--let us say--a little beauty! ALICE. [_Takes the wedding-ring from her finger and throws it at the_ CAPTAIN] You are welcome! CAPTAIN. [_Picks up the ring and puts it in his rest pocket_] She throws away the ring. The witness will please take notice. ALICE. [_Rises in great agitation_] And you intend to turn me out in order to put another woman into my home? CAPTAIN. Yah! ALICE. Well, then, we'll speak plain language! Cousin Curt, that man is guilty of an attempt to murder his wife. CURT. An attempt to murder? ALICE. Yes, he pushed me into the water. CAPTAIN. Without witnesses! ALICE. He lies again--Judith saw it! CAPTAIN. Well, what of it? ALICE. She can testify to it. CAPTAIN. No, she cannot, for she says that she didn't see anything. ALICE. You have taught the child to lie! CAPTAIN. I didn't need to, for you had taught her already. ALICE. You have met Judith? CAPTAIN. Yah! ALICE. Oh, God! Oh, God! CAPTAIN. The fortress has surrendered. The enemy will be permitted to depart in safety on ten minutes' notice. [_Places his watch on the table_] Ten minutes--watch on the table! [Stops _and puts one hand up to his heart_. ALICE. [_Goes over to the_ CAPTAIN _and takes his arm_] What is it? CAPTAIN. I don't know. ALICE. Do you want anything--a drink? CAPTAIN. Whiskey? No, I don't want to die--You! [_Straightening himself up_] Don't touch me! Ten minutes, or the garrison will be massacred. [_Pulls the sabre partly from the scabbard_] Ten minutes! [_Goes out through the background_. CURT. What kind of man is this? ALICE. He is a demon, and no man! CURT. What does he want with my son? ALICE. He wants him as hostage in order to be your master--he wants to isolate you from the authorities of the island--Do you know that the people around here have named this island "Little Hell"? CURT. I didn't know that--Alice, you are the first woman who ever inspired me with compassion--all others have seemed to me to deserve their fate. ALICE. Don't desert me now! Don't leave me, for he will beat me--he has been doing so all these twenty-five years--in the presence of the children--and he has pushed me into the water---- CURT. Having heard this, I place myself absolutely against him. I came here without an angry thought, without memory of his former slanders and attempts to humiliate me. I forgave him even when you told me that he was the man who had parted me from my children--for he was ill and dying--but now, when he wants to steal my son, he must die--he or I! ALICE. Good! No surrender of the fortress! But blow it up instead, with him in it, even if we have to keep him company! I am in charge of the powder! CURT. There was no malice in me when I came here, and I wanted to run away when I felt myself infected with your hatred, but now I am moved by an irresistible impulse to hate this man, as I hate everything that is evil. What can be done? ALICE. I have learned the tactics from him. Drum up his enemies and seek allies. CURT. Just think--that he should get hold of my wife! Why didn't those two meet a life-time ago? Then there would have been a battle-royal that had set the earth quaking. ALICE. But now these souls have spied each other--and yet they must part. I guess what is his most vulnerable spot--I have long suspected it---- CURT. Who is his most faithful enemy on the island? ALICE. The Quartermaster. CURT. Is he an honest man? ALICE. He is. And he knows what I--I know too--he knows what the Sergeant-Major and the Captain have been up to. CURT. What they have been up to? You don't mean---- ALICE. Defalcations! CURT. This is terrible! No, I don't want to have any finger in that mess! ALICE. Ha-ha! You cannot hit an enemy. CURT. Formerly I could, but I can do so no longer. ALICE. Why? CURT. Because I have discovered--that justice is done anyhow. ALICE. And you could wait for that? Then your son would already have been taken away from you. Look at my gray hairs--just feel how thick it still is, for that matter--He intends to marry again, and then I shall be free--to do the same--I am free! And in ten minutes he will be under arrest down below, right under us--[_stamps her foot on the floor_] right under us--and I shall dance above his head--I shall dance "The Entry of the Boyars"--[_makes a few steps with her arms akimbo_] ha-ha-ha-ha! And I shall play on the piano so that he can hear it. [_Hammering on the piano_] Oh, the tower is opening its gates, and the sentry with the drawn sabre will no longer be guarding me, but him--_Malrough s'en va-t-en guerre_! Him, him, him, the sentry is going to guard! CURT. [_Has been watching her with an intoxicated look in his eyes_] Alice, are you, too, a devil? ALICE. [_Jumps up on a chair and pulls down the wreaths_] These we will take along when we depart--the laurels of triumph! And fluttering ribbons! A little dusty, but eternally green--like my youth--I am not old, Curt? CURT. _With shining eyes_] You are a devil! ALICE. In "Little Hell"--Listen! Now I shall fix my hair --[_loosens her hair_], dress in two minutes--go to the Quartermaster in two minutes--and then, up in the air with the fortress! CURT. [_As before_] You are a devil! ALICE. That's what you always used to say when we were children. Do you remember when we were small and became engaged to each other? Ha-ha! You were bashful, of course---- CURT. [_Seriously_] Alice! ALICE. Yes, you were! And it was becoming to you. Do you know there are gross women who like modest men? And there are said to be modest men who like gross women--You liked me a little bit, didn't you? CURT. I don't know where I am! ALICE. With an actress whose manners are free, but who is an excellent lady otherwise. Yes! But now I am free, free, free! Turn away and I'll change my waist! _She opens her waist_. CURT _rushes up to her, grabs her in his arms, lifts her high up, and bites her throat so that she cries out. Then he drops her on the couch and runs out to the left_. _Curtain and intermission_. _Same stage setting in early evening light. The sentry on the battery is still visible through the windows in the background. The laurel wreaths are hung over the arms of an easy-chair. The hanging lamp is lit. Faint music_. _The_ CAPTAIN, _pale and hollow-eyed, his hair showing touches of gray, dressed in a worn undress uniform, with riding-boots, sits at the writing-table and plays solitaire. He wears his spectacles. The entr'acte music continues after the curtain has been raised and until another person enters_. _The_ CAPTAIN _plays away at his solitaire, bid with a sudden start now and then, when he looks up and listens with evident alarm_. _He does not seem able to make the solitaire come out, so he becomes impatient and gathers up the cards. Then he goes to the left-hand window, opens it, and throws out the cards. The window (of the French type) remains open, rattling on its hinges_. _He goes over to the buffet, but is frightened by the noise made by the window, so that he turns around to see what it is. Takes out three dark-coloured square whiskey bottles, examines them carefully--and throws them out of the window. Takes out some boxes of cigars, smells at one, and throws them out of the window_. _Next he takes off his spectacles, cleans them carefully, and tries how far he can see with them. Then he throws them out of the window, stumbles against the furniture as if he could not see, and lights six candles in a candelabrum on the chiffonier. Catches sight of the laurel wreaths, picks them up, and goes toward the window, but turns back. Folds the wreaths carefully in the piano cover, fastens the corners together with pins taken from the writing-table, and puts the bundle on a chair. Goes to the piano, strikes the keyboard with his fists, locks the piano, and throws the key out through the window. Then he lights the candles on the piano. Goes to the what-not, takes his wife's picture from it, looks at this and tears it to pieces, dropping the pieces on the floor. The window rattles on its hinges, and again he becomes frightened_. _Then, after having calmed himself he takes the pictures of his son and daughter, kisses them in an off-hand way, and puts them into his pocket. All the rest of the pictures he sweeps down with his elbow and pokes together into a heap with his foot_. _Then he sits down at the writing-table, tired out, and puts a hand up to his heart. Lights the candle on the table and sighs; stares in front of himself as if confronted with unpleasant visions. Rises and goes over to the chiffonier, opens the lid, takes out a bundle of letters tied together with a blue silk ribbon, and throws the bundle into the fireplace of the glazed brick oven. Closes the chiffonier. The telegraph receiver sounds a single click. The_ CAPTAIN _shrinks together in deadly fear and stands fixed to the spot, listening. But hearing nothing more from the instrument, he turns to listen in the direction of the door on the left. Goes over and opens it, takes a step inside the doorway, and returns, carrying on his arm a cat whose back he strokes. Then he goes out to the right. Now the music ceases_. ALICE _enters from the background, dressed in a walking suit, with gloves and hat on; her hair is black; she looks around with surprise at the many lighted candles_. CURT _enters from the left, nervous_. ALICE. It looks like Christmas Eve here. CURT. Well? ALICE. [_Holds out her hand for him to kiss_] Thank me! [CURT _kisses her hand unwillingly_] Six witnesses, and four of them solid as rock. The report has been made, and the answer will come here by telegraph--right here, into the heart of the fortress. CURT. So! ALICE. You should say "thanks" instead of "so." CURT. Why has he lit so many candles? ALICE. Because he is afraid of the dark, of course. Look at the telegraph key--does it not look like the handle of a coffee mill? I grind, I grind, and the beans crack as when you pull teeth---- CURT. What has he been doing in the room here? ALICE. It looks as if he intended to move. Down below, that's where you are going to move! CURT. Don't, Alice--I think it's distressing! He was the friend of my youth, and he showed me kindness many times when I was in difficulty--He should be pitied! ALICE. And how about me, who have done nothing wrong, and who have had to sacrifice my career to that monster? CURT. How about that career? Was it so very brilliant? ALICE. [_Enraged_] What are you saying? Do you know who I am, what I have been? CURT. Now, now! ALICE. Are you beginning already? CURT. Already? ALICE _throws her arms around_ CURT'S _neck and kisses him_. CURT _takes her by the arms and bites her neck so that she screams_. ALICE. You bite me! CURT. [_Beyond himself_] Yes, I want to bite your throat and suck your blood like a lynx. You have aroused the wild beast in me--that beast which I have tried for years to kill by privations and self-inflicted tortures. I came here believing myself a little better than you two, and now I am the vilest of all. Since I first saw you--in all your odious nakedness--and since my vision became warped by passion, I have known the full strength of evil. What is ugly becomes beautiful; what is good becomes ugly and mean--Come here and I'll choke you--with a kiss! [_He locks her in his arms_. ALICE. [_Holds up her left hand_] Behold the mark of the shackles that you have broken. I was a slave, and you set me free. CURT. But I am going to bind you---- ALICE. You? CURT. I! ALICE. For a moment I thought you were---- CURT. Pious? ALICE. Yes, you prated about the fall of man---- CURT. Did I? ALICE. And I thought you had come here to preach---- CURT. You thought so? In an hour we shall be in the city, and then you shall see what I am---- ALICE. Then we will go to the theatre to-night, just to show ourselves. The shame will be his if I run away, don't you see! CURT. I begin to understand that prison is not enough---- ALICE. No, it is not--there must be shame also. CURT. A strange world! You commit a shameful act, and the shame falls on him. ALICE. Well, if the world be so stupid---- CURT. It is as if these prison walls had absorbed all the corruption of the criminals, and it gets into you if you merely breathe this air. You were thinking of the theatre and the supper, I suppose. I was thinking of my son. ALICE. [_Strikes him on the mouth with her glove_] Fogey! [CURT _lifts his hand as if to strike her_. ALICE. [_Drawing back] Tout beau_! CURT. Forgive me! ALICE. Yes--on your knees! [CURT _kneels down_] Down on your face! [CURT _touches the ground with his forehead_] Kiss my foot! [CURT _kisses her foot_] And don't you ever do it again! Get up! CURT. [_Rising_] Where have I landed? Where am I? ALICE. Oh, you know! CURT. [_Looking around with horror_] I believe almost---- CAPTAIN. [_Enters from the right, looking wretched, leaning on a cane_] Curt, may I have a talk with you--alone? ALICE. Is it about that departure in safety? CAPTAIN. [_Sits down at the sewing-table_] Curt, will you kindly sit down here by me a little while? And, Alice, will you please grant me a moment--of peace! ALICE. What is up now? New signals! [_To_ CURT] Please be seated. [CURT _sits down reluctantly_] And listen to the words of age and wisdom--And if a telegram should come--tip me off! [_Goes out to the left_. CAPTAIN. [_With dignity, after a pause_] Can you explain a fate like mine, like ours? CURT. No more than I can explain my own! CAPTAIN. What can be the meaning of this jumble? CURT. In my better moments I have believed that just this was the meaning--that we should not be able to catch a meaning, and yet submit---- CAPTAIN. Submit? Without a fixed point outside myself I cannot submit. CURT. Quite right, but as a mathematician you should be able to seek that unknown point when several known ones are given---- CAPTAIN. I have sought it, and--I have not found it! CURT. Then you have made some mistake in your calculations--do it all over again! CAPTAIN. I should do it over again? Tell me, where did you get your resignation? CURT. I have none left. Don't overestimate me. CAPTAIN. As you may have noticed, my understanding of the art of living has been--elimination! That means: wipe out and pass on! Very early in life I made myself a bag into which I chucked my humiliations, and when it was full I dropped it into the sea. I don't think any man ever suffered so many humiliations as I have. But when I wiped them out and passed on they ceased to exist. CURT. I have noticed that you have wrought both your life and your environment out of your poetical imagination. CAPTAIN. How could I have lived otherwise? How could I have endured? [_Puts his hand over his heart_. CURT. How are you doing? CAPTAIN. Poorly. [Pause] Then comes a moment when the faculty for what you call poetical imagination gives out. And then reality leaps forth in all its nakedness--It is frightful! [_He is now speaking in a voice of lachrymose senility, and with his lower jaw drooping_] Look here, my dear friend--[_controls himself and speaks in his usual voice_] forgive me!--When I was in the city and consulted the doctor [_now the tearful voice returns_] he said that I was played out--[_in his usual voice_] and that I couldn't live much longer. CURT. Was _that_ what he said? CAPTAIN. [_With tearful voice_] That's what he said! CURT. So it was not true? CAPTAIN. What? Oh--no, that was not true. [_Pause_. CURT. Was the rest of it not true either? CAPTAIN. What do you mean? CURT. That my son was ordered to report here as cadet? CAPTAIN. I never heard of it. CURT. Do you know--your ability to wipe out your own misdeeds is miraculous! CAPTAIN. I don't understand what you are talking of. CURT. Then you have come to the end! CAPTAIN. Well, there is not much left! CURT. Tell me, perhaps you never applied for that divorce which would bring your wife into disgrace? CAPTAIN. Divorce? No, I have not heard of it. CURT, [_Rising_] Will you admit, then, that you have been lying? CAPTAIN. You employ such strong words, my friend. All of us need forbearance. CURT. Oh, you have come to see that? CAPTAIN. [_Firmly, with clear voice_] Yes, I have come to see that--And for this reason, Curt, please forgive me! Forgive everything! CURT. That was a manly word! But I have nothing to forgive you. And I am not the man you believe me to be. No longer now! Least of all one worthy of receiving your confessions! CAPTAIN. [_With clear voice_] Life seemed so peculiar--so contrary, so malignant--ever since my childhood--and people seemed so bad that I grew bad also---- CURT. [_On his feet, perturbed, and glancing at the telegraph instrument_] Is it possible to close off an instrument like that? CAPTAIN. Hardly. CURT. [_With increasing alarm_] Who is Sergeant-Major Östberg? CAPTAIN. An honest fellow, but something of a busybody, I should say. CURT. And who is the Quartermaster? CAPTAIN. He is my enemy, of course, but I have nothing bad to say of him. CURT. [_Looking out through the window, where a lantern is seen moving to and fro_] What are they doing with the lantern out on the battery? CAPTAIN. Do you see a lantern? CURT. Yes, and people moving about. CAPTAIN. I suppose it is what we call a service squad. CURT. What is that? CAPTAIN. A few men and a corporal. Probably some poor wretch that has to be locked up. CURT. Oh! [_Pause_. CAPTAIN. Now, when you know Alice, how do you like her? CURT. I cannot tell--I have no understanding of people at all. She is as inexplicable to me as you are, or as I am myself. For I am reaching the age when wisdom makes this acknowledgment: I know nothing, I understand nothing; But when I observe an action, I like to get at the motive behind it. Why did you push her into the water? CAPTAIN. I don't know. It merely seemed quite natural to me, as she was standing on the pier, that she ought to be in the water. CURT. Have you ever regretted it? CAPTAIN. Never! CURT. That's strange! CAPTAIN. Of course, it is! So strange that I cannot realise that I am the man who has been guilty of such a mean act. CURT. Have you not expected her to take some revenge? CAPTAIN. Well, she seems to have taken it in full measure; and that, too, seems no less natural to me. CURT. What has so suddenly brought you to this cynical resignation? CAPTAIN. Since I looked death in the face, life has presented itself from a different viewpoint. Tell me, if you were to judge between Alice and myself, whom would you place in the right? CURT. Neither of you. But to both of you I should give endless compassion--perhaps a little more of it to you! CAPTAIN. Give me your hand, Curt! CURT. [_Gives him one hand and puts the other one on the_ CAPTAIN'S _shoulder_] Old boy! ALICE. [_In from the left, carrying a sunshade_] Well, how harmonious! Oh, friendship! Has there been no telegram yet? CURT. [_Coldly_] No. ALICE. This delay makes me impatient, and when I grow impatient I push matters along--Look, Curt, how I give him the final bullet. And now he'll bite the grass! First, I load--I know all about rifle practice, the famous rifle practice of which less than 5,000 copies were sold--and then I aim--fire! [_She takes aim with her sunshade_] How is your new wife? The young, beautiful, unknown one? You don't know! But I know how my lover is doing. [_Puts her arms around the neck of_ CURT _and kisses him; he thrusts her away from himself_] He is well, although still a little bashful! You wretch, whom I have never loved--you, who were too conceited to be jealous--you never saw how I was leading you by the nose! _The_ CAPTAIN _draws the sabre and makes a leap at her, aiming at her several futile blows that only hit the furniture_. ALICE. Help! Help! [CURT _does not move_. CAPTAIN. [_Falls with the sabre in his hand_] Judith, avenge me! ALICE. Hooray! He's dead! [CURT _withdraws toward the door in the background_. CAPTAIN. [_Gets on his feet_] Not yet! [_Sheathes the sabre and sits down in the easy-chair by the sewing-table_] Judith! Judith! ALICE. [_Drawing nearer to_ CURT] Now I go--with you! CURT. [_Pushes her back with such force that she sinks to her knees_] Go back to the hell whence you came! Good-bye for ever! [_Goes to the door_. CAPTAIN. Don't leave me Curt; she will kill me! ALICE. Don't desert me, Curt--don't desert us! CURT. Good-bye! [_Goes out_. ALICE. [_With a sudden change of attitude_] The wretch! That's a friend for you! CAPTAIN. [_Softly_] Forgive me, Alice, and come here--come quick! ALICE. [_Over to the_ CAPTAIN] That's the worst rascal and hypocrite I have met in my life! Do you know, you are a man after all! CAPTAIN. Listen, Alice! I cannot live much longer. ALICE. Is that so? CAPTAIN. The doctor has said so. ALICE. Then there was no truth in the rest either? CAPTAIN. No. ALICE. [_In despair_] Oh, what have I done! CAPTAIN. There is help for everything. ALICE. No, this is beyond helping! CAPTAIN. Nothing is beyond helping, if you only wipe it out and pass on. ALICE. But the telegram--the telegram! CAPTAIN. Which telegram? ALICE. [_On her knees beside the_ CAPTAIN] Are we then cast out? Must this happen? I have sprung a mine under myself, under us. Why did you have to tell untruths? And why should that man come here to tempt me? We are lost! Your magnanimity might have helped everything, forgiven everything! CAPTAIN. What is it that cannot be forgiven? What is it that I have not already forgiven you? ALICE. You are right--but there is no help for this. CAPTAIN. I cannot guess it, although I know your ingenuity when it comes to villanies---- ALICE. Oh, if I could only get out of this, I should care for you--I should love you, Edgar! CAPTAIN. Listen to me! Where do I stand? ALICE. Don't you think anybody can help us--well, no man can! CAPTAIN. Who could then help? ALICE. [_Looking the_ CAPTAIN _straight in the eye_] I don't know--Think of it, what is to become of the children with their name dishonoured---- CAPTAIN. Have you dishonoured that name? ALICE. Not I! Not I! And then they must leave school! And as they go out into the world, they will be lonely as we, and cruel as we--Then you didn't meet Judith either, I understand now? CAPTAIN. No, but wipe it out! _The telegraph receiver clicks_. ALICE _flies up_. ALICE. [Screams] Now ruin is overtaking us! [_To the_ CAPTAIN] Don't listen! CAPTAIN. [_Quietly_] I am not going to listen, dear child--just calm yourself! ALICE. [_Standing by the instrument, raises herself on tiptoe in order to look out through the window_] Don't listen! Don't listen! CAPTAIN. [_Holding his hands over his ears_] Lisa, child, I am stopping up my ears. ALICE. [_On her knees, with lifted hands_] God, help us! The squad is coming--[_Weeping and sobbing_] God in heaven! _She appears to be moving her lips as if in silent prayer_. _The telegraph receiver continues to click for a while and a long white strip of paper seems to crawl out of the instrument. Then complete silence prevails once more_. ALICE. [_Rises, tears off the paper strip, and reads it in silence. Then she turns her eyes upward for a moment. Goes over to the_ CAPTAIN _and kisses him on the forehead_] That is over now! It was nothing! _Sits down in the other chair, puts her handkerchief to her face, and breaks into a violent spell of weeping_. CAPTAIN. What kind of secrets are these? ALICE. Don't ask! It is over now! CAPTAIN. AS you please, child. ALICE. You would not have spoken like that three days ago--what has done it? CAPTAIN. Well, dear, when I fell down that first time, I went a little way on the other side of the grave. What I saw has been forgotten, but the impression of it still remains. ALICE. And it was? CAPTAIN. A hope--for something better! ALICE. Something better? CAPTAIN. Yes. That this could be the real life, I have, in fact, never believed: it is death--or something still worse! ALICE. And we---- CAPTAIN. Have probably been set to torment each other--so it seems at least! ALICE. Have we tormented each other enough? CAPTAIN. Yes, I think so! And upset things! [_Looks around_] Suppose we put things to rights? And clean house? ALICE. Yes, if it can be done. CAPTAIN. [_Gets up to survey the room_] It can't be done in one day--no, it can't! ALICE. In two, then! Many days! CAPTAIN. Let us hope so! [_Pause. Sits down again_] So you didn't get free this time after all! But then, you didn't get me locked up either! [ALICE _looks staggered_] Yes, I know you wanted to put me in prison, but I wipe it out. I suppose you have done worse than that--[ALICE _is speechless_] And I was innocent of those defalcations. ALICE. And now you intend me to become your nurse? CAPTAIN. If you are willing! ALICE. What else could I do? CAPTAIN. I don't know! ALICE. [_Sits down, numbed and crushed_] These are the eternal torments! Is there, then, no end to them? CAPTAIN. Yes, if we are patient. Perhaps life begins when death comes. ALICE. If it were so! [_Pause_. CAPTAIN. You think Curt a hypocrite? ALICE. Of course I do! CAPTAIN. And I don't! But all who come near us turn evil and go their way. Curt was weak, and the evil is strong! [_Pause_] How commonplace life has become! Formerly blows were struck; now you shake your fist at the most! I am fairly certain that, three months from now, we shall celebrate our silver wedding--with Curt as best man--and with the Doctor and Gerda among the guests. The Quartermaster will make the speech and the Sergeant-Major will lead the cheering. And if I know the Colonel right, he will come on his own invitation--Yes, you may laugh! But do you recall the silver wedding of Adolph--in the Fusiliers? The bride had to carry her wedding ring on the right hand, because the groom in a tender moment had chopped off her left ring finger with his dirk. [ALICE _puts her handkerchief to her mouth in order to repress her laughter_] Are you crying? No, I believe you are laughing! Yes, child, partly we weep and partly we laugh. Which is the right thing to do?--Don't ask me! The other day I read in a newspaper that a man had been divorced seven times--which means that he had been married seven times--and finally, at the age of ninety-eight, he ran away with his first wife and married her again. Such is love! If life be serious, or merely a joke, is more than I can decide. Often it is most painful when a joke, and its seriousness is after all more agreeable and peaceful. But when at last you try to be serious, somebody comes and plays a joke on you--as Curt, for instance! Do you want a silver wedding? [ALICE _remains silent_] Oh, say yes! They will laugh at us, but what does it matter? We may laugh also, or keep serious, as the occasion may require. ALICE. Well, all right! CAPTAIN. Silver wedding, then! [_Rising_] Wipe out and pass on! Therefore, let us pass on! _Curtain_. PART II CHARACTERS EDGAR ALICE CURT ALLAN, _the son of_ CURT JUDITH, _the daughter of_ EDGAR THE LIEUTENANT _A rectangular drawing-room in white and gold. The rear wall is broken by severed French windows reaching down to the floor. These stand open, revealing a garden terrace outside. Along this terrace, serving as a public promenade, runs a stone balustrade, on which are ranged pots of blue and white faience, with petunias and scarlet geraniums in them. Beyond, in the background, can be seen the shore battery with a sentry pacing back and forth. In the far distance, the open sea_. _At the left of the drawing-room stands a sofa with gilded wood-work. In front of it are a table and chairs. At the right is a grand piano, a writing-table, and an open fireplace_. _In the foreground, an American easy-chair_. _By the writing-table is a standing lamp of copper with a table attached to it_. _On the walls are severed old-fashioned oil paintings_. ALLAN _is sitting at the writing-table, engrossed in some mathematical problem_. JUDITH _enters from the background, in summer dress, short skirt, hair in a braid down her back, hat in one hand and tennis racket in the other. She stops in the doorway_. ALLAN _rises, serious and respectful_. JUDITH. [_In serious but friendly tone_] Why don't you come and play tennis? ALLAN. [_Bashful, struggling with his emotion_] I am very busy---- JUDITH. Didn't you see that I had made my bicycle point toward the oak, and not away from it? ALLAN. Yes, I saw it. JUDITH. Well, what does it mean? ALLAN. It means--that you want me to come and play tennis--but my duty--I have some problems to work out--and your father is a rather exacting teacher---- JUDITH. Do you like him? ALLAN. Yes, I do. He takes such interest in all his pupils---- JUDITH. He takes an interest in everything and everybody. Won't you come? ALLAN. You know I should like to--but I must not! JUDITH. I'll ask papa to give you leave. ALLAN. Don't do that. It will only cause talk. JUDITH. Don't you think I can manage him? He wants what I want. ALLAN. I suppose that is because you are so hard. JUDITH. You should be hard also. ALLAN. I don't belong to the wolf family. JUDITH. Then you are a sheep. ALLAN. Rather that. JUDITH. Tell me why you don't want to come and play tennis? ALLAN. You know it. JUDITH. Tell me anyhow. The Lieutenant---- ALLAN. Yes, you don't care for me at all, but you cannot enjoy yourself with the Lieutenant unless I am present, so you can see me suffer. JUDITH. Am I as cruel as that? I didn't know it. ALLAN. Well, now you know it. JUDITH. Then I shall do better hereafter, for I don't want to be cruel, I don't want to be bad--in your eyes. ALLAN. You say this only to fasten your hold on me. I am already your slave, but it does not satisfy you. The slave must be tortured and thrown to the wild beasts. You have already that other fellow in your clutches--what do you want with me then? Let me go my own way, and you can go yours. JUDITH. Do you send me away? [ALLAN _does not answer_] Then I go! As second cousins, we shall have to meet now and then, but I am not going to bother you any longer. [ALLAN _sits down at the table and returns to his problem_. JUDITH. [_Instead of going away, comes down the stage and approaches gradually the table where_ ALLAN _is sitting_] Don't be afraid, I am going at once--I wanted only to see how the Master of Quarantine lives--[_Looks around_] White and gold--a Bechstein grand--well, well! We are still in the fort since papa was pensioned--in the tower where mamma has been kept twenty-five years--and we are there on sufferance at that. You--you are rich---- ALLAN. [_Calmly_] We are not rich. JUDITH. So you say, but you are always wearing fine clothes --but whatever you wear, for that matter, is becoming to you. Do you hear what I say? [_Drawing nearer_. ALLAN. [_Submissively_] I do. JUDITH. How can you hear when you keep on figuring, or whatever you are doing? ALLAN. I don't use my eyes to listen with. JUDITH. Your eyes--have you ever looked at them in the mirror? ALLAN. Go away! JUDITH. You despise me, do you? ALLAN. Why, girl, I am not thinking of you at all. JUDITH. [_Still nearer_] Archimedes is deep in his figures when the soldier comes and cuts him down. [_Stirs his papers about with the racket_. ALLAN. Don't touch my papers! JUDITH. That's what Archimedes said also. Now you are thinking something foolish--you are thinking that I can not live without you--- ALLAN. Why can't you leave me alone? JUDITH. Be courteous, and I'll help you with your examinations---- ALLAN. You? JUDITH. Yes, I know the examiners---- ALLAN. [_Sternly_] And what of it? JUDITH. Don't you know that one should stand well with the teachers? ALLAN. Do you mean your father and the Lieutenant? JUDITH. And the Colonel! ALLAN. And then you mean that your protection would enable me to shirk my work? JUDITH. You are a bad translator---- ALLAN. Of a bad original---- JUDITH. Be ashamed! ALLAN. So I am--both on your behalf and my own! I am ashamed of having listened to you--Why don't you go? JUDITH. Because I know you appreciate my company--Yes, you manage always to pass by my window. You have always some errand that brings you into the city with the same boat that I take. You cannot go for a sail without having me to look after the jib. ALLAN. But a young girl shouldn't say that kind of things! JUDITH. Do you mean to say that I am a child? ALLAN. Sometimes you are a good child, and sometimes a bad woman. Me you seem to have picked to be your sheep. JUDITH. You are a sheep, and that's why I am going to protect you. ALLAN. [_Rising_] The wolf makes a poor shepherd! You want to eat me--that is the secret of it, I suppose. You want to put your beautiful eyes in pawn to get possession of my head. JUDITH. Oh, you have been looking at my eyes? I didn't expect that much courage of you. ALLAN _collects his papers and starts to go out toward the right_. JUDITH _places herself in front of the door_. ALLAN. Get out of my way, or---- JUDITH. Or? ALLAN. If you were a boy--bah! But you are a girl. JUDITH. And then? ALLAN. If you had any pride at all, you would be gone, as you may regard yourself as shown the door. JUDITH. I'll get back at you for that! ALLAN. I don't doubt it! JUDITH. [_Goes enraged toward the background_] I--shall-get--back--at you for that! [_Goes out_. CURT. [_Enters from the left_] Where are you going, Allan? ALLAN. Oh, is that you? CURT. Who was it that left in such hurry--so that the bushes shook? ALLAN. It was Judith. CURT. She is a little impetuous, but a fine girl. ALLAN. When a girl is cruel and rude, she is always said to be a fine girl. CURT. Don't be so severe, Allan! Are you not satisfied with your new relatives? ALLAN. I like Uncle Edgar---- CURT. Yes, he has many good sides. How about your other teachers--the Lieutenant, for instance? ALLAN. He's so uncertain. Sometimes he seems to have a grudge against me. CURT. Oh, no! You just go here and make people "seem" this or that. Don't brood, but look after your own affairs, do what is proper, and leave others to their own concerns. ALLAN. So I do, but--they won't leave me alone. They pull you in--as the cuttlefish down at the landing--they don't bite, but they stir up vortices that suck---- CURT. You have some tendency to melancholia, I think. Don't you feel at home here with me? Is there anything you miss? ALLAN. I have never been better off, but--there is something here that smothers me. CURT. Here by the sea? Are you not fond of the sea? ALLAN. Yes, the open sea. But along the shores you find eelgrass, cuttlefish, jellyfish, sea-nettles, or whatever they are called. CURT. You shouldn't stay indoors so much. Go out and play tennis. ALLAN. Oh, that's no fun! CURT. You are angry with Judith, I guess? ALLAN. Judith? CURT. You are so exacting toward people--it is not wise, for then you become isolated. ALLAN. I am not exacting, but--It feels as if I were lying at the bottom of a pile of wood and had to wait my turn to get into the fire--and it weighs on me--all that is above weighs me down. CURT. Bide your turn. The pile grows smaller---- ALLAN. Yes, but so slowly, so slowly. And in the meantime I lie here and grow mouldy. CURT. It is not pleasant to be young. And yet you young ones are envied. ALLAN. Are we? Would you change? CURT. No, thanks! ALLAN. Do you know what is worse than anything else? It is to sit still and keep silent while the old ones talk nonsense--I know that I am better informed than they on some matters--and yet I must keep silent. Well, pardon me, I am not counting you among the old. CURT. Why not? ALLAN. Perhaps because we have only just now become acquainted---- CURT. And because--your ideas of me have undergone a change? ALLAN. Yes. CURT. During the years we were separated, I suppose you didn't always think of me in a friendly way? ALLAN. No. CURT. Did you ever see a picture of me? ALLAN. One, and it was very unfavourable. CURT. And old-looking? ALLAN. Yes. CURT. Ten years ago my hair turned gray in a single night--it has since then resumed its natural color without my doing anything for it--Let us talk of something else! There comes your aunt--my cousin. How do you like her? ALLAN. I don't want to tell! CURT. Then I shall not ask you. ALICE. [_Enters dressed in a very light-colored walking-suit and carrying a sunshade_] Good morning, Curt. [_Gives him a glance signifying that_ ALLAN _should leave_. CURT. [_To_ Allan] Leave us, please. ALLAN _goes out to the right_. ALICE _takes a seat on the sofa to the left_. CURT _sits down on a chair near her_. ALICE. [_In some confusion_] He will be here in a moment, so you need not feel embarrassed. CURT. And why should I? ALICE. You, with your strictness---- CURT. Toward myself, yes---- ALICE. Of course--Once I forgot myself, when in you I saw the liberator, but you kept your self-control--and for that reason we have a right to forget--what has never been. CURT. Forget it then! ALICE. However--I don't think _he_ has forgotten---- CURT. You are thinking of that night when his heart gave out and he fell on the floor--and when you rejoiced too quickly, thinking him already dead? ALICE. Yes. Since then he has recovered; but when he gave up drinking, he learned to keep silent, and now he is terrible. He is up to something that I cannot make out---- CURT. Your husband, Alice, is a harmless fool who has shown me all sorts of kindnesses---- ALICE. Beware of his kindnesses. I know them. CURT. Well, well---- ALICE. He has then blinded you also? Can you not see the danger? Don't you notice the snares? CURT. No. ALICE. Then your ruin is certain. CURT. Oh, mercy! ALICE. Think only, I have to sit here and see disaster stalking you like a cat--I point at it, but you cannot see it. CURT. Allan, with his unspoiled vision, cannot see it either. He sees nothing but Judith, for that matter, and this seems to me a safeguard of our good relationship. ALICE. Do you know Judith? CURT. A flirtatious little thing, with a braid down her back and rather too short skirts---- ALICE. Exactly! But the other day I saw her dressed up in long skirts--and then she was a young lady--and not so very young either, when her hair was put up. CURT. She is somewhat precocious, I admit. ALICE. And she is playing with Allan. CURT. That's all right, so long as it remains play. ALICE. So _that_ is all right?--Now Edgar will be here soon, and he will take the easy-chair--he loves it with such passion that he could steal it. CURT. Why, he can have it! ALICE. Let him sit over there, and we'll stay here. And when he talks--he is always talkative in the morning--when he talks of insignificant things, I'll translate them for you---- CURT. Oh, my dear Alice, you are too deep, far too deep. What could I have to fear as long as I look after my quarantine properly and otherwise behave decently? ALICE. You believe in justice and honour and all that sort of thing. CURT. Yes, and it is what experience has taught me. Once I believed the very opposite--and paid dearly for it! ALICE. Now he's coming! CURT. I have never seen you so frightened before. ALICE. My bravery was nothing but ignorance of the danger. CURT. Danger? Soon you'll have me frightened too! ALICE. Oh, if I only could--There! _The_ CAPTAIN _enters from the background, in civilian dress, black Prince Albert buttoned all the way, military cap, and a cane with silver handle. He greets them with a nod and goes straight to the easy-chair, where he sits down_. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Let him speak first. CAPTAIN. This is a splendid chair you have here, dear Curt; perfectly splendid. CURT. I'll give it to you, if you will accept it. CAPTAIN. That was not what I meant---- CURT. But I mean it seriously. How much have I not received from you? CAPTAIN. [_Garrulously_] Oh, nonsense! And when I sit here, I can overlook the whole island, all the walks; I can see all the people on their verandahs, all the ships on the sea, that are coming in and going out. You have really happened on the best piece of this island, which is certainly not an island of the blessed. Or what do you say, Alice? Yes, they call it "Little Hell," and here Curt has built himself a paradise, but without an Eve, of course, for when she appeared, then the paradise came to an end. I say--do you know that this was a royal hunting lodge? CURT. So I have heard. CAPTAIN. You live royally, you, but, if I may say so myself, you have me to thank for it. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] There--now he wants to steal you. CURT. I have to thank you for a good deal. CAPTAIN. Fudge! Tell me, did you get the wine cases? CURT. Yes. CAPTAIN. And you are satisfied? CURT. Quite satisfied, and you may tell your dealer so. CAPTAIN. His goods are always prime quality---- ALICE. [_To_ CURT] At second-rate prices, and you have to pay the difference. CAPTAIN. What did you say, Alice? ALICE. I? Nothing! CAPTAIN. Well, when this quarantine station was about to be established, I had in mind applying for the position--and so I made a study of quarantine methods. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Now he's lying! CAPTAIN. [_Boastfully_] And I did not share the antiquated ideas concerning disinfection which were then accepted by the government. For I placed myself on the side of the Neptunists --so called because they emphasise the use of water---- CURT. Beg your pardon, but I remember distinctly that it was I who preached water, and you fire, at that time. CAPTAIN. I? Nonsense! ALICE. [_Aloud_] Yes, I remember that, too. CAPTAIN. You? CURT. I remember it so much the better because---- CAPTAIN. [_Cutting him short_] Well, it's possible, but it does not matter. [_Raising his voice_] However--we have now reached a point where a new state of affairs--[_To_ CURT, _who wants to interrupt_] just a moment!--has begun to prevail--and when the methods of quarantining are about to become revolutionized. CURT. By the by, do you know who is writing those stupid articles in that periodical? CAPTAIN. [_Flushing_] No, I don't know, but why do you call them stupid? ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Look out! It is he who writes them. CURT. He?--[_To the_ CAPTAIN] Not very well advised, at least. CAPTAIN. Well, are you the man to judge of that? ALICE. Are we going to have a quarrel? CURT. Not at all. CAPTAIN. It is hard to keep peace on this island, but we ought to set a good example---- CURT. Yes, can you explain this to me? When I came here I made friends with all the officials and became especially intimate with the regimental auditor--as intimate as men are likely to become at our age. And then, in a little while--it was shortly after your recovery--one after another began to grow cold toward me--and yesterday the auditor avoided me on the promenade. I cannot tell you how it hurt me! [_The_ CAPTAIN _remains silent_] Have you noticed any ill-feeling toward yourself? CAPTAIN. No, on the contrary. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Don't you understand that he has been stealing your friends? CURT. [_To the_ CAPTAIN] I wondered whether it might have anything to do with this new stock issue to which I refused to subscribe. CAPTAIN. No, no--But can you tell me why you didn't subscribe? CURT. Because I have already put my small savings into your soda factory. And also because a new issue means that the old stock is shaky. CAPTAIN. [_Preoccupied_] That's a splendid lamp you have. Where did you get it? CURT. In the city, of course. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Look out for your lamp! CURT. [_To the_ CAPTAIN] You must not think that I am ungrateful or distrustful, Edgar. CAPTAIN. No, but it shows small confidence to withdraw from an undertaking which you have helped to start. CURT. Why, ordinary prudence bids everybody save himself and what is his. CAPTAIN. Save? Is there any danger then? Do you think anybody wants to rob you? CURT. Why such sharp words? CAPTAIN. Were you not satisfied when I helped you to place your money at six per cent.? CURT. Yes, and even grateful. CAPTAIN. You are not grateful--it is not in your nature, but this you cannot help. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Listen to him! CURT. My nature has shortcomings enough, and my struggle against them has not been very successful, but I do recognise obligations---- CAPTAIN. Show it then! [_Reaches out his hand to pick up a newspaper_] Why, what is this? A death notice? [_Reads_] The Health Commissioner is dead. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Now he is speculating in the corpse---- CAPTAIN. [_As if to himself_] This is going to bring about certain--changes---- CURT. In what respect? CAPTAIN. [_Rising_] That remains to be seen. ALICE. [_To the_ CAPTAIN] Where are you going? CAPTAIN. I think I'll have to go to the city--[_Catches sight of a letter on the writing-table, picks it up as if unconsciously, reads the address, and puts it back_] Oh, I hope you will pardon my absent-mindedness. CURT. No harm done. CAPTAIN. Why, that's Allan's drawing case. Where is the boy? CURT. He is out playing with the girls. CAPTAIN. That big boy? I don't like it. And Judith must not be running about like that. You had better keep an eye on your young gentleman, and I'll look after my young lady. [_Goes over to the piano and strikes a few notes_] Splendid tone in this instrument. A Steinbech, isn't it? CURT. A Bechstein. CAPTAIN. Yes, you are well fixed. Thank me for bringing you here. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] He lies, for he tried to keep you away. CAPTAIN. Well, good-bye for a while. I am going to take the next boat. [_Scrutinises the paintings on the walls as he goes out_. ALICE. Well? CURT. Well? ALICE. I can't see through his plans yet. But--tell me one thing. This envelope he looked at--from whom is the letter? CURT. I am sorry to admit--it was my one secret. ALICE. And he ferreted it out. Can you see that he knows witchery, as I have told you before? Is there anything printed on the envelope? CURT. Yes--"The Citizens' Union." ALICE. Then he has guessed your secret. You want to get into the Riksdag, I suppose. And now you'll see that he goes there instead of you. CURT. Has he ever thought of it? ALICE. No, but he is thinking of it now. I read it on his face while he was looking at the envelope. CURT. That's why he has to go to the city? ALICE. No, he made up his mind to go when he read the death notice. CURT. What has he to gain by the death of the Health Commissioner? ALICE. Hard to tell! Perhaps the man was an enemy who had stood in the way of his plans. CURT. If he be as terrible as you say, then there is reason to fear him. ALICE. Didn't you hear how he wanted to steal you, to tie your hands by means of pretended obligations that do not exist? For instance, he has done nothing to get you this position, but has, on the contrary, tried to keep you out of it. He is a man-thief, an insect, one of those wood-borers that eat up your insides so that one day you find yourself as hollow as a dying pine tree. He hates you, although he is bound to you by the memory of your youthful friendship---- CURT. How keen-witted we are made by our hatreds! ALICE. And stupid by our loves--blind and stupid! CURT. Oh, no, don't say that! ALICE. Do you know what is meant by a vampire? They say it is the soul of a dead person seeking a body in which it may live as a parasite. Edgar is dead--ever since he fell down on the floor that time. You see, he has no interests of his own, no personality, no initiative. But if he can only get hold of some other person he hangs on to him, sends down roots into him, and begins to flourish and blossom. Now he has fastened himself on you. CURT. If he comes too close I'll shake him off. ALICE. Try to shake off a burr! Listen: do you know why he does not want Judith and Allan to play? CURT. I suppose he is concerned about their feelings. ALICE. Not at all. He wants to marry Judith to--the Colonel! CURT. [_Shocked_] That old widower! ALICE. Yes. CURT. Horrible! And Judith? ALICE. If she could get the General, who is eighty, she would take him in order to bully the Colonel, who is sixty. To bully, you know, that's the aim of her life. To trample down and bully--there you have the motto of _that_ family. CURT. Can this be Judith? That maiden fair and proud and splendid? ALICE. Oh, I know all about that! May I sit here and write a letter? CURT. [_Puts the writing-table in order_] With pleasure. ALICE. [_Takes off her gloves and sits down at the writing-table_] Now we'll try our hand at the art of war. I failed once when I tried to slay my dragon. But now I have mastered the trade. CURT. Do you know that it is necessary to load before you fire? ALICE. Yes, and with ball cartridges at that! CURT _withdraws to the right_. ALICE _ponders and writes_. ALLAN _comes rushing in without noticing_ Alice _and throws himself face downward on the sofa. He is weeping convulsively into a lace handkerchief_. ALICE. [_Watches him for a while. Then she rises and goes over to the sofa. Speaks in a tender voice_] Allan! ALLAN _sits up disconcertedly and hides the handkerchief behind his back_. ALICE. [_Tenderly, womanly, and with true emotion_] You should not be afraid of me, Allan--I am not dangerous to you--What is wrong? Are you sick? ALLAN. Yes. ALICE. In what way? ALLAN. I don't know. ALICE. Have you a headache? ALLAN. No. ALICE. And your chest? Pain? ALLAN. Yes. ALICE. Pain--pain--as if your heart wanted to melt away. And it pulls, pulls---- ALLAN. How do you know? ALICE. And then you wish to die--that you were already dead--and everything seems so hard. And you can only think of one thing--always the same--but if two are thinking of the same thing, then sorrow falls heavily on one of them. [Allan _forgets himself and begins to pick at the handkerchief_] That's the sickness which no one can cure. You cannot eat and you cannot drink; you want only to weep, and you weep so bitterly--especially out in the woods where nobody can see you, for at that kind of sorrow all men laugh--men who are so cruel! Dear me! What do you want of her? Nothing! You don't want to kiss her mouth, for you feel that you would die if you did. When your thoughts run to her, you feel as if death were approaching. And it is death, child--that sort of death--which brings life. But you don't understand it yet! I smell violets--it is herself. [_Steps closer to_ ALLAN _and takes the handkerchief gently away from him._] It is she, it is she everywhere, none but she! Oh, oh, oh! [ALLAN _cannot help burying his face in_ ALICE's _bosom_] Poor boy! Poor boy! Oh, how it hurts, how it hurts! [_Wipes off his tears with the handkerchief_] There, there! Cry --cry to your heart's content. There now! Then the heart grows lighter--But now, Allan, rise up and be a man, or she will not look at you--she, the cruel one, who is not cruel. Has she tormented you? With the Lieutenant? You must make friends with the Lieutenant, so that you two can talk of her. That gives a little ease also. ALLAN. I don't want to see the Lieutenant! ALICE. Now look here, little boy, it won't be long before the Lieutenant seeks you out in order to get a chance to talk of her. For--[ALLAN _looks up with a ray of hope on his face_] Well, shall I be nice and tell you? [ALLAN _droops his head_] He is just as unhappy as you are. ALLAN. [_Happy_] No? ALICE. Yes, indeed, and he needs somebody to whom he may unburden his heart when Judith has wounded him. You seem to rejoice in advance? ALLAN. Does she not want the Lieutenant? ALICE. She does not want you either, dear boy, for she wants the Colonel. [ALLAN _is saddened again_] Is it raining again? Well, the handkerchief you cannot have, for Judith _is_ careful about her belongings and wants her dozen complete. [ALLAN _looks dashed_] Yes, my boy, such is Judith. Sit over there now, while I write another letter, and then you may do an errand for me. [_Sits down at the writing-table and begins to write again_. LIEUTENANT. [_Enters from the background, with a melancholy face, but without being ridiculous. Without noticing_ ALICE _he makes straight for_ ALLAN] I say, Cadet--[ALLAN _rises and stands at attention_] Please be seated. ALICE _watches them_. _The_ LIEUTENANT _goes up to_ ALLAN _and sits down beside him. Sighs, takes out a lace handkerchief just like the other one, and wipes his forehead with it_. ALLAN _stares greedily at the handkerchief_. _The_ LIEUTENANT _looks sadly at_ ALLAN. ALICE. _coughs_. _The_ LIEUTENANT _jumps up and stands at attention_. ALICE. Please be seated. LIEUTENANT. I beg your pardon, madam---- ALICE. Never mind! Please sit down and keep the Cadet company--he is feeling a little lonely here on the island. [_Writes_. LIEUTENANT. [_Conversing with_ ALLAN _in low tone and uneasily_] It is awfully hot. ALLAN. Rather. LIEUTENANT. Have you finished the sixth book yet? ALLAN. I have just got to the last proposition. LIEUTENANT. That's a tough one. [_Silence_] Have you--[_seeking for words_] played tennis to-day? ALLAN. No-o--the sun was too hot. LIEUTENANT. [_In despair, but without any comical effect_] Yes, it's awfully hot to-day! ALLAN. [_In a whisper_] Yes, it is very hot. [_Silence_. LIEUTENANT. Have you--been out sailing to-day? ALLAN. No-o, I couldn't get anybody to tend the jib. LIEUTENANT. Could you--trust me sufficiently to let me tend the jib? ALLAN. [_Respectfully as before_] That would be too great an honor for me, Lieutenant. LIEUTENANT. Not at all, not at all! Do you think--the wind might be good enough to-day--about dinner-time, say, for that's the only time I am free? ALLAN. [_Slyly_] It always calms down about dinner-time, and--that's the time Miss Judith has her lesson. LIEUTENANT. [_Sadly_] Oh, yes, yes! Hm! Do you think---- ALICE. Would one of you young gentlemen care to deliver a letter for me? [ALLAN _and the_ LIEUTENANT _exchange glances of mutual distrust_]--to Miss Judith? [ALLAN _and the_ LIEUTENANT _jump up and hasten over to_ ALICE, _but not without a certain dignity meant to disguise their emotion_] Both of you? Well, the more safely my errand will be attended to. [_Hands the letter to the_ LIEUTENANT] If you please, Lieutenant, I should like to have that handkerchief. My daughter is very careful about her things--there is a touch of pettiness in her nature--Give me that handkerchief! I don't wish to laugh at you, but you must not make yourself ridiculous--needlessly. And the Colonel does not like to play the part of an Othello. [_Takes the handkerchief_] Away with you now, young men, and try to hide your feelings as much as you can. _The_ LIEUTENANT _bows and goes out, followed closely by_ ALLAN. ALICE. [_Calls out_] Allan! ALLAN. [_Stops unwillingly in the doorway_] Yes, Aunt. ALICE. Stay here, unless you want to inflict more suffering on yourself than you can bear. ALLAN. But he is going! ALICE. Let him burn himself. But take care of yourself. ALLAN. I don't want to take care of myself. ALICE. And then you cry afterward. And so I get the trouble of consoling you. ALLAN. I want to go! ALICE. Go then! But come back here, young madcap, and I'll have the right to laugh at you. [ALLAN _runs after the_ LIEUTENANT. [ALICE _writes again._ CURT. [_Enters_] Alice, I have received an anonymous letter that is bothering me. ALICE. Have you noticed that Edgar has become another person since he put off the uniform? I could never have believed that a coat might make such a difference. CURT. You didn't answer my question. ALICE. It was no question. It was a piece of information. What do you fear? CURT. Everything! ALICE. He went to the city. And his trips to the city are always followed by something dreadful. CURT. But I can do nothing because I don't know from which quarter the attack will begin. ALICE. [_Folding the letter_] We'll see whether I have guessed it. CURT. Will you help me then? ALICE. Yes--but no further than my own interests permit. My own--that is my children's. CURT. I understand that! Do you hear how silent everything is--here on land, out on the sea, everywhere? ALICE. But behind the silence I hear voices--mutterings, cries! CURT. Hush! I hear something, too--no, it was only the gulls. ALICE. But I hear something else! And now I am going to the post-office--with this letter! _Curtain_. _Same stage setting_. ALLAN _is sitting at the writing-table studying_. JUDITH _is standing in the doorway. She wears a tennis hat and carries the handle-bars of a bicycle in one hand_. JUDITH. Can I borrow your wrench? ALLAN. [_Without looking up_] No, you cannot. JUDITH. You are discourteous now, because you think I am running after you. ALLAN. [_Without crossness_] I am nothing at all, but I ask merely to be left alone. JUDITH. [_Comes nearer_] Allan! ALLAN. Yes, what is it? JUDITH. You mustn't be angry with me! ALLAN. I am not. JUDITH. Will you give me your hand on that? ALLAN. [_Kindly_] I don't want to shake hands with you, but I am not angry--What do you want with me anyhow? JUDITH. Oh, but you're stupid! ALLAN. Well, let it go at that. JUDITH. You think me cruel, and nothing else. ALLAN. No, for I know that you are kind too--you _can_ be kind! JUDITH. Well--how can I help--that you and the Lieutenant run around and weep in the woods? Tell me, why do you weep? [ALLAN _is embarrassed_] Tell me now--I never weep. And why have you become such good friends? Of what do you talk while you are walking about arm in arm? [ALLAN _cannot answer_] Allan, you'll soon see what kind I am and whether I can strike a blow for one I like. And I want to give you a piece of advice--although I have no use for tale-bearing. Be prepared! ALLAN. For what? JUDITH. Trouble. ALLAN. From what quarter? JUDITH. From the quarter where you least expect it. ALLAN. Well, I am rather used to disappointment, and life has not brought me much that was pleasant What's in store now? JUDITH. [_Pensively_] You poor boy--give me your hand! [ALLAN _gives her his hand_] Look at me! Don't you dare to look at me? [ALLAN _rushes out to the left in order to hide his emotion_. LIEUTENANT. [_In from the background_] I beg your pardon! I thought that---- JUDITH. Tell me, Lieutenant, will you be my friend and ally? LIEUTENANT. If you'll do me the honour---- JUDITH. Yes--a word only--don't desert Allan when disaster overtakes him. LIEUTENANT. What disaster? JUDITH. You'll soon see--this very day perhaps. Do you like Allan? LIEUTENANT. The young man is my best pupil, and I value him personally also on account of his strength of character--Yes, life has moments when strength is required [_with emphasis_] to bear up, to endure, to suffer, in a word! JUDITH. That was more than one word, I should say. However, you like Allan? LIEUTENANT. Yes. JUDITH. Look him up then, and keep him company. LIEUTENANT. It was for that purpose I came here--for that and no other. I had no other object in my visit. JUDITH. I had not supposed anything of that kind--of the kind you mean! Allan went that way. [_Pointing to the left_. LIEUTENANT. [_Goes reluctantly to the left_] Yes--I'll do what you ask. JUDITH. Do, please. ALICE. [_In from the background_] What are you doing here? JUDITH. I wanted to borrow a wrench. ALICE. Will you listen to me a moment? JUDITH. Of course, I will. [ALICE _sits down on the sofa._ JUDITH. [_Remains standing_] But tell me quickly what you want to say. I don't like long lectures. ALICE. Lectures? Well, then--put up your hair and put on a long dress. JUDITH. Why? ALICE. Because you are no longer a child. And you are young enough to need no coquetry about your age. JUDITH. What does that mean? ALICE. That you have reached marriageable age. And your way of dressing is causing scandal. JUDITH. Then I shall do what you say. ALICE. You have understood then? JUDITH. Oh, yes. ALICE. And we are agreed? JUDITH. Perfectly. ALICE. On all points? JUDITH. Even the tenderest! ALICE. Will you at the same time cease playing--with Allan? JUDITH. It is going to be serious then? ALICE. Yes. JUDITH. Then we may just as well begin at once. _She has already laid aside the handle-bars. Now she lets down the bicycle skirt and twists her braid into a knot which she fastens on top of her head with a hair-pin taken out of her mother's hair_. ALICE. It is not proper to make your toilet in a strange place. JUDITH. Am I all right this way? Then I am ready. Come now who dares! ALICE. Now at last you look decent. And leave Allan in peace after this. JUDITH. I don't understand what you mean? ALICE. Can't you see that he is suffering? JUDITH. Yes, I think I have noticed it, but I don't know why. I don't suffer! ALICE. That is _your_ strength. But the day will come--oh, yes, you shall know what it means. Go home now, and don't forget--that you are wearing a long skirt. JUDITH. Must you walk differently then? ALICE. Just try. JUDITH. [_Tries to walk like a lady_] Oh, my feet are tied; I am caught, I cannot run any longer! ALICE. Yes, child, now the walking begins, along the slow road toward the unknown, which you know already, but must pretend to ignore. Shorter steps, and much slower--much slower! The low shoes of childhood must go, Judith, and you have to wear boots. You don't remember when you laid aside baby socks and put on shoes, but I do! JUDITH. I can never stand this! ALICE. And yet you must--must! JUDITH. [_Goes over to her mother and kisses her lightly on the cheek; then walks out with the dignified bearing of a lady, but forgetting the handle-bars_] Good-bye then! CURT. [_Enters from the right_] So you're already here? ALICE. Yes. CURT. Has _he_ come back? ALICE. Yes. CURT. How did he appear? ALICE. In full dress--so he has called on the Colonel. And he wore two orders. CURT. Two? I knew he was to receive the Order of the Sword on his retirement. But what can the other one be? ALICE. I am not very familiar with those things, but there was a white cross within a red one. CURT. It is a Portuguese order then. Let me see--tell me, didn't his articles in that periodical deal with quarantine stations in Portuguese harbours? ALICE. Yes, as far as I can recall. CURT. And he has never been in Portugal? ALICE. Never. CURT. But I have been there. ALICE. You shouldn't be so communicative. His ears and his memory are so good. CURT. Don't you think Judith may have helped him to this honour? ALICE. Well, I declare! There are limits--[rising] and you have passed them. CURT. Are we to quarrel now? ALICE. That depends on you. Don't meddle with my interests. CURT. If they cross my own, I have to meddle with them, although with a careful hand. Here he comes! ALICE. And now it is going to happen. CURT. What is--going to happen? ALICE. We shall see! CURT. Let it come to open attack then, for this state of siege is getting on my nerves. I have not a friend left on the island. ALICE. Wait a minute! You sit on this side--he must have the easy-chair, of course--and then I can prompt you. CAPTAIN. [_Enters from the background, in full dress uniform, wearing the Order of the Sword and the Portuguese Order of Christ_] Good day! Here's the meeting place. ALICE. You are tired--sit down. [_The_ CAPTAIN, _contrary to expectation, takes a seat on the sofa to the left_] Make yourself comfortable. CAPTAIN. This is all right. You're too kind. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Be careful--he's suspicious of us. CAPTAIN. [_Crossly_] What was that you said? ALICE. [_To_ CURT] He must have been drinking. CAPTAIN. [_Rudely_] No-o, he has not. [_Silence_] Well--how have you been amusing yourselves? ALICE. And you? CAPTAIN. Are you looking at my orders? ALICE. No-o! CAPTAIN. I guess not, because you are jealous--Other-wise it is customary to offer congratulations to the recipient of honours. ALICE. We congratulate you. CAPTAIN. We get things like these instead of laurel wreaths, such as they give to actresses. ALICE. That's for the wreaths at home on the walls of the tower---- CAPTAIN. Which your brother gave you---- ALICE. Oh, how you talk! CAPTAIN. Before which I have had to bow down these twenty-five years--and which it has taken me twenty-five years to expose. ALICE. You have seen my brother? CAPTAIN. Rather! [Alice _is crushed. Silence_] And you, Curt--you don't say anything, do you? CURT. I am waiting. CAPTAIN. Well, I suppose you know the big news? CURT. No. CAPTAIN. It is not exactly agreeable for me to be the one who---- CURT. Oh, speak up! CAPTAIN. The soda factory has gone to the wall---- CURT. That's decidedly unpleasant! Where does that leave you? CAPTAIN. I am all right, as I sold out in time. CURT. That was sensible. CAPTAIN. But how about you? CURT. Done for! CAPTAIN. It's your own fault. You should have sold out in time, or taken new stock. CURT. So that I could lose that too. CAPTAIN. No, for then the company would have been all right. CURT. Not the company, but the directors, for in my mind that new subscription was simply a collection for the benefit of the board. CAPTAIN. And now I ask whether such a view of the matter will save your money? CURT. No, I shall have to give up everything. CAPTAIN. Everything? CURT. Even my home, the furniture---- CAPTAIN. But that's dreadful! CURT. I have experienced worse things. [_Silence_. CAPTAIN. That's what happens when amateurs want to speculate. CURT. You surprise me, for you know very well that if I had not subscribed, I should have been boycotted. The supplementary livelihood of the coast population, toilers of the sea, inexhaustible capital, inexhaustible as the sea itself--philanthropy and national prosperity--Thus you wrote and printed--And now you speak of it as speculation! CAPTAIN. [_Unmoved_] What are you going to do now? CURT. Have an auction, I suppose. CAPTAIN. You had better. CURT. What do you mean? CAPTAIN. What I said! For there [_slowly_] are going to be some changes---- CURT. On the island? CAPTAIN. Yes--as, for instance,--your quarters are going to be exchanged for somewhat simpler ones. CURT. Well, well. CAPTAIN. Yes, the plan is to place the quarantine station on the outside shore, near the water. CURT. My original idea! CAPTAIN. [_Dryly_] I don't know about that--for I am not familiar with your ideas on the subject. However it seems then quite natural that you dispose of the furniture, and it will attract much less notice--the scandal! CURT. What? CAPTAIN. The scandal! [_Egging himself on_] For it is a scandal to come to a new place and immediately get into financial troubles which must result in a lot of annoyance to the relatives--particularly to the relatives. CURT. Oh, I guess I'll have to bear the worst of it. CAPTAIN. I'll tell you one thing, my dear Curt: if I had not stood by you in this matter, you would have lost your position. CURT. That too? CAPTAIN. It comes rather hard for you to keep things in order--complaints have been made against your work. CURT. Warranted complaints? CAPTAIN. Yah! For you are--in spite of your other respectable qualities--a careless fellow--Don't interrupt me! You are a very careless fellow! CURT. How strange! CAPTAIN. However--the suggested change is going to take place very soon. And I should advise you to hold the auction at once or sell privately. CURT. Privately? And where could I find a buyer in this place? CAPTAIN. Well, I hope you don't expect me to settle down in the midst of your things? That would make a fine story--[_staccato_] hm!--especially when I--think of what happened--once upon a time---- CURT. What was that? Are you referring to what did _not_ happen? CAPTAIN. [_Turning about_] You are so silent, Alice? What is the matter, old girl? Not blue, I hope? ALICE. I sit here and think---- CAPTAIN. Goodness! Are you thinking? But you have to think quickly, keenly, and correctly, if it is to be of any help! So do your thinking now--one, two, three! Ha-ha! You can't! Well, then, I must try--Where is Judith? ALICE. Somewhere. CAPTAIN. Where is Allan? [ALICE _remains silent_] Where is the Lieutenant? [ALICE _as before_] I say, Curt--what are you going to do with Allan now? CURT. Do with him? CAPTAIN. Yes, you cannot afford to keep him in the artillery now. CURT. Perhaps not. CAPTAIN. You had better get him into some cheap infantry regiment--up in Norrland, or somewhere. CURT. In Norrland? CAPTAIN. Yes, or suppose you turned him into something practical at once? If I were in your place, I should get him into some business office--why not? [CURT _is silent_] In these enlightened times--yah! Alice is so _uncommonly_ silent! Yes, children, this is the seesawing seesaw board of life--one moment high up, looking boldly around, and the next way down, and then upward again, and so on--So much for that--[_To_ ALICE] Did you say anything? [ALICE _shakes her head_] We may expect company here in a few days. ALICE. Were you speaking to me? CAPTAIN. We may expect company in a few days--notable company! ALICE. Who? CAPTAIN. Behold--you're interested! Now you can sit there and guess who is coming, and between guesses you may read this letter over again. [_Hands her an opened letter_. ALICE. My letter? Opened? Back from the mail? CAPTAIN. [_Rising_] Yes, as the head of the family and your guardian, I look after the sacred interests of the family, and with iron hand I shall cut short every effort to break the family ties by means of criminal correspondence. Yah! [ALICE _is crushed_] I am not dead, you know, but don't take offence now because I am going to raise us all out of undeserved humility--undeserved on my own part, at least! ALICE. Judith! Judith! CAPTAIN. And Holofernes? I, perhaps? Pooh! [_Goes out through the background_. CURT. Who is that man? ALICE. How can I tell? CURT. We are beaten. ALICE. Yes--beyond a doubt. CURT. He has stripped me of everything, but so cleverly that I can accuse him of nothing. ALICE. Why, no--you owe him a debt of gratitude instead! CURT. Does he know what he is doing? ALICE. No, I don't think so. He follows his nature and his instincts, and just now he seems to be in favour where fortune and misfortune are being meted out. CURT. I suppose it's the Colonel who is to come here. ALICE. Probably. And that is why Allan must go. CURT. And you find that right? ALICE. Yes. CURT. Then our ways part. ALICE. [_Ready to go_] A little--but we shall come together again. CURT. Probably. ALICE. And do you know where? CURT. Here. ALICE. You guess it? CURT. That's easy! He takes the house and buys the furniture. ALICE. I think so, too. But don't desert me! CURT. Not for a little thing like that. ALICE. Good-bye. [_Goes_. CURT. Good-bye. _Curtain_. _Same stage setting, but the day is cloudy and it is raining outside_. ALICE _and_ CURT _enter from the background, wearing rain coats and carrying umbrellas_. ALICE. At last I have got you to come here! But, I cannot be so cruel as to wish you welcome to your own home---- CURT. Oh, why not? I have passed through three forced sales--and worse than that--It doesn't matter to me. ALICE. Did he call you? CURT. It was a formal command, but on what basis I don't understand. ALICE. Why, he is not your superior! CURT. No, but he has made himself king of the island. And if there be any resistance, he has only to mention the Colonel's name, and everybody submits. Tell me, is it to-day the Colonel is coming? ALICE. He is expected--but I know nothing with certainty--Sit down, please. CURT. [_Sitting down_] Nothing has been changed here. ALICE. Don't think of it! Don't renew the pain! CURT. The pain? I find it merely a little strange. Strange as the man himself. Do you know, when I made his acquaintance as a boy, I fled him. But he was after me. Flattered, offered services, and surrounded me with ties--I repeated my attempt at escape, but in vain--And now I am his slave! ALICE. And why? He owes you a debt, but you appear as the debtor. CURT. Since I lost all I had, he has offered me help in getting Allan through his examinations---- ALICE. For which you will have to pay dearly! You are still a candidate for the Riksdag? CURT. Yes, and, so far as I can see, there is nothing in my way. [_Silence_. ALICE. Is Allan really going to leave to-day? CURT. Yes, if I cannot prevent it. ALICE. That was a short-lived happiness. CURT. Short-lived as everything but life itself, which lasts all too long. ALICE. Too long, indeed!--Won't you come in and wait in the sitting-room? Even if it does not trouble you, it troubles me--these surroundings! CURT. If you wish it---- ALICE. I feel ashamed, so ashamed that I could wish to die--but I can alter nothing! CURT. Let us go then--as you wish it. ALICE. And somebody is coming too. [_They go out to the left_. _The_ CAPTAIN _and_ ALLAN _enter from the background, both in uniform and wearing cloaks_. CAPTAIN. Sit down, my boy, and let me have a talk with you. [_Sits down in the easy-chair_. [Allan _sits down on the chair to the left_. CAPTAIN. It's raining to-day--otherwise I could sit here comfortably and look at the sea. [_Silence_] Well?--You don't like to go, do you? ALLAN. I don't like to leave my father. CAPTAIN. Yes, your father--he is rather an unfortunate man. [_Silence_] And parents rarely understand the true welfare of their children. That is to say--there are exceptions, of course. Hm! Tell me, Allan, have you any communication with your mother? ALLAN. Yes, she writes now and then---- CAPTAIN. Do you know that she is your guardian? ALLAN. Yes. CAPTAIN. Now, Allan, do you know that your mother has authorised me to act in her place? ALLAN. I didn't know that! CAPTAIN. Well, you know it now. And, therefore, all discussions concerning your career are done with--And you are going to Norrland. ALLAN. But I have no money. CAPTAIN. I have arranged for what you need. ALLAN. All I can do then is to thank you, Uncle. CAPTAIN. Yes, _you_ are grateful--which everybody is not. Hm!--[_Raising his voice_] The Colonel--do you know the Colonel? ALLAN. [_Embarrassed_] No, I don't. CAPTAIN. [_With emphasis_] The Colonel--is my special friend--[_a little more hurriedly_] as you know, perhaps. Hm! The Colonel has wished to show his interest in my family, including my wife's relatives. Through his intercession, the Colonel has been able to provide the means needed for the completion of your course. Now you understand the obligation under which you and your father are placed toward the Colonel. Have I spoken with sufficient plainness? [ALLAN _bows_] Go and pack your things now. The money will be handed to you at the landing. And now good-bye, my boy. [_Holds out a finger to_ ALLAN] Good-bye then. [_Rises and goes out to the right_. [ALLAN, _alone, stands still, looking sadly around the room_. JUDITH. [_Enters from the background, wearing a hooded rain coat and carrying an umbrella; otherwise exquisitely dressed, in long skirt and with her hair put up_] Is that you, Allan! ALLAN. [_Turning around, surveys_ JUDITH _carefully_] Is that you, Judith? JUDITH. You don't know me any longer? Where have you been all this time? What are you looking at? My long dress--and my hair--You have not seen me like this before? ALLAN. No-o---- JUDITH. Do I look like a married woman? [ALLAN _turns away from her_. JUDITH. [_Earnestly_] What are you doing here? ALLAN. I am saying good-bye. JUDITH. What? You are going--away? ALLAN. I am transferred to Norrland. JUDITH. [_Dumfounded_] To Norrland? When are you going? ALLAN. To-day. JUDITH. Whose doing is this? ALLAN. Your father's. JUDITH. That's what I thought! [_Walks up and down the floor, stamping her feet_] I wish you had stayed over to-day. ALLAN. In order to meet the Colonel? JUDITH. What do you know about the Colonel?--Is it certain that you are going? ALLAN. There is no other choice. And now I want it myself. [_Silence_. JUDITH. Why do you want it now? ALLAN. I want to get away from here--out into the world! JUDITH. It's too close here? Yes, Allan, I understand you--it's unbearable here--here, where they speculate--in soda and human beings! [Silence. JUDITH. [_With genuine emotion_] As you know, Allan, I possess that fortunate nature which cannot suffer--but--now I am learning! ALLAN. You? JUDITH. Yes--now it's beginning! [_She presses both hands to her breast_] Oh, how it hurts--oh! ALLAN. What is it? JUDITH. I don't know--I choke--I think I'm going to die! ALLAN. Judith? JUDITH. [_Crying out_] Oh! Is this the way it feels? Is this the way--poor boys! ALLAN. I should smile, if I were as cruel as you are. JUDITH. I am not cruel, but I didn't know better--You must not go! ALLAN. I have to! JUDITH. Go then--but give me a keepsake! ALLAN. What have I to give you? JUDITH. [_With all the seriousness of deepest suffering_] You!--No, I can never live through this! [_Cries out, pressing her breast with both hands_] I suffer, I suffer--What have you done to me? I don't want to live any longer! Allan, don't go--not alone! Let us go together--we'll take the small boat, the little white one--and we'll sail far out, with the main sheet made fast--the wind is high--and we sail till we founder out there, way out, where there is no eelgrass and no jelly-fish--What do you say?--But we should have washed the sails yesterday--they should be white as snow--for I want to see white in that moment--and you swim with your arm about me until you grow tired--and then we sink--[_Turning around_] There would be style in that, a good deal more style than in going about here lamenting and smuggling letters that will be opened and jeered at by father--Allan! [_She takes hold of both his arms and shakes him_] Do you hear? ALLAN. [_Who has been watching her with shining eyes_] Judith! Judith! Why were you not like this before? JUDITH. I didn't know--how could I tell what I didn't know? ALLAN. And now I must go away from you! But I suppose it is the better, the only thing! I cannot compete with a man--like---- JUDITH. Don't speak of the Colonel! ALLAN. Is it not true? JUDITH. It is true--and it is not true. ALLAN. Can it become wholly untrue? JUDITH. Yes, so it shall--within an hour! ALLAN. And you keep your word? I can wait, I can suffer, I can work--Judith! JUDITH. Don't go yet! How long must I wait? ALLAN. A year. JUDITH. [_Exultantly_] One? I shall wait a thousand years, and if you do not come then, I shall turn the dome of heaven upside down and make the sun rise in the west--Hush, somebody is coming! Allan, we must part--take me into your arms! [_They embrace each other_] But you must not kiss me. [_Turns her head away_] There, go now! Go now! ALLAN _goes toward the background and puts on his cloak. Then they rush into each other's arms so that_ JUDITH _disappears beneath the cloak, and for a moment they exchange kisses_. ALLAN _rushes out_. JUDITH _throws herself face downward on the sofa and sobs_. ALLAN. [_Comes back and kneels beside the sofa_] No, I cannot go! I cannot go away from you--not now! JUDITH. [_Rising_] If you could only see how beautiful you are now! If you could only see yourself! ALLAN. Oh, no, a man cannot be beautiful. But you, Judith! You--that you--oh, I saw that, when you were kind, another Judith appeared--and she's mine!--But if you don't keep faith with me now, then I shall die! JUDITH. I think I am dying even now--Oh, that I might die now, just now, when I am so happy---- ALLAN. Somebody is coming! JUDITH. Let them come! I fear nothing in the world hereafter. But I wish you could take me along under your cloak. [_She hides herself in play under his cloak_] And then I should fly with you to Norrland. What are we to do in Norrland? Become a Fusilier--one of those that wear plumes on their hats? There's style in that, and it will be becoming to you. [_Plays with his hair._ ALLAN _kisses the tips of her fingers, one by one--and then he kisses her shoe_. JUDITH. What are you doing, Mr. Madcap? Your lips will get black. [_Rising impetuously_] And then I cannot kiss you when you go! Come, and I'll go with you! ALLAN. No, then I should be placed under arrest. JUDITH. I'll go with you to the guard-room. ALLAN. They wouldn't let you! We must part now! JUDITH. I am going to swim after the steamer--and then you jump in and save me--and it gets into the newspapers, and we become engaged. Shall we do that? ALLAN. You can still jest? JUDITH. There will always be time for tears--Say good-bye now!---- _They rush into each other's arms; then_ ALLAN _withdraws slowly through the door in the background,_ JUDITH _following him; the door remains open after them; they embrace again outside, in the rain_. ALLAN. You'll get wet, Judith. JUDITH. What do I care! _They tear themselves away from each other_. ALLAN _leaves_. JUDITH _remains behind, exposing herself to the rain and to the wind, which strains at her hair and her clothes while she is waving her handkerchief. Then_ JUDITH _runs back into the room and throws herself on the sofa, with her face buried in her hands_. ALICE. [_Enters and goes over to_ JUDITH] What is this?--Get up and let me look at you. [JUDITH _sits up_. ALICE. [_Scrutinising her_] You are not sick--And I am not going to console you. [_Goes out to the right_. _The_ LIEUTENANT _enters from the background_. JUDITH. [_Gets up and puts on the hooded coat_] Come along to the telegraph office, Lieutenant. LIEUTENANT. If I can be of any service--but I don't think it's quite proper---- JUDITH. So much the better! I want you to compromise me--but without any illusions on your part--Go ahead, please! [_They go out through the background_. _The_ CAPTAIN _and_ ALICE _enter from the right; he is in undress uniform_. CAPTAIN. [_Sits down in the easy-chair_] Let him come in. ALICE _goes over to the door on the left and opens it, whereupon she sits down on the sofa_. CURT. [_Enters from the left_] You want to speak to me? CAPTAIN. [_Pleasantly, but somewhat condescendingly_] Yes, I have quite a number of important things to tell you. Sit down. CURT. [_Sits down on the chair to the left_] I am all ears. CAPTAIN. Well, then!--[_Bumptiously_] You know that our quarantine system has been neglected during nearly a century--hm! ALICE. [_To_ CURT] That's the candidate for the Riksdag who speaks now. CAPTAIN. But with the tremendous development witnessed by our own day in---- ALICE. [_To_ CURT] The communications, of course! CAPTAIN.--all kinds of ways the government has begun to consider improvements. And for this purpose the Board of Health has appointed inspectors--hm! ALICE. [_To_ CURT] He's giving dictation. CAPTAIN. You may as well learn it now as later--I have been appointed an inspector of quarantines. [_Silence_. CURT. I congratulate--and pay my respects to my superior at the same time. CAPTAIN. On account of ties of kinship our personal relations will remain unchanged. However--to speak of other things--At my request your son Allan has been transferred to an infantry regiment in Norrland. CURT. But I don't want it. CAPTAIN. Your will in this case is subordinate to the mother's wishes--and as the mother has authorised me to decide, I have formed this decision. CURT. I admire you! CAPTAIN. Is that the only feeling you experience at this moment when you are to part from your son? Have you no other purely human feelings? CURT. You mean that I ought to be suffering? CAPTAIN. Yes. CURT. It would please you if I suffered. You wish me to suffer. CAPTAIN. _You_ suffer?--Once I was taken sick--you were present and I can still remember that your face expressed nothing but undisguised pleasure. ALICE. That is not true! Curt sat beside your bed all night and calmed you down when your qualms of conscience became too violent--but when you recovered you ceased to be thankful for it---- CAPTAIN. [_Pretending not to hear_ Alice] Consequently Allan will have to leave us. CURT. And who is going to pay for it? CAPTAIN. I have done so already--that is to say, we--a syndicate of people interested in the young man's future. CURT. A syndicate? CAPTAIN. Yes--and to make sure that everything is all right you can look over these subscription lists. [_Hands him some papers_. CURT. Lists? [_Reading the papers_] These are begging letters? CAPTAIN. Call them what you please. CURT. Have you gone begging on behalf of my son? CAPTAIN. Are you ungrateful again? An ungrateful man is the heaviest burden borne by the earth. CURT. Then I am dead socially! And my candidacy is done for! CAPTAIN. What candidacy? CURT. For the Riksdag, of course. CAPTAIN. I hope you never had any such notions--particularly as you might have guessed that I, as an older resident, intended to offer my own services, which you seem to underestimate. CURT. Oh, well, then that's gone, too! CAPTAIN. It doesn't seem to trouble you very much. CURT. Now you have taken everything--do you want more? CAPTAIN. Have you anything more? And have you anything to reproach me with? Consider carefully if you have anything to reproach me with. CURT. Strictly speaking, no! Everything has been correct and legal as it should be between honest citizens in the course of daily life---- CAPTAIN. You say this with a resignation which I would call cynical. But your entire nature has a cynical bent, my dear Curt, and there are moments when I feel tempted to share Alice's opinion of you--that you are a hypocrite, a hypocrite of the first water. CURT. [_Calmly_] So that's Alice's opinion? ALICE. [_To_ CURT] It was--once. But not now, for it takes true heroism to bear what you have borne--or it takes something else! CAPTAIN. Now I think the discussion may be regarded as closed. You, Curt, had better go and say good-bye to Allan, who is leaving with the next boat. CURT. [_Rising_] So soon? Well, I have gone through worse things than that. CAPTAIN. You say that so often that I am beginning to wonder what you went through in America? CURT. What I went through? I went through misfortunes. And it is the unmistakable right of every human being to suffer misfortune. CAPTAIN. [_Sharply_] There are self-inflicted misfortunes--were yours of that kind? CURT. Is not this a question of conscience? CAPTAIN. [_Brusquely_] Do you mean to say you have a conscience? CURT. There are wolves and there are sheep, and no human being is honoured by being a sheep. But I'd rather be that than a wolf! CAPTAIN. You don't recognise the old truth, that everybody is the maker of his own fortune? CURT. Is _that_ a truth? CAPTAIN. And you don't know that a man's own strength---- CURT. Yes, I know that from the night when your own strength failed you, and you lay flat on the floor. CAPTAIN. [_Raising his voice_] A deserving man like myself --yes, look at me--For fifty years I have fought--against a world--but at last I have won the game, by perseverance, loyalty, energy, and--integrity! ALICE. You should leave that to be said by others! CAPTAIN. The others won't say it because they are jealous. However--we are expecting company--my daughter Judith will to-day meet her intended--Where is Judith? ALICE. She is out. CAPTAIN. In the rain? Send for her. CURT. Perhaps I may go now? CAPTAIN. No, you had better stay. Is Judith dressed--Properly? ALICE. Oh, so-so--Have you definite word from the Colonel that he is coming? CAPTAIN. [_Rising_] Yes--that is to say, he will take us by surprise, as it is termed. And I am expecting a telegram from him--any moment. [_Goes to the right_] I'll be back at once. ALICE. There you see him as he is! Can he be called human? CURT. When you asked that question once before, I answered no. Now I believe him to be the commonest kind of human being of the sort that possess the earth. Perhaps we, too, are of the same kind--making use of other people and of favourable opportunities? ALICE. He has eaten you and yours alive--and you defend him? CURT. I have suffered worse things. And this man-eater has left my soul unharmed--_that_ he couldn't swallow! ALICE. What "worse" have you suffered? CURT. And _you_ ask that? ALICE. Do you wish to be rude? CURT. No, I don't wish to--and therefore--don't ask again! CAPTAIN. [_Enters from the right_] The telegram was already there, however--Please read it, Alice, for I cannot see--[_Seats himself pompously in the easy-chair_] Read it! You need not go, Curt. ALICE _glances through the telegram quickly and looks perplexed_. CAPTAIN. Well? Don't you find it pleasing? [ALICE _stares in silence at the_ CAPTAIN. CAPTAIN. [_Ironically_] Who is it from? ALICE. From the Colonel. CAPTAIN. [_With self-satisfaction_] So I thought--and what does the Colonel say? ALICE. This is what he says: "On account of Miss Judith's impertinent communication over the telephone, I consider the relationship ended--for ever!" [_Looks intently at the_ CAPTAIN. CAPTAIN. Once more, if you please. ALICE. [_Reads rapidly_] "On account of Miss Judith's impertinent communication over the telephone, I consider the relationship ended--for ever!" CAPTAIN. [_Turns pale_] It is Judith! ALICE. And there is Holofernes! CAPTAIN. And what are you? ALICE. Soon you will see! CAPTAIN. This is your doing! ALICE. No! CAPTAIN. [_In a rage_] This is your doing! ALICE. No! [_The_ Captain _tries to rise and draw his sabre, but falls back, touched by an apoplectic stroke_] There you got what was coming to you! CAPTAIN. [_With senile tears in his voice_] Don't be angry at me--I am very sick---- ALICE. Are you? I am glad to hear it. CURT. Let us put him to bed. ALICE. No, I don't want to touch him. [_Rings_. CAPTAIN. [_As before_] You must not be angry at me! [_To_ CURT] Look after my children! CURT. This is sublime! I am to look after his children, and he has stolen mine! ALICE. Always the same self-deception! CAPTAIN. Look after my children! [_Continues to mumble unintelligibly_] Blub-blub-blub-blub. ALICE. At last that tongue is checked! Can brag no more, lie no more, wound no more! You, Curt, who believe in God, give Him thanks on my behalf. Thank Him for my liberation from the tower, from the wolf, from the vampire! CURT. Not that way, Alice! ALICE. [_With her face close to the_ CAPTAIN's] Where is your own strength now? Tell me? Where is your energy? [_The_ CAPTAIN, _speechless, spits in her face_] Oh, you can still squirt venom, you viper--then I'll tear the tongue out of your throat! [_Cuffs him on the ear_] The head is off, but still it blushes!--O, Judith, glorious girl, whom I have carried like vengeance under my heart--you, you have set us free, all of us!--? If you have more heads than one, Hydra, we'll take them! [_Pulls his beard_] Think only that justice exists on the earth! Sometimes I dreamed it, but I could never believe it. Curt, ask God to pardon me for misjudging Him. Oh, there is justice! So I will become a sheep, too! Tell Him that, Curt! A little success makes us better, but adversity alone turns us into wolves. _The_ LIEUTENANT _enters from the background_. ALICE. The Captain has had a stroke--will you please help us to roll out the chair? LIEUTENANT. Madam---- ALICE. What is it? LIEUTENANT. Well, Miss Judith---- ALICE. Help us with this first--then you can speak of Miss Judith afterward. [_The_ LIEUTENANT _rolls out the chair to the right_. ALICE. Away with the carcass! Out with it, and let's open the doors! The place must be aired! [_Opens the doors in the background; the sky has cleared_] Ugh! CURT. Are you going to desert him? ALICE. A wrecked ship is deserted, and the crew save their lives--I'll not act as undertaker to a rotting beast! Drainmen and dissectors may dispose of him! A garden bed would be too good for that barrowful of filth! Now I am going to wash and bathe myself in order to get rid of all this impurity--if I can ever cleanse myself completely! JUDITH _is seen outside, by the balustrade, waving her handkerchief toward the sea_. CURT. [_Toward the background_] Who is there? Judith! [_Calls out_] Judith! JUDITH.[_Cries out as she enters_] He is gone! CURT. Who? JUDITH. Allan is gone! CURT. Without saying good-bye? JUDITH. He did to me, and he sent his love to you, Uncle. ALICE. Oh, that was it! JUDITH. [_Throwing herself into_ CURT's _arms_] He is gone! CURT. He will come back, little girl. ALICE. Or we will go after him! CURT. [_With a gesture indicating the door on the right_] And leave him? What would the world---- ALICE. The world--bah! Judith, come into my arms! [JUDITH _goes up to_ ALICE, _who kisses her on the forehead_] Do you want to go after him? JUDITH. How can you ask? ALICE. But your father is sick. JUDITH. What do I care! ALICE. This is Judith! Oh, I love you, Judith! JUDITH. And besides, papa is never mean--and he doesn't like cuddling. There's style to papa, after all. ALICE. Yes, in a way! JUDITH. And I don't think he is longing for me after that telephone message--Well, why should he pester me with an old fellow? No, Allan, Allan! [_Throws herself into_ CURT's _arms_] I want to go to Allan! _Tears herself loose again and runs out to wave her handkerchief_ [CURT _follows her and waves his handkerchief also_. ALICE. Think of it, that flowers can grow out of dirt! _The_ LIEUTENANT _in from the right_. ALICE. Well? LIEUTENANT. Yes, Miss Judith---- ALICE. Is the feeling of those letters that form her name so sweet on your lips that it makes you forget him who is dying? LIEUTENANT. Yes, but she said---- ALICE. She? Say rather Judith then! But first of all--how goes it in there? LIEUTENANT. Oh, in there--it's all over! ALICE. All over? O, God, on my own behalf and that of all mankind, I thank Thee for having freed us from this evil! Your arm, if you please--I want to go outside and get a breath--breathe! [_The_ LIEUTENANT _offers his arm_. ALICE. [_Checks herself_] Did he say anything before the end came? LIEUTENANT. Miss Judith's father spoke a few words only. ALICE. What did he say? LIEUTENANT. He said: "Forgive them, for they know not what they do!" ALICE. Inconceivable! LIEUTENANT. Yes, Miss Judith's father was a good and noble man. ALICE. Curt! CURT _Enters_. ALICE. It is over! CURT. Oh! ALICE. Do you know what his last words were? No, you can never guess it. "Forgive them, for they know not what they do!" CURT. Can you translate it? ALICE. I suppose he meant that he had always done right and died as one that had been wronged by life. CURT. I am sure his funeral sermon will be fine. ALICE. And plenty of flowers--from the non-commissioned officers. CURT. Yes. ALICE. About a year ago he said something like this: "It looks to me as if life were a tremendous hoax played on all of us!" CURT. Do you mean to imply that he was playing a hoax on us up to the very moment of death? ALICE. No--but now, when he is dead, I feel a strange inclination to speak well of him. CURT. Well, let us do so! LIEUTENANT. Miss Judith's father was a good and noble man. ALICE. [_To_ CURT] Listen to that! CURT. "They know not what they do." How many times did I not ask you whether he knew what he was doing? And you didn't think he knew. Therefore, forgive him! ALICE. Riddles! Riddles! But do you notice that there is peace in the house now? The wonderful peace of death. Wonderful as the solemn anxiety that surrounds the coming of a child into the world. I hear the silence--and on the floor I see the traces of the easy-chair that carried him away--And I feel that now my own life is ended, and I am starting on the road to dissolution! Do you know, it's queer, but those simple words of the Lieutenant--and his is a simple mind--they pursue me, but now they have become serious. My husband, my youth's beloved--yes, perhaps you laugh!--he _was_ a good and noble man--nevertheless! CURT. Nevertheless? And a brave one--as he fought for his own and his family's existence! ALICE. What worries! What humiliations! Which he wiped out--in order to pass on! CURT. He was one who had been passed by! And that is to say much! Alice, go in there! ALICE. No, I cannot do it! For while we have been talking here, the image of him as he was in his younger years has come back to me--I have seen him, I see him--now, as when he was only twenty--I must have loved that man! CURT. And hated him! ALICE. And hated!--Peace be with him! _Goes toward the right door and stops in front of it, folding her hands as if to pray_. _Curtain_. 
46107	----	images generously made available by HathiTrust Digital Library (http://www.hathitrust.org/digital_library) Note: Images of the original pages are available through HathiTrust Digital Library. See http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001787881 THE GERMAN LIEUTENANT AND OTHER STORIES by AUGUST STRINDBERG Translated by Claud Field London T. Werner Laurie Limited 8 Essex Street, Strand 1915 August Strindberg. Born at Stockholm, January 22, 1849; died there, May 14, 1912. A Swedish dramatist and novelist, a leader of modern Swedish literature. Among his plays are "Master Olof" (1872), "Gilletshemlighet" (1880), "Fadren" (1887), "Froken Julie" (1888), "Glaubiger" (1889), "Till Damaskus" (1808), and a series of historical dramas including "Gustavas Wasa," "Erik XIV.," "Gustavas Adolphus," and "Carol XII." He wrote also "Roda rummet" (1879), "Det nya riket" (1882), which provoked so much criticism that the author left Sweden for a number of years; "Svenska folket HELG OCH SOKEN" (1882), "GIFTAS" (1884), "DIE BEICHTE EINES THOREN" (1893), "INFERNO" (1897), written after one of his periodical attacks of insanity; "EINSAM" (1903), an autobiographical novel; "DIE GOTISCHEN ZIMMER" (1904), and many other volumes. He has been called "the Shakspere of Sweden." --_The Century Cyclopædia of Names_. CONTENTS THE GERMAN LIEUTENANT OVER-REFINEMENT "UNWELCOME" HIGHER AIMS PAUL AND PETER A FUNERAL THE LAST SHOT THE GERMAN LIEUTENANT CHAPTER I It was fourteen days after Sedan, in the middle of September, 1870. A former clerk in the Prussian Geological Survey, later a lieutenant in the reserve, named Von Bleichroden, sat in his shirt-sleeves before a writing-table in the Café du Cercle, the best inn of the little town Marlotte. He had thrown his military coat with its stiff collar over the back of a chair, and there it hung limp, and collapsed like a corpse, with its empty arms seeming to clutch at the legs of the chair to keep itself from falling headlong. Round the body of the coat one saw the mark of the sword-belt, and the left coat-tail was rubbed quite smooth by the sheath. The back of the coat was as dusty as a high-road, and the lieutenant-geologist might have studied the tertiary deposits of the district on the edges of his much-worn trousers. When the orderlies came into the room with their dirty boots, he could till by the traces they left on the floor whether they had been walking over Eocene or Pleiocene formations. He was really more a geologist than a soldier, but for the present he was a letter-writer. He had pushed his spectacles up to his forehead, sat with his pen at rest, and looked out of the window. The garden lay in all its autumn glory before him, and the branches of the apple and pear trees bent with a load of the most splendid fruit to the ground. Orange-red pumpkins sunned themselves close beside prickly grey-green artichokes; fiery-red tomatoes clambered up sticks near wool-white cauliflowers; sun-flowers as large as a plate were turning their yellow disks towards the west, where the sun was beginning to sink; whole companies of dahlias, white as fresh-starched linen, purple-red like congealed blood, dirty-red like fresh-slaughtered flesh, salmon-red, sulphur-yellow, flax-coloured, mottled and speckled, sang one great flower-concert. Then there was the sand-strewn path lined by two rows of giant gilly-flowers; faintly lilac-coloured, dazzlingly ice-blue, and straw-yellow, they continued the perspective to where the vineyards stood in their brownish-green array, a small wood of thyrsus-staves with the reddened grape-clusters half hidden under the leaves. Behind them were the whitening, unharvested stalks of the cornfields, with the over-ripe ears of corn hanging sorrowfully towards the ground, with wide-open husks and bractlets at every gust of wind paying their tribute to the earth and bursting with their juices. And far in the background were the oak-tree tops and the beechen arches of the Forest of Fontainebleau, whose outlines melted away into the finest denticulations, like old Brussels lace, into the extreme meshes of which the horizontal rays of the evening sun wove gold threads. Some bees were still visiting the splendid honey-flowers in the garden; a robin-redbreast twittered in an apple tree; strong gusts of scent came now and then from the gilly-flowers, as when one walks along a pavement and the door of a scent-shop is opened. The lieutenant sat with his pen at rest, visibly entranced by the beautiful scene. "What a lovely land!" he thought, and his recollection went back to the sandy plain of his home, diversified by some wretched stunted firs which stretched their gnarled arms towards the sky as though they implored the favour of not having to drown in the sand. But the beautiful landscape which was framed in the window was shadowed as regularly as clockwork by the musket of the sentry, whose bright, shining bayonet bisected the picture, and who turned on his rounds exactly under a pear tree heavily laden with the finest yellow-green Napoleon pears. The lieutenant thought for a moment of asking him to choose another beat, but did not venture to do so; so in order to escape the flash of the bayonet, he let his gaze wander to the left over the courtyard. There stood the cook-house with its yellow-plastered wall, and an old knotty vine spread out against it like the skeleton of some animal in a museum; the vine was without leaves or clusters, and it stood there as though crucified, nailed fast to the decaying espalier, stretching out its long tough arms and fingers as though it wished to draw the sentry into its ghostly embrace as he turned. The lieutenant turned away and looked at his writing-table. There lay the unfinished letter to his young wife whom he had married four months previously, two months before the war broke out. Beside his field-glass and the list of the French General Staff lay Hartmann's "Philosophy of the Unconscious" and Schopenhauer's "Parerga and Paralipomena." Suddenly he rose from the table and walked up and down the room. It had been the meeting and dining-room of the artists' colony which had now vanished. The wainscoting of the walls was adorned with little oil-paintings recording happy hours in the beautiful hospitable country which so generously opened its art-schools and its exhibitions to foreigners. Here were depicted Spanish dancing-women, Roman monks, scenes from the coasts of Normandy and Brittany, Dutch wind-mills, Scandinavian fishing-villages and Swiss Alps. Into one corner had crept an easel of walnut-wood, and seemed to be hiding itself in the shadow from some threatening bayonets. A palette smeared with half-dried colours hung there and looked like a liver hanging in a pork-shop. Some red Spanish militia caps belonging to the painters, with the colour half faded by exposure to the sun and rain, hung on the clothes-horse. The lieutenant felt embarrassed, like one who has intruded into a stranger's house, and expects the owner to come and surprise him. He therefore abruptly ceased walking up and down and took his seat at the table in order to continue his letter. He had finished the first pages, which were full of expressions of his sorrow, home-sickness and anxiety since he had lately heard news which confirmed his joyful hopes of becoming a father. He dipped his pen in the ink rather in order to have someone to talk with than to give or ask for news. He wrote as follows: "So, for example, when I with my hundred men after a march of fourteen hours without food or water, came to a wood where we found an abandoned provision-wagon, what do you think happened? So famished that their eyes protruded from their heads like mountain crystals in granite, the body of men broke up and threw themselves like wolves upon the food, and since there was scarcely enough for twenty-five, they came to blows. No one listened to my word of command, and when the sergeant struck them with the flat of his sabre, they knocked him down with the butt-ends of their muskets. Sixteen men remained wounded and half dead on the place. Those who got hold of the food ate so greedily that they became sick and had to lie down on the ground, where they at once fell asleep. They fought with their own countrymen like wild beasts who fight for food. "One day we received orders to throw up defences. In the unwooded tract of country we were in there was nothing to use but the vines and their stakes. It was a strange sight to see how the vineyards were rifled in an hour--how the vine-stems were torn up, together with the leaves and grapes, to form faggot-bundles, which were quite wet with the juice of the crushed, half-ripe grapes. It was said that the vines were forty years old. Thus we destroyed the work of forty years in an hour. And that too in order to shoot down those who had provided the material for the faggot-bundles which protected us! "Another day we had to skirmish in an unreaped field of corn where the ears of corn dropped round our feet like hail and the stalks were trodden down to rot at the next shower of rain. Do you think, my dear wife, that one can sleep quietly at night after such doings? And yet, what have I done but my duty? And people venture to assert that the consciousness of duty performed is the best pillow for one's head. "But there are still worse things behind. You have perhaps heard that the French population in order to strengthen their army have risen in a mass and formed bodies of volunteers, who, under the name of 'franc-tireurs,' try to protect their farms and fields. The Prussian Government has refused to recognise them as soldiers, but has threatened to have them shot down as spies and traitors whenever they are found; because, they say, it is states who wage war and not individuals. But are soldiers not individuals? And are not these franc-tireurs soldiers? They have a grey uniform like the chasseur regiments, and uniforms make soldiers. But it is objected that they are not registered. No, they are not registered, because the Government has neither had time to have it done nor are means of communication with the country districts so easy as to make it possible. I have just got three of these franc-tireurs prisoners in the billiard-room, and am every moment expecting orders from headquarters to decide their fate." Here he stopped writing, and rang for his orderly. The latter, who was in waiting in the tap-room, at once appeared in the dining-room before the lieutenant. "How are the prisoners going on?" asked Von Bleichroden. "Very well, sir; they are just now playing billiards, and are quite cheerful." "Give them some bottles of wine, but of the weakest kind. Has nothing happened?" "Nothing, sir." Von Bleichroden continued his letter. "What strange people these Frenchmen are! The three franc-tireurs whom I have just mentioned, and who possibly (I say possibly for I still hope for the best) may be condemned to death in a few days, are just now playing billiards in the room next to mine and I hear their cues striking the balls. What happy contempt of the world! It is really splendid to go hence in such a mood; or rather, it shows that life is worth very little if one can part from it so easily--I mean when one has not such dear ties binding one to existence as I possess. Of course you won't misunderstand me and believe that I think I am tied Ah! I don't know what I am writing, for I have not slept for several nights and my head is so----" Just then there was a knock at the door. At the lieutenant's "Come in!" the door opened and the curé of the village entered. He was a man of about fifty, with a friendly and melancholy yet firm expression of face. "I come, sir," he began, "to ask you for permission to speak with the prisoners." The lieutenant rose and put on his coat, while he offered the curé a seat on the sofa. But when he had buttoned up the coat tightly and felt the stiff collar close round his neck, it seemed as though his nobler organs were compressed, and as though his blood stood still in coursing through secret channels to his heart. Placing his hand on the copy of Schopenhauer, and leaning against the writing-table, he said: "I am at your service, Monsieur le Curé, but I do not think the prisoners will pay you much attention, for they are busy playing billiards." "I think, sir," answered the curé, "that I know my people better than you do. One question. Do you intend to have these young fellows shot?" "Naturally," answered Von Bleichroden, quite prepared to assume his rôle. "It is the states which wage war, Monsieur le Curé, not individuals." "Pardon me, sir, are you and your soldiers not individuals?" "Pardon me, Monsieur, not for the present." He slipped the letter to his wife under the blotting-paper and continued, "I am just now only a representative of the German Confederation of States." "But, sir, your amiable Empress, whom may God ever protect, was also a representative of the German Confederation when she issued her proclamation to German women to help the wounded, and I know of hundreds of individual Frenchmen who bless her, although the French nation curses your nation. Sir, in the name of Jesus the Redeemer" (here the curé stood up, seized his enemy's hands and continued in a tear-choked voice), "could you not appeal to her?" The lieutenant was nearly losing his self-control, but he recovered himself and said: "With us women have not yet begun to interfere in politics." "That is a pity," answered the priest, and stood up. The lieutenant seemed to have heard a noise through the window, so that he did not pay attention to the priest's answer. He became restless, and his face was quite white, for the stiff collar could no longer prevent the blood quitting it. "Pray sit down, Monsieur," he said. "If you wish to speak with the prisoners, you can do so, but remain sitting for a minute." (He listened out of the window again, and now there were heard distinctly doubled hoof-beats, as of a horse galloping.) "No, don't go, Monsieur," he said with a gasp. The sound of galloping came nearer till it became a walk, slackened and ceased. There was the clinking of a sword and spurs, footsteps, and Von Bleichroden held a letter in his hand. He tore it open and read it. "What is the time?" he asked himself. "Six! In two hours, Monsieur, the prisoners will be shot without trial." "Impossible, sir! One does not so hurry men into eternity." "Eternity or not, the order says that it must be done before vespers, if I do not wish to regard myself as making common cause with the franc-tireurs. And here there follows a sharp reprimand because I have not carried out the order of August 31st. Monsieur, go in and talk with them and spare me the unpleasantness." "You think it unpleasant to report a righteous sentence?" "But I am still a man, Monsieur! Don't you think I am a man?" He tore open his coat to get air, and began to walk up and down the room. "Why cannot we be always men? Why must we have two faces? Oh, Monsieur, go in and talk with them! Are they married men? Have they wives and children--parents perhaps?" "They are all three unmarried," answered the priest. "But at any rate you might let them have this one night." "Impossible! The order says, 'before vespers,' and we have to march at daybreak. Go to them, Monsieur, go to them!" "I will go; but remember, Mr Lieutenant, not to go out in your shirt-sleeves, when you go, or you might meet with the same fate as they. For it is the coat, you know, which makes the soldier." And the priest went. Von Bleichroden wrote the last lines of his letter in a state of great agitation. Then he sealed it and rang for the orderly. "Post this letter," he said to him, "and send in the sergeant." The sergeant came. "Three times three is twenty-nine--no, three times seven is. Sergeant, take three times--take seven-and-twenty men and shoot the prisoners within an hour. Here is the order!" "Shoot them?" asked the sergeant hesitatingly. "Yes, shoot them! Choose the worst soldiers, those who have been under fire before. You understand? For instance, number 86, Besel, number 19, Gewehr, and so on. Order also for me a fatigue-party of sixteen men at once, and choose the best. We will make a reconnaissance towards Fontainebleau, and when we come back it will be over. Do you understand?" "Sixteen men for you, air, and seven-and-twenty for the prisoners. God protect you, sir!" And he went. The lieutenant buttoned his coat again carefully, put on his sword-belt, and placed a revolver in his pocket. Then he lit a cigar, but found it impossible to smoke for he had not enough air in his lungs. He dusted his writing-table; he took his handkerchief and wiped the large pair of scissors, the stick of sealing-wax, and the match-box; he laid the ruler and the pen-holder parallel at an exact right angle with the blotting-paper; then he began to put the furniture straight. When that was finished, he took out his brush and comb and did his hair before the looking-glass; he took down the palette and examined the dabs of paint on it; he inspected all the red caps and tried to make the easel stand on two legs. By the time that the clanking of the weapons of his fatigue-party was audible in the courtyard, there was not a single object in the room which he had not handled. Then he went out, gave the command "Left wheel! March!" and quitted the village. He felt as though he were running away from a foe of superior power, and the soldiers found it difficult to follow him. When they came to a field he made them go in single file so as not to trample down the grass. He did not turn round, but the soldier next behind him could see how the cloth of the back of his coat twitched from time to time, as when one shudders, or expects a blow from behind. At the edge of the wood he ordered a halt; he told the men to keep quiet and to rest while he went into the wood. When he found himself alone and was quite sure that no one could see him, he took a deep breath and turned towards the dark thickets through which narrow foot-paths lead to the Gorge-aux-loups. The under-wood and bushes lay in shadow, but above the sun still shone brightly on the tops of the oaks and beeches. He felt as though he lay on the dark bottom of the sea, and through the green water saw above him the light of day which he never more would reach. The great, wonderfully beautiful wood which formerly had soothed his troubled spirit seemed this evening so disharmonious, so repellent, so cold. Life appeared so heartless, so contradictory, and Nature herself seemed unhappy in her unconscious sleep. Here also the terrible struggle for existence was being carried on, bloodlessly it is true, but just as cruelly as by conscious creatures. He saw how the baby oaks spread themselves out to bushes in order to kill the tender beech-seedlings which would never be more than seedlings; of a thousand beeches only one could get to the light and thereby become a giant, which should in its turn rob the rest of life. And the ruthless oak, which stretched out its gnarled, rough arms as though it wished to keep the whole sun for itself, had discovered how to wage an underground strife. It sent out its long roots in all directions, undermining the ground; it ate away from the others the smallest particles of nourishment; and when it could not overshadow a rival till it was dead, it starved it out. The oak had already murdered the pine-wood, but the beech came as an avenger slow but sure, for its acrid juices kill everything where it predominates. It had discovered the method of poisoning which was irresistible, for not a single plant could grow in-its shadow; the earth around it was dark as a grave, and therefore the future belonged to it. The lieutenant wandered on and on. He struck about with his sword without thinking how many hopeful young oaklings he destroyed, how many headless cripples he produced. In fact he hardly thought any more, for all the activities of his soul seemed crushed in a mortar to pulp. His thoughts tried to crystallise themselves but dissolved and floated away; memories, hopes, wrath, gentler feelings, and one great hatred of all the perversity which by the operation of an inexplicable natural force had come to rule the world, melted together in his brain, as though an inner fire had suddenly raised the temperature and obliged all its solid constituents to assume a fluid form. Suddenly he started and stood still as if arrested, for from Marlotte came a sound rolling over the fields and redoubling its echoes in the hollow passage of the "Wolves' gorge." It was the drum! First a long roll--trrrrrrrrrrrrrom!--and then blow on blow, one and two, dull and muffled, as when one nails up a coffin and fears to disturb the house of mourning--trrrom!--trrrom!--trom!--trom! He took out his watch; it was a quarter to seven. In a quarter of an hour it would happen! He wished to return and see it. No, he had just run away to avoid it; he would not see it for anything. Then he climbed up a tree. Now he saw the village, which looked so bright and homelike with its little gardens and church-tower rising above the house roofs. He saw no more, but held his watch in his hand and followed the second hand. Tick, tick, tick, tick--it ran round the little dial-plate so swiftly; but when the second hand had made one round, the long one made a jerk and the steady hour hand stood still, as it seemed to him, though it was moving also. Now the watch showed five minutes to seven. He gripped the smooth black beech stem he was standing by very tightly. The watch trembled in his hand, there was a humming in his ears, and he felt a burning sensation at the roots of his hair. Crash! There was a sound just as when a plank breaks, and above a dark slate roof and a white apple tree rose a blue cloud of smoke over the village, bluish white like a spring cloud; but above the cloud one, two, and several smoke-rings shot up in the air, as though they had been shooting at pigeons and not towards a wall. "They were not all so bad as I thought," he said to himself as he got down from the tree, feeling quieter now that it was over. And now the little village church bell began to ring, speaking of peace and quiet for the dead who had done their duty, but not for all the living who had done theirs. The sun had gone down, and the moon, whose pale yellow disk had hung in the sky all the afternoon, began to redden and gather light as the lieutenant with his men marched by Montcourt, still followed by the ringing of the little bell. They came out on the great high-road to Nemours, which, with its two rows of poplars, seemed peculiarly suited for marching on. So they went on till it was quite night and the moon shone clearly. In the last row the men had already begun to whisper and consult secretly whether they should not ask the corporal to give the lieutenant some sort of hint that the district was unsafe and that they should return to their quarters in order to be able to march at daybreak, when Von Bleichroden quite unexpectedly commanded "Halt!" They stood on a rising ground from which Marlotte could be seen. The lieutenant stood quite still, like a pointer who startles a covey of partridges. Now the drum was beating again. Then the clock in Montcourt struck nine, followed by those in Grez, in Bourron, in Nemours; and then all the little church bells began to ring for vespers, vying with each other in shrillness, and through them all pierced the tones of the bell in Marlotte, which called "Help! help!" and Von Bleichroden could not help. Now came a booming along the ground, as though from the depths of the earth; it was the firing of the evening gun at the headquarters in Chalons. The moon shone through the light evening mists which were lying like great flocks of wool above the little River Loin, and lit it up so that it resembled a lava stream running in the distance from the dark wood of Fontainebleau which rose like a volcano. The evening was oppressively warm, but the men had all white faces, so that the bats which swarmed around them flew close by their ears, as they do when they see anything white. All knew what the lieutenant was thinking about, but they had never seen him behave so strangely and feared that it was not all right with this aimless reconnaissance on the high-road. At last the corporal summoned up boldness to approach him, and under the form of making a report drew his attention to the fact that the tattoo had sounded. Von Bleichroden received the information with a humble air, as when one receives a command, and gave the order to return home. When, one hour later, they entered the first street of Marlotte the corporal noticed that the lieutenant's right leg was contracted as though by a spavin, and that he moved in a diagonal course like a horse-fly. In the market-place the troops were dismissed without evening prayers, and the lieutenant disappeared. He did not wish to return to his rooms at once. Something was drawing him he knew not whither. He ran about with widely opened eyes and inflated nostrils, like a hound on the scent. He examined the walls and sniffed for a familiar smell. He saw nothing and met no one. He wished to see where "it" had happened, but he also feared to see it. At last he became tired and went home. In the courtyard he stopped and then went round the cook-house. Suddenly he came upon the sergeant and was so startled that he had to support himself by holding on to the wall. The sergeant was also startled, but recovered himself and began, "I was looking for you, sir, in order to make my report." "Very good! Very good indeed! Go home and lie down," answered Von Bleichroden, as though he feared to hear details. "Yes, sir, but it was----" "Very good! Go! Go!" He spoke so quickly and uninterruptedly that it was impossible for the sergeant to put in a word. Every time he opened his mouth he was overwhelmed with a torrent of words, so that at last he became tired of it and went away. Then the lieutenant breathed again and felt like a boy who has escaped a thrashing. He was now in the garden. The moon shone brightly on the yellow wall of the cook-house, and the vine stretched its skeleton arms as though in a very long yawn. But what was that? Two or three hours before it had been dead and leafless, simply a grey skeleton which writhed, and now were there not hanging on it the finest red clusters, and had not the stem grown green? He went nearer in order to see whether it was the same vine. As he came close to the wall he stepped in something slippery and was aware of the same nauseous smell which one perceives in butchers' shops. And now he saw that it was the same vine, certainly the same, but the plaster of the wall was broken by bullets and sprinkled with blood. He went away quickly. When he came into the front hall he stumbled over something which lay under his feet. He drew off his boots in the hall and threw them out in the garden. Then he went into his room, where his tea was laid. He felt terribly hungry but could not eat. He remained standing and staring at the covered table which was so neatly spread: the white pat of butter with a little radish laid on the top of it; the tablecloth was white and he saw that it was embroidered with his or his wife's initials, which had not been there at first; the little goat's milk cheese lay so neatly on its vine leaf, as though something more than the fear of a forced contribution had operated here; the beautiful little white loaf so unlike the brown rye-bread to which he was accustomed; the red wine in the polished decanter; the thin reddish slices of mutton--all seemed to have been arranged by friendly hands. But he felt afraid to touch the food, and suddenly rang the bell. Immediately the landlady stood in the doorway without saying a word. She looked down at his feet and waited for an order. The lieutenant did not know what he wanted, nor did he remember for what he had rung, but he had to say something. "Are you angry with me?" he stammered. "No, sir," answered the woman mildly. "Does the gentleman want anything?" And she looked down again at his feet. He also looked down to see what had attracted her attention, and discovered that he was standing in his stockings, and that the floor was covered with red footprints--red footprints with the mark of the toes where his stockings had been torn, for he had walked far that day. "Give me your hand, my good woman," he said, stretching out his own. "No," answered the woman, and looked straight into his eyes. Then she left the room. Herr von Bleichroden tried to pluck up courage after this snub, and took a chair and sat down to his meal. He lifted the plate of meat in order to help himself, but the smell of the meat made him feel ill. He stood up, opened the window, and threw the whole plate with its contents into the garden. His whole body trembled and he felt sick; his eyes were so sensitive that the light tried them, and all bright colours irritated them. He threw out the red bottle of wine, he took away the red radish from the butter, the red painters' caps and palettes--everything that was red had to go. Then he lay down on the bed. His eyes were tired, but he could not close them, so he lay for an hour, till he heard voices in the tap-room. He did not wish to listen, but he could not shut his ears, and recognised that they were two corporals who were drinking beer and talking. "Those were two sturdy fellows--the two short ones, but the long one was weak." "Yes, he fell like a bundle of rags by the wall. He had asked that they should fasten him to the espalier, for he wished to stand, he said." "But the others--devil take me!--stood with their arms folded over their breasts, as though they were going to be photographed." "Yes, but when the priest came into the billiard-room and told them there was no chance, all three fell crash on the ground, so at least the sergeant said, but there was no scream nor prayer for mercy." "Yes, they were deuced plucky chaps. Your health!" Herr von Bleichroden pressed his head into his pillow and stopped his ears with the sheets. But presently he got up. It was as if something drew him forcibly to the door behind which they were talking, he wanted to hear more; but the corporals now conversed in low tones. Accordingly he stole forward, leant his back against a corner, laid his ear to the keyhole and listened. "But did you see our people? Their faces were as grey as pipe ashes, and many of them shot in the air. Don't let us talk more about it! But they got what they deserved, and they weighed much more when they went than when they came. It was like shooting little birds with grapeshot." "Did you see the priest's boys in red cassocks who stood and sang with the coffee-roasters? It was like snuffing out a light when the rifles cracked. They rolled in the bean-beds like sparrows, fluttering their wings and turning their eyes. And how the old women came and picked up the pieces! Oh! oh! but so it goes in war. Your health!" Herr von Bleichroden had heard enough; the blood had so gone to his brain that he could not sleep. He went into the tap-room and told the corporals-to go home. Then he undressed himself, dipped his head in the hand-basin, took up Schopenhauer and began to read with pulses beating violently: "Birth and death both belong to life; they constitute two opposites which condition each other; they are the two extreme poles in each manifestation of life. This is just what the deepest of all mythologies, the Hindu, has expressed by investing Siva the goddess of destruction with a necklace of skulls and the Lingam, the organ of reproduction. Death is the painful dissolution of a knot which was tied in pleasure, it is the forcible doing away with the fundamental mistake of our existence, it is deliverance from a delusion." He let the book drop, for he heard someone crying and tossing about in his bed. Who was in the bed? He saw a body, the under part of which was painfully contorted by cramp, while the muscles of the chest stood out strained like the staves of a cask, and he heard a low, hollow sound like a shriek smothered under the bed-clothes. It was his own body! Had he then been divided into two, that he heard and saw himself as though he were another person? The screaming continued. The door opened and the mild-mannered landlady came in, probably alter knocking. "What does the gentleman want?" she asked with shining eyes and a peculiar smile upon her lips. "I!" answered the sick man. "Nothing! But I am very ill and would like to see a doctor." "There is no doctor here, but the priest is accustomed to help us," answered the woman, smiling no longer. "Send for the priest then," said the lieutenant, "though I don't generally like them." "But when one is ill, one likes them," said the woman, and disappeared. When the priest entered he went to the bed and took the sick man's wrist. "What do you think it is?" asked the latter. "What do you think it is?" "A bad conscience," was the priest's brief reply. Herr von Bleichroden answered excitedly, "A bad conscience after doing one's duty!" "Yes," answered the priest, tying a wet handkerchief round the sick man's head. "Listen to me while you still can. It is now _you_ who are condemned--to a worse lot than the --three! Listen to me carefully. I know the symptoms. You are on the edge of madness. You must try to think the matter out. Think hard, and you will find your brain get right again. Look at me, and follow my words if you can. You have become two persons. You regard one part of yourself as though it were a second or a third person. How did that happen? It is the social falsehood, which makes us all double. When you wrote to your wife to-day you were a man--a true, simple, good man; but when you spoke with me you were another character altogether. Just as an actor loses his personality and becomes a mere conglomeration of the parts he performs, so an official becomes two persons at least. Now when there comes a spiritual shock, upheaval or earthquake, the soul splits, as it were, in two, and the two natures lie side by side, and contemplate each other. "I see a book lying on the ground which I also know. The author was a deep thinker, perhaps the deepest of all. He saw through the misery and nothingness of earthly life as though he had learnt from our Lord and Saviour, but for all that he could not help being a double character, for life, birth, habit and human weakness compelled him to relapses. You see, sir, that I have read other books beside the breviary. And I talk as a doctor, not as a priest, for we both--follow me carefully--we both understand one another. Do you think I do not know the curse of the double life which I lead? Not that I feel any doubt of the holy things, which have passed into my blood and bones, so to speak, but I know, sir, that I do not speak in God's name when I speak. Falsehood passes into us from our mother's womb and breast, and he who would tell the whole truth out under present circumstances--yes, yes! Can you follow me?" The sick man listened eagerly, and his eyelids had not dropped once all the time the priest was speaking. "Now there is a little traitor," continued the priest, "with a torch in his hand, an angel who goes about with a basket of roses with which he bestrews the refuse-heaps of life. He is an angel of deceit, and he is called 'The Beautiful.' The heathen worshipped him in Greece; princes have done him homage, for he has bewitched the eyes of people so that they could not see things as they are. He goes through the whole of life, falsifying and falsifying. Why do you warriors dress in splendid clothes with gold and brilliant colours? Why do you always work with music and flying flags? Is it not to conceal what is really at the bottom of your profession? If you loved the truth, you ought to go about in white smocks, like butchers, so that the bloodstains might show distinctly, with knives and marrow-borers as they do in slaughter-houses, with axes dripping blood and greasy with tallow. Instead of a band of music, you ought to drive before you a herd of howling maniacs whom the sights of the battlefield have driven crazy; instead of flags, you should carry shrouds and draw coffins on your wagon-trains." The sick man, who now writhed in convulsions, clasped his hands in prayer and bit his finger-nails. The priest's face had assumed a terrible expression--hard, implacable, hostile. He continued: "You are naturally a good man, you, and I will not punish that side of you, but I punish you as a representative, as you called yourself, and your punishment will be a warning to others. Will you see the three corpses? Will you see them?" "No! For Jesus' sake!" shrieked the sick man, whose nightshirt was wet with sweat and clung to his shoulder-blades. "Your cowardice shows that you are a man, and, as such, cowardly." As though struck by the blow of a whip, the sick man started up; his face seemed composed, his chest was no more convulsed, and with a calm voice, as though he were quite well, he said: "Go, devil of a priest, or you will make me do something desperate." "But I shall not come again if you call me," said the other. "Remember that! Remember, that if you cannot sleep it is not my fault, but the fault of those who lie in the billiard-room! In the billiard-room, you know!" He flung open the door of the billiard-room, and a terrible smell of carbolic acid streamed into the sick-chamber. "Do you smell it? Do you smell it? That is not like smelling powder, nor is it an exploit to telegraph home about. Great victory! Three dead and one mad! God be praised! It is not an occasion for writing odes, strewing flowers in the streets, and singing Te Deums in the churches? It is not a victory! It is murder, murder, you murderer!" Herr von Bleichroden had sprung out of bed and jumped out of the window. In the courtyard he was seized by some of his men, whom he tried to bite. Then he was bound and placed in a headquarter ambulance in order to be taken to the asylum as a complete maniac. CHAPTER II It was a sunny morning at the end of February, 1871. Up the steep Martheray Hill in Lausanne a young woman walked slowly, leaning on the arm of a middle-aged man. She was far gone in pregnancy, and hung heavily on her companion's arm. Her face was that of a girl, but it was pale with care, and she was dressed in mourning. The man was not, from which the passers-by concluded that he was not her husband. He seemed in deep trouble, stooped down now and then to the little woman and said a word or two to her, then seemed to be absorbed again in his own thoughts. When they came to the old custom-house in front of the inn "A l'Ours," they stood still. "Is there another hill?" she asked. "Yes, dear," he answered. "Let us sit down for a moment." They sat down on a seat before the inn. Her heart beat slowly and her breast heaved painfully, as though for want of air. "I am sorry for you, poor brother," she said. "I see that you are longing to be with your own family." "Don't mention it, sister! Don't let us talk about it. Certainly my heart is sometimes far away, and they need me at the sowing time, but you are my sister, and one cannot disown one's flesh and blood." "We shall see now," resumed Frau von Bleichroden, "whether this air and this new treatment will help towards his cure. What do you think?" "Certainly it will," her brother answered, but turned his head aside so that she should not see the doubt in his face. "What a winter I have passed through in Frankfort! To think that Destiny can invent such tragedies! I think I could have borne his death more easily than this living burial." "But one must always hope," said her brother in a hopeless tone. And his thoughts travelled far--to his children and his fields. But immediately afterwards he felt ashamed of his selfishness, that he could not sympathise fully with this grief, which was really not his own but which he had to share, and he felt angry with himself. Suddenly there sounded from the hill above a shrill, prolonged scream, like the whistle of a locomotive, and then another. "Does the train go so high up the mountain?" asked Frau von Bleichroden. "Yes, it must be that," said her brother, and listened with wide-open eyes. The scream was repeated. But now it sounded as if someone were drowning. "Let us go home again," said Herr Schantz, who had become quite pale; "you cannot climb this hill to-day, and to-morrow we will be wiser and take a carriage." But his sister insisted on proceeding in spite of all. And so they ascended the long hill to the hospital, though it was like a climb up Calvary. Through the green hawthorn hedges on both sides of the way, darted black thrushes with yellow beaks; grey lizards raced over the ivy-grown walls and disappeared in the crevices. It was full spring, for there had been no winter, and by the edges of the path bloomed primroses and hellebores; but they did not arrest the attention of the pilgrims. When they had got half-way up the hill, the mysterious screaming was repeated. As though overcome by a sudden foreboding, Frau von Bleichroden turned to her brother, looked in his eyes with her own, which were clouding over, only to see her fears confirmed, then she sank down on the path without being able to utter a cry, while a yellow cloud of dust whirled over her. And there she remained lying. Before her brother could collect himself a casual passer-by had run for a carriage, and as the young woman was carried into it her work for the coming generation had already begun, and now two cries were heard--the cries of two human creatures from the depths of sorrow. Her brother stood on the pathway looking up to the blue sky of spring, and thought to himself, "If the cries could only be heard up there, but it is certainly too high." In the hospital which stood above them, Von Bleichroden had been lodged in a room which had an open view towards the south. The walls were padded and painted with flowing contours of landscapes in faint blue. On the ceiling was painted an espalier with vine leaves. The floor was carpeted, and under the carpet was a layer of straw. The furniture was completely covered with horsehair and cushions, so that no corners or edges of the wood were visible. The situation of the door could not be discovered from within the room, thereby diverting all the patient's thoughts of getting out and the consciousness of being confined, the most dangerous of all to a mind in a state of excitement. The windows, it is true, were grated, but the gratings were elaborately wrought in the shape of lilies and leaves, and so painted that their purpose was quite disguised. Von Bleichroden's madness had taken the form of torments of conscience. He imagined that he had murdered the keeper of a vineyard under mysterious circumstances, which he could never bring himself to confess for the simple reason that he could not remember them. Now he thought himself condemned to death and sitting in prison awaiting the execution of the sentence. But he had lucid intervals. Then he fastened large sheets of paper on the walls of the room and wrote syllogisms on them till they were covered. Then he remembered that he had caused some franc-tireurs to be shot, but did not remember that he was married. When his wife came to see him he received her visit like that of a pupil to whom he was giving lessons in logic. He had written up as the premise of his syllogisms, "All franc-tireurs are traitors and the order is to shoot them." One day his wife, who was obliged to agree with everything, had the rashness to shake his belief in the premise that "all franc-tireurs are traitors," thereupon he tore down all the syllogisms from the wall and said that he would spend twenty years in proving the premise, for premises must first be proved. Besides this, he cherished great projects for the good of mankind. What is the object of all our striving here upon earth? he asked. Why does the king reign, the priest preach, the poet write, the artist paint? In order to procure nitrogen for the body. Nitrogen is the dearest of all kinds of food, and that is why meat is so expensive. Nitrogen is intelligence, for the rich who eat meat are more intelligent than the others who only eat vegetable hydrates. Now (so ran his argument) nitrogen was beginning to be scarce on the earth and this was why there came wars, workmen's strikes, newspapers, pietists and _coups d'état_. Therefore it was necessary to discover a new nitrogen mine. Von Bleichroden had done so, and now all men would be equal; liberty, equality and fraternity would arrive and be realised on earth. This inexhaustible mine was--the air. It contained seventy-nine per cent of nitrogen, and a means must be devised of inhaling it directly and of using it for the nourishment of the body without the necessity of it being first condensed into grass, corn and vegetables, and then converted by an animal into flesh. That was the problem of the future with which Von Bleichroden was busying himself; its solution would render agriculture and cattle-breeding superfluous, and the golden age would return on earth. But at intervals he again sank into dreams about the murder he supposed himself to have committed, and was profoundly miserable. The same February morning on which his wife had been on her way to the asylum and had been obliged to return, Von Bleichroden sat in his new room and looked out of the window. At first he had contemplated the vine painted on the ceiling and the landscape on the walls; then he set himself in a comfortable chair opposite the window so that he had a clear view in front of him. He felt quiet to-day, for he had taken a cold bath the evening before and had slept well. He knew that the month was February, but he did not know where he was. The first thing that struck him was the absence of snow out of doors, and that surprised him for he had never been in southern lands. Outside in front of the window stood green bushes--the "laurier teint" quite covered with flowers, the "laurier cerise" with its shining bright green leaves, green through the whole winter. There was also a box tree and an elm quite overgrown with ivy which concealed all the branches and gave the tree the appearance of being in full leaf. Over the lawn, which was starred with primroses, as though a shower of sulphur had fallen on it, a man passed mowing the grass with a scythe, while a little girl was raking the beds. Von Bleichroden took an almanac and read "February." "Raking in February! Where am I?" he asked himself. Then his eyes travelled beyond the garden and he saw a deep valley which sank gradually but was as green as a summer meadow. Little villages and churches stood here and there, and he could see bright green weeping-willows. "In February!" he said to himself again. And where the meadows ceased there lay a lake, quite calm and clear blue as air. On the other side of the lake was a landscape fading in azure tints, topped by a chain of hills. But above the chain of hills were some other objects which resembled clouds. They were of as delicate a white as fresh-washed wool, but they were pointed and over them lay small thin clouds. He did not know where he was, but it was so beautiful that it could not be on the earth. Was he dead, and had he entered another world? He was certainly not in Europe. Perhaps he was dead! He sank into quiet musing and sought to realise his new situation. But when he looked up again he saw that the whole sunny picture was framed and crossed by the window-grating; the hammered iron lilies and the leaf-work stood out in sharp relief as though they were floating in the air. He was at first startled, but then he composed himself; he contemplated the picture once more, especially the pointed rosy clouds (as he thought them). Then he felt a wonderful joy and sensation of relief in his head: it was as though the convolutions of his brain, after having been hopelessly entangled, began to arrange and order themselves. He was so glad that he began to sing, as he thought, but he had never sung in his life and therefore he only uttered cries of joy. It was these which had issued from the window and filled his wife with grief and despair. After sitting thus for an hour, he had remembered an old painting in a bowling alley near Berlin which represented a Swiss landscape, and now he knew that he was in Switzerland and that the pointed clouds were Alps. When the doctor made his second round he found Von Bleichroden sitting quietly in a chair before the window and humming to himself, and it was not possible to divert his gaze from the beautiful scene. But he was quite clear in his mind and fully realised his situation. "Doctor," he said, pointing to the grated window, "why do you want to spoil and fleur-de-lisify such a beautiful picture? Won't you let me go into the open air? I think it would do me good, and I promise not to run away." The doctor took his hand in order to feel his pulse secretly with his forefinger. "My pulse is only seventy, doctor," said the patient, smiling, "and I slept well last night. You have nothing to fear." "I am glad," said the doctor, "that the treatment has really had some effect on you. You can go out." "Do you know, doctor," said the patient with an energetic gesture, "do you know that I feel as though I had been dead and come to life in another planet--so beautiful does it all seem. Never did I dream that the earth could be so wonderful." "Yes, sir, the earth is still beautiful where civilisation has not spoilt it, and here nature is so strong that it resists the efforts of men. Do you think that your own country was always so ugly as it now is? No; where now there are waste sandy plains, which could not nourish a goat, there formerly rustled noble woods of oak, beech and fir, under whose shadow beasts of the chase fed, and where fat herds of the Norse-men's best kine fattened themselves on acorns." "You are a disciple of Rousseau, doctor," broke in the patient. "Rousseau was a Genevese, sir. There on the margin of the lake, deep in the bay which you see above the top of the elms, he was born and suffered, and there his 'Emile' and 'Contrat Sociale,' the gospels of nature, were burnt. There on the left, at the foot of the Valais Alps, in little Clarens, he wrote the book of love, 'La Nouvelle Heloise,' for it is the Lake of Geneva which you see." "The Lake of Geneva!" repeated Von Bleichroden. "In this quiet valley," continued the doctor, "where peaceful men live, many wounded spirits have sought healing. See there to the right, immediately above the little promontory with the tower and the poplars, lies Ferney. Thither fled Voltaire when he had finished his rôle of 'persifleur' in Paris, and there he cultivated the ground and erected a temple to the Supreme Being. Farther on lies Coppet, where lived Madame de Staël, the worst enemy of Napoleon, the betrayer of the people, who dared to teach the French, her countrymen, that the German nation was not France's barbarian enemy, for nations do not hate each other. Look now to the left; hither to this quiet lake fled the shattered Byron who, like a bound Titan, had torn himself loose from the trammels by which a period of reaction had endeavoured to imprison his strong soul, and here below he wrote the 'Prisoner of Chillon,' to express his intense hatred of tyrants. There under the lofty Mount Grammont he was nearly drowned one day before the little fishing village St Gingolphe, but his life was not yet finished. Hither fled all who could not tolerate the infected air which spread like a cholera over Europe after the conspiracy of the Holy Alliance against the newly won rights of the Revolution, that is, of mankind. Here, a thousand feet below you, Mendelssohn composed his melancholy songs, and Gounod wrote his 'Faust.' Can you not see whence he derived his inspiration for the 'Witches' Night,'--there, in the precipices of the Savoy Alps? Here Victor Hugo composed his fierce satires against the treachery of Napoleon III.; and here (strange irony of fate!) below in little quiet retired Vevey, where the north wind can never come, your own Kaiser sought to forget the terrible scenes of Sadowa and Königgratz. There the Russian Gortschakoff hid himself when he felt the ground shaking beneath his feet; here Lord Russell washed off the dust of politics and breathed pure unpolluted air; here Thiers sought to reduce to order his inconsistent, but, as I believe, honest schemes, often confused by political storms, and may he now, when he is to support the destinies of his people, remember the innocent hours in which his spirit communed with itself before the mild but solemn majesty of nature! And look over to Geneva, sir! There dwells no king with his court, but there was born a thought which is as great as Christianity, and whose apostles also carry a cross, a red cross on their white flags. When the Mauser rifles shot at the French eagle and the Chassepot at the German eagle, the red cross was held sacred by those who did not bow before the black cross, and in this sign, I believe, the future will conquer." The patient, who had listened quietly to this strange speech which was as emotional, not to say sentimental, as if it had come from a preacher instead of a doctor, felt bored. "You are an enthusiast, doctor," he said. "So will you be when you have lived here three months," answered the physician. "You believe then in the treatment?" asked the patient somewhat less sceptically than before. "I believe in the inexhaustible power of nature to heal the sickness of civilisation," he answered. "Do you feel strong enough to hear a good piece of news?" he continued, watching his patient closely. "Quite, doctor!" "Well then, peace has been made!" "God! What a happiness!" the patient burst out. "Yes certainly," said the doctor; "but don't ask more, for you cannot hear more to-day. Come out now, but be prepared for one thing. Your recovery will not be so rapid as you think. You may have relapses. Memory, you see, is our worst enemy,--but come with me now." The doctor took his patient's arm and led him into the garden. There were no railings and no walls to bar one's passage, but only green hedges, which conducted the wanderer back by labyrinthine paths to his starting-point; but behind the hedges were deep trenches which were impossible to cross. The lieutenant sought for familiar phrases with which to express his delight, but he felt that they were so inadequate that he resolved to be silent, listening to a wonderful soundless nerve music. He felt as though all the strings of his soul were being tuned again, and he experienced a calm such as he had not felt for a very long time. "Do you doubt whether I am recovered?" he asked the doctor with a melancholy smile. "You are on the way to recovery, as I told you before, but you are not quite well." They found themselves now before a little arched stone door through which patients, accompanied by keepers, were passing. "Where are all these men going?" asked the lieutenant. "Follow them and you will see," said the doctor. "You have my permission." Von Bleichroden entered, but the doctor beckoned to a keeper. "Go down to the Hôtel Faucon to Frau von Bleichroden," he said. "Give her my respects, and say that her husband is on the way to recovery but has not yet asked after his wife. When he does that he is saved." The keeper went, and the doctor followed his patient through the little stone gate. Von Bleichroden had entered a large hall which resembled no room that he had even seen before. It was neither a church, nor a theatre, nor a school, nor a town hall, but a little of all together. At the end of it was an apse which opened in three windows filled with painted glass. The colours harmonised with each other as though composed by a great artist's hand, and the light which entered was resolved, as it were, into one great harmonic major chord. It made the same impression on the patient as the C Major chord with which Haydn disperses the darkness of chaos, when at the creation the Lord, after the choir have been long painfully toiling at disentangling the disordered forces of nature, suddenly calls out "Let there be light!" and cherubim and seraphim join in. Under the window was a rock of stalactite formation, shaped like an arch, from which trickled a little stream falling into a basin overhung by two arum lilies whose cups were as white as angels' wings. The pillars which enclosed the apse were constructed in no familiar architectural style, and their shafts were covered up to the roof with soft brown liver-wort. The lower panelling of the wall was covered with fir twigs, and the walls themselves were decorated by leaves of ever-green plants--laurel, holm-oak and mistletoe--arranged in designs of no particular style. Sometimes they seemed about to form letters, but lost themselves in faint fantastic flourishes, like Raphael's arabesques. Under the window apertures hung large wreaths as if for a May festival, and along the frieze of the ceiling there ran a design which had nothing in common with the lotus borders of Egypt, the meandering curves of Greece, the Acanthus decorations of Rome, or the trefoil and crucifers of the Gothic style. Von Bleichroden looked about him and found the place provided with benches where the patients of the institute sat absorbed in silent wonder. He took a seat on one of them and heard someone sighing near him. Then he perceived a man about forty years old who had covered his face with his hands and wept. He had an aquiline nose, moustache and pointed beard, and his profile resembled those which Von Bleichroden had seen on French coins. He was certainly a Frenchman. Here then they were to meet, enemy with enemy, both somewhat tearful! Why? Because they had fulfilled their duties towards their respective fatherlands! Herr von Bleichroden felt excited and uneasy when he suddenly heard a strain of faint music. The organ was playing a chorale, but a chorale in the major key; it was neither Lutheran, nor Catholic, nor Calvinist, nor Greek, yet it spoke a language, and the patient thought he heard hopeful and comforting words. Then a man got up by the apsis and stood there half hidden by the stalactite rock. Was he a priest? No, he was dressed in a light grey coat, wore a bright blue cravat, and displayed an open shirt-front. He had no book with him, but spoke gently and simply as one speaks among friends. He spoke of the simple teaching of Christianity--to love one's neighbour as oneself; to be patient, tolerant, and forgiving towards enemies. He recalled how Christ had conceived of humanity as one, but how the evil nature of man had counteracted this great idea--how men had grouped themselves into nations, sects and schools; but he also expressed his firm hope that the principles of Christianity would soon be realised. He came down after speaking for a quarter of an hour, and offering a short prayer to God the Omnipotent without introducing any names which might remind his hearers of a formal creed or rouse their passions. Herr von Bleichroden awoke as though from a dream. He had, then, been in church--he who, weary of all petty religious strifes, had not been to a service for fifteen years! And here, in a lunatic asylum, it was his fortune to find a Free Church fully realised. Here sat Roman Catholics, Greek Catholics, Lutherans, Calvinists, Zwinglians, Anglicans side by side and worshipped the same God in common. What a crushing criticism this church hall suggested for all those sects, born of the selfishness of men, which massacred, burnt and despised each other! What a handle did it supply for the attack of the "heretical" church on this political and dynastic Christianity! Herr von Bleichroden let his gaze wander over the beautiful hall in order to drive away the terrible pictures which his imagination had conjured up. His eye roamed about till it fastened on the wall opposite the apse. There hung a colossal wreath, in the centre of which stood a word whose letters were formed of fir twigs. It was the French word "Noel," followed by the German "Weihnacht." What poet had arranged this hall? What knower of men, what deep mind had so understood how to awaken the most beautiful and purest of all recollections? Would not an overclouded mind feel an eager longing for light and clearness when it recollected the festival of light commemorating the end or, at any rate, the beginning of the end of the dark days at the turn of the year? Would not the recollection of childhood, when no religious strifes, no political hatred, no ambitious empty dreams had obscured the sense of right in a pure conscience--would it not stir a music in the soul louder than all those wild-beast bowlings which one had heard in life in the struggle for bread, or more often for honour? He continued to meditate, and asked himself, how is it that man, so innocent as a child, afterwards becomes so evil as he grows older? Is it education and school, these lauded products of civilisation, which teach us to be bad? What do our first school-books teach us? They teach us that God is an Avenger Who punishes the sins of the fathers in the children unto the third and fourth generation; they teach us that those men are heroes who have roused nation against nation, and pillaged lands and kingdoms; that those are great men who have succeeded in obtaining honour the emptiness of which all see, but after which all strive; and that true statesmen are those who accomplish great and not high aims in a crafty manner, whose whole merit consists in want of conscience, and who will always conquer in the struggle against those who possess one. And in order that our children may learn all this, parents make sacrifices and renunciation and suffer the great pain of separation from their offspring. Surely the whole world must be a lunatic asylum, if this place was the most reasonable one he had ever been in! Now he looked again at the only written word in the whole church, and spelt it over again; then there began to rise in the secret recesses of his memory a picture, as when a photographer washes a grey negative plate with ferrous sulphate as soon as he has taken it out of the camera. He thought he saw his last Christmas Eve represented before him. The last? No! Then he was in Frankfort. Then it was the last but one. It was the first evening he had spent in his fiancée's house, for they had been betrothed the day before. Now he saw the home of the old pastor, his father-in-law; he saw the low room with the white sideboard, the piano, the chaffinch in the cage, the balsam plants in the window, the cupboard with the silver jug on it, the tobacco pipes--some of meerschaum, some of red clay--and the daughter of the house going about hanging nuts and apples on the Christmas tree. The daughter of the house! It was like a flash of lightning in the darkness, but of beautiful, harmless summer lightning which one watches from a veranda without any fear of being struck. He was betrothed, he was married, he had a wife--his own wife who reunited him to life which he had previously despised and hated. But where was she? He must see and meet her now, at once! He must fly to her, otherwise he would die of impatience. He hastened out of the church, and immediately met the doctor who had been waiting for him to see the effect of his visit to it. Herr von Bleichroden seized him by the shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes, and said with a kind of gasp, "Where is my wife? Take me to her at once. At once! Where is she?" "She and your daughter," said the doctor quietly, "are waiting for you below in the Rue de Bourg." "My daughter! I have a daughter!" interrupted the patient, and began weeping. "You are very emotional, Herr von Bleichroden," said the doctor, smiling. "Yes, doctor, one must be so here." "Well, come and dress for going out," answered the doctor, and took his arm. "In half an hour you will be with your family and then you will be with yourself again." And they disappeared into the front hall of the institute. * * * * * Herr von Bleichroden was a completely modern type. Great grandson of the French Revolution, grandson of the Holy Alliance, son of the year 1830, like an ill-starred sailor he had made shipwreck between the cliffs of revolution and reaction. When between twenty and thirty years of age his intellect awoke and he realised in what a tissue of lies, both religious and political, he was involved, he felt as though he were really awake for the first time, or as though he were the only sane man shut up in a mad-house. And when he could not discover a single aperture in the enclosing wall by which he might escape without being confronted by a bayonet or the muzzle of a gun, he fell into a state of despair. He ceased to believe in anything, even in the possibility of deliverance, and betook himself to the opium dens of pessimism, in order at any rate to benumb his pain since there was no cure. Schopenhauer became his friend and later on he found in Hartmann the most brutal teller of truth which the world has seen. But society summoned him and demanded that he should enrol himself somewhere in its ranks. Von Bleichroden plunged into scientific study and chose one of the sciences which has the least to do with the present--geology, or rather that branch of it, palaeontology, which had to do with the animal and plant life of a past world. When he asked himself, "Is this of any use to mankind?" he could only answer, "It is useful solely to myself, as a kind of opiate." He could never read a newspaper without feeling fanaticism rising up in him like incipient madness, and therefore he held everything which could remind him of his contemporaries and the present at arm's length. He began to hope that he would be able to spend his days in a dearly earned state of mental torpor, quietly and with his sanity preserved. Then he married. He could not escape nature's inexorable law regarding the preservation of the species. In his wife he had sought to regain all those inner elements which he had succeeded in eliminating from himself, and she became his old emotional "ego," over which he rejoiced quietly without quitting his entrenchments. In her he found his complement, and he began to collect himself; but he felt also that his whole future life was based upon two corner-stones. One was his wife; if she gave way, he and his whole edifice would collapse. When only two months after their marriage he was torn from her side, he was no longer himself. He felt as though he had lost one eye, one lung and one arm, and therefore also he fell so quickly asunder when the blow struck him. At the sight of his daughter, a new element seemed to be introduced into what Von Bleichroden called his "natural soul" as distinguished from his "society soul," which was the product of education. He felt now that he was incorporated in the family, and that when he died he would not really die, but that his soul would continue to live in his child; he realised, in a word, that his soul was really immortal, even though his body perished in the strife between chemical elements. He felt himself all at once bound to live and to hope, though sometimes he was seized with despair when he heard his fellow-countrymen, in the natural intoxication of victory, ascribe the successful issue of the war to certain individuals, who, seated in their carriages, had contemplated the battle-field through their field-glasses. But then his pessimism seemed to him culpable, because he was hindering the development of the new epoch by a bad example, and he became an optimist from a sense of duty. He did not, however, venture to return home from fear of falling into despondency, but asked for his discharge, realised his small property, and settled down in Switzerland. * * * * * It was a fine warm autumn evening in Vevey in the year 1872. The clock in the little pension Le Cedre had given the signal for dinner by striking seven. Round the large dinner-table were assembled the inmates of the pension, who were all mutually acquainted and lived on terms of intimacy, as those do who meet in a neutral country. Herr von Bleichroden and his wife had as their companions at the table the melancholy Frenchman whom we have already seen in the hospital church, an English, two Russians, a German and his wife, a Spanish family, and two Tyrolese ladies. Conversation proceeded as usual, quietly and peacefully--sometimes falling into an almost emotional tone, at others touching on the most burning questions of the day, without however kindling a conflagration. "Never did I believe that the earth could be so supernaturally beautiful as here," said Herr von Bleichroden, entranced with the view through the open veranda doors. "Nature is beautiful elsewhere also," said the German, "but I believe our eyes were not healthy." "That is true," answered the Englishman; "but it really is more beautiful here than anywhere else. Have you never heard, gentlemen, how the barbarians felt (they were Alemanni or Hungarians, I think) when they emerged on the Dent Jaman and looked down on the Lake of Geneva? They thought that the sky had fallen down on the earth, and were so alarmed that they turned back again. The guide-book says so positively." "I believe," said one of the Russians, "that it is the pure air, free from falsehood, which one breathes here which causes us to find everything so beautiful, although I will not deny that the beauties of nature have a reflex action upon our minds and prevent them being entangled in all our old prejudices. But only wait; when the heirs of the Holy Alliance are dead, when the highest trees have been truncated, our little plants also will flourish in clear sunshine." "You are right," said Herr von Bleichroden; "but we shall not need to truncate the trees. There are other, more humane ways of proceeding. There was once an author who had written a mediocre play the success of which depended on the way in which the principal female part was acted. He went to a _prima donna_ and asked if she would undertake the rôle. She gave an evasive reply. Then he forgot himself so far as to remind her that, according to the rules of the theatre, she could be compelled to play the part. 'That is true,' she answered, 'but I can make difficulties.' We can also circumvent our chief opposing falsities. In England it is simply an affair of the budget. Parliament cuts down the grant to royal personages, and they go their way. That is the method of legal reform. Is it not, Mr Englishman?" "Certainly!" answered the Englishman. "Our Queen has the right to play croquet and tennis, but she cannot meddle in politics." "But the wars--the wars--will they never stop?" objected the Spaniard. "When women get the vote, armies will be reduced," said Herr von Bleichroden. "Isn't it so, wife?" His wife nodded assentingly. "For," continued he, "what mother will permit her son, what wife her husband, what sister her brother to go into these battles? And when there is no one to excite men against one another, then the so-called race-hatred will disappear. 'Man is good but men are bad' said our friend Jean Jacques, and he was right. Why are men more peaceful here in this beautiful country? Why do they look more contented than elsewhere? Because they have not daily and hourly these schoolmasters over them; they know that they themselves have settled who is to rule them; above all things they have so little to envy and so little to annoy them. No royal retinues, no military parades, no pompous spectacles which tempt a weak man to admire what is ostentatious but false. Switzerland is the little miniature model after which the Europe of the future will be built up." "You are an optimist, sir," said the Spaniard. "Yes," answered Von Bleichroden; "formerly a pessimist." "You believe then," continued the Spaniard, "that what is possible in a little country like Switzerland, with three million inhabitants and only three languages, is possible also for the whole of Europe?" Von Bleichroden seemed to hesitate, when one of the Tyrolese spoke. "Pardon me," she said to the Spaniard, "you doubt whether this is possible for Europe with its six or seven languages. It is too bold an experiment, you think, to answer with so many nationalities. But suppose I were to show you a land with twenty nationalities, Chinese, Japanese, Negroes, and representatives of all the nations of Europe mingled--that would be the international kingdom of the future. Well! I have seen it for I have been in--America." "Bravo!" said the Englishman. "Our Spanish friend is defeated." "And you, sir," continued the Tyrolese, turning to the Frenchman, "you mourn over Alsace-Lorraine, I see! You regard a war of _revanche_ as unavoidable, for you do not believe that Alsace-Lorraine can continue to remain German--you think the problem is insoluble." The Frenchman sighed by way of assent. "Well, when Europe is one confederation of states, as Herr von Bleichroden calls Switzerland, then Alsace-Lorraine will be neither French nor German but just simply Alsace-Lorraine. Is the problem solved?" The Frenchman lifted his glass politely and thanked her, bowing his head with a melancholy smile. "You smile," the courageous maiden resumed. "We have smiled all too long, the smile of despair and scepticism; let us cease doing so! You see most of the countries of Europe represented among us here. Among ourselves, where no cynic hears us, we can utter the thoughts of our hearts, but in parliament, in newspapers, and in books--there we are cowardly, there we dare not expose ourselves to ridicule, and so we swim with the stream. What, after all, is the use of being cynical? Cynicism is the weapon of cowardice. One is anxious about one's heart. Yes, it is disgusting to see one's entrails exposed at a shop door, but to see those of others lying on the battle-field, while music and a rain of flowers await the returning conquerors--that is splendid! Voltaire was cynical, because he was still anxious about his heart, while Rousseau vivisected himself, tore his heart out of his breast, and held it against the sun, as the old Aztec priests did when they sacrificed--yes, there was method in their madness. And who has changed human kind--who told us that we were all wrong? Rousseau! Geneva yonder burnt his books, but modern Geneva has raised a memorial to him. What each of us here thinks privately, all think privately. Give us only freedom to say it aloud!" The Russians raised their black tea-glasses and vociferated words in their language which only they understood. The Englishman filled his glass and was about to propose a toast, when the servant-maid came in and handed him a telegram. The conversation stopped for a moment; the Englishman read the telegram with visible emotion, folded it up, placed it in his pocket, and sank in thought. Herr von Bleichroden sat silent, absorbed in contemplation of the beautiful landscape outside. The Mont Grammont and the Dent d'Oche were lit up by the afterglow of the descended sun, which also dyed red the vineyards and chestnut-groves on the Savoy shore; the Alps glimmered in the damp evening air, and seemed as unsubstantial as the lights and shades; they stood there like disembodied powers of nature, dark and terrible on their reverse side, threatening and gloomy in their hollows, but on their sun-fronting sides, bright, smiling and joyful. Von Bleichroden thought of the concluding words of the Tyrolese, and fancied he saw in Mont Grammont a colossal heart with its apex looking towards the sky--the wounded, scarred, bleeding heart of humanity which turned itself towards the sun in a concentrated ardour of sacrifice, prepared to give all, its best and its dearest, in order to receive all. Then the dark, steel-blue evening sky was cut through by a streak of light, and above the low-lying Savoy shore there rose a rocket of enormous size. It rose high, apparently as high as the Dent d'Oche; it hung suspended as though it were looking round on the beautiful earth outspread beneath it before it burst. Thus it hesitated for a few seconds and then began the descent; but it had not gone many yards before it exploded with a report which took two minutes to reach Vevey. Then there spread out something like a white cloud which assumed a four-cornered rectangular shape, a flag of white fire; a moment after there was another report, and on the white flag appeared a red cross. All the party sprang up and hastened into the veranda. "What does that mean?" exclaimed Herr von Bleichroden, startled. No one could or would answer, for now there rose a whole volley of rockets as if discharged from a crater over the peaks of the Voirons, and scattered a shower of fire which was reflected in the gigantic mirror of the lake. "Ladies and gentlemen!" said the Englishman, raising his voice, while a waiter placed a tray with filled champagne glasses on the table. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he repeated, "this means, according to the telegram which I have just received, that the first International Tribunal at Geneva has finished its work; this means that a war between two nations, or what would have been worse--a war against the future, has been prevented; that a hundred thousand Americans and as many Englishmen have to thank this day that they are alive. The Alabama Question has been settled not to the advantage of America, but of justice, not to the injury of England, but for the good of future generations. Does our Spanish friend still believe that wars are unavoidable? When our French friend smiles again, let him smile with the heart and not with the lips only. And you, my German pessimist friend, do you believe now that the franc-tireur question can be settled without franc-tireurs and fusillades, but also only in this way? And you, Russian gentlemen, whom I do not know personally, do you think your modern method of forestry by truncating trees is the only correct one? Do you not think it is better to go to the roots? It is certainly a safer and quieter way. To-day, as an Englishman, I ought to feel depressed, but I feel proud on account of my country, as an Englishman always does, you know; but to-day I have a right to be so, for England is the first European Power which has appealed to the verdict of honourable men, instead of to blood and iron. And I wish you all many such defeats as we have had to-day, for that will teach us to be victorious. Raise your glasses, ladies and gentlemen, for the Red Cross, for in this sign we will certainly conquer." * * * * * Herr von Bleichroden remained in Switzerland. He could not tear himself away from this wonderful scenery which had led him into another world more beautiful than that which he had left behind. Occasionally he had attacks of conscience, but this his doctor ascribed to a nervousness which is only too common among cultivated people at the present time. He resolved to elucidate the problem of conscience in a little pamphlet which he proposed to publish. He had read it to his friends and it contained some remarkable passages. With his German gift of penetration, he had reached the heart of the matter, and discovered that there are two kinds of conscience; first the natural, and second the artificial. The first conscience, he maintained, was the natural feeling of right. That was the conscience which had weighed on him so heavily when he had the franc-tireurs shot. He could only free himself from this by regarding himself persistently as a victim of the upper classes. The artificial conscience again originated in the power of habit and the authority of the upper classes. The power of habit rested so heavily on Herr von Bleichroden that sometimes when he went for a walk before noon he felt as though he had neglected his work in the Geological Bureau, and became uneasy and restless, like a boy who has played truant from school. He took incredible pains to exculpate himself by the consideration that he had obtained lawful leave of absence. But then he remembered vividly his room in the geological department, his colleagues who kept a keen watch on each other in order to discover a slip on another's part which might lead to their own advancement; and the heads of the department anxiously on the look-out for orders and distinction. He felt then as though he had absconded from it all. Sometimes too he was attacked by the official conscience which the authority of the upper classes imposes on a man. He found it hard to obey the first commandment--to love one's King and fatherland. The King had plunged his fatherland into the misery of war in order to obtain a new fatherland for a relative, i.e. to make a Spaniard out of a Prussian. Had the King shown love to his fatherland in this? Had kings, generally speaking, loved their fatherland? England was ruled by a Hanoverian, Russia was governed by a German Czar and would soon receive a Danish empress, Germany had an English Crown-princess, France a Spanish empress, Sweden a French king and a German queen. If, following such high examples, people changed their nationality like a coat, Herr von Bleichroden believed that cosmopolitanism would have a brilliant future. But the commands of the authorities, which did not accord with their practice, worried him. He loved his country as a cat loves her warm place by the fire; but he did not love it as an institution. Sovereigns find nations necessary to provide them with conscript armies, as tax-payers and as supporters of the throne, for without nations there would not be any royal houses. After Herr von Bleichroden had resided two and a half years in Switzerland, he received one day a summons from Berlin, for there were rumours of war in circulation. This time it was Prussia against Russia--the same Russia which three years previously had lent Prussia its "moral support" against France. He did not think it conscientious to march against his friends, and since he was quite sure that the two nations wished each other no ill, he asked his wife's advice what he should do in such a new dilemma, for he knew by experience that woman's conscience is nearer the natural law of right than man's. After a moment's reflection, she answered "To be a German is more than to be a Prussian--that is why the German Confederation was formed; to be a European is more than to be a German; to be a man is more than to be a European. You cannot change your nation, for all 'nations' are enemies, and one does not go over to the enemy unless one is a monarch like Bernadotte or a field-marshal like Von Moltke. The only thing left is to neutralise yourself. Let us become Swiss. Switzerland is not a nation." Herr von Bleichroden considered this such a happy and simple solution of the difficulty that he at once set about making inquiries how he could be neutralised. His surprise and delight can be imagined when he found that he had already fulfilled all the conditions required to become a Swiss citizen (for there are no underlings in that land!) as he had resided two years there. Herr von Bleichroden is now neutralised, and although he is very happy he occasionally, though more seldom than before, has conflicts with his conscience. OVER-REFINEMENT Sten Ulffot, a youth of twenty years, the last scion of the ancient family of Ulffot, who possessed property in Wäringe, Hofsta and Löfsala, awoke one sunny May morning towards the end of the year 1460 in his bedroom at Hofsta in Upland. After some hours of dreamless sleep his rested brain began to review the events of the previous day, which had been of such decisive importance for him that, still benumbed by the blow, be stood as it were outside the whole affair and regarded it with wonder. The bailiff and sheriff's officer had been there, had shown mortgage-deeds of the house and estate, had read various parchment documents, and the upshot of it all was that Sten, because of his father's and his own debts, was reduced to abject poverty. And since his father in his lifetime had not been a merciful man, the young man must leave the old house, which was no longer his, the very next day. Sten, who had never taken life seriously, for the simple reason that life had always been an easy matter for him, took this also very easily. Poverty for him was simply an uttered word which as yet lacked any corresponding reality. With a light heart he sprang out of bed, and put on his only but handsome velvet jacket and his only pair of breeches of Brabant cloth. He counted his few gold coins, and hid them carefully in his bosom, for he had now caught some idea of their importance. Then he went into the castle-room, which was quite empty. The only impression this spacious room made on him was that he could breathe more easily in it. Upon a table fastened to the wall were to be seen damp rings--the traces left by the tankards of beer which the two functionaries had used the day before; it occurred to him that there would have been more rings if he had been with them himself--it looked so stingy! The sun threw the reflections of the painted windows on the floor, so that they resembled beautiful mosaic work. His coat of arms, the wolf's foot on a red ground, was repeated six times; he amused himself by treading on the black foot, expecting to hear the wolf howl, but every time he did so the reflection of the wolf's foot merely lay on his yellow leather boots. When he took a step forward the reflection of the foot flew up to his breast and on his white jacket the red shield lay like a bleeding heart torn by the black paw with its outspread claws. He felt his heart beat violently and left the room. He climbed the narrow stone stairs to the upper story, which his parents had occupied in their lifetime. There every possible movable which makes a house into a home for living beings had been swept off and carried away. The rooms looked like a series of burial chambers, hewn out of one rock, intended for souls without bodies and without corporeal needs. But signs of the life which had been there were still remaining. Two grey spots on the floor showed where a bed had stood; there were two dark lines where the table had been', and between them were marks and scratches left by boots; a dark, irregular stain on the white-washed wall showed where his father had been accustomed to rest his head when he raised it from his work which lay on the table. Some coals from the fire-place had fallen into the room and left dark spots on the floor like those on a panther-skin. In his mother's room was a stone image of the Virgin and Child fixed to the wall; she regarded her Son with a look full of hope and without any foreboding that she held a future condemned prisoner upon her knees. Young Sten felt a vague depression and went on. Through a secret door he mounted up into the attic and went out upon the roof. Underneath him he saw the whole wide-stretching expanse of land which till lately he had called his own: these green fields which once formed the bottom of the sea, surrounded by small green hills once islands, but lately wore their verdure on his account--to support the poor who clothed him, brushed him, prepared his food, and tended his horses, his hounds, his falcons and his cattle. In the previous autumn he had stood here and watched them sow his corn; now others would come and cut and gather it in. A little while ago it was his to decide when the fishes in the streams should die, when the firs in the wood should be felled, and when the game should be shot. Even the birds in this huge space of air belonged to him, although they had flown hither from the realm of the Emperor of Austria. He could not yet grasp the fact that he possessed nothing more of all this, for he had never missed anything and therefore did not know what possession was; he only felt a huge emptiness and thought that the landscape had a melancholy look. The swallows which had come that very day flew screaming about him and sought their old nests in the eaves; some found them, and others did not--the rains of autumn and snows of winter had destroyed their little clay dwellings so that they had fallen into the castle-moat. But there was clay in the fields, water in the brooks and straw on every hillock; as long as they were homeless they could find shelter in every grove and under the thatch of every cottage. They hunted without hindrance in their airy hunting grounds; they paired and wedded in the blue spring weather which was full of the sweet scents of the newly sprung birches, the honey-perfumed catkins of the osiers, and all the invisible burgeonings of the spring. He went farther up on the roof and stood by the pole that supported the dog-vane. As he looked up to the white clouds of spring sailing by, it seemed to him as though he stood on the aerial ship of a fairy-tale and were sailing among the clouds, and when he looked down on the earth again it appeared like a collection of mole-hills, a mere rubbish-heap cast out of heaven. But he had a foreboding that he must go down and dig in the mole-hills in order to find a living; he felt that his feet stood firm upon the earth, although his glances wandered at will among the silver-gleaming clouds. As he descended the narrow attic stairs it seemed to him as though an enormous gimlet were screwing him deeper and deeper into the earth. He entered the garden and looked at the apple trees in blossom. Who would pluck the fruits of these trees which he had cultivated and tended for years? He looked at the empty stable; all his horses were gone except a sorry nag, which he had never thought worth riding. He went into the dog-house and saw only ten empty leash-straps. Then his heart grew heavy, for he felt that he had been parted from the only living creatures who loved him. All others--friends, servants, farm-hands, tenants--had, as his poverty increased, gradually changed their demeanour, but these ten had always remained the same. He was astonished that he did not feel the blank so bitterly up there in the ancestral castle with its memories, for he forgot that _that_ sense of loss had long been obliterated by his tears. He went into the courtyard of the castle. There a sight met his eyes which made him realise his true situation. On a four-wheeled wagon, to which three pairs of oxen were yoked, lay a heap of furniture and household utensils; beneath all lay the great oak bedstead splendidly carved, mighty clothes and linen chests constructed like fortresses against thieves, his father's work-table, the family dining-table, the chairs from the sitting-room with fragments of torn-down, gaudy-coloured curtains, his mother's embroidery-frame, his grandfather's chair with the cushioned arms and the high back, and on the top of all his own cradle and the praying stool at which his mother had so often prayed for her little one. Beside them were bundles of lances, swords, and shields with which his forefathers had once acquired and defended these goods which he must now leave behind in order to go out into the world and earn his bread in the sweat of his brow. All these dead things which, when in their places, had formed parts of his own self lay there like corpses and up-torn trees showing their roots; it was an enormous funeral pile of memories, which he would have liked to set fire to. Just then the gates grated on their hinges, the drawbridge was lowered, the driver cracked his whip over the first pair of oxen, the ropes and shafts of the cart creaked, and the heavily laden vehicle rattled away on the stone-paved courtyard. As it rolled over the planks of the wooden, bridge, there was a rumbling like the echo from a grave-vault. "The last load?" called the driver to the gate-keeper. "The last," came the answer from the vaulted gateway. The word "last" made a deep impression on Sten, who felt himself to be the last of his race, but he could not indulge in further reflections, for a man whom he did not know stepped towards him holding the nag. "The castle is to be shut up," he said. "Why shut up?" asked Sten, merely to hear his own voice again. "Because it is to be pulled down. The King does not wish to have so many castles in the land." Sten laid hold of the reins and mounted the nag; he pressed it with his knees, and holding his head high, rode through the arched gateway. There he took out his purse and threw a piece of gold behind him, which the gate-keeper and the stable-man raced for. When he had ridden over the drawbridge, he reined in his horse till the cart with its load had disappeared from sight. Then he turned up a narrow path and vanished among the birch trees. "I wonder what he will do?" said the gate-keeper. "Enlist," answered the stable-man. "No, he is no good at that; he has learnt nothing but reading and writing." "Then he will become one of the King's secretaries." "Not _this_ King's; his father was in disfavour for refusing to bear arms against his fellow-countrymen." "Then let him become what the devil he likes." "One cannot become what one likes, one must become what one can; and if one can do nothing, one becomes nothing." "Just so it is! Just so! But I don't know what one has to learn in order to become a gate-keeper." "Well, one must be strong enough for it, and keep awake at night; and that the young gentleman cannot do." "Yes, he can keep awake at night, for we have seen him do it; but perhaps he is not strong enough to draw the heavy chain." "Well, stable-man, he must look after himself. Meanwhile I will draw up the bridge, and then we can go the backway to the tavern, and change our piece of gold, and he can do what he likes!" "What he can, gate-keeper; one cannot do what one likes." "Quite true! Quite true!" The chain rattled, the bridge was drawn up, and the gate fell to with a dull crash. * * * * * Sten meantime had ridden for several hours without exactly knowing whither. He only knew that the way led him out into the world, far from the protection of home. He saw by the sun's position that it was nearly afternoon, and by the nag's drooping head that it was tired; he therefore dismounted, tied the reins loosely round one of the horse's forelegs and led him up from the path to a fine upland meadow where he left him loose to graze. Then he lay down under a wild apple tree to rest, but since he felt that the ground was damp, he broke down some young birches and made a bed out of their soft leaves; he also tore off some long strips of bark and placed them under his head, knees and elbows; then he went to sleep. But when he awoke he felt terrible pangs of hunger, for he had eaten nothing during the last twenty-four hours; he felt his tongue cleaving to his palate and a burning and tickling feeling in his throat. The horse had disappeared. He did not know where he was, could not see a human habitation, and had small hope of finding an inn before nightfall. Then he fell on his knees and prayed his patron-saint to help him. As he mentioned the name "St Blasius" it occurred to him how the saint under similar circumstances had sustained himself on roots and berries in the desert. Strengthened by prayer, he looked round to see what there was to eat and drink. His eye first fell on a birch. It was just the time of year when the sap flows. With his knife he split off a piece of bark and fastened the corners together with wood splinters so that it formed a water-tight basket; then he bored a hole in the tree and from the hard wood trickled out the clear sap resembling Rhine wine in colour. While it was trickling, he climbed into the apple tree, where he had seen a large number of apples, which had hung there all the winter and were certainly rotten but could at any rate fill his stomach. When he had eaten some of them he began to shake the tree, so that the apples fell on the ground. He was just on the point of rejoicing at his discovery and looking forward to drink the good birch wine when he heard a harsh voice calling from below; "Hullo, Sir thief! what are you doing there?" "I am no thief," answered Sten. "He who steals is a thief," answered the voice. "Come down at once, or you will spend the night in gaol." Sten thought it belter to descend and try to explain himself. He found himself before a man of authoritative appearance, who was accompanied by a large dog. "In the first place," said the man, "you have committed an outrage on a fruit-bearing tree; punishment--three marks and forfeiture of the axe--chapter seventeen of the forest laws." "I thought one had a right to plunder wild trees," said Sten in a shamefaced way, for he had never been addressed in this manner. "There are no wild trees now, though it was certainly so in Adam and Eve's time. Besides, I was purposely keeping the apples to flavour cabbages with. Secondly, you have cut and extracted the sap from my fine carriage-pole." "Carriage-pole?" "Yes, I intended to make a carriage-pole of the birch tree. Then you have peeled off birch bark in a wood that did not belong to you; fine --three shillings, according to the same chapter in King Christopher's land-law." "I thought I was in God's free world and had a right to support my life," answered Sten mildly. "God's free world? Where is that? I only know tax-free land, land that is assessed, and crown lands. Thirdly, probably--I have no testimony to that effect, but probably it is your horse which is feeding in my meadow?" "It is my horse, and I suppose it could not die of hunger while the grass was growing round it." "No one need die of hunger. Any animal can graze by the way-side, everyone can pluck a handful of nuts, and every traveller can cut an axle for his wheel when necessary. You are therefore convicted of fourfold robbery, and I keep the horse." "And leave me alone in the wood, where perhaps I cannot even kindle a fire for the night." "Whoever cuts dry wood on other people's land is liable to a fine of three shillings each time. If it were not so, one could never be sure of possessing anything." "It never was so on my property. There we knew nothing of such laws and paragraphs, and my manorial rights were never so niggardly as yours." Here a great alteration took place in the bearing of the man of authority. He took the horse by the rein, led it to Sten, held the stirrup for him, bent one of his knees, and said: "Sir, pardon me, I see you have ridden out for recreation and jest with an old law-student. A few mouldy apples, I hope, will not make any trouble between us." Sten, who was a lover of sincerity, hesitated a moment before putting his foot into the proffered stirrup, but as he was glad to be safely out of the difficulty, he swung himself up on his saddle. "Listen," he said in an authoritative tone, "where is the nearest inn?" "Half a mile southwards, if your lordship is going to Stockholm." "Good! Now I thank you for the amusement, and put a small question to you. Tell me: if one steals out of necessity, then it is theft; and if one steals to amuse oneself, what is that?" "A joke." "Good. But how is the judge to know whether it is a joke or earnest?" "Oh, he can tell!" Sten pressed his nag's sides with his legs, bent forward, and said: "No, friend, he cannot." The nag shot away like an arrow from the astonished law-student and his carriage-pole. The prospect of soon obtaining a meal, and the fortunate conclusion of his adventure, had set Sten in a mood which banished gloomy reflections. After a half-hour's trot he rode through the gate of the inn, and was received like a gentleman of high rank. He sat down at a table under a great hawthorn tree outside the house, and ordered a fowl with sage stuffing and a jug of Travener beer. These the host promised to get even if he had to run round the whole village for them. The May evening was fine, and Sten ate and drank at his ease, though he could not completely banish the alarm which the threatening attack of hunger had just caused him. He could not get the scene with the law-student out of his thoughts, and he felt that soon, when his fine velvet jacket no more protected him, he would come under the hard laws of necessity like any other ordinary man. He perceived that he must certainly become a working member of human society, and join one of its numerous classes if he wished to continue to live. The earth, with all the products that she bore, was already fully occupied, so that one of the lords of creation might lie on the ground and die of hunger under a fruit-bearing tree if he did not wish to be hung, while the birds of the air might eat their fill with impunity off the same tree. He wondered that men let squirrels and jays plunder hazel bushes, and preserve their freedom, while only in case of absolute need was a man allowed to save his life with a handful of nuts. It seemed to him a cruel contradiction; he might save his life, but not support it, and every meal was as it were a recurrent saving of life. But on the other hand his forefathers had founded these laws and he had himself employed them. Who then was the proper object of his reproach? Was not the fault partly his own, and were not the consequences quite natural? While he was thus meditating, his eyes were fixed upon a figure which was approaching the garden of the inn from the highway. As it came nearer, Sten saw a man of about thirty with a dark complexion, long arms, and knees and feet curving inwards as though he were afflicted with spavin. Over his shoulder he carried a sack, and in his hand a knotted stick. With a jerk he flung the sack on the table close to Sten, sat down and struck on the table with the stick so sharply that it sounded like a pistol-shot. At the same time he called into the house, "Come out, Mr Innkeeper, and give a worthy member of the worshipful company of blacksmiths in Stockholm a jug of beer." The innkeeper, who thought that some important person had come, hastened out, but when he saw the fellow he turned round and said to Sten in a disdainful tone: "These fellows never have money. I will give him nothing." "By St Michael, the archangel and St Loyus, innkeeper, if you don't give me beer I will set my mark upon you," broke in the man, and lifted his stick. "If you threaten, you will be hung for compelling hospitality," said the innkeeper; "you did not pay the last time you were here, so pick up your sack and take yourself off, for the clerk of assize is sitting inside." "I will pay for his beer, innkeeper," interrupted Sten, who felt a certain sympathy with the unmasked braggart. "The gentleman is kind and understands a traveller's needs. As regards payment, I think it is all the same who pays. To-day it is my turn, to-morrow yours. In good company I never say 'no.' And a member of the worshipful company of blacksmiths at Stockholm can be as good a gentleman as any other, or any traveller, with your permission." "You are right, sir; all things considered, we are all travellers, and when we travel we are all alike." The blacksmith, who had received his jug of beer, lifted it, took his cap off, and said in a solemn voice, "Saint Michael and Saint Loyus!" Then he threw back his head and took some tremendously deep draughts of the beer, so that the muscles of his neck moved like the backs of snakes. Then he collected his breath, raised the jug once more and said, "Pledge me a toast, sir, with your permission." Then he drank for some minutes so that his neck sinews were strained like harness-straps. When he had finished, he emptied out the last drops, struck the table with his stick, and called into the house, "Two full jugs! Now I am the inviter." "And the young gentleman pays?" asked the host. Sten nodded assent, and the blacksmith continued, "It is all the same who pays. '_Commune bonum_,' as we say in the shop. To-day it is my turn, to-morrow yours." "Sit down, sir, and let us talk," said Sten. "You are a blacksmith, I hear." "Banner-bearer to the worshipful company of blacksmiths in Stockholm, thanks to St Michael and St Loyus, with your permission!" "Tell me, is your trade hard?" "Hard! Well, it is not for anyone. It is the hardest work there is. It is a trade which the world cannot dispense with. No one can get on without a blacksmith. Believe me when I say it. The Emperor of Rome had a councillor whose name was Vulcant and it was he who invented the blacksmith's art. And you ask if it is difficult!" "Yes, but one could learn it," said Sten, who felt more amused than convinced. "Learn it? No, sir, one cannot." "But you have learnt it," insisted Sten. "I! With me it is another matter," answered the blacksmith, contemplating the bottom of his mug. "Well, why cannot it be another matter with me also?" objected Sten. "Show me your fists, if you please, sir." Sten laid two small white hands on the table. The smith grinned. "They are no use. Look at mine." He took the pewter pot in a giant's grasp and squeezed it till it became as slender as an hour-glass. Sten was still not convinced. "But you were not born with such fists," he said. "Yes, sir, I was. I was born to be a blacksmith, just as you were born--to do nothing, if you will allow me to say so. What do you expect to do in the world with such mere pegs? You had better not depend on them or you will be disappointed." "And yet I am thinking of becoming a blacksmith," said Sten innocently. "You must not make a jest of that worshipful fraternity, sir. Besides, I should like to say that the times are different to what they were formerly; a blacksmith may become mayor or councillor, and Sir Vulcan, whom I mentioned just now, was one of the Emperor of Austria's councillors. One should not be proud, even if one is of high birth. King Karl Knutsson was King one day and the next day he was nothing. If he had learnt something, he would have been something." "That is just what I wanted to say, dear smith. And I may as well say that I am not a gentleman though I have a velvet jacket." "Is it a disguise? Aren't you a real gentleman?" "I have been one, but now I am nothing." The blacksmith drew up the corners of his mouth, came nearer, surveyed Sten and continued: "Come down in the world? What! Downhill? Eh! Hard times! When thieves fall out, honest folk come by their own. Yes, yes. No relations. No fine friends. Alone in the world. Obliged to work. And now you want to become a blacksmith, when you can't be anything else." "If I can become one." "No, you can become nothing. That is less than you are, Claus. (My name is Claus.) Now you can be proud, Claus. But I am not proud, and therefore I invite you again to the jug of beer to which I invited you just now. Was the fowl there good; it looks to me lean." Claus made a movement as though he were chewing something tough. Sten answered: "The fowl was fat enough; will you have some?" "If I can be quite sure that it is good; otherwise I don't care about it, for if I spend money I want to have something really good for it." Sten ordered a fowl and fresh jugs of beer, and recommenced the conversation. "I hope you will recommend me to your guild or company." "I will see what I can do, but one has to proceed warily with those gentlemen. Congratulate yourself that you have made acquaintance with the banner-bearer of the guild, for he is a powerful gentleman, although he goes round with a sack when he is on his journeys." Sten, who was not accustomed to so much beer, at any rate of the sort which was served here, began to feel sleepy and rose up in order to go to his bedroom. But Claus could by no means He induced to agree to this. "No, stay sitting, my dear," he said, "and drink a glass of wine with me. It is such a fine evening and you have not far to go to tied. If you get sleepy, I will carry you up the stairs." But Sten could not possibly drink any more. Claus was annoyed and asked if he refused to drink with the guild's banner-bearer. Sten asked to be excused, but Claus would not consent. He said that Sten was proud, and should take care, for pride was always punished. Sten was so sleepy that he could hardly understand what was said, and clambered up the stairs to the attic where in the darkness he sought for a cushion, on which he fell asleep at once. He had, as he thought, slept for quite twenty-four hours when he felt a burning sensation as though sparks of fire had fallen on his face. He sat up and found that the whole room was full of the hateful humming of a swarm of gnats which had gained admission. When he had somewhat shaken off his sleep, he could distinguish men's voices, and loudest among them the deep voice of his friend Claus. "Oh, he is a devilish fine fellow. His father and I are very old friends. He has been a little spoilt by wearing fine clothes and so on, but we will soon drive it out of him. Innkeeper, more claret! Yes, you see his father was in my debt, and I waited. Take what you like, parish-clerk!" Sten sprang up and saw through a chink in the wall how Claus sat at the end of the table and carried on a conversation with the innkeeper and a stranger, who was probably the parish-clerk. The table was covered with jugs and pots, and the party did not seem to have suffered from thirst. The parish-clerk, who thought that the smith had talked long enough, now led the conversation. "Listen, Claus; you say that he is nothing, that he has no occupation and no money. Do you know what one calls such a gentleman?" "No, no." "Well, one calls him a tramp. And do you know what the law says about vagabond tramps?" "No, no." "It says that whoever chooses may take such a tramp by the collar and put him in gaol. And that is right, thoroughly right. God, you see, from the beginning, has created men to work, do service, and make themselves useful----" "Or to be rich," interrupted the innkeeper. "Hush! Don't interrupt me--to make themselves useful in one way or another. Suppose," continued he, "that there are men who will not work; suppose that there are people who prefer to live at the expense of other people----" Claus gave him a sharp look and seized his stick. But after taking a drink, the parish-clerk continued: "Then I ask--what is one to do with such people? Can anyone answer me?" The innkeeper was about to answer, but the parish-clerk motioned him away with his left hand. "Can anyone answer this? No, I say, for we know in part and prophesy in part. _Cur tuus benevolentium_." He finished his mug and got up in order not to spoil the effect of his speech by a bad translation of the Latin. Sten lay down again and put his head under his pillow. It seemed to him that he had slept another four-and-twenty hours when he was aroused by a foot pushing his bed very emphatically. He sat up and saw by the light of the dawn, which fell through a crevice in the wall, that his friend Claus, who apparently did not venture to stoop, stood on one foot, and laying hold of a beam was feeling in the bed with his foot for his sleeping friend. He accompanied this search with short exclamations--"You! you!" When he caught sight of Sten's face in the dim light he drew his foot back and said: "Do you know what you are, you? Do you know that you are a tramp? Do you know that you will be put into gaol if you do not eat someone else's bread, seeing you have none of your own. I tell you the sheriff is after you, and if you are not off by sunrise you will be imprisoned. Do you understand?" Sten understood that there was a very good chance of it, as he had already overheard their talk; but he did not understand that one could not go one's own way to seek work, and Claus exerted himself in vain in order to explain to him that one must have work or be the possessor of such and such a sum. Sten, who feared imprisonment most of all, let himself be easily persuaded to take his horse out of the stable and to hand over some of his gold coins to Claus, who promised to settle with the innkeeper. The latter was quite willing, for he himself was liable to no less a punishment for having given lodging to a tramp. Sten shook the good blacksmith's hand, and promised to look him up in Stockholm. Now he rode again on his horse, shaken out of his sleep, chased out of a casual lodging, flying from the danger of imprisonment, and firmly resolved to seek no other shelter till he reached the capital. Two days later, on a Saturday afternoon, Sten reined in his horse on the top of the Brunkebergsasen ridge, on the side where it descends towards the Norrstrom River. Beneath him he saw for the first time the capital, the battle-field whereon struggles for power were waged. On these little rocky islands between the two water-courses, closely encircled by towers and walls, lived the population among whom he wished to enrol himself. The battle between King Karl Knutsson and Archbishop Jöns Bengtsson was at its height, but to Sten it was a matter of indifference who won, for his father had fallen into disfavour with the King, and his family had an old feud with the Archbishop. As the evening sun cast its horizontal rays on the flag which waved from the chief tower of the castle, he saw the arms of the Bondes--the boat against a white background--and knew how the land lay. Although peace seemed to have been concluded for the time, the difficulty of entering the city gate was not less than before. He would in any case be obliged to give his name and to be registered, and perhaps have to say why he came and where he came from. In his tired mood he fancied he saw a thousand difficulties rise and the walls growing in height till they appeared insurmountable. He felt like a besieger who was thinking of a stratagem by means of which to enter the city. It was there he hoped to find the only place where he could earn his bread by means of the book-learning which he had acquired. As he was sitting on the hill, lost in these serious meditations, he heard from the foot of it a sound of merry voices mingled with the music of trumpets and flutes. At the angle of the walls before the Klara Convent issued forth a gay stream of folk, disappearing and reappearing from behind the kitchen-gardens on the slope of the Bill. The procession drew nearer. At its head rode a youth, with a garland on his brow and a long spear-shaft wreathed with green in his hand. He was followed by pipers and trumpeters with gooseberry leaves in their caps; after him came a whole crowd of people with black cloth masks and red wooden masks, dressed in the most fantastic garb after Greek and Roman patterns; last of all, riding backwards on a sorry jade, a youth dressed in fur, with loosely streaming hair and beard, to represent winter. It was the procession of the "May-lord," greeting the advent of spring in the Klara district. Sten seized the opportunity by the forelock, rode down the hill, and joined the procession. He passed through the gateway without being interfered with, although he thought he saw a pair of sharp eyes fastened on him under the archway itself. Meanwhile he could not help thinking how the guard's over-hasty inference "Cheerful people are not dangerous"--had been of use to him, who felt anything but cheerful. He felt easier in mind when he had passed through the gates of both the bridges. The procession halted in the great market-place, where it broke up in order to reassemble in the restaurant of the town hall. This had received special permission to remain open all night, since the postponed May festival was being celebrated now because of the late spring and the King's victory. Sten took up his quarters at an inn in the Dominicans' street, which bore an image of St Laurence painted on its signboard. When his horse had been placed in the stable he was shown up to the sleeping chamber. There he found a great number of beds without any chairs, and as the evening seemed too beautiful to remain indoors, he went out into the city in order to take a bath. When he came out into the street again, he became somewhat depressed at seeing the narrow passages, called "streets," in which pale-faced people walked, breathing unwholesome air and treading in the dirt and kitchen offal thrown out of the doorways. The crowd kept streaming to and fro, and he wondered that they never came to an end nor seemed weary. The street itself, which was paved with rough cobbles, was difficult to walk on, and he did not understand why men should have gathered together these instruments of torture to make the way more stony than it naturally was. Of the sky there was only a grey strip to be seen between the rows of houses, and the high corbel-step gables rose like Jacob's-ladders, on which souls sought in vain to rise to the heights from their dark, evil-smelling dungeons. He felt confused and astray. At one moment he was jostled by a porter, at another trod on by a horse; then he knocked his head against a window-board. All these people had crowded together on a little island and built on each other like bees in a honeycomb. Why? For mutual aid? He did not believe it. After inquiring his way to the public baths in the Allmännings Gata, he felt a keen desire to free himself by a bath from the sensation of uncleanness which even the air he breathed oppressed him with. In the undressing-room which was shared by all, he found a great number of people of all classes, for it was Saturday evening. In the uncertain light he could not see them distinctly, but the pungent odour of perspiration exhaling from their bodies after severe physical labour, made him shudder. He undressed, put on bathing-drawers, and entered the bathroom. In the midst of it stood an enormous walled fire-place in which a great fire was burning; round it, up to the roof, ran wooden galleries where men sat--some beating each other with rods, others drinking beer. Great stalwart women with tucked-up skirts poured jugs of water on the fire-place, which at once sent out clouds of steam. These the bathers allowed to envelop them, amid loud shrieks and laughter. One caught glimpses of naked bodies, matted beards and shining eyes. And what bodies! They seemed to Sten like a number of wild beasts with hairy breasts and limbs who did not need clothing, and those who, while they waited for their bath, danced before the fire reminded him of fairy-tales of distant lands where men walked with their heads under their arms and with one eye in their foreheads. He could not make up his mind to address any of them, though they were human beings like himself, but with a difference. They did not talk like him; they did not laugh like him; they were not shaped like him. The bones of their backs looked like the letter X, and their feet were turned inwards so that the toes met; nightwork and heat had rendered their faces emaciated. Was it through willing sacrifice for their fellow-men that they made themselves cripples, or were they compelled by necessity to do so? These smiths with shoulder-blades like knapsacks, with arms as long as the helve of a sledge-hammer, with the soles of their feet flattened and distorted; these tailors with thin chests, crooked legs as slender as sticks, and bent backs--were they conscious that their deformity set off the handsome appearance of others? For a moment his aesthetic Sense was offended and he wished to go, but he was restrained by the thought that he must also soon perhaps undergo some similar deformity in order to perform his duty in this society into which he was now forced to enter as a retribution for his ancestors' mistake in withdrawing him from the lot which all were born to share. But the peasants, fishermen, and huntsmen he had formerly known, did not look like these! The former were like the trees of the wood, straight though knotted. Here in the working life of the town some mistake had been made, but he could not say what. He shyly approached one of the giantesses and asked if he could have a water bath. The old woman looked at his white skin and his small hands and pushed him into a smaller room, where some empty bath-tubs stood on the ground. "He is certainly a fine gentleman's son," she said, regarding him critically. "He has evidently come to the wrong place, but that does not matter." She laid the youth in the bath as though he were a child, and began to rub his skin with a horsehair brush. "No! that will make holes in his skin, one can see. Yes, men are so different from each other. A foot like a girl's; one can see how the blood runs in the veins. I am sure that these fine folk have not the same blood as we. And such hands! Pure as those of St John which they have made of wax in Our Lady's chapel. They are not made to lay hold of with." When the bath was ended, the old woman set Sten on a stool and dried him carefully, as though she were afraid of breaking one of his limbs. Then she took a comb and began to do his fair hair, talking to herself the while. "Pure silk and gold! One might weave a mass-robe for the Bishop from this hair!" Then a gnat flew in through the window-opening and settled on Sten's bare shoulder; it had not long to look in order to find a place into which to sink its sting, for his skin was milk-white and soft after the warm bath. The old woman stopped in her task, and observed almost with alarm how the uninvited parasite bled the fine gentleman; she saw how the gnat's transparent body filled itself with clear red blood, and how it lifted its front leg as if to seize its prey firmly. Then the giantess seized with the tips of her nails the little blood-letter by its wings and held it against the light. "What is that?" asked Sten, and made a movement. The old woman was too deep in her contemplation to answer at once. At last she said, "Ob, it was a gnat!" "Which has got noble blood in its vein," broke in Sten. "Now do you think, old woman, that it is better than the other gnats?" "That one cannot exactly know," said the giantess, still examining her captive. "Blood is thicker than water. I have seen many gnats in my time, but this one is something unusual. I should like to let it live." "And to see how it would give itself airs over the other gnats. You would like to see it propagate young lord and lady gnats who would sit on silk and let themselves be fed by others. No, you shall see that it is just as plebeian as all the others, and that it has the same blood as you and can die as easily as its companion gnats outside." He struck the old woman's finger with his hand, and there appeared only a bright red spot of blood upon it. "Now was it not as I said?" she exclaimed. "It is as bright as red gold." "That is because it is thinner," said Sten, "therefore it will soon be like pure water; and therefore you see the nobles will die and the serfs will live." The conversation was over and Sten rose up, thanked his attendant, and went into the great bathroom where the noise was deafening owing to the beer and the heat combined. He hastened by the bathers into the undressing-room, where he found his clothes with difficulty under piles of leather trousers, smocks, and vests. When he came out into the street he directed his steps through the Merchants' Gate to the Great Market. There he saw the town hall lit up; the great door which led to the underground restaurant was decorated with fir branches, weapons and flags. He descended the broad staircase, attracted by the music of violins, flutes, and trumpets. Although he did not think it reasonable that men should collect to enjoy themselves underground, when the earth itself was so spacious and beautiful, yet he felt bound to confess that the restaurant of the town hall presented an imposing appearance with its huge pillars which this evening were decked with garlands of fir twigs and bunches of liver-wort, anemones and cowslips. Enormous beer and wine barrels, arranged in rows, formed three great alleys running from the tap-room, which was adorned by a huge figure of Bacchus riding on a cask. In tubs filled with sand stood young firs and junipers, and the ground was strewn with cut fir twigs. The musicians sat on a gigantic barrel, and from the vaulted roof hung barrel-hoops with oil-lamps and wax-lights. An enormous number of people, half in disguise, half in their holiday clothes, stood in groups round the tables or walked down the tub-lined alleys. The joy seemed universal and genuine, for it had a natural cause--the arrival of spring, and a less natural one--the return of the King for the third time. Sten wandered lonely among the festive groups, without the hope of meeting a friend. He felt thirsty after his bath but was ashamed to ask for anything, for he did want to drink alone. But as he walked he grew suddenly conscious that someone was looking at him. He turned round and saw a little yellow, dried-up, narrow-chested man who for want of a table had sat down by an upturned barrel and taken a smaller one for a seat. He had before him a stone jug filled with Rhenish wine and two small green wine-glasses. He was alone and only drank out of one glass. "Will the young gentleman sit down?" he asked in a weak, sibilant voice, beginning at once to cough. "I see the young gentleman is alone, and so am I." Sten looked interrogatively at the empty glass, but the coughing man answered his question by bringing an unoccupied barrel which he offered him to sit on. "I have a terrible cough," said the yellow man, "but don't let that disturb you. The spring-time is always trying for those with weak chests. It is now spring again," he added in the melancholy voice with which one might say "It is now autumn again." Sten felt obliged to say something. "You should drink sweet wine instead of sour." "My chest complaint is not of that kind," he answered, and began to cough again by way of demonstrating the fact. "I am a clerk in the cloth factory of the town, and there one gets this kind of cough. The dust of the wool affects the lungs and the workers do not live beyond thirty-six. I am now thirty-five," he added with caustic humour, and emptied his glass. "Why don't you choose another occupation?" asked Sten in a friendly and child-like way. "Choose? One doesn't choose, young sir. Society in the city is a building in which each man is a stone fitted into its place; if he moves, he disturbs the whole edifice. But society has committed an oversight by not forbidding men in my position to marry. For if the fathers cannot marry till they are thirty and die at thirty-six, the children must go under." He pointed to the ground and continued: "You see, it is a human instinct to climb up; by 'up' one means freedom from work. That is what we climb and struggle for. There are two methods of getting up--an honourable and a dishonourable. The latter is the easier but may end with a crash. I have always been honest." The drummer standing on the great barrel beat a roll-call on his drum, which signified that someone was about to make a speech. A heavily built man now mounted a decorated cask. He wore a tunic edged with fur, with a red cloth lining and a round fur cap--a garb which was more adapted for outward appearance than for warmth. It was the mayor. "Now the King's health will be proposed," explained the factory clerk. "This is the third time that he proposes it, and three times already he has cursed the King and drunk to the health of the Archbishop and the Danish King. A true citizen, you see, drinks to whichever power is in the ascendant, for that power always protects trade, and a city consists of tradesmen; the others do not count." Sten caught isolated words of the mayor's speech while the clerk continued to whisper in his ear: "A middleman sits in a comfortable room. He has a letter written to the seller and asks the price. Then he has a letter written to the buyer and asks what he will give. And so the bargain is concluded through him. If the buyer and seller could meet and do their business directly, no middlemen would be necessary, but that they cannot, for then there would be no so-called privileges. And privileges are bestowed by the ruling power." Outbursts of applause interrupted both the speech of the mayor and the whisperings of the clerk. When the speech was ended all raised their glasses and cried "Long live the King!"--all except the clerk, who stood up and flung his glass against the barrel on which the speaker stood. An outcry, like a sudden outbreak of fire, rose from the whole company, and in a few seconds the rebellious clerk was carried backwards by strong arms towards the restaurant stairs. There Sten saw him disappear, coughing violently the while. The shrill sound of his cough pierced through the uproar and the roll of the drums which had struck up. The mayor again desired permission to speak, this time through the city trumpeter, and announced that on this joyous occasion of the King's return, the town and the council would give wine freely. A barrel of wine was rolled along, and placed on a seat amid universal approval. But now there came a new diversion. From one of the many side-rooms which were generally hired for marriages and other private festivities, came a marriage procession with violin-players and torch-bearers at its head, intending to pass through the great hall and accompany the newly wedded pair home. But that was not possible. The excitement was too great to allow such an opportunity to pass unchallenged. "Dance the bride's crown off!" was the cry, and the next moment all the young men had formed a circle round the bride, separating her from the bridegroom. The bride was a blooming girl of twenty and the bridegroom was a withered-looking man of thirty with the same sickly pallor as the factory clerk, whom he otherwise somewhat resembled. Sten's curiosity was directed towards the deserted bridegroom, and he did not understand why he felt a certain sympathy with him, though it was his happiest day. Meanwhile the bride had been blindfolded. Sten was drawn into the ring of dancers, which at one moment circled with dizzying rapidity and at another stood still. The bride stretched out her arms and caught Sten round the neck; he fell on one knee, blushing, kissed her hand, and entered the ring with a garland on his head to dance with the bride, who seemed flattered by such unusual attention. Then he stepped up to the bridegroom, paid him some compliments about his bride, and asked permission to drink to his prosperity. Although it was annoying to the latter to be stopped in this way, he could not refuse, and briefly informed Sten that he also was a clerk in the cloth factory. Sten could not resist giving a start of sympathetic surprise, but had no time to observe the bridegroom more closely, for the latter was now drawn into the ring and had to dance with the bride. Sten underwent a strange sensation and thought of the death-dance depicted on the walls of the chapel of his father's castle. "Poor bridegroom!" he thought, "and poor girl!" But the joy this evening was quite beyond all bounds, and now tables and seats were cleared away, for the bride's-maids were about to dance the torch-dance, which had been specially called for and which was customary at weddings. The girls received the torches from the bride's escort and invited their cavaliers to dance by handing the torches to them. Sten had drawn back in order to rest after his exertions, and stood with his back against the cold wall regarding the bridegroom in a melancholy way, as the latter with wine-flushed cheeks fluttered uneasily about the bride, who was surrounded by a number of young men. He felt himself again so lonely among the excited crowd; the various impressions he had undergone during the last twenty-four hours rose up like shadows, and his tired senses began to give way. He closed his eyes and it became dark; the ground seemed to sink under his feet, and he felt a singing in his ears as though he were drowning. He made a supreme effort to hold himself up, and opened his eyes, but saw at first only a dark moving mass in front of him; gradually this was reduced to order and a point of light was kindled against the dark background. It broadened, came nearer, assumed a shape, and then, as when a curtain is quickly drawn back from a picture, a radiant woman's form appeared before him. She was pure light; her eyes were like the Virgin Mary's, her hair resembled silver or gold--it was difficult to say which, her small face was warm and white like newly washed wool. In one hand she held a torch, which she reached to Sten, who took it mechanically, while at the same time he took her free hand which she extended to him. It was all like a vision. As he looked at her small while hand, which lay so confidingly in his, the latter seemed to him, in comparison, like that of the giantess in the bathroom. Sten had to open the dance. Room was made for them, and he and his partner began to thread the swaying crowd. At one moment they parted from one another, then they met again; one instant he put his arm round her and pressed her to his heart, then another cavalier came and took her from him; but whatever happened, they always met again, and he lighted her way with his uplifted torch. Every time they met again he wished to say something complimentary, but he was dumb and could not utter a word when he looked into her eyes. He was lost in wonder at the whiteness of her hand and the smallness of her foot; the latter peeped forth from under her looped-up dress, and with the well-arched instep was so clearly visible throughout the thin silk shoe that her toes might have been counted. A princess accustomed to walk on roses might have envied the middle-class maiden her foot. When the dance ceased and Sten had laid down his torch, his partner hesitated for a moment, as though she wished to say something or to ask Sten to speak. Sten, however, felt as though his tongue were paralysed; but quick as lightning and without considering what he was doing, he embraced her neck and kissed her on both cheeks as one kisses a sister. There at once arose an uproar among the wedding-guests, and Sten found himself surrounded by threatening hands and angry looks. But the other guests thought the pair so handsome, and Sten looked so innocent as he stood there blushing at his boldness, that they intervened and made peace. The others insisted on a punishment. Then an elderly man, a town-councillor of a cheerful disposition, stepped forward and declared that the offender should be punished on the spot, but that, because of the freedom allowed on this particular day, the law was willing to wink at his offence. On the other hand the insulted maiden, the daughter of a respectable clerk in the public weighing-house, should, if, he added jestingly, she had really been so much insulted, herself adjudicate in the matter. His proposal was accepted with unanimous applause; but Sten felt discomposed to see his princess metamorphosed into a clerk's daughter. The young girl was embarrassed to the verge of tears, and could not utter a word. At last one of her young friends pressed forward and whispered something in her ear. This advice, whispered at the moment of need, seemed to revive the spirits of the despairing umpire, and with almost inaudible voice she pronounced her verdict "The young gentleman must sing!" "A song! A song!" shouted the emotional throng, and Sten was condemned to do so. He was lifted by strong arms on to the table and was handed a tortoise-shell lute, which one of the Italian painters, who at that time resided in the city, had brought with him. No one inquired whether the victim could sing, for all assumed that a young man of good family could do so. Sten first played a prelude on the strings while he recovered himself from his embarrassment and the crowd at his feet heaved like a troubled sea. What should he sing? The smells of beer, wine and fir twigs, mingled with fumes from the oil-lamps and wax-lights, filled the air and made him half unconscious. Before his eyes loomed a chaos of red faces, lamps, casks, instruments and flowers. His fingers wandered over the chords but his ear could not find the tune he wanted. There was silence at last, but the many-headed beast which was now looking up to him so expectantly might, the next moment stir, lose patience, and tear him in pieces. Then he saw the blue eyes and white cheeks which still bore the red marks of his kisses; the strings of the lute sounded, and he felt chorda in his breast which responded. After striking some loud notes, he began, in a weak voice which grew stronger as he went on, a song in the style of the old Minnesingers, and when he had concluded it he was fully acquitted by the audience. Then the good-natured councillor stepped up to him, thanked him, put his arm round his neck, and walked with him into one of the side-rooms. Here he placed him on a seat, and standing before him with folded arms, he assumed a judicial tone and said: "That was the song, young gentleman; now let us have the words! You have some trouble on your mind, you are not on the right road, and you steal into the town without a pass--you see, we watch our people and they are not too many to be counted." Sten was beside himself with alarm, but the councillor quieted him, asked him to relate his story, and promised to be his friend. When Sten perceived that the facts must come out in any case, he chose the present favourable opportunity to narrate them privately to a friendly person, knowing that perhaps to-morrow, when the effects of wine had ceased to work, his friendliness might have evaporated. Accordingly he frankly told the councillor everything. When he had ended, the latter said, "Well, you are looking for an occupation which is suited to your strength and capacity. You can write, and, as it happens, the city just needs a clerk, for a place will be vacant this evening." "In the cloth factory?" asked Sten, with a gloomy foreboding that the answer would be in the affirmative. "Yes." "The unfortunate man has then been dismissed for his imprudence?" "Naturally! The city is the key of the kingdom; those who guard the key-cupboard must not be surrounded by traitors." "I cannot accept the post," declared Sten, remembering the kindness which the unfortunate man had shown him. "'One man dead gives another man bread!'" "You are ashamed of walking over corpses? But what is our pilgrimage here but a fight for life or death, or a lyke-wake where one sits and waits till the body is carried out. How did I become a councillor? By waiting for the deaths of six others. How shall I become mayor? By waiting for the present mayor's death. And that may be a long time," he added with a sigh. "As regards the dismissed man, I am very sorry for him, but am glad at the same time that you will be saved from going under." "But he has wife and children." "Very sad for them! But when a man has renounced his place, as he has done, it is vacant; if you refuse to take it, you will be doing neither him nor yourself a service. Between ourselves, we all thought somewhat as he did, but, look you! one must not say so. I am an old man, sir, and have seen life. It is a perverse and mad business, and Satan himself cannot help one. At present your velvet jacket is white, but to-morrow it will be dirty; the day after, it will be torn, and then, do you know what you are? No longer a young gentleman, but an adventurer and a tramp. Hear my advice, young man. Get bread for your mouth so long as your velvet jacket lasts, and hold your tongue. Sleep over the matter and come on Monday morning to the town hall. I wish you good night and common sense." Sten rose and returned to the great hall. But it seemed to him empty and desolate now that the bridal procession had vanished. Tired and exhausted by the various emotions he had undergone during the evening and the past twenty-four hours, he resolved to go home. When he came to the inn and entered his room, he took off his velvet jacket and inspected it. Stained with wine, dirty with the dust of the high road, browned with sweat under the arm-pits, it looked wretched enough. He lay down and went to sleep wondering where the weighing-house might be; he dreamt of death-dances and factory clerks, fought with corpses, and awoke. Then he went to sleep again thinking of the weighing-house and of a tender farewell to the velvet jacket, with a firm resolve to earn bread, first for one month, and then for two. * * * * * The beautiful month of May did not keep its promises; snow fell while the apple trees were in blossom, and the sun did not appear for fourteen days. For fourteen dreadful days had Sten, the last scion of the family of Ulffot at Wäringe, Hofsta and Löfsala, stood at his post in the draughty, unwarmed factory by the harbour. From morning till late in the evening he had stood there, with a pen in his half-frozen fingers, registering the names of the kinds of cloth which had been brought by the incoming vessels. He did not really understand why they should be registered any more than if they had been so many stones of the street, flakes of snow, or drops of water; but he obeyed the old councillor's advice, and held his tongue whenever he felt tempted to ask. The room where he worked was continually being entered by porters and merchants who left snow and dirt on the floor, and let the cold air blow in freely. One bale of cloth after another was thrown upon an enormous table and filled the air with a choking dust. He had not yet begun to cough, but he felt that he breathed with more difficulty; and to add to his troubles, the intense cold had burnt holes in his white hands and made them quite red. One day he went to a barber's and looked at himself in a mirror. He thought it was another person he was looking at when he saw a lean yellow face full of spots and fringed with an untidy beard. His feet had become so swollen that he could not wear his ordinary boots, but had to use Lapland shoes. He had changed his white jacket for a brown frock-coat and his cap for a slouched hat. His scanty pay obliged him to take his meals in third-rate restaurants where he only got salted food, and the unaccustomed diet had brought on an attack of scurvy. When he once ventured to complain to one of his senior fellow-workers, the latter took him to task and said there were many who worked more than Sten and got no food at all; he himself had had no fresh food since Christmas. This man was the bridegroom whom Sten had met in the restaurant of the town hall; he was envious of Sten because the latter, while still so young, had obtained a post for which he had been waiting for ten years. "Many get everything given them in this life, and yet are not satisfied," he often remarked when consoling Sten. The latter envied hint because of his comparatively good health, his uninjured hands and feet, and the indifference with which he took things. He on his part declared that Sten suffered because he had been spoilt and had not learned to work, and from this opinion he would not budge. Sten felt that his bodily health was giving way under the struggle; his friend said that it was a fall in an honourable battle of which no knight need be ashamed. Sten thought that his soul was being injured by the murderous work of perpetually writing figures; however, his friend asserted it was not the fault of the work but because he had been badly educated. Badly educated! He who had had two nurses and a governess, he who had had tutors in Greek and Latin, could play the lute, and make fine verses! That he would not acknowledge. But he knew that he was unhappy. He also knew now where the weighing-house was. But what was the use of that? He had seen the young girl at a Mass in the city church, but she had been shocked at his appearance; and his friend in the cloth factory told him that she thought Sten looked degenerated. His friend also told him that her father had some money, gave his daughter an education, and hoped to get her well married, so that it was not worth while for Sten to wear out his boots by going there, he added. One day Sten, weary of copying figures, felt he had had enough of the dark room. Better, he thought, any physical exertion than this eternal writing in which there was no progress and no end. He resigned his post. It was in the middle of a hot summer. He wandered up and down the streets without object and without hope. Lost in thoughts, he contemplated the houses and their signboards as though he expected to find there the answer to the riddle of his life. His gaze was arrested by a large horseshoe which hung on a pole; memories of a nag and a highway began to stir in his brain. Then he heard the blows of a hammer in the courtyard. He entered in and saw a giant who was forging horseshoes. The work proceeded slowly and the giant panted and sweated at each blow. It brightened Sten up to see the sparks dancing round the anvil, and the forge also diffused a cheerful glow. But the smith did not seem in a cheerful mood, for he broke off his work, sat down on a log of wood, and watched with gloomy looks the iron growing cold. Then as though stung by an evil conscience he went into the smithy and came out again with a piece of red-hot iron, but seemed to be still more depressed, for he laid the iron on the anvil, and then sat down and watched it as though he expected it to turn into horseshoes. Presently he turned round, and Sten, seeing his face, recognised Claus. He went up to him and greeted him as an old acquaintance. Claus at first regarded him with astonishment, and after he had been obliged to recognise him, maintained an air of severe coldness. Suddenly his face brightened, as though a thought had struck him. "Listen!" he said. "Are you free at present?" Sten replied that he certainly was. "By Saint Anschar, you shall become a smith! Now I see that you were really born to be one. Strange what mistakes one may make sometimes! You have developed a pair of fists since we last met, and one soon learns how to grasp a hammer!" "It is certainly too hard for me, since I did not begin it when I was young," objected Sten. "Hard? What the dickens! It is not harder than anything else--I mean for one who has the capacity. Listen! We will be good friends and have a fine time. The master sits the whole day in the beer-shop, and only you and I will be here." Sten thought the proposal as good as any he was likely to meet with, and believed he would find a support in Claus. Accordingly he consented. "Then we will go at once to the master of the guild of smiths at the journeymen's inn," said Claus. Sten reminded him that he had said he occupied this office of master, but Claus replied he had given it up owing to having too much to do. They went therefore to the master, whose reception of Claus was so obviously disdainful that Sten on the spot lost a considerable amount of the respect he had felt for him. Meanwhile he was enrolled as an apprentice of the guild, and this new dignity of his was sealed by their drinking a number of mugs of beer in a public-house, and in the evening was ratified by Claus's master, who was the worse for drink. Sten slept that night at the smithy. The next morning, while the matin-bell was ringing in the Ave Maria Convent, Sten was aroused by being violently shaken by Claus, who said: "Light the fire in the forge and tell me when it burns. I am going to doze a little longer." Sten blew the fire and worked the bellows for half an hour. When at last it burnt up brightly, he woke Claus. "Now put the iron in, and tell me when it gets red, I want still to have a wink or two," said Claus, turning to the wall. When the iron was glowing as red as blood, Sten woke him again. "Now hammer out the iron till it is as slender as a finger, while I shake off my sleepiness," said Claus, yawning. Sten went back to the smithy, but now the iron had become black. He worked the bellows and made it red again. Then he took it up with the tongs and carried it out to the anvil, but before he had seized the sledge-hammer, it was once more black. This process was repeated till Sten became tired. Then he returned to Claus, who was snoring loud, and had drawn his leather apron over his head in order not to be disturbed by the daylight. Claus became impatient. "Well, you stupid, can't you take the hammer in one hand and the tongs in the other?" Sten replied he could not. "Then you can go for a jug of beer." Sten felt ashamed of going into the street with a tin can, but as Claus began to search in a tool-chest for a hammer, he hurried out. The morning was fine; the sun shone on the gable-roofs of the houses, and women and girls were proceeding to market. When Sten came out of the public-house with the beer, and was about to cross the street, he suddenly stopped, as though riveted, before someone who gazed at him in astonishment and sorrow. He wished to turn round, but the crowd prevented him; he wanted to raise his cap, but the beer-jug required both his black hands to hold it. The girl went on her way, and Sten hastened, weeping, back to the smithy. "What are you whimpering for?" said Claus, who had shaken off his sleep and come out into the sunshine, where he drank his morning draught. Sten did not answer. Claus took out a plank which he laid on the wooden log against the wall of the house so that he had a support for his back. "Now we will work," he said, crossing his arms and making himself as comfortable as possible. "You will begin with the cold iron first, so that you learn how to handle the hammer." Sten lifted the hammer, which was very heavy for him. He struck on the anvil while Claus counted "One and two! and one and two! and one and two!" "Yes, yes; now you see what a workman has to do. One and two! and one and two! and---- That is something different from lying on eider-down and eating roast-veal! And two and---- You think one gets accustomed to have the sun on one's neck, the forge in one's face, and the smoke in one's nose? No, look you, one never does. And what do you think a pretty girl says when a smith comes with his black hands and wants to put his arm round her waist? 'Let me alone, lout!' she says. A smith can certainly marry when he has saved some money, but he must take an ugly girl whom no one else will have. And two! and one!---- Are you listening? Do you remember when you sat in the inn and ate fowl with sage stuffing, and, I had a salted herring in my bag? And he had a horse, the young devil, and a velvet jacket. Where is the horse now? Perhaps he is standing in the stable in the Knacker's House, or whatever your father's castle was called. Do you remember that I made you believe that Sir Vulcan was councillor to the Emperor of Rome. Ha! ha! No, a smith is a smith, that is all." Sten was growing tired. "Are you lazy, you devil?" said Claus. "Stop calling me devil," said Sten, "I am not accustomed to it." "Perhaps his Grace is used to being called 'angel'?" said Claus scornfully. Sten _had_ been once used to it, but he refrained from saying so. He went on with his hammer strokes. "One and two! and one and two! and one---- No," said Claus, "you can do that now. Beat out the iron rod now; it is harder to do when it is cold, but still it can be done. I must go now to some business in the town, and when the old man comes, tell him that I met my brother-in-law from the country. But if you have not beaten out the iron rod by the time I come back, I will weld your hind legs together, so that you will be like a herring." Sten felt quite exhausted and declared that he could not finish the work alone. He also said openly that he had not come here to do Claus's work while the latter sat in the ale-house. Claus became furious. "Yes, you have, my young man," he shouted. "That is just what you have come for. Look you! I have worked for thirty-five years, and you have done nothing; now I am the nobleman and let you work for me! Is it not so with the aristocracy?" Claus leant himself against the plank with his arms folded and continued: "Yes, I am a devilish fine nobleman, you can believe me! And you will see how I shall flourish. I shall not be rich, but I shall be fat. You look disapproving. You don't agree with my plan, nor understand it. The upper class have invented it themselves, and a very excellent one it is." Sten replied that in his opinion Claus was a bumpkin. "Go and fetch the big hammer. You will do some extra work by way of punishment," Claus replied haughtily. Sten's blood boiled over and he raised the iron rod against Claus. At the same moment he felt something give way in his body, and fell senseless to the ground. * * * * * When Sten awoke to consciousness he was lying in a bed at the hospital, and was condemned to inaction for several months, for he had broken a blood-vessel, and his recovery was doubtful. In the large ward one bed stood close to another, and as soon as it was empty there was always someone waiting to occupy it. Here he saw every day instances how those who did physical labour were exposed to accidents which other classes escaped. At one time it was a carpenter who had cut his foot; at another a mason who had fallen from a scaffolding. One day came a breweress who had scalded herself when boiling wort; on another a pewterer who had burnt his knee at the smelting oven. Hitherto he had had no idea how widely spread human sufferings were, and when he contrasted his past with his present, he began to guess how the legend of the rich man, who could not enter heaven, had arisen. Thus he lay the whole summer, without fresh air or seeing anything green. He felt bitterly how the best time of the year was passing, and imagined how it looked in the country, and what people were doing every day. Numbers of monks came to the ward, and almost every day the crucifix was lifted by some bed-side to comfort a sufferer. Sten often talked with the monks and he could not help sharing their view that the earth was a vale of tears. When his pains became severe he felt relief in contemplating the Crucified Who writhed on the cross, and he understood now why the Christian creed had been able to gain so many disciples. One day, when he was especially suffering, he had a visit from Claus, who had heard a report that Sten was dying. He felt now compelled to see and speak with the sick man, and, if possible, to comfort him; but in order to strengthen himself he went first into an ale-shop, with the result that he reached the hospital in a somewhat hilarious condition. When he again met Sten, whose face had recovered its fair complexion and his hands their delicacy, his former respect for him awoke, and he confessed to himself that there were a finer and a coarser kind of men. He called Sten "sir," and advised him to think about his soul and to repent of his sins; he should not, he said, be sorry that he had to die, for the smiths' company would carry him to the grave, and afterwards hold such a funeral feast as had never been seen in the city. Then he threw out some delicate hints that it was a pity for the hospital to get Sten's clothes when he was dead, and at the same time expressed his admiration of the excellent wool of which Sten's coat was made; for the rest, he believed that old trousers could be altered, and told Sten above all things to take care that nothing was left in the pockets. Life, he said, was very troublesome, and parents who did not teach their children to work with their hands were worse than murderers, and to give children an education was to spoil them. Sten would have made a good smith, if he had learnt to wield the hammer from his childhood, and he might by this time have married the maiden from the weighing-house. As it was, she had engaged herself to one of the yeomen of the guard. Sten, however, should not be sad about that, for he had not much longer to live, but Claus would carry the flag at his funeral procession as a token that he had forgiven the young gentleman all the wrong he had done him. As he uttered these last words, Claus was so overcome by his noble sentiments that he wept as only a drunken man can. But Claus never carried the flag, because he was not the guild's flag-bearer, and because Sten recovered. One fine autumn day he was dismissed from the hospital and told that he was no longer ill, but that he would never be strong enough to work. Now he realised the whole terrible truth of what Claus had said: his education had robbed him of the means of earning a livelihood. It was in vain that he went about and sought a place in an already organised society; there was no place for drones in this hive. The only thing remaining was to flee from this hive and seek another where the working-bees supported the drones. He thought of the convents where men did not work but lived very comfortably and could devote their leisure to such refined enjoyments as arts and sciences, and he wondered that he had not before this enlisted in the armies of the Church. With a light step he walked down to the convent of the Dominican monks in the Osterlang-gata, and rang the bell. The little window in the gate was opened and a monk asked Sten his name and address. He gave his name and asked to speak to the prior with a view to entering the convent. The gate was opened and Sten was admitted into the garden, where he was told to wait. Meanwhile the prior sat in the hall of the chapter going through the estate and rent books with the steward. Various deficits in these showed a serious diminution in the income of the convent. They were just consulting how this might be increased to its highest possible point again, as the General Chapter of the Dominican Order was constantly demanding support for the war against the heretics, when the gate-keeper's assistant announced Sten Ulffot's arrival, name, and business. "Ulffot of Wäringe, Hofsta and Löfsala," the prior said to himself, and made the sign of the cross. "He comes as opportunely as though he were sent by St Dominic himself. I know Löfsala thoroughly; it is a splendid estate--twelve hundred acres of open ground, besides saleable meadows and woods, water-mills, saw-mills and a splendid eel-fishery. Let him in! Let him in by all means! Bid the gentleman welcome in the name of the Lord." "Your Reverence," interposed the steward, "wait a minute. Löfsala is a fine estate certainly, but sad to say the present owner has no taste for the spiritual life." "The present owner?" "Yes, the Ulffot family," continued the steward, "has been obliged to give up everything, and the last member of it is said to be an adventurer who has tried a little of everything but carried nothing out, and is quite come down in the world." "What do you say? What do you say? H'm! Well, what shall we do with him?" "From him we shall get neither profit nor honour," said the steward. "We have monks enough who eat our provisions, and this is not a poorhouse." "Quite right!" said the prior. "Quite right! But who is to tell him that? One of St Dominic's wisest and best rules is, never to send anyone unsatisfied away. Will Brother Francis go into the garden and speak a little with the young man? Speak a little with him, explain it to him, you understand! Let us go on with our work, steward." Brother Francis was a tall man, of alarming appearance, with a bearish temper, who was employed to scare away such applicants as were not "edible," in the phraseology of the industrious brotherhood; for the Dominican Order was a powerful political corporation, which lived in perpetual strife with princes, for power and property, and was by no means an institution for exercising benevolence. When Brother Francis saw Sten's insignificant appearance he thought he could make short work with him. "What do you want in the convent?" he asked without any preliminary remarks. "I seek for the peace which the world cannot give," answered Sten. "Then you have come to the wrong place," said Francis. "This is the armoury of the Church Militant, and there is never peace here." "Peace follows fighting," Sten ventured to object; but this irritated the monk, who wished to get done with a thankless task. "Say what you want and speak the truth--something like this: 'I cannot dig and to beg I am ashamed; therefore I will come here and eat.' If you say that, you will not be lying." Sten felt that the monk had to a certain extent hit the mark, and answered simply, "Alas, you are right!" Surprised at this unexpected admission, and touched by Sten's childlikeness, the monk took him farther into the garden and continued his talk. "I know your history and understand the riddle of your life. When Nature is left to herself, she produces masterpieces; but when man interferes with her work, he makes a bungle of it. Look at this pear tree; it is a descendant from a pear tree at Santa Lucia in Spain, where it was cultivated for five hundred years. You think it is an excellent thing that it can bring forth fine fruits to please our palates? Nature does not think so, for she has produced the fruit for the sake of the pipe which continue the species. Look at this pear when I cat it in two! Do you see any pips? No! Over-cultivation has done away with them. Look at this apple which glows so magnificently with red and gold! It is an English pearmain. It has pips, but if I sow them they produce crab-apples. When, however, a severe winter comes, the pearmain trees are killed by frost, but the crab-apple trees are not. Therefore one ought to give up over-cultivating people, especially when it is done at the expense of others. Such cultivation is unsuited to our country and our severe climate. Have I expressed myself clearly? I am sorry for you, young man, but I cannot help you. _Beati possidentes_--blessed are those who have succeeded. Your ancestors won success, but they had not the skill to maintain it!" He went on to talk of indifferent matters while he conducted Sten to the gate. "There will be an early winter this year, if we may judge by the ash-berries." Then he opened the gate, bowed politely and said "Good-bye, sir." When the gate closed, Sten felt that he was shut out from society once for all, and he rallied the small remainder of bodily and mental strength which he possessed, to form a resolution. But his will and thinking power bed collapsed. The twilight had fallen. He followed the descent of the steep street which led to the sea, as though he were obeying the law of gravitation. His feet led him into a narrow alley which was quite dark and filled with an overpowering stench from the offal which had been thrown away there; but he went on and on, guided by a faint light which appeared at the bottom of the alley. Presently he stood before a water-gate which had been left ajar and through which a moonbeam pierced the darkness. He opened the gate and before him lay the surface of the water lit by the moon which was rising over the island of Sikla. The little waves danced and played in the path of the moonlight and the sea breeze blew freshly shore-wards. Sten stepped over the narrow threshold and let the gate close behind him, without exactly thinking what he was doing. At the same moment all the bells in the city began to ring for vespers, and the drummers on the city walls beat the tattoo as a signal for the citizens to go to bed. Sten took off his cap, fell on his knees, and said a prayer. Then he stood up, turned his back towards the sea, folded his arms over his breast, looked up at the stars and let himself fall backwards, as though he were going to rest. The silvery water mirror opened like a dark grave, which closed again at once, and a great ring, like a halo, appeared on the surface; it widened into many more circles, which dispersed and died away. Soon the little waves reappeared and danced and played in the moonlight as though they had never been frightened. "UNWELCOME" The baptism service was over, and the family party had got into the boats and hoisted sail. The little fleet now glided out of the green bay below the island chapel. In the first boat sat the god-parents with the newly baptised infant. "It was a strange idea to call the boy 'Christian,'" said the mother's sister to the father's sister, as she put the child's feeding-bottle to its mouth. "Oh, it doesn't matter what one is called, and if he has the same name as the Danish King it is good enough," said the other. "Yes, but the poor boy will have no name-day if he has no patron saint." "That is all right, for then no one will have the trouble of celebrating it. He was not wished for and he was hardly welcome," said the father's sister. In the second boat sat the father and mother and the two elder children, a boy and a girl aged seven and eight respectively. "We could have done very well without another one," said the father as he ported the helm. "It is all very well talking now," said his wife as she counter-braced the sail. "Yes, I know," he replied. "But you will be kind to him?" she said. "I must be, I suppose," was his answer. He pushed his boy down from the boat-side on which he had clambered, saying, "Keep still in the boat, children, or the devil will have you." In the third boat sat the pastor and the grand-parents. "How is the fishing?" asked the former. "So-so," answered the grandfather. "The Lord knows where the fish go now. When I was young, one caught enough herrings in two nights to last the winter, and now it is doubtful whether one catches any at all." "Yes, it is strange; I had three standing nets out there on Wednesday night and did not catch a fin," said the pastor. "Winter will bring hard times, and one ought to look forward before producing more mouths than one can fill." "I told him so," said the grandfather assentingly. "The house is big enough for one brood, not for two. Better one farmer than two cottagers. I don't think, however, he will divide the farm, but this last child must go out into service like others." "That is certainly as good as starving at home," said the pastor. The July sun blazed hotly upon the fjord, the sky was perfectly blue, and the newly baptised child screamed, whether from joy or grief it was difficult to say. Soon the thatched roofs of the farm were visible among the alders, and the boats halted at the bridge. The occupants disembarked and were regaled with a good meal spread under the oak trees. Afterwards the pastor thanked God for the happiness with which he had blessed the house, and bade the guests raise their glasses to welcome the new citizen of the world into the congregation. * * * * * Christian grew up among the calves and pigs, for his brother and sister were too old to play with him. He seemed born with two characteristics which never left him: one was to be always in the way, the other was to be never welcome. Wherever he appeared, behind a bush, on a haystack, under a boat, in a loft, or in the cottage, the cry always was, "Is it you, young scoundrel?" Wherever he happened to be, and anyone approached, they said, "You always have to be in the way." His parents, who for eight years had been unaccustomed to the crying of a baby, and were now a good deal older so that they enjoyed a good sleep, found it somewhat difficult to reconcile themselves to his crying at night, and they soon came to regard it as a failing which was peculiar to their youngest born. It was in vain that the grandmother asserted that all children cried, and that Hans the eldest had really cried much more when he was little. His father said he could not remember that at all; all he remembered was that Hans had been an uncommonly good child, who had always been a source of joy to his parents. There was such a great difference, he added, between children. Meanwhile Christian, who was intelligent enough to see that he was in the way, acquired the habit of keeping out of the way; when he saw anyone he hid himself, ran out to the woods and fields, and was up to all kinds of mischief. As he became older and was strong enough to do some useful work, attempts were made to tame him, but in vain. When put in charge of cattle, he ran away from them and let them go into the fields; he laid the fishing-nets so deep that they could not be got up again, and when sought for, he was not to be found. In short he seemed half a savage. Once, at his elder brother's suggestion, he was beaten, but then he remained away eight whole days, and when he reappeared he was as stout and strong as before; no one knew what he had eaten or where he had slept. But Christian himself knew well enough. The scanty diet of his home consisted chiefly of salt fish, turnips and bread. Christian, who often had to satisfy himself with what fell from the table, or was left over, often felt a longing for more nourishing food, especially as he grew older and approached manhood. He was hungry the whole day, and went to the wood and the seashore to get food. Fish did not attract him, for he had chewed them till he was tired and they gave him no strength; he looked for warm-blooded creatures, and when he caught some young birds he ate them raw. Then he felt stronger as the blood diffused an intoxicating warmth throughout his body. Eggs had the same effect; these he took ruthlessly from the nests of the sea-birds on the shore. In this way he procured for himself a diet which was much more nourishing than his parents and brother and sister could contrive to obtain. So he grew, and became strong, but could not make up his mind to work. In a rude boat which he had managed to construct himself, he cruised about the islands and hunted for eggs. His parents, who did not exactly miss his presence, soon began to regard him as having flown from the nest. One fine spring day, when the eider-geese were flying over the outermost islands, Christian sailed out with his bow and his nooses, more for the sake of amusement and passing the time than for practical purposes, for he never killed anything except for immediate consumption. He landed with his boat on one of those skerries which form the last breakwater against the open sea, and which only sea-birds and fishermen frequent during the summer. The skerry was uninhabited, but a rude shed had been built on it to serve as a sleeping-place for fishermen in the fishing season, and as a shelter for travellers and those who might be driven ashore. It consisted of a single room with the bare earth for its floor; along the wall were arranged berths like shelves furnished with sheep-skins for sleeping under. Two stones on the ground marked where a fire might be lit, and flint and steel were kept in a place well known to all between the beams above the door. The door was always closed but could be opened with a bent wooden peg. Everyone had a right to enter if they only closed the door after them and put back the flint and steel in its place. If any-body wished to show benevolence or gratitude, they placed an armful of grass or juniper twigs near the fire-place, for there was not a tree on the skerry. It was in these shelters that Christian generally slept, and there he took his simple meals; he knew each one of them for miles around, and where the best sheep-skins were to be found. The fleas which infested them generally left him alone. Meanwhile the spring evening was beautiful, and the sea lay there serene in blue tranquillity. Christian, who had learnt not to trust it, drew his boat up and hid it behind some great stones. He had rowed far and clambered about on the rocks, so that he went into the rest-house and got into the topmost berth to sleep. He lay there for a time and thought about various things--about the day which had just passed, about his life and its purposes, and the life which should follow this. He had opened the sky-light and saw the steel-grey heaven above him, and a star or two which palely glimmered in the lingering sunlight. Has religious instincts had not been educated either by parents, pastors or teachers, nor had he been confirmed, but he knew that behind nature and the events of life were guiding powers of which one had no nearer knowledge. He had arrived at no certainty regarding the object of his existence. Together with the gift of life, he had received the instinct to preserve it, and obeyed this instinct. What more was there to do? He ate in order to be able to work, and worked in order to get something to eat. Yes, but in the intervals, he thought, or, rather, he wondered. He wondered whether perhaps these very thoughts of his constituted the higher aim of life of which he dreamt; he remembered that his mother had said that the earth was a vale of tears through which we must wander in order to become better and thereby worthier of the Kingdom of Heaven. He found, on closer reflection, that he neither grew better nor worse from one day to another, and he did not understand how he was to improve. Perhaps he was an exception? Possibly. All others took the oath of loyalty to the King; all others paid taxes, went to church, paid tithes to the clergy, paid rent, swept the snow away for one another, bought and sold, summoned each other before the law-courts, but could do nothing without asking permission and payment. They asked permission to be able to marry, to be received into the community where they were born, to be buried in the earth; and on each occasion there were fees to pay. They paid the King for ruling them, they paid the judge for judging them, the pastor for saving them, and the executioner for hanging them; they paid in the town for the right to sell their fish, and they paid for the bridges on which the town's existence depended. Christian, who did nothing of all this, was therefore an exception, and the reason he escaped all these payments was, that he possessed nothing. That was the difference between him and them: he possessed nothing. In earlier times he had heard those who had nothing sailed out on the sea and took from those who had. This was now not permitted, and rightly so, for Christian could not think it permissible that anyone should come and take his boat or his axe from him. While these half-developed thoughts came and went in the half-consciousness of a tired brain, sleep overcame him. After some hours he awoke with a choking feeling in his chest and a terrible smarting in his eyes. He sat up in his berth and saw that a fire had been made on the ground below. By it sat two men--one in the half-barbaric costume of the inhabitants of Dägo, the other in the everyday garb of a Swedish fisherman. They were roasting some herrings before the fire. Christian, who did not feel inclined to move, as he did not know how the strangers might be disposed, protected himself from the smoke as well as he could by creeping as far as possible under the coverlet; he did not blame himself for listening to their conversation, but, as we shall see afterwards, turned it to profit. "They are a stupid lot, these Swedes!" said the man from Dägo, who believed that his superior bodily strength gave him the right to say what he liked. "Oh, you mustn't talk ill of the Swedes," said the other, who in such a nocturnal _tête-à-tête_ did not venture to use a more impolite form of speech. "Well, can one imagine less enterprising people than these fishermen? If they knew what the eider-birds' down was worth in Russia, they would be able to make a pile of money." "Yes, but you see the Swedes think it wrong to deprive the birds of the down which they need for hatching their eggs." "That is just their stupidity; for if they don't take it, foreigners will, like they take everything else." "No, it is not stupidity, it is consideration to think of our successors, who also should derive profit from the birds which would disappear, if disturbed." "That is not true; but if foreigners came, they would take both eggs and down together." "They can do that if they have no conscience; Swedes would rather be poor than behave so badly." "That is why I call them stupid. But now, to speak of another matter. Why don't you hunt ermines and squirrels here as they do inland?" "Because we have enough to do with the fish and prefer the certain to the uncertain." "That is right; but I should prefer a sure income from skins and down to an insecure one from the sea. If I had nothing else to do, it wouldn't be long before I had enough money to buy a piece of ground to build upon and fish too." The Swede dropped the subject and shared his food with the stranger, who had anchored before the skerry because the wind had fallen. When it rose again at sunrise they both left the rest-house, little guessing what seeds they had sown in Christian's uncultured brain. No sooner had the sound of their footsteps died away than he sprang up and went out. The rifling sun illumined the open sea which was ruffled by the morning breeze, and over whose surface sea-birds were circling. To Christian this scene was not new, but to-day the sun seemed to shine more brightly and his horizon was enlarged. His eye, which had often swept the surface of the water without finding an object behind the blue line which bound the horizon, fancied it perceived, hidden by the clouds in the east, a distant land where the deliverer dwelt who would come and make him like other men; he would cease to be in the way; he would be welcome somewhere, would rest upon his own roof, and perhaps possess a small spot on this earth where he hitherto was hunted about like a trespassing dog. Hope awoke in his soul, and when he saw the strange boat hoist sail and enter the golden path traced on the waves by the sun, he fancied himself standing by the helm and steering to the distant land behind the blue horizon with his precious cargo, and now he determined to begin a new life. * * * * * Far out in the Fjallang Fjord, almost in the open sea, lies a skerry which is called Trollhattorna or the "Goblin's Cap." It consists of a round crag with four flat sides which have a certain resemblance to the cape which the goblins of fairy-tales are supposed to wear. Between these faces of the crag are deep clefts where guillemots build their nests, and where they are completely protected from rain and wind. After sundry combats with the fearless owners Christian had succeeded in obtaining undisturbed possession of that cleft which faced the land, into which the wind from the sea never blew. Here he had contrived a storehouse for his collected treasures by stretching a rain-proof sealskin, which he occasionally smeared with train-oil, between the walls of the cleft. He spent two years in amassing these treasures, and employed in doing so all his long-trained capacities. He could imitate all creatures' voices; he could whistle like the weasel, make a smacking noise like the squirrel, and grumble like the eider-duck. He knew how to approach one of the latter when sitting on her nest of seaweed on the open beach, and he could look at her so that she quietly let him stroke her back while he plucked the down. He never took more than one of the six eggs, and if the nestlings were already hatched he left them in peace; the ermine he sometimes caught with traps and sometimes shot them with blunted arrows so that the fur should not be injured. Squirrels he watched for from behind an oak, and could entice them to come so near that he could seize them with his hands; in the winter he dragged them by the help of a willow branch from their nests, and obtained their entire store of hazel-nuts besides. His senses had grown so fine by practice that he could hear a mile off what sort of bird was approaching, and even in the twilight he could distinguish at an incredible distance between a black water-hen and a merganser. Among his worst rivals, the crows, who hunted the eider-ducks in order to devour their eggs, he did great execution. By exposing the bodies of weasels and squirrels which he had skinned, he allured whole swarms of these uninvited plunderers, which he then shot down. Such was his skill and so completely undisturbed was he, that within two years he had accumulated in his grotto a store which seemed to him sufficient to bring him to the foreign land where the sun rose, and where people would know how to appreciate his treasures. Now again the spring was approaching, and the thought how he should construct a vessel sufficiently large and sea-worthy began to disquiet him. He knew that he could get out to the open sea very easily with a large fishing-boat such as was used for catching herrings, and that it was not more than two days' journey to the land on the other side, but he saw small prospect of being able to build such a boat and of procuring the expensive sails. His natural instinct, which revolted against the idea of anyone coming and taking from him what he had earned by his own work, forbade his procuring such a boat in any unlawful way. The spring came nearer and nearer, and his disquietude increased. One afternoon he was sitting on the highest point of Trollhattorna, looking out over the sea where sails appeared and disappeared. A red-brown eider-duck came swimming with its young ones after it; the sea-gulls flew past his ears screaming, and the mergansers answered them. Christian felt like a mountain king as he sat there above his treasure-chamber, but at the same time he seemed to himself to have been bewitched by the mountain spirits, for he saw no prospect of getting away. Just then he heard the measured stroke of oars behind him, and saw a boat with four men in it being rowed towards the place where he sat. As it came nearer, he recognised his father and brother, but did not know the two others, one of whom shouted to him: "Come down, you pirate!" Christian remained where he was. "Obey, when the King's sheriff orders you," said his father. High up on the skerry stood a pile of stones which the fishermen had set there as a mark. Christian was prepared to defend himself. "I am not a pirate," he said. "Ah, do you contradict the King's sheriff," said his father. "Beware! and do not make us all miserable." "I make no one miserable," answered Christian, "but I defend myself when I see that people wish me ill. What do you want from me?" "You have here a hiding-place for goods which you have stolen from peaceful traders," said the sheriff. "We have seen all." "I have stolen nothing from anyone," said Christian. "All that is here I have earned by hard work." "Nonsense! Do you think we shall believe that one can collect so many skins and all this down here in these bare skerries. Come down, for the last time, or we will take you." They began to climb the cliff, but then Christian began to hurl down blocks of stone, which bounded over the heads of his assailants, knocked splinters out of the rocks, and plumped into the water, without however striking anyone. "Wretched boy!" cried his father. "You were born for my ruin!" "Who begot me?" answered Christian, and threw the last stone. Now the besiegers had a prospect of success, and soon Christian felt his legs caught in a noose; and he was soon wound up like a ball, rolled down the hill, and laid in the bottom of the boat. "Do not hurt him unnecessarily," said his father. "I will be security for him." Then he began in a comparatively friendly tone to tell Christian how badly he had treated his parents, who had produced him, clothed him, and been kind to him; with what sorrow and shame he had requited them since their name would now become notorious and dishonoured in the neighbourhood. He adjured him by the Cross of Christ and all the saints that he should confess his sin, since by his doing so the offence would be half pardoned and might be atoned for by a fine. He pointed to his grey hairs and begged Christian not to bring dishonour on them; he bade him to think of his brother who would soon take his father's place and uphold the good name and prosperity of the family; he concluded by declaring that one must not live for oneself but for others also, because society was built up of families, and if families did not hold together, society would fall. Christian should therefore acknowledge his crime. But Christian had committed no crime, and therefore could not save society. His father's unwonted mildness moved him and he wished for a moment that he had done what he was accused of. Their talk continued till they reached home. Christian was taken to the barn and locked up there. The others went to the cottage, where they ate their supper and talked over the matter. Presently, as Christian lay reflecting on the floor of the barn, the door opened, and his mother stepped in. "Son," she said, "think of your old mother, and tell the truth." "Then mother would rather have a thief for her son than an honourable boy?" "I want you to confess; then your father will pay a fine for your offence, and our good name will be saved." "That is strange," said Christian, whose brain could not follow this line of thought. "If I make myself a criminal, then the crime can be pardoned, but if I continue to be honourable, it cannot. What crime? One which has never been committed? For I have not stolen; I have only gone where anyone can go, and for a long time have collected skins and eggs as I have leave to do." But his mother replied that that had nothing to do with it; the one thing necessary was that he should confess, since; the King's sheriff desired it. His mother departed sadly. Then came his sister, and said that Christian should not plunge her too into misery; for if the family were disgraced, her fiancé, Peter, could not marry her. Christian had only to confess, then he would be free and his father would pay the fine. Christian replied that he could not say "yes" when he ought to say "no." But why, she rejoined, could he not when he would make so many people happy? Oh, did his sister then wish him to lie? Why should he not under the circumstances? He would despise himself and not wish to live any longer. Yes, but if he made his father and mother and brother and sister happy? Did not Christian want them to be happy? Yes he did, but lying was another matter. All men did that a little, and Christian should not make himself better than others. All men liars! Christian had never believed that, and he himself had never lied. That was because he had never needed to lie. Why, that was dreadful! How could men live together if they did not speak the truth? His sister said she could not explain that, but now she would go her way, and never wished to see again a brother who made her so unhappy. Christian felt quite nervous by having so much attention concentrated on his person; he was not accustomed to people busying themselves about him, and this close dealing with his soul had disturbed his wonted equanimity. These people begged and implored him to do them a service; he could make them happy or miserable with a word--he was therefore a person of importance. This made him self-conscious, and he was seized with a desire to see the result of his intervention on their behalf. It was merely a matter of saying "yes" instead of "no," and after all what did it signify when all men were accustomed to change little words in case of need. Perhaps he would have fared better if he had done so before. His resolve was taken. His father then entered and asked him if it was possible for a boy to collect such a stock of things? Yes it was, if one did nothing else and was diligent. His father could not believe it; he had never seen it and therefore found it incredible. Christian repeated his affirmation. His father asked him to confess that he had stolen. Christian said "yes." His father, with the knife in his hand, asked whether he would confess to the bailiff. Christian promised solemnly to do so. His father cut the rope and they went together to the cottage. There sat the bailiff eating his porridge peacefully. "Has he confessed?" he asked, letting his spoon rest. "He has," said the father, to the great joy of those of the family who were present. But the bailiff seemed to have made some miscalculation, for he was not glad. "Well," he resumed, turning to Christian, "how did you manage it? I should like to know." Christian, who would also have been pleased to hear how a single man sets about plundering a trader's boat, stood at first speechless, but as he began to think how he would act under the specified circumstances, his imagination came to his help. He went to the stand near the door, where the axes were kept, and took the largest gimlet he could see. Then he took down his father's great sheep-skin, threw it on the bed, and after he had taken his stand in the middle of the room, began thus. "There lies the boat at anchor" (be pointed to the bed) "and there lies the skipper asleep" (he indicated the sheep-skin). "Wait! Let me think!" interrupted the bailiff, whose brain worked slowly. But Christian continued. "Here I stand on the shore, watching the boat. Then I consider. There lies a boat and here am I. Probably there is something at the bottom of the boat." Christian, who was not accustomed to lie, came to a stop, for his awakening conscience urged him to flight and freedom. Fortunately the bailiff utilised this pause to get his ideas into order. "Let me see," he said. "There lies the skipper, and there lies the gimlet. What had you to do with the gimlet?" Christian knew well, but that was, for the present, his secret. "I throw myself into the sea, my legs are entangled in the weeds, I wrench myself loose, swim to the anchor-rope, take the gimlet and sink the boat." "That is too fast, too fast! Wait! Where were we?" said the bailiff. "We sank the boat." He dipped the wooden spoon into the jug of milk, and continued. "Well, and the cargo sank too?" "Yes." "That is remarkable. How did you get hold of it then?" "I raised it," said Christian. "He raised it. Quite right. Now I begin to see," said the bailiff, turning to Christian's father. "But," he resumed, after rubbing his nose with the spoon handle, "I do not understand why he sank the boat when he took the cargo." "The skipper! The skipper!" broke in Christian's father, who was quite absorbed in the adventure. "The skipper! Yes, that is quite right! He is a sharp youngster! It is a serious case, but finely managed." Christian had had time to make his plan. He drew back to the door and asked, "Can I go now?" The bailiff asked himself, "Can he go now?" Then he said, "Wait a moment! Did you not take up the skipper too?" "No, I did not," said Christian, "but if the bailiff wishes it I will." Then he disappeared through the door, with the sheep-skin on his shoulder and the gimlet in his hand, indicating his intention to save the skipper, and leaving those present to their reflections and discussions. When Christian went out he went straight to the shore, reflecting how quickly he had become a liar and how comfortably lying helped one through the difficulties of life. Then he bored holes in all the boats except the largest fishing-boat, on which he hoisted sail and steered towards Trollhättor. There he put his stores on board till the sun rose, then hoisted sail again and held on in the sun's track. * * * * * Two years had passed. The old fisherman and his wife were dead. Their son Hans had taken over the farm and married a poor girl. Nothing had been heard of Christian, and at the division of the property he had been declared disinherited because he had left the country on account of a crime and nothing more had been heard of him. Hans' cottage stood on the shore of the fjord, just where it narrowed to a sound through which boats had to pass to reach the large fishing skerries. Exactly opposite the sound lay a little island about one acre in extent. It consisted mostly of hillocks, but in a hollow between them some earth had collected, covered with very good grass, and a score of birches had sprung up. Through his cottage windows Hans could see the island which was part of a neighbour's property. One day during the spring thaw he sat and watched how the crows sailed on the pieces of ice in the sound; snow lay in patches on the banks, but there were glimpses of green in the clefts of the rocks. By chance he glanced over to the other shore and there perceived some movements going on which aroused his curiosity. Some workmen were bringing stones and timber already hewn and cut as if for building a cottage, but he could see no vessel which had conveyed the materials or the workmen. He could not rest till he had sent a servant over to his neighbour to ask what was going on. The messenger returned with the news that a stranger from Esthland had bought the island and was intending to build on it. This was all that Hans could discover at present. But not long after he discovered that the new-comer was his own brother, Christian, who had returned, accompanied by his wife whom he had married abroad. On mature consideration the risks for his freedom had not seemed great to him since no witnesses to hid adventurous plundering could be produced, and as regards the disappearance of the fishing-boat and the boring of holes in the others, there would only be a fine to pay, if his brother lodged a complaint against him. Meanwhile the house grew higher and became such a stately building, with its outhouses, as to attract the attention of all who passed by, and to arouse the envy of Hans. One day he said to his wife, "I begin to think that this old house must be rebuilt." "It is not long since that was done," she answered. But Hans was wilful and had his own way. He was obliged to hire workmen who ate up his seed-corn and finished his winter stock of herrings. "Pride comes before a fall," said people. During the winter Hans sat in his large house and was half starved. In spring he had to sell a cow in order to buy seed. Christian, on the other hand, lived comfortably in his roomy dwelling, though he possessed neither land, meadows, woods, fishing-grounds, cattle, nor yacht. Hans and he never met. One evening the pastor, on his way from visiting a sick person, called in at Hans' house, and sat by the fire to warm himself. "I cannot understand how he has his train-oil factory far away in Esthland, and can sit here at home and manage it," said the pastor. "Who?" asked Hans. "He over there; Christian, your brother." "Train-oil factory? He told my neighbour he was a rope-maker." "Rope-maker? That is strange! Then one of us has heard wrong." While they were discussing the matter, there was a knock at the door and the bailiff entered. He had been engaged in his business out of doors. "It is quite incomprehensible," he said, "how one can sit here among the skerries and manage mines far away in Russia." General commotion! Christian was a scoundrel! The pastor must go over and speak with him and the bailiff must find out how he supported himself. The next day the pastor and the bailiff paid Christian a visit. They were received on the bridge and conducted into the house, which was handsomely furnished like that of a rich man, so that all questions as to Christian's means of subsistence were prevented. The floor was covered with smooth hewn planks, the fire-place was made of stone, and the walls were covered with hangings. Christian's wife was lively and pretty; her hair was black and hung over her eyes. She went round and poured Greek wine into their glasses while Christian related the moat extraordinary adventures of his travels which the pastor and the bailiff, under the influence of wine, found quite credible. This went on till late at night, and the pastor was carried down to the boat on a pair of oars, bestowing his blessing on tools and buildings and not least on Christian who had presented the church with a goblet of gilt silver. The bailiff, who had received a hunting-dog as a gift from Christian, was guided by it down to the boat where, placing his fingers on a tub of herrings, he took an oath that Christian was the most honourable man in the skerries. Some time afterwards Christian came home, after an excursion among the skerries, in a great sailing boat rigged with two lateen sails which could hold straight against the wind and needed not to be taken down when he turned. Hans now had no more peace. He must have lateen sails. His wife had been weaving linen during the whole winter for new shirts; Hans soon convinced her that the sails were more important. But he was also convinced, after bearing of the great reception which his brother had given to his guests, that a house-holder could not offer beer to his guests when a small-tenant offered wine. Still, wine was very dear, and he had a sharp struggle with himself as well as with his wife. He said they could economise with milk, to which he attached no special importance, and that he was quite willing to give up his own share of it. The second cow was sold. Meanwhile wonderful reports began to go about and were repeated. Trollhättor was said to be haunted, and no one ventured to go there. Flames had been seen dancing over the sea. About that time there was a shipwreck, accompanied by the unusual circumstance that not one of the crew was saved. It seemed still more peculiar that Christian, shortly before the ship was driven on shore, had rented an inferior fishing ground among the outermost skerries, which had shallow banks and where no one wished to fish. He had been seen there carrying fishing-forks and lighting fires, but no one could understand why he went so far out with fishing-forks. The reports increased and became threatening. But the pastor and the bailiff, who were regular guests at Christian's, took him vigorously under their protection, refuted the scandal, and thus the whole affair was forgotten. When the spring came Hans had no seed-corn. He took no trouble about his patches of ground but let anything grow on them. He killed his own oxen for a baptism-feast which he held in March. No resource was now left to him but fishing. It was an insecure means of earning a living, almost like gambling. When he got nothing, he went hungry; when he had a good haul, he made a feast. His brother-in-law, who had a claim on his farm on account of his wife, caused him uneasiness also. When the week of prayer before Easter arrived and the pastor came with the Holy Cross and the boys sang the litany round the fields in order to bless the seed sown, Hans was ashamed to acknowledge that his field had no seed sown in it. Then when only thistles appeared on it, people said he had betrayed the Cross of Christ. The next year Hans had another son. Then he burnt up his last wood and sowed turnips in the ashes. But Christian sat on the shore exactly opposite, and saw how the beautiful island was changed to a bare skerry. He felt neither grief nor joy, but only found it instructive to watch the development of the affair. In autumn Hans' turnip-crop failed, for the wood which had been a protection from the north wind was gone. One day, when their need was great and Hans had gone out fishing, his wife took a punt and rowed over the sound. Christian received her in a friendly way and bade her come into the guest-house where private conversations were generally held. She told him her great need and asked for help. Christian made no objection but gave help generously, including a cow, seed-corn, and so on. Hans' wife was moved, and confessed that her husband had not behaved well. Christian said he knew nothing about that and did not mix in other people's affairs. So they parted. When she had gone, Christian said to his wife, "Olga, I have nothing more to do here. I have seen the punishment come without lifting my hand against my own flesh and blood. Hans is a beggar; in winter he will become a thief, since he must steal wood, after having burnt his trees. His children will become servants, if nothing worse. And that is right! They taught me to lie, and the representative of the law made me a thief. I was honest, but they would not let me be so. Now I could be so if I wished, for they have told me I can be an honorary magistrate, if I like to buy ground. But I will possess nothing of this earth for which men fight; I will not be respected by this society, who suspect that I am a scoundrel, and yet pardon me because I have a stone fire-place and drink wine. All my toils put together could not make me rich, you know, for one cannot become so by collecting skins and down. If I had lived three hundred years ago I would have been a pirate and my name would have been celebrated and cursed in the world. Then I would have staked my life and won my bread in honourable battle; now I am a wreck-plunderer and a corpse-robber, who enjoy the respect of everyone except my own--and thine, Olga. Let us leave this country which had no place for us when we were honest, but opened its doors when we were dishonest. Let us go where the earth has yet no owner, where the freeborn man can pasture his flocks, where the sky itself waters the grass, and the sun entices it to grow. Your eyes, Olga, ask me whether I shall not miss the old home where my childhood passed? I had no childhood; no one bade me welcome when I came, and no one says farewell when I go. When I saw you, Olga, my childhood began, and where you are, there is my home." * * * * * In the evening the Trollhättor was again haunted, and an incendiary set fire to Christian's house. By the light of the fire his largest boat was seen sailing out in an easterly direction. Christian sat at the helm, but his young wife sat in front by the main-sheet, keeping the look-out. HIGHER AIMS It was so cold in the little country church that the breath came like smoke from the mouths of the priest and the boys who sang in the choir. The congregation, who listened to the Mass standing, had been allowed to spread straw on the ground so that whenever they knelt at the ringing of the little bell, they should not be too chilled. To-day there were many people at Mass, because they were expecting an unaccustomed spectacle at the end of the service. The priest was going to admonish an ill-assorted couple, who would not keep the peace and could not divorce each other because no crime had been committed. Neither of them wished to leave their children and incur the disgrace of running away. The Mass was concluded and the litany, a "Miserere," sounded pathetically from the voices which trembled with cold. The sun shone redly through the frosted window-panes, and the burning wax candles gave no light at all, but looked merely like yellow blots over which the warmed air quivered. "Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi," sang the priest; the boys answered "Miserere!" and the congregation joined in--deep clear men's voices and high soft women's voices--"Miserere--have mercy upon us!" The last "Miserere" sounded like a cry of despair, for at the same moment the married pair stepped from the hidden place by the door, which had been appointed for them, and went up the central aisle to the altar. The man was tall, powerfully built, with a brown beard, and limped somewhat; the woman had a small, slender figure with pliant outlines and graceful movements. Her face was half hidden by a hood, so that one only saw a pair of pale blue eyes with a suffering expression, and the upper part of her white cheeks. The priest said a low prayer and turned to the congregation. He was a young man, not yet thirty, whose fresh, good-natured face seemed to be out of keeping with his long robe and the solemn, severe words which he uttered. He had long ago received the confessions of each of the married pair, and only delivered his admonition at the bishop's command. The discordant couple had been to the bishop and had asked him to dissolve their marriage, but the latter had found no reason to grant their request since the canonical law and the Decretals only permitted divorce on account of sin, barrenness in certain cases, and the running away of husband or wife from hearth and home. The priest began his admonishment in a dry, expressionless voice, as though he did not believe what he said. He declared that marriage had been established by God Himself, Who had created woman from the man's rib to be a help to him; but since the man was created first and the woman subsequently, the wife should be subject to the husband, and he should be her lord. (Here the little hood made a movement as though the wearer wished to speak.) The man on his side should treat his wife with respect because she was his honour, and by doing so he honoured himself in his wife. This was the teaching of St Paul in his Epistle to the Corinthians, chapter seven, verse four, on which passage the decree of Gratian was founded, declaring that the wife had not power over herself, but the husband. (The little hooded figure shook from head to foot, and the man nodded approvingly at the priest's words. The priest, who now fastened his eyes on the woman, changed his tone.) When the disciples came to Jesus and asked whether divorce was permissible for married people, be answered and said: "What God hath joined, let not man put asunder," and for this reason the Church did not allow the dissolution of marriage. The concessions made by earthly laws were only due to the wickedness of men and could not be approved by the Church. Life was not a rose-garden, and we must not demand too much from it. The preacher himself was married (as at that time Catholic priests were allowed to be), he knew therefore how to judge in the matter; he knew that there must be give and take, if there was not to be quarrelling and strife. He had married this young couple and witnessed their first happiness; he had baptised their child and seen their love sanctified by parental joy. He reminded them of those unforgettable hours when life had given them its best and the future shone before them like a bright summer day. He adjured them by that recollection to reach each other their hands, and to forget all that had happened since the spirit of unrest had entered their hearts; he prayed them in the presence of that Christian congregation, to renew the tie which in their selfishness they had sought to dissolve. There followed a moment of deep silence and expectation, while the congregation showed their impatience by pushing forward as far as the way they were packed together allowed. But the married pair remained motionless. Then the priest seemed to become impatient, and in a voice trembling with annoyance and anger he again resumed. He spoke of the duties of parents towards their child, of God's wrath against an unforgiving temper, and said plainly that marriage was not meant to be merely a means of carnal indulgence or of increasing the population, but also--and he laid emphasis on this--of family education. He gave them till the following Sunday to think it over, and bade them depart in peace. No sooner had he spoken the last word and made a gesture of dismissal with his hand, than the young wife turned and departed. Coldly and calmly she passed between the rows of the congregation, and disappeared through the great entrance. The man hesitated a moment, then he sought the smaller door at the end of the transept. As the priest walked home with his wife, who had been present at Mass, she said to him in a gentle but reproachful tone: "Did you believe what you said?" "You are my conscience, dear woman, and you know my thoughts; spare me therefore a little, for the spoken word smites like a scourge." "Then let the scourge smite! You know by their confessions that the union of this married pair is no true marriage, you know that this woman is a martyr whose life can only be saved by her keeping away from this man; you know this, and yet you exhort her to go towards her destruction." "The Church, you see, my friend, has higher aims than the well-being of ordinary people." "I thought that the well-being of men, what you call their salvation, was the highest aim of the Church. What then is the Church's highest aim?" "The increase of God's kingdom on earth," answered the priest after some reflection. "Let us consider!" said his wife. "It is said that only the saved shall dwell in God's Kingdom. Then the Church is to save men." "In the higher sense, yes!" "In the higher sense; are there then two?" "A little foolish woman can ask more questions than seven wise men can answer," said the priest, and pressed his wife's hand. "Then it is a bad look-out for the wisdom of the wise, for what will they answer when an intelligent person asks--when all the intelligent people in the world come and ask?" continued the foolish little woman. "They will answer that they do not know," whispered the priest. "You ought to say that aloud, and should have said it to-day in the church. Your conscience is not pleased with you to-day." "Then I will silence my dear conscience," said the priest, and kissed his wife, who was standing in the porch of their house. "That you cannot," she answered, "as long as you love me; and certainly not in that way." They stamped the snow from their feet and entered the little parsonage, where they were met by two small, healthy children, who wanted to kiss their father and mother. Not the least cause of the heartiness of their welcome was the good Sunday dinner which was cooking in the oven. The priest took off his long clerical coat and put on one more like a layman's. In this, however, he never showed himself to any member of his congregation but only to his family and the old cook. The table was laid, the floor was clean and white, and the cut fir twigs smelt sweetly. The father said grace and they took their seats at the table as glad and as much at peace with the world and with each other as though a heart had never been broken for the sake of "higher aims." * * * * * The snow had melted and the earth reeked and fermented with creative power. The parsonage was situated on the unsightly plain in Uppland which is included in the ecclesiastical district of Rasbo. Wherever the eye looked there was only to be seen the stony ground, the clay soil, and some elder bushes which cowered like frightened hares before the never-ceasing wind. In the distance, on the horizon, were visible the tree-tops of the edge of a wood like the masts of a ship disappearing at sea. On the south side of the house the priest had planted some trees and hoed a little patch of ground where he cultivated flowers and vegetables, which in winter had to be covered with straw since they were not accustomed to this severe climate. A small stream which came from the woods in the north ran by the parsonage, and was large enough to row a punt on, if one kept exactly in the middle. Dominus Peder in Rasbo had awakened at sunrise, kissed his wife and children, and gone to the church which lay a few stone's-throws from the parsonage. He had read the morning Mass, blessed the work of the day, and come home again beaming with joy and cheerfulness. The larks, which certainly did not understand the difference between beauty and ugliness, had sung over the stony fields as though they blessed the meagre crop. Water flowed murmuring in the ditches on whose edges gleamed yellow colt's-foot. The priest had come home, drunk his morning milk in the porch, and now he stood in his jerkin in the garden and released his flowers from their winter covering. He took a hoe and began to turn up the sleeping ground. The sun glowed; the work to which he was unaccustomed stirred his blood. He inhaled deep draughts of the strong spring air and felt as robust as though he had awakened to new life. His wife had opened the window-shutters on the sunny side of the house, and stood there dressing, while she watched her husband at work. "That is better than sitting over books," he said. "You ought to have been a peasant," she replied. "I could not, my dear! Ah, how it does one's breast and back good! Why do people think God has given us two long arms if they are not to be used." "Yes, one does not need them to read with." "No! but to shovel snow, to hew wood, to dig the ground, to carry one's children, and to defend oneself--that's what they are for, and one is punished if one does not use them. We 'spiritual' men, we must not touch this sinful earth." "Hush!" said his wife, and laid her finger on her mouth, "the children hear you." Her husband took off his cap and wiped the perspiration from his brow. "'In the sweat of thy brow thou shalt eat bread,' so it is written. Oh, how finely I sweat! That is something better than when anxiety at not being able to discover the sense of an obscure text makes one feel a cold sweat at the roots of one's hair, or when the spirits of doubt burn the goodness out of one's blood so that it creeps through the body like hot sand. Do you see how the flesh on my arm quivers for joy at being able to move? See how the blue veins swell like streamlets in spring when the ice melts, my chest feels so broad that the seams of the jerkin crack; that is really better----" "Hush!" said his wife, warning him again, and added, in order to divert the dangerous current of his talk, "You have released your flowers from their strait-waistcoats, but you have forgotten the poor animals who have stood all through the winter in their dark stable." "That is true," said the priest, and put the hoe aside; "but then the children must come out and see." He went at once to the cattle-house which stood at the back of the row of buildings of which the farm consisted; there he set free the two cows, opened the sheep and the calf sheds, then went up the little acclivity behind and opened the door of the pigsty. First came out one cow and stood in the door of the cow-house. The light seemed to dazzle her as she stretched out her neck and became aware of the sun; then she stepped carefully on the bridge and drew some deep breaths so that her stomach swelled; then she smelt the ground and as though seized by joyful recollections of the previous year, she erected her tail and danced up the little hill, leapt over stones and bushes and went off at full gallop. Then followed the other cow, the calves and sheep, and lastly the pigs. But behind them came the priest with a stick, for he had forgotten to shut the garden gate, and now there was a race, in which the boys eagerly joined, to drive the animals out of the enclosure. But when the old cook saw her master run up the hill in his jerkin she was anxious what people would say and rushed out from the kitchen door, while his wife stood on the steps and laughed merrily. But the young priest was so boisterous and joyful and delighted as a child at witnessing the delight of the creatures at the end of their winter imprisonment, that he forgot both congregation and bishop and ran out on to the high-road in order to drive the animals on to the fallow ground. Then he heard his wife call his name, and when he turned round he saw a woman standing by her in the porch. Feeling ashamed and annoyed, he pulled his clothes straight, put his hair under his cap, and turned homewards assuming a solemn expression of face. As he came nearer he recognised the little woman whom he had exhorted in the charge regarding discord in marriage. He perceived that she wished for a conversation, and asked her to come in, saying he would follow as soon as he had changed his coat. In another coat and another mind he entered, after a time, the room where the unruly wife awaited him, and asked her business. She declared that she had come to an understanding with her husband that she should leave his house deliberately, since the Church would not grant a divorce in any other way. The priest was impatient and wished straightway to quote the Decretals and the Epistle to the Corinthians, when through the open window he heard the sound of a foot on the sanded garden-walk. He knew so well the light, soft step, and the crunching of the sand made an impression on his conscience. "The act you contemplate, woman," he said, "is courageous, but it is nevertheless a crime." "It is no crime; you only call it so," answered the woman decidedly, as though she had spent days and nights of despair in considering her action. The priest was irritated, and sought in his mind for some cutting words when he heard again the sound of sharp crunching on the sand outside. "You set a bad example to the congregation," he said. "A worse one, if I remain," said the woman. "You will be disinherited." "I know." "You will lose your reputation." "I know that too, but I will bear it for I am innocent." "But your child?" "I will take it with me." "What does your husband say to that? You have no claim on your child if you leave your home." "Haven't I? Not on my own child? Then Solomon's wisdom itself is not sufficient to solve this tangled knot. But I will tear it in two, if I can make an end by doing so. I came to you to ask for light and you lead me into a dark passage, where you put out the light and go your way. One thing I know: where love ceases, there only shame and humiliation remain; I will not live in sin, therefore I break off." Outside deep breaths, as of suppressed feelings, were heard. The priest struggled with himself, then he said: "As the servant of the Church, I have only to hold to the word of the Lord, and that is hard as a rock. As a man, I can only say what my heart suggests but what is perhaps sin, for the human heart is a frail thing. Go in peace, and put not asunder what God has joined." "No, not what God has joined, but what our parents arranged. Have you not a word of comfort to say to me on the difficult path I have to tread?" The priest shook his head negatively. "May you not receive stones some day when you want bread," said the woman with an almost threatening look, and went out. The priest threw off his coat again, sighed, and tried to drive away the uncomfortable feelings which the interview had caused. When he came out, he approached his wife with the remark that he was sincerely sorry for the poor woman. "Why didn't you tell her so?" broke in his wife, who seemed to be well posted in the matter. "There are things which one cannot say," answered her husband. "To whom cannot one say them?" "To whom? The Church, like the State, my friend, are Divine ideas, but being reduced to reality by weak men, are only imperfectly realised. Therefore one cannot confess before ordinary mortals that these arrangements are imperfect, for then they would begin to doubt their Divine origin." "But if one, seeing their imperfection, should doubt of their Divine origin, and it should be shown, on examination, that they have no Divine origin?" "I believe, by all the saints, that the devil of doubt reigns in the air of this time. Do you not know that the first questioner plunged mankind into damnation? Certainly it was not without reason that the Papal Legate in the recent Church Assembly called our land corrupted." His wife looked at him as if she wanted to see how far he was in earnest, whereon her husband answered with a smile, which showed that he was jesting. "You must not joke like that," said his wife. "I can so easily believe what you say. Besides, I never know when you are serious or making fun. You believe partly what you say, but partly not. You are so wavering, as though you yourself had been possessed by those spirits in the air of which you spoke." In order not to proceed further in discussing a question which he preferred to leave untouched, the priest proposed to make a boat excursion to a pleasant spot which had the advantage of some leafy trees, and eat their midday meal there. Presently he was plying his oars and the green punt shot over the smooth surface of the water, while the children tried to pull up the old reeds of the previous year, through whose dry leaves the spring wind whispered of resurrection from the winter's sleep. The priest had taken off his long coat and put on his jerkin, which he called his "old man." He pulled the oars strongly, like a practised rower, the whole half-mile to the birch-planted height, which lay like an island in the stony waste around. While his wife prepared the meal, he ran about with the children and plucked anemones and primroses. He taught them to shoot with bow and arrow, and cut willow-whistles for them. He climbed the trees, rolled on the grass like a boy, and let himself be driven like a horse with a bit in his mouth by the loudly laughing children. He grew ever more boisterous, and when the boys took the long coat which he had hung on a birch tree as a mark to shoot at, he began to laugh till he was purple in the face. But his wife looked carefully round on all sides to see whether anyone was watching them. "Ah! let me be at any rate a man in God's free world of nature," he said. And she had no objection to make. The meal was laid on the grass, and the priest was so hungry that he forgot to say grace, which drew a remark from the children. "Father does not say grace at table," they said. "I see no table," he answered, and stuck his thumb in the butter. This delighted the children immensely. "Keep your feet still under the table, Peter! Don't lay your legs on the table, Nils," he said, and the little ones laughed till they nearly choked. Never had they been so jolly; never had they seen their father so cheerful, and he had constantly to repeat his jests, which they heard at each repetition with the same delight. But evening was coming on and they had to think of their return home. They packed up the things and got into the boat. They were still cheerful for a while, but soon the laughter grew silent and the children went to sleep on their mother's lap. The father sat quiet and serious, as one is after laughing much, and the nearer they approached the house the more silent he became. He tried at intervals to say something cheerful, but it sounded quite melancholy. The sun threw slanting rays over the huge fields; the wind had fallen; there reigned a depressing silence and deep stillness in all nature, only broken now and then by the lowing of cattle or the passionate crying of the cuckoo. "Cuckoo in the north brings sorrow forth," said the priest, as though he would thereby give a long-sought expression to his melancholy. "That is only true of the first time one hears it," said his wife, comforting him. The roof of the cattle-shed was now visible, and behind it stood the church tower. They moored the punt by the bridge and the father took the two sleeping children and carried them into the house. Then he kissed his wife and thanked her for the pleasant day; he would now go to church, he said, and read vespers. He took his book and went. When he came on the road the Angelus was ringing. He hastened his steps. From a good distance he saw people moving in the churchyard. Something unusual must be going on, as no one besides the sacristan generally attended vespers. He thought that someone had perhaps seen him on the island, and heard his conversation with his wife. He felt seriously anxious when he approached the church door, for there he perceived two horses with gorgeous trappings and an archdeacon with his retinue from Upsala, where the Archbishop lived. The archdeacon seemed to have been waiting, for he went immediately towards the priest and said that he wished to make a communication to him when vespers were over. Never had the priest read the evening service so fervently, and with deep anxiety he invoked the protection of all the saints against unknown dangers. He cast a glance now and then at the door, where he saw the archdeacon standing like an executioner waiting for his victim, and when he had said "Amen" he went with heavy steps to receive the blow, for now he was certain that a misfortune was impending. "I did not wish to visit you in your house," began the Archbishop's messenger, "because my business is of such a nature that it demands a quiet place and the proximity of the holy things which strengthen our hearts. I have a message from the Church council to deliver which will deeply affect the intimacies of your private life." Here he broke off, for he saw his victim's anxiety, and handed over a parchment which the young priest unrolled and read: "Dilectis in Christo fratribus (dear brothers in Christ), Episcopus, Sabinensis, apostolicae sedis legatis (the Bishop of Sabina, Legate of the Roman Chair)----" His eyes flew over the crowded letters, till they stopped all at once at a line which seemed to be written in fire, for the young man's features became as pale as ashes. The archdeacon seemed to feel sympathy with him and said: "It appears that the demands of the Church are severe: before the close of the year the marriages of all priests are to be dissolved, for a true servant of the Lord cannot live united to a wife without defiling the holy things which he handles, and his heart cannot be divided between Christ and a sinful descendant of the first woman." "'What God hath joined, that shall not man put asunder,'" answered the priest as soon as he came to himself. "That is only true for ordinary people; but when the higher aims of the Church of Christ demand it, then what would otherwise be wrong becomes lawful. And mark well the distinction--'_Man_ shall not put asunder.' The saying, therefore, simply refers to man acting as the divider; but here God acts through His servant, and sunders what God has united, therefore it does not apply here." "But God has ordained marriage Himself," objected the broken man. "Just what I say, and therefore He has a right to dissolve it." "But the Lord does not desire this sacrifice from his weak servant." "The Lord commanded Abraham to sacrifice his son." "But our hearts will break." "Just so; hearts ought to break--that makes them more ardent in piety." "I That can never be the wish of a loving God." "The 'loving' God caused His own Son to be slain on the Cross. The world is no pleasure-garden, but merely vain and transient, and you may comfort yourself with the thought that the Decretals----" "No, for God's sake, don't talk to me of Decretals! Archdeacon, in heaven's name give me a spark of hope; dip the tip of your finger in water and quench this fire of despair which you have kindled. Say that it is not possible; try to believe that it was only a proposal which was not adopted." The archdeacon pointed to his seal and said, "Presentibus consulentibus et consentientibus (it is already decided and confirmed). And as regards the Decretals, my young friend, there are in them such treasures of wisdom that they may well serve to clear up a clouded mind, and if I want to give a good friend a piece of good advice, I say, 'Read the Decretals; read them early and late, and you will find that they make you feel calm and happy.'" The unhappy priest thought of the stones which he had given on the morning of the same day to the despairing woman, and bowed his head to the blow. "Therefore," concluded the archdeacon, "enjoy the short time left; the summer wind has blown, the flowers have sprung up in the field, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land. On St Sylvester's Day _ultimo mensis Decembris_ I come here again, and then must your house be swept and garnished, as though Christ the Lord was about to enter, under penalty of excommunication. Till then you can study the decree more closely. Farewell, and forget not to read the Decretals." He mounted his white horse and rode away in order to reach the next parish before night and to spread grief and misery there, like the rider in the Apocalypse. Dominus Peder in Rasbo was crushed. He did not venture to go home at once but rushed into the church, where he fell down by the altar. The doors of the gilded altar-triptych stood open, and the Saviour's progress to Calvary was illumined by the red rays of the evening sun. The priest was at this moment not the justiciary of a minatory and threatening Lord, but he lay like one of the chastised flock and prayed for mercy. He looked up to the image of Christ but found no sympathy there. The Saviour took His cup from the hand that offered it and emptied it to the dregs; He carried His cross on His mangled back up the steep hill where He was to be crucified, but over the Crucified heaven opened. There was then something over and beyond all these sorrows. The priest began to examine into the reasons of these great human sacrifices which were about to take place all over the country. The Church had seen how men began to doubt in the priest's right to be judge and executioner, for they had found their judges full of human weaknesses. Now the priests must show that for Christ's sake they could tear their hearts out of their breasts and lay them on the altar. "But," continued his rebellious reason, "Christianity has done away with human sacrifices." He went on thinking, and the idea occurred to him that perhaps there was something underlying the old heathen sacrifices. Abraham was a heathen, for he did not know Christ, and he was ready to offer his son at God's command. Christ was sacrificed; all holy martyrs are sacrificed--why should he be spared? There was no reason why he should, and he had to acknowledge that if people were to continue to believe in his preaching they could also demand that, he should sacrifice his dearest himself, for he and his wife were one. He had to acknowledge this, and he felt a peculiar new enjoyment in the thought of the terrible sufferings which awaited him. Pride also came to his support and pointed to the martyr's crown which would elevate him above this congregation, on whom he was accustomed to look down from the high altar, but who had begun to raise their heads and defiantly threatened to storm this lofty position. Strengthened and elevated by this thought, he rose and passed within the altar-rails. He was, in his own eyes, no more the crushed sinner, but the righteous man who deserved to stand by Christ's side for he had suffered as much as He. He looked proudly down on the praying-stools which in the twilight resembled penitents kneeling, and he hurled the denunciations of a prophet on their heads because they would not believe in his preaching. He tore his coat open and showed them his bleeding breast in which an empty gap showed that he had given God his heart. He bade those of little faith to put their hands in his side and let themselves be carried over by him. He felt himself grow during his suffering, and his over-excited imagination transported him into an ecstasy, so that the operations of thought seemed momentarily suspended and he believed that he was one with Christ. Further than that he could not go, and he collapsed like a sail which has been split by the wind, when the sexton came in to close the church. On the way home be felt unhappy because his ecstasy was over, and he would have gladly returned to the church had not an indefinite something, which expressed itself as a faint sense of duty, summoned him home. The nearer he approached the more his religious emotions cooled, and the smaller therefore he felt himself. But when he entered the door, his wife received him with open arms, asking him uneasily why he had remained out so long; and when he felt the friendly glow of his hearth, and saw the children peacefully asleep with rosy cheeks, he realised the preciousness of what he had now to surrender. He felt all his young blood well up in his opened heart, and was conscious of the reawakening of the omnipotent force of first love which can bear everything. He swore never to leave the beloved of his heart, and the married pair felt themselves young again. They sat together till midnight talking of the future and how to escape the danger which threatened them. * * * * * The summer passed for the happy pair like a beautiful dream, during which they forgot the wakening which awaited them. Meanwhile the papal decree had become known to the congregation, who heard of it with a sort of malicious satisfaction--partly because they did not grudge their spiritual superiors a little purgatorial fire, and partly because they hoped to get their priests more cheaply when they had to live as celibates. Moreover, there were in the congregation a number of pious people who received whatever came from Bishop and Pope as though it came from heaven. They discussed the question thoroughly and adhered to the view that a priest's marriage was sinful. These pious people, who had expected to see the parsonage purified immediately after the promulgation of the decree, began to murmur when they saw that their pastor gave no signs whatever of intending to obey it. The murmuring grew in strength when the church-tower happened to be struck by lightning. This was followed by a failure in the harvest. The voices of complaint became louder and the pious party sent a deputation to the parsonage to declare that they did not intend to receive the sacrament at the hands of a priest who lived in sin. They demanded that he should separate from his wife, because any more children which might be born would be illegitimate, and they threatened to purify the parsonage with fire if it were not pure by the end of the year. For a long time after that the pair were left in peace, but a marked change began to be observable in the priest. He went oftener into the church than he needed to, and remained there till late in the evening. He was reserved and cold towards his wife, and seemed as though he were nervous to meet her. He would take his children for hours on his lap and caress them without saying a word. At Martinmas, in November, the archdeacon from the cathedral city came on a visit and had a long talk with the priest. That night the latter slept in the attic and continued to sleep there. His wife said nothing, but saw the course of events without the prospect of being able to alter anything. Her pride forbade her to make any advance, and as her husband began to take his meals alone, they met seldom. He was as pale as ashes, and his eyes were sunken in his head; he never ate in the evening, and slept on the bare ground under a sealskin rug. Then came Christmas-time. Two days before Christmas the priest came into the house and sat by the oven. His wife was mending the children's clothes. For some time there was a dreadful silence; at last the man said: "The children must have something for Christmas; who will go to the town?" "I will," answered his wife, "but I take the children with me. Do you agree?" "I have prayed the Lord that this cup might pass from me, but He has not willed it, and I have answered, 'Let not my will but Thine be done!'" "Are you sure that you know the Lord's will?" said his wife submissively. "As sure as my soul lives!" "I will go to-morrow to my father and mother, who are expecting me," said his wife in a sad but firm voice. The priest stood up and went out hastily, as though he had heard his death-sentence. The evening sky was sparkling and cold, the stars glimmered in the blue-grey depths, and the boundless expanse of the snow-covered plain lay before the despairing wanderer, whose way seemed to point towards the lowest stars of the sky, which seemed as though they had risen out of the white earth. He wandered and wandered on and on; he felt like a tethered horse which runs but is pulled back by the rope whenever it thinks itself free. He passed by houses brightly lit up, and saw how people scoured and swept and baked and cooked in preparation for the approaching Christmas. Thoughts of his own approaching Christmas awoke in him. He imagined his house unheated, unlighted, without her, without the children. His feet were burning but his body felt freezing. He went on and on without knowing whither. At last he stood before a house. The shutters were fastened, but a ray of light shone out and threw a yellow gleam upon the snow. He went nearer and put his eye to the chink. He saw into a room in which the seats and tables were covered with clothes--little children's shirts, stockings and coats. A large box stood open; on the cover of it hung a white dress whose graceful shape attracted his attention; it evidently belonged to a young woman, and on one shoulder was fastened a green garland. Was it a shroud or a bridal dress? He wondered with himself why corpses and brides were dressed in the same way. He saw a shadow thrown upon the wall--sometimes it was so large that it was broken by the ceiling and vanished in it; sometimes it crept down to the floor. At last it remained stationary on the upper part of the white dress. A small head wearing a cap was thrown into sharp relief against the bright background. This forehead, this nose, this mouth was familiar to him. Where was he? The shadow sank into the box, and into the light there came a face which could belong to no living person, so pale and unspeakably suffering did it appear. It looked him in the eyes so that they smarted, and he felt the tears roll down his cheeks and melt the snow on the window-ledge. The eyes of the face were so soft and pleading that he thought he saw St Katherine on the wheel, praying the Emperor Decius for mercy. Yes, that was she, and he was the Emperor. Should he grant her mercy? No; "give that which is Cæsar's unto Cæsar," says the Scripture. No mercy! But he could not endure these looks, if he was to continue to be strong; therefore he must go. He now went into the garden, where the snow lay deep on his straw-covered flower-beds so that they looked like little children's graves. Who lay in them? His children. His happy, rosy-cheeked children, whom God had commanded him to sacrifice, as Abraham sacrificed Isaac. But Abraham escaped with only a fright. That must be a God of hell, Who could be so inhuman. It must be a bad God Who preached love to men but Himself behaved like an executioner. He would go at once and seek Him; seek Him in His own house, speak with Him, and demand an explanation. He left the garden and waded through the snow-drifts till he reached a little fir tree by the wood-shed, and laid hold of it. That was a Christmas-tree like one the children would have danced round had they lived. Now he remembered that he wanted to seek the God Who had taken his children in order to bring him to account. The church was not far, but when he came to it it was closed. Then he became frantic. He scraped away the snow till he got hold of a large stone, and with that he began to hammer the door till the echoes from the church sounded like thunder, while he shouted loudly: "Come out, Moloch, child-devourer! I will split up your stomach! Come out, St Katharine and all saints and devils! You must fight with the Emperor Decius in Rasbo! Oho! You come from behind, legions of the abyss!" He turned round to the churchyard, and with the strength of a madman he broke down a young lime tree, and using it as a weapon he attacked the crowd of little grave-crosses which with out-stretched arms seemed to be marching against him. They did not flinch, and he mowed them down like Death with his scythe, not stopping till he had laid every one flat and the ground was covered with splinters of wood. But his strength was not yet exhausted. Now he would plunder the corpses of his enemies and collect the dead and wounded. Load after load he carried to the wall of the church and piled them under a window. When he had finished he climbed on the pile, broke a pane of glass, and got into the church. The inside was quite lit up by the northern lights which had hitherto been hidden from him by the high roof of the church. He made a new raid on the threatening prayer-stools, which he battered into a heap of fragments. His eyes now rested on the high altar, where throned above the pictures of the Passion a figure sat on a cloud with the lightnings of the law in his hand. The priest crossed his arms and regarded defiantly the severe figure on the cloud. "Come down!" he shrieked. "Come down! We will wrestle together!" When he saw that his challenge was not accepted, he seized a block of wood and hurled it at his enemy. It crashed on a plaster ornament, which fell down and raised a cloud of dust. He took another piece of wood and then another and hurled them with the mounting rage of disappointment. The clouds fell piece by piece, while he laughed loudly, the lightnings were torn out of the hand of the figure; at last the heavy piece of carving fell with a terrible crash on the altar and smashed the candlesticks in its fall. But then the blasphemer was seized with a panic and sprang out of the window. * * * * * On the morning of the day before Christmas a parishioner had seen a strange sight by the hedge of the parsonage garden. A sledge came out of the enclosure containing a woman, two children, and a servant, and was driven westwards. At about a quarter of a mile distant it was followed by the priest running and calling out for the sledge to stop. But it had continued to proceed till it vanished round a bend of the high-road. Then the priest had fallen into a snow-drift, shaking his clenched fist against the sky. Later information came to the effect that the priest lay very ill with fever, and that the devil, in anger that he had not overcome the servant of the Lord in the battle waged for the dissolution of his marriage, had raged in the most terrible way in the church. But in order to enter it, and to exercise his power there, he had first broken down all the crosses in the churchyard. All this restored the priest's reputation and even gave him an appearance of sanctity, which especially pleased the pious party who had been the instigators of the purification of the parsonage. * * * * * The priest lay ill for three months and could not go out till April. He had become old. His face was full of angles, his eyes had lost their brightness, his mouth was half open, his back was bent. On the south side of the house he had a seat where he could sit in the warmth of the sun, buried in dreams of the past which hardly possessed any reality for him, especially as he had received no news from those whom he had once called his own. Then the month of May returned with flowers and the song of birds. The priest went into his garden and saw how it was overgrown with weeds; his precious flowers were killed by the frost because no one had seen to their being covered, and they now lay mouldering like rags upon the earth. It never occurred to him for a moment to break up the soil round the flower-beds or to do anything else of the kind, since he had no one for whom to work and there would be no tending hand to protect the young growths. He stood by the fence and looked out over the landscape. The plain stretched away in the sunlight and the little brook rippled merrily and invited his eyes to follow the little wavelets, which danced by and aroused his longing to follow them southwards, where they met the river. He unmoored his boat, sat in it without touching the rudder, and let it drift with the stream, gliding on thus for about two hours. Suddenly he was aware of the fresh scent of budding birches and spring flowers. He looked round; the plain had ceased, and he found himself at the beginning of the little birch wood. Memories of the previous year rose in him; bright, phantom-like images hovered above the primroses and anemones. He stepped on shore and went up the hill. Here they had eaten their lunch; here on this branch hung the coat at which the boys had shot with their bows. He saw the hole which he had bored in the birch tree to draw off the sap, which the little ones had drunk. The willow still bore scars from the knife with which he had cut arrows. He found an arrow in the grass; how they had hunted for it--the best he had ever cut, which flew above the top of the highest birch tree! He hunted in the grass and bushes like a pointer; he upturned the stones, bent back the branches, raised up the previous year's grass, scratched away the leaves. What he sought for exactly he did not know, but he wished to find something which might remind him of her. Finally he stood by a hawthorn bush; there hung a small fragment of a piece of red woollen cloth on a thorn. It was set in motion by the wind and fluttered like a pretty butterfly between the white hawthorn blossoms--a butterfly pierced by a needle. Then there came a second gust of wind and turned it round, so that it looked like a bleeding heart--a heart that was torn from a victim's breast and hung on a tree. He took it down from the bush, held it to his mouth, breathed on it, kissed it, and hid it in his hand. Here she had played "soldiers" with the children, and they had trodden on her dress. He lay down on the grass and wept; he called her name and the children's. So long did he weep that he fell asleep from exhaustion. When he awoke he remained lying as he was for a time and looked with half-closed eyes over the grass meadow. His eyes fell on a large willow bush whose yellow tassels hung like golden ears of corn in the sunshine. His tears had calmed him and produced a certain peace in his mind; sorrow and joy had ceased, and his soul felt in equipoise. The reason that his eye rested on the willow bush was that it was directly in his line of sight. A gentle wind swayed the branches lightly, and their movement seemed to soothe his tear-reddened eyes. Suddenly the branches of the bush stopped swaying with a jerk; there was a rustling, and a hand bent the boughs to one side; a sunlit female figure appeared framed in the gold of the willow tassels and the green of the tender leafage. He still lay a while watching the beautiful sight, as when one looks at a picture. Then his eyes met hers, which looked out of the bush like two stars; they kindled, as it were, flame in his expiring spirit. His body rose from the earth and his feet carried him forward; he stretched out his arms, and the next moment he felt a small warm creature nestle on his stony bosom, which was again filled with the breath of life, and a long kiss melted the ice which had so long held his spirit imprisoned. * * * * * Eight days later the archdeacon came on a visit to the parsonage at Rasbo. He found the priest happy and contented. The archdeacon had a commission which made him somewhat embarrassed, and he found he had to express himself suitably. Rumours, he said, had been heard in the congregation which had reached to the Archbishop's chair. One should not certainly believe all reports, but the mere fact of a report arising was itself half a proof. The priest, to speak plainly, was said to be having assignations with a woman. The Archbishop was fully aware of the storm which the Papal Bull regarding priests' marriages had occasioned. The Holy Father himself had recognised the cruelty involved in the new law, and had therefore thought it advisable through a special "licentia occulta" (a secret permission) to make the lives of the clergy less difficult. Woman, it must be admitted, was the presiding genius of home life. Here the current of his eloquence stopped, and in a low, scarcely audible voice the messenger of Christ whispered the secret sanction. The priest answered, "Then the Church does not allow a priest to have a wife, but only a mistress?" "Don't use such strong words! We call it a 'housekeeper.'" "Well then," said the priest, "if I take my wife as a housekeeper, the Church has nothing against it?" "No! No! Take any other, but not her. The aims of the Church! Remember!" "The _higher_ aims of the Church," you said. "So it was to annul the right of inheritance and to get possession of land that the Church insisted on divorce, not in order to check sin! You consider therefore the unlawful seizure of other people's property as 'higher aims.' Very well then! I will have nothing to do with the Church. Excommunicate me, and I will consider it an honour to be excluded from the fellowship of the noble Church. Depose me from my office, and I will be so far away before you have been able to write your proclamation that you will never be able to find a trace of me. Greet the Holy Father from me, archdeacon, and tell him that I do not accept his dirty offer. Greet him and say that the gods whom our forefathers worshipped above the clouds and in the sun were greater and much purer than these Roman and Semitic cattle-drivers whom you have foisted upon us. Greet him and say that you have met a man who will devote his whole future life to converting Christians to heathenism, and that a day will come when the new heathen will undertake crusades against the vicegerent of Christ and His followers who wish to introduce the custom of sacrificing men alive, whereas the heathen contented themselves with killing them. And now, archdeacon, take your Decretals and go away before I flog you soundly. You have nearly killed two people here with your invisible 'higher aims,' and the whole land calls down a curse on you. Go with my curse; break your legs on the high-road; die in a ditch; may the lightning strike you and robbers plunder you; may the ghosts of your dead relations haunt you; may incendiaries set your house on fire--for I excommunicate you from the society of all honourable men, as I excommunicate myself from the Holy Church! Get out!" The archdeacon did not remain long in the parsonage; nor did the priest, for his wife and children were waiting for him by the hill planted with birch trees on the way to the wood on the border of Vestmanland, where he was going to plant a settlement. PAUL AND PETER Christmas Eve lay bitterly cold and silent as death over Stockholm; everything living seemed to be frozen; there was not a breath of wind and the stars seemed to be flickering like little flames in order to keep themselves alive. A lonely watchman ran up and down the street to keep his feet from freezing, and the beams cracked in the old wooden houses. In the dwelling of the tradesman Paul Hörning in the Drachenturm Street his wife had already risen. She did not venture to light a candle or to kindle a fire, for the early-morning bell in the city church had not sounded, but she expected it every moment for she knew it was about four o'clock. The whole household was going to early Christmas Mass at Spånga, and must have something warm first. She searched for her Sunday clothes which she had laid on a chair, and dressed herself in the dark as well as she could; but as she found waiting in the darkness wearisome, she lit a horn-lantern, trusting that the watchman would respect the peace of Christmas and not raise an alarm, and then she stole around the low little rooms. Her husband was still half asleep and little Sven was far away in the land of dreams, although he lay with his head on a wooden horse and a feather ball in his hand. Karin, who had been confirmed in the autumn, was still asleep behind the curtain, and had hung her new velvet jacket and her necklace of Bohemian crystal on the bedpost. The Christmas-tree, with its red apples and Spanish nuts, threw long, jagged shadows over everything and made it look ghostly in the faint light. The mother went out into the kitchen and awoke Lisa in the box-room, who started up with tempestuous hurry and lit the candle in the iron candlestick; she was not anxious about the light being seen, for she was good friends with the night-watchman Truls, and besides, the kitchen lay at the back of the house. Then the mother knocked on the ceiling with the broom handle for Olle the shop-boy, who slept in the attic, and he knocked three times with his shoes in reply. After that she went again into the bedroom and sewed a hook and eye firmly on her husband's starched and smoothly ironed shirt with its stiff collar. Then she took little Sven's red stockings out of the great oak chest, and held them against the light, and busied herself with one or two other small matters. Finally she awoke Karin, who put two small freshly bathed feet in straw shoes and began to dress behind the curtain, for there was very little room. Sven awoke of his own accord; his cheek had a red mark where it had rested on the wooden horse, and he began at once to throw his feather ball, which flew over the curtain and hit his father on the nose, awaking him, so that he grunted a greeting of "Happy Christmas!" from his huge bed which was built like a small house. Sven wanted to run behind the curtain and see his sister's Christmas presents, but she screamed and said he mustn't for she was just washing herself. Then the city church bell began to ring for early Mass; all murmured a blessing. Mother set the chandelier in the large room; Sven came there with nothing but his shirt on and sat under the Christmas-tree trying to make himself and others believe that he was in a wood. Then be gnawed the back side of an apple so that it should not be seen, but the apple revolved on the thread by which it was suspended; mother came and said she would slap him if he did not go at once and dress himself. Lisa lit the fire on the hearth so that the flame roared up the chimney, and placed the milk kettle on it; mother spread a cloth over the great table in the sitting-room and set out the plates, putting the brightly polished silver jug in father's place, then she cut slices of bread and butter and ham, for one must have something before going out so early. Olle had already been a good time on his legs and gone into the stable; he had awakened Jöns the stable-man and curry-combed the chestnut horses. The sledge was drawn out of the coach-house and the rugs were dusted; soon the sledge stood in the street and Olle kindled the torches, which lit up the walls of the house like a conflagration. Jöns cracked the whip as a signal that the horses had been harnessed, and the latter snorted and scraped the ground with their hoofs to show their impatience. In the house they were searching for their upper garments--furs and hoods, cloth-shoes and muffs; Karin, who was ready first, went down and offered Olle and Jöns a drink of hot ale. When Paul Hörning was dressed he took a glass of French mulled wine. His wife locked everything up and came after him with Sven and Lisa, and so they were all safe and sound outside in the street. The sledge was a strong one, as roomy as a barge, and had three seats; on the first sat Paul and his wife and little Sven, on the second, Karin and Olle, and on the last Lisa and Jöns with the torches. Paul got in last for he had to see whether the horses were properly shod, and whether the harness was straight; then he got in, and his weight made the body of the sledge creak. He took the reins, asked once more if anything had been forgotten, cracked the whip, nodded to the windows of his old wooden house, and then they were off! First to the Great Market, where they met other good friends among the horse-possessing citizens of Stockholm. There they sat already in their sledges--stout brewers and thin bakers, and the whole market-place was lighted up by their smoking torches. The horses' bells tinkled, and now the whole procession began to move down the slope and out of the northern city gate. "I am wondering how Brother Peter will receive us this year," said Paul to his wife when they had settled down for the drive. "Why so?" she asked, somewhat uneasily. "Oh, of course, he has no reason, but I think I annoyed him too much last year about the salt, and since then, according to my observation, he has been rather reserved." "Well, if it were so he would not show it, I think; you two do not meet so often, and although you are not real brothers, you have always considered yourselves such." "But Mats is very resentful, and if there were the slightest difficulty, it would stop all prospect of a match between him and Karin. We will see! We will see!" Little Sven sat below in the straw and held the ends of the reins in the belief that he was driving. Olle, the shop-boy, tried to talk sentimentally to Karin, but her thoughts were somewhere else and she did not answer; Lisa, however, let Jöns hide her hand in his great glove, and sometimes she helped him to hold the torch when his hand froze. Outside the city they passed under the ridge of the Brunkeberg, over the moor, and on the high-road towards Upsala. Soon between the fir trees the lights of the church of Solna were visible, glimmering in the dark winter morning. Here Paul parted from his fellow-townsmen, who remained there because they wished to go by the Westeras road to Spånga. Soon little Sven was wondering at the great Christmas-trees on both sides of the road, which were lit up at intervals by the torches and immediately hidden in darkness again. He thought he saw kobolds standing behind the tree-trunks with their red caps and beckoning, but his father told him they were only the red reflections of the torches flying and running, for his father was an intelligent townsman who no longer believed in kobolds. Sven thought that the great Christmas-trees were running along by the side of the sledge, and that the stars were dancing over their tops, but his mother told him that God dwelt in the stars and that they were dancing to-day for joy that the Christ-Child was born, and Sven quite understood that. Now they passed over a bridge which rumbled under the horses' hoofs, the wood became clearer, the plain expanded before them, and little hills planted with birch copses appeared here and there. Presently a light shone from a cottage window and they saw someone carrying a torch towards it. In the distance above the plain appeared the morning-star, shining very large and bright. Olle the shop-boy told Karin that it was the star which had led the shepherds to Bethlehem, but Karin knew that herself, for in a large town one knows everything, and Olle was from the country. The road took one more turn, and through the long boughs of the leafless lime trees the church could be seen with all its windows brightly lit up. By the church wall the torches had been thrown into a great blazing pile by which the coachmen warmed themselves after they had taken the horses to the stable. Paul cracked his whip, swept past the bonfire in a stately curve, and made his chestnut horses curvet before the admiring peasants. At the church door they met Peter and his wife and his tall son Mats. They embraced each other, wished each other a happy Christmas, and asked after one another's health. After they had talked for a while, the bells rang a second time, and then they entered the church. There it was as cold as though one were sitting in the sea, but they did not feel it for they froze in good company, and for the rest they had the preaching and the singing to keep them warm. The young ones had so much to look at; they went about and greeted each other, and were never tired of staring at the great chandeliers. When at last the early service was at an end and they came out again on the hill, the stars shone no longer, but in the east the sky was reddish yellow like a ripe apple. Then they trotted quickly to Peter's house. It was a large one with back premises, guest-rooms, and bed-rooms on the attic floor. By one of the railing posts was tied an unthreshed sheaf of corn on which the sparrows had already settled and were keeping Christmas; at the house door stood two fir trees which sparkled in the frost. Peter placed himself there and bid his foster-brother and his belongings welcome; then they entered the house and took off their furs. Peter's wife, who had gone before them, stood by the fire and heated ale, his son Mats helped Karin to take off her fur, and Sven was already rolling in the Christmas straw which covered the ground to the depth of half a yard. Paul and his wife were led to the sofa and took their place under the blue and red hangings on which were depicted Christ's entry into Jerusalem, and the Three Wise Men, while Peter sat down in a high armchair. The long table presented a stately appearance, for there was not a handbreadth which was not covered with a dish or a bowl. The table was laid for the whole of Christmas, and all the eatables in the house were set out on it: a whole boar's head grinned on a red painted wooden plate, surrounded by brawns, tongues, joints and briskets; there were butter-dishes and loaves, cakes and wafers; jugs of sweet-scented juniper-wood filled with foaming Christmas beer. The red light of early morning shone on the little green, hoar-frosted windows, and it looked as though it were summer outside; but within, the great fire on the hearth spread a splendid warmth. Peter took his pocket-knife and cut slices of bread, spreading butter thickly upon them with his thumb, and invited his guests to do the same. When the hot ale had been drunk, the taciturn host opened the conversation, for Paul was a little embarrassed how to begin. "Did you have a good journey from the town or not?" "Splendid!" answered Paul. "The chestnuts ran along like lightning!" But Peter did not like the town horses and always ignored them when Paul made an ostentatious allusion to them. "Is corn selling well this Christmas?" he continued. "The price is low, for those confounded Livlanders had a fine harvest." "And you grudge it them! Don't curse the harvest, brother! You don't know what you may come to. The more one curses the she-goat, the more it prospers!" "But I must live too!" "Plough, rake and sow, and you will reap." "Ah, the old story!" "Yes, the old story! The priest reads in the church and prays God for a good harvest, and the tradesman in the town grumbles when God gives it. To the deuce with such people who wish to thrive on the needs of others!" Paul was about to answer but now the two wives intervened and begged them for heaven's sake to keep the Christmas peace. The two opponents were silent, and threw angry glances at each other; but Mats and Karin drank at the same corner of the table out of the same jug, and the two old women looked at each other with a meaning smile. "Pass me the salt," said Peter, and stretched out his arm. Mats passed his father the salt, but spilt some on the table-cloth. "Be careful with God's gift," said Peter. "Salt is very dear." Paul felt the thrust, but kept silence. The women gave a new turn to the conversation, and a storm was averted. When Paul and Peter had finished eating they went out in order to get fresh air and to inspect the fields and animals. They began by visiting the cattle-stall. "What will you give me for this?" asked Peter, pulling the calf's tail. "When he is an ox, and you bring him to the town in the spring, I will tell you." "There is nothing to prevent me, but I won't bring my ox to town." "We shall see," said Paul. "What shall we see?" asked Peter, and looked at him with his head on one side. "I understand your dodges well enough, but though a sow may get her snout through a paling it does not follow that she will get her body through too." "We shall see! We shall see!" Peter would not ask any more. They went on and came to the stable. "What will you give me for this?" asked Peter, lifting the black stallion's hind leg. "It is ten and a quarter to its backbone." "My left chestnut is eleven, and the right is ten and a half," said Paul. Peter did not apparently hear this, but opened the stallion's mouth in order to show its fine teeth. "That horse is like a sheep," said Paul. "You try that with the chestnut, and you will never hear a cuckoo again." "Everyone speaks to his like," said the muller, and talked to the sow. The conversation would not flow. They looked at the sheep and the pigs, but either Paul's interest seemed forced, or the proximity of the chestnut horses, who were in the stable close by, had a disturbing effect; at any rate, they were out in the fresh air again and took a walk in the fields. The snow prevented Peter going into effusive details, but he pointed out where he had done his autumn sowing, where the spring sowing would take place, and where the fallow ground lay. Then they had to inspect the stacks of wood and straw to see whether they were dry or damp, to find out whether the bees were frozen in their hives, and whether it was too hot for the geese in their house. By this time it was nearly noon and the bell rang for High Mass. Then they went again into the church and had a midday nap and went home to eat. They ate for three hours and then enjoyed the twilight. The elder men sat in their chairs and nodded; their wives sat by the fire which blazed so brightly that it dispelled the darkness, and chatted about weaving and baking. Mats and Karin had seated themselves on a box and whispered about their affairs. Olle the shop-boy had his arm round Lisa and Jöns his round the maid-servant; they sat on the ground and guessed riddles whose solution caused little Sven great difficulty. But the glow on the hearth became more subdued, the talk became more intermittent; the elders snored, the women nodded, and Mats and Karin nestled closer together; the lads and maid-servants became still, and soon an afternoon sleep prevailed throughout the house. Peter's wife awoke first, and it was quite dark; she blew up the fire on the hearth and made a blaze. The men woke up gradually and there was a stir in the room. The youths, girls, and women sat down in the Christmas straw round the fire to crack nuts and tell stories. Paul fetched a bottle of Spanish wine, with which to make himself and Peter jolly while they talked and played cards to while away the long winter evening. When they had filled their glasses and drunk to each other, Peter remarking that the wine was too sweet, Paul boldly seized the threads of the conversation in order to bring them into order and began: "Now, Brother Peter, if you want us to talk about a matter you know of, draw out the cork and let it flow." "That's all right," said Peter, "but I have always thought when the right Abraham comes, Sarah dances. Good! What will you give your boy?" "Just as much as you give your girl." Peter scratched his head. "It depend! what sort of year this is. The dowry runs into money, and if I have a bad year, there will be no money, and one does not know how it will go, for the snow came in autumn on the seed when the fields were wet." "Just the same with me," said Paid. "We will let it stand over till the autumn, and if we can both produce the same amount we will let the organ blow, as the verger says, and if fortune is kind the ox will calve as well as the cow." "Very well! And so the matter remains: the boy and the girl must wait till the corn is in the ear." Then they began to drink; but the younger ones had pushed away the straw and sat in a circle to "hunt the slipper." Paul and Peter sat for a while looking on at the game; at last Paul felt exhilarated by drinking, and felt strongly tempted to start a more lively conversation. He knew very well how to do so. "Well, Peter," he resumed, "are you coming to the city this winter?" Peter showed his teeth like an ill-tempered dog, looked at Paul to see if he meant it seriously, and said: "N-no! I don't think I shall!" "Still as prejudiced against the town as ten years ago? What! Can you not bear to look at it through seven palings?" "I wouldn't have it as a gift, if you threw it at me! I don't need it at all, but it can't live without me." "So you say!" "So I say! I have meat and hay, beer and bread, fuel and timber, house and clothing; what do I want with you then? I build my house, I plough my field, I cut my wood; my old woman spins my yarn, weaves my coat, bakes my bread, and brews my beer. What do you do? You tax my crop; you impose tolls on my wood; you empty my granary. You settle down on a stone as bald as the palm of my hand; you neither sow nor plough, but you reap and gather into barns; you eat my bread and drink my beer; you burn my wood and spin my wool; you sit there like a lazy monk and take tithe, and what do you give me for it?" "Listen! Listen!" stammered Paul. "Don't you get my salt?" "Your salt! You make no salt; and if you had not grabbed at it, so that we needed you as a middleman, you could not grind us down. And your sugar? I do not need your sugar, I have my bees!" "Don't you get my iron?" "Your iron! Where do you dig that up? In the gutters? What!" "Don't you get my wine?" "Where do you plant it? On the roofs?" "Don't you get my silver and my gold?" "What should I do with them, even if you had any? Can I make a knife, a plough, a spade, a brush, or a winnowing-fan out of them? No, I won't have any of it. All your business is useless, and if there were not so many fools to buy your stuff, you would starve. Remember, if all the 'louts of peasants,' as you call them, recovered their reason, so that they did not take the trouble to change their crops for your rubbish, what would you eat then? What?" "Eat? One does not live in order to eat." "No, but one lives by eating. And those who live by cheating others can also keep race-courses and dancing-houses where one learns such fine things; they can print books where one can read that all which the idle do is well done, and that it is honourable to steal if one only takes a sword in one's hand, sticks a rag on a pole, marches into a foreign land and says 'Now there is war!'" "You always bring up the old race-course again. We paid the King ourselves for it, so that we might keep it in peace." "Paid it yourselves! Yes, how did the matter go? When it was made, it was said that the town should pay for it; then you complained, and said they were such bad times, for the peasants would not buy your goods. And what did you do then? You put up the price of salt. Yes, I remember it well, and you shall be paid back for it. And so the peasant had to pay for the race-course and all your other tomfoolery, for that you must have, for you have jammed yourselves together like bees in a hive and see neither the sun nor the moon." Peter's intoxication began to gain the upper hand, and he had an inner vision of the hated chestnut horses as embodying the showiness of the town. "And though you have not so much grass as can grow on my chin, yet you can support two chestnuts. What do they eat? Sugar and salt? What! Raisins and almonds perhaps? And what do your chestnuts do? Do they plough; do they draw logs of wood or a load? No, they keep clear of all that. I know well what they draw, but that I don't say; but I know well that the streets there are not longer than my turnipfield. Yes, that is what they can do, the lazy beggars. Deuce take me if I don't have a turn at being idle. Listen, mother, do you want to be idle, then we will get a pair of red chestnuts with Cordova-leather trappings and silver knobs on the harness. Come, mother, we will be idle, then we can drive in a blue painted sledge with the servants behind, put our feet in foot-warmers of otter-skin, and then we can sleep out the morning with a velvet cap on our head, and drink Spanish wine sugared. Eh, mother, come! We will be lazy too!" Paul began to get angry. "I believe the Spanish wine has got into your head, although you neither planted it nor pressed the grapes," he said. Peter felt that he had been insulted, but he was too befogged to understand it at once. "The wine, you say, and I think you shrug your shoulders. Remember he who has got a loose tongue must cover his back. One fellow may sneeze into a silk handkerchief and another may throw it on the ground, but both can eat out of the same trough. What are you talking about wine for? Have I looked into _your_ mouth? Do you think I have nothing of my own to drink? May the devil take your wine! Come out in the courtyard and I'll make you feel something!" Peter threw away the rest of his wine and got up in order to go out. Paul was held back by the women who begged him for Christ's sake not to go. Peter would cool down, they said, and the Christmas peace should not be disturbed. Peter was envious and did not like anyone to "boss" him. Paul at first wished to return to the town at once, but gradually he let himself be smoothed down and took part in the game, while Peter worked off his rage outside. It was not long before there was a knock at the window and a little while after at the door. When they opened it, Peter entered it, wearing a sheep-skin, and hobbled about like a goat, so that the straw on the floor was all sent flying and the others jumped up on seats and tables. Their merriment soon became uproarious; they ate and drank without any more quarrelling till night-time, and then they went to sleep. When the Christmas festivities were over, Paul returned home with his family, and Karin and Mats were an engaged couple. It was arranged that the wedding should take place in the following autumn, if the harvest and trade were good. So the new year began with hope for the younger ones and renewed effort on the part of their elders. * * * * * When the first snow fell on the following November, Peter harnessed his black stallion to the sledge and took Mats with him, in order to drive to the town and talk about the wedding. The harvest had been better than they had dared to expect, and Peter could give a fair sum as a dowry. There was a splendid surface on the high-road for the sledge, and Peter was in a good humour, although he could not dispel a certain uneasiness at again coming to the town, where he had not been for ten years, and where he had met with a number of misadventures which made him dislike the town-dwellers. For the same reason Mats had never been able to make a journey to the town till now, when he found himself on the way to a place full of wonderful things, the description of which, with embellishments which he had heard from returning peasants, had sounded to him like fairy-tales. They went along briskly, for the stallion was a good sledge-trotter, and it was not long before the North Bridge rumbled under the horse's hoofs. Mats was quite stupefied at the wonders which he saw--houses as large as mountains and standing so closely together! "See!" he said, "what good neighbours they can be to each other, and we in the country can hardly keep the peace at a quarter of a mile's distance. And so many churches! How religious they are! And the town hall right in the middle where one can get justice the whole day long!" Peter made a grimace, and answered nothing. They came to the tollgate, which was politely opened and closed again without their having to get down from the sledge. Mats thought that that was a good custom for he knew what a trouble it was to open a heavy gate, but Peter cracked his whip so that the horse began to run, for he wanted to enter the town as a person of importance. But they heard a cry behind them, and two of the city guards ran at them with lowered halberds, while a third seized the horse by the bridle and brought the sledge to a standstill, "Are you trying to bolt, you d----d lout of a peasant!" shouted the gate-keeper, coming up. "Bolt?" asked Peter humbly, beginning to remember his former misadventure in the city. "Hold your mouth and come!" The black stallion was led back to the toll-house, where the travellers had to wait for half an hour, while the sledge was searched and their names were written down. They were at last liberated with an order to proceed at a walking pace. When they reached the Smiths' Street, the sledge-runners began to knock against the stones, for the snow had been cleared away. The horse exerted himself and pulled with all his strength, but they only advanced step by step and could not understand why it was so difficult. Peter struck the horse, but it was already doing its best with its loins strained, and its hoofs struck sparks from the stones of the street. Mats simply sat there staring up at the high houses and marvelling at the wonderful things which hung outside them: here were horseshoes and carriage-wheels; there were fiddles, lutes, trumpets; there clothes, sets of harness, and guns. The baker had hung up a large B-shaped biscuit, the carpenter a table, the butcher a sheep! "They must have very little room inside," he remarked to his father, when at the same moment a snow-ball flung from behind struck off his cap. Peter and Mats turned round and saw that the whole back part of the sledge was packed with boys. "Be off with you!" said Peter. The boys put out their tongues at him. Then Peter raised his whip and struck at the mass of them, but was so unfortunate in his stroke that the whiplash caught the eye of a baker's boy, who uttered a frightful yell and dropped a basket of loaves which he was carrying. At the same time people came running together and an angry blacksmith mounted on the sledge and gave Peter such a blow on his mouth and nose that he saw sparks. "Are you striking the boy, you stupid ox of a peasant?" he cried. Mats was about to intervene and to throw himself on the smith, when the crowd of people joined in. The fighting waxed furious, and Peter and Mats had been soundly thrashed when the guards came up and finished the matter by taking down the names of the two disturbers of the peace and summoning them to the town hall. "This is worse than being in an enemy's country," said Peter, "for here one cannot defend oneself." "What have you got to do here then, ox-driver?" said the smith. "I have to bring you food, or you would be hungry," said Peter. "Listen to the clodhopper," said the smith. "They have no manners, these mud-larks, when they come among people, but they will learn some, you bet!" The black stallion was set free and had to draw the sledge with the back part full of boys, who had settled upon it like crows upon a piece of carrion, up the street. "That is very strange," said Mats, "that these devils of boys have a right to ride free." "That is municipal law, you see," answered Peter. "Yes, but the civil law doesn't allow it." "The civil law is not in force here," said his father. Now they had reached the great market-place. Here Peter stopped and got down. The boys were discontented because they could not go farther, but Peter asked humbly for consideration. He looked for something he could tie his horse to till he had found his brother, whose address he had forgotten. He saw a stake with rings attached to it standing in the middle of the market-place, which seemed suitable, and to this he tied his horse, while the onlookers grinned and made jests at his expense which he did not understand. Then he turned to the one who looked most sensible and asked for the house of his brother Paul. There were fifty Pauls all tradesmen and just as many Peters, so that he could get no exact information. Peter and Mats now felt hungry and proceeded to look for a tavern. Paul, they thought, was such an important tradesman that they would be sure to be able to find him some time. As they walked away they came to the ironmarket. Horses were being sold there, and there was much to look at. "See!" said Mats, "there are the chestnuts, I declare!" Peter stared with wide-open eyes. There were really Brother Paul's chestnuts which had turned up again. A sinful longing to possess them awoke in him, and he inquired the price. It was very high, but would not his heart exult if he could drive with them to his brother's door and call to the coachman, "Unharness the chestnuts! Take the chestnuts to the stable! Give the chestnuts their oats"? And how the peasants would stare when he came home with them, and had the black stallion tied behind as an extra horse! So he gave the seller earnest-money, and said he would fetch the horses later in the day. The bargain was sealed with some food and beer in the iron-market tavern, and Peter found out from the merchants where his foster-brother lived--in the seventh cross-street on the left hand. Peter and Mats began to count the streets, but did not get more than half-way to the seventh, for they had to stand and stare at the quantities of strange things exposed in the shops for sale. Besides, the street was very narrow so that they collided with foot-passengers and carriages, and received thumps before and behind. They got quite out of their reckoning and had to return to the iron-market and begin counting again. After they had repeated this process more than once, they were tired and thirsty and went into a tavern. But when they came out again, they did not know their right from their left; the afternoon had come on and it was twilight. Then Peter remembered the black stallion which had nothing to eat or drink, and after asking their way several times they reached the Great Market. But instead of the black stallion and the sledge, which had disappeared, they found two of the city police waiting for them. These, after writing down their names, took them by the collar and marched them to the lock-up for the night. Peter tried to defend his freedom from what he called violence, but was immediately knocked down and had his hands tied behind him. He demanded an explanation, but that, he was told, would be given him next day, and in such a manner that he would remember it. The two prisoners were taken to a long vaulted room under the town hall, which was filled with men of every age and class. A horn lantern threw a feeble light over the prisoners, who sat or lay on benches placed along the wall. Never had Peter and Mats seen men of such an appearance or in such a condition. Their clothes were in rags, their faces savage and their gestures wild, but however wretched and humiliated they might be, they had one common feeling--contempt and dislike for the new-comers. They accosted them in an insulting way and made fools of them as soon as they opened their mouths. "Take a chair and sit down, peasants!" cried a half-drunken porter as they entered. Mats, suspecting no evil, thanked him and looked about for the chair which was not there. All those present burst into laughter. The porter, who because of his physical strength and active tongue had chosen himself as chief speaker, proceeded to examine the new arrivals in a magisterial tone. "What have you done, peasants, that you have the honour of entering this high-born society?" "We have done nothing at all," answered Mats, in spite of his father's beckoning him to be silent. "Just like ourselves," answered the porter; "but if we do nothing that is our right, but you, peasants, are born to work. But you don't work. In spring you scratch the crust of the earth a little, and throw some handfuls of com on it, and then you go about and watch it growing. Do you call that working? Then comes summer and you dance the hay in, and drink over it. Then it is autumn and you go to bed and sleep through the winter. Is that work? You ought to sit in the fortress Elfsborg and hew stones, then you would know what work is." "If you envy us, then go and be a peasant," answered Peter. "I a peasant? Oh fie! I would rather be an executioner or a night-watchman! Envious, do you say? Am I envious? Will anyone assert that? Do you know why I sit here? You should know, for you will think twice afterwards before calling me envious." "Well, tell us!" answered Peter. "Tell us!" "Shall I tell you, peasant--you with your corn-sacks? It is your fault, I tell you, that I sit here. Do you know Paul Hörning? No, you don't. Well, he was a corn-merchant, and since he let himself be persuaded in the spring by a scoundrelly peasant that there would be a bad harvest, he bought all the corn he could get hold of and had his granaries full. But it turned out that the peasant had lied; there was a good harvest and corn fell in price. Paul Hörning got into a mess; he had to sell his chestnut horses and dismiss all his servants. So I lost my place and loafed about, and now I sit here. Such are the tricks of these rogues of peasants!" Mats stared, and Peter was very sad. "I am sorry to hear what you say," answered Peter, "but it is not my fault that God gives the harvest." "Don't talk about it, for I won't listen. Isn't it your fault that you won't be content with what you have but sow such a hellish lot of corn that the corn-merchant is ruined. You should be content with what you have, then others too might be able to live. I really feel inclined to thrash you a little when I think well over it. Shall I thrash him a little? What do you others say?" The onlookers were of different opinions. A shoemaker's apprentice opposed the idea, for he had discovered that bread was cheaper when the peasants had much corn. A German shop-boy, who served in a general store shop, had no objection to a good harvest for then the peasants were more willing to buy stores. An organ-grinder, with a monkey perched on his shoulder, had no objection to the peasant being thrashed, for the peasants never had money with them, but he had nothing to say against a good harvest for then the market was full. A butcher said that Peter should be beaten black and blue, for when the farmers had a good crop it sent up the price of oxen. A wood dealer said he didn't want anyone to be beaten, but remarked that if the peasants had a good harvest they became proud and would not chop wood; but when there was a bad harvest, wood could be had for nothing, and one could eat flesh every day. This last remark made the shoemaker change his mind, for he had noticed that the price of leather fell when the farmer had to kill his cattle. The porter, whom all these contradictory opinions could bring to no conclusion, was himself of opinion that Peter must be thrashed on principle, and that thrashings never did any harm. But when he approached Peter with unsteady steps, in order to carry out his purpose, he was immediately knocked down by Mats, who intervened. Since the porter was only too glad to rest his heavy head, he used the opportunity and remained lying there; and as no one else wished to do the same there followed a silence in the room. Peter and Mats drew off their furs, and made a bed of them as well as they could for the night's sleep. "It is just as if we had fallen among the Danes," said Peter when they had crept under the furs to sleep; "and yet they call themselves our countrymen! But to-morrow, I hope, we shall get justice." Mats, for his part, had lost all hope that they would obtain justice from the city law, and was very depressed. He said, as usual, his evening prayer aloud. He prayed for his father, mother and fiancée; he asked God to shield them from fire and danger; he asked for a good harvest and good government; and finally prayed God to protect all men good and bad alike. This unusual sight again evoked various opinions among the spectators. The butcher thought it was hypocrisy to pray for one's enemies, since it was one's duty to defend oneself against them. The shoemaker scented mischief in the prayer for harvest and said it was equivalent to praying for the downfall of one's fellowmen, as had just appeared in the case of Paul Hörning. The organ-grinder thought one ought not to pray for the Government, for the Government built prisons, and prisons were expensive and unnecessary; he could not understand what people wanted with them, since freedom was a man's inalienable right and highest, good. He and his monkey had never had a fixed abode, and they were quite happy if they could only be free. The wood-dealer did not like people praying God to interfere with fires and such-like, the fire-brigade were well paid for that; he said the peasants had only mentioned the subject because he was a wood-dealer and liked to have his wood burning on people's hearths. He also thought that the Government was quite unnecessary; if people would not look after themselves and their families, let them be left alone--the Government should only mix in foreign affairs. Peter and Mats, who were tired by their exertions and troubles, fell asleep during the talk, and presently all the others followed their example. Soon only the sighing and snoring of the sleepers were audible. But the monkey could not sleep; he jumped up and ransacked all the pockets he could reach in order to find a crust of bread, but did not succeed; he rustled through the straw and pulled the hair of one of the sleepers, who cried out and went to sleep again; he climbed up to the lantern and extinguished it; then he became frightened at the darkness, felt for the organ and began to turn the handle, but received a cuff from the organ-grinder. Them a new idea seemed to come into his head; he looked for the drunken porter and found him, bit all the buttons off his coat, and threw them high in the air, so that they fell down again on the sleeping man. When the uneasiness which this produced in the sleeper had subsided, he began to tear the porter's coat into small strips, which he then twisted up into a ball. When this was done, he fell on his knees, and folded his hands, as he had seen his master do after a bad day. Then he placed the ball under his head and fell asleep. When Peter and Mats awoke next morning the warder stood ready to take them into court. When they came before the magistrate he appeared to be in a great hurry and contented himself with reading the verdict on the "peasant Peter from Spånga" who was accused (1) of trying to elude the observation of the guard at the city gate; (2) of having beaten a boy; (3) of having tied his horse to the pillory in the Great Market. The sentence was that he should be fined. Peter asked permission to speak; the judge bade him be silent, for one was not allowed to speak in one's own cause. On Peter's inquiring who was to speak then, he was conducted out of court and had to pay the fine. "That is the city law, you see," he said to Mats when they had come outside and obtained possession of their horse and sledge again. "Now we will sit up and drive home. We can send for the chestnuts another time, and Brother Paul can wait, and you too, Mats. A year passes quickly when one is young." Mats did not like this, and asked leave at any rate to go and greet Karin, but Peter was inexorable, and they started for home. When they had got outside the city gate, Peter turned round and put out his tongue. "Well," he said, "if I ever set foot inside there again, the deuce take me! If you townspeople want anything from me, you can come and look for it!" As they approached Solna, Peter suddenly started and looked away over his horse's ears. "Deuce take me," he said, "do I see ghosts in broad daylight? Look, Mats, can you see anything red over there?" Mats did see something red, and Peter whipped up the black stallion. They soon came up to the horse-dealer with the two chestnuts, who had long waited for his customer in vain. Now the bargain was concluded, and proud as the merchant Paul himself, Peter yoked the chestnuts to the sledge, tied the black stallion behind, and drove fast home. When they reached the farm Peter's wife stood in the vestibule, and thought her brother-in-law bad come from the town. When she saw how the matter stood she became sad and said, "Didn't I say that people get proud simply by going to town." But Peter was so glad to be home again that he did not listen to his wife, and the chestnuts added to his cheerfulness. The thought that Paul had received a lesson put him in quite a good humour, so that he hummed to himself as he led the chestnuts to the stable. But Mats was not cheerful, for a year was a long time to look forward to, and he knew already that when milk begins to curdle it soon becomes sour. * * * * * This Christmas Paul did not come to Spånga, although Peter had promised to fetch him in the sledge with the chestnuts; he said he had too much to look after. Spring came and the young corn looked hopeful; but in autumn it rained at the critical time and continued to rain day and night, so that the corn fermented in the ear, and the straw rotted, and there was a bad harvest. Peter was obliged to send the chestnuts to the town and sell them. But that did not help much, for as he had no straw he had to try to sell some of his cattle also. His servant, however, brought the oxen back, for the price offered in the town was so low, because all the farmers' harvests had failed and they had also sent in their oxen to be sold. Peter became uneasy, for he expected Paul to come at Michaelmas. He therefore had the oxen taken over to Dannemora, where they would, as he knew, fetch a higher price. Michaelmas Day had come. Peter's wife was standing by the fire cooking sausages; Mats was in the room above putting on his best clothes. Peter ran about restlessly, and went sometimes out on the road to see whether his servant were not returning with the money, for to-day Paul would come, and he must lay the sum for his daughter's dowry on the table. Peter, who had experienced many mishaps during the past year, had a dim foreboding that this day would not be a cheerful one. It was a sunny autumn morning, but the north wind was blowing so that it was partly cold and partly warm, and Peter felt the same in his own person. It was quite certain that his servant had sold the oxen, but he was uneasy at his not arriving. He longed for Paul to come so that the business might be finished, but at the same time feared his coming. So he walked up and down the road--looked northwards for his servant and southwards for Paul; at one time he had the north wind at his back, then in his face, and so with the sun. At last he heard in the distance a sound like carriage wheels rumbling over a bridge, and then there was silence; he stood quite still and stared in the direction of the town; he shaded his eyes and looked. What he feared came. It was inevitable. He saw two reddish horse heads appear, and behind them what looked like a wobbling house-roof. It was Paul who came in a covered carriage drawn by two chestnuts. He had a carriage, thanks to the bad harvest, and the scarcity of corn had helped him to recover the horses. Peter wanted to go into the house and hide his head behind the chimney corner, but Paul and his womenfolk had caught sight of him and waved their pocket-handkerchiefs. Peter lifted his cap and pretended that the sun dazzled him; Mats came running out and opened the carriage door. Peter's wife stood as usual in the doorway and began to curtsy when she saw the carriage. Then they entered the house, where the meal was ready for the guests. Paul talked about the state of the roads and the last war; Peter discussed the question of the church-tithe. Peter's wife was busy with the sausages and the mutton, Mats was absorbed in conversation with Karin, and no one mentioned the bad harvests, the chestnuts, or any topic that might disturb the peace. When they had eaten, Peter and Paul went out. But Peter had no desire to show the cattle-stalls and the granary, and Paul took care not to mention the chestnuts. But at last the other subject, which Peter had most feared, turned up. Paul began, "Now, Peter, are you ready to settle the matter? The children are pining for each other, and time is passing." Peter looked northwards, as though he wished to fetch the answer from thence. "You will stay over dinner," he said, "and we can talk about the matter then." "Perhaps you are not ready with the money?" said Paul. "That would be a pity, for I have just now several offers." "I not ready with the money? Ha! ha! My money does not melt so quickly as other folks', and although I do not get rich by bad harvests, yet I am not poor." "Perhaps, brother, then you will be so good as to lay the money on the table; then I will go home to dinner." Peter felt uneasy. "No! after dinner," he answered quietly. "After waiting so long you can wait a little longer, and I don't think it will hurt you." At that moment they heard the sound of horses' hoofs. Peter started and looked down the road. There came his servant riding, without the oxen; therefore he must have the money. He assumed a more confident tone and continued, "But, brother, if you happen to be in embarrassment, I will produce the money at once!" The servant came nearer, but he was not alone. Beside him rode an armed man who held the end of a cord, the other end of which bound the servant's hands. The horses splashed on through the mud and stood still. Peter was dumb. "Halt," cried the bailiff's man. "You, Farmer Peter, have sent your servant to carry on illegal traffic. What have you to say?" "Where are my oxen?" asked Peter. "Forfeited," answered the bailiff's man. "Next time, four hundred marks' fine; the third time, death." "Who has made that law?" "The King." "Formerly we made the laws ourselves. When did we give up the right to do so?" "When the council and the nobles did." "They never proposed to give the King permission to steal our oxen." "Weigh your words, Peter, for God's sake!" said Paul warningly. "Hold your tongue!" answered Peter. "It is you and fellows like you who sit in the town and pass laws for their own profit. So it goes on! The King needs money for races and triumphal arches; he takes it out of the merchant's purse, and the merchant takes it out of the farmer's. Who prevents me selling where I choose?" "The law," answered the bailiff's man. "But don't stand scolding there, farmer. Untie your servant's hands and give my horses something to eat." Peter was beside himself. He ran like a madman into the house. Then he took a poker and swept the bowls and dishes from the table on to the ground; he broke the windows, drove all those present out of the room, smashed the seats and tables, and roared all the time till he foamed at the mouth; he chewed pieces of glass, broke tin plates in two, and trampled on butter-dishes and jugs. Then he stood in the doorway and shouted, "Out, you hellish thieves! Once right was law in the world, now wrong is law. Thieves make laws for honest folk, and now they steal legally. You, petty merchant, don't work a bit, but eat my bread; don't you know that you ought to pay for it? I have a right to flog you, for you are one of my dependents! And you, underling of your thievish masters--you, King's official! What do _you_ do for your bread? You make entries in a book--you all do that; you note everything down. If I drive on the road, if I lie down, if I tie my horse, if I defend my property, if I flog a scoundrel, you make a note of it, and I must pay for everything. Holy Virgin and all the saints, preserve my understanding! And now take your chestnuts and your women away, Paul; and if you appear on my land again, remember what you have brought me to. Buy a son-in-law in the town for yourself; there you will make a good bargain if you can pass her off on one of your friends. You may have got me down on my knees, but I am not rotting, as the old woman said, when she fell into the churchyard. To that I say Amen! and praise and thank God for good and evil!" But Paul and his womenfolk had already gone to the stable and harnessed the horses. As they drove through the gate Paul said, "Poor Peter has gone mad!" But Paul and Peter never met again. Mats never got Karin, and there was no help for it; it was so fated and no one could alter it. A FUNERAL The cooper sat with the barber in the inn at Engsund and played a harmless game of lansquenet for a barrel of beer. It was one o'clock in the afternoon of a snowy November day. Hie tavern was quite empty, for most people were still at work. The flames burned brightly in the clay fire-place which stood on four wooden feet in a corner, and looked like a coffin; the fir twigs on the ground smelt pleasantly; the well-panelled walls kept out all draughts and looked warm; the bull-finch in his cage twittered now and then, and looked out of the window, but he had to put his head on one side to see if it was fine. But it was snowing outside. The innkeeper sat behind his counter and reckoned up chalk-strokes on a black slate; now and then he interjected a humorous remark or a bright idea which seemed to please the other two. Then the great bell in the church began to toll with a dull and heavy sound, in keeping with the November day. "What the devil is that cursed ringing for?" said the cooper, who felt too comfortable in life to enjoy being reminded of death. "Another funeral," answered the innkeeper. "There is never anything else." "Why the deuce do people want to have such a fuss made about them after they are dead," said the barber. "Trump that, Master Cooper!" "So I did," said the cooper, and pocketed the trick in his leather apron. Down the sloping road which led to the Nicholai Gate, a funeral procession wended its way. There was a simple, roughly planed coffin, thinly coated with black paint so that the knots in the wood showed through. A single wreath of whortleberries lay on the coffin lid. The undertaker's men who carried the bier looked indifferent and almost humiliated because they were carrying a bier without a cover and fringes. Behind the coffin walked three women--the dead man's mother and her two daughters; they looked crushed with grief. When the funeral reached the gate of the churchyard, the priest met it and shook hands with the mourners; then the service began in the presence of some old women and apprentices who had joined the procession. "I see now--it is the clerk, Hans Schönschreiber," said the innkeeper, who had gone to the window, from which he could overlook the churchyard. "And none of his fellow-clerks follow him to the grave," said the cooper. "A bad lot, these clerks!" "I know the poor fellow," said the barber. "He lived like a church mouse and died of hunger." "And a little of pride," added the innkeeper. "Not so little though," the cooper corrected him. "I knew his father; he was a clerk too. See now! these fellows who go in for reading and writing die before their time. They go without dinner and beg if necessary in order to look fine gentlemen; and yet a clerk is only a servant and can never be his own master, for only the King is his own master in this life." "And why should it be more gentleman-like to write?" asked the barber. "Isn't it perhaps just as difficult to cut a courtier's and to make him look smart, or to let someone's blood when he is in danger of his life?" "I would like to see the clerk who would take less than ten years to make a big beer barrel," said the cooper. "Why, one knows the fellows require two years to draw up their petitions and such-like." "And what is the good of it all?" asked the innkeeper. "Can I scribble such letters as they do, but don't I keep my accounts all right? See here I draw a crucifix on the slate--that means the sexton; here I scribble the figure of a barrel--that stands for the cooper; then in a twinkling, however many strokes I have to make, I know exactly how much each has drunk." "Yes, but no one else except yourself can read it, Mr Innkeeper," objected a young man who had hitherto sat silent in a corner. "That is the best of it," answered the innkeeper, "that no one can poke his nose into my accounts, and therefore I am just as good a clerk as anyone." The cooper and the barber grinned approval. "I knew the dead man's father," resumed the innkeeper. "He was a clerk too! And when he died I had to rub out many chalk-strokes which made up his account, for he wanted to be a fine gentleman, you see. All the inheritance he left to the son, who now lies with his nose pointing upwards, was a mother and two sisters. The young fellow wanted to be a tradesman in order to get food for four months, but his mother would not consent; she said it was a shame to step downward when one was above. And heavens, how the poor young fellow had to write! I know exactly what went on. The three women lived in one room and he in a rat-hole. All he could scrape together he had to give them; and when he came from work to eat his dinner, they deafened him with complaints. There was no butter on the bread, no sugar on the cakes; the elder sister wanted to have a new dress, and the younger a new mantle. Then he had to write through the whole night, and how he wrote! At last when his breast-bone stuck out like a hook and his face was as yellow as a leather strap, one day he felt tired; he came to me and borrowed a bottle of brandy. He was melancholy but also angry, for the elder sister had said she wanted a velvet jacket such as she had seen in the German shop, and his mother said ladies of their class could not do with less. The young fellow worked and slaved, but not with the same zest as formerly. And fancy! when he came here and took a glass to ease his chest, his conscience reproached him so much that he really believed he was stealing. And he had other troubles, the poor young fellow. A wooer came after the younger sister--a young pewterer from Peter Apollo Street. But the sister said 'No!' and so did the mother, for he was only a pewterer. Had he been a clerk, she would have said 'Yes' and persuaded him that she loved him, and it is likely that she would really have done so, for such is love!" All laughed except the young man, who struck in, "Well, innkeeper, but he loved her, although she was so poor, and he was well off; that proves that love can be sincere, doesn't it?" "Pooh!" said the innkeeper, who did not wish to be interrupted. "But something else happened, and that finished him. He went and fell in love. His mother and sister had not counted on that, but it was the law of nature. And when he came and said that he thought of marrying, do you know what they said?--'Have you the means to?' And the youth, who was a little simple, considered and discovered that he had not means to establish a new family since he had one already, and so he did not marry; but he got engaged. And then there was a lot of trouble! His mother would not receive his fiancée, because her father could not write, and especially because she herself had been a dress-maker. It was still worse when the young man went in the evenings to her, and would not stay at home. A fine to-do there was! But still he went on working for his mother and sisters, and I know that in the evening he sat and wrote by his fiancée's side, while she sewed, only to save time and to be able to be near her. But his mother and sisters believed evil of the pair, and showed it too. It was one Sunday about dinner-time; he told me himself the young fellow, when he came here to get something for his chest, for now he coughed terribly. He had gone out with his fiancée to Brunkeberg, and as they were coming home over the North Bridge, whom did they meet but his mother and sisters? His fiancée wanted to turn back, but he held her arm firmly and drew her forward. But his mother remained standing by the bridge railings and looked into the water; the elder sister spat before her, and did the same, but the younger--she was a beauty! She stood still and stared at the young woman's woollen mantle and laughed, for she had one of English cloth--and just because of that, her brother's fiancée had to wear wool. Fancy the impudent hussy!" "That was simply want of sense in the child," said the young man. "Want of sense!" exclaimed the cooper indignantly. "Want of sense!" But he could not say any more. The innkeeper took no notice of the interruption and continued: "It was a Christmas Eve, the last Christmas Eve on which he was alive. He came to me as usual to get something for his chest, which was very bad. 'A Merry Christmas, Hans!' I said. I sat where I am sitting now, and he sat just where you are sitting, young sir. 'Are you bad?' I asked. 'Yes,' he answered, 'and your slate is full.' 'It doesn't matter,' I answered, 'we can write down the rest in the great book up there. A glass of hot Schnapps does one good on Christmas Eve.' He was coughing terribly, and so he took a drink. Then his tongue was loosened. He said how miserable and forlorn he felt this evening. He had just left his home. The Christmas table was laid. His mother and sisters were soft and mild, as one usually is on such an evening. They said nothing, they did not reproach him, but when he took his coat and was about to go out, his mother wept and said it was the first Christmas Eve that her son was absent. But do you think that she had so much heart as to say 'Go to her, bring her here, and let us be at peace like friends.' No! she only thought of herself, and so he went with an aching heart. Poor fellow! But hear what followed. Then he came to his fiancée. She was glad and happy to have him, and now she saw that he loved her better than anything else on earth. But the young man, whose heart was torn in two, was not so cheerful as she wished him to be, and then she was vexed with him, a little only of course. Then they talked about marriage, but he could not agree with her. No, he had duties towards his father's widow. But she quoted the priest who had said a man should leave father and mother and remain with his wife. He asked whether he had not left his mother and home this evening with a bleeding heart in order to be with her. She replied that she had already noticed, when he came, that he was depressed because he was going to spend the evening with her. He answered it was not that which depressed him, but his having to leave his old mother on Christmas Eve. Then she objected that he could not deny he had been depressed when he came to her--and so they went on arguing, you can imagine how!" The cooper nodded intelligently. "Well, it was a pleasant Christmas for him. Enough! The young fellow was torn in two, piece by piece; he never married. But now he lies at rest, if the coffin nails hold; but it was a sad business for him, poor devil, even if he was a fool. And God bless his soul! Hans Schönschreiber, if you have no greater list of debts than you had with me, they are easily settled!" So saying, the innkeeper took his black slate from the counter, and with his elbow rubbed out a whole row of chalk-strokes which had been made under a hieroglyph which looked like a pen in an inkpot. "See," said the barber, who had been looking through the window to hide his red eyes, "see, there she is!" Outside in the churchyard the funeral service was at an end; the priest had pressed the hands of the mourners and was about to go; the sexton plied his spade in order to fill up the grave again, as a woman dressed in black pressed through the crowd, fell on her knees by the edge of the grave, and offered a silent prayer. Then she let fall a wreath of white roses into the grave, and a faint sobbing and whispering was audible as the rose leaves fell apart on the black coffin lid. Then she stood up to go, erect and proud, but did not at first notice in the crowd that her dead lover's mother was regarding her with wild and angry looks as though she saw her worst enemy, who had robbed her of her dearest. Then they stood for a moment opposite one another, revengeful and ready for battle; but suddenly their features assumed a milder expression, their pale faces twitched, and they fell in each other's arms and wept. They held each other in a long, convulsive embrace, and then departed side by side. The innkeeper wept like a child without attempting to hide his emotion, the barber pressed his face against the window, and the cooper took the cards out of his pocket as though to arrange them; but the young man, his head propped in his hands, had placed himself against the wall in order to have a support, for he wept so that his whole body shook and his legs trembled. The innkeeper first broke the silence. "Who will now help the poor family? The pewterer would be accepted now, were he to make another proposal." "How do you know that, innkeeper?" asked the young man, much moved, as he stepped into the centre of the room. "Well, I heard it yesterday when I was up there helping at the preparations for the funeral. But the pewterer will not have her now, as she would not have him then." "Yes he will, innkeeper!" said the young man. "He will have her though she were ever so selfish and bad-tempered, poor, and wretched, for such is love!" So saying, he left the astonished innkeeper and his friends. "Deuce take me--that was he himself!" said the barber. "Things do not always end so happily," remarked the cooper. "How about the clerk?" objected the barber. "No, they did not end well with him, but with the others, you know. They had, as it were, more right to live than he, the young one; for they were alive first, and he who first comes to the mill, grinds his corn first." "The young fellow was stupid, that was the whole trouble," said the barber. "Yes, yes," concluded the innkeeper. "He certainly was stupid, but it was fine of him anyhow." In that they were all agreed. THE LAST SHOT On one of the last days of October in the year 1648 there prevailed much bustle and activity in the streets of the little town Lindau on the Lake of Constance. This Swabian Venice, which lies on Three Island close to the Bavarian coast, had long been besieged by the Swedish Field-marshal Wrangel, who during the last years of the war had been operating in conjunction with the French and had pitched his fortified camp on the hill in the village of Eschach. The negotiations for peace, which had already lasted four years, had not yet resulted in any cessation of hostilities, only lately Königsmarck had stormed Prague. But this event had accelerated the negotiations in Osnabrück and Münster, and rumours of a coming peace had reached Swabia. Lindau had for many months been suffering all the terrors of a siege. During the last days the bombardment from Eschach had ceased, and the burgomaster, who had returned from a secret visit to Bregenz, had on the afternoon of the above-mentioned day betaken himself to the inn "Zur Krone," for the town hall had been demolished. He hoped to meet there some acquaintance who was not on duty on the fortifications. In the rooms of the inn he had met no one, and feeling rather depressed, he went out on the terrace to cast a look over the town and to see what the Swedes were doing in their camp on the opposite shore. The Lake of Constance lay there in unruffled calm, and the snowy summit of the lofty Santis was reflected in it; the edge of the Black Forest loomed like an evening cloud, misty-blue in the west, and in the south the Rhine rushed between the Vorarlberg and the Rhetic Alps till its yellow waters flowed into the blue-green depths of the lake. However, the burgomaster had no eye for this kind of beauty, for during the last eight days he had been half starved, and for more than a month he had been suffering and fighting. He only looked down on the road along the shore where good-natured Bavarians mingled with quarrelsome Würtembergers and lively Badenese; he could also see people flocking to the Franciscan church to take the sacrament. Down by the shore he noticed a group of men, who stared out on the lake where some barrels drifted, borne along by the light current; they were busily occupied in drawing these to land with boat-hooks and ropes. "What have you there, men?" called the burgomaster down from the terrace. "That is a present from the honest Swiss in St Gall," answered a voice. "Probably wine or must which has lain in the lake and waited for the west wind in order to float down here from Romanshorn," said another voice. The burgomaster drew back from the terrace and went down to the dining-room of the inn to sit there and wait for the result of this haul of flotsam and jetsam. The apparently immovable face of the tall Bavarian wore deep lines of trouble, care and vexation. His great fist, which lay on the oaken table, opened and closed as though it were deliberating whether to give up or hold fast something; and his foot, the toes of which seemed to wish to burst the buckskin of his top-boots, stamped the unswept floor so that a cloud of dust rose up like smoke from a tobacco pipe. He struck the ground with his broadsword, and then immediately afterwards drew out of a bag of Cordovan leather, which bore the city arms embroidered in silver, a pair of heavy keys, which he seemed to try in an invisible keyhole, as though he wished to lock a door so that it could never again be opened. Then he put the key-pipe to his mouth and blew a bugle-call which he had had plenty of opportunity of learning during the long siege with its repulsed attacks and unsuccessful sorties. Suddenly he heard a loud tread and the clanking of armour on the stairs. The burgomaster at once replaced the keys in the bag, fastened it, and swung the strap from which it was suspended round, so that it hung behind him. Then he placed himself in what looked like a defensive attitude, as though he knew who was about to enter through the door. "Good morning, commandant!" he said to the officer who entered and threw his torn hat with its smoke-soiled plume on a seat. "Good morning, burgomaster," returned the officer, sitting down at the other side of the table. There followed a long pause of silence, as though two duellists were loading their pistols in order to shoot each other down. At last the commandant broke the silence by asking abruptly, "What did the Bregenzers say?" "Not a sack of meal, not a glass of wine, till the town has given up the keys! That was what they said." "Well?" "Well?" repeated the burgomaster with a threatening glance. "You won't give up the keys?" "No! a thousand times no! a million times no!" He sprang from his chair, crimson in the face. "Do you know," asked the commandant, "that the corpses are poisoning the city, since the Swedes took the churchyard of Eschach?" "I know it!" "Do you know that all the horses and dogs in the town have been killed?" "I know it. And I know too, that my own watch-dog, my companion for twenty years, since I lost my wife and child, was the first to be sacrificed." "Do you know that the waters of the lake have risen, that the cellars are full of water, and that no one can take refuge there any more if the bombardment is continued?" "I know it," answered the burgomaster. "Do you know that our vines, which are growing outside on the hills on Hourberg, in Schachten and Eichbuhl, are ripe for vintage, and that the Swedes and French are pillaging the vineyards like starlings?" "I know it. But do _you_ know that peace may be concluded to-day, that it is perhaps already concluded, and that we may save our honour if we wait one more day before capitulating?" "One day more!" repeated the commandant. "One day more! So we have said for three months, and meantime our children are dying. Perhaps you do not know that the cows give no more milk, since they have been obliged to eat the moss from the roofs, the leaves from the trees--yes, even the dung from the horse-stables, and to lick the empty meal-sacks. It has come to that; and now the children are crying for milk." "The children! Don't talk to me of children--to me who have seen my only daughter put to shame. Then it was I who begged for help, but in vain! To hell with the children! Why didn't you take them over the water before the Swedes had their punts on the lake?" "You are a wild animal, burgomaster, and not a man. You would perhaps have liked to have seen them drowned in sacks or eaten, as they did in Bohemia."' "Yes, we have become wild beasts among wild beasts during the thirty years full of slaughter and fire, robbery and whoremongering. It could be called war as long as the Swedish King lived and led 'soldiers,' but now they have become incendiaries and highway robbers, who destroy for the mere sake of destruction. Huns, Goths and Vandals, who destroy out of sheer rage, because they can produce nothing." A cry from the street prevented the commandant's answer and drew the two out on the terrace. Crowding closely round the barrels which had been just drawn to land, some coopers were knocking their bottoms out so that the contents ran into the street. "What are you doing down there?" called the commandant. "Ah, it is only milk which the greedy Swiss have sent us instead of wine," came the answer from below. A woman with a child on her arm came up, and when she saw the white stream flowing down the street, she uttered a terrible cry and placed her child on the ground to let it drink. Drawn by her cry, many other mothers came, and the babies seized the cobble-stones with their hands as though they were the softest mother's breast, and licked up the sweet milk like thirsty sucking pigs, while their mothers cursed the coarse men who thought of nothing but themselves. "Burgomaster!" resumed the commandant, still more excited by the repulsive sight, "let us go on the roof and see what the Swedes are doing; afterwards we will talk of the other matter. As you see, all bonds are broken: one takes what another has not the power to hold; family life threatens to dissolve, and young people live anyhow; every moment one may fear an uprising." The burgomaster did not listen to him, but ascended the attic stairs till he crept out through a garret window between the beams on to the stair-like offsets of the wall. Up these he clambered to the gable crowned by a flagstaff to which a telescope had been fastened. Underneath him lay the town in its desolation. Not a single whole roof was to be seen; not a tree was left in the old garden--they had all been used for food or fuel. Along the lake shore all the houses had been pulled down and all the gardens destroyed in order to furnish material for the ramparts. Through the streets streamed ragged, hungry, dirty men with wild gestures, all evidently on their way to the inn, "Zur Krone," round which a crowd was beginning to gather. The burgomaster now looked through the telescope which was directed to the opposite shore. There were ranged row on row of hills, dotted over with white steep-roofed farms, surrounded by pillaged orchards and vineyards. Enclosed in the midst of them lay Eschach, where the Swedish headquarters were. An unwonted bustle was perceptible round the blue and yellow standards, and soldiers seemed to be making some preparations with the cannon which the burgomaster during the long siege had learnt to know well. He had even given the worst beasts in the first siege-battery nicknames. A great scoundrel of red copper, which had smashed the painted windows of the town church, he had named "the red dog." On the left a great mortar, known as "the blunderbuss," was a regular scupper-hole when it began to discharge its contents. "The devil's grand-mother" was the name he gave to a third, made of Swedish iron and said to be the King's own invention. And so on with the rest. But behind the besiegers' rampart, on a garden terrace, he saw the Swedish Field-mar-shall sitting with his officers and drinking "lake-wine"--their wine which they had cultivated and vintaged and then, stupidly enough, left in the cellars on the opposite shore. As they smoked and drank the officers were studying a drawing, which, however, did not seem to be a map. It reminded the burgomaster of a rumour that Wrangel had wished to transport the Bavarian castle Aschaffenburg to his estates by a lake in Sweden; but as that was impracticable it was said that he had caused designs of the building to be drawn up by an architect, after he had first stripped it of its furniture and other contents. The sight of the wine and the tobacco aroused for a moment the burgomaster's lower desires, which had been so long suppressed, but his hatred and his grief, which he had cherished for a generation, soon reasserted themselves. For those who had no more food nor drink, who had been deprived of everything dear to them and of peace, nothing remained but honour. By the side of his daughter whom he had himself killed (though he could not adduce this secret as a reason for his obstinacy), he had sworn that he would not give up the keys of the town as long as he was alive. Suddenly he saw a cloud of smoke rise from "the red dog," heard a cannon ball whir over his head and then land on the road below, where it was greeted with a loud outcry. "The keys, burgomaster, or we are lost!" cried the commandant, who had mounted the gable stairs. "To your place, commandant, on the rampart, or you will be hung!" answered the burgomaster. "Give up the keys, or we will come and fetch them!" roared the major. "Come then and fetch them!" was the reply. A number of heads looked out of the garret window, and there was a repeated outcry for the keys. "Go down from the roof, they are aiming at us!" cried the burgomaster to the people, who began to clamber up the gable steps in order to put their threat into execution. The next moment the flagstaff was shivered into splinters, struck by a bullet. The burgomaster turned half round and would have fallen, if he had not supported himself on his great sword. He now drew himself up and remained standing on the topmost ridge of the roof, like a stone statue on a cathedral. The people below, however, who had greeted the courageous bearing of their burgomaster with a cheer, were impelled anew by their fears to make an attempt against him, as the keys of the town were in his possession and until they were given up the formal surrender of the town could not take place. With the help of the malcontents, the commandant ventured on a last attack against the immovable burgomaster. Accordingly he mounted to the top of the dangerous stairs, drew his sword, and demanded that the burgomaster should descend or defend himself where he stood. But it soon was evident that the latter's position was impregnable; and convinced of the impossibility of compelling him to give up the keys, the commandant turned to the people and asked them three times successively whether they accorded him the right to open the town gate and to hoist the white flag. His question being greeted with an enthusiastic affirmative, he returned the same way as he had come to the ramparts, accompanied by the crowd. The burgomaster, who had remained behind alone, and perceived that there was no more hope of saving the town, seemed at first to collapse, but he immediately rose up again as though he had formed a resolve. With trembling hand he opened his bag, took the great keys out, and after he had made the sign of the cross, he threw them as far out into the lake as he could. When they had disappeared in the deep waters, he fell again on his knees and with folded hands commenced a long, low prayer. He would like to have made himself deaf just now, but while he called on God and the Holy Virgin he seemed to hear the blows of axes against the city gate, through which the enemy would enter to pillage and rape, to hang and to burn. But after he had prayed a while he became aware that silence lay over the whole town, and that the cannonade had ceased. Only from the ramparts came a low hum of voices which seemed to be speaking all together; the sound swelled louder and louder till it grew to an uproar and a shout of joy. He rose from his kneeling attitude and saw a white flag waving from the Swedish headquarters. Then there sounded a peal of trumpets and a roll of drums which were answered in a similar way from the ramparts of Lindau. This was followed by the sound of axe strokes against the city gate. A boat pushed off from the Swedish camp and military music sounded from the opposite shore. And now a cry went through the streets of the town--at first a mere meaningless noise like the sound of waves breaking on the beach; but it came nearer, and presently he could distinguish the final word "concluded," without knowing whether it referred to the capitulation of the town or something else. But the cry became clearer and clearer as the crowd stormed along the shore of the lake, and waving their hats and caps called up to their valiant burgomaster, "Peace is concluded!" * * * * * "Te Deum Laudamus!" was sung in the evening in the Franciscan church, while the inhabitants of the town intoxicated themselves with the contents of the wine barrels which had been brought from the surrounding villages. When the service was over the burgomaster and the commandant sat with a jug of wine between them in the "Zur Krone'" inn. In one of the roof-beams was embedded the black bullet which had shot down the flagstaff. The burgomaster contemplated it and smiled--smiled for the first time after ten years. But he suddenly started as though he had done something wrong. "The last shot!" he said. "It is long since the first was fired in Prague--a whole generation. Since then Bohemia has lost two million men out of its three, and in the Rheinpfalz only a fiftieth part of the inhabitants remain; Saxony lost one million out of two; Augsburg does not now count more than eighteen of its eighty thousand. In our poor Bavaria two years ago a hundred villages went up in smoke and flame. Hessen laments seventeen towns, seven and forty castles, and four hundred villages. All because of the Augsburg Confession! For the sake of the Augsburg Confession Germany has been laid waste, torn to pieces, cut off from all the seas, left without air, choked, and has miserably perished. Finis Germaniae." "I don't think it was the Augsburg Confession which did it," objected the commandant. "See the Frenchmen celebrating their Masses like good Catholics in the Swedish camp. No, it was something else." "Well, it may perhaps have been something else," answered the burgomaster. He emptied his glass and went home to sleep quietly--for the first time after thirty years--thirty terrible years. 
8500	----	PLAYS: COMRADES; FACING DEATH; PARIAH; EASTER By August Strindberg Translated by Edith and Wärner Oland CONTENTS COMRADES A Comedy in IV Acts. FACING DEATH A Play in I Act. PARIAH A Play in I Act. EASTER A Play in III Acts. FOREWORD August Strindberg died at Stockholm On May 14, 1912, just ten days after the first of his plays given in English in the United States had completed a month's engagement. This play was "The Father," which, on April 9, 1912, was produced at the Berkeley Theatre in New York, the same little theatre that witnessed in 1894 the first performance in this country of Ibsen's "Ghosts." It happened that August Lindberg, the eminent Swedish actor and friend of Strindberg [who, by the way, was the first producer of "Ghosts" in any language], was visiting this country and came to see a performance of "The Father." His enthusiasm over the interpretation given Strindberg, in the English rendering of the play as well as in the acting, led him to cable a congratulatory message to Strindberg; and upon departing for Stockholm, he asked for some of the many letters of appreciation from significant sources which the production of "The Father" had called forth. These he wished to give to Strindberg as further assurance "that he has," to use Herr Lindberg's words, "the right representatives in this country." It is gratifying to those who esteem it a rare privilege to be the introducers of Strindberg's powerful dramatic art to the American stage to know that he finally found his genius recognized on this side of the ocean. "Comrades," the first play in the present volume, belongs to the same momentous creative period as "The Father" and "Countess Julie," although there is little anecdotic history attaching to this vigorous comedy. It was written in Denmark, where Strindberg, after finishing "The Father" in Switzerland in 1887, went with his family to live for two years, and was published March 21, 1888. Although the scene of the comedy is laid in Paris, all the characters are Swedish, which may be accounted for by the fact that the feminist movement, of which "Comrades" is a delicious, stinging satire, had been more agitated at that time in Scandinavia than elsewhere. That Paris was chosen as a background for this group of young artists and writers was probably reminiscent of the time, the early eighties, when Strindberg with his wife and children left Sweden and, after spending some time with a colony of artists not far from Fontainebleau, came to Paris, where there were many friends of other days, and established themselves in that "sad, silent Passy," as Strindberg's own chronicle of those times reads. There he took his walks in the deserted arcades of the empty Trocadero Palace, back of which he lived; went to the Théâtre Français, where he saw the great success of the day, and was startled that "an undramatic bagatelle with threadbare scenery, stale intrigues and superannuated theatrical tricks, could be playing on the foremost stage of the world;" saw at the Palais de l'Industrie the triennial exhibition of art works, "the crème de la crème of three salons, and found not one work of consequence." After some time he came to the conclusion that "the big city is not the heart that drives the pulses," but that it is "the boil that corrupts and poisons," and so betook himself and his family to Switzerland, where they lived in the vicinity of Lake Leman, which environment was made use of years later in the moving one-act play, "Facing Death," presented herewith. "Pariah," the other one-act play appearing in this volume, is the generally recognized masterpiece of all the short one-act plays. The dialogue is so concentrated that it seems as if not one line could be cut without the whole structure falling to pieces, and in these terse speeches a genius is revealed that, with something of the divine touch, sounds the depths of the human heart and reveals its inmost thoughts. "Pariah" was published in 1890 and "Facing Death" in 1898. The period of Strindberg's sojourn in Switzerland, 1884-87, was most important in the evolution of the character and work of the man who, throughout his career, was to engage himself so penetratingly and passionately in the psychology of woman, and love, and the problems of marriage, as to acquire the reputation, undeserved though it was, of woman-hater. That this observation and analysis of woman was not induced by natural antipathy to the sex, nor by unhappiness in his own married experience, is made clear by the facts of his life up to the time when such investigation was undertaken. What, then, did sway him to such a choice of theme? Examination of the data of this period from Strindberg's own annals reveals the following influences: Ibsen from his Norwegian throne had hailed woman and the laborer as the two rising ranks of nobility, and Strindberg asked himself if this was ironic, as usual, or prophetic. Feminine individualism was the cult of the hour. The younger generation had, through the doctrines of evolution, become atheistic. Strindberg tells of asking a young writer how he could get along without God. "We have woman instead," was the reply. This was the last stage of Madonna worship! And how had it happened that the new generation had replaced God with woman? "God was the remotest source; when he failed they grasped at the next, the mother. But then they should at least choose the real mother, the real woman, before whom, no matter how strong his spirit, man will always bow when she appears with her life-giving attributes. But the younger generation had pronounced contempt for the mother, and in her place had set up the loathsome, sterile, degenerate amazon--the blue-stocking!" Earnestly pondering these matters, Strindberg at length decided to write a book about woman, a subject, he declares, which up to this time he had not wanted to think about, as he himself "lived in a happy erotic state, ennobled and beautified by the rejuvenating and expiatory arrival of children." But nevertheless he decided to write such a book, and so with sympathy and much old-fashioned veneration for motherhood the task was undertaken. Regarding the mother as down-trodden, he wanted to think out a means for her deliverance. To obtain a clear vision he chose as a method the delineation of as large a number as possible of marriage cases that he had seen--and he had seen many, as most of his contemporary friends were married. Of these he chose twelve, the most characteristic, and then he went to work. When he had written about half that number, he stopped and reviewed the collection. The result was entirely different from what he had expected. Then chance came to his aid, for in the pension where he was living, thirty women were stopping. He saw them at all meals, between meals, and all about, idle, gossiping, pretentious, longing for pleasure. "There were learned ladies who left the Saturday Review behind them on the chairs; there were literary ladies, young ladies, beautiful ladies." When he saw their care-free, idle life, with concern he asked himself: "Whom do these parasites and their children live on?" Then he discovered the bread-winners. "The husband sat in his dark office far away in London; the husband was far away with a detachment in Tonkin; the husband was at work in his bureau in Paris; the husband had gone on a business trip to Australia." And the three men who were there gave him occasion to reflect about the so-called female slave. "There was a husband who had a fiercely hot attic room, while the wife and daughter had a room with a balcony on the first floor. An elderly man passed by, who, although himself a brisk walker, was now leading his sickly wife step by step, his hand supporting her back when making an ascent; he carried her shawls, chair, and other little necessities, reverently, lovingly, as if he had become her son when she had ceased to be his wife. And there sat King Lear with his daughter,--it was terrible to see. He was over sixty, had had eight children, six of whom were daughters, and who, in his days of affluence, he had allowed to manage his house and, no doubt, the economy thereof. Now he was poor, had nothing, and they had all deserted him except one daughter who had inherited a small income from an aunt. And the former giant, who had been able to work for a household of twelve, crushed by the disgrace of bankruptcy, was forced to feel the humiliation of accepting support from his daughter, who went about with her twenty-nine women friends, receiving their comfort and condolence, weeping over her fate, and sometimes actually wishing the life out of her father." The immediate result of all this observation and consequent analysis was the collection of short stories in two volumes called "Marriages," the first of which, published in 1884, gave rise to Strindberg's reputation of being a pessimist, and the second, two years later, to that of woman-hater, which became confirmed by the portrayals of women in his realistic dramas that soon followed, notably that of Laura in "The Father." That part of the woman-hater legend which one encounters most often is that Strindberg was revealing his own marital miseries in the sex conflicts of these dramas, particularly in "The Father," notwithstanding the fact that this play was written five years before his first marriage was dissolved, and little more than two years after his avowed hesitancy to undertake the dissection of womankind on account of the "happy erotic state" in which he was living. And that his analytical labors and personal experiences, far from bringing about an acquired aversion for woman, never even let him be warned, is attested by the fact of his having founded three families. One is forced to suspect that instead of being a woman-hater, he was rather a disguised and indefatigable lover of woman, and that his wars on woman and his fruitless endeavors to get into harmony with the other half of the race were, fundamentally, a warring within himself of his own many-sided, rich nature. He said of himself that he had been sentenced by his nature to be the faultfinder, to see the other side of things. He hated the Don Juans among men as intensely as he did the lazy parasites among women--the rich and spoiled ones who declaimed loudest about woman's holy duties as wife and mother, but whose time was given up to being hysterical and thinking out foolish acts,--these women enraged him. However, the psychology of woman represents but one phase of Strindberg. In a book called "The Author," styled by him "a self-evolutionary history," which was written during the germinating period of the realistic dramas, but was not given out for publication until 1909, there is a foreword which contains the following significant avowal from the Strindberg of the last years: "The author had not arrived in 1886; perhaps only came into being then. The book presented herewith is consequently only of secondary interest as constituting a fragment; and the reader should bear in mind that it was written over twenty years ago. The personality of the author is consequently as unfamiliar to me as to the reader--and as unsympathetic. As he no longer exists, I can no longer assume any responsibility for him, and as I took part in his execution [1898] I believe I have the right to regard the past as expiated and stricken out of the Big Book." The "execution" in 1898 referred to was the spiritual crisis through which Strindberg passed when he emerged from the abysmal pessimism of "The Inferno;" then began the gradual return to spiritual faith which, in the end, caused him to declare himself a Swedenborgian. The play, "Easter," included in the present collection, belongs to this period; it is a strange mingling of symbolism and realism, bearing the spiritual message of the resurrection. It was the most popular play produced at the Intimate Theatre in Stockholm, having been given there over two hundred times; and in Germany, also, it has been one of the plays most appreciated. That "Easter" is representative of the last phase, spiritually, of the great man is evidenced by the closing incident of his life. His favorite daughter, Kirtlin, was in the room as death approached. Strindberg called to her, and asked for the Bible; receiving the book, he opened it, and placing it across his breast, said, "This is the best book of all," and then, with his last breath, "Now everything personal is obliterated." E. O. and W. O. COMRADES Comedy in Four Acts CHARACTERS AXEL, an artist BERTHA, his wife, artist ABEL, her friend WILLMER, litterateur ÖSTERMARK, a doctor MRS. HALL, his divorced wife THE MISSES HALL, her daughters by a second marriage CARL STARCK, lieutenant MRS. STARCK, his wife MAID [SCENE for the whole play.--An artist's studio in Paris; it is on the ground floor, has glass windows looking out on an orchard. At back of scene a large window and door to hall. On the walls hang studies, canvases, weapons, costumes and plaster casts. To right there is a door leading to Axel's room; to left a door leading to Bertha's room. There is a model stand left center. To right an easel and painting materials. A large sofa, a large store through the doors of which one sees a hot coal fire. There is a hanging-lamp from ceiling. At rise of curtain Axel and Doctor Östermark are discovered.] ACT I. AXEL [Sitting, painting]. And you, too, are in Paris! DR. ÖSTERMARK. Everything gathers here as the center of the world; and so you are married--and happy? AXEL. Oh, yes, so, so. Yes, I'm quite happy. That's understood. DR. ÖSTERMARK. What's understood? AXEL. Look here, you're a widower. How was it with your marriage? DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, very nice--for her. AXEL. And for you? DR. ÖSTERMARK. So, so! But you see one must compromise, and we compromised to the end. AXEL. What do you mean by compromise? DR. ÖSTERMARK. I mean--that I gave in! AXEL. You? DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, you wouldn't think that of a man like me, would you? AXEL. No, I would never have thought that. Look here, don't you believe in woman, eh? DR. ÖSTERMARK. No, sir! I do not. But I love her. AXEL. In your way--yes! DR. ÖSTERMARK. In my way--yes. How about your way? AXEL. We have arranged a sort of comradeship, you see, and friendship is higher and more enduring than love. DR. ÖSTERMARK. H'm--so Bertha paints too. How? Well? AXEL. Fairly well. DR. ÖSTERMARK. We were good friends in the old days, she and I,--that is, we always quarreled a little.--Some visitors. Hush! It is Carl and his wife! AXEL [Rising]. And Bertha isn't at home! Sacristi! [Enter Lieutenant Carl Starck and his wife.] Welcome! Well, well, we certainly meet here from all corners of the world! How do you do, Mrs. Starck? You're looking well after your journey. MRS. STARCK. Thanks, dear Axel, we have certainly had a delightful trip. But where is Bertha? CARL. Yes, where is the young wife? AXEL. She's out at the studio, but she'll be home at any moment now. But won't you sit down? [The doctor greets the visitors.] CARL. Hardly. We were passing by and thought we would just look in to see how you are. But we shall be on hand, of course, for your invitation for Saturday, the first of May. AXEL. That's good. You got the card then? MRS. STARCK. Yes, we received it while we were in Hamburg. Well, what is Bertha doing nowadays? AXEL. Oh, she paints, as I do. In fact, we're expecting her model, and as he may come at any moment, perhaps I can't risk you to sit down after all, if I'm going to be honest. CARL. Do you think we would blush, then? MRS. STARCK. He isn't nude, is he? AXEL. Of course. CARL. A man? The devil!--No, I couldn't allow my wife to be mixed up with anything of that sort. Alone with a naked man! AXEL. I see you still have prejudices, Carl. CARL. Yes, you know-- MRS. STARCK. Fie! DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, that's what I say, too. AXEL. I can't deny that it, is not altogether to my taste, but as long as I must have a woman model-- MRS. STARCK. That's another matter. AXEL. Another? MRS. STARCK. Yes, it is another matter--although it resembles the other, it is not the same. [There is a knock.] AXEL. There he is! MRS. STARCK. We'll go, then. Good-bye and au revoir. Give my love to Bertha. AXEL. Good-bye, then, as you're so scared. And au revoir. CARL and DR. ÖSTERMARK. Good-bye, Axel. CARL [To Axel]. You stay in here, at least, while-- AXEL. No, why should I? CARL [Goes shaking his head]. Ugh! [Axel alone starts to paint. There is a knock.] AXEL. Come in. [The model enters.] So, you are back again. Madame hasn't returned yet. THE MODEL. But it's almost twelve, and I must keep another appointment. AXEL. Is that so? It's too bad, but--h'm--something must have detained her at the studio. How much do I owe you? THE MODEL. Five francs, as usual. AXEL [Paying him]. There. Perhaps you'd better wait awhile, nevertheless. THE MODEL. Yes, if I'm needed. AXEL. Yes, be kind enough to wait a few minutes. [The model retires behind a screen. Axel alone, draws and whistles. Bertha comes in after a moment.] AXEL. Hello, my dear! So you're back at last? BERTHA. At last? AXEL. Yes, your model is waiting. BERTHA [Startled]. No! No! Has he been here again? AXEL. You had engaged him for eleven o'clock. BERTHA. I? No! Did he say that? AXEL. Yes. But I heard you when you made the engagement yesterday. BERTHA. Perhaps it's so, then, but anyway the professor wouldn't let us leave and you know how nervous one gets in the last hours. You're not angry with me, Axel? AXEL. Angry? No. But this is the second time, and he gets his five francs for nothing, nevertheless. BERTHA. Can I help it if the professor keeps us? Why must you always pick on me? AXEL. Do I pick on you? BERTHA. What's that? Didn't you-- AXEL. Yes, yes, yes! I picked on you--forgive me--forgive me--for thinking that it was your fault. BERTHA. Well, it's all right there. But what did you pay him with? AXEL. To be sure. Gaga paid back the twenty francs he owed me. BERTHA [Takes out account-book.] So, he paid you back? Come on, then, and I'll put it down, for the sake of order. It's your money, so of course you can dispose of it as you please, but as you wish me to take care of the accounts--[Writes] fifteen francs in, five francs out, model. There. AXEL. No. Look here. It's twenty francs in. BERTHA. Yes, but there are only fifteen here. AXEL. Yes, but you should put down twenty. BERTHA. Why do you argue? AXEL. Did I--Well, the man's waiting-- BERTHA. Oh, yes. Be good and get things ready for me. AXEL. [Puts model stand in place. Calls to model]. Are you undressed yet? THE MODEL [From back of screen]. Soon, monsieur. BERTHA [Closes door, puts wood in stove]. There, now you must go out. AXEL [Hesitating]. Bertha! BERTHA. Yes? AXEL. Is it absolutely necessary--with a nude model? BERTHA. Absolutely! AXEL. H'm--indeed! BERTHA. We have certainly argued that matter out. AXEL. Quite true. But it's loathsome nevertheless--[Goes out right.] BERTHA [Takes up brushes and palette. Calls to model]. Are you ready? THE MODEL. All ready. BERTHA. Come on, then. [Pause.] Come on. [There is a knock.] Who is it? I have a model. WILLMER [Outside]. Willmer. With news from the salon. BERTHA. From the salon! [To model]. Dress yourself! We'll have to postpone the sitting.--Axel! Willmer is here with news from the salon. [Axel comes in, also Willmer; the model goes out unnoticed during the following scene.] WILMER. Hello, dear friends! Tomorrow the jury will begin its work. Oh, Bertha, here are your pastels. [Takes package from pocket.] BERTHA. Thanks, my good Gaga; how much did they cost? They must have been expensive. WILLMER. Oh, not very. BERTHA. So they are to start tomorrow. So soon? Do you hear, Axel? AXEL. Yes, my friend. BERTHA. Now, will you be very good, very, very good? AXEL. I always want to be good to you, my friend. BERTHA. You do? Now, listen. You know Roubey, don't you? AXEL. Yes, I met him in Vienna mid we became good friends, as it's called. BERTHA. You know that he is on the jury? AXEL. And then what? BERTHA. Well--now you'll be angry, I know you will. AXEL. You know it? Don't prove it, then. BERTHA [Coaxing]. You wouldn't make a sacrifice for your wife, would you? AXEL. Go begging? No, I don't want to do that. BERTHA. Not for me? You'll get in anyway, but for your wife! AXEL. Don't ask me. BERTHA. I should really never ask you for anything! AXEL. Yes, for things that I can do without sacrificing-- BERTHA. Your man's pride! AXEL. Let it go at that. BERTHA. But I would sacrifice my woman's pride if I could help you. AXEL. You women have no pride. BERTHA. Axel! AXEL. Well, well, pardon, pardon! BERTHA. You must be jealous. I don't believe you would really like it if I were accepted at the salon. AXEL. Nothing would make me happier. Believe me, Bertha. BERTHA. Would you be happy, too, if I were accepted and you were refused? AXEL. I must feel and see. [Puts his hand over his heart.] No, that would be decidedly disagreeable, decidedly. In the first place, because I paint better than you do, and because-- BERTHA [Walking up and down]. Speak out. Because I am a woman! AXEL. Yes, just that. It may seem strange, but to me it's as if you women were intruding and plundering where we have fought for so long while you sat by the fire. Forgive me, Bertha, for talking like this, but such thoughts have occurred to me. BERTHA. Has it ever occurred to you that you're exactly like all other men? AXEL. Like all others? I should hope so! BERTHA. And you have become so superior lately. You didn't use to be like that. AXEL. It must be because I am superior! Doing something that we men have never done before! BERTHA. What! What are you saving! Shame on you! WILLMER. There, there, good friends! No, but, dear friends--Bertha, control yourself. [He gives her a look which she tries to make out.] BERTHA [Changing]. Axel, let's be friends! And hear me a moment. Do you think that my position in your house--for it is yours--is agreeable to me? You support me, you pay for my studying at Julian's, while you yourself cannot afford instruction. Don't you think I see how you sit and wear out yourself and your talent on these pot-boiling drawings, and are able to paint only in leisure moments? You haven't been able to afford models for yourself, while you pay mine five hard-earned francs an hour. You don't know how good--how noble--how sacrificing you are, and also you don't know how I suffer to see you toil so for me. Oh, Axel, you can't know how I feel my position. What am I to you? Of what use am I in your house? Oh, I blush when I think about it! AXEL. What, what, what! Aren't you my wife? BERTHA. Yes, but-- AXEL. Well, then? BERTHA. But you support me. AXEL. Well, isn't that the right thing to do? BERTHA. It was formerly--according to the old scheme of marriage, but we weren't to have it like that. We were to be comrades. AXEL. What talk! Isn't a man to support his wife? BERTHA. I don't want it. And you, Axel, you must help me. I'm not your equal when it's like that, but I could be if you would humble yourself once, just once! Don't think that you are alone in going to one of the jury to say a good word for another. If it were for yourself, it would be another matter, but for me--Forgive me! Now I beg of you as nicely as I know how. Lift me from my humiliating position to your side, and I'll be so grateful I shall never trouble you again with reminding you of my position. Never, Axel! AXEL. Don't ask me; you know how weak I am. BERTHA [Embracing him].Yes, I shall ask you--beg of you, until you fulfil my prayer. Now, don't look so proud, but be human! So! [Kisses him.] AXEL [To Willmer]. Look here, Gaga, don't you think that women are terrible tyrants? WILLMER [Pained]. Yes, and especially when they are submissive. BERTHA. See, now, the sky is clear again. You'll go, won't you, Axel? Get on your black coat now, and go. Then come home, and we'll strike out together for something to eat. AXEL. How do you know that Roubey is receiving now? BERTHA. Don't you think that I made sure of that? AXEL. What a schemer you are! BERTHA [Takes a black cutaway coat from wardrobe]. Well, one would never get anywhere without a little wire-pulling, you know. Here's your black coat. So! AXEL. Yes. But this is awful. What am I to say to the man? BERTHA. H'm. Oh, you'll hit, on something on the way. Say that--that--that your wife--no--that you're expecting a christening-- AXEL. Fie, Bertha. BERTHA. Well, say that you can get him decorated, then. AXEL. Really you frighten me, Bertha! BERTHA. Say what you please, then. Come, now, and I'll fix your hair so you'll be presentable. Do you know his wife? AXEL. No, not at all. BERTHA [Brushing his hair]. Then you must get an introduction to her. I understand that she has great influence, but that she doesn't like women. AXEL. What are you doing to my hair? BERTHA. I am fixing it as they are wearing it now. AXEL. Yes, but I don't want it that way. BERTHA. Now then--that's fine. Just mind me. [She goes to chiffonier and takes out a case which contains a Russian Annae order. She tries to put it in Axel's buttonhole.] AXEL. No, Bertha. You've gone far enough now. I won't wear that decoration. BERTHA. But you accepted it. AXEL. Yes, because I couldn't decline it. But I'll never wear it. BERTHA. Do you belong to some political party that is so liberal-minded as to suppress individual freedom to accept distinctions? AXEL. No, I don't. But I belong to a circle of comrades who have promised each other not to wear their merit on their coats. BERTHA. But who have accepted salon medals! AXEL. Which are not worn on their coats. BERTHA. What do you say to this, Gaga? WILLMER. As long as distinctions exist, one does one's self harm to go about with the mark of infamy, and the example no one is likely to follow. Take them away for all of me--I certainly can't get them away from the others. AXEL. Yes, and when my comrades who are more deserving than I do not wear them, I would lower them by wearing the emblem. BERTHA. But it doesn't show under your overcoat. No one will know, and you won't brand any one. WILLMER. Bertha is right there. You'll wear your order _under_ your coat, not _on_ your coat. AXEL. Jesuits! When you are given a finger, you take the whole arm. [Abel comes in wearing fur coat and cap.] BERTHA. Oh, here's Abel! Come on, now, and settle this controversy. ABEL. Hello, Bertha! Hello, Axel! How are you, Gaga? What's the matter? BERTHA. Axel doesn't want to wear his order, because he daren't on account of his comrades. ABEL. Comrades come before a wife, of course--that's an unwritten law. [She sits by table, takes up tobacco and rolls a cigarette.] BERTHA [Fastens ribbon in Axel's buttonhole and puts the star back in case] He can help me without hurting any one, but I fear he would rather hurt me! AXEL. Bertha, Bertha! But you people will drive me mad! I don't consider it a crime to wear this ribbon, nor have I taken any oath that I wouldn't do so, but at our exhibitions it's considered cowardly not to dare to make one's way without them. BERTHA. Cowardly, of course! But you're not going to take your own course this time--but mine! ABEL. You owe it to the woman who has consecrated her life to you to be her delegate. AXEL. I feel that what you people are saying is false, but I haven't the time or energy to answer you now; but there is an answer! It's as if you were drawing a net about me while I sit absorbed in my work. I can feel the net winding about me, but my foot gets entangled when I want to kick it aside. But, you wait, if only I free my hands, I'll get out my knife and cut the meshes of your net! What were we talking about? Oh, yes, I was going to make a call. Give me my gloves and my overcoat. Good-bye, Bertha! Good-bye. Oh, yes,--where does Roubey live? WILLMER, ABEL and BERTHA [In unison]. Sixty-five Rue des Martyrs. AXEL. Why, that's right near here! BERTHA. Just at the corner. Thanks, Axel, for going. Does the sacrifice feel very heavy? AXEL. I can't feel anything but that I am tired of all this talk and that it will be delightful to get out. Good-bye. [Goes out.] ABEL. It's too bad about Axel. It's a pity. Did you know that he is refused? BERTHA. And I, then? ABEL. That's not settled yet. As you wrote your own name with French spelling, you won't be reached until O. BERTHA. There's still hope for me? ABEL. Yes, for you, but not for Axel. WILLMER. Now, we'll see something! BERTHA. How do you know that he is refused? ABEL. H'm, I met a "hors concours" who knew, and I was quite prepared to witness a scene when I came in here. But of course he hasn't received the notice yet. BERTHA. No, not that I know of. But, Abel, are you sure that Axel will meet Madame Roubey and not Monsieur? ABEL. What should he see Monsieur Roubey for? He hasn't any say about it, but she is president of the Woman-Painters Protective Society. BERTHA. And I am not refused--yet? ABEL. No, as I said, and Axel's call is bound to do good. He has a Russian order, and everything Russian is very popular in Paris just now. But it's too had about Axel just the same. BERTHA. Too bad? Why? They haven't room for everybody on the salon walls. There are so many women refused that a man might put up with it and be made to feel it for once. But if I get in now--we'll soon hear how _he_ painted my picture, how _he_ has taught me, how _he_ has paid for my lessons. But I shall not take any notice of that, because it isn't true. WILLMER. Well, we're bound to see something unusual happen now. BERTHA. No, I believe--granted that I am not refused--that we'll see something very usual. But nevertheless I'm afraid of the actual moment. Something tells me that things won't be right between Axel and me again. ABEL. And it was just when you were equals that things were going to be right. WILLMER. It seems to me that your position will be much more clearly defined and much pleasanter when you can sell your pictures and support yourself. BERTHA. It should be! We'll see--we'll see! [The maid enters with a green letter.] A green letter for Axel! Here it is! Here it is! He is refused! Yes, but this is terrible; however, it will be a consolation to me if I should be refused. ABEL. But if you are not refused? BERTHA [Pause]. ABEL. You won't answer that? BERTHA. No, I won't answer that. ABEL. Because, if you are accepted, the equality will be destroyed, as you will be his superior. BERTHA. Superior? A wife superior to her husband--her husband--oh! WILLMER. It's about time an example was made. ABEL [To Bertha]. You were at the luncheon today? Was it interesting? BERTHA. Oh, yes. WILLMER. When are you going to review my book, Abel? ABEL. I'm just working on it. WILLMER. Are you going to be nice to me? ABEL. Very nice.--Well, Bertha, how and when will you deliver the letter? BERTHA [Walking about]. That is just, what I am thinking about. If he hasn't met Madame Roubey, and if he hasn't carried out our plan, he will hardly do it after receiving this blow. ABEL [Rising]. I don't think Axel is so base as to revenge himself on you. BERTHA. Base? Such talk! Didn't he go just now when I wanted him to, because I am his wife? Do you think he would ever have gone for any one else? ABEL. Would you like it if he had done it for some one else? BERTHA. Good-bye to you--you must go now, before he returns! ABEL. That's what I think. Good bye, Bertha. WILLMER. Yes, we had better get away. Goodbye for now. [The maid enters and announces Mrs. Hall.] BERTHA. Who? Mrs. Hall? Who can that be? ABEL and WILLMER. Good-bye, Bertha. [They go out. Mrs. Hall comes in. She is flashily though carelessly dressed. She looks like an adventuress.] MRS. HALL. I don't know that I have the honor to be known to you, but you are Mrs. Alberg, née Ålund, are you not? BERTHA. Yes, I'm Mrs. Alberg. Won't you sit down? MRS. HALL. My name is Hall. [Sits.] Oh, my lord, but I'm so tired! I have walked up so many stairs--oh-ho-ho-ho, I believe I'll faint! BERTHA. How can I be of service to you? MRS. HALL. You know Doctor Östermark, don't you? BERTHA. Yes, he's an old friend of mine. MRS. HALL. An old friend. Well, you see, dear Mrs. Alberg, I was married to him once, but we separated. I am his divorced wife. BERTHA. Oh! He has never told me about that. MRS. HALL. Oh, people don't tell such things. BERTHA. He told me he was a widower. MRS. HALL. Well, you were a young girl then, and I suppose he isn't so anxious to have it known anyway. BERTHA. And I who have always believed that Doctor Östermark was an honorable man! MRS. HALL [Sarcastic]. Yes, he's a good one! He is a real gentleman, I must say. BERTHA. Well, but why do you tell me all this? MRS. HALL. Just wait, my dear Mrs. Alberg wait and you shall hear. You area member of the society, aren't you? BERTHA. Yes, I am. MRS. HALL. Just so; only wait now. BERTHA. Did you have any children? MRS. HALL. Two--two daughters, Mrs. Alberg. BERTHA. That's another matter! And he left you in want? MRS. HALL. Just wait now! He gave us a small allowance, not enough for the rent even. And now that the girls are grown up and about to start in life, now he writes us that he is a bankrupt and that he can't send us more than half the allowance. Isn't that nice, just now, when the girls are grown up and are going out into life? BERTHA. We must look into this. He'll be here in a few days. Do you know that you have the law on your side and that the courts can force him to pay? And he shall be forced to do so. Do you understand? So, he can bring children into the world and then leave them empty-handed with the poor, deserted mother. Oh, he'll find out something very different! Will you give my your address? MRS. HALL [Gives her card]. You are so good, Mrs. Alberg. And you won't be vexed with me if I ask a little favor of you? BERTHA. You can depend on me entirely. I shall write the secretary immediately-- MRS. HALL. Oh, you're so good, but before the secretary can answer, I and my poor children will probably be thrown out into the street. Dear Mrs. Alberg, you couldn't lend me a trifle--just wait--a trifle of twenty francs? BERTHA. No, dear lady, I haven't any money. My husband supports me for the time being, and you may be sure that I'm reminded of the fact. It's bitter to eat the bread of charity when one is young, but better times are coming for me too. MRS. HALL. My dear, good Mrs. Alberg, you must not refuse me. If you do, I am a lost woman. Help me, for heaven's sake. BERTHA. Are you terribly in need? MRS. HALL. And you ask me that! BERTHA. I'll let you have this money as a loan. [She goes to chiffonier.] Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty--lacking twenty. What did I do with it? H'm, luncheon, of course! [She writes in account-book.] Paints twenty, incidentals twenty--there you are. MRS. HALL. Thank you, my good Mrs. Alberg, thanks, dear lady. BERTHA. There, there. But I can't give you any more time today. So, good-bye, and depend on me. MRS. HALL [Uncertain]. Just a moment now. BERTHA [Listening without]. No, you must go now. MRS. HALL. Just a moment. What was I going to say?--Well, it doesn't matter. [Goes out. Bertha is alone for a moment, when she hears Axel coming. She hides the green letter in her pocket.] BERTHA. Back already? Well, did you meet her--him? AXEL. I didn't meet him, but her, which was much better. I congratulate you, Bertha. Your picture is already accepted! BERTHA. Oh, no! What are you saying? And yours? AXEL. It isn't decided yet--but it will surely go through, too. BERTHA. Are you sure of that? AXEL. Of course-- BERTHA. Oh, I'm accepted! Good, how good! But why don't you congratulate me? AXEL. Haven't I? I'm quite sure that I said, "I congratulate you!" For that matter, one mustn't sell the skin before the bear is killed. To get into the salon isn't anything. It's just a toss-up. It can even depend on what letter one's name begins with. You come in O, as you spelled your name in French. When the lettering starts with M it's always easier. BERTHA. So, you wish to say that perhaps I got in because my name begins with O? AXEL. Not on account of that alone. BERTHA. And if you are refused, it's because your name begins with A. AXEL. Not exactly that alone, but it might be on that account. BERTHA. Look here, I don't think you're as honorable as you would seem. You are jealous. AXEL. Why should I be, when I don't know what has happened to me yet? BERTHA. But when you do know? AXEL. What? [Bertha takes out letter. Axel puts his hand to his heart and sits in a chair.] What! [Controls himself.] That was a blow I had not expected. That was most disagreeable! BERTHA. Well, I suppose I'll have to help you now. AXEL, You seem to be filled with malicious delight, Bertha. Oh, I feel that a great hate is beginning to grow in here. [Indicating his breast.] BERTHA. Perhaps I look delighted because I've had a success, but when one is tied to a man who cannot rejoice in another's good fortune, it's difficult to sympathize with his misfortune. AXEL. I don't know why, but it seems as if we had become enemies now. The strife of position has come between us, and we can never be friends any more. BERTHA. Can't your sense of justice bend and recognize me as the abler, the victorious one in the strife? AXEL. You are not the abler. BERTHA. The jury must have thought so, however. AXEL. But surely you know that I paint better than you do. BERTHA. Are you so sure of that? AXEL. Yes, I am. But for that matter--you worked under better conditions than I. You didn't have to do any pot-boiling, you could go to the studio, you had models, and you were a woman! BERTHA. Yes, now I'll hear how I have lived on you-- AXEL. Between ourselves, yes, but the world won't know unless you go and tell it yourself. BERTHA. Oh, the world knows that already. But tell me, why don't you suffer when a comrade, a man comrade, is accepted, although he has less merit than you? AXEL. I'll have to think about that. You see our feeling toward you women has never been critical--we've taken you as a matter of course, and so I've never thought about our relations as against each other. Now when the shoe pinches, it strikes me that we are not comrades, for this experience makes me feel that you women do not belong here. [Indicating the studio.] A comrade is a more or less loyal competitor; we are enemies. You women have been lying down in the rear while we attacked the enemy. And now, when we have set and supplied the table, you pounce down upon it as if you were in your own home! BERTHA. Oh, fie, have we ever been allowed in the conflict? AXEL. You have always been allowed, but you have never wanted to take part, or haven't been able to do so in our domain, where you are now breaking in. Technic had to be put through its whole development and completion by us before you entered. And now you buy the centurions' work for ten francs an hour in a studio, and with money that we have acquired by our work. BERTHA. You are not honorable now, Axel. AXEL. When was I honorable? When I allowed you to use me like an old shoe? But now you are my superior--and now I can't strive to be honorable any longer. Do you know that this adversity will also change our economic relations? I cannot think of painting any more, but must give up my life's dream and become a pot-boiler in earnest. BERTHA. You needn't do that; when I can sell, I will support myself. AXEL. For that matter, what sort of an alliance have we gone into? Marriage should be built on common interests; ours is built on opposing interests. BERTHA. You can work all that out by yourself; I'm going out for dinner now,--are you coming? AXEL. No, I want to be alone with my unhappiness. BERTHA. And I want company for my happiness.--But we have invited people to come here for the evening--that won't do now, with your misery, will it? AXEL. It isn't a very brilliant prospect, but there's no way out. Let them come. BERTHA [Dressing to go out]. But you must be here, or it will look as if you were cowardly. AXEL. I'll be with you, don't worry--but give me a bit of money before you go. BERTHA. We've reached the end of our cash. AXEL. The end? BERTHA. Yes, money comes to an end too! AXEL. Can you lend me ten francs? BERTHA [Taking out pocketbook]. Ten francs? Yes, indeed, if I have it. Here you are. Won't you come along? Tell me. They'll think it rather strange! AXEL. And play the defeated lion before the triumphant chariot? No, indeed, I'll need my time to learn my part for this evening's performance. BERTHA. Good-bye then. AXEL. Good-bye, Bertha. Let me ask you one thing. BERTHA. What then? AXEL. Don't come home intoxicated. It would be more disagreeable today than ever. BERTHA. Does it concern you how I come home? AXEL. Well, I feel sort of responsible for you, as for a relative, considering that you bear the same name that I do, and besides, it is still disgusting to me to see a woman intoxicated. BERTHA. Why is it any more disgusting than to see a man intoxicated? AXEL. Yes, why? Perhaps because you don't bear being seen without a disguise. BERTHA [Starting]. Good-bye, you old talking-machine. You won't come along? AXEL. No! [Bertha goes out; Axel rises, takes off his cutaway to change it for working coat.] CURTAIN. ACT II. [Same scene as Act I, but there is a large table with chairs around it in middle of scene. On table there is writing material and a speaker's gavel. Axel is painting. Abel is sitting near him. She is smoking.] AXEL. They have finished dinner and are having their coffee now. Did they drink much? ABEL. Oh, yes, and Bertha bragged and was disagreeable. AXEL. Tell me one thing, Abel, are you my friend, or not? ABEL. H'm--I don't know. AXEL. Can I trust you? ABEL. No--you can't. AXEL. Why not? ABEL. Oh, I just feel that you can't. AXEL. Tell me, Abel, you who have the common sense of a man and can be reasoned with, tell me how it feels to be a woman. Is it so awful? ABEL [Jokingly]. Yes, of course. It feels like being a nigger. AXEL. That's strange. Listen, Abel. You know that I have a passion for equity and justice-- ABEL. I know you are a visionary--and that's why things will never go well with you. AXEL. But things go well with you--because you never feel anything? ABEL. Yes. AXEL. Abel, have you really never had any desire to love a man? ABEL. How silly you are! AXEL. Have you never found any one? ABEL. No, men are very scarce. AXEL. H'm, don't you consider me a man? ABEL. You! No! AXEL. That's what I fancied myself to be. ABEL. Are you a man? You, who work for a woman and go around dressed like a woman? AXEL. What? I, dressed like a woman? ABEL. The way you wear your hair and go around bare-necked, while she wears stiff collars and short hair; be careful, she'll soon take your trousers away from you. AXEL. How you talk! ABEL. And what is your position in your own house? You beg money from her, and she puts you under her guardianship. No, you are not a man! But that's why she took you, when her affairs were in bad shape. AXEL. You hate Bertha; what have you against her? ABEL. I don't know, but perhaps I, too, have been struck with that same passion for justice. AXEL. Look here. Don't you believe in your great cause any longer? ABEL. Sometimes! Sometimes not! What can one believe in any more? Sometimes it strikes me that the old ways were better. As mothers we had an honored and respected position when in that way we fulfilled our duty as citizens; as housewives we were a great power, and to bring up a family was not an ignominious occupation. Give me a cognac, Axel. We have talked so much. AXEL [Getting cognac]. Why do you drink? ABEL. I don't know. If one could only find the exceptional man! AXEL. What sort would that be? ABEL. The man who rules a woman! AXEL. Well, and if you found one? ABEL. Then I would--as they say--fall in love with him. Think if this whole noise were _blague_. Think! AXEL. No, there is surely life, motion in the movement, whatever it is. ABEL. Yes, there's so much motion--forward and backward! And a good deal of folly can come of the "motion," if they only get the majority for it. AXEL. If it turns out that way, then you've made a damned lot of noise uselessly, for now it's beginning to be loathsome to live. ABEL. We make so much noise that we make your heads reel. That's the trouble! Well, Axel, your position will be freer now that Bertha has been able to sell. AXEL. Sell! Has she sold a picture? ABEL. Don't you know that? The small picture with the apple-tree. AXEL. No, she hasn't said anything about it. When did it happen? ABEL. Day before yesterday. Don't you know about it? Well, then she intends to surprise you with the money. AXEL. Surprise me? She takes care of the cash herself. ABEL. So! Then it will--Hush, she is coming. [Bertha comes in.] BERTHA [To Abel]. Oh, good evening; are you here? What made you leave us? ABEL. I thought it was tiresome. BERTHA. Yes, there is no fun in rejoicing for others! ABEL. No! BERTHA [To Axel]. And you sit diligently niggling, I see. AXEL. Yes, I'm daubing away. BERTHA. Let me see! That's very good indeed--but the left arm is far too long. AXEL. Do you think so? BERTHA. Think so? Can't I see that it is? Give me the brush and--[She takes brush.] AXEL. No, let me alone. Aren't you ashamed? BERTHA. What's that? AXEL [Vexed]. Shame, I said. [Rises.] Are you trying to teach me how to paint? BERTHA. Why not? AXEL. Because you have still much to learn from me. But I can learn nothing from you. BERTHA. It seems to me that the gentleman is not very respectful to his wife. One should bear in mind the respect one owes to-- ABEL. Now you're old-fashioned. What particular respect does a man owe a woman if they are to be equals? BERTHA [To Abel]. So you think it's all right for a man to be coarse with his wife? ABEL. Yes, when she is impudent to him. AXEL. That's right! Tear each other's eyes out! ABEL. Not at all! The whole thing is too insignificant for that. AXEL. Don't say that. Look here, Bertha, considering that our economic condition is to undergo a change from now on, won't you be so good as to let me see the account-book? BERTHA. What a noble revenge for being refused! AXEL. What revenge? What has the account-book got to do with my being turned down at the salon? Give me the key to the chiffonier. BERTHA [Feeling in her pocket]. Very well. H'm! That's strange! I thought I just had it. AXEL. Find it! BERTHA. You speak in such a commanding tone. I don't like that. AXEL. Come now, find the key. BERTHA [Looking here and there in the room]. Yes, but I can't understand it; I can't find it. It must be lost some way. AXEL. Are you sure that you haven't got it? BERTHA. Absolutely sure. [Axel rings; after a moment the maid comes in.] AXEL [To maid]. Go fetch a locksmith. MAID. A locksmith? AXEL. Yes, a smith who can pick a lock. [Bertha gives the maid a look.] MAID. Right away, monsieur. [Maid goes out. Axel changes his coat, discovers the order on the lapel, tears it off and throws it on the table.] AXEL. Pardon me, ladies! BERTHA [Mildly]. Don't mind us. Are you going out? AXEL. I am going out. BERTHA. Aren't you going to stay for the meeting? AXEL. No, I am not! BERTHA. Yes, but they will think that very discourteous. AXEL. Let them. I have more important things to do than listening to the drivel of you women. BERTHA [Worried]. Where are you going? AXEL. I don't need to account for myself, as I don't ask you to account for your actions. BERTHA. You won't forget that we have invited guests for the masquerade tomorrow evening? AXEL. Guests? That's true, tomorrow evening. H'm! BERTHA. It won't do to postpone it when both Östermark and Carl have arrived today, and I have asked them to come. AXEL. So much the better! BERTHA. And now come home early enough to try on your costume. AXEL. My Costume? Yes, of course; I am to take the part of a woman. [The maid enters.] MAID. The smith hasn't time now, but he'll come within two hours. AXEL. He hasn't time, eh? Well, perhaps the key will turn up anyway. However, I must be off now. Good-bye. BERTHA [Very mild]. Good-bye then. Don't come home late. AXEL. I don't know just what I will do. Goodbye. [Abel nods good-bye, Axel goes out.] ABEL. How very cocky his lordship was! BERTHA. Such impudence! Do you know, I had a good mind to tame him, break him so that he'd come back crawling to me. ABEL. Yes, that tweak the salon disappointment gave him doesn't seem to have taken all the spunk out of him. Bertha, tell me, have you ever loved that clown? BERTHA. Loved him? I liked him very much because he was nice to me. But he is so silly and--when he nags as he did just now, I feel that I could hate him. Think of it, it's already around that he painted my picture! ABEL. Well, if it's gone as far as that, then you must do something éclatant. BERTHA. If I only knew how! ABEL. I'm usually inventive. Let me see. Look here, why couldn't you have his refused picture brought home just as all your friends have gathered here? BERTHA. No, that would look as if I wanted to triumph. No, that would be too terrible. ABEL. Yes, but if I should have it done? Or Gaga, that would be better still. It would be sent here in Axel's name by the porter. It's got to come home anyway, and it's no secret that it was refused. BERTHA. No, but you know-- ABEL. What? Hasn't he spread false reports, and haven't you the right to defend yourself? BERTHA. I would like it to happen very much, but I don't want to have anything to do with the doing of it. I want to be able to stand and swear that I am quite clean and innocent. ABEL. You shall be able to do so. I'll attend to it. BERTHA. What do you think he wanted the account-book for? He has never asked to see it before. Do you think he has some scheme in his head about it? ABEL. Ye-es! Doubtless. He wants to see if you've accounted for the three hundred francs you got for your picture. BERTHA. What picture? ABEL. The one you sold to Madame Roubey. BERTHA. How do you know about that? ABEL. The whole crowd knows about it. BERTHA. And Axel, too? ABEL. Yes. I happened to mention it because I thought he knew. It was stupid of you not to tell him. BERTHA. Does it concern him if I sell a-- ABEL. Yes, in a way, of course it concerns him. BERTHA. Well, then, I will explain that I didn't want to give him another disappointment after he had already had the unhappiness of seeing me accepted at the salon. ABEL. Strictly speaking, he has nothing to do with your earnings, as you have a marriage compact, and you have every reason to be tight with him. Just to establish a precedent, buck up and stand your own ground when he returns with his lecture tonight. BERTHA. Oh, I know how to take care of him. But--another matter. How are we to treat the Östermark case? ABEL. Östermark,--yes, he is my great enemy. You had better let me take care of him. We have an old account that is still unsettled, he and I. Calm yourself on that score. I'll make him yield, for we have the law on our side. BERTHA. What do you intend to do? ABEL. Invite Mrs. Hall and her two daughters here for tomorrow night, and then we will find out how he takes it. BERTHA. No, indeed, no scandal in my house! ABEL. Why not? Can you deny yourself such a triumph? If it's war, one must kill one's enemies, not just wound them. And now it is war. Am I right? BERTHA. Yes, but a father, and his wife and daughters whom he has not seen for eighteen years! ABEL. Well, he'll have a chance to see them now. BERTHA. You're terrible, Abel! ABEL. I'm a little stronger than you, that's all. Marriage must have softened you. Do you live as married people, h'm? BERTHA. How foolish you are! ABEL. You have irritated Axel; you have trampled on him. But he can yet bite your heel. BERTHA. Do you think he would dare to do anything? ABEL. I believe he'll create a scene when he comes home. BERTHA. Well, I shall give him as good as he sends-- ABEL. If you only can! But that business about the chiffonier key--that was foolish, very foolish. BERTHA. Perhaps it was foolish. But he will be nice enough again after he has had an airing. I know him. [The maid comes in with a package.] MAID. A messenger brought this costume for Monsieur. BERTHA. Very well, let me have it. That's fine! MAID. But it must be for madame, as it's a lady's costume. BERTHA. No, that's all right. It's for monsieur. MAID. But, heavens! is monsieur to wear dresses too? BERTHA. Why not, when we have to wear them? But you may leave us now. [Maid goes out. Bertha opens bundle and takes out Spanish costume.] ABEL. But that is certainly well thought out. Oh, it's beautiful to avenge any one's stupidities. [Willmer comes in zenith a messenger, who carries a package. Willmer is dressed in black frock coat with lapels faced with white, a flower in buttonhole, knee breeches, red cravat, and turned over cuffs.] WILLMER. Good evening; are you alone? Here are the candles and here are the bottles. One chartreuse and two vermouth; here are two packages of tobacco and the rest of the things. BERTHA. Well, but you are a good boy, Gaga! WILLMER. And here is the receipted bill. BERTHA. Is it paid? Then you have spent money again? WILLMER. We'll have plenty of time to settle that. But you must hurry now, as the old lady will soon be here. BERTHA. Then be good enough to open the bottles while I fix the candles. WILLMER. Of course I will. [Bertha opens package of candles at table; Willmer stands beside her, taking the wrappers from bottles.] ABEL. You look quite family-like as you stand there together. You might have made quite a nice little husband, Gaga. [Willmer puts his arm around Bertha and kisses her on the neck. Bertha turns on Willmer and slaps his face.] BERTHA. Aren't you ashamed, you little hornet! What are you up to, anyway? ABEL. If you can stand that, Gaga, then you can stand the knife. WILLMER [Angry]. Little hornet? Don't you know who I am? Don't you know that I'm an author of rank? BERTHA. You! who write nothing but trash! WILLMER. It wasn't trash when I wrote for you. BERTHA. You only copied what we said, that was all! WILLMER. Take care, Bertha. You know that I can ruin you! BERTHA. So, you threaten, you little Fido! [To Abel.] Shall we give the boy a spanking? ABEL. Think what you are saying! WILLMER. So! I've been a little Fido, who has been lying on your skirt; but don't forget that I can bite too. BERTHA. Let me see your teeth! WILLMER. No, but you shall feel them! BERTHA. Very well, come on then! Come! ABEL. Now, now, be quiet before you go too far. WILLMER [To Bertha]. Do you know what one has a right to say about a married woman who accepts presents from a young bachelor? BERTHA. Presents? WILLMER. You've accepted presents from me for two years. BERTHA. Presents! You should have a thrashing, you lying little snipe, always hanging around the petticoats! Don't you suppose I can squelch you? WILLMER [With a shrug]. Perhaps. BERTHA. And you dare throw a shadow on a woman's honor! WILLMER, Honor! H'm! Does it do you any honor to have had me buy part of the household things which you have charged up to your husband? BERTHA. Leave my house, you scamp! WILLMER. Your house! Among comrades one is not careful, but among enemies one must count every hair! And you shall be compelled to go over the accounts with me--adventuress--depend on that! [Goes out.] ABEL. You will suffer for this foolishness! To let a friend leave you as an enemy--that's dangerous. BERTHA. Oh, let him do what he likes. He dared to kiss me! He dared to remind me that I'm a woman. ABEL. Do you know, I believe a man will always have that in mind. You have been playing with fire. BERTHA. Fire! Can one ever find a man and a woman who can live like comrades without danger of fire? ABEL. No, I don't think so; as long as there are two sexes there is bound to be fire. BERTHA. Yes, but that must be done away with! ABEL. Yes--it must be--try it! [The maid comes in; she is bursting with laughter.] MAID. There is a lady out here who calls herself--Richard--Richard Wahlström! BERTHA [Going toward door]. Oh! Richard is here. ABEL. Oh, well then, if she has come, we can open the meeting. And now to see if we can disentangle your skein. BERTHA. Disentangle it, or cut it! ABEL. Or get caught in it! CURTAIN. ACT III. [Same scene. The hanging-lamp is lighted. Moonlight streams in, lighting up the studio window. There is a fire in the stove. Bertha and the maid are discovered. Bertha is dressed in a negligée with lace. She is sewing on the Spanish costume. The maid is cutting out a frill.] BERTHA. There's no fun sitting up waiting for one's husband. MAID. Do you think it is more fun for him to sit and wait for madame? This is the first time that he has been out alone-- BERTHA. Well, what does he do when he sits here alone? MAID. He paints on pieces of wood. BERTHA. On wooden panels? MAID. Yes, he has big piles of wood that he paints on. BERTHA. H'm! Tell me one thing, Ida; has monsieur ever been familiar with you? MAID. Oh, never! No, he is such a proper gentleman. BERTHA. Are you sure? MAID [Positive]. Does madame think that I am such a-- BERTHA.--What time is it now? MAID. It must be along toward twelve. BERTHA. Very well. Then you may go to bed. MAID. Won't you be afraid to be alone with all these skeletons? BERTHA. I, afraid?--Hush, some one is coming through the gate--so, good night to you. MAID. Good night, Madame. Sleep well. [Goes out. Bertha alone; she puts the work away; throws herself on the couch, arranges lace on her gown, then she jumps up, turns down the lamp to half-light, then returns to couch and pretends to sleep. A pause before Axel enters.] AXEL. Is any one here? Are you here, Bertha? [Bertha is silent. Axel goes to her.] Are you asleep? BERTHA. [Softly.] Ah, is it you, my friend? Good evening! I was lying here and fell asleep, and I had such a bad dream. AXEL. Now you are lying, for I saw you thro' the window from the garden when you took this pose. [Bertha jumps up.] AXEL [Quietly]. And we don't want any seductive scenes in nightgowns, nor any melodramas. Be calm and listen to what I am going to tell you. [He sits down in the middle of the room.] BERTHA. What have you got to tell me? AXEL. A whole lot of things; but I shall begin with the ending. We must dissolve this concubinage. BERTHA. What? [Throwing herself on the couch.] Oh, my God, what am I not made to live through! AXEL. No hysteria, or I will empty the water bottle on your laces! BERTHA. This is your revenge because I defeated you in an open competition! AXEL. That has no connection with this matter. BERTHA. You have never loved me! AXEL. Yes, I have loved you; that was my only motive for marrying you. But why did you marry me? Because you were hard up, and because you had green sickness! BERTHA. It's fortunate that no one can hear us. AXEL. It would be no misfortune if any one did hear us. I've treated you like a comrade, with unlimited trust, and I've even made small sacrifices that you know about.--Has the locksmith been here yet? BERTHA. No, he didn't come. AXEL. It doesn't matter--I have looked over your accounts. BERTHA. So, you've been spying in my book, have you? AXEL. The household account-book is common property. You have entered false expenses and neglected to put down some of the income. BERTHA. Can I help it if we are not taught bookkeeping at school? AXEL. Nor are we. And as far as your bringing-up is concerned, you had things much better then I did; you went to a seminary, but I only went to a grade school. BERTHA. It's not books that bring one up-- AXEL. No, it's the parents! But it's strange that they can't teach their daughters to be honorable-- BERTHA. Honorable! I wonder if the majority of criminals are not to be found among men? AXEL. The majority of the punished, you should say; but of ninety-nine per cent. of criminal men one can ask with the judge, "Où est la femme?" But--to return to you. You have lied to me all the way through, and finally you have cheated me. For instance, you put down twenty francs for paints instead of for a twenty franc luncheon at Marguery. BERTHA. That's not true; the luncheon only cost twelve francs. AXEL. That is to say, you put eight in your pocket. Then you have received three hundred francs for the picture that you sold. BERTHA. "What a woman earns by her work, she also controls." That's what the law states. AXEL. That's not a paradox, then? Not monomania? BERTHA. No, it seems not. AXEL. Of course, we must not be petty; you control your earnings, and have controlled mine, in an unspeakable way; still, don't you think that, as comrades, you should have told me about the sale? BERTHA. That didn't concern you. AXEL. It didn't concern me? Well, then it only remains for me to bring suit for divorce. BERTHA. Divorce! Do you think I would stand the disgrace of being a divorced wife? Do you think that I will allow myself to be driven from my home, like a servant-maid who is sent away with her trunk? AXEL. I could throw you out into the street if I wished, but I shall do a more humane thing and get the divorce on the grounds of incompatibility of temperament. BERTHA. If you can talk like that, you have never loved me! AXEL. Tell me, why do you think I asked for your hand? BERTHA. Because you wanted me to love you. AXEL. Oh, holy, revered, uncorruptible stupidity--yes! I could accuse you of counterfeiting, for you have gone into debt to Willmer and made me responsible for the amount. BERTHA. Ah, the little insect! he has been talking, has he? AXEL. I just left him after paying him the three hundred and fifty francs for which you were indebted to him. But we mustn't be small about money matters, and we have more serious business to settle. You have allowed this scoundrel partially to pay for my household, and in doing so you have completely ruined my reputation. What have you done with the money? BERTHA. The whole thing is a lie. AXEL. Have you squandered it on luncheon and dinner parties? BERTHA. No, I have saved it; and that's something you have no conception of, spendthrift! AXEL. Oh, you saving soul! That negligée cost two hundred francs, and my dressing-gown cost twenty-five. BERTHA. Have you anything else to say to me? AXEL. Nothing else, except that you must think about supporting yourself from now on. I don't care to decorate wooden panels any more and let you reap the earnings. BERTHA. A-ha, you think you can so easily get out of the duty that you made yourself responsible for when you fooled me into becoming your wife? You shall see! AXEL. Now that I've had my eyes opened, the past is beginning to take on another color. It seems to me almost as if you conjured that courtship of ours; it seems almost as if I had been the victim of what you women call seduction; it now seems to me as if I had fallen into the hands of an adventuress, who lured my money away from me in a _hôtel garni_; it seems almost as if I had lived in vice ever since I was united with you! [Rising.] And now, as you stand there with your back turned to me and I see your neck with your short hair, it is--yes, it is exactly as if--ugh!--as if you were Judith and had given your body to be able to behead me! Look, there is the dress I was going to wear, that you wished to humiliate me with. Yes, you felt that it was debasing to wear those things, and thought it disguised your desire to irritate,--this low-cut bodice and the corsets which were to advertise your woman's wares. No, I return your love-token and shake off the fetters. [He throws down the wedding-ring. Bertha looks at him in wonderment. Axel pushes back his hair.] You didn't want to see that my forehead is higher than yours, so I let my hair conceal it, so as not to humble and frighten you. But now I am going to humble you, and since you were not willing to be my equal when I lowered myself to your level, you shall be my inferior, which you are. BERTHA. And all this--all this noble revenge because _you_ were _my_ inferior! AXEL. Yes, I was your inferior, even when I painted your picture! BERTHA. Did you paint my picture? If you repeat that, I'll strike you. AXEL. Yes, your kind, who despise raw strength, are always the first to resort to it. Go ahead and strike. BERTHA [Advancing]. Don't you think I can measure strength with you? [Axel takes both her wrists in one hand.] AXEL. No, I don't think so. Are you convinced now that I am also your physical superior? Bend, or I'll break you! BERTHA. Do you dare strike me? AXEL. Why not? I know of only one reason why I should not strike you. BERTHA. What's that? AXEL. Because you are morally irresponsible. BERTHA [Trying to free herself]. Let go! AXEL. When you have begged for forgiveness! So, down on your knees. [He forces her down with one hand.] There, now look up to me, from below! That's your place, that you yourself have chosen. BERTHA [Giving in]. Axel, Axel, I don't know you any more. Are you he who swore to love me, who begged to carry me, to lift me? AXEL. It is I. I was strong then, and believed I had the power to do it; but you sapped my strength while my tired head lay in your lap, you sucked my best blood while I slept--and still there was enough left to subdue you. But get up and let us end this declaiming. We have business to talk over! [Berths rises, sits on couch and weeps.] Why are you crying? BERTHA. I don't know! Because I'm weak, perhaps. [Bertha's attitude and actions are those of complete surrender.] AXEL. You see--I was your strength. When I took what was mine, you had nothing left. You were a rubber ball that I blew up; when I let go of you, you fell together like an empty bag. BERTHA [Without looking up]. I don't know whether you are right or not, but since we have quarreled, my strength has left me. Axel, will you believe me,--I have never experienced before what I now feel-- AXEL. So? What do you feel, then? BERTHA. I can't say it! I don't know whether it is--love, but-- AXEL. What do you mean by love? Isn't it a quiet longing to eat me alive once more? You begin to love me! Why didn't you do that before, when I was good to you? Goodness is stupidity, though; let us be evil! Isn't that right? BERTHA. Be a little evil, rather, but don't be weak. [Rises.] Axel, forgive me, but don't desert me. Love me! Oh, love me! AXEL. It is too late! Yesterday, this morning, I would have fallen before you as you stand there now, but it's too late now. BERTHA. Why is it too late now? AXEL. Because tonight I have broken all ties, even the last. BERTHA [Taking his hands]. What do you mean? AXEL. I have been untrue to you. BERTHA [Falls in a heap]. Oh! AXEL. It was the only way to tear myself loose. BERTHA [Collecting herself]. Who was she? AXEL. A woman--[Pause.] BERTHA. How did she look? AXEL. Like a woman! With long hair and high breasts, et cetera.--Spare yourself. BERTHA. Do you think I am jealous of one of that kind? AXEL. One of that kind, two of that kind, many of that kind! BERTHA [Gasping]. And tomorrow our friends are invited here! Do you want to create a scandal and call in the invitations? AXEL. No, I don't want to be mean in my revenge. Tomorrow we'll have our friends, and the day after our ways will part. BERTHA. Yes, our ways must part now. Good night! [Goes to door left.] AXEL [Going to door right]. Good night! BERTHA [Stops]. Axel! AXEL. Yes? BERTHA. Oh, it wasn't anything!--Yes, wait. [Goes toward Axel with clasped hands.] Love me, Axel! Love me! AXEL. Would you share with another? BERTHA [Pause]. If only you loved me! AXEL. No, I cannot. You can't draw me to you as you used to do. BERTHA. Love me, be merciful! I am honest now, I believe, otherwise I would never humiliate myself as--as I am doing now, before a man. AXEL. Even if I had compassion for you, I cannot call forth any love. It has come to an end. It is dead. BERTHA. I beg for a man's love, I, a woman, and he shoves me away from him! AXEL. Why not? _We_ should also have leave to say no for once, although we are not always very hard to please. BERTHA. A woman offers herself to a man and is refused! AXEL. Feel now how millions have felt, when they have begged on their knees for the mercy of being allowed to give what the other accepts. Feel it for your whole sex, and then tell them how it felt. BERTHA [Rising]. Good night. The day after tomorrow, then. AXEL. You still want the party tomorrow, then? BERTHA. Yes, I want the party tomorrow. AXEL. Good. The day after tomorrow, then. [They go out, each their own way right and left.] CURTAIN. ACT IV. [SCENE.--Same. But the glass doors leading to orchard are open. The sun is still shining outside and the studio is brightly lighted. The side doors are open. A serving table is seen out in the orchard; on it are glasses and bottles, et cetera. Axel wears cutaway, but without the decoration, and is wearing a standing collar with four-in-hand scarf. His hair is brushed straight back. Bertha wears a dark gown, cut square, with frilled fichu. She has a flower on the left shoulder. The Misses Hall are extravagantly and expensively dressed. Bertha enters from orchard. She is pale and has dark shadows under her eyes. Abel enters from door at back. They embrace and kiss each other.] BERTHA. Good afternoon, and welcome. ABEL. Good afternoon. BERTHA. And Gaga promised to come? ABEL. Absolutely certain. He was in a regretful spirit and begged forgiveness. [Bertha straightens out her fichu.] But what is the matter with you today? Has anything happened? BERTHA. How so? What? ABEL. You are not like yourself. Have you--? Bertha! Have you-- BERTHA. Don't talk. ABEL. Your eyes are so full of color and brilliancy! What? Is is possible--? And so pale? Bertha! BERTHA. I must go out to my guests. ABEL. Tell me, are Carl and Östermark here? BERTHA. Both are out in the orchard. ABEL. And Mrs. Hall and the girls? BERTHA. Mrs. Hall will come litter, but the girls are in my room. ABEL. I'm afraid that our scheme of revenge will fall as flat as a pancake. BERTHA. No, not this--not this one! [Willmer enters with a bouquet of flowers. He goes to Bertha, kisses her hand, and gives her the bouquet.] WILLMER. Forgive me! For my love's sake! BERTHA. No, not on that account, but--it doesn't matter. I don't know why, but today I don't want any enemies. [Axel comes in. Bertha and Willmer look distressed.] AXEL [To Bertha, not noticing Willmer]. Pardon--if I disturb-- BERTHA. Not at all. AXEL. I only wanted to ask if you had ordered the supper? BERTHA. Yes, of course--as you wished. AXEL. Very well. I only wanted to know. [Pause.] ABEL. How festive you two look! [Bertha and Axel are silent. Willmer breaks the embarrassment by starting for the orchard.] Listen, Gaga-- [She hastens out after Willmer.] AXEL. What have you ordered for the supper? BERTHA [Looks at him and smiles]. Lobsters and poulet. AXEL [Uncertain]. What are you smiling at? BERTHA. My thoughts. AXEL. What are you thinking then? BERTHA. I am thinking--no, I really don't know--unless it was about the betrothal supper we had together in the Gardens that spring evening when you had wooed-- AXEL. You had wooed-- BERTHA. Axel!--And now it is the last, last time. It was a short summer. AXEL. Quite short, but the sun will come again. BERTHA. Yes, for you who can find sunshine in every street. AXEL. What is there to hinder you from seeking warmth at the same fire? BERTHA. And so we shall meet again, perhaps--some evening by street light, you mean? AXEL. I didn't mean that--but _à la bonne heure_! That at least will be a free relation. BERTHA. Yes, very free, especially for you. AXEL. For you, too, but pleasanter for me. BERTHA. That's a noble thought. AXEL. Now, now--don't tear open the old wounds! We were talking about the supper. And we must not forget our guests. So! [Goes toward his room right.] BERTHA. About the supper--yes, of course! That's what we were talking about. [She flies toward her room left, stirred and agitated. They both go out. The scene is empty for a moment. Then the Misses Hall come in from the orchard.] MISS AMÉLIE. How very dull it is here! MISS THÉRÈSE. Insufferably stupid, and our hosts are not altogether polite. MISS AMÉLIE. The hostess is especially unpleasant. And the short-hair kind, too. MISS THÉRÈSE. Yes, but I understand that a lieutenant is coming-- MISS AMÉLIE. Well, that's good, for these artists are a lot of free traders. Hush, here is a diplomat surely.--He looks so distinguished. [They sit on couch. Doctor Östermark comes in from the orchard; he discovers the Misses Hall and looks at them through his pince-nez.] DR. ÖSTERMARK. I am honored, ladies. H'm, one meets so many of one's countrywomen here. Are you artists, too? You paint, I suppose? MISS AMÉLIE. No, we don't paint. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, but just a little, perhaps. Here in Paris all ladies paint--themselves. MISS THÉRÈSE. We don't have to. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, well, you play then? MISS AMÉLIE. Play? DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, I don't mean playing at cards. But all ladies play a little. MISS AMÉLIE. Evidently you are just from the country. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, just from the country. Can I be of any slight service to you? MISS THÉRÈSE. Pardon, but we don't know with whom we have the honor--? DR. ÖSTERMARK. You ladies have evidently just come from Stockholm. In this country we can talk to each other without asking for references. MISS AMÉLIE. We haven't asked for references. DR. ÖSTERMARK. What do you ask, then? To have your curiosity satisfied? Well, I'm an old family physician and my name is Anderson. Perhaps I may know your names now?--Character not needed. MISS THÉRÈSE. We are the Misses Hall, if that can be of any interest to the doctor. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Hall? H'm! I've surely heard that name before. Pardon, pardon me a question, a somewhat countrified question-- MISS AMÉLIE.--Don't be bashful! DR. ÖSTERMARK. Is your father still living? MISS AMÉLIE. No, he is dead. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, yes. Well, now that I have gone so far, there is nothing to do but continue. Mr. Hall was-- MISS THÉRÈSE. Our father was a director of the Fire Insurance Company of Göteborg. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, well, then I beg your pardon. Do you find Paris to your liking? MISS AMELIE. Very! Thérèse, do you remember what I did with my shawl? Such a cold draught here! [Rises.] MISS THÉRÈSE. You left it in the orchard, no doubt. DR. ÖSTERMARK [Rising]. No, don't go out. Allow me to find it for you--no--sit still--just sit still. [Goes out into orchard. After a moment Mrs. Hall comes in from left, quite comfortable with drink; her cheeks are flaming red and her voice is uncertain.] MISS AMÉLIE. Look, there's mother! And in that condition again! Heavens, why does she come here? Why did you come here, mother? MRS. HALL. Keep quiet! I have as much right here as you. MISS THÉRÈSE. Why have you been drinking again? Think if some one should come! MRS. HALL. I haven't been drinking. What nonsense! MISS AMÉLIE. We will be ruined if the doctor should come back and see you. Come, let's go in here and you can get a glass of water. MRS. HALL. It's nice of you to treat your mother like this and say that she has been drinking, to say such a thing to your own mother! MISS THÉRÈSE. Don't talk, but go in, immediately. [They lead her in right. Axel and Carl come in from the orchard.] CARL. Well, you're looking fine, my dear Axel, and you have a manlier bearing than you used to have. AXEL. Yes, I have emancipated myself. CARL. You should have done that at the start, as I did. AXEL. As you did? CARL. As I did. Immediately I took my position as head of the family, to which place I found myself called both because of my superior mind and my natural abilities. AXEL. And how did your wife like that? CARL. Do you know, I forgot to ask her! But to judge by appearances, I should say that she found things as they should be. They only need real men--and human beings can be made even out of women. AXEL. But at least the power should be divided? CARL. Power cannot be divided! Either obey or command. Either you or I. I preferred myself to her, and she had to adjust herself to it. AXEL. Yes, but didn't she have money? CARL. Not at all. She didn't bring more than a silver soup-spoon to our nest. But she demanded an accounting of it; and she got it. She was a woman of principle, you see!--She is so good, so good, but so am I good to her. I think it's really great sport to be married, what? And besides, she's such a splendid cook! [The Misses Hall come in from right.] AXEL. Let me introduce you to the Misses Hall, Lieutenant Starck. CARL. I am very happy to make your [Carl gives them a look of recognition] acquaintance. [The young ladies seem surprised and embarrassed; they nod and go out to the orchard somewhat excited.] CARL. How did they get in here? AXEL. What do you mean? They are friends of my wife's and this is the first time that they have been here. Do you know them? CARL. Yes, somewhat! AXEL. What do you mean to imply? CARL. H'm, I met them in St. Petersburg late one night! AXEL. Late one night? CARL. Yes. AXEL. Isn't there some mistake? CARL. No-o! There is no mistake. They were very well known ladies in St. Petersburg. AXEL. And Bertha allows that kind in my house! [Bertha comes rushing in from orchard.] BERTHA. What does this mean? Have you insulted the young ladies? AXEL. No--but-- BERTHA. They came out of here crying and declared that they couldn't stay in the company of you gentlemen any longer! What has happened? AXEL. Do you know these young ladies? BERTHA. They are my friends! Isn't that enough? AXEL. Not quite enough. BERTHA. Not quite? Well, but if-- [Dr. Östermark comes in from the orchard.] DR. ÖSTERMARK. What does this mean? What have you done to the little girls who ran away? I offered to help them with their wraps, but they refused to be helped and had tears in their eyes. CARL [To Bertha]. I must ask you, are they your friends? BERTHA. Yes, they are! But if my protection is not sufficient, then perhaps Doctor Östermark will take them under his wing, considering that he has a certain claim to them. CARL. But a mistake has been made here. You mean that I, who have had certain relations with these girls, should appear as their cavalier? BERTHA. What sort of relations? CARL. Chance, such as one has with such women! BERTHA. Such women? That's a lie! CARL. I'm not in the habit of lying. DR. ÖSTERMARK. But I don't understand what _I_ have got to do with these young ladies. BERTHA. _You_ would prefer to have nothing to do with your deserted children. DR. ÖSTERMARK. My children! But I don't understand. BERTHA. They are your two daughters--daughters of your divorced wife. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Since you consider that you have the right to be personal and make my affairs the subject of public discussion, I will answer you publicly. You seem to have taken the trouble to find out that I am not a widower. Good! My marriage, which was childless, was dissolved twenty years ago. Since then I have entered into another relation, and we have a child that is just five years old. These grown girls, therefore, cannot be my children. Now you know the whole matter. BERTHA. But your wife--whom you threw out upon the world-- DR. ÖSTERMARK.--No, that wasn't the case either. She walked out, or staggered, if you prefer it, and then she received half my income until at last I found out that--enough said. If you could conceive what it cost me of work and self-denial to support two establishments, you would have spared me this unpleasant moment, but your kind wouldn't consider anything like that. You needn't know any more, as it really doesn't concern you. BERTHA. But it would amuse me to know why your first wife left you. DR. ÖSTERMARK. I don't think it would amuse you to know that she was ugly, narrow, paltry, and that I was too good for her! Think now, you tender-hearted, sensitive Bertha, think if they really had been my daughters, these friends of yours and Carl's; imagine how my old heart would have been gladdened to see, after eighteen years, these children that I had borne in my arms during the long night of illness. And imagine if she, my first love, my wife, with whom life the first time became life, had accepted your invitation and come here? What a fifth act in the melodrama you wished to offer us, what a noble revenge on one who is guiltless! Thanks, old friend. Thank you for your reward for the friendship I have shown you. BERTHA. Reward! Yes, I know that I owe you--a fee. [Axel, Carl and the doctor make protestations of "Oh," "Now," "Really," et cetera.] I know that, I know it very well. [Axel, Carl and doctor say "No," "Fie," "This is going too far."] DR. ÖSTERMARK. No, but I'm going to get out of here. Horrors! Yes, you are the right sort! Pardon me, Axel, but I can't help it! BERTHA [To Axel]. You're a fine man, to allow your wife to be insulted! AXEL. I can understand neither your allowing yourself to insult, or to be insulted! [Music is heard from the orchard; guitar and an Italian song.] The singers have arrived; perhaps you would all like to step out and have a bit of harmony on top of all this. [They all go out except the doctor, who goes over to look at some drawings on wall right near door to Axel's room. The music outside is played softly. Mrs. Hall comes in and walks unsteadily across the scene and sits in a chair. The doctor, who does not recognize her, bows deeply.] MRS. HALL. What music is that out there? DR. ÖSTERMARK. They are some Italians, dear lady. MRS. HALL. Yes? No doubt the ones I heard at Monte Carlo. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Oh, perhaps there are other Italians. MRS. HALL. Well, I believe it's none other than Östermark! No one could be as quick as he in his retorts. DR. ÖSTERMARK [Stares at her]. Ah--think--there are things--that--are less dreadful than dread! It is you, Carolina! And this is the moment that for eighteen years I have been running away from, dreamed about, sought, feared, wished for; wished for that I might receive the shock and afterward have nothing to dread! [He takes out a vial and wets his upper lip with a few drops.] Don't be afraid; it's not poison, in such little doses. It's for the heart, you see. MRS. HALL. Ugh, your heart! Yes, you have so much! DR. ÖSTERMARK. It's strange that two people cannot meet once every eighteen years without quarreling. MRS. HALL. It was always you who quarreled! DR. ÖSTERMARK. Alone? What!--Shall we stop now?--I must try to look at you. [He takes a chair and sits down opposite Mrs. Hall.] Without trembling! MRS. HALL. I've become old! DR. ÖSTERMARK. That's what happens; one has read about it, seen it, felt it one's self, but nevertheless it is horrifying. I am old, too. MRS. HALL. Are you happy in your new life? DR. ÖSTERMARK. To tell the truth, it's one and the same thing; different, but quite the same. MRS. HALL. Perhaps the old life was better, then? DR. ÖSTERMARK. No, it wasn't better, as it was about the same, but it's a question if it wouldn't have seemed better now, just because it was the old life. One doesn't blossom but once, and then one goes to seed; what comes afterward is only a little aftermath. And you, how are you getting along? MRS. HALL [Offended]. What do you mean? DR. ÖSTERMARK. Don't misunderstand me. Are you contented with--your--lot? I mean--oh, that it should be so difficult to make one's self understood by women! MRS. HALL. Contented? H'm! DR. ÖSTERMARK. Well, you were never contented. But when one is young, one always demands the first class, and then one gets the third class when one is old. Now, I understand that you told Mrs. Alberg here that your girls are my children! MRS. HALL. I did? That is a lie. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Still untruthful, eh? In the old days, when I was foolish, I looked upon lying as a vice; but now I know it to be a natural defect. You actually believe in your lies, and that is dangerous. But never mind about that now. Are you leaving, or do you wish me to leave? MRS. HALL [Rising]. I will go. [She falls back into the chair and gropes about.] DR. ÖSTERMARK. What, drunk too?--I really pity you. Oh, this is most unpleasant! Dear me, I believe I'm ready to cry!--Carolina! No, I can't bear this! MRS. HALL. I am ill. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, that's what happens when one drinks too much. But this is more bitter than I ever thought it could be. I have killed little unborn children to be able to save the mother, and I have felt them tremble in their fight against death. I have cut living muscles, and have seen the marrow flow like butter from healthy bones, but never has anything hurt me so much as this since the day you left me. Then it was as if you had gone away with one of my lungs, so I could only gasp with the other!--Oh, I feel as if I were suffocating now! MRS. HALL. Help me out of here. It's too noisy. I don't know why we came here, anyway. Give me your hand. DR. ÖSTERMARK [Leading her to door]. Before it was I who asked for your hand; and it rested so heavily on me, the little delicate hand! Once it struck my face, the little delicate hand, but I kissed it nevertheless.--Oh, now it is withered, and will never strike again.--Ah, dolce Napoli! Joy of life, what became of it? You who were the bride of my youth! MRS. HALL [In the hall door]. Where is my wrap? DR. ÖSTERMARK [Closing door]. In the hall, probably. This is horrible! [Lights a cigar]. Oh, dolce Napoli! I wonder if it is as delightful as it's said to be in that cholera breeding fishing harbor. _Blague_, no doubt! _Blague! Blague_! Naples--bridal couples, love, joy of life, antiquities, modernity, liberalism, conservatism, idealism, realism, naturalism,--_blague, blague_, the whole thing! [Axel, Abel, Willmer, Mrs. Starck and Bertha come in from orchard.] MRS. STARCK. What is happening to the doctor? DR. ÖSTERMARK. Pardon, it was only a little _qui pro quo_. Two strangers sneaked in here and we had to identify them. MRS. STARCK. The girls? CARL. Well, that has nothing to do with you. I don't know why, but I seem to feel "the enemy in the air." MRS. STARCK. Ah, you're always seeing the enemy, you dear Carl. CARL. No, I don't see them, but I feel them. MRS. STARCK. Well, come to your friend, then, and she will defend you. CARL. Oh, you're always so good to me. MRS. STARCK. Why shouldn't I be, when you are so good to me? [The door at back is opened and the maid and two men come in carrying a picture.] AXEL. What's this? MAID. The porter said that it must be carried into the studio, as he didn't have any room for it. AXEL. What foolishness is this? Take it out. MAID. The mistress sent for the picture herself. BERTHA. That's not true. For that matter, it's not my picture, anyway. It's your master's. Put it down there. [The maid and the man go out.] Perhaps it isn't yours, Axel? let's see. [Axel places himself in front of picture.] Move a little so we can see. AXEL [Gives way]. It's a mistake. BERTHA [Shrieks]. What! What is this! It's a mistake! What does it mean? It's my picture, but it's Axel's number! Oh! [She falls in a faint. The doctor and Carl carry her into her room left, the women follow.] ABEL. She is dying! MRS. STARCK. Heaven help us, what is this! The poor little dear! Doctor Östermark, do something, say something--and Axel stands there crestfallen. [Axel and Willmer are alone.] AXEL. This is your doing. WILLMER. My doing? [Axel takes him by the ear.] AXEL. Yes, yours, but not altogether. But I am going to give you your share. [He leads hunt to the door, which he opens with one foot, and kicks out Willmer with the other.] Out with you! WILLMER. I'll get even for this! AXEL. I shall be waiting for it! [Doctor and Carl come in.] DR. ÖSTERMARK. What's the trouble with the picture, anyway? AXEL. Nothing--only that it seemed to represent sulphuric acid. CARL. Now tell us, are you refused, or is she? AXEL. I am refused on her picture. I wanted to help her a bit, as a good comrade, and that's why I changed the numbers. DR. ÖSTERMARK. Yes, but there is something else too. She says that you don't love her any more. AXEL. She is right in that. That's how it is, and tomorrow we part. DR. ÖSTERMARK and CARL. Part? AXEL. Yes, when there are no ties to bind things, they loosen of themselves. This wasn't a marriage; it was only living together, or something even worse. DR. ÖSTERMARK. There is bad air here. Come, let's go. AXEL. Yes, I want to get out--out of here. [They start for the door. Abel comes in.] ABEL. What, are you leaving? AXEL. Does that astonish you? ABEL. Let me have a word with you. AXEL. Go on. ABEL. Don't you want to go in and see Bertha? AXEL. No! ABEL. What have you done to her? AXEL. I have bent her. ABEL. I noticed that--she is black and blue around the wrists! Look at me! I didn't think that of you. Well, conqueror, triumph now! AXEL. It's an uncertain conquest, and I don't even wish for it. ABEL. Are you sure of that? [She leans over to Axel, in low voice.] Bertha loves you now--now that you have bent her. AXEL. I know it. But I don't love her any longer. ABEL. Won't you go in and see her? AXEL. No, it's all over. [Takes doctor's arm.] Come! ABEL. May I take a message to Bertha? AXEL. No! Yes! Tell her, that I despise and abhor her. ABEL. Good-bye, my friend. AXEL. Good-bye, my enemy. ABEL. Enemy? AXEL. Are you my friend? ABEL. I don't know. Both and neither. I am a bastard-- AXEL. We are all that, as we are crocheted out of man and woman! Perhaps you have loved me in your way, as you wanted to separate Bertha and me. ABEL [Rolling a cigarette]. Loved! I wonder how it seems to love? No, I cannot love; I must be deformed--for it made me happy to see you two until the envy of deformity set me on fire. Perhaps you love me? AXEL. No, on my honor! You have been an agreeable comrade who happened to be dressed like a woman; you have never impressed me as belonging to another sex; and love, you see, can and should exist only between individuals of opposite sexes-- ABEL. Sex love, yes! AXEL. Is there any other, then? ABEL. I don't know! But I am to be pitied. And this hate, this terrible hate! Perhaps that would disappear if you men were not so afraid to love us, if you were not so--how shall I express it--so moral, as it's called. AXEL. But in heaven's name, be a little more lovable, then, and don't get yourselves up so that one is forced to think of the penal law whenever one looks at you. ABEL. Do you think I'm such a fright, then? AXEL. Well, you know, you must pardon me, but you are awful. [Bertha comes in.] BERTHA [To Axel]. Are you going? AXEL. Yes, I was just about to go, but now I'll stay. BERTHA [Softly]. What? You-- AXEL. I shall stay in _my_ home. BERTHA. In _our_--home. AXEL. No, in _mine_. In my studio with my furniture. BERTHA. And I? AXEL. You may do what you please, but you must know what you risk. You see in my suit I have applied for one year's separation in bed and board. Should you stay, that is to say, if you should seek me during this time, you would have to choose between imprisonment, or being considered my mistress. Do you feel like staying? BERTHA. Oh, is that the law? AXEL. That's the law. BERTHA. You drive me out, then? AXEL. No, but the law does. BERTHA. And you think I'll be satisfied with that? AXEL. No, I don't, for you won't be satisfied until you have taken all the life out of me. BERTHA. Axel! How you talk! If you knew how I--love you! AXEL. That doesn't sound irrational, but I don't love you. BERTHA [Flaring up and pointing to Abel]. Because you love her! AXEL. No, indeed, I don't. Have never loved her, and never will. What incredible imagining! As if there were not other women and more fascinating than you two! BERTHA. But Abel loves you! AXEL. That is possible. I even believe that she suggested something of the kind. Yes, she said so distinctly; let's see, how was it-- BERTHA [Changing]. You are really the most shameless creature I have ever met! AXEL. Yes, I can well believe that. BERTHA [Puts on her hat and wrap]. Now you expect to put me out on the street? That is final? AXEL. On the street, or where you please. BERTHA [Angry]. Do you think a woman will allow herself to be treated like this? AXEL. Once you asked me to forget that you were a woman. Very well, I have forgotten it. BERTHA. But do you know that you have liabilities to the one who has been your wife? AXEL. You mean the pay for good comradeship? What? A life annuity! BERTHA. Yes. AXEL [Putting a few bills on the table]. Here is a month in advance. BERTHA [Takes money and counts it]. You still have a little honor left! ABEL. Good-bye, Bertha. Now I am off. BERTHA. Wait and you can go along with me. ABEL. No, I won't go any further with you. BERTHA. What? Why not? ABEL. I am ashamed to. BERTHA [Astonished]. Ashamed? ABEL. Yes, ashamed. Good-bye. [Abel goes out.] BERTHA. I don't understand. Good-bye, Axel! Thanks for the money. Are we friends? [Taking his hand.] AXEL. I am not, at least.--Let go of my hand, or I will believe that you wish to seduce me again. [Bertha goes toward door.] AXEL [With a sigh of relief]. Pleasant comrades! Oh! [The maid enters from the orchard.] MAID [To Axel]. There is it lady waiting for you. AXEL. I'll soon be free. BERTHA. Is that the new comrade? AXEL. No, not comrade, but sweetheart. BERTHA. And your wife to be? AXEL, Perhaps. Because I want to meet, my comrades at the café, but at home I want a wife. [Starts as if to go.] Pardon me! BERTHA. Farewell, then! Are we never to meet again? AXEL. Yes, of course! But at the café. Good-bye! CURTAIN. ***** FACING DEATH CHARACTERS MONSIEUR DURAND, a pension proprietor, formerly connected with the state railroad ADÈLE, his daughter, twenty-seven ANNETTE, his daughter, twenty-four THÉRÈSE, his daughter, twenty-four ANTONIO, a lieutenant in an Italian cavalry regiment in French Switzerland in the eighties PIERRE, an errand boy [SCENE--A dining-room with a long table. Through the open door is seen, over the tops of churchyard cypress trees, Lake Leman, with the Savoy Alps and the French bathing-resort Evian. To left is a door to the kitchen. To right a door to inner rooms. Monsieur Durand stands in doorway looking over the lake with a pair of field glasses.] ADÈLE [Comes in from kitchen wearing apron and turned-up sleeves. She carries a tray with coffee things]. Haven't you been for the coffee-bread, father? DURAND. No, I sent Pierre. My chest has been bad for the last few drays, and it affects me to walk the steep hill. ADÈLE. Pierre again, eh? That costs three sous. Where are they to come from, with only one tourist in the house for over two months? DURAND. That's true enough, but it seems to me Annette might get the bread. ADÈLE. That would ruin the credit of the house entirely, but you have never done anything else. DURAND. Even you, Adèle? ADÈLE. Even I am tired, though I have held out longest! DURAND. Yes, you have, and you were still human when Thérèse and Annette cautioned me. You and I have pulled this house through since mother died. You have had to sit in the kitchen like Cinderella; I have had to take care of the service, the fires, sweep and clean, and do the errands. You are tired; how should it be with me, then? ADÈLE. But you mustn't be tired. You have three daughters who are unprovided for and whose dowry you have wasted. DURAND [Listening without]. Doesn't it seem as if you heard the sound of clanging and rumbling down toward Cully? If fire has broken out they are lost, because the wind is going to blow soon, the lake tells me that. ADÈLE. Have you paid the fire insurance on our house? DURAND. Yes, I have. Otherwise I would never have got that last mortgage. ADÈLE. How much is there left unmortgaged? DURAND. A fifth of the fire insurance policy. But you know how property dropped in value when the railroad passed our gates and went to the east instead. ADÈLE. So much the better. DURAND [Sternly]. Adèle! [Pause.] Will you put out the fire in the stove? ADÈLE. Impossible. I can't till the coffee-bread comes. DURAND. Well, here it is. [Pierre comes in with basket. Adèle looks in the basket.] ADÈLE. No bread! But a bill--two, three-- PIERRE.--Well, the baker said he wouldn't send any more bread until he was paid. And then, when I was going by the butcher's and the grocer's, they shoved these bills at me. [Goes out.] ADÈLE. Oh, God in heaven, this is the end for us! But what's this? [Opens a package.] DURAND. Some candles that I bought for the mass for my dear little Rèné. Today is the anniversary of his death. ADÈLE. You can afford to buy such things! DURAND. With my tips, yes. Don't you think it is humiliating to stretch out my hand whenever a traveller leaves us? Can't you grant me the only contentment I possess--let me enjoy my sorrow one time each year? To be able to live in memory of the most beautiful thing life ever gave me? ADÈLE. If he had only lived until mow, you'd see how beautiful he'd be! DURAND. It's very possible that there's truth in your irony--as I remember him, however, he was not as you all are now. ADÈLE. Will you be good enough to receive Monsieur Antonio yourself? He is coming now to have his coffee _without_ bread! Oh, if mother were only living! She always found a way when you stood helpless. DURAND. Your mother had her good qualities. ADÈLE. Although you saw only her faults. DURAND. Monsieur Antonio is coming. If you leave me now, I'll have a talk with him. ADÈLE. You would do better to go out and borrow some money, so that the scandal would be averted. DURAND. I can't borrow a sou. After borrowing for ten years! Let everything crash at once, everything, everything, if it would only be the end! ADÈLE. The end for you, yes. But you never think of us! DURAND. No, I have never thought of you, never! ADÈLE. Do you begrudge us our bringing-up? DURAND. I am only answering an unjust reproach. Go now, and I'll meet the storm--as usual. ADÈLE. As usual--h'm! [Goes. Antonio comes in from back.] ANTONIO. Good morning, Monsieur Durand. DURAND. Monsieur Lieutenant has already been out for a walk? ANTONIO. Yes, I've been down toward Cully and saw them put out a chimney fire. Now, some coffee will taste particularly good. DURAND. It's needless to say how it pains me to have to tell you that on account of insufficient supplies our house can no longer continue to do business. ANTONIO. How is that? DURAND. To speak plainly, we are bankrupt. ANTONIO. But, my good Monsieur Durand, is there no way of helping you out of what I hope is just a temporary embarrassment? DURAND. No, there is no possible way out. The condition of the house has been so completely undermined for many years that I had rather the crash would come than live in a state of anxiety day and night, expecting what must come. ANTONIO. Nevertheless I believe you are looking at the dark side of things. DURAND. I can't see what makes you doubt my statement. ANTONIO. Because I want to help you. DURAND. I don't wish any help. Privation must come and teach my children to lead a different life from this which is all play. With the exception of Adèle, who really does take care of the kitchen, what do the others do? Play, and sing, and promenade, and flirt; and as long as there is a crust of bread in the house, they'll never do anything useful. ANTONIO. Granting that, but until the finances are straightened out we must have bread in the house. Allow me to stay a month longer and I will pay my bill in advance. DURAND. No, thank you, we must stick to this course even if it leads us into the lake! And I don't want to continue in this business, which doesn't bring bread--nothing but humiliations. Just think how it was last spring, when the house had been empty for three months. Then at last an American family came and saved us. The morning after their arrival I ran across the son catching hold of my daughter on the stairs. It was Thérèse,--he was trying to kiss her. What would you have done in my case? ANTONIO [Confused]. I don't know-- DURAND. I know what I, as a father, should have done, but--father-like--I didn't do it. But I know what to do the next time. ANTONIO. On account of that very thing it seems to me that you should think very carefully about what you do, and not leave your daughters to chance. DURAND. Monsieur Antonio, you are a young man who, for some inexplicable reason, has won my regard. Whether you grant it, or not, I am going to ask one thing of you. Don't form any opinions about me as an individual, or about my conduct. ANTONIO. Monsieur Durand, I promise it if you will answer me one question; are you Swiss born, or not? DURAND. I am a Swiss citizen. ANTONIO. Yes, I know that, but I ask if you were born in Switzerland. DURAND [Uncertainly]. Yes. ANTONIO. I asked only--because it interested me. Nevertheless--as I must believe you that your pension must be closed, I want to pay what I owe. To be sure it's only ten francs, but I can't go away and leave an unpaid bill. DURAND. I can't be sure that this is really a debt, as I don't keep the accounts, but if you have deceived me you shall hear from me. Now I'll go and get the bread. Afterward we'll find out. [Goes out. Antonio alone. Afterward Thérèse comes in, carrying a rat-trap. She wears a morning negligée and her hair is down.] THÉRÈSE. Oh, there you are, Antonio! I thought I heard the old man. ANTONIO. Yes, he went to get the coffee-bread, he said. THÉRÈSE. Hadn't he done that already? No, do you know, we can't stand him any longer. ANTONIO. How beautiful you are today, Thérèse! But that rat-trap isn't becoming. THÉRÈSE. And such a trap into the bargain! I have set it for a whole month, but never, never get a live one, although the bait is eaten every morning. Have you seen Mimi around? ANTONIO. That damned cat? It's usually around early and late, but today I've been spared it. THÉRÈSE. You must speak beautifully about the absent, and remember, he who loves me, loves my cat. [She puts rat-trap on table and picks up an empty saucer from under table.] Adèle, Adèle! ADÈLE [In the kitchen door]. What does Her Highness demand so loudly? THÉRÈSE. Her Highness demands milk for her cat and a piece of cheese for your rats. ADÈLE. Go get them yourself. THÉRÈSE. Is that the way to answer Her Highness? ADÈLE. The answer fits such talk. And besides, you deserve it for showing yourself before a stranger with your hair not combed. THÉRÈSE. Aren't we all old friends here, and--Antonio, go and speak nicely to Aunt Adele, and then you'll get some milk for Mimi. [Antonio hesitates.] Well, aren't you going to mind? ANTONIO [Sharply]. No. THÉRÈSE. What kind of a way to speak is that? Do you want a taste of my riding whip? ANTONIO. Impudence! THÉRÈSE. [Amazed]. What's that? What's that? Are you trying to remind me of my position, my debt, my weakness? ANTONIO. No, I only want to remind you of my position, my debt, my weakness. ADÈLE [Getting the saucer]. Now listen, good friends. What's all this foolishness for? Be friends--and then I'll give you some very nice coffee. [Goes into the kitchen.] THÉRÈSE [Crying]. You are tired of me, Antonio, and you are thinking of giving me up. ANTONIO. You mustn't cry, it will make your eyes so ugly. THÉRÈSE. Oh, if they are not as beautiful as Annette's-- ANTONIO.--So, it's Annette now? But now look here; all fooling aside, isn't it about time we had our coffee? THÉRÈSE. You'd make a charming married man--not able to wait a moment for your coffee. ANTONIO. And what a lovable married lady you would be, who growls at her husband because she has made a blunder. [Annette comes in fully dressed and hair done up.] ANNETTE. You seem to be quarreling this morning. ANTONIO. See, there's Annette, and dressed already. THÉRÈSE. Yes, Annette is so extraordinary in every respect, and she also has the prerogative of being older than I am. ANNETTE. If you don't hold your tongue-- ANTONIO.--Oh, now, now, be good, now, Thérèse! [He puts his arm around her and kisses her. Monsieur Durand appears in the doorway as he does so.] DURAND [Astonished]. What's this? THÉRÈSE [Freeing herself]. What? DURAND. Did my eyes see right? THÉRÈSE. What did you see? DURAND. I saw that you allowed a strange gentleman to kiss you. THÉRÈSE. That's a lie! DURAND. Have I lost my sight, or do you dare lie to my face? THÉRÈSE. Is it for you to talk about lying, you who lie to us and the whole world by saying that you were born a Swiss although you are a Frenchman? DURAND. Who said that? THÉRÈSE. Mother said so. DURAND [To Antonio]. Monsieur Lieutenant, as our account is settled, I'll ask you to leave this house immediately, or else-- ANTONIO. Or else? DURAND. Choose your weapon. ANTONIO. I wonder what sort of defense you would put up other than the hare's! DURAND. If I didn't prefer my stick, I should take the gun that I used in the last war. THÉRÈSE. You have surely been at war--you who deserted! DURAND. Mother said that, too. I can't fight the dead, but I can fight the living. [Lifts his walking-stick and goes toward Antonio. Thérèse and Annette throw themselves between the men.] ANNETTE. Think what you are doing! THÉRÈSE. This will end on the scaffold! ANTONIO [Backing away]. Good-bye, Monsieur Durand. Keep my contempt--and my ten francs. DURAND [Takes a gold piece from his vest pocket and throws it toward Antonio]. My curses follow your gold, scamp! [Thérèse and Annette following Antonio.] THÉRÈSE and ANNETTE. Don't go, don't leave us! Father will kill us! DURAND [Breaks his stick in two]. He who cannot kill must die. ANTONIO. Good-bye, and I hope you'll miss the last rat from your sinking ship. [He goes.] THÉRÈSE [To Durand]. That's the way you treat your guests! Is it any wonder the house has gone to pieces! DURAND. Yes--that's the way--such guests! But tell me, Thérèse, my child--[Takes her head between his hands] tell me, my beloved child, tell me if I saw wrong just now, or if you told a falsehood. THÉRÈSE [Peevishly]. What? DURAND. You know what I mean. It isn't the thing itself, which can be quite innocent--but it is a matter of whether I can trust my senses that interests me. THÉRÈSE. Oh, talk about something else.--Tell us rather what we are going to eat and drink today. For that matter, it's a lie; he didn't kiss me. DURAND. It isn't a lie. In Heaven's name, didn't I see it happen? THÉRÈSE. Prove it. DURAND. Prove it? With two witnesses or--a policeman! [To Annette.] Annette, my child, will you tell me the truth? ANNETTE. I didn't see anything. DURAND. That's a proper answer. For one should never accuse one's sister. How like your mother you are today, Annette! ANNETTE. Don't you say anything about mother! She should be living such a day as this! [Adèle comes in with a glass of milk, which she puts on table.] ADÈLE [To Durand]. There's your milk. What happened to the bread? DURAND. Nothing, my children. It will continue to come as it always has up to the present. THÉRÈSE [Grabs the glass of milk from her father]. You shall not have anything, you who throw away money, so that your children are compelled to starve. ADÈLE. Did he throw away money, the wretch? He should have been put in the lunatic asylum the time mother said he was ripe for it. See, here's another bill that came by way of the kitchen. [Durand takes the bill and starts as he looks at it. Pours a glass of water and drinks. Sits down and lights his briar pipe.] ANNETTE. But he can afford to smoke tobacco. DURAND [Tired and submissively]. Dear children, this tobacco didn't cost me any more than that water, for it was given to me six months ago. Don't vex yourselves needlessly. THÉRÈSE [Takes matches away]. Well, at least you sha'n't waste the matches. DURAND. If you knew, Thérèse, how many matches I have wasted on you when I used to get up nights to see if you had thrown off the bedclothes! If you knew, Annette, how many times I have secretly given you water when you cried from thirst, because your mother believed that it was harmful for children to drink! THÉRÈSE. Well, all that was so long ago that I can't bother about it. For that matter, it was only your duty, as you have said yourself. DURAND. It was, and I fulfilled my duty and a little more too. ADÈLE. Well, continue to do so, or no one knows what will become of us. Three young girls left homeless and friendless, without anything to live on! Do you know what want can drive one to? DURAND. That's what I said ten years ago, but no one would heed me; and twenty years ago I predicted that this moment would come, and I haven't been able to prevent its coming. I have been sitting like a lone brakeman on an express train, seeing it go toward an abyss, but I haven't, been able to get to the engine valves to stop it. THÉRÈSE. And now you want thanks for landing in the abyss with us. DURAND. No, my child, I only ask that you be a little less unkind to me. You have cream fur the cat, but you begrudge milk to your father, who has not eaten for--so long. THÉRÈSE. Oh, it's you, then, who has begrudged milk for my cat! DURAND. Yes, it's I. ANNETTE. And perhaps it is he who has eaten the rats' bait, too. DURAND. It is he. ADÈLE. Such a pig! THÉRÈSE [Laughing]. Think if it had been poisoned! DURAND. Alas, if only it had been, you mean! THÉRÈSE. Yes, you surely wouldn't have minded that, you who have so often talked about shooting yourself--but have never done it! DURAND. Why didn't you shoot me? That's a direct reproach. Do you know why I haven't done it? To keep you from going into the lake, my dear children.--Say something else unkind now. It's like hearing music--tunes that I recognize--from the good old times-- ADÈLE. Stop such useless talk now and do something. Do something. THÉRÈSE. Do you know what the consequences may be if you leave us in this shape? DURAND. You will go and prostitute yourselves. That's what your mother always said she'd do when she had spent the housekeeping money on lottery tickets. ADÈLE. Silence! Not a word about our dear, beloved mother! DURAND [Half humming to himself]. In this house a candle burns, When it burns out the goal he earns, The goal once won, the storm will come With a great crash. Yes! No! [It has begun to blow outside and grown cloudy. Durand rises quickly and says to Adèle] Put out the fire in the stove. The wind storm is coming. ADÈLE [Looking Durand in the eyes]. No, the wind is not coming. DURAND. Put out the fire. If it catches fire here, we'll get nothing from the insurance. Put out the fire, I say, put it out. ADÈLE. I don't understand you. DURAND [Looks in her eyes, taking her hand]. Just obey me, do as I say. [Adèle goes into kitchen, leaving the door open. To Thérèse and Annette.] Go up and shut the windows, children, and look after the draughts. But come and give me a kiss first, for I am going away to get money for you. THÉRÈSE. Can you get money? DURAND. I have a life insurance that I think I am going to realize on. THÉRÈSE. How much can you get for it? DURAND. Six hundred francs if I sell it, and five thousand if I die. [Thérèse concerned.] Now, tell me, my child,--we mustn't be needlessly cruel,--tell me, Thérèse, are you so attached to Antonio that you would be quite unhappy if you didn't get him? THÉRÈSE. Oh, yes! DURAND. Then you must marry him if he really loves you. But you mustn't be unkind to him, for then you'll be unhappy. Good-bye, my dear beloved child. [Takes her in his arms and kisses her cheeks.] THÉRÈSE. But you mustn't die, father, you mustn't. DURAND. Would you grudge me going to my peace? THÉRÈSE. No, not if you wish it yourself. Forgive me, father, the many, many times I've been unkind to you. DURAND. Nonsense, my child. THÉRÈSE. But no one was so unkind to you as I. DURAND. I felt it less because I loved you most. Why, I don't know. But run and shut the windows. THÉRÈSE. Here are your matches, papa--and there's your milk. DURAND [Smiling]. Ah, you child! THÉRÈSE. Well, what can I do? I haven't anything else to give you. DURAND. You gave me so much joy as a child that you owe me nothing. Go now, and just give me a loving look as you used to do. [Thérèse turns and throws herself into his arms.] So, so, my child, now all is well. [Thérèse runs out.] Farewell, Annette. ANNETTE. Are you going away? I don't understand all this. DURAND. Yes, I'm going. ANNETTE. But of course you're coming back, papa. DURAND. Who knows whether he will live through the morrow? Anyway, we'll say farewell. ANNETTE. Adieu, then, father--and a good journey to you. And you won't forget to bring something home to us just as you used to do, will you? DURAND. And you remember that, though it's so long since I've bought anything for you children? Adieu, Annette. [Annette goes. Durand hums to himself.] Through good and evil, great and small, Where you have sown, others gather all. [Adèle comes in.] Adèle, come, now you shall hear and understand. If I speak in veiled terms, it is only to spare your conscience in having you know too much. Be quiet. I've got the children up in their rooms. First you are to ask me this question, "Have you a life insurance policy?" Well? ADÈLE [Questioningly and uncertain]. "Have you a life insurance policy?" DURAND. No, I had one, but I sold it long ago, because I thought I noticed that some one became irritable when it was due. But I have a fire insurance. Here are the papers. Hide them well. Now, I'm going to ask you something; do you know how many candles there are in a pound, mass candles at seventy-five centimes? ADÈLE. There are six. DURAND [Indicating the package of candles]. How many candles are there there? ADÈLE. Only five. DURAND. Because the sixth is placed very high up and very near-- ADÈLE.--Good Lord! DURAND [Looking at his watch]. In five minutes or so, it will be burned out. ADÈLE. No! DURAND. Yes! Can you see dawn any other way in this darkness? ADÈLE. No. DURAND. Well, then. That takes care of the business. Now about another matter. If Monsieur Durand passes out of the world as an [Whispers] incendiary, it doesn't matter much, but his children shall know that he lived as a man of honor up to that time. Well, then, I was born in France, but I didn't have to admit that to the first scamp that came along. Just before I reached the age of conscription I fell in love with the one who later became my wife. To be able to marry, we came here and were naturalized. When the last war broke out, and it looked as if I was going to carry a weapon against my own country, I went out as a sharpshooter against the Germans. I never deserted, as you have heard that I did--your mother invented that story. ADÈLE. Mother never lied-- DURAND.--So, so. Now the ghost has risen and stands between us again. I cannot enter an action against the dead, but I swear I am speaking the truth. Do you hear? And as far as your dowry is concerned, that is to say your maternal inheritance, these are the facts: first, your mother through carelessness and foolish speculations ruined your paternal inheritance so completely that I had to give up my business and start this pension. After that, part of her inheritance had to be used in the bringing-up of you children, which of course cannot be looked upon as thrown away. So it was also untrue that-- ADÈLE. No, that's not what mother said on her death-bed-- DURAND.--Then your mother lied on her death-bed, just as she had done all through her life. And that's the curse that has been following me like a spook. Think how you have innocently tortured me with these two lies for so many years! I didn't want to put disquiet into your young lives which would result in your doubting your mother's goodness. That's why I kept silent. I was the bearer of her cross throughout our married life; carried all her faults on my back, took all the consequences of her mistakes on myself until at last I believed that I was the guilty one. And she was not slow, first to believe herself to be blameless, and then later the victim. "Blame it on me," I used to say, when she had become terribly involved in some tangle. And she blamed and I bore! But the more she became indebted to me, the more she hated me, with the limitless hatred of her indebtedness. And in the end she despised me, trying to strengthen herself by imagining she had deceived me. And last of all she taught you children to despise me, because she wanted support in her weakness. I hoped and believed that this evil but weak spirit would die when she died; but evil lives and grows like disease, while soundness stops at a certain point and then retrogrades. And when I wanted to change what was wrong in the habits of this household, I was always met with "But mother said," and therefore it was true; "Mother used to do this way," and therefore it was right. And to you I became a good-for-nothing when I was kind, a miserable creature when I was sensitive, and a scamp when I let you all have your way and ruin the house. ADÈLE. It's honorable to accuse the dead who can't defend themselves! DURAND [Fast and exalted]. I am not dead yet, but I will be soon. Will you defend me then? No, you need not. But defend your sisters. Think only of my children, Adèle. Take a motherly care of Thérèse; she is the youngest and liveliest, quick for good and bad, thoughtless but weak. See to it that she marries soon, if it can be arranged. Now, I can smell burning straw. ADELE. Lord protect us! DURAND [Drinks from glass]. He will. And for Annette you must try to find a place as teacher, so that she can get up in the world and into good company. You must manage the money when it falls due. Don't be close, but fix up your sisters so that they will be presentable to the right kind of people. Don't save anything but the family papers, which are in the top drawer of my chiffonier in the middle room. Here is the key. The fire insurance papers you have. [Smoke is seen forcing its way through the ceiling.] It will soon be accomplished now. In a moment you will hear the clanging from St. François. Promise me one thing. Never divulge this to your sisters. It would only disturb their peace for the rest of their lives. [He sits by table.] And one thing more, never a hard word against their mother. Her portrait is also in the chiffonier; none of you knew that, because I found it was enough that her spirit walked unseen in the home. Greet Thérèse, and ask her to forgive me. Don't forget that she must have the best when you buy her clothes; you know her weakness for such things and to what her weakness can bring her. Tell Annette-- [A distant clanging of bells is heard; the smoke increases. Monsieur Durand drops his head in his hands on the table.] ADÈLE. It's burning, it's burning! Father, what's the matter with you? You'll be burned up! [Durand lifts his head, takes the water glass up and puts it down with a meaningful gesture.] You have--taken--poison! DURAND [Nods affirmatively]. Have you the insurance papers? Tell Thérèse--and Annette-- [His head falls. The bell in distance strikes again. Rumbling and murmur of voices outside.] CURTAIN. ***** PARIAH, OR THE OUTCAST One-Act Play CHARACTERS MR. X., an archeologist MR. Y., a traveller from America Both middle-aged [SCENE--Simple room in a country house; door and window at back, through which one sees a country landscape. In the middle of the room a large dining table; on one side of it books and writing materials and on the other side some antiques, a microscope, insect boxes, alcohol jars. To the left of scene a book-shelf, and all the other furnishings are those of a country gentleman. Mr. Y. enters in his shirt-sleeves, carrying an insect net and a botanical tin box. He goes directly to the book-shelf, takes down a book and reads stealthily from it. The after-service bell of a country church rings. The landscape and room are flooded with sunshine. Now and then one hears the clucking of hens outside. Mr. X. comes in also in shirt-sleeves. Mr. Y. starts nervously, returns the book to its place, and pretends to look for another book on the shelf.] MR. X. What oppressive heat! We'll surely have a thunder-shower. MR. Y. Yes? What makes you think so? MR. X. The bells sound like it, the flies bite so, and the hens are cackling. I wanted to go fishing, but I couldn't find a single worm. Don't you feel rather nervous? MR. Y. [Reflectively]. I? Well, yes. MR. X. But you always look as if you expected a thunder-shower. MR. Y. Do I? MR. X. Well, as you are to start off on your travels again tomorrow, it's not to be wondered at if you have the knapsack fever. What's the news? Here's the post. [Takes up letters from the table.] Oh, I have palpitation of the heart every time I open a letter. Nothing but debts, debts! Did you ever have any debts? MR. Y. [Reflecting]. No-o-o. MR. X. Well, then, of course you can't understand how it feels to have unpaid bills come in. [He reads a letter.] The rent owing--the landlord clamoring--and my wife in despair. And I, I sitting up to my elbows in gold. [Opens an iron-mounted case, which stands on the table. They both sit down, one on each side of the case.] Here is six thousand crowns' worth of gold that I've dug up in two weeks. This bracelet alone would bring the three hundred and fifty crowns I need. And with all of it I should be able to make a brilliant career for myself. The first thing I should do would be to have drawings made and cuts of the figures for my treatises. After that I would print--and then clear out. Why do you suppose I don't do this? MR. Y. It must be because you are afraid of being found out. MR. X. Perhaps that, too. But don't you think that a man of my intelligence should be able to manage it so that it wouldn't be found out? I always go alone to dig out there on the hills--without witnesses. Would it be remarkable to put a little something in one's pockets? MR. Y. Yes, but disposing of it, they say, is the dangerous part. MR. X. Humph, I should of course have the whole thing smelted, and then I should have it cast into ducats--full weight, of course-- MR. Y. Of course! MR. X. That goes without saying. If I wanted to make counterfeit money--well, it wouldn't be necessary to dig the gold first. [Pause.] It's remarkable, nevertheless, that if some one were to do what I can't bring myself to do, I should acquit him. But I should not be able to acquit myself. I should be able to put up a brilliant defense for the thief; prove that this gold was _res nullius_, or no one's, and that it got into the earth before there were any land rights; that even now it belongs to no one but the first comer, as the owner had never accounted it part of his property, and so on. MR. Y. And you would not be able to do this if--h'm!--the thief had stolen through need, but rather as an instance of a collector's mania, of scientific interest, of the ambition to make a discovery,--isn't that so? MR. X. You mean that I wouldn't be able to acquit him if he had stolen through need? No, that is the only instance the law does not pardon. That is simple theft, that is! MR. Y. And that you would not pardon? MR. X. H'm! Pardon! No, I could hardly pardon what the law does not, and I must confess that it would be hard for me to accuse a collector for taking an antique that he did not have in his collection, which he had dug up on some one else's property. MR. Y. That is to say, vanity, ambition, could gain pardon where need could not? MR. X. Yes, that's the way it is. And nevertheless need should be the strongest motive, the only one to be pardoned. But I can change that as little as I can change my will not to steal under any condition. MR. Y. And you count it a great virtue that you cannot--h'm--steal? MR. X. With me not to steal is just as irresistible as stealing is to some, and, therefore, no virtue. I cannot do it and they cannot help doing it. You understand, of course, that the idea of wanting to possess this gold is not lacking in me. Why don't I take it then? I cannot; it's an inability, and a lack is not a virtue. And there you are! [Closes the case with a bang. At times stray clouds have dimmed the light in the room and now it darkens with the approaching storm.] MR. X. How close it is! I think we'll have some thunder. [Mr. Y. rises and shuts the door and window.] MR. X. Are you afraid of thunder? MR. Y. One should be careful. [They sit again at table.] MR. X. You are a queer fellow. You struck here like a bomb two weeks ago, and you introduced yourself as a Swedish-American who travels, collecting insects for a little museum. MR. Y. Oh, don't bother about me. MR. X. That's what you always say when I get tired of talking about myself and want to devote a little attention to you. Perhaps it was because you let me talk so much about myself that you won my sympathy. We were soon old acquaintances; there were no corners about you for me to knock against, no needles or pins to prick. There was something so mellow about your whole personality; you were so considerate, a characteristic which only the most cultivated can display; you were never noisy when you came home late, never made any disturbance when you got up in the morning; you overlooked trifles, drew aside when ideas became conflicting; in a word, you were the perfect companion; but you were altogether too submissive, too negative, too quiet, not to have me reflect about it in the course of time. And you are fearful and timid; you look as if you led a double life. Do you know, as you sit there before the mirror and I see your back, it's as if I were looking at another person. [Mr. Y. turns and looks in the mirror.] Oh, you can't see your back in the mirror. Front view, you look like a frank, fearless man who goes to meet his fate with open heart, but back view,--well, I don't wish to be discourteous, but you look as if you carried a burden, as if you were shrinking from a lash; and when I see your red suspenders across your white shirt--it looks like--like a big brand, a trade mark on a packing box. MR. Y. [Rising]. I believe I will suffocate--if the shower doesn't break and come soon. MR. X. It will come soon. Just be quiet. And the back of your neck, too, it looks as if there were another head on it, with the face of another type than you. You are so terribly narrow between the ears that I sometimes wonder if you don't belong to another race. [There is flash of lightning.] That one looked as if it struck at the sheriff's. MR. Y. [Worried]. At the--sh-sheriff's! MR. X. Yes, but it only looked so. But this thunder won't amount to anything. Sit down now and let's have a talk, as you are off again tomorrow.--It's queer that, although I became intimate with you so soon, you are one of those people whose likeness I cannot recall when they are out of my sight. When you are out in the fields and I try to recall your face, another acquaintance always comes to mind--some one who doesn't really look like you, but whom you resemble nevertheless. MR. Y. Who is that? MR. X. I won't mention the name. However, I used to have dinner at the same place for many years, and there at the lunch counter I met a little blond man with pale, worried eyes. He had an extraordinary faculty of getting about in a crowded room without shoving or being shoved. Standing at the door, he could reach a slice of bread two yards away; he always looked as if he was happy to be among people, and whenever he ran into an acquaintance he would fall into rapturous laughter, embrace him, and do the figure eight around him, and carry on as if he hadn't met a human being for years; if any one stepped on his toes he would smile as if he were asking pardon for being in the way. For two years I used to see him, and I used to amuse myself trying to figure out his business and character, but I never asked any one who he was,--I didn't want to know, as that would have put an end to my amusement. That man had the same indefinable characteristics as you; sometimes I would make him out an undergraduate teacher, an under officer, a druggist, a government clerk, or a detective, and like you, he seemed to be made up of two different pieces and the front didn't fit the back. One day I happened to read in the paper about a big forgery by a well-known civil official. After that I found out that my indefinable acquaintance had been the companion of the forger's brother, and that his name was Stråman; and then I was informed that the afore-mentioned Stråman had been connected with a free library, but that he was then a police reporter on a big newspaper. How could I then get any connection between the forgery, the police, and the indefinable man's appearance? I don't know, but when I asked a man if Stråman had ever been convicted, he answered neither yes nor no--he didn't know. [Pause.] MR. Y. Well, was he ever--convicted? MR. X. No, he had not been convicted. [Pause.] MR. Y. You mean that was why keeping close to the police had such attraction for him, and why he was so afraid of bumping into people? MR. X. Yes. MR. Y. Did you get to know him afterward? MR. X. No, I didn't want to. MR. Y. Would you have allowed yourself to know him if he had been convicted? MR. X. Yes, indeed. [Mr. Y. rises and walks up and down.] MR. X. Sit still. Why can't you sit quietly. MR. Y. How did you get such a liberal attitude towards people's conduct? Are you a Christian? MR. X. No,--of course I couldn't be,--as you've just heard. The Christians demand forgiveness, but I demand punishment for the restoration of balance, or whatever you like to call it, and you, who have served time, ought to understand that. MR. Y. [Stops as if transfixed. Regards Mr. X. at first with wild hatred, them with surprise and wonderment.] How--do--you--know--that? MR. X. It's plain to be seen. MR. Y. How? How can you see it? MR. X. I have taught myself. That's an art, too. But we won't talk about that matter. [Looks at his watch. Takes out a paper for signing. Dips a pen and offers it to Mr. Y.] I must think about my muddled affairs. Now be so kind as to witness my signature on this note, which I must leave at the bank at Malmö when I go there with you tomorrow morning. MR. Y. I don't intend to go by way of Malmö. MR. X. No? MR. Y. No. MR. X. But you can witness my signature nevertheless. MR. Y. No-o. I never sign my name to papers-- MR. X.--Any more! That's the fifth time that you have refused to write your name. The first time was on a postal receipt,--and it was then that I began to observe you; and now, I see that you have a horror of touching pen and ink. You haven't sent a letter since you've been here. Just one postal-card, and that you wrote with a blue pencil. Do you see now how I have figured out your mis-step? Furthermore, this is the seventh time that you have refused to go to Malmö, where you have not gone since you have been here. Nevertheless you came here from America just to see Malmö; and every morning you have walked southward three miles and a half to the windmill hill just to see the roofs of Malmö; also, when you stand at the right-hand window, through the third window-pane to the left, counting from the bottom up, you can see the turrets of the castle, and the chimneys on the _state prison_. Do you see now that it is not that I am so clever but that you are so stupid? MR. Y. Now you hate me. MR. X. No. MR. Y. Yes, you do, you must. MR. X. No--see, here's my hand. MR. Y. [Kisses the proffered hand]. MR. X. [Drawing back his hand]. What dog's trick is that? MR. Y. Pardon! But thou art the first to offer me his hand after knowing-- MR. X.--And now you are "thou-ing" me! It alarms me that, after serving your time, you do not feel your honor retrieved, that you do not feel on equal footing,--in fact, just as good as any one. Will you tell me how it happened? Will you? MR. Y. [Dubiously]. Yes, but you won't believe what I say. I'm going to tell you, though, and you shall see that I was not a common criminal. You shall be convinced that mis-steps are made, as one might say, involuntarily--[Shakily] as if they came of their own accord, spontaneously, without intention, blamelessly!--Let me open the window a little. I think the thunder shower-has passed over. MR. X. Go ahead. MR. Y. [Goes and opens the window, then comes and sits by the table again and tells the following with great enthusiasm, theatrical gestures and false accents]. Well, you see I was a student at Lund, and once I needed a loan. I had no dangerously big debts, my father had some means--not very much, to be sure; however, I had sent away a note of hand to a man whom I wanted to have sign it as second security, and contrary to all expectations, it was returned to me with a refusal. I sat for a while benumbed by the blow, because it was a disagreeable surprise, very disagreeable. The note lay before me on the table, and beside it the letter of refusal. My eyes glanced hopelessly over the fatal lines which contained my sentence. To be sure it wasn't a death-sentence, as I could easily have got some other man to stand as security; as many as I wanted, for that matter--but, as I've said, it was very unpleasant; and as I sat there in my innocence, my glance rested gradually on the signature, which, had it been in the right place, would have made my future. That signature was most unusual calligraphy--you know how, as one sits thinking, one can scribble a whole blotter full of meaningless words. I had the pen in my hand--[He takes up the pen] like this, and before I knew what I was doing it started to write,--of course I don't want to imply that there was anything mystical spiritualistic, behind it--because I don't believe in such things!--it was purely a thoughtless, mechanical action--when I sat and copied the beautiful autograph time after time--without, of course, any prospect of gain. When the letter was scribbled all over, I had acquired skill enough to reproduce the signature remarkably well [Throws the pen down with violence] and then I forgot the whole thing. That night my sleep was deep and heavy, and when I awakened I felt that I had been dreaming, but I could not recall the dream; however, it seemed as though the door to my dream opened a little when I saw the writing table and the note in memory--and when I got up I was driven to the table absolutely, as if, after ripe consideration, I had made the irrevocable resolution to write that name on the fateful paper. All thought of risk, of consequence, had disappeared--there was no wavering--it was almost as if I were fulfilling a precious duty--and I wrote. [Springs to his feet.] What can such a thing be? Is it inspiration, hypnotic suggestion, as it is called? But from whom? I slept alone in my room. Could it have been my uncivilized ego, the barbarian that does not recognize conventions, but who emerged with his criminal will and his inability to calculate the consequences of his deed? Tell me, what do you think about such a case? MR. X. [Bored]. To be honest, your story does not quite convince me. There are holes in it,--but that may be clue to your not being able to remember all the details,--and I have read a few things about criminal inspirations--and I recall--h'm--but never mind. You have had your punishment, you have had character enough to admit your error, and we won't discuss it further. MR. Y. Yes, yes, yes, we will discuss it; we must talk, so that I can have complete consciousness of my unswerving honesty. MR. X. But haven't you that? MR. Y. No, I haven't. MR. X. Well, you see, that's what bothers me, that's what bothers me. Don't you suppose that each one of us has a skeleton in his closet? Yes, indeed! Well, there are people who continue to be children all their lives, so that they cannot control their lawless desires. Whenever the opportunity comes, the criminal is ready. But I cannot understand why you do not feel innocent. As the child is considered irresponsible, the criminal should be considered so too. It's strange--well, it doesn't matter; I'll regret it later. [Pause.] I killed a man once, and I never had any scruples. MR. Y. [Very interested]. You--did? MR. X. Yes--I did. Perhaps you wouldn't like to take a murderer's hand? MR. Y. [Cheerily]. Oh, what nonsense! MR. X. Yes, but I have not been punished for it. MR. Y. [Intimate, superior]. So much the better for you. How did you get out of it? MR. X. There were no accusers, no suspicions, no witnesses. It happened this way: one Christmas a friend of mine had invited me for a few days' hunting just outside of Upsala; he sent an old drunken servant to meet me, who fell asleep on the coach-box and drove into a gate-post, which landed us in the ditch. It was not because my life had been in danger, but in a fit of anger I struck him a blow to wake him, with the result that he never awakened again--he died on the spot. MR. Y. [Cunningly]. And you didn't give yourself up? MR. X. No, and for the following reasons. The man had no relatives or other connections who were dependent on him. He had lived out his period of vegetation and his place could soon be filled by some one who was needed more, while I, on the other hand, was indispensable to the happiness of my parents, my own happiness, and perhaps to science. Through the outcome of the affair I was cured of the desire to strike any more blows, and to satisfy an abstract justice I did not care to ruin the lives of my parents as well as my own life. MR. Y. So? That's the way you value human life? MR. X. In that instance, yes. MR. Y. But the feeling of guilt, the "restoration of balance?" MR. X. I had no guilty feeling, its I had committed no crime. I had received and given blows as a boy, and it was only ignorance of the effect of blows on old people that caused the fatality. MR. Y. Yes, but it is two years' hard labor for homicide--just as much as for--forgery. MR. X. You may believe I have thought of that too, and many a night have I dreamed that I was in prison. Ugh! is it as terrible as it's said to be behind bolts and bars? MR. Y. Yes, it is terrible. First they disfigure your exterior by cutting off your hair, so if you did not look like a criminal before, you do afterward, and when you look at yourself in the mirror, you become convinced that you are a desperado. MR. X. It's the mask that they pull off; that's not a bad idea. MR. Y. You jest! Then they cut down your rations, so that every day, every hour you feel a distinct difference between life and death; all life's functions are repressed; you feel yourself grovelling, and your soul, which should be bettered and uplifted there, is put on a starvation cure, driven back a thousand years in time; you are only allowed to read what was written for the barbarians of the migratory period; you are allowed to hear about nothing but that which can never come to pass in heaven, but what happens on earth remains a secret; you are torn from your own environment, moved down out of your class; you come under those who come under you; you have visions of living in the bronze age, feel as if you went about in an animal's skin, lived in a cave, and ate out of a trough! Ugh! MR. X. That's quite rational. Any one who behaves as if he belonged to the bronze age ought to live in the historic costume. MR. Y. [Spitefully]. You scoff, you, you who have behaved like a man of the stone age! And you are allowed to live in the gold age! MR. X. [Searchingly and sharp]. What do you mean by that last expression--the gold age? MR. Y. [Insidiously]. Nothing at all. MR. X. That's a lie; you are too cowardly to state your whole meaning. MR. Y. Am I cowardly? Do you think that? I wasn't cowardly when I dared to show myself in this neighborhood, where I have suffered what I have.--Do you know what one suffers from most when one sits in there? It is from the fact that the others are not sitting in there too. MR. X. What others? MR. Y. The unpunished. MR. X. Do you allude to me? MR. Y. Yes. MR. X. I haven't committed any crime. MR. Y. No? Haven't you? MR. X. No. An accident is not a crime. MR. Y. So, it's an accident to commit murder? MR. X. I haven't committal any murder. MR. Y. So? Isn't it murder to slay a man? MR. X. No, not always. There is manslaughter, homicide, assault resulting in death, with the subdivisions, with or without intent. However, now I am really afraid of you, for you belong in the most dangerous category of human beings, the stupid. MR. Y. So you think that I am stupid? Now listen! Do you want me to prove that I am very shrewd? MR. X. Let me hear. MR. Y. Will you admit that I reason shrewdly and logically when I say this? You met with an accident which might have brought you two years of hard labor. You have escaped the ignominious penalty altogether. Here sits a man who also has been the victim of an accident, an unconscious suggestion, and forced to suffer two years of hard labor. This man can wipe out the stain he has unwittingly brought upon himself only through scientific achievement; but for the attainment of this he must have money--much money, and that immediately. Doesn't it seem to you that the other man, the unpunished one, would restore the balance of human relations if he were sentenced to a tolerable fine? Don't you think so? MR. X. [Quietly]. Yes. MR. Y. Well, we understand each other.--H'm! How much do you consider legitimate? MR. X. Legitimate? The law decrees that a man's life is worth at the minimum fifty crowns. But as the deceased had no relatives, there's nothing to be said on that score. MR. Y. Humph, you will not understand? Then I must speak more plainly. It is to me that you are to pay the fine. MR. X. I've never heard that a homicide should pay a fine to a forger, and there is also no accuser. MR. Y. No? Yes, you have me. MR. X. Ah, now things are beginning to clear up. How much do you ask to become accomplice to the homicide? MR. Y. Six thousand crowns. Mr. X. That's too much. Where am I to get it? [Mr. Y. points to the case.] I don't want to do that, I don't want to become a thief. MR. Y. Don't pretend. Do you want me to believe that you haven't dipped into that case before now? MR. X. [As to himself]. To think that I could make such a big mistake! But that's the way it always is with bland people. One is fond of gentle people, and then one believes so easily that he is liked; and just on account of that I have been a little watchful of those of whom I've been fond. So you are fully convinced that I have helped myself from that case? MR. Y. Yes, I'm sure of it. MR. X. And you will accuse me if you do not receive the six thousand crowns? MR. Y. Absolutely. You can't get out of it, so it's not worth while trying to do so. MR. X. Do you think I would give my father a thief for son, my wife a thief for husband, my children a thief for father, and my confrères a thief for comrade? That shall never happen. Now I'll go to the sheriff and give myself up. MR. Y. [Springs up and gets his things together]. Wait a moment. MR. X. What for? M$. Y. [Stammering]. I only thought--that as I'm not needed--I wouldn't need to be present--and could go. MR. X. You cannot. Sit down at your place at the table, where you've been sitting, and we will talk a little. MR. Y. [Sits, after putting on a dark coat]. What's going to happen now? MR. X. [Looking into mirror]. Now everything is clear to me! Ah! MR. Y. [Worried]. What do you see now that's so remarkable? MR. X. I see in the mirror that you are a thief, a simple, common thief. Just now, when you sat there in your shirt-sleeves, I noticed that something was wrong about my book-shelf, but I couldn't make out what it was, as I wanted to listen to you and observe you. Now, since you have become my antagonist, my sight is keener, and since you have put on that black coat, that acts as a color contrast against the red backs of the books, which were not noticeable before against your red suspenders, I see that you have been there and read your forgery story in Bernheim's essay on hypnotic suggestion, and returned the book upside down. So you stole that story too! In consequence of all this I consider that I have the right to conclude that you committed your crime through need, or because you were addicted to pleasures. MR. Y. Through need. If you knew-- MR. X. If _you_ knew in what need I have lived, and lived, and still live! But this is no time for that. To continue, that you have served time is almost certain, but that was in America, for it was American prison life that you described; another thing is almost as certain--that you have not served out your sentence here. MR. Y. How can you say that? MR. X. Wait until the sheriff comes and you will know. [Mr. Y. rises.] Do you see? The first time I mentioned the sheriff in connection with the thunderbolt, you wanted to run then, too; and when a man has been in that prison he never wants to go to the windmill hill every day to look at it, or put himself behind a window-pane to--to conclude, you have served one sentence, but not another. That's why you were so difficult to get at. [Pause.] MR. Y. [Completely defeated]. May I go now? MR. X. Yes, you may go now. MR. Y. [Getting his things together]. Are you angry with me? MR. X. Yes. Would you like it better if I pitied you? MR. Y. [Wrathfully]. Pity! Do you consider yourself better than I am? MR. X. Of course I do, as I _am_ better. I am more intelligent than you are, and of more worth to the common weal. MR. Y. You are pretty crafty, but not so crafty as I am. I stand in check myself, but, nevertheless, the next move you can be checkmated. MR. X. [Fixing Mr. Y. with his eye]. Shall we have another bout? What evil do you intend to do now? MR. Y. That is my secret. MR. X. May I look at you?--You think of writing an anonymous letter to my wife, disclosing my secret. MR. Y. Yes, and you cannot prevent it. You dare not have me imprisoned, so you must let me go; and when I have gone I can do what I please. MR. X. Ah, you devil! You've struck my Achilles heel--will you force me to become a murderer? MR. Y. You couldn't become one! You timid creature! MR. X. You see, then, there is a difference in people after all, and you feel within you that I cannot commit such deeds as you, and that is your advantage. But think if you forced me to deal with you as I did with the coachman! [Lifts his hand as if to strike. Mr. Y. looks hard at Mr. X.] MR. Y. You can't do it. He who dared not take his salvation out of the case couldn't do that. MR. X. Then you don't believe that I ever took from the case? MR. Y. You were too cowardly, just as you were too cowardly to tell your wife that she is married to a murderer. MR. X. You are a different kind of being from me--whether stronger or weaker I do not know--more criminal or not--that doesn't concern me. But you are the stupider, that's proven. Because you were stupid when you forged a man's name instead of begging as I have had to do; you were stupid when you stole out of my book--didn't you realize that I read my books? You were stupid when you thought that you were more intelligent than I am and that you could fool me into becoming a thief; you were stupid when you thought, that the restoration of balance would be accomplished by the world's having two thieves instead of one, and you were most stupid when you believed that I have built my life's happiness without having laid the cornerstone securely. Go and write your anonymous letter to my wife about her husband being a homicide--that she knew as my fiancée. Do you give up now? MR. Y. Can I go? MR. X. Now you _shall_ go--immediately. Your things will follow you. CURTAIN. ***** EASTER CHARACTERS MRS. HEYST ELIS, her son. Instructor in a preparatory school ELEONORA, her daughter CHRISTINE, Elis' fiancée BENJAMIN, a freshman LINDKVIST [Scene for the entire play.--The interior of a glass-enclosed piazza, furnished like a living-room. A large door at the middle back leading out into the garden with fence and garden gate visible. Beyond one sees the tops of trees (indicating that the house is situated on a height), and in the distance the cathedral and another high building loom against the sky. The glass windows which extend across the entire back of scene are hung with flowered yellow cretonne, which can be drawn open. A mirror hangs on the panel between door and window on the left. Below the mirror is a calendar. To the right of door a writing table covered with books and writing materials. A telephone is also on it. To L. of door is a dining table, stove and bureau. At R. in foreground it small sewing table with lamp on it. Near it are two arm-chairs. A hanging lamp at center. Outside in the street an electric light. At L. there is a door leading from piazza to the house, at R. a door leading to the kitchen. Time, the present.] ACT I. [Thursday before Easter. The music before curtain is: Haydn: Sieben Worte des Erlösers. Introduction: Maestoso Adagio.] [A ray of sunlight falls across the room and strikes one of the chairs near the sewing table. In the other chair, untouched by the sunshine, sits Christine, running strings thro' muslin sash-curtains. Elis enters wearing a winter overcoat, unbuttoned. He carries a bundle of legal documents which he puts on the writing table. After that he takes off his overcoat and hangs it at L.] ELIS. Hello, sweetheart. CHRISTINE. Hello, Elis. ELIS [Looks around]. The double windows are off, the floor scoured, fresh curtains at the windows--yes, it is spring again! The ice has gone out of the river, and the willows are beginning to bud on the banks--yes, spring has come and I can put away my winter overcoat. [Weighs his overcoat in his hand and hangs it up.] You know, it's so heavy--just as tho' it had absorbed the weight of the whole winter's worries, the sweat and dust of the school-room. CHRISTINE. But you have a vacation now. ELIS. Yes, Easter. Five days to enjoy, to breathe, to forget. [Takes Christine's hand a minute, and then seats himself in arm-chair.] Yes, the sun has come again. It left us in November. How well I remember the day it disappeared behind the brewery across the street. Oh, this winter, this long winter. CHRISTINE [With a gesture toward kitchen]. Sh! Sh! ELIS. I'll be quiet--But I'm so happy that it's over with. Oh, the warm sun! [Rubs his hands as tho' bathing them in the sunshine.] I want to bathe in the sunshine and light after all the winter gloom-- CHRISTINE. Sh! Sh! ELIS. Do you know, I believe that good luck is coming our way--that hard luck is tired of us. CHRISTINE. What makes you think so? ELIS. Why, as I was going by the cathedral just now a white dove flew down and alighted in front of me, and dropped a little branch it was carrying right at my feet. CHRISTINE. Did you notice what kind of branch it was? ELIS. Of course it couldn't have been an olive branch, but I believe it was a sign of peace--and I felt the life-giving joy of spring. Where's mother? CHRISTINE [Points toward kitchen]. In the kitchen. ELIS [Quietly and closing his eyes]. I hear the spring! I can tell that the double windows are off, I hear the wheel hubs so plainly. And what's that?--a robin chirping out in the orchard, and they are hammering down at the docks and I can smell the fresh paint on the steamers. CHRISTINE. Can you feel all that--here in town? ELIS. Here? It's true we are _here_, but I was up there, in the North, where our home lies. Oh, how did we ever get into this dreadful city where the people all hate each other and where one is always alone? Yes, it was our daily bread that led the way, but with the bread came the misfortunes: father's criminal act and little sister's illness. Tell me, do you know whether mother has ever been to see father since he's been in prison? CHRISTINE. Why, I think she's been there this very day. ELIS. What did she have to say about it? CHRISTINE. Nothing--she wouldn't talk about it. ELIS. Well, one thing at least has been gained, and that is the quiet that followed the verdict after the newspapers had gorged themselves with the details. One year is over: and then we can make a fresh start. CHRISTINE. I admire your patience in this suffering. ELIS. Don't. Don't admire anything about me. I am full of faults--you know it. CHRISTINE. If you were only suffering for your own faults--but to be suffering for another! ELIS. What are you sewing on? CHRISTINE. Curtains for the kitchen, you dear. ELIS. It looks like a bridal veil. This fall you will be my bride, won't you, Christine? CHRISTINE. Yes--but--let's think of summer first. ELIS. Yes, summer! [Takes out the check book.] You see the money is already in the bank, and when school is over we will start for the North, for our home land among the lakes. The cottage stands there just as it did when we were children, and the linden trees. Oh, that it were summer already and I could go swimming in the lake! I feel as if this family dishonor has besmirched me so that I long to bathe, body and soul, in the clear lake waters. CHRISTINE. Have you heard anything from Eleonora? ELIS. Yes--poor little sister! She writes me letters that tear my heart to pieces. She wants to get out of the asylum--and home, of course. But the doctor daren't let her go. She would do things that might lead to prison, he says. Do you know, I feel terribly conscience-stricken sometimes-- CHRISTINE [Starting]. Why? ELIS. Because I agreed with all the rest of them that it was best to put her there. CHRISTINE. My dear, you are always accusing yourself. It was fortunate she could be taken care of like that--poor little thing! ELIS. Well, perhaps you're right. It is best so. She is as well off there as she could be anywhere. When I think of how she used to go about here casting gloom over every attempt at happiness, how her fate weighed us down like a nightmare, then I am tempted to feel almost glad about it. I believe the greatest misfortune that could happen would be to see her cross this threshold. Selfish brute that I am! CHRISTINE. Human being that you are! ELIS. And yet--I suffer--suffer at the thought of her misery and my father's. CHRISTINE. It seems as tho' some were born to suffer. ELIS. You poor Christine--to be drawn into this family, which was cursed from the beginning! Yes, doomed! CHRISTINE. You don't know whether it's all trial or punishment, Elis. Perhaps I can help you through the struggles. ELIS. Do you think mother has a clean dress tie for me? CHRISTINE [Anxiously]. Are you going out? ELIS. I'm going out to dinner. Peter won the debate last night, you know, and he's giving a dinner tonight. CHRISTINE. And you're going to that dinner? ELIS. You mean that perhaps I shouldn't because he has proven such an unfaithful friend and pupil? CHRISTINE. I can't deny that I was shocked by his unfaithfulness, when he promised to quote from your theories and he simply plundered them without giving you any credit. ELIS. Ah, that's the way things go, but I am happy in the consciousness that "this have I done." CHRISTINE. Has he invited you to the dinner? ELIS. Why, that's true--come to think of it, he didn't invite me. That's very strange. Why didn't I think of that before! Why, he's been talking for years as though I were to be the guest of honor at that dinner, and he has told others that. But if I am not invited--then of course it's pretty plain that I'm snubbed, insulted, in fact. Well, it doesn't matter. It isn't the first time--nor the last. [Pause.] CHRISTINE. Benjamin is late. Do you think he will pass his examinations? ELIS. I certainly do--in Latin particularly. CHRISTINE. Benjamin is a good boy! ELIS. Yes, but he's somewhat of a grumbler. You know of course why he is living here with us? CHRISTINE. IS it because-- ELIS. Because--my father was the boy's guardian and spent his fortune for him, as he did--for so many others. Can you fancy, Christine, what agony it is for me as their instructor to see those fatherless boys, who have been robbed of their inheritance, suffering the humiliations of free scholars? I have to think constantly of their misery to be able to forgive them their cruel glances. CHRISTINE. I believe that your father is truly better off than you. ELIS. Truly! CHRISTINE. But Elis, we should think of summer, and not of the past. ELIS. Yes, of summer! Do you know, I was awakened last night by some students singing that old song, "Yes, I am coming, glad winds, take this greeting to the country, to the birds--Say that I love them, tell birch and linden, lake and mountain, that I am coming back to them--to behold them again as in my childhood hours--" [He rises--moved.] Shall I ever go back to them, shall I ever go out from this dreadful city, from Ebal, accursed mountain, and behold Gerizim again? [Seats himself near the door.] CHRISTINE. Aye, aye--that you shall! ELIS. But do you think my birches and lindens will look as they used to--don't you think the same dark veil will shroud them that has been lying over all nature and life for us ever since the day when father--[Points to the empty arm-chair which is in the shadow.] Look, the sun has gone. CHRISTINE. It will come again and stay longer. ELIS. That's true. As the days lengthen the shadows shorten. CHRISTINE. Yes, Elis, we are going toward the light, believe me. ELIS. Sometimes I believe that, and when I think of all that has happened, all the misery, and compare it with the present--then I am happy. Last year you were not sitting there, for you had gone away from me and broken off our betrothal. Do you know, that was the darkest time of all. I was dying literally bit by bit; but then you came back to me--and I lived. Why did you go away from me? CHRISTINE. Oh; I don't know--it seems to me now as if there was no reason. I had an impulse to go--and I went, as tho' I were walking in my sleep. When I saw you again I awoke--and was happy. ELIS. And now we shall go on together forevermore. If you left me now I should die in earnest.--Here comes mother. Say nothing, let her live in her imaginary world in which she believes that father is a martyr and that all those he sacrificed are rascals. MRS. HEYST [Comes from kitchen. She is paring an apple. She is simply dressed and speaks in an innocent voice]. Good afternoon, children. Will you have your apple dumpling hot or cold? ELIS. Cold, mother dear. MRS. HEYST. That's right, my boy, you always know what you want and say so. But you aren't like that, Christine. Elis gets that from his father; he always knew what he wanted and said so frankly, and people don't like that--so things went badly with him. But his day will come, and he'll get his rights and the others will get their just deserts. Wait now, what was it I had to tell you? Oh, yes, what do you think? Lindkvist has come here to live! Lindkvist, the biggest rascal of them all! ELIS [Rises, disturbed]. Has _he_ come here? MRS. HEYST. Yes, indeed, he's come to live right across the street from us. ELIS. So now we must see him coming and going day in and day out. That too! MRS. HEYST. Just let me have a talk with him, and he'll never show his face again! For I happen to know a few things about him! Well, Elis, how did Peter come out? ELIS. Oh, finely! MRS. HEYST. I can well believe that! When do you think _you_ will join the debating club? ELIS. When I can afford it! MRS. HEYST. "When I can afford it." Humph, that isn't a very good answer! And Benjamin--did he get through his examinations all right? ELIS. We don't know yet; but he'll soon be here. MRS. HEYST. Well, I don't quite like the way Benjamin goes around looking so conscious of his privileges in this house--but we shall take him down soon enough. But he's a good boy just the same. Oh, yes, there's a package for you, Elis. [Goes out to kitchen and comes back directly with a package.] ELIS. Mother does keep track of everything, doesn't she? I sometimes believe that she is not so simple minded as she seems to be. MRS. HEYST. See, here's the package. Lina received it. Perhaps it is an Easter present! ELIS. I'm afraid of presents since the time I received a box of cobblestones. [Puts the package on the table.] MRS. HEYST. Now I must go back to my duties in the kitchen. Don't you think it is too cold with the door open? ELIS. Not at all, mother. MRS. HEYST. Elis, you shouldn't hang your overcoat there. It looks so disorderly. Now, Christine, will my curtains be ready soon? CHRISTINE. In just a few minutes, mother. MRS. HEYST [To Elis]. Yes, I like Peter; he is my favorite among your friends. But aren't you going to his dinner this evening, Elis? ELIS. Yes, I suppose so. MRS. HEYST. Now, why did you go and say that you wanted your apple dumpling cold when you are going out to dinner? You're so undecided, Elis. But Peter isn't like that.--Shut the door when it gets chilly, so that you won't get sniffles.[Goes out R.] ELIS. The good old soul--and always Peter. Does she like to tease you about Peter? CHRISTINE [Surprised and hurt]. Me? ELIS [Disconcerted]. Old ladies have such queer notions, you know. CHRISTINE. What have you received for a present? ELIS [Opening package]. A birch rod! CHRISTINE. From whom? ELIS. It's anonymous. It's just an innocent joke on the schoolmaster. I shall put it in water--and it will blossom like Aaron's staff. "Rod of birch, which in my childhood's hour"--And so Lindkvist has come here to live! CHRISTINE. Well, what about him? ELIS. We owe him our biggest debt. CHRISTINE. _You_ don't owe him anything. ELIS. Yes, one for all and all for one; the family's name is disgraced as long as we owe a farthing. CHRISTINE. Change your name! ELIS. Christine! CHRISTINE [Puts down work, which is finished]. Thanks, Elis, I was only testing you. ELIS. But you must not tempt me. Lindkvist is not a rich man, and needs what is due him.--When my father got through with it all it was like a battle-field of dead and wounded--and mother believes father is a martyr! Shall we go out and take a walk? CHRISTINE. And try to find the sunshine? Gladly! ELIS. I can't understand how it can be that our Saviour suffered for us and yet we must continue to suffer. CHRISTINE. Here comes Benjamin. ELIS. Can you see whether he looks happy or not? CHRISTINE [Looks out door]. He walks so slowly, he's stopped at the fountain--and bathing his eyes. ELIS. And this too! CHRISTINE. Walt until-- ELIS. Tears! Tears! CHRISTINE. Patience. [Enter Benjamin. He has a kind face and seems very downcast. He carries several books and a portfolio.] ELIS. Well, how did you get along in Latin? BENJAMIN. Badly! ELIS. Let me see your examination paper. What did you do? BENJAMIN. I used "ut" with the indicative, altbo' I knew it should be the subjunctive. ELIS. Then you are lost! But how could you do that? BENJAMIN [Submissively]. I can't, explain it--I knew how it should be. I meant to do it right, but some way I wrote it wrong. [Seats himself dejectedly near dining table.] ELIS [Sinks dozen near writing desk and opens Benjamin's portfolio]. Yes, here it is--the indicative, oh! CHRISTINE [Faintly, with effort]. Well, better luck next time--life is long. ELIS. Terribly long. BENJAMIN. Yes, it is. ELIS [Sadly but without bitterness]. But that everything should come at the same time! You were my best pupil, so what can I expect of the others? My reputation as a teacher is lost. I shall not be allowed to teach any longer and so--complete ruin! [To Benjamin.] Don't take it to heart so--it is not your fault. CHRISTINE [With great effort]. Elis, courage, courage, for God's sake. ELIS. What shall I get it from? CHRISTINE. What you got it from before. ELIS. But things are not as they were. I seem to be in complete disgrace now. CHRISTINE. There is no disgrace in undeserved suffering. Don't be impatient. Be equal to the test, for it is just another test. I feel sure of that. ELIS. Can a year for Benjamin become less than three hundred and sixty-five days? CHRISTINE. Yes, a cheerful spirit makes the days shorter. ELIS [Smiling]. Blow upon the burn; that heals it, children are told. CHRISTINE. Be a child then, and let me tell you that. Think of your mother, how she bears everything. ELIS. Give me your hand; I am sinking. [Christine reaches out her hand to him.] Your hand trembles.-- CHRISTINE. No, not that I know of-- ELIS. You are not so strong as you seem to be-- CHRISTINE. I do not feel any weakness-- ELIS. Why can't you give me some strength then? CHRISTINE. I have none to spare! ELIS [Looking out of the window]. Do you see who that is coming? [Christine goes and looks out of window, then falls upon her knees, crushed.] CHRISTINE. This is too much! ELIS. Our creditor, he who can take our home and all our belongings away from us. He, Lindkvist, who has come here and ensconced himself in the middle of his web like a spider, to watch the flies-- CHRISTINE. Let us run away! ELIS [At window]. No--no running away! Now when you grow weak I become strong--now he is coming up the street--and he casts his evil eye over toward his prey. CHRISTINE. Stand aside, at least. ELIS [Straightening himself]. No, he amuses me. His face lights up with pleasure, as tho' he could already see his victims in his trap. Come on! He is counting the steps up to our gate and he sees by the open door that we are at home.--But he has met some one and stands there talking.--He is talking about us, for he's pointing over here. CHRISTINE. If only he doesn't meet mother, so that she can't make him harsh with her angry words!--Oh, prevent that, Elis! ELIS. Now he is shaking his stick, as if he were protesting that in our case mercy shall not pass for justice. He buttons his overcoat to show that at least he hasn't yet had the very clothes on his back taken from him. I can tell by his mouth what he is saying. What shall I reply to him? "My dear sir, you are in the right. Take everything, it belongs to you." CHRISTINE. There is nothing else you could say. ELIS. Now he laughs. But it is a kind laugh, not a malicious one! Perhaps he isn't so mean after all, but he'll see that he gets every penny coming to him, nevertheless! If he would only come, and stop his blessed prating.--Now, he is swinging his stick again.--They always carry a stick, men who have debtors, and they always wear galoshes that say "Swish, swish," like lashes through the air--[Christine puts hand against his heart.] Do you hear how my heart beats? It sounds like an ocean steamer. Now, thank Heaven, he's taking his leave with his squeaking galoshes! "Swish, swish," like a switch! Oh, but he wears a watch charm! So he can't be utterly poverty-stricken. They always have watch charms of carnelian, like dried flesh that they have cut out of their neighbors' backs. Listen to the galoshes. "Angry, angrier, angriest, swish, swish." Watch him! The old wolf! He sees me! He sees me! He bows! He smiles! He waves his hand--and [Sinks down near the writing table, weeping] he has gone by! CHRISTINE. Praise be to God! ELIS [Rising]. He has gone by--but he will come again. Let's go out in the sunshine. CHRISTINE. And what about dining with Peter? ELIS. As I am not invited, I cannot go. For that matter, what should I do there in the festivity! Just go and meet an unfaithful friend! I should only make a pretense of not being hurt by what he has done. CHRISTINE. I'm glad, for then you will stay here with us. ELIS. I'd rather do that, as you know. Shall we go? CHRISTINE. Yes, this way. [Goes towards left. As Elis passes Benjamin he puts his hand on Benjamin's shoulder.] ELIS. Courage, boy! [Benjamin hides his face in his hands.] ELIS [Takes the birch rod from the dining table and puts it behind the looking-glass]. It wasn't an olive branch that the dove was carrying--it was a birch rod! [They go out.] [Eleonora comes in from back: she is sixteen, with braids down her back. She carries an Easter lily in a pot. Without seeing, or pretending not to see Benjamin, she puts the lily on the dining table and then goes and gets a water-bottle from the sideboard and waters the plant. Then seats herself near dining table right opposite Benjamin and contemplates him and then imitates his gestures and movements.] [Benjamin stares at her in astonishment.] ELEONORA [Points to lily]. Do you know what that is? BENJAMIN [Boyishly, simply]. It's an Easter lily--that's easy enough; but who are you? ELEONORA [Sweetly, sadly]. Well, who are you? BENJAMIN. My name is Benjamin and I live here with Mrs. Heyst. ELEONORA. Indeed! My name is Eleonora and I am the daughter of Mrs. Heyst. BENJAMIN. How strange no one ever said anything about you! ELEONORA. People do not talk about the dead! BENJAMIN. The dead? ELEONORA. I am dead civilly, for I have committed a very bad deed. BENJAMIN. You! ELEONORA. Yes, I spent a trust fund; but that wasn't so much, for it was money as ill-gotten as ill-spent--but that my poor old father should be blamed for it and be put in prison--you see, that can never be forgiven. BENJAMIN. So strangely and beautifully you talk! And I never thought of that--that my inheritance might have been ill-gotten. ELEONORA. One should not confine human beings, one should free them. BENJAMIN. You have freed me from a delusion. ELEONORA. You are a charity pupil? BENJAMIN. Yes, it is my sorrowful lot to have to live upon the charity of this poor family. ELEONORA. You must not use harsh words or I shall have to go away. I am so sensitive I cannot bear anything harsh. Nevertheless it's my fault that you are unhappy. BENJAMIN. Your father's fault, you mean. ELEONORA. That is the same thing, for he and I are one and the same person. [Pause.] Why are you so dejected? BENJAMIN. I have had a disappointment! ELEONORA. Should you be downcast on that account? "Rod and punishment bring wisdom, and he who hates punishment must perish--" What disappointment have you had? BENJAMIN. I have failed in my Latin examination--altho' I was so sure I would pass. ELEONORA. Just so; you were so sure, so sure, that you would even have laid a wager that you would get thro' it. BENJAMIN. I did have a bet on it. ELEONORA. I thought so. You see that's why it happened--because you were so sure. BENJAMIN. Do you think that was the reason? ELEONORA. Certainly it was! Pride goeth before a fall! BENJAMIN. I shall remember that the next time. ELEONORA. That is a worthy thought; those who are pleasing to God are of humble spirit. BENJAMIN. Do you read the Bible? ELEONORA. Yes, I read it! BENJAMIN. I mean, are you a believer? ELEONORA. Yes, I mean that I am. So much so that if you should speak wickedly about God, my benefactor, I would not sit at the same table with you. BENJAMIN. How old are you? ELEONORA. For me there is no time nor space. I am everywhere and whensoever. I am in my father's prison, and in my brother's school-room. I am in my mother's kitchen and in my sister's little shop far away. When all goes well with my sister and she makes good sales I feel her gladness, and when things go badly with her I suffer--but I suffer most when she does anything dishonest. Benjamin, your name is Benjamin, because you are the youngest of my friends; yes, all human beings are my friends, and if you will let me adopt you, I will suffer for you too. BENJAMIN. I don't quite understand the words you use, but I think I catch the meaning of your thoughts. And I will do whatever you want me to. ELEONORA. Will you begin then by ceasing to judge human beings, even when they are convicted criminals-- BENJAMIN. Yes, but I want to have a reason for it. I have read philosophy, you see. ELEONORA. Oh, have you! Then you shall help me explain this from a great philosopher. He said, "Those that hate the righteous, they shall be sinners." BENJAMIN. Of course all logic answers that in the same way, that one can be doomed to commit crime--. ELEONORA. And that the crime itself is a punishment. BENJAMIN. That is pretty deep! One would think that that was Kant or Schopenhauer. ELEONORA. I don't know them. BENJAMIN. What book did you read that in? ELEONORA. In the Holy Scripture. BENJAMIN. Truly? Are there such things in it? ELEONORA. What an ignorant, neglected child you are! If I could bring you up! BENJAMIN. Little you! ELEONORA. I don't believe there is anything very wicked about you. You seem to me more good than bad. BENJAMIN. Thank you. ELEONORA [Rising]. You must never thank me for anything. Remember that.--Oh, now my father is suffering. They are unkind to him. [Stands as tho' listening.] Do you hear what the telephone wires are humming?--those are harsh words, which the soft red copper does not like--when people slander each other thro' the telephone the copper moans and laments--[Severely] and every word is written in the book--and at the end of time comes the reckoning! BENJAMIN. You are so severe! ELEONORA. I? Not I! How should I dare to be? I, I? [She goes to the stove, opens it, and takes out several torn pieces of white letter paper and puts them on the dining table.] BENJAMIN. [Rises and looks at the pieces of paper which Eleonora is putting together.] ELEONORA [To herself]. That people should be so thoughtless as to leave their secrets in the stove! Whenever I come I always go right to the stove! But I don't do it maliciously--I wouldn't do anything like that, for then I should feel remorse. BENJAMIN. It is from Peter, who writes and asks Christine to meet him. I have been expecting that for a long time. ELEONORA [Putting her hands over the bits o f paper]. Oh, you, what have you been expecting? Tell me, you evil minded being, who believes nothing but bad of people. This letter could not mean anything wrong to me, for I know Christine, who is going to be my sister sometime. And that meeting will avert misfortune for brother Elis. Will you promise me to say nothing of this, Benjamin? BENJAMIN. I don't exactly think I should like to talk much about it! ELEONORA. People who are suspicious become so unjust. They think they are so wise, and they are so foolish!--But what is all this to me! BENJAMIN. Yes, why _are_ you so inquisitive? ELEONORA. You see that is my illness--that I must know all about everything or else I become restless-- BENJAMIN. Know about everything? ELEONORA. That is a fault which I cannot overcome. And I even know what the birds say. BENJAMIN. But they can't talk? ELEONORA. Haven't you heard birds that people have taught to talk? BENJAMIN. Oh, yes--that people have taught to talk! ELEONORA. That is to say they can talk. And we find those that have taught themselves or are like that instinctively--they sit and listen without our knowing it and then they repeat these things afterward. Just now as I was coming along I heard two magpies in the walnut tree, who sat there gossiping. BENJAMIN. How funny you are! But what were they saying? ELEONORA. "Peter," said one of them, "Judas," said the other. "The same thing," said the first one. "Fie, Fie, Fie," said the other. But have you noticed that the nightingales only sing in the grounds of the deaf and dumb asylum here? BENJAMIN. Yes, they do say that's so. Why do they do that? ELEONORA. Because those who have hearing do not hear what the nightingales say: but the deaf and dumb hear it! BENJAMIN. Tell me some more stories. ELEONORA. Yes, if you are good. BENJAMIN. How good? ELEONORA. If you will never be exacting about words with me, never say that I said so and so, or so and so. Shall I tell you more about birds? There is a wicked bird that is called a rat-hawk: as you may know by its name, it lives on rats. But as it is an evil bird it has hard work to catch the rats. Because it can say only one single word, and that a noise such as a cat makes when it says "miau." Now when the rat-hawk says "miau" the rats run and hide themselves--for the rat-hawk doesn't understand what it is saying so it is often without food, for it is a wicked bird! Would you like to hear more? Or shall I tell you something about flowers? Do you know when I was ill I was made to take henbane, which is a drug that has the power to make one's eyes magnify like a microscope. Well, now I see farther than others, and I can see the stars in the daylight! BENJAMIN. But the stars are not up there then, are they? ELEONORA. How funny you are! The stars are always up there--and now, as I sit facing the west, I can see Cassiopea like a W up there in the middle of the Milky Way. Can you see it? BENJAMIN. No, indeed I can't see it. ELEONORA. Let me call your attention to this, that some can see that which others do not do not be too sure of your own eyes therefore! Now I'm going to tell you about that flower standing on the table: it is an Easter lily whose home is in Switzerland; it has a calyx which drinks sunlight, therefore it is yellow and can soothe pain. When I was passing a florist's, just now, I saw it and wanted to make a present of it to brother Elis. When I tried to go into the shop I found the door was locked--because it is confirmation day. But I must have the flower--I took out my keys and tried them--can you believe it, my door key worked! I went in. You know that flowers speak silently! Every fragrance uttered a multitude of thoughts, and those thoughts reached me: and with my magnifying eyes I looked into the flowers' workrooms, which no one else has ever seen. And they told me about their sorrows which the careless florist causes them--mark you, I did not say cruel, for he is only thoughtless. Then I put a coin on the desk with my card, took the Easter lily and went out. BENJAMIN. How thoughtless! Think if the flower is missed and the money isn't found? ELEONORA. That's true! You are right. BENJAMIN. A coin can easily disappear, and if they find your card it's all up with you. ELEONORA. But no one would believe that I wanted to take anything. BENJAMIN [Looking hard at her]. They wouldn't? ELEONORA [Rising]. Ah! I know what you mean! Like father, like child! How thoughtless I have been! Ah! That which must be, must be! [Sits.] It must be so. BENJAMIN. Couldn't we say that-- ELEONORA. Hush! Let's talk of other things! Poor Elis! Poor all of us! But it is Easter, and we ought to suffer. Isn't there a recital tomorrow? [Benjamin nods his head.] And they give Haydn's Seven Words on the Cross! "Mother, behold thy son!" [She weeps with face in hands.] BENJAMIN. What kind of illness have you had? ELEONORA. An illness that is not mortal unless it is God's will! I expected good, and evil came; I expected light, and darkness came. How was your childhood, Benjamin? BENJAMIN. Oh, I don't know. Kind of tiresome! And yours? ELEONORA. I never had any. I was born old. I knew everything when I was born, and when I was taught anything it was only like remembering. I knew human weaknesses when I was four years old, and that's why people were horrid to me. BENJAMIN. Do you know, I, too, seem to have thought everything that you say. ELEONORA. I am sure you have. What made you think that the coin I left at the florist's would be lost? BENJAMIN. Because what shouldn't happen always does happen. ELEONORA. Have you noticed that too? Hush, some one is coming. [Looks toward back.] I hear--Elis, oh, how good! My only friend on earth! [She darkens.] But--he didn't expect me! And he will not be glad to see me--no, he won't be, I am sure he won't be. Benjamin, have a pleasant face and be cheerful when my poor brother comes in. I am going in here while you prepare him for my being here. But no matter what he says, don't you say anything that would hurt him, for that would make me unhappy. Do you promise? [Benjamin nods.] Give me your hand. BENJAMIN [Reaches out his hand]. ELEONORA [Kisses him on the top of his head]. So! Now you are my little brother. God bless and keep you! [Goes toward the left and as she passes Elis' overcoat she pats it lovingly on the sleeve.] Poor Elis! [She goes out L.] ELIS [In from back, troubled]. MRS. HEYST [In from kitchen]. ELIS. Oh, so there you are, mother. MRS. HEYST. Was it you? I thought I heard a strange voice! ELIS. I have some news. I met our lawyer in the street. MRS. HEYST. Well? ELIS. The case is going to the superior court--and to gain time I've got to read all the minutes of the case. MRS. HEYST. Well, that won't take you long. ELIS [Pointing to the legal documents on the writing desk]. Oh, I thought that was all over with, and now I must weary myself by going through all that torture again--all the accusations, all the testimony and all the evidence, all over again! MRS. HEYST. Yes, but the superior court will free him! ELIS. No, mother, he has confessed. MRS. HEYST. But there may be some mistakes in the trial which count. When I talked with our lawyer he said there might be some technical errors--I think that's what he called them. ELIS. He said that to console you. MRS. HEYST [Coldly]. Are you going out to dinner? ELIS. No. MRS. HEYST. Oh, so you've changed your mind again. ELIS. Yes. MRS. HEYST. Oh, you are so changeable! ELIS. I know it, but I am tossed about like a chip in a high sea. MRS. HEYST. I surely thought I heard a strange voice that I half recognized. But I must have been mistaken.[Points to Elis' overcoat.] That coat ought not to hang there, I said. [Goes out R.] ELIS [Goes to L. Sees the lily on table]. Where did that plant come from? BENJAMIN. There was a young lady here with it. ELIS. Young lady! What's that? Who was it? BENJAMIN. It was-- ELIS. Was it--my sister? BENJAMIN. Yes. ELIS [Sinks down near table]. [Pause.] Did you talk with her? BENJAMIN. Yes, indeed! ELIS. Oh, God, is there more to be endured? Was she angry with me? BENJAMIN. She? No, she was so sweet, so gentle. ELIS. How wonderful! Did she talk about me? Was she very vexed with me? BENJAMIN. No, on the contrary she said you were her best, her only friend on earth. ELIS. What a strange change! BENJAMIN. And when she went, she patted your coat on the sleeve-- ELIS. Went? Where has she gone? BENJAMIN [Pointing to the window door]. In there! ELIS. She is in there then? BENJAMIN. Yes. ELIS. You look so happy and cheerful, Benjamin. BENJAMIN. She talked so beautifully to me. ELIS. What did she talk about? BENJAMIN. She told me some of her own stories--and a lot about religion. ELIS [Rising]. Which made you happy? BENJAMIN. Yes, indeed! ELIS. Poor Eleonora, who is so unfortunate herself and yet can make others happy! [Goes to door left, hesitating.] God help us! ACT II. [Good Friday evening. The music before and thro' the act, Haydn's Sieben Worte. Largo No. 1. "Pater dimitte illis." Same scene. Curtains are drawn, lighted up by electric light in the street. The hanging lamp is lighted. On dining table a small lamp, also lighted. There is a glimmer from the lighted stove. Elis and Christine are sitting at the sewing table. Benjamin and Eleonora are seated at dining table reading, opposite each other, with the small lamp between them--Eleonora has a shawl over her shoulders.] [They are all dressed in black. The papers that Elis brought in the First Act are on the writing table in a disorderly condition, the Easter lily stands on sewing table. An old clock stands on the dining table. Now and then one sees shadows of people passing by in the street.] [The cathedral organ is heard faintly.--The following scene must be played softly.] ELIS [Softly to Christine]. Yes--it's Good Friday--Long Friday they call it in some countries. Ah--yes--it is long. And the snow has softened the noises in the street like straw spread before the house of the dying. Not a sound to be heard--[Music louder] only the cathedral organ--[A long pause.] CHRISTINE. Mother must have gone to vespers. ELIS. Yes.--She never goes to high mass any more. The cold glances people give her hurt her too much. CHRISTINE. It's queer about these people they sort of demand that we should keep out of the way, and they even see fit to-- ELIS. Yes--and perhaps they are right.-- CHRISTINE. On account of the wrong-doing of one, the whole family is excommunicated-- ELIS. Yes--that is the way things go. [Eleonora pushes the lamp over to Benjamin that he may see better.] ELIS [Noticing them]. Look at them! CHRISTINE. Isn't it beautiful? How well they get along together. ELIS. How fortunate it is that Eleonora has grown so calm and contented. Oh, that it might only last! CHRISTINE. Why shouldn't it last? ELIS. Because--happiness doesn't last very long usually. CHRISTINE. Elis! ELIS. Oh, I am afraid of everything today. [Benjamin moves the lamp slowly over to Eleonora's side.] CHRISTINE. Look at them! [Pause.] ELIS. Have you noticed the change in Benjamin? His fierce defiance has given way to quiet submissiveness. CHRISTINE. It's her doing. Her whole being seems to give out sweetness. ELIS. She has brought with her the spirit of peace, that goes about unseen and exhales tranquillity. Even mother seems to be affected by her. When she saw her a calmness seemed to come over her that could never have been expected. CHRISTINE. Do you think that she is really recovered now? ELIS. Yes. If it weren't for this over-sensitiveness. Now she is reading the story of the crucifixion and some of the time she is weeping. CHRISTINE. We used to read it at school, I remember, on Wednesdays, when we fasted. ELIS. Don't talk so loud--she will hear you. CHRISTINE. Not now--she is so far away. ELIS. Have you noticed the quiet dignity that has come into Benjamin's face? CHRISTINE. That's on account of suffering. Too much happiness makes everything commonplace. ELIS. Don't you think it may be--love? Don't you think that those little-- CHRISTINE. Sh--sh--don't touch the wings of the butterfly--or it will fly away. ELIS. They must be looking at each other, and only pretending to read. I haven't heard them turn over any pages. CHRISTINE. Hush! [Eleonora rises, goes on tip-toe to Benjamin and puts her shawl over his shoulders. Benjamin protests mildly but gives in to her wish--Eleonora returns to her seat and pushes the lamp over to Benjamin's side.] CHRISTINE. She doesn't know how well she wishes. Poor little Eleonora--[Pause.] ELIS [Rises]. Now I must return to the law papers. CHRISTINE. Do you think anything will be gained by going over all that again? ELIS. Only one thing. That is to keep up mother's hope. I only pretend to read--but a word now and then pricks me like a thorn in the eye. The evidence of the witnesses, the summaries--father's confession--like this: "the accused admitted with tears"--tears--tears--so many tears--and these papers with their official seals that remind one of false notes and prison bars--the ribbons and red seals--they are like the five wounds of Christus--and public opinion that will never change--the endless anguish--this is indeed fit work for Good Friday! Yesterday the sun was shining--and in our fancy we went out to the country,--Christine, think if we should have to stay here all summer. CHRISTINE. We would save a great deal of money--but it would be disappointing. ELIS. I couldn't live thro' it--I have stayed here three summers--and it's like a dead city to me. The rats come out from the cellars and alleys--while the cats are out spending the summer in the country. And all the old women that couldn't get away sit peeking through the blinds gossiping about their neighbors--"See, he has his winter suit on"--and sneer at the worn-down heels of the passers-by. And from the poor quarters wretched beings drag themselves out of their holes, cripples, creatures without noses or ears, the wicked and unfortunate--filling the parks and squares as if they had conquered the city--there where the well-dressed children just played, while their parents or maids looked on and encouraged them in their frolics. I remember last summer when I-- CHRISTINE. Oh, Elis--Elis--look forward--look forward. ELIS. Is it brighter there? CHRISTINE. Let us hope so. ELIS [Sits at writing table]. If it would only stop snowing out there, so we could go out for a walk! CHRISTINE. Dearest Elis, yesterday you wanted night to come, so that we might be shielded from the hateful glances of the people. You said, "Darkness is so kind," and that it's like drawing the blanket over one's head. ELIS. That only goes to prove that my misery is as great one way as the other. [Reading papers.] The worst part of the suit is all the questioning about father's way of living.--It says here that we gave big dinner parties.--One witness practically says that my father was a drunkard--no, that's too much. No. No, I won't--as tho'--I must go thro' it, I suppose.--Aren't you cold? CHRISTINE. No. But it isn't warm here. Isn't Lina home? ELIS. She's gone to church. CHRISTINE. Oh, yes, that's so. But mother will soon be home. ELIS. I am always afraid to have her come home. She has had so many experiences of people's evil and malice. CHRISTINE. There is a strain of unusual melancholy in your family, Elis. ELIS. And that's why none but the melancholy have ever been our friends. Light-hearted people have always avoided us--shrunk from us. CHRISTINE. There is mother, going in the kitchen door. ELIS. Don't be impatient with her, Christine. CHRISTINE. Impatient! Ah, no, it's worse for her than any of us. But I can't quite understand her. ELIS. She is always trying to hide our disgrace. That's why she seems so peculiar. Poor mother! MRS. HEYST [Enters, dressed in black, psalm book in hand, and handkerchief]. Good evening, children. ALL. Good evening, mother dear. MRS. HEYST. Why are you all in black, as tho' you were in mourning? [Pause.] ELIS. Is it still snowing, mother? MRS. HEYST. It's sleeting now. [Goes over to Eleonora.] Aren't you cold out here? [Eleonora shakes her head.] Well, my little one, you are reading and studying, I see. [To Benjamin.] And you too? Well, you won't overdo. [Eleonora takes her mother's hand and carries it to her lips.] MRS. HEYST [Hiding her feelings]. So, my child--so--so-- ELIS. Have you been to vespers, mother? MRS. HEYST. Yes, but they had some visiting pastor, and I didn't like him, he mumbled his words so. ELIS. Did you meet any one you knew? MRS. HEYST. Yes, more is the pity. ELIS. Then I know whom-- MRS. HEYST. Yes, Lindkvist. And he came up to me and-- ELIS. Oh, how terrible, how terrible-- MRS. HEYST. He asked how things were going--and imagine my fright--he asked if he might come and see us this evening. ELIS. On a holy day? MRS. HEYST. I was speechless--and he, I am afraid, mistook my silence for consent. So he may be here any moment. ELIS [Rises]. Here? MRS. HEYST. He said he wished to leave a paper of some sort which was important. ELIS. A warrant! He wants to take our furniture. MRS. HEYST. But he looked so queer. I didn't quite understand him. ELIS. Well, then--let him come--he has right and might on his side, and we must bow down to him.--We must receive him when he comes. MRS. HEYST. If I could only escape seeing him! ELIS. Yes, you must stay in the house. MRS. HEYST. But the furniture he cannot take. How could we live if he took the things away? One cannot live in empty rooms. ELIS. The foxes have holes, the birds nests there are many homeless ones who sleep under the sky. MRS. HEYST. That's the way rogues should be made to live--not honest people. ELIS [By the writing table]. I have been reading it all over again. MRS. HEYST. Did you find any faults? What was it the lawyer called them? Oh--technical errors? ELIS. No. I don't think there are any. MRS. HEYST. But I met our lawyer just now and he said there must be some technical errors a challengeable witness, an unproven opinion--or a contradiction, he said. You should read carefully. ELIS. Yes, mother dear, but it's somewhat painful reading all this-- MRS. HEYST. But now listen to this. I met our lawyer, as I said, and he told me also that a burglary had been committed here in town yesterday, and in broad daylight. [Eleonora and Benjamin start and listen.] ELIS. A burglary! Where? MRS. HEYST. At the florist's on Cloister street. But the whole thing is very peculiar. It's supposed to have happened this way: the florist closed his place and went to church where his son--or was it his daughter?--was being confirmed. When he returned, about three o'clock--or perhaps it was four, but that doesn't matter--well, he found the door of the store wide open and his flowers were gone--at least a whole lot of them. [They all look at her questioningly.] Well, anyway, a yellow tulip was gone, which he missed first. ELIS. A yellow tulip? Had it been a lily I would have been afraid. MRS. HEYST. No, it was a tulip, that's sure, well, they say the police are on the track of the thief anyway. [Eleonora has risen as if to speak, but is quieted by Benjamin, who goes to her and whispers something to her.] MRS. HEYST. Think of it, on Holy Thursday! When young people are being confirmed at the church, to break into a place and steal! Oh, the town must be full of rogues, and that's why they throw innocent people into prison! ELIS. Do you know who it is they suspect? MRS. HEYST. No. But it was a peculiar thief. He didn't take any money from the cash drawer. CHRISTINE. Oh, that this day were ended! MRS. HEYST. And if Lina would only return--[Pause.] Oh, I heard something about the dinner Peter gave last night. What do you think--the Governor himself was there. ELIS. The Governor at Peter's--? I'm astonished. Peter has always avowed himself against the Governor's party. MRS. HEYST. He must have changed then. ELIS. He wasn't called Peter for nothing, it seems. MRS. HEYST. But what have _you_ got against the Governor? ELIS. He is against progress--he wants to restrict the pleasures of the people, he tries to dictate to the boards of education--I've felt his interference in my school. MRS. HEYST. I can't understand all that--but it doesn't matter. Anyhow the Governor made a speech, they say, and Peter thanked him heartily. ELIS. And with great feeling, I can fancy, and denied his master, saying, "I know not this man," and again the cock crew. Wasn't the Governor's name Pontius and his surname Pilate? [Eleonora starts as if to speak but Benjamin quiets her again.] MRS. HEYST. You mustn't be so bitter, Elis. Human beings are weak and we must come in contact with them. ELIS. Hush,--I hear Lindkvist coming. MRS. HEYST. What? Can you hear him in all this snow? ELIS. Yes, I can hear his stick striking the pavement--and his squeaking galoshes. Please, mother, go into the house. MRS. HEYST. No. I shall stay and tell him a few things. ELIS. Dear, dear mother, you must go in or it will be too painful. MRS. HEYST [Rising, with scorn]. Oh, may the day that I was born be forgotten-- CHRISTINE. Don't blaspheme, mother. MRS. HEYST. Should not the lost have this trouble rather than that the worthy should suffer torture? ELIS. Mother! MRS. HEYST. Oh, God! Why have you forsaken me and my children? [Goes out L.] ELIS. Oh--do you know that mother's indifference and submission torture me more than her wrath? CHRISTINE. Her submission is only pretended or make-believe. There was something of the roar of the lioness in her last words. Did you notice how big she became? ELIS [At window, listening]. He has stopped--perhaps he thinks the time ill-chosen.--But that can't be it--he who could write such terrible letters,--and always on that blue paper! I can't look at a blue paper now without trembling. CHRISTINE. What will you tell him--what do you mean to propose? ELIS. I don't know. I have lost all my reasoning powers.--Shall I fall on my knees to him and beg mercy--can you hear him? I can't hear anything but the blood beating in my ears. CHRISTINE. Let us face the worst calmly--he will take everything and-- ELIS. Then the landlord will come and ask for some other security, which I cannot furnish.--He will demand security, when the furniture is no longer here to assure him of the rent. CHRISTINE [Peeking through the curtain]. He isn't there now.--He is gone! ELIS [Rushing to window]. He's gone?--Do you know, now that I think of Lindkvist, I see him as a good-natured giant who only scares children. How could I have come to think that? CHRISTINE. Oh, thoughts come and go-- ELIS. How lucky that I was not at that dinner yesterday--I would surely have made a speech against the Governor, and so I would have spoiled everything for us. CHRISTINE. Do you realize that now? ELIS. Thanks for your advice, Christine. You knew your Peter. CHRISTINE. My Peter?-- ELIS. I meant--my Peter.--But--look--he is here again, woe unto us! [One can see the shadow of Lindkvist on the curtain, who is nearing slowly. The shadow gets larger and larger, until it is giant-like. They stand in fear and tremble.] ELIS. Look,--the giant--the giant that wants to swallow us. CHRISTINE. Now it's time to laugh, as when reading fairy-tales. ELIS. I can't laugh any more. [The shadow slowly disappears.] CHRISTINE. Look at the stick and you must laugh. [Pause.] ELIS [Brightly]. He's gone--he's gone--yes, I can breathe again now, as he won't return until tomorrow. Oh, the relief! CHRISTINE. Yes, and tomorrow the sun will be shining,--the snow will be gone and the birds will be singing--eve of the resurrection! ELIS. Yes, tell me more like that--I can see everything you say. CHRISTINE. If you could but see what is in my heart, if you could see my thoughts and my good intentions, my inmost prayer, Elis--Elis--when I now ask--[Hesitates.] ELIS. What? Tell me. CHRISTINE. When I beg you now to-- ELIS [Alarmed]. Tell me-- CHRISTINE. It's a test. Will you look at it as a test? ELIS. A test? Well then. CHRISTINE. Let me--do let me--No, I daren't. [Eleonora listens.] ELIS. Why do you torture me? CHRISTINE. I'll regret it, I know. So be it! Elis, let me go to the recital this evening. ELIS. What recital? CHRISTINE. Haydn's "Seven Words on the Cross," at the cathedral. ELIS. With whom? CHRISTINE. Alice. ELIS. And? CHRISTINE. Peter! ELIS. With Peter? CHRISTINE. See, now you frown. I regret telling you, but it's too late now. ELIS. Yes. It is somewhat late now, but explain-- CHRISTINE. I prepared you, told you that I couldn't explain, and that's the reason I begged your boundless faith. ELIS [Mildly]. Go. I trust you. But I suffer to know that you seek the company of a traitor. CHRISTINE. I realize that, but this is to be a test. ELIS. Which I cannot endure. CHRISTINE. You must. ELIS. I would like to, but I cannot. But you must go nevertheless. CHRISTINE. Your hand! ELIS [Giving his hand]. There--[The telephone rings; Elis goes to it.] Hello!--No answer. Hello!--No answer but my own voice.--Who is it?--That's strange. I only hear the echo of my own words. CHRISTINE. That might be possible. ELIS [Still at 'phone]. Hello!--But this is terrible! [Hangs up receiver.] Go now, Christine, and without any explanations, without conditions. I shall endure the test. CHRISTINE. Yes, do that and all will be well. ELIS. I will.--[Christine starts R.] Why do you go that way? CHRISTINE. My coat and hat are in there. Good bye for now. [Goes out R.] ELIS. Good-bye, my friend, [Pause] forever. [He rushes out L.] ELEONORA. God help us, what have I done now? The police are after the guilty one, and if I am discovered--then--[With a shriek] they'll send me back there. [Pause.] But I mustn't be selfish. Oh, poor mother and poor Elis! BENJAMIN [Childishly]. Eleonora, you must tell them that I did it. ELEONORA. Could you make another's guilt yours, you child? BENJAMIN. That's easy, when one knows he's innocent. ELEONORA. One should never deceive. BENJAMIN. No, but let me telephone to the florist and explain to him. ELEONORA. No, I did wrong, and I must take the consequences. I have awakened their fear of burglars, and I must be punished. BENJAMIN. But what if the police come in? ELEONORA. That would be dreadful--but what must be, must be. Oh, that this day were ended! [Takes clock from table and puts the hands forward.] Dear old clock, go a little faster--tick, tick, tick. [The clock strikes eight.] Now it's eight. [Moves hands again.] Tick, tick, tick. [Business with clock.] Now it's nine--ten--eleven--twelve--o'clock. Now it is Easter eve, and the sun will soon be rising, and then we'll color the Easter eggs. BENJAMIN. You can make time fly, can't you? ELEONORA. Think, Benjamin, of all the anemones and violets that had to stay in the snow all winter and freeze there in the darkness. BENJAMIN. How they must suffer! ELEONORA. Night is hardest for them--they are afraid of the darkness, but they can't run away, and so they must stay there thro' the long winter night, waiting for spring, which is their dawn. Everybody and everything must suffer, but the flowers suffer most. Yes, and the song-birds, they have returned; where are they to sleep tonight? BENJAMIN [Childishly]. In the hollow trees. ELEONORA. There aren't hollow trees enough to hold them all. I have only noticed two hollow trees in the orchard, and that's where the owls live, and they kill the song birds. [Elis is heard playing the piano inside. Eleonora and Benjamin listen for a few moments.] Poor Elis, who thinks that Christine has gone from him, but I know that she will return. BENJAMIN. Why don't you tell him, if you know? ELEONORA, Because Elis must suffer; every one should suffer on Good Friday, that they may remember Christ's suffering on the cross. [The sound of a policeman's whistle is heard off in the distance.] ELEONORA [Starts up]. What was that? BENJAMIN. Don't you know? ELEONORA. No. BENJAMIN. It's the police. ELEONORA. Ah, yes, that's the way it sounded when they came to take father away--and then I became ill.--And now they are coming to take me. BENJAMIN [Rushing to the door and guarding it]. No, no, they must not take you. I shall defend you, Eleonora. ELEONORA. That's very beautiful, Benjamin, but you mustn't do that. BENJAMIN [Looking thro' curtain]. There are two of them. [Eleonora tries to push Benjamin aside. He protests mildly.] No, no, not you, then--I don't want to live any longer. ELEONORA. Benjamin, go and sit down in that chair, child, sit down. [Benjamin obeys much against his will.] ELEONORA [Peeps thro' curtain]. Oh! [Laughs.] It's only some boys. Oh, we doubters! Do you think that God would be angry, when I didn't do any harm, only acted thoughtlessly? It served me right--I shouldn't have doubted. BENJAMIN. But tomorrow that man will come and take the things. ELEONORA. Let him come. Then we'll go out under the sky, away from everything--away from all the old home things that father gathered for us, that I have seen since I was a child. Yes, one should never own anything that ties one down to earth. Out, out on the stony ways to wander with bruised feet, for that road leads upward. That's why it's the hard road. BENJAMIN. Now you are so serious again! ELEONORA. We must be today. But do you know what will be hardest to part with? This dear old clock. We had it when I was born and it has measured out all my hours and days. [She takes the clock from table.] Listen, it's like a heart beating,--just like a heart.--They say it stopped the very hour that grandfather died. We had it as long ago as that. Good-bye, little timekeeper, perhaps you'll stop again soon. [Putting clock on table again.] Do you know, it used to gain time when we had misfortune in the house, as tho' it wished to hasten thro' the hours of evil, for our sake of course. But when we were happy it used to slow down so that we might enjoy longer. That's what this good clock did. But we have another, a very bad one--and now it has to hang in the kitchen. It couldn't bear music, and as soon as Elis would play on the piano it would start to strike. Oh, you needn't smile; we all noticed it, not I alone, and that's why it has to stay out in the kitchen now, because it wouldn't behave. But Lina doesn't like it either, because it won't be quiet at night, and she cannot time eggs by it. When she does, the eggs are sure to be hard-boiled--so Lina says. But now you are laughing again. BENJAMIN. Yes, how can I help-- ELEONORA. You are a good boy, Benjamin, but you must be serious. Keep the birch rod in mind; it's hanging behind the mirror. BENJAMIN. But you say such funny things, that I _must_ smile. And why should we be weeping always? ELEONORA. Shall we not weep in the vale of tears? BENJAMIN. H'm. ELEONORA. You would rather laugh all the time, and that's why trouble comes your way. But it's when you are serious that I like you best. Remember that. [Pause.] BENJAMIN. Do you think that we will get out of this trouble, Eleonora? ELEONORA. Yes, most of it will take care of itself, when Good Friday is over, but not all of it--today the birch rod, tomorrow the Easter eggs--today snow--tomorrow thaw. Today death--tomorrow life--resurrection. BENJAMIN. How wise you are! ELEONORA. Even now I can feel that it is clearing outside--and that the snow is melting--I can smell the melting snow. And tomorrow violets will sprout against walls facing south. The clouds are lifting--I feel it--I can breathe easier. Oh, I know so well when the heavens are clear and blue.--Go and pull the shades up, Benjamin. I want God to see us. [Benjamin rises and obeys. Moonlight streams into the room.] ELEONORA. The moon is full--Easter moon! But you know it is really the sun shining, although the moon gives us the light--the light! ACT III. [Easter eve. The music before and thro' this act, Haydn's Sieben Worte. No. 5. Adagio. Scene the same. The curtains are up. The landscape outside is in a grey light. There is a fire in the stove. The doors are closed. Eleonora is seated near the stove with a bunch of crocuses in her hand. Benjamin enters from R.] ELEONORA. Where have you been all this long time, Benjamin? BENJAMIN. It hasn't been very long. ELEONORA. I have wanted you so! BENJAMIN. Have you? And where have you been, Eleonora? ELEONORA. I went down street and bought these crocuses, and now I must warm them. They were frozen. Poor dears! BENJAMIN. Yes. It's so chilly today, there isn't a bit of sunshine. ELEONORA. The sun is behind the fog. There aren't any clouds, just sea-fog. I can smell the salt in the air.-- BENJAMIN. Did you see any birds out there? ELEONORA. Yes, flocks of them, starting north for their summer home. And not one will fall to the earth unless God wills it. ELIS [Enters from R.]. Has the evening paper come yet? ELEONORA. No, Elis. [Elis starts to cross the room--when he is at C. Christine enters from L.] CHRISTINE [Without noticing Elis]. Has the paper come? ELEONORA. No, it hasn't come. [Christine crosses room and goes out R., passing Elis, who goes out too. Neither looks at the other.] ELEONORA. Huh! how cold and chilly! Hate has entered this house. As long as love reigned one could bear it, but now,--huh! how cold! BENJAMIN. Why were they so anxious about the evening paper? ELEONORA. Don't you know? There will be something in it about-- BENJAMIN. What? ELEONORA. Everything! The theft, the police, and more too-- MRS. HEYST [From R.]. Has the paper come? ELEONORA. No, mother dear. MRS. HEYST [As she goes out]. Let me know first when it does come. ELEONORA. The paper, the paper! Oh, that the print shop would burn down or that the editor were taken ill, or something--No, no. I mustn't say that. I mustn't. Do you know, Benjamin, I was with my father last night. BENJAMIN [Surprised]. Last night? ELEONORA. Yes, while I slept. And then I was with my sister. She told me that she sold thirty dollars' worth of things day before yesterday, and that she had earned five dollars for herself. BENJAMIN. That wasn't much. ELEONORA. It's a great deal, Benjamin. BENJAMIN [Slyly]. And who else did you meet in your sleep? ELEONORA. Why do you ask that? You mustn't try to tease me, Benjamin. You would like to know my secrets--but you mustn't. BENJAMIN. Well, then you can't know my secrets either. ELEONORA [Listening]. Can you hear the telephone wires humming? Now the paper is out, and now they are 'phoning each other, "Have you read about it?"--"Yes, indeed I have!"--"Isn't it terrible?" BENJAMIN. What is terrible? ELEONORA. Everything. Life is terrible, but we must be satisfied. Think of Elis and Christine. They love each other, and yet hate has come between them, so that when they walk thro' the room the thermometer drops several degrees. She went to the recital last night and today they won't speak to each other. And why,--why? BENJAMIN. Because your brother is jealous. ELEONORA. Don't mention that word. What do we know about it, for that matter,--more than that it is disease and punishment? One must never touch evil, for then one will surely catch it. Look at Elis, haven't you noticed how changed he is since he started to read those papers? BENJAMIN. About the law-suit? ELEONORA. Yes. It is as if evil had crept into his soul; it is reflected in his face and eyes. Christine feels this, and not to be contaminated by it, she encases herself in an armor of ice. And those papers--if I could only burn them! They are filled with meanness, falsehood and revenge. Therefore, my child, you must keep away from evil and unclean things, both with your lips and heart. BENJAMIN. How you understand everything! ELEONORA. Do you know something else that I feel? If Elis and Christine get to know that I bought the Easter lily in that unusual way, they will-- BENJAMIN. What will they do? ELEONORA. They will send me back--_there_. Where I just came from. Where the sun never shines. Where the walls are dark and bare. Where one hears only crying and lamentation. Where I sat away a year of my life. BENJAMIN. Where do you mean? ELEONORA. There, where one is tortured more than in prison. Where the unfortunate dwell, where unquiet reigns, where despair never sleeps, and whence no one returns. BENJAMIN. Worse than prison? How could that be? ELEONORA. In prison one is tried and heard, but there in _that_ place no one listens. Poor little Easter lily that was the cause of all this! I meant so well, and it turned but so badly! BENJAMIN. But don't you go to the florist and tell him how it happened. You would be like a lamb led to the sacrifice. ELEONORA. It doesn't complain when it knows that it _must_ be sacrificed, and doesn't even seek to get away. What else can _I_ do? ELIS [Enters from R., a letter in his hand]. Hasn't the paper come yet? ELEONORA. No, brother dear. ELIS [Turns toward kitchen door]. Lina must go out and get an evening paper. [Mrs. Heyst enters from R., Eleonora and Benjamin show fear.] ELIS [To Eleonora and Benjamin]. Go out for a few moments. I want to speak to mother. [Eleonora and Benjamin go out.] MRS. HEYST. Have you received word from the asylum? ELIS. Yes. MRS. HEYST. What do they want? ELIS. They demand Eleonora's return.-- MRS. HEYST. I won't allow it. She's my own child-- ELIS.--And my sister. MRS. HEYST. What do you mean to do? ELIS. I don't know. I can't think any more. MRS. HEYST. But I can. Eleonora, the child of sorrow, has found happiness, tho' it's not of this world. Her unrest has turned to peace, which she sheds upon others. Sane or not, she has found wisdom. She knows how to carry life's burdens better than I do, better than all of us. Am _I_ sane, for that matter? Was I sane when I thought my husband innocent altho' I knew that he was convicted by the evidence, and that he confessed? And you, Elis--are you sane when you can't see that Christine loves you, when you believe that she hates you? ELIS. How can I be in the wrong? Didn't she go out with my false friend last night? MRS. HEYST. She did, but you knew about it. Why did she go? Well, you should be able to divine the reason. ELIS. No. I cannot. MRS. HEYST. You will not. Very well, then you must take the consequences. [The kitchen door opens a little and Lina's hand is seen with evening paper. Mrs. Heyst takes paper and gives it to Elis.] ELIS. That was the last misfortune. With Christine. I could carry the other burdens, but now the last support has been pulled away and I am falling. MRS. HEYST. Well, fall then--but land right side up, and then you can start again. Any news worth reading in the paper? ELIS. I don't know. I am afraid to look at it today. MRS. HEYST. Give it to me, then. I am not-- ELIS. No, wait a moment-- MRS. HEYST. What are you afraid of? ELIS. The worst of all. MRS. HEYST. The worst has happened so many times that it doesn't matter. Oh, my boy, if you knew my life--if you could have seen your father go down to destruction, as I did, and I couldn't warn all those to whom he brought misfortune! I felt like his accomplice when he went down--for, in a way, I knew of the crime, and if the judge hadn't been a man of great feeling, who realized my position as a wife and mother, I too would have been punished. ELIS. What was really the cause of father's fall? I have never been able to understand. MRS. HEYST. Pride--pride. Which brings us all down. ELIS. But why should the innocent suffer for _his_ wrong-doing? MRS. HEYST. Hush. No more. [She takes paper and reads. Elis walks up and down, worried and nervous.] Ah, what's this? Didn't I say that there was a yellow tulip among the things stolen at the florist's? ELIS. Yes, I remember. MRS. HEYST. But here it says that it was an Easter lily. ELIS [With fear]. An Easter lily? Does it say that? [They look at each other. A long pause.] MRS. HEYST [Sinking into a chair]. It's Eleonora. Oh, God keep us! ELIS. It wasn't the end then. MRS. HEYST. Prison or the asylum-- ELIS. But it's impossible. She couldn't have done this. Impossible! MRS. HEYST. And now the family name must be dragged in disgrace again. ELIS. Do they suspect her? MRS. HEYST. They say that suspicion leads in a certain direction--it's pretty plain where. ELIS. I must talk to her. MRS. HEYST. Don't speak harshly to her. I can stand no more. Oh, she is lost--regained but lost again! Speak kindly to her. [She goes out R.] ELIS [At door L.]. Oh,--[Calls] Eleonora, come out here. I want to speak to you. ELEONORA [Coming in, her hair down]. I was just putting up my hair. ELIS. Never mind that. Tell me, little sister, where did you get that flower? ELEONORA. I took it from-- ELIS. Oh, God! [Eleonora hangs her head, crushed, with her arms over her breast.] ELEONORA. But I--I left money there, beside the-- ELIS. You left the money? You paid for it, then? ELEONORA. Yes and no. It's provoking, but I haven't done anything wrong--I meant well--do you believe me? ELIS. I believe you, little sister--but the newspapers don't know that you are innocent. ELEONORA. Dear me! Then I must suffer for this also. [She bends her head forward; her hair falls over her face.] What do they want to do with me now? Let them do what they will! BENJAMIN [Enters from L., beside himself]. No, no. You mustn't touch her. She hasn't done any harm--I know it--as it was I--I--I--[He breaks down] who did it. ELEONORA. Don't believe what he is saying--it was I. ELIS. What shall I believe--whom shall I believe? BENJAMIN. Me! ELEONORA. Me, me! BENJAMIN. Let me go to the police-- ELIS. Hush, Benjamin, hush. ELEONORA. No, I'll go--I'll go. ELIS. Quiet, children. Here comes mother. [Mrs. Heyst enters R., takes Eleonora in her arms and kisses her tenderly.] MRS. HEYST [Stirred]. My dear, dear child! You have come back to your mother and you shall stay with me. ELEONORA. You kiss me, mother? You haven't kissed me in years. Why just now? MRS. HEYST. Why, because now--because the florist is out there and asks pardon for making all this fuss.--The money has been found, and your card and-- [Eleonora springs into the arms of Elis and kisses him. Then she goes to Benjamin and kisses him quickly on the forehead.] ELEONORA [To Benjamin]. You good child, who wanted to suffer for my sake! Why did you do it? BENJAMIN. Because--I--I--like--you so much, Eleonora. MRS. HEYST. Well, my children, put on some things now and go out into the orchard. It's clearing up. ELEONORA. Oh, it's clearing--and soon the sun will be shining! [She takes Benjamin's hand and they both go out L.] ELIS. Mother, can't we throw the rod into the fire soon? MRS. HEYST. Not yet. There is still something-- ELIS. Is it--Lindkvist? MRS. HEYST. Yes. He is out there. But he looks so queer and bent on talking to you. Too bad he talks so much and always about himself. ELIS. Let him come. Now that I have seen a ray of sunlight, I am not afraid to meet the giant. Let him come. MRS. HEYST. But don't irritate him. Providence has placed our destiny in his hands--and he who humbleth himself shall be exalted and he who exalteth himself--well--you know what happens to him. ELIS. I know. Listen--the galoshes--squeak, squeak, squeak! Does he mean to come in with them on? And why not? They are his own carpets. [There are three raps on door R.] MRS. HEYST. Elis, think of us all. ELIS. I do, mother. [Mrs. Heyst opens door R. Lindkvist enters, Mrs. Heyst goes out. He is an elderly man of serious, almost tragic aspect, with black bushy eyebrows. Round, black-rimmed eye-glasses. He carries a stout stick in his hand, he is dressed in black, with, fur coat, and over his shoes wears galoshes that squeak.] LINDKVIST [After looking at Elis]. My name is Lindkvist. ELIS [Reserved]. Heyst is my name--won't you sit down? [Lindkvist sits in chair R. of sewing table--looks at Elis with a stern eye.] ELIS [After a pause]. How can I be of service? LINDKVIST [With good humor]. H'm. Last evening I had the honor to notify you of my intended visit, but thinking it over, and realizing that it was a holy evening, I refrained from coming then, as my visit is not of a social nature--and I don't talk _business_ on a holy evening. ELIS. We are very grateful. LINDKVIST. We are _not_ grateful. [Pause.] However, day before yesterday I made a casual call on the Governor.--[Stops to notice how Elis takes it.] Do you know the Governor? ELIS [Carelessly.] I haven't that honor. LINDKVIST. Then you shall have that honor.--We spoke about your father. ELIS. No doubt. LINDKVIST [Takes out a paper and lays it down on table]. And I got this paper from him, from the Governor. ELIS. I've been expecting this for some time, but before you go any further allow me to ask you a question. LINDKVIST. Go ahead. ELIS. Why don't you put that warrant in the hands of the executors, so we could escape this long and painful business? LINDKVIST. So--so--my young man. ELIS. Young or not, I ask no mercy, only justice. LINDKVIST. Well, well, no mercy--no mercy--eh? Do you see this paper that I put here on the corner of the table? ELIS. Yes. LINDKVIST. Ah,--now I put it back again. [Puts it back in his pocket.] Well, then, justice, only justice. Listen, my young friend. Once upon a time, I was deprived of my money and in a disagreeable manner. When I wrote you a courteous letter, asking how much time you needed, you saw fit to answer with an uncourteous note--and treated me as if I were a usurer, a plunderer of widows and children--altho' I was really the one plundered, and you belonged to the plunderer's party. But as I was more judicious, I contented myself with answering your note courteously, but to the point. You know my blue paper, eh? I see you do. And I can put the seals on, too, if I choose--but I don't, not yet. [Looks around the room.] ELIS. As you please; the things are at your disposal. LINDKVIST. I wasn't looking at the furniture. I looked to see if your mother was in the room. She no doubt loves justice as much as you do? ELIS. Let us hope so. LINDKVIST. Good. Do you know that if justice, which you value so highly, had its course, your mother, who only knew of your father's criminal act, could have been imprisoned? ELIS. No! No! LINDKVIST. Yes! Yes! And it isn't too late even now. ELIS [Rises]. My mother-- [Lindkvist takes out another paper, also blue, and places it on the table.] LINDKVIST. See--now I put down another paper, and it's blue, too, but as yet--no seals. ELIS. Oh, God,--my mother! "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." LINDKVIST. Yes, my young lover of justice, "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." That's the way it goes. Now, if I should put this question to myself: "You, Joseph Lindkvist, born in poverty and brought up in denial and work, have you the right at your age to deprive yourself and children--mark you, _your children_--of the support, which you thro' industry, economy and denial,--mark you, _denial_,--saved penny by penny? What will you do, Joseph Lindkvist, if you want justice? You plundered no one--but if you resent being plundered, then you cannot stay in this town, as no one would speak to the terrible creature who wants his own hard-earned money returned." So you see there exists a grace which is finer than justice, and that is mercy. ELIS. You are right. Take everything. It belongs to you. LINDKVIST. I have right on my side, but I dare not use it. ELIS. I shall think of your children and not complain. LINDKVIST. Good. Then I'll put the blue paper away again.--And now we'll go a step further. ELIS. Pardon me, but do they intend to accuse my mother? LINDKVIST. We will go a step further first--I take it that you don't know the Governor personally? ELIS. No, and I don't want to know him. [Lindkvist takes out paper again and shakes it warningly at Elis.] LINDKVIST. Don't, don't say that. The Governor and your father were friends in their youth, and he wishes to see and know you. You see. "As ye sow," and so forth, in everything--everything. Won't you go to see him? ELIS. No. LINDKVIST. But the Governor ELIS. Let us change the subject. LINDKVIST. You must speak courteously to me, as I am defenseless. You have public opinion on your side, and I have only justice on mine. What have you got against the Governor? He doesn't like this and that, what some people would call pleasure.--But that belongs to his eccentricities, and we needn't exactly respect his eccentricities, but we can overlook them and hold to fundamental facts as human beings; and in the crises of human life we must swallow each other skin and hair, as the saying goes. But will you go to see the Governor? ELIS. Never. LINDKVIST. Are you that sort of creature? ELIS. Yes. LINDKVIST [Rises, walks about waving his blue paper.] That's too bad--too bad.--Well, then I must start from the other end.--A revengeful person has threatened to take legal steps against your mother. ELIS. What do you say? LINDKVIST. Go to see the Governor. ELIS. No. LINDKVIST [Taking Elis by the shoulders]. Then you are the most miserable being that I have ever met in all my experience.--And now I shall go and see your mother. ELIS. No, no. Don't go to her. LINDKVIST. Will you go to see the Governor then? ELIS. Yes. LINDKVIST. Tell me again and louder. ELIS. Yes. LINDKVIST [Giving Elis blue paper]. Then that matter is over with--and there is an end to that paper, and an end to your troubles on that score. [Elis takes paper without looking at it.] LINDKVIST. Then we have number two--that was number one. Let us sit down. [They sit as before.] You see--if we only meet each other half-way, it will be so much shorter.--Number two--that is my claim on your home.--No illusions--as I cannot and will not give away my family's common property, I must have what is owing me, to the last penny. ELIS. I understand-- LINDKVIST. So. You understand that? ELIS. I didn't mean to offend you. LINDKVIST. No. I gather as much. [He lifts his glasses and looks at Elis.] The wolf, the angry wolf--eh? The rod--the rod--the giant of the mountains, who does not eat children--only scares them--eh? And I shall scare you--yes, out of your senses. Every piece of furniture must come out and I have the warrant in my pocket. And if there isn't enough--you'll go to jail, where neither sun nor stars shine.--Yes, I can eat children and widows when I am irritated.--And as for public opinion? Bah! I'll let that go hang. I have only to move to another city. [Elis is silent.] You had a friend who is called Peter. He is a debater and was your student in oratory. But you wanted him to be a sort of prophet.--Well, he was faithless. He crowed twice, didn't he? [Elis is silent.] LINDKVIST. Human nature is as uncertain as things and thought. Peter was faithless--I don't deny it, and I won't defend him--in that. But the heart of mankind is fathomless, and there is always some gold to be found. Peter was a faithless friend, but a friend nevertheless. ELIS. A faithless-- LINDKVIST. Faithless--yes, but a friend, as I said. This faithless friend has unwittingly done you a great service. ELIS [Sneeringly]. Even that. LINDKVIST. [Moving nearer to Elis]. As ye sow, so shall ye reap! ELIS. It's not true of evil. LINDKVIST. It's true of everything in life. Do you believe me? ELIS. I must, or else you will torture the life out of me. LINDKVIST. Not your life--but pride and malice I _will_ squeeze out of you. ELIS. But to continue-- LINDKVIST. Peter has done you a service, I said. ELIS. I want _no_ services from him-- LINDKVIST. Are you there again? Then listen! Thro' your friend Peter's intervention the Governor was able to protect your mother. Therefore you must write and thank Peter. Promise me that. ELIS. Any other man in the world--but not him. LINDKVIST [Nearer to Elis]. Then I must squeeze you again. How much money have you in the bank? ELIS. What has that got to do with it? I cannot be responsible for my father's debts! LINDKVIST. Oh, indeed? Weren't you among those who ate, and drank, when my children's money was spent in this house? Answer. ELIS. I can't deny it. LINDKVIST. Well, then, you must sit down immediately and write a check for the balance. You know the sum. ELIS [As in a dream]. Even that? LINDKVIST. Yes, even that.--Be good enough to make it out now. [Elis rises and takes out check-book and pen.] LINDKVIST. Make it on yourself or an order-- ELIS. Even then it won't be enough. LINDKVIST. Then you must go out and borrow the rest. Every penny must be paid. ELIS [Handing check to Lindkvist]. There--everything I have.--That is my summer and my, bride. I haven't anything else to give you. LINDKVIST. Then you must go out and borrow, as I said. ELIS. I can't do it. LINDKVIST. Then you must get security. ELIS. No one would give security to a Heyst. LINDKVIST. So. Then I'll propose an alternative. Thank Peter, or you will have to come up with the whole sum. ELIS. I won't have anything to do with Peter. LINDKVIST. Then you are the most miserable creature that I have ever known. You can by a simple courtesy save your mother's dwelling and your fiancée's happiness, and you won't do it. There must be some motive that you won't come out with. Why do you hate Peter? ELIS. Put me to death--but don't torture me any longer. LINDKVIST. Are you jealous of him? [Elis shrugs his shoulders.] LINDKVIST. So--that's the way things stand. [Rises and walks up and down.] Did you read the evening paper? ELIS. Yes, more is the pity! LINDKVIST. All of it? ELIS. No, not all. LINDKVIST. No? Then you didn't read of Peter's engagement? ELIS. No. That I did not know about. LINDKVIST. And to whom do you think? ELIS. To whom? LINDKVIST. Why, he is engaged to Miss Alice, and it was made known at a certain recital, where your fiancée helped spread the glad news. ELIS. Why should it have been such a secret? LINDKVIST. Haven't two young people the right to keep their hearts' secrets from you? ELIS. And on account of their happiness I had to suffer this agony! LINDKVIST. Yes, just as others have suffered for your happiness--your mother, your father, your fiancée, your sister, your friends. Sit down and I'll tell you a little story. [Elis sits, against his will, through this scene and the following. It is clearing outside.] LINDKVIST. It's about forty years since I came to this town, as a boy, you understand--alone, unknown, without even one acquaintance, to seek a position. All I owned was one silver dollar. The night that I arrived was a dark, rainy one. As I didn't know of any cheap hotel, I asked the passers-by about one, but no one stopped to answer. Took me for a beggar, most likely. When I was at the height of my despair, a young man came up and asked me why I was crying--evidently I was crying.--I told him my need, and he turned from his course and took me to a hotel, and comforted me with friendly words. As I entered the hotel the glass door of a store next door was thrown open and hit my elbow and was smashed to pieces. The furious owner of the store grabbed me and insisted that I should pay for it, or else he would call the police. Can you imagine my despair? The kindly-intentioned unknown man, who was a witness of the affair, protested, and went to the trouble of calling the police himself, explained, and saved me from a night in the street. This man was your father! So you see, "As ye sow, so shall ye reap." And for your father's sake, I have foregone what is owed me. Therefore take this paper and keep your check. [Rises.] And as you find it hard to say thanks, I'll go immediately, and especially as I find it painful to be thanked. [Goes to door back.] Go to your mother as soon as your feet can carry you and relieve her of her worries. [Elis starts to Lindkvist to thank him, but Lindkvist makes a gesture toward R.] Go-- [Elis hastens out R. The center door opens and Eleonora and Benjamin enter. On seeing Lindkvist, she shows extreme fear.] LINDKVIST. Well, little ones, step in and have no fear. Do you know who I am? [In a blustering voice.] I am the giant of the mountains,--muh, muh, muh!--and yet I am not dangerous. Come here, Eleonora. [She goes to him and he takes her head in his hand and looks into her eyes.] You have your father's kind eyes,--he was a good man--but he was weak. [Kissing her forehead.] There. ELEONORA. You speak well of my father? Can it be any one wishes him well? LINDKVIST. I can--ask your brother Elis. ELEONORA. Then you don't want to harm us? LINDKVIST. No, my dear child. ELEONORA. Well, help us then. LINDKVIST. Child, I can't help your father in his sentence. I can't help Benjamin in his Latin. But everything else is helped already. Life doesn't give everything, and nothing is given for nothing. Therefore you must help me,--will you? ELEONORA. Poor me, what can I do? LINDKVIST. What is the date today? ELEONORA. Why, it's the sixteenth. LINDKVIST. Good. Before the twentieth you must, have your brother Elis make a call on the Governor, and you must get him to write a letter to Peter. ELEONORA. Is that all? LINDKVIST. Oh, you dear child! But if he neglects these things the giant will come again and say muh, muh! ELEONORA. Why should the giant come and scare children? LINDKVIST. So that the children will be good. ELEONORA. That's true. The giant is right. [She kisses Lindkvist's coat sleeve.] Thanks, dear giant. LINDKVIST. You should say _Mr._ Giant, I should think. ELEONORA. Oh, no. That's not your real name-- LINDKVIST [Laughing]. Good-bye, children. Now you can throw the rod in the fire. ELEONORA. No, we must keep it. Children are so forgetful. LINDKVIST. How well you know children, little one![He goes out.] ELEONORA. We are going to the country, Benjamin. Within two months! Oh, if the time would only pass quickly. [She takes calendar and tears the pages off one by one.] April, May, June, and the sun is shining on them all. Now you must thank God, who helped us to the country. BENJAMIN [Bashfully]. Can't I say my thanks in silence? ELEONORA. Yes, you can say it in silence, for now the clouds are gone, and it can be heard up there. [Christine has entered from L. and stopped. Elis and Mrs. Heyst from R. Christine and Elis start to meet each other with loving smiles. Before they meet--] CURTAIN. 
44233	----	(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive, University of California (L.A.) PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG THIRD SERIES SWANWHITE SIMOOM DEBIT AND CREDIT ADVENT THE THUNDERSTORM AFTER THE FIRE TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EDWIN BJÖRKMAN AUTHORIZED EDITION NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1921 CONTENTS INTRODUCTION SWANWHITE SIMOOM DEBIT AND CREDIT ADVENT THE THUNDERSTORM AFTER THE FIRE INTRODUCTION The collection of plays contained in this volume is unusually representative, giving what might be called a cross-section of Strindberg's development as a dramatist from his naturalistic revolt in the middle eighties, to his final arrival at resigned mysticism and Swedenborgian symbolism. "Swanwhite" was written in the spring of 1901, about the time when Strindberg was courting and marrying his third wife, the gifted Swedish actress Harriet Bosse. In the fall of 1902 the play appeared in book form, together with "The Crown Bride" and "The Dream Play," all of them being issued simultaneously, at Berlin, in a German translation made by Emil Schering. Schering, who at that time was in close correspondence with Strindberg, says that the figure of _Swanwhite_ had been drawn with direct reference to Miss Bosse, who had first attracted the attention of Strindberg by her spirited interpretation of _Biskra_ in "Simoom." And Schering adds that it was Strindberg's bride who had a little previously introduced him to the work of Maeterlinck, thereby furnishing one more of the factors determining the play. Concerning the influence exerted upon him by the Belgian playwright-philosopher, Strindberg himself wrote in a pamphlet named "Open Letters to the Intimate Theatre" (Stockholm, 1909): "I had long had in mind skimming the cream of our most beautiful folk-ballads in order to turn them into a picture for the stage. Then Maeterlinck came across my path, and under the influence of his puppet-plays, which are not meant for the regular stage, I wrote my Swedish scenic spectacle, 'Swanwhite.' It is impossible either to steal or to borrow from Maeterlinck. It is even difficult to become his pupil, for there are no free passes that give entrance to his world of beauty. But one may be urged by his example into searching one's own dross-heaps for gold--and it is in that sense I acknowledge my debt to the master. "Pushed ahead by the _impression_ made on me by Maeterlinck, and borrowing his divining-rod for my purposes, I turned to such sources [_i.e._, of Swedish folk-lore] as the works of Geijer, Afzelius, and Dybeck. There I found a superabundance of princes and princesses. The stepmother theme I had discovered on my own hook as a _constant_--it figures in twenty-six different Swedish folk-tales. In the same place I found the resurrection theme, as, for instance, it appears in the story of _Queen Dagmar_. Then I poured it all into my separator, together with the _Maids_, the _Green Gardener_ and the _Young King_, and in a short while the cream began to flow--and for that reason the story is my own. But it has also been made so by the fact that I have lived through that tale in my own fancy--a Spring in time of Winter!" Swedish critics have been unanimous in their praise of this play. John Landquist, who has since become Strindberg's literary executor, spoke of it once as "perhaps the most beautiful and most genuine fairy tale for old or young ever written in the Swedish language." Tor Hedberg has marvelled at the charm with which _Swanwhite_ herself has been endowed--"half child, half maid; knowing nothing, yet guessing all; playing with love as a while ago she was playing with her dolls." On the stage, too--in Germany as well as in Sweden--little _Swanwhite_ has celebrated great triumphs. Whether that figure, and the play surrounding it, will also triumph in English-speaking countries, remains still to be seen. But if, contrary to my hopes, it should fail to do so, I want, in advance, to shift the blame from the shoulders of the author to my own. In hardly any other work by Strindberg do form and style count for so much. The play is, in its original shape, as poetical in form as in spirit--even to the extent of being strongly rhythmical in its prose, and containing many of the inversions which are so characteristic of Swedish verse. It is not impossible to transfer these qualities into English, but my efforts to do so have had to be influenced by certain differences in the very _grain_ of the two languages involved. Like all other languages, each possesses a natural basic rhythm. This rhythm varies frequently and easily in Swedish, so that you may pass from iambic to trochaic metre without giving offence to the ear--or to that subtle rhythmical susceptibility that seems to be inherent in our very pulses. But the rhythm dearest and most natural to the genius of the Swedish language seems to be the falling pulse-beat manifested in the true trochee. The swing and motion of English, on the other hand, is almost exclusively, commandingly iambic. And it was not until I made the iambic _rising_ movement prevail in my translation, that I felt myself approaching the impression made on me by the original. But for that very reason--because the genius of the new medium has forced me into making the movement of my style more monotonous--it is to be feared that the rhythmical quality of that movement may seem overemphasised. Should such a criticism be advanced, I can only answer: I have tried several ways, and this is the only one that will _work_. "Simoom" seems to have been written in 1888, in close connection with "Creditors" and "Pariah." And, like these, it shows the unmistakable influence of Edgar Allan Poe, with whose works Strindberg had become acquainted a short while before. The play was first printed in one of the three thin volumes of varied contents put out by Strindberg in 1890 and 1891 under the common title of "Pieces Printed and Unprinted." But, strange to say, it was not put on the stage (except in a few private performances) until 1902, although, from a purely theatrical viewpoint, Strindberg--master of stagecraft though he was--had rarely produced a more effective piece of work. "Debit and Credit" belongs to the same general period as the previous play, but has in it more of Nietzsche than of Poe. Its central figure is also a sort of superman, but as such he is not taken too seriously by his creator. The play has humour, but it is of a grim kind--one seems to be hearing the gritting of teeth through the laughter. Like "Simoom," however, it should be highly effective on the stage. It was first published in 1893, with three other one-act plays, the volume being named "Dramatic Pieces." "Advent" was published in 1899, together with "There Are Crimes and Crimes," under the common title of "In a Higher Court." Its name refers, of course, to the ecclesiastical designation of the four weeks preceding Christmas. The subtitle, literally rendered, would be "A Mystery." But as this term has a much wider application in Swedish than in English, I have deemed it better to observe the distinction which the latter language makes between mysteries, miracle-plays, and moralities. The play belongs to what Strindberg called his "Inferno period," during which he struggled in a state of semi-madness to rid himself of the neurasthenic depression which he regarded as a punishment brought about by his previous attitude of materialistic scepticism. It is full of Swedenborgian symbolism, which, perhaps, finds its most characteristic expression in the two scenes laid in "The Waiting Room." The name selected by Strindberg for the region where dwell the "lost" souls of men is not a mere euphemism. It signifies his conception of that place as a station on the road to redemption or annihilation. In its entirety the play forms a Christmas sermon with a quaint blending of law and gospel. A prominent Swedish critic, Johan Mortensen, wrote: "Reading it, one almost gets the feeling that Strindberg, the dread revolutionist, has, of a sudden, changed into a nice village school-teacher, seated at his desk, with his rattan cane laid out in front of him. He has just been delivering a lesson in Christianity, and he has noticed that the attention of the children strayed and that they either failed to understand or did not care to take in the difficult matters he was dealing with. But they must be made to listen and understand. And so--with serious eyes, but with a sly smile playing around the corners of his mouth--he begins all over again, in that fairy-tale style which never grows old: 'Once upon a time!'" In November, 1907, a young theatrical manager, August Falck, opened the Intimate Theatre at Stockholm. From the start Strindberg was closely connected with the venture, and soon the little theatre, with its tiny stage and its auditorium seating only one hundred and seventy-five persons, was turned wholly into a Strindberg stage, where some of the most interesting and daring theatrical experiments of our own day were made. With particular reference to the needs and limitations of this theatre, Strindberg wrote a series of "chamber plays," four of which were published in 1907--each one of them appearing separately in a paper-covered duodecimo volume. The first of these plays to appear in book form--though not the first one to be staged--was "The Thunder-Storm," designated on the front cover as "Opus I." Two of the principal ideas underlying its construction were the abolition of intermissions--which, according to Strindberg, were put in chiefly for the benefit of the liquor traffic in the theatre café--and the reduction of the stage-setting to quickly inter-changeable backgrounds and a few stage-properties. Concerning the production of "The Thunder-Storm," at the Intimate Theatre, Strindberg wrote subsequently that, in their decorative effects, the first and last scenes were rather failures. But he held the lack of space wholly responsible for this failure. His conclusion was that the most difficult problem of the small theatre would be to give the illusion of distance required by a scene laid in the open--particularly in an open place surrounded or adjoined by buildings. Of the second act he wrote, on the other hand, that it proved a triumph of artistic simplification. The only furniture appearing on the stage consisted of a buffet, a piano, a dinner-table and a few chairs--that is, the pieces expressly mentioned in the text of the play. And yet the effect of the setting satisfied equally the demands of the eye and the reason. "The Thunder-Storm" might be called a drama of old age--nay, _the_ drama of man's inevitable descent through a series of resignations to the final dissolution. Its subject-matter is largely autobiographical, embodying the author's experiences in his third and last marriage, as seen in retrospect--the anticipatory conception appearing in "Swanwhite." However, justice to Miss Harriet Bosse, who was Mrs. Strindberg from 1901 to 1904, requires me to point out that echoes of the dramatist's second marriage also appear, especially in the references to the postmarital relationship. "After the Fire" was published as "Opus II" of the chamber-plays, and staged ahead of "The Thunder-Storm." Its Swedish name is _Brända Tomten_, meaning literally "the burned-over site." This name has previously been rendered in English as "The Burned Lot" and "The Fire Ruins." Both these titles are awkward and ambiguous. The name I have now chosen embodies more closely the fundamental premise of the play. The subject-matter is even more autobiographical than that of "The Thunder-Storm"--almost as much so as "The Bondwoman's Son." The perished home is Strindberg's own at the North Tollgate Street in Stockholm, where he spent the larger part of his childhood and youth. The old _Mason_, the _Gardener_, the _Stone-Cutter_, and other figures appearing in the play are undoubtedly lifted straight out of real life--and so are probably also the exploded family reputation and the cheap table painted to represent ebony--although one may take for granted that the process has not taken place without a proper disguising of externals. There is one passage in this little play which I want to point out as containing one of the main keys to Strindberg's character and art. It is the passage where _The Stranger_--who, of course, is none but the author himself--says to his brother: "I have beheld life from every quarter, from every standpoint, from above and from below, but always it has seemed to me like a scene staged for my particular benefit." SWANWHITE (SVANEHVIT) A FAIRY PLAY 1902 CHARACTERS THE DUKE THE STEPMOTHER SWANWHITE THE PRINCE SIGNE } ELSA } _Maids_ TOVA } THE KITCHEN GARDENER THE FISHERMAN THE MOTHER OF SWANWHITE THE MOTHER OF THE PRINCE THE GAOLER THE EQUERRY THE BUTLER THE FLOWER GARDENER TWO KNIGHTS _An apartment in a mediæval stone castle. The walls and the cross-vaulted ceiling are whitewashed. In the centre of the rear wall is a triple-arched doorway leading to a balcony with a stone balustrade. There are draperies of brocade over the doorway. Beyond the balcony appear the top branches of a rose-garden, laden with white and pink roses. In the background there can be seen a white, sandy beach and the blue sea_. _To the right of the main doorway is a small door which, when left open, discloses a vista of three closets, one beyond the other. The first one is stored with vessels of pewter arranged on shelves. The walls of the second closet are hung with all sorts of costly and ornate garments. The third closet contains piles and rows of apples, pears, melons, pumpkins, and so forth_. _The floors of all the rooms are inlaid with alternating squares of black and red. At the centre of the apartment stands a gilded dinner-table covered with a cloth; a twig of mistletoe is suspended above the table. A clock and a vase filled with roses stand on the table, near which are placed two gilded tabourets. Two swallows' nests are visible on the rear wall above the doorway. A lion skin is spread on the floor near the foreground. At the left, well to the front, stands a white bed with a rose-coloured canopy supported by two columns at the head of the bed (and by none at the foot). The bed-clothing is pure white except for a coverlet of pale-blue silk. Across the bed is laid a night-dress of finest muslin trimmed with lace. Behind the bed stands a huge wardrobe containing linen, bathing utensils, and toilet things. A small gilded table in Roman style (with round top supported by a single column) is placed near the bed; also a lamp-stand containing a Roman lamp of gold. At the right is an ornamental chimney-piece. On the mantel stands a vase with a white lily in it_. _In the left arch of the doorway, a peacock is asleep on a perch, with its back turned toward the audience_. _In the right arch hangs a huge gilded cage with two white doves at rest_. _As the curtain rises, the three maids are seen in the doorways of the three closets, each one half hidden by the door-post against which she leans_. SIGNE, _the false maid, is in the pewter-closet_, ELSA _in the clothes-closet, and_ TOVA _in the fruit-closet_. _The_ DUKE _enters from the rear. After him comes the_ STEPMOTHER _carrying in her hand a wire-lashed whip_. _The stage is darkened when they enter_. * * * * * STEPMOTHER. Swanwhite is not here? DUKE. It seems so! STEPMOTHER. So it seems, but--is it seemly? Maids!--Signe!--Signe, Elsa, Tova! _The maids enter, one after the other, and stand in front of the_ STEPMOTHER. STEPMOTHER. Where is Lady Swanwhite? SIGNE _folds her arms across her breast and makes no reply_. STEPMOTHER. You do not know? What see you in my hand?--Answer, quick! [_Pause_] Quick! Do you hear the whistling of the falcon? It has claws of steel, as well as bill! What is it? SIGNE. The wire-lashed whip! STEPMOTHER. The wire-lashed whip, indeed! And now, where is Lady Swan white? SIGNE. How can I tell what I don't know? STEPMOTHER. It is a failing to be ignorant, but carelessness is an offence. Were you not placed as guardian of your young mistress?--Take off your neckerchief!--Down on your knees! _The_ DUKE _turns his back on her in disgust_. STEPMOTHER. Hold out your neck! And I'll put such a necklace on it that no youth will ever kiss it after this!--Hold out your neck!--Still more! SIGNE. For Christ's sake, mercy! STEPMOTHER. 'Tis mercy that you are alive! DUKE. [_Pulls out his sword and tries the edge of it, first on one of his finger-nails, and then on a hair out of his long beard_] Her head should be cut off--put in a sack--hung on a tree---- STEPMOTHER. So it should! DUKE. We are agreed! How strange! STEPMOTHER. It did not happen yesterday. DUKE. And may not happen once again. STEPMOTHER. [_To_ Signe, _who, still on her knees, has been moving farther away_] Stop! Whither? [_She raises the whip and strikes_; Signe _turns aside so that the lash merely cuts the air_.] SWANWHITE. [_Comes forward from behind the bed and falls on her knees_] Stepmother--here I am--the guilty one! She's not at fault. STEPMOTHER. Say "mother"! You must call me "mother"! SWANWHITE. I cannot! One mother is as much as any human being ever had. STEPMOTHER. Your father's wife must be your mother. SWANWHITE. My father's second wife can only be my stepmother. STEPMOTHER. You are a stiffnecked daughter, but my whip is pliant and will make you pliant too. [_She raises the whip to strike_ SWANWHITE. DUKE. [_Raising his sword_] Take heed of the head! STEPMOTHER. Whose head? DUKE. Your own! _The_ STEPMOTHER _turns pale at first, and then angry; but she controls herself and remains silent; long pause_. STEPMOTHER. [_Beaten for the moment, she changes her tone_] Then will Your Grace inform your daughter what is now in store for her? DUKE. [_Sheathing his sword_] Rise up, my darling child, and come into my arms to calm yourself. SWANWHITE. [_Throwing herself into the arms of the_ DUKE] Father!--You're like a royal oak-tree which my arms cannot encircle. But beneath your leafage there is refuge from all threatening showers. [_She hides her head beneath his immense beard, which reaches down to his waist_] And like a bird, I will be swinging on your branches--lift me up, so I can reach the top. _The_ DUKE _holds out his arm_. SWANWHITE. [_Climbs up on his arm and perches herself on his shoulder_] Now lies the earth beneath me and the air above--now I can overlook the rosery, the snowy beach, the deep-blue sea, and all the seven kingdoms stretched beyond. DUKE. Then you can also see the youthful king to whom your troth is promised---- SWANWHITE. No--nor have I ever seen him. Is he handsome? DUKE. Dear heart, it will depend on your own eyes how he appears to you. SWANWHITE. [_Rubbing her eyes_] My eyes?--They cannot see what is not beautiful. DUKE. [_Kissing her foot_] Poor little foot, that is so black! Poor little blackamoorish foot! _The_ STEPMOTHER _gives a sign to the maids, who resume their previous positions in the closet doors; she herself steals with panther-like movements out through the middle arch of the doorway_. SWANWHITE. [_Leaps to the floor; the_ DUKE _places her on the table and sits down on a chair beside it_; SWANWHITE _looks meaningly after the_ STEPMOTHER] Was it the dawn? Or did the wind turn southerly? Or has the Spring arrived? DUKE. [_Puts his hand over her mouth_] You little chatter-box! You joy of my old age--my evening star! Now open wide your rosy ear, and close your little mouth's crimson shell. Give heed, obey, and all will then be well with you. SWANWHITE. [_Putting her fingers in her ears_] With my eyes I hear, and with my ears I see--and now I cannot see at all, but only hear. DUKE. My child, when still a cradled babe, your troth was plighted to the youthful King of Rigalid. You have not seen him yet, such being courtly usage. But the time to tie the sacred knot is drawing near. To teach you the deportment of a queen and courtly manners, the king has sent a prince with whom you are to study reading out of books, gaming at chess, treading the dance, and playing on the harp. SWANWHITE. What is the prince's name? DUKE. That, child, is something you must never ask of him or anybody else. For it is prophesied that whosoever calls him by his name shall have to love him. SWANWHITE. Is he handsome? DUKE. He is, because your eye sees beauty everywhere. SWANWHITE. But is he beautiful? DUKE. Indeed he is. And now be careful of your little heart, and don't forget that in the cradle you were made a queen.--With this, dear child, I leave you, for I have war to wage abroad.--Submit obediently to your stepmother. She's hard, but once your father loved her--and a sweet temper will find a way to hearts of stone. If, despite of promises and oaths, her malice should exceed what is permissible, then you may blow this horn [_he takes a horn of carved ivory from under his cloak_], and help will come. But do not use it till you are in danger--not until the danger is extreme.--Have you understood? SWANWHITE. How is it to be understood? DUKE. This way: the prince is here, is in the court already. Is it your wish to see the prince? SWANWHITE. Is it my wish? DUKE. Or shall I first bid you farewell? SWANWHITE. The prince is here already? DUKE. Already here, and I--already there--far, far away where sleeps the heron of forgetfulness, with head beneath his wing. SWANWHITE. [_Leaping into the lap of the_ DUKE _and burying her head in his beard_] Mustn't speak like that! Baby is ashamed! DUKE. Baby should be spanked--who forgets her aged father for a little prince. Fie on her! _A trumpet is heard in the distance_. DUKE. [_Rises quickly, takes_ SWANWHITE _in his arms_, _throws her up into the air and catches her again_] Fly, little bird, fly high above the dust, with lots of air beneath your wings!--And then, once more on solid ground!--I am called by war and glory--you, by love and youth! [_Girding on his sword_] And now hide your wonder-horn, that it may not be seen by evil eyes. SWANWHITE. Where shall I hide it? Where? DUKE. The bed! SWANWHITE. [_Hiding the horn in the bed-clothing_] There! Sleep well, my little tooteroot! When it is time, I'll wake you up. And don't forget your prayers! DUKE. And child! Do not forget what I said last: your stepmother must be obeyed. SWANWHITE. In all? DUKE. In all. SWANWHITE. But not in what is contrary to cleanliness!--Two linen shifts my mother let me have each sennight; this woman gives but one! And mother gave me soap and water, which stepmother denies. Look at my little footies! DUKE. Keep clean within, my daughter, and clean will be the outside. You know that holy men, who, for the sake of penance, deny themselves the purging waters, grow white as swans, while evil ones turn raven-black. SWANWHITE. Then I will be as white----! DUKE. Into my arms! And then, farewell! SWANWHITE. [_Throwing herself into his arms_] Farewell, my great and valiant hero, my glorious father! May fortune follow you, and make you rich in years and friends and victories! DUKE. Amen--and let your gentle prayers be my protection! [_He closes the visor of his golden helmet_. SWANWHITE. [_Jumps up and plants a kiss on the visor_] The golden gates are shut, but through the bars I still can see your kindly, watchful eyes. [_Knocking at the visor_] Let up, let up, for little Red Riding-hood. No one at home? "Well-away," said the wolf that lay in the bed! DUKE. [_Putting her down on the floor_] Sweet flower of mine, grow fair and fragrant! If I return--well--I return! If not, then from the starry arch above my eye shall follow you, and never to my sight will you be lost, for there above all-seeing we become, even as the all-creating Lord himself. _Goes out firmly, with a gesture that bids her not to follow._ SWANWHITE _falls on her knees in prayer for the_ DUKE; _all the rose-trees sway before a wind that passes with the sound of a sigh; the peacock shakes its wings and tail_. SWANWHITE. [_Rises, goes to the peacock and begins to stroke its back and tail_] Pavo, dear Pavo, what do you see and what do you hear? Is any one coming? Who is it? A little prince? Is he pretty and nice? You, with your many blue eyes, should be able to tell. [_She lifts up one of the bird's tail feathers and gazes intently at its "eye"_.] Are you to keep your eyes on us, you nasty Argus? Are you to see that the little hearts of two young people don't beat too loudly?--You stupid thing--all I have to do is to close the curtain! [_She closes the curtain, which hides the bird, but not the landscape outside; then she goes to the doves_] My white doves--oh, so white, white, white--now you'll see what is whitest of all--Be silent, wind, and roses, and doves--my prince is coming! _She looks out for a moment; then she withdraws to the pewter-closet, leaving the door slightly ajar so that through the opening she can watch the_ PRINCE; _there she remains standing, visible to the spectators but not to the_ PRINCE. PRINCE. [_Enters through the middle arch of the doorway. He wears armour of steel; what shows of his clothing is black. Having carefully observed everything in the room, he sits down at the table, takes off his helmet and begins to study it. His back is turned toward the door behind which_ SWANWHITE _is hiding_] If anybody be here, let him answer! [_Silence_] There is somebody here, for I can feel the warmth of a young body come billowing toward me like a southern wind. I can hear a breath--it carries the fragrance of roses--and, gentle though it be, it makes the plume on my helmet move. [_He puts the helmet to his ear_] 'Tis murmuring as if it were a huge shell. It's the thoughts within my own head that are crowding each other like a swarm of bees in a hive. "Zum, zum," say the thoughts--just like bees that are buzzing around their queen--the little queen of my thoughts and of my dreams! [_He places the helmet on the table and gazes at it_] Dark and arched as the sky at night, but starless, for the black plume is spreading darkness everywhere since my mother's death--[_He turns the helmet around and gazes at it again_] But there, in the midst of the darkness, deep down--there, on the other side, I see a rift of light!--Has the sky been split open?--And there, in the rift, I see--not a star, for it would look like a diamond--but a blue sapphire, queen of the precious stones--blue as the sky of summer--set in a cloud white as milk and curved as the dove's egg. What is it? My ring? And now another feathery cloud, black as velvet, passes by--and the sapphire is smiling--as if sapphires could smile! And there, the lightning flashed, but blue--heat-lightning mild, that brings no thunder!--What are you? Who? And where? [_He looks at the back of the helmet_] Not here! Not there! And nowhere else! [_He puts his face close to the helmet_] As I come nearer, you withdraw. SWANWHITE _steals forward on tiptoe_. PRINCE. And now there are two--two eyes--two little human eyes--I kiss you! [_He kisses the helmet_. SWANWHITE _goes up to the table and seats herself slowly opposite the_ PRINCE. _The_ PRINCE _rises, bows, with his hand to his heart, and gazes steadily at_ SWANWHITE. SWANWHITE. Are you the little prince? PRINCE. The faithful servant of the king, and yours! SWANWHITE. What message does the young king send his bride? PRINCE. This is his word to Lady Swanwhite--whom lovingly he greets--that by the thought of coming happiness the long torment of waiting will be shortened. SWANWHITE. [_Who has been looking at the_ PRINCE _as if to study him_] Why not be seated, Prince? PRINCE. If seated when you sit, then I should have to kneel when you stand up. SWANWHITE. Speak to me of the king! How does he look? PRINCE. How does he look? [_Putting one of his hands up to his eyes_] I can no longer see him--how strange! SWANWHITE. What is his name? PRINCE. He's gone--invisible---- SWANWHITE. And is he tall? PRINCE. [_Fixing his glance on_ SWANWHITE] Wait!--I see him now!--Taller than you! SWANWHITE. And beautiful? PRINCE. Not in comparison with you! SWANWHITE. Speak of the king, and not of me! PRINCE. I do speak of the king! SWANWHITE. Is his complexion light or dark? PRINCE. If he were dark, on seeing you he would turn light at once. SWANWHITE. There's more of flattery than wit in that! His eyes are blue? PRINCE. [_Glancing at his helmet_] I think I have to look? SWANWHITE. [_Holding out her hand between them_] Oh, you--you! PRINCE. You with _t h_ makes youth! SWANWHITE. Are you to teach me how to spell? PRINCE. The young king is tall and blond and blue-eyed, with broad shoulders and hair like a new-grown forest---- SWANWHITE. Why do you carry a black plume? PRINCE. His lips are red as the ripe currant, his cheeks are white, and the lion's cub needn't be ashamed of his teeth. SWANWHITE. Why is your hair wet? PRINCE. His mind knows no fear, and no evil deed ever made his heart quake with remorse. SWANWHITE. Why is your hand trembling? PRINCE. We were to speak of the young king and not of me! SWANWHITE. So, you, you are to teach me? PRINCE. It is my task to teach you how to love the young king whose throne you are to share. SWANWHITE. How did you cross the sea? PRINCE. In my bark and with my sail. SWANWHITE. And the wind so high? PRINCE. Without wind there is no sailing. SWANWHITE. Little boy--how wise you are!--Will you play with me? PRINCE. What I must do, I will. SWANWHITE. And now I'll show you what I have in my chest. [_She goes to the chest and kneels down beside it; then she takes out several dolls, a rattle, and a hobby-horse_] Here's the doll. It's my child--the child of sorrow that can never keep its face clean. In my own arms I have carried her to the lavendrey, and there I have washed her with white sand--but it only made her worse. I have spanked her--but nothing helped. Now I have figured out what's worst of all! PRINCE. And what is that? SWANWHITE. [_After a glance around the room_] I'll give her a stepmother! PRINCE. But how's that to be? She should have a mother first. SWANWHITE. I am her mother. And if I marry twice, I shall become a stepmother. PRINCE. Oh, how you talk! That's not the way! SWANWHITE. And you shall be her stepfather. PRINCE. Oh, no! SWANWHITE. You must be very kind to her, although she cannot wash her face.--Here, take her--let me see if you have learned to carry children right. _The_ PRINCE _receives the doll unwillingly_. SWANWHITE. You haven't learned yet, but you will! Now take the rattle, too, and play with her. _The_ PRINCE _receives the rattle_. SWANWHITE. That's something you don't understand, I see. [_She takes the doll and the rattle away from him and throws them back into the chest; then she takes out the hobby-horse_] Here is my steed.--It has saddle of gold and shoes of silver.--It can run forty miles in an hour, and on its back I have travelled through Sounding Forest, across Big Heath and King's Bridge, along High Road and Fearful Alley, all the way to the Lake of Tears. And there it dropped a golden shoe that fell into the lake, and then came a fish, and after came a fisherman, and so I got the golden shoe back. That's all there was to that! [_She throws the hobby-horse into the chest; instead she takes out a chess-board with red and white squares, and chess-men made of silver and gold_] If you will play with me, come here and sit upon the lion skin. [_She seats herself on the skin and begins to put up the pieces_] Sit down, won't you--the maids can't see us here! _The_ PRINCE _sits down on the skin, looking very embarrassed_. SWANWHITE. It's like sitting in the grass--not the green grass of the meadow, but the desert grass which has been burned by the sun.--Now you must say something about me! Do you like me a little? PRINCE. Are we to play? SWANWHITE. To play? What care I for that?--Oh--you were to teach me something! PRINCE. Poor me, what can I do but saddle a horse and carry arms--with which you are but poorly served. SWANWHITE. You are so sad! PRINCE. My mother died quite recently. SWANWHITE. Poor little prince!--My mother, too, has gone to God in heaven, and she's an angel now. Sometimes in the nights I see her--do you also see yours? PRINCE. No-o. SWANWHITE. And have you got a stepmother? PRINCE. Not yet. So little time has passed since she was laid to rest. SWANWHITE. Don't be so sad! There's nothing but will wear away in time, you see. Now I'll give you a flag to gladden you again--Oh, no, that's right--this one I sewed for the young king. But now I'll sew another one for you!--This is the king's, with seven flaming fires--you shall have one with seven red roses on it--but first of all you have to hold this skein of yarn for me. [_She takes from the chest a skein of rose-coloured yarn and hands it to the_ PRINCE] One, two, three, and now you'll see!--Your hands are trembling--that won't do!--Perhaps you want a hair of mine among the yarn?--Pull one yourself! PRINCE. Oh, no, I couldn't---- SWANWHITE. I'll do it, then, myself. [_She pulls a hair from her head and winds it into the ball of yarn_] What is your name? PRINCE. You shouldn't ask. SWANWHITE. Why not? PRINCE. The duke has told you--hasn't he? SWANWHITE. No, he hasn't! What could happen if you told your name? Might something dreadful happen? PRINCE. The duke has told you, I am sure. SWANWHITE. I never heard of such a thing before--of one who couldn't tell his name! _The curtain behind which the peacock is hidden moves; a faint sound as of castanets is heard_. PRINCE. What was that? SWANWHITE. That's Pavo--do you think he knows what we are saying? PRINCE. It's hard to tell. SWANWHITE. Well, what's your name? _Again the peacock makes the same kind of sound with his bill_. PRINCE. I am afraid--don't ask again! SWANWHITE. He snaps his bill, that's all--Keep your hands still!--Did you ever hear the tale of the little princess that mustn't mention the name of the prince, lest something happen? And do you know----? _The curtain hiding the peacock is pulled aside, and the bird is seen spreading out his tail so that it looks as if all the "eyes" were staring at_ SWANWHITE _and the_ PRINCE. PRINCE. Who pulled away the curtain? Who made the bird behold us with its hundred eyes?--You mustn't ask again! SWANWHITE. Perhaps I mustn't--Down, Pavo--there! _The curtain resumes its previous position_. PRINCE. Is this place haunted? SWANWHITE. You mean that things will happen--just like that? Oh, well, so much is happening here--but I have grown accustomed to it. And then, besides--they call my stepmother a witch--There, now, I have pricked my finger! PRINCE. What did you prick it with? SWANWHITE. There was a splinter in the yarn. The sheep have been locked up all winter--and then such things will happen. Please see if you can get it out. PRINCE. We must sit at the table then, so I can see. [_They rise and take seats at the table_. SWANWHITE. [_Holding out one of her little fingers_] Can you see anything? PRINCE. What do I see? Your hand is red within, and through it all the world and life itself appear in rosy colouring---- SWANWHITE. Now pull the splinter out--ooh, it hurts! PRINCE. But I shall have to hurt you, too--and ask your pardon in advance! SWANWHITE. Oh, help me, please! PRINCE. [_Squeezing her little finger and pulling out the splinter with his nails_] There is the cruel little thing that dared to do you harm. SWANWHITE. Now you must suck the blood to keep the wound from festering. PRINCE. [_Sucking the blood from her finger_] I've drunk your blood--and so I am your foster-brother now. SWANWHITE. My foster-brother--so you were at once--or how do you think I could have talked to you as I have done? PRINCE. If you have talked to me like that, how did I talk to you? SWANWHITE. Just think, he didn't notice it!--And now I have got a brother of my own, and that is you!--My little brother--take my hand! PRINCE. [_Taking her hand_] My little sister! [_Feels her pulse beating under his thumb_] What have you there, that's ticking--one, and two, and three, and four----? _Continues to count silently after having looked at his watch_. SWANWHITE. Yes, tell me what it is that ticks--so steady, steady, steady? It cannot be my heart, for that is here, beneath my breast--Put your hand here, and you can feel it too. [_The doves begin to stir and coo_] What is it, little white ones? PRINCE. And sixty! Now I know what makes that ticking--it is the time! Your little finger is the second-hand that's ticking sixty times for every minute that goes by. And don't you think there is a heart within the watch? SWANWHITE. [_Handling the watch_] We cannot reach the inside of the watch--no more than of the heart--Just feel my heart! SIGNE. [_Enters from the pewter-closet carrying a whip, which she puts down on the table_] Her Grace commands that the children be seated at opposite sides of the table. _The_ PRINCE _sits down at the opposite end of the table. He and_ SWANWHITE _look at each other in silence for a while_. SWANWHITE. Now we are far apart, and yet a little nearer than before. PRINCE. It's when we part that we come nearest to each other. SWANWHITE. And you know that? PRINCE. I have just learned it! SWANWHITE. Now my instruction has begun. PRINCE. You're teaching me! SWANWHITE. [_Pointing to a dish of fruit_] Would you like some fruit? PRINCE. No, eating is so ugly. SWANWHITE. Yes, so it is. PRINCE. Three maids are standing there--one in the pewter-closet, one among the clothes, and one among the fruits. Why are they standing there? SWANWHITE. TO watch us two--lest we do anything that is forbidden. PRINCE. May we not go into the rosery? SWANWHITE. The morning is the only time when I can go into the rosery, for there the bloodhounds of my stepmother are kept. They never let me reach the shore--and so I get no chance to bathe. PRINCE. Have you then never seen the shore? And never heard the ocean wash the sand along the beach? SWANWHITE. No--never! Here I can only hear the roaring waves in time of storm. PRINCE. Then you have never heard the murmur made by winds that sweep across the waters? SWANWHITE. It cannot reach me here. PRINCE. [_Pushing his helmet across the table to_ SWANWHITE] Put it to your ear and listen. SWANWHITE. [_With the helmet at her ear_] What is that I hear? PRINCE. The song of waves, the whispering winds SWANWHITE. No, I hear human voices--hush! My stepmother is speaking--speaking to the steward--and mentioning my name--and that of the young king, too! She's speaking evil words. She's swearing that I never shall be queen--and vowing that--you--shall take that daughter of her own--that loathsome Lena---- PRINCE. Indeed!--And you can hear it in the helmet? SWANWHITE. I can. PRINCE. I didn't know of that. But my godmother gave me the helmet as a christening present. SWANWHITE. Give me a feather, will you? PRINCE. It is a pleasure--great as life itself. SWANWHITE. But you must cut it so that it will write. PRINCE. You know a thing or two! SWANWHITE. My father taught me---- _The_ PRINCE _pulls a black feather out of the plume on his helmet; then he takes a silver-handled knife from his belt and cuts the quill_. SWANWHITE _takes out an ink-well and parchment from a drawer in the table_. PRINCE. Who is Lady Lena? SWANWHITE. You mean, what kind of person? You want her, do you? PRINCE. Some evil things are brewing in this house---- SWANWHITE. Fear not! My father has bestowed a gift on me that will bring help in hours of need. PRINCE. What is it called? SWANWHITE. It is the horn Stand-By. PRINCE. Where is it hid? SWANWHITE. Read in my eye. I dare not let the maids discover it. PRINCE. [_Gazing at her eyes_] I see! SWANWHITE. [_Pushing pen, ink and parchment across the table to the_ PRINCE] Write it. _The_ PRINCE _writes_. SWANWHITE. Yes, that's the place. [_She writes again._ PRINCE. What do you write? SWANWHITE. Names--all pretty names that may be worn by princes! PRINCE. Except my own! SWANWHITE. Yours, too! PRINCE. Leave that alone! SWANWHITE. Here I have written twenty names--all that I know--and so your name must be there, too. [_Pushing the parchment across the table_] Read! _The_ PRINCE _reads_. SWANWHITE. Oh, I have read it in your eye! PRINCE. Don't utter it! I beg you in the name of God the merciful, don't utter it! SWANWHITE. I read it in his eye! PRINCE. But do not utter it, I beg of you! SWANWHITE. And if I do? What then?--Can Lena tell, you think? Your bride! Your love! PRINCE. Oh, hush, hush, hush! SWANWHITE. [_Jumps up and begins to dance_] I know his name--the prettiest name in all the land! _The_ PRINCE _runs up to her, catches hold of her and covers her mouth with his hand_. SWANWHITE. I'll bite your hand; I'll suck your blood; and so I'll be your sister twice--do you know what that can mean? PRINCE. I'll have two sisters then. SWANWHITE. [_Throwing back her head_] O-ho! O-ho! Behold, the ceiling has a hole, and I can see the sky--a tiny piece of sky, a window-pane--and there's a face behind it. Is it an angel's?--See--but see, I tell you!--It's your face! PRINCE. The angels are not boys, but girls. SWANWHITE. But it is you. PRINCE. [_Looking up_] 'Tis a mirror. SWANWHITE. Woe to us then! It is the witching mirror of my stepmother, and she has seen it all. PRINCE. And in the mirror I can see the fireplace--there's a pumpkin hanging in it! SWANWHITE. [_Takes from the fireplace a mottled, strangely shaped pumpkin_] What can it be? It has the look of an ear. The witch has heard us, too!--Alas, alas! [_She throws the pumpkin into the fireplace and runs across the floor toward the bed; suddenly she stops on one foot, holding up the other_] Oh, she has strewn the floor with needles---- [_She sits down and begins to rub her foot_. _The_ PRINCE _kneels in front of_ SWANWHITE _in order to help her_. SWANWHITE. No, you mustn't touch my foot--you mustn't! PRINCE. Dear heart, you must take off your stocking if I am to help. SWANWHITE. [_Sobbing_] You mustn't--mustn't see my foot! PRINCE. But why? Why shouldn't I? SWANWHITE. I cannot tell; I cannot tell. Go--go away from me! To-morrow I shall tell you, but I can't to-day. PRINCE. But then your little foot will suffer--let me pull the needle out! SWANWHITE. Go, go, go!--No, no, you mustn't try!--Oh, had my mother lived, a thing like this could not have happened!--Mother, mother, mother! PRINCE. I cannot understand--are you afraid of me----? SWANWHITE. Don't ask me, please--just leave me--oh! PRINCE. What have I done? SWANWHITE. Don't leave me, please--I didn't mean to hurt you--but I cannot tell--If I could only reach the shore--the white sand of the beach---- PRINCE. What then? SWANWHITE. I cannot tell! I cannot tell! [_She hides her face in her hands. Once more the peacock makes a rattling sound with his bill; the doves begin to stir; the three maids enter, one after the other; a gust of wind is heard, and the tops of the rose-trees outside swing back and forth; the golden clouds that have been hanging over the sea disappear, and the blue sea itself turns dark_. SWANWHITE. Does Heaven itself intend to judge us?--Is ill-luck in the house?--Oh, that my sorrow had the power to raise my mother from her grave! PRINCE. [_.Putting his hand on his sword_] My life for yours! SWANWHITE. No, don't--she puts the very swords to sleep!--Oh, that my sorrow could bring back my mother! [_The swallows chirp in their nest_] What was that? PRINCE. [_Catching sight of the nest_] A swallow's nest! I didn't notice it before. SWANWHITE. Nor I! How did it get there? When?--But all the same it augurs good--And yet the cold sweat of fear is on my brow--and I choke--Look, how the rose itself is withering because that evil woman comes this way--for it is she who comes---- _The rose on the table is closing its blossom and drooping its leaves_. PRINCE. But whence came the swallows? SWANWHITE. They were not sent by her, I'm sure, for they are kindly birds--Now she is here! STEPMOTHER. [_Enters from the rear with the walk of a panther; the rose on the table is completely withered_] Signe--take the horn out of the bed! SIGNE _goes up to the bed and takes the horn_. STEPMOTHER. Where are you going, Prince? PRINCE. The day is almost done, Your Grace; the sun is setting, and my bark is longing to get home. STEPMOTHER. The day is too far gone--the gates are shut, the dogs let loose--You know my dogs? PRINCE. Indeed! You know my sword? STEPMOTHER. What is the matter with your sword? PRINCE. It bleeds at times. STEPMOTHER. Well, well! But not with women's blood, I trust?--But listen, Prince: how would like to sleep in our Blue Room? PRINCE. By God, it is my will to sleep at home, in my own bed---- STEPMOTHER. Is that the will of anybody else? PRINCE. Of many more. STEPMOTHER. How many?--More than these!--One, two, three---- _As she counts, the members of the household begin to pass by in single file across the balcony; all of them look serious; some are armed; no one turns his head to look into the room; among those that pass are the_ BUTLER, _the_ STEWARD, _the_ KITCHENER, _the_ GAOLER, _the_ CONSTABLE, _the_ EQUERRY. PRINCE. I'll sleep in your Blue Room. STEPMOTHER. That's what I thought.--So you will bid ten thousand good-nights unto your love--and so will Swanwhite, too, I think! _A swan comes flying by above the rosery; from the ceiling a poppy flower drops down on the_ STEPMOTHER, _who falls asleep at once, as do the maids_. SWANWHITE. [_Going up to the_ PRINCE] Good-night, my Prince! PRINCE. [_Takes her hand and says in a low voice_] Good-night!--Oh, that it's granted me to sleep beneath one roof with you, my Princess--your dreams by mine shall be enfolded--and then to-morrow we shall wake for other games and other---- SWANWHITE. [_In the same tone_] You are my all on earth, you are my parent now--since she has robbed me of my puissant father's help.--Look, how she sleeps! PRINCE. You saw the swan? SWANWHITE. No, but I heard--it was my mother. PRINCE. Come, fly with me! SWANWHITE. No, that we mustn't!--Patience! We'll meet in our dreams!--But this will not be possible unless--you love me more than anybody else on earth! Oh, love me--you, you, you! PRINCE. My king, my loyalty---- SWANWHITE. Your queen, your heart--or what am I? PRINCE. I am a knight! SWANWHITE. But I am not. And therefore--therefore do I take you--my Prince---- _She puts her hands up to her mouth with a gesture as if she were throwing a whispered name to him_. PRINCE. Oh, woe! What have you done? SWANWHITE. I gave myself to you through your own name--and with me, carried on _your_ wings, yourself came back to you! Oh---- [_Again she whispers the name_. PRINCE. [_With a movement of his hand as if he were catching the name in the air_] Was that a rose you threw me? [_He throws a kiss to her_. SWANWHITE. A violet you gave me--that was you--your soul! And now I drink you in--you're in my bosom, in my heart--you're mine! PRINCE. And you are mine! Who is the rightful owner, then? SWANWHITE. Both! PRINCE. Both! You and I!--My rose! SWANWHITE. My violet! PRINCE. My rose! SWANWHITE. My violet! PRINCE. I _love_ you! SWANWHITE. _You_ love _me_! PRINCE. You _love_ me! SWANWHITE. _I_ love _you_! _The stage grows light again. The rose on the table recovers and opens. The faces of the_ STEPMOTHER _and the three maids are lighted up and appear beautiful, kind, and happy. The_ STEPMOTHER _lifts up her drowsy head and, while her eyes remain closed, she seems to be watching the joy of the two young people with a sunny smile_. SWANWHITE. Look, look! The cruel one is smiling as at some memory from childhood days. See how Signe the False seems faith and hope embodied, how the ugly Tova has grown beautiful, the little Elsa tall. PRINCE. Our love has done it. SWANWHITE. So that is love? Blessed be it by the Lord! The Lord Omnipotent who made the world! [_She falls on her knees, weeping_. PRINCE. You weep? SWANWHITE. Because I am so full of joy. PRINCE. Come to my arms and you will smile. SWANWHITE. There I should die, I think. PRINCE. Well, smile and die! SWANWHITE. [_Rising_] So be it then! [_The_ PRINCE _takes her in his arms._ STEPMOTHER. [_Wakes up; on seeing the_ PRINCE _and_ SWANWHITE _together, she strikes the table with the whip_] I must have slept!--Oho! So we have got that far!--The Blue Room did I say?--I meant the Blue Tower!--There the prince is to sleep with the Duke of Exeter's daughter!--Maids! _The MAIDS wake up_. STEPMOTHER. Show the prince the shortest way to the Blue Tower. And should he nevertheless lose his way, you may summon the Castellan and the Gaoler, the Equerry and the Constable. PRINCE. No need of that! Wherever leads my course--through fire or water, up above the clouds or down in the solid earth--there shall I meet my Swanwhite, for she is with me where I go. So now I go to meet her--in the tower! Can you beat that for witchcraft, witch?--Too hard, I think, for one who knows not love! [_He goes out followed by the MAIDS_. STEPMOTHER. [_To_ SWANWHITE] Not many words are needed--tell your wishes--but be brief! SWANWHITE. My foremost, highest wish is for some water with which to lave my feet. STEPMOTHER. Cold or warm? SWANWHITE. Warm--if I may. STEPMOTHER. What more? SWANWHITE. A comb to ravel out my hair. STEPMOTHER. Silver or gold? SWANWHITE. Are you--are you kind? STEPMOTHER. Silver or gold? SWANWHITE. Wood or horn will do me well enough. STEPMOTHER. What more? SWANWHITE. A shift that's clean. STEPMOTHER. Linen or silk? SWANWHITE. Just linen. STEPMOTHER. Good! So I have heard your wishes. Now listen to mine! I wish that you may have no water, be it warm or cold! I wish that you may have no comb, of any kind, not even of wood or horn--much less of gold or silver. That's how kind I am! I wish that you may wear no linen --but get you at once into the closet there to cover up your body with that dingy sark of homespun! Such is my word!--And if you try to leave these rooms--which you had better not, as there are traps and snares around--then you are doomed--or with my whip I'll mark your pretty face so that no prince or king will ever look at you again!--Then get yourself to bed! _She strikes the table with her whip again, rises and goes out through the middle arch of the doorway; the gates, which have gilded bars, squeak and rattle as she closes and locks them_. _Curtain_. _The same scene as before, but the golden gates at the rear are shut. The peacock and the doves are sleeping. The golden clouds in the sky are as dull in colour as the sea itself and the land that appears in the far distance_. SWANWHITE _is lying on the bed; she has on a garment of black homespun_. _The doors to the three closets are open. In each doorway stands one of the maids, her eyes closed and in one of her hands a small lighted lamp of Roman pattern_. _A swan is seen flying above the rosery, and trumpet-calls are heard, like those made by flocks of migrating wild swans_. _The_ MOTHER OF SWANWHITE, _all in white, appears outside the gates. Over one arm she carries the plumage of a swan and on the other one a small harp of gold. She hangs the plumage on one of the gates, which opens of its own accord and then closes in the same way behind her_. _She enters the room and places the harp on the table. Then she looks around and becomes aware of_ SWANWHITE. _At once the harp begins to play. The lamps carried by the maids go out one by one, beginning with that farthest away. Then the three doors close one by one, beginning with the innermost_. _The golden clouds resume their former radiance_. _The_ MOTHER _lights one of the lamps on the stand and goes up to the bed, beside which she kneels_. _The harp continues to play during the ensuing episode_. _The_ MOTHER _rises, takes_ SWANWHITE _in her arms, and places her, still sleeping, in a huge arm-chair. Then she kneels down and pulls off_ SWANWHITE'S _stockings. Having thrown these under the bed, she bends over her daughter's feet as if to moisten them with her tears. After a while she wipes them with a white linen cloth and covers them with kisses. Finally she puts a sandal on each foot which then appears shining white_. _Then the_ MOTHER _rises to her feet again, takes out a comb of gold, and begins to comb_ SWANWHITE'S _hair. This finished, she carries_ SWANWHITE _back to the bed. Beside her she places a garment of white linen which she takes out of a bag_. _Having kissed_ SWANWHITE _on the forehead, she prepares to leave. At that moment a white swan is seen to pass by outside, and one hears a trumpet-call like the one heard before. Shortly afterward the_ MOTHER OF THE PRINCE, _also in white, enters through the gate, having first hung her swan plumage on it_. SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. Well met, my sister! How long before the cock will crow? PRINCE'S MOTHER. Not very long. The dew is rising from the roses, the corn-crake's call is heard among the grass, the morning breeze is coming from the sea. SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. Let us make haste with what we have on hand, my sister. PRINCE'S MOTHER. You called me so that we might talk of our children. SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. Once I was walking in a green field in the land that knows no sorrow. There I met you, whom I had always known, yet had not seen before. You were lamenting your poor boy's fate, left to himself here in the vale of sorrow. You opened up your heart to me, and my own thoughts, that dwell unwillingly below, were sent in search of my deserted daughter--destined to marry the young king, who is a cruel man, and evil. PRINCE'S MOTHER. Then I spoke, while you listened: "May worth belong to worth; may love, the powerful, prevail; and let us join these lonely hearts, in order that they may console each other!" SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. Since then heart has kissed heart and soul enfolded soul. May sorrow turn to joy, and may their youthful happiness bring cheer to all the earth! PRINCE'S MOTHER. If it be granted by the powers on high! SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. That must be tested by the fire of suffering. PRINCE'S MOTHER. [_Taking in her hand the helmet left behind by the_ PRINCE] May sorrow turn to joy--this very day, when he has mourned his mother one whole year! _She exchanges the black feathers on the helmet for white and red ones_. SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. Your hand, my sister--let the test begin! PRINCE'S MOTHER. Here is my hand, and with it goes my son's! Now we have pledged them---- SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. In decency and honour! PRINCE'S MOTHER. I go to open up the tower. And let the young ones fold each other heart to heart. SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. In decency and honour! PRINCE'S MOTHER. And we shall meet again in those green fields where sorrow is not known. SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. [_Pointing to_ SWANWHITE] Listen! She dreams of him!--Oh foolish, cruel woman who thinks that lovers can be parted!--Now they are walking hand in hand within the land of dreams, 'neath whispering firs and singing lindens--They sport and laugh---- PRINCE'S MOTHER. Hush! Day is dawning--I can hear the robins calling, and see the stars withdrawing from the sky--Farewell, my sister! [_She goes out, taking her swan plumage with her._ SWANWHITE'S MOTHER. Farewell! _She passes her hand over_ SWANWHITE _as if blessing her, then she takes her plumage and leaves, closing the gate after her_. _The clock on the table strikes three. The harp is silent for a moment; then it begins to play a new melody of even greater sweetness than before_. SWANWHITE _wakes up and looks around; listens to the harp; gets up from the bed; draws her hands through her hair; looks with pleasure at her own little feet, now spotlessly clean, and notices finally the while linen garment on the bed. She sits down at the table in the place she occupied during the evening. She acts as if she were looking at somebody sitting opposite her at the table, where the_ PRINCE _was seated the night before. She looks straight into his eyes, smiles a smile of recognition, and holds out one of her hands. Her lips move at times as if she were speaking, and then again she seems to be listening to an answer_. _She points meaningly to the white and red feathers on the helmet, and leans forward as if whispering. Then she puts her head back and breathes deeply as if to fill her nostrils with some fragrance. Having caught something in the air with one of her hands, she kisses the hand and then pretends to throw something back across the table. She picks up the quill and caresses it as if it were a bird; then she writes and pushes the parchment across the table. Her glances seem to follow "his" pen while the reply is being written, and at last she takes back the parchment, reads it, and hides it in her bosom_. _She strokes her black dress as if commenting on the sad change in her appearance. Whereupon she smiles at an inaudible answer, and finally bursts into hearty laughter_. _By gestures she indicates that her hair has been combed. Then she rises, goes a little distance away from the table, and turns around with a bashful expression to hold out one of her feet. In that attitude she stays for a moment while waiting for an answer. On hearing it she becomes embarrassed and hides her foot quickly under her dress_. _She goes to the chest and takes out the chess-board and the chess-men, which she places on the lions skin with a gesture of invitation. Then she lies down beside the board, arranges the men, and begins to play with an invisible partner_. _The harp is silent for a moment before it starts a new melody_. _The game of chess ends and_ SWANWHITE _seems to be talking with her invisible partner. Suddenly she moves away as if he were coming too close to her. With a deprecating gesture she leaps lightly to her feet. Then she gazes long and reproachfully at him. At last she snatches up the white garment and hides herself behind the bed_. _At that moment the_ PRINCE _appears outside the gates, which he vainly tries to open. Then he raises his eyes toward the sky with an expression of sorrow and despair_. SWANWHITE. [_Coming forward_] Who comes with the morning wind? PRINCE. Your heart's beloved, your prince, your all! SWANWHITE. Whence do you come, my heart's beloved? PRINCE. From dreamland; from the rosy hills that hide the dawn; from whispering firs and singing lindens. SWANWHITE. What did you do in dreamland, beyond the hills of dawn, my heart's beloved? PRINCE. I sported and laughed; I wrote her name; I sat upon the lion's skin and played at chess. SWANWHITE. You sported and you played--with whom? PRINCE. With Swanwhite. SWANWHITE. It is he!--Be welcome to my castle, my table, and my arms! PRINCE. Who opens up the golden gates? SWANWHITE. Give me your hand!--It is as chilly as your heart is warm. PRINCE. My body has been sleeping in the tower, while my soul was wandering in dreamland--In the tower it was cold and dark. SWANWHITE. In my bosom will I warm your hand--I'll warm it by my glances, by my kisses! PRINCE. Oh, let the brightness of your eyes be shed upon my darkness! SWANWHITE. Are you in darkness? PRINCE. Within the tower there was no light of sun or moon. SWANWHITE. Rise up, O sun! Blow, southern wind! And let thy bosom gently heave, O sea!--Ye golden gates, do you believe that you can part two hearts, two hands, two lips--that can by nothing be divided? PRINCE. Indeed, by nothing! _Two solid doors glide together in front of the gates so that_ SWANWHITE _and the_ PRINCE _can no longer see each other_. SWANWHITE. Alas! What was the word we spoke, who heard it, and who punished us? PRINCE. I am not parted from you, my beloved, for still the sound of my voice can reach you. It goes through copper, steel, and stone to touch your ear in sweet caress. When in my thoughts you're in my arms. I kiss you in my dreams. For on this earth there is not anything that can part us. Swanwhite. Not anything! PRINCE. I see you, though my eyes cannot behold you. I taste you, too, because with roses you are filling up my mouth---- SWANWHITE. But in my arms I want you! PRINCE. I am there. SWANWHITE. No! Against my heart I want to feel the beat of yours--Upon your arm I want to sleep--Oh, let us, let us, dearest God--oh, let us have each other! _The swallows chirp. A small white feather falls to the ground_. SWANWHITE _picks it up and discovers it to be a key. With this she opens gates and doors. The_ PRINCE _comes in_. SWANWHITE _leaps into his arms. He kisses her on the mouth_. SWANWHITE. You do not kiss me! PRINCE. Yes, I do! SWANWHITE. I do not feel your kisses! PRINCE. Then you love me not! SWANWHITE. Hold me fast! PRINCE. So fast that life may part! SWANWHITE. Oh, no, I breathe! PRINCE. Give me your soul! SWANWHITE. Here!--Give me yours! PRINCE. It's here!--So I have yours, and you have mine! SWANWHITE. I want mine back! PRINCE. Mine, too, I want! SWANWHITE. Then you must seek it! PRINCE. Lost, both of us! For I am you, and you are me! SWANWHITE. We two are one! PRINCE. God, who is good, has heard your prayer! We have each other! SWANWHITE. We have each other, yet I have you not. I cannot feel the pressure of your hand, your lip's caress--I cannot see your eyes, nor hear your voice--You are not here! PRINCE. Yes, I am here! SWANWHITE. Yes, here below. But up above, in dreamland, I would meet you. PRINCE. Then let us fly upon the wings of sleep---- SWANWHITE. Close to your heart! PRINCE. In my embrace! SWANWHITE. Within your arms! PRINCE. This is the promised bliss! SWANWHITE. Eternal bliss, that has no flaw and knows no end! PRINCE. No one can part us. SWANWHITE. No one! PRINCE. Are you my bride? SWANWHITE. My bridegroom, you? PRINCE. In dreamland--but not here! SWANWHITE. Where are we? PRINCE. Here below! SWANWHITE. Here, where the sky is clouded, where the ocean roars, and where each night the earth sheds tears upon the grass while waiting for the dawn; where flies are killed by swallows, doves by hawks; where leaves must fall and turn to dust; where eyes must lose their light and hands their strength! Yes, here below! PRINCE. Then let us fly! SWANWHITE. Yes, let us fly! _The_ GREEN GARDENER _appears suddenly behind the table. All his clothes are green. He wears a peaked cap, a big apron, and knee-breeches. At his belt hang shears and a knife. He carries a small watering-can in one hand and is scattering seeds everywhere_. PRINCE. Who are you? GARDENER. I sow, I sow! PRINCE. What do you sow? GARDENER. Seeds, seeds, seeds. PRINCE. What kind of seeds? GARDENER. Annuals and biennials. One pulls this way, two pull that. When the bridal suit is on, the harmony is gone. One and one make one, but one and one make also three. One and one make two, but two make three. Then do you understand? PRINCE. You mole, you earthworm, you who turn your forehead toward the ground and show the sky your back--what is there you can teach me? GARDENER. That you are a mole and earthworm, too. And that because you turn your back on the earth, the earth will turn its back on you. [_He disappears behind the table_. SWANWHITE. What was it? Who was he? PRINCE. That was the green gardener. SWANWHITE. Green, you say? Was he not blue? PRINCE. No, he was green, my love. SWANWHITE. How can you say what is not so? PRINCE. My heart's beloved, I have not said a thing that was not so. SWANWHITE. Alas, he does not speak the truth! PRINCE. Whose voice is this? Not that of Swanwhite! SWANWHITE. Who is this my eyes behold? Not my Prince, whose very name attracted me like music of the Neck, or song of mermaids heard among green waves--Who are you? You stranger with the evil eyes--and with grey hair! PRINCE. You did not see it until now--my hair, that turned to grey within the tower, in a single night, when I was mourning for my Swanwhite, who is no longer here. SWANWHITE. Yes, here is Swanwhite. PRINCE. No, I see a black-clad maid, whose face is black---- SWANWHITE. Have you not seen before that I was clad in black? You do not love me, then! PRINCE. You who are standing there, so grim and ugly--no! SWANWHITE. Then you have spoken falsely. PRINCE. No--for then another one was here! Now--you are filling up my mouth with noisome nettles. SWANWHITE. Your violets smell of henbane now--faugh! PRINCE. Thus I am punished for my treason to the king! SWANWHITE. I wish that I had waited for your king! PRINCE. Just wait, and he will come. SWANWHITE. I will not wait, but go to meet him. PRINCE. Then I will stay. SWANWHITE. [_Going toward the background_] And this is love! PRINCE. [_Beside himself_] Where is my Swanwhite? Where, where, where? The kindest, loveliest, most beautiful? SWANWHITE. Seek her! PRINCE. 'Twould not avail me here below. SWANWHITE. Elsewhere then! [_She goes out_. _The_ PRINCE _is alone. He sits down at the table, covers his face with his hands, and weeps. A gust of wind passes through the room and sets draperies and curtains fluttering. A sound as of a sigh is heard from the strings of the harp. The_ PRINCE _rises, goes to the bed, and stands there lost in contemplation of its pillow in which is a depression showing_ SWANWHITE'S _head in profile. He picks up the pillow and kisses it. A noise is heard outside. He seats himself at the table again_. _The doors of the closets fly open. The three_ MAIDS _become visible, all with darkened faces. The_ STEPMOTHER _enters from the rear. Her face is also dark_. STEPMOTHER. [_In dulcet tones_] Good morning, my dear Prince! How have you slept? PRINCE. Where is Swanwhite? STEPMOTHER. She has gone to marry her young king. Is there no thought of things like that in your own mind, my Prince? PRINCE. I harbour but a single thought---- STEPMOTHER. Of little Swanwhite? PRINCE. She is too young for me, you mean? STEPMOTHER. Grey hairs and common sense belong together as a rule--I have a girl with common sense---- PRINCE. And I grey hairs? STEPMOTHER. He knows it not, believes it not! Come, maids! Come, Signe, Elsa, Tova! Let's have a good laugh at the young suitor and his grey hairs! _The_ MAIDS _begin to laugh. The_ STEPMOTHER _joins in_. PRINCE. Where is Swanwhite? STEPMOTHER. Follow in her traces--here is one! [_She hands him a parchment covered with writing_. PRINCE. [_Reading_] And she wrote this? STEPMOTHER. You know her hand--what has it written? PRINCE. That she hates me, and loves another--that she has played with me; that she will throw my kisses to the wind, and to the swine my heart--To die is now my will! Now I am dead! STEPMOTHER. A knight dies not because a wench has played with him. He shows himself a man and takes another. PRINCE. Another? When there is only one? STEPMOTHER. No, two, at least! My Magdalene possesses seven barrels full of gold. PRINCE. Seven? STEPMOTHER. And more. [_Pause_. PRINCE. Where is Swanwhite? STEPMOTHER. My Magdalene is skilled in many crafts---- PRINCE. Including witchcraft? STEPMOTHER. She knows how to bewitch a princeling. PRINCE. [_Gazing at the parchment_] And this was written by my Swanwhite? STEPMOTHER. My Magdalene would never write like that. PRINCE. And she is kind? STEPMOTHER. Kindness itself! She does not play with sacred feelings, nor seek revenge for little wrongs, and she is faithful to the one she likes. PRINCE. Then she must be beautiful. STEPMOTHER. Not beautiful! PRINCE. She is not kind then.--Tell me more of her! STEPMOTHER. See for yourself. PRINCE. Where? STEPMOTHER. Here. PRINCE. And this has Swanwhite written----? STEPMOTHER. My Magdalene had written with more feeling PRINCE. What would she have written? STEPMOTHER. That---- PRINCE. Speak the word! Say "love," if you are able! STEPMOTHER. Lub! PRINCE. You cannot speak the word! STEPMOTHER. Lud! PRINCE. Oh, no! STEPMOTHER. My Magdalene can speak it. May she come? PRINCE. Yes, let her come. STEPMOTHER. [_Rising and speaking to the_ MAIDS] Blindfold the prince. Then in his arms we'll place a princess that is without a paragon in seven kingdoms. SIGNE _steps forward and covers the eyes of the_ PRINCE _with a bandage_. STEPMOTHER. [_Clapping her hands_] Well--is she not coming? _The peacock makes a rattling noise with his bill; the doves begin to coo_. STEPMOTHER. What is the matter? Does my art desert me? Where is the bride? _Four_ MAIDS _enter from the rear, carrying baskets of white and pink roses. Music is heard from above. The_ MAIDS _go up to the bed and scatter roses over it_. _Then come_ TWO KNIGHTS _with closed visors. They take the_ PRINCE _between them toward the rear, where they meet the false_ MAGDALENE, _escorted by two ladies. The bride is deeply veiled_. _With a gesture of her hand the_ STEPMOTHER _bids all depart except the bridal couple. She herself leaves last of all, after she has closed the curtains and locked the gates_. PRINCE. Is this my bride? FALSE MAGDALENE. Who is your bride? PRINCE. I have forgot her name. Who is your bridegroom? FALSE MAGDALENE. He whose name may not be mentioned. PRINCE. Tell, if you can. FALSE MAGDALENE. I can, but will not. PRINCE. Tell, if you can! FALSE MAGDALENE. Tell my name first! PRINCE. It's seven barrels full of gold, and crooked back, and grim, and hare-lipped! What's my name? Tell, if you can! FALSE MAGDALENE. Prince Greyhead! PRINCE. You're right! _The_ FALSE MAGDALENE _throws, off her veil, and_ SWANWHITE _stands revealed_. SWANWHITE. [_Dressed in a white garment, with a wreath of roses on her hair_] Who am I now? PRINCE. You are a rose! SWANWHITE. And you a violet! PRINCE. [_Taking off the bandage_] You are Swanwhite! SWANWHITE. And you--are---- PRINCE. Hush! SWANWHITE. You're mine! PRINCE. But you--you left me--left my kisses---- SWANWHITE. I have returned--because I love you! PRINCE. And you wrote cruel words---- SWANWHITE. But cancelled them--because I love you.! PRINCE. You told me I was false. SWANWHITE. What matters it, when you are true--and when I love you? PRINCE. You wished that you were going to the king. SWANWHITE. But went to you instead, because I love you! PRINCE. Now let me hear what you reproach me with. SWANWHITE. I have forgotten it--because I love you! PRINCE. But if you love me, then you are my bride. SWANWHITE. I am! PRINCE. Then may the heavens bestow their blessing on our union! SWANWHITE. In dreamland! PRINCE. With your head upon my arm! _The_ PRINCE _leads_ SWANWHITE _to the bed, in which he places his sword. Then she lies down on one side of the sword, and he on the other. The colour of the clouds changes to a rosy red. The rose-trees murmur. The harp plays softly and sweetly_. PRINCE. Good night, my queen! SWANWHITE. Good morning, O my soul's beloved!--I hear the beating of your heart--I hear it sigh like billowing waters, like swift-flying steeds, like wings of eagles--Give me your hand! PRINCE. And yours!--Now we take wing---- STEPMOTHER. [_Enters with the_ MAIDS, _who carry torches; all four have become grey-haired_] I have to see that my task is finished ere the duke returns. My daughter. Magdalene, is plighted to the prince--while Swanwhite lingers in the tower--[_Goes to the bed_] They sleep already in each other's arms--you bear me witness, maids! _The_ MAIDS _approach the bed_. STEPMOTHER. What do I see? Each one of you is grey-haired! SIGNE. And so are you, Your Grace! STEPMOTHER. Am I? Let me see! ELSA _holds a mirror in front of her_. STEPMOTHER. This is the work of evil powers!--And then, perhaps, the prince's hair is dark again?--Bring light this way! _The_ MAIDS _hold their torches so that the light from them falls on the sleeping couple_. STEPMOTHER. Such is the truth, indeed!--How beautiful they look!--But--the sword! Who placed it there--the sword that puts at naught their plighted troth? _She tries to take away the sword, but the_ PRINCE _clings to it without being wakened_. SIGNE. Your Grace--here's deviltry abroad! STEPMOTHER. What is it? SIGNE. This is not Lady Magdalene. STEPMOTHER. Who is it, then? My eyes need help. SIGNE. 'Tis Lady Swanwhite. STEPMOTHER. Swanwhite?--Can this be some delusion of the devil's making, or have I done what I least wished? _The_ PRINCE _turns his head in his sleep so that his lips meet those of_ SWANWHITE. STEPMOTHER. [_Touched by the beautiful sight_] No sight more beautiful have I beheld!--Two roses brought together by the wind; two falling stars that join in downward flight--it is too beautiful!--Youth, beauty, innocence, and love! What memories, sweet memories--when I was living in my father's home--when I was loved by _him_, the youth whom never I called mine--What did I say I was? SIGNE. That you were loved by him, Your Grace. STEPMOTHER. Then I did speak the mighty word. Be-loved--so he named me once--"beloved"--ere he started for the war--[_Lost in thoughts_] It was the last of him.--And so I had to take the one I couldn't bear.--My life is drawing to its close, and I must find my joy in happiness denied myself! I should rejoice--at others' happiness--Some kind of joy, at least--at other people's love--Some kind of love, at least--But there's my Magdalene? What joy for her? O, love omnipotent--eternally creative Lord--how you have rendered soft this lion heart! Where is my strength? Where is my hatred--my revenge? [_She seats herself and looks long at the sleeping couple_] A song runs through my mind, a song of love that _he_ was singing long ago, that final night-- [_She rises as if waking out of a dream and flies into a rage; her words come with a roar_] Come hither, men! Here, Steward, Castellan, and Gaoler--all of you! [_She snatches the sword out of the bed and throws it along the floor toward the rear_] Come hither, men! _Noise is heard outside; the men enter as before_. STEPMOTHER. Behold! The prince, the young king's vassal, has defiled his master's bride! You bear me witness to the shameful deed! Put chains and fetters on the traitor and send him to his rightful lord! But in the spiked cask put the hussy. [_The_ PRINCE and SWANWHITE _wake up_] Equerry! Gaoler! Seize the prince! _The_ EQUERRY _and the_ GAOLER _lay hands on the_ PRINCE. PRINCE. Where is my sword? I fight not against evil, but for innocence! STEPMOTHER. Whose innocence? PRINCE. My bride's. STEPMOTHER. The hussy's innocence! Then prove it! SWANWHITE. Oh, mother, mother! _The white swan flies by outside_. STEPMOTHER. Maids, bring shears! I'll cut the harlot's hair! SIGNE _hands her a pair of shears_. STEPMOTHER. [_Takes hold of_ SWANWHITE _by the hair and starts to cut it, but she cannot bring the blades of the shears together]_ Now I'll cut off your beauty and your love! [_Suddenly she is seized with panic, which quickly spreads to the men and the three_ MAIDS] Is the enemy upon us? Why are you trembling? SIGNE. Your Grace, the dogs are barking, horses neighing--it means that visitors are near. STEPMOTHER. Quick, to the bridges, all of you! Man the ramparts! Fall to with flame and water, sword and axe! _The_ PRINCE _and_ SWANWHITE _are left alone_. GARDENER. [_Appears from behind the table; in one hand he carries a rope, the_ DUKE'S _horn in the other_] Forgiveness for those who sin; for those who sorrow, consolation; and hope for those who are distressed! SWANWHITE. My father's horn! Then help is near! But--the prince? GARDENER. The prince will follow me. A secret passage, underground, leads to the shore. There lies his bark. The wind is favourable! Come! [_The_ GARDENER _and the_ PRINCE _go out._ SWANWHITE _alone, blows the horn. An answering signal is heard in the distance. The_ GAOLER _enters with the spiked cask_. SWANWHITE _blows the horn again. The answer is heard much nearer_. _The_ DUKE _enters. He and_ SWANWHITE _are alone on the stage_. DUKE. My own beloved heart, what is at stake? SWANWHITE. Your own child, father!--Look--the spiked cask over there! DUKE. How has my child transgressed? SWANWHITE. The prince's name I learned, by love instructed--spoke it--came to hold him very dear. DUKE. That was no capital offence. What more? SWANWHITE. At his side I slept, the sword between us---- DUKE. And still there was no capital offence, though I should hardly call it wise--And more? SWANWHITE. No more! DUKE. [_To the_ GAOLER, _pointing to the spiked cask_] Away with it! [_To_ SWANWHITE] Well, child, where is the prince? SWANWHITE. He's sailing homeward in his bark. DUKE. Now, when the tide is battering the shore?--Alone? Swanwhite. Alone! What is to happen? DUKE. The Lord alone can tell! SWANWHITE. He's in danger? DUKE. Who greatly dares has sometimes luck. SWANWHITE. He ought to have! DUKE. He will, if free from guilt! SWANWHITE. He is! More than I am! STEPMOTHER. [_Entering_] How came you here! DUKE. A shortcut brought me--I could wish it had been shorter still. STEPMOTHER. Had it been short enough, your child had never come to harm. DUKE. What kind of harm? STEPMOTHER. The one for which there is no cure. DUKE. And you have proofs? STEPMOTHER. I've valid witnesses. DUKE. Then call my butler. STEPMOTHER. He does not know. DUKE. [_Shaking his sword at her_] Call my butler! _The_ STEPMOTHER _trembles. Then she claps her hands four times together_. _The_ BUTLER _enters_. DUKE. Have made a pie of venison, richly stuffed with onions, parsley, fennel, cabbage--and at once! _The_ BUTLER _steals a sidelong glance at the_ STEPMOTHER. DUKE. What are you squinting at? Be quick! _The_ BUTLER _goes out_. DUKE. [_To the_ STEPMOTHER] Now call the master of my pleasure-garden. STEPMOTHER. He does not know! DUKE. And never will! But he must come! Call, quick! _The_ STEPMOTHER _claps her hands six times_. _The_ FLOWER GARDENER _enters_. DUKE. Three lilies bring: one white, one red, one blue. _The_ GARDENER _looks sideways at the_ STEPMOTHER. DUKE. Your head's at stake! _The_ GARDENER _goes out_. DUKE. Summon your witnesses! _The_ STEPMOTHER _claps her hands once_. SIGNE _enters_. DUKE. Tell what you know--but choose your words! What have you seen? SIGNE. I have seen Lady Swanwhite and the prince together in one bed. DUKE. With sword between? SIGNE. Without. DUKE. I can't believe it!--Other witnesses? _The_ TWO KNIGHTS _enter_. DUKE. Were these the groomsmen?--Tell your tale. FIRST KNIGHT. The Lady Magdalene I have escorted to her bridal couch. SECOND KNIGHT. The Lady Magdalene I have escorted to her bridal couch. DUKE. What's that? A trick, I trow--that caught the trickster!--Other witnesses? ELSA _enters_. DUKE. Tell what you know. ELSA. I swear by God, our righteous judge, that I have seen the prince and Lady Swanwhite fully dressed and with a sword between them. DUKE. One for, and one against--two not germane.--I leave it to the judgment of the Lord!--The flowers will speak for him. TOVA. [_Enters_] My gracious master--noble lord! DUKE. What do you know? TOVA. I know my gracious mistress innocent. DUKE. O, child--so you know that! Then teach us how to know it too. TOVA. When I am saying only what is true---- DUKE. No one believes it! But when Signe tells untruth, we must believe!--And what does Swanwhite say herself? Her forehead's purity, her steady glance, her lips' sweet innocence--do they not speak aloud of slander? And "slander" is the verdict of a father's eye.--Well then--Almighty God on high shall give his judgment, so that human beings may believe! _The_ FLOWER GARDENER _enters carrying three lilies placed in three tall and narrow vases of glass. The_ DUKE _places the flowers in a semicircle on the table. The_ BUTLER _enters with a huge dish containing a steaming pie_. DUKE. [_Placing the dish within the semicircle formed by the three flowers_] The white one stands for whom? ALL. [_Except_ SWANWHITE. _and the_ STEPMOTHER] For Swanwhite. DUKE. The red one stands for whom? ALL. [As _before_] The prince. DUKE. For whom the blue one? ALL. [As _before_] The youthful king. DUKE. Well, Tova--child who still has faith in innocence because you too are innocent--interpret now for us the judgment of the Lord--tell us the gentle secrets of these flowers. TOVA. The evil part I cannot utter. DUKE. I will. What's good I'll leave for you.--As the steam from the blood of the prurient beast rises upward--as upward the smell of the passionate spices is mounting--what see you? TOVA. [_Gazing at the three lilies_] The white one folds its blossom to protect itself against defilement. That is Swanwhite's flower. ALL. Swanwhite is innocent. TOVA. The red one, too--the prince's lily--closes its head--but the blue one, which stands for the king, flings wide its gorge to drink the lust-filled air. DUKE. You've told it right! What more is there to see? TOVA. I see the red flower bend its head in reverent love before the white one, while the blue one writhes with envious rage. DUKE. You've spoken true!--For whom is Swanwhite then? TOVA. For the prince, because more pure is his desire, and therefore stronger, too. ALL. [_Except_ SWANWHITE _and the_ STEPMOTHER] Swanwhite for the prince! SWANWHITE. [_Throwing herself into her father's arms_] O, father! DUKE. Call back the prince! Let every trump and bugle summon him. Hoist sail on every bark! But first of all--the spiked cask is for whom? _All remain silent_. DUKE. Then I will say it: for the duchess; for the arch-liar and bawd!--Know, evil woman, that though nothing else be safe against your tricks, they cannot conquer love!--Go--quick--begone! _The_ STEPMOTHER _makes a gesture which for a moment seems to stun the_ DUKE. DUKE. [_Draws his sword and turns the point of it toward the_ STEPMOTHER, _having first seated_ SWANWHITE _on his left shoulder_] A-yi, you evil one! My pointed steel will outpoint all your tricks! _The_ STEPMOTHER _withdraws backward, dragging her legs behind her like a panther_. DUKE. Now for the prince! _The_ STEPMOTHER _stops on the balcony, rigid as a statue. She opens her mouth as if she were pouring out venom_. _The peacock and the doves fall down dead. Then the_ STEPMOTHER _begins to swell. Her clothes become inflated to such an extent that they hide her head and bust entirely. They seem to be flaming with a pattern of interwoven snakes and branches. The sun is beginning to rise outside. The ceiling sinks slowly into the room, while smoke and fire burst from the fireplace_. DUKE. [_Raising the cross-shaped handle of his sword toward the_ STEPMOTHER] Pray, people, pray to Christ, our Saviour! ALL. Christ have mercy! _The ceiling resumes its ordinary place. The smoke and fire cease. A noise is heard outside, followed by the hum of many voices_. DUKE. What new event is this? SWANWHITE. I know! I see!--I hear the water dripping from his hair; I hear the silence of his heart, the breath that comes no more--I see that he is dead! DUKE. Where do you see--and whom? SWANWHITE. Where?--But I see it! DUKE. I see nothing. SWANWHITE. As they must come, let them come quick! _Four little girls enter with baskets out of which they scatter white lilies and hemlock twigs over the floor. After them come four pages ringing silver bells of different pitch. Then comes a priest carrying a large crucifix. Then, the golden bier, with the body of the_ PRINCE, _covered by a white sheet, on which rest white and pink roses. His hair is dark again. His face is youthful, rosy, and radiantly beautiful. There is a smile on his lips_. _The harp begins to play. The sun rises completely. The magic bubble around the_ STEPMOTHER _bursts, and she appears once more in her customary shape_. _The bier is placed in the middle of the floor, so that the rays of the rising sun fall on it_. SWANWHITE _throws herself on her knees beside the bier and covers the_ PRINCE'S _face with kisses_. _All present put their hands to their faces and weep_. _The_ FISHERMAN _has entered behind the bier_. DUKE. The brief tale tell us, fisherman---- FISHERMAN. Does it not tell itself, my noble lord?--The young prince had already crossed the strait, when, seized by violent longing for his love, he started to swim back, in face of tide and wave and wind--because his bark seemed rudder-less.--I saw his young head breast the billows, I heard him cry her name--and then his corpse was gently dropped upon the white sand at my feet. His hair had turned to grey that night when he slept in the tower; sorrow and wrath had blanched his cheeks; his lips had lost their power of smiling.--Now, when death o'ertook him, beauty and youth came with it. Like wreaths his darkening locks fell round his rosy cheeks; he smiled--and see!--is smiling still. The people gathered on the shore, awed by the gentle spectacle--and man said unto man: lo, this is love! SWANWHITE. [_Lying down beside the body of the_ PRINCE] He's dead; his heart will sing no more; his eyes no longer will light up my life; his breath will shed its dew on me no more. He smiles, but not toward me--toward heaven he smiles. And on his journey I shall bear him company. DUKE. Kiss not a dead man's lips--there's poison in them! SWANWHITE. Sweet poison if it bring me death--that death in which I seek my life! DUKE. They say, my child, the dead cannot gain union by willing it; and what was loved in life has little worth beyond. SWANWHITE. And love? Should then its power not extend to the other side of death? DUKE. Our wise men have denied it. SWANWHITE. Then he must come to me--back to this earth. O gracious Lord, please let him out of heaven again! DUKE. A foolish prayer! SWANWHITE. I cannot pray--woe's me! The evil eye still rules this place. DUKE. You're thinking of the monster which the sunbeams pricked. The stake for her--let her without delay be burned alive! SWANWHITE. Burn her?--Alive?--Oh, no! Let her depart in peace! DUKE. She must be burned alive! You, men, see that the pyre is raised close to the shore, and let the winds play with her ashes! SWANWHITE. [_On her knees before the_ DUKE] No, no--I pray you, though she was my executioner: have mercy on her! STEPMOTHER. [_Enters, changed, freed from the evil powers that have held her in their spell_] Mercy! Who spoke the sacred word? Who poured her heart in prayer for me? SWANWHITE. I did--your daughter--mother! STEPMOTHER. O, God in heaven, she called me mother!--Who taught you that? SWANWHITE. Love did! STEPMOTHER. Then blessed be love which can work miracles like that!--But, child, then it must also have the power to make the dead return out of the darkling realms of death!--I cannot do it, having not received the grace of love. But you! SWANWHITE. Poor me--what can I do? STEPMOTHER. You can forgive, and you can love--Well, then, my little Lady Almighty, you can do anything!--Be taught by me who have no power at all. Go, cry the name of your beloved, and put your hand above his heart! Then, with the help of the Supreme One--calling none but Him for helper--your beloved will hear your voice--if you believe! SWANWHITE. I do believe--I will it--and--I pray for it! _She goes up to the_ PRINCE, _places one of her hands over his heart, and raises the other toward the sky. Then she bends down over him and whispers something into his ear. This she repeats three times in succession. At the third whisper the_ PRINCE _wakes up_. SWANWHITE _throws herself at his breast. All kneel in praise and thanksgiving. Music_. _Curtain_. SIMOOM (SAMUM) 1890 CHARACTERS BISKRA, _an Arabian girl_ YUSUF, _her lover_ GUIMARD, _a lieutenant of Zouaves_ _The action takes place in Algeria at the present time_. SIMOOM _The inside of a marabout, or shrine. In the middle of the floor stands a sarcophagus forming the tomb of the Mohammedan saint (also called "marabout") who in his lifetime occupied the place. Prayer-rugs are scattered over the floor. At the right in the rear is an ossuary, or charnel-house._ _There is a doorway in the middle of the rear wall. It is closed with a gate and covered by a curtain. On both sides of the doorway are loopholes. Here and there on the floor are seen little piles of sand. An aloe plant, a few palm leaves and some alfa grass are thrown together on one spot_. * * * * * FIRST SCENE BISKRA _enters. The hood of her burnous is pulled over her head so that it almost covers her face. She carries a guitar at her back. Throwing herself down in a kneeling position on one of the rugs, she begins to pray with her arms crossed over her breast. A high wind is blowing outside_. BISKRA. Lâ ilâhâ illâ 'llâh! YUSUF. [_Enters quickly_] The Simoom is coming! Where is the Frank? BISKRA. He'll be here in a moment. YUSUF. Why didn't you stab him when you had a chance? BISKRA. Because he is to do it himself. If I were to do it, our whole tribe would be killed, for I am known to the Franks as Ali, the guide, though they don't know me as Biskra, the maiden. YUSUF. He is to do it himself, you say? How is that to happen? BISKRA. Don't you know that the Simoom makes the brains of the white people dry as dates, so that they have horrible visions which disgust them with life and cause them to flee into the great unknown? YUSUF. I have heard of such things, and in the last battle there were six Franks who took their own lives before the fighting began. But do not place your trust in the Simoom to-day, for snow has fallen in the mountains, and the storm may be all over in half an hour.--Biskra! Do you still know how to hate? BISKRA. If I know how to hate?--My hatred is boundless as the desert, burning as the sun, and stronger than my love. Every hour of joy that has been stolen from me since the murder of Ali has been stored up within me like the venom back of a viper's tooth, and what the Simoom cannot do, that I can do. YUSUF. Well spoken, Biskra, and the task shall be yours. Ever since my eyes first fell upon you, my own hatred has been withering like alfa grass in the autumn. Take strength from me and become the arrow to my bow. BISKRA. Embrace me, Yusuf, embrace me! YUSUF. Not here, within the presence of the Sainted one; not now--later, afterward, when you have earned your reward! BISKRA. You proud sheikh! You man of pride! YUSUF. Yes--the maiden who is to carry my offspring under her heart must show herself worthy of the honour. BISKRA. I--no one but I--shall bear the offspring of Yusuf! I, Biskra--the scorned one, the ugly one, but the strong one, too! YUSUF. All right! I am now going to sleep beside the spring.--Do I need to teach you more of the secret arts which you learned from Sidi-Sheikh, the great marabout, and which you have practised at fairs ever since you were a child? BISKRA. Of that there is no need. I know all the secrets needed to scare the life out of a cowardly Frank.--The dastard who sneaks upon the enemy and sends the leaden bullet ahead of himself! I know them all--even the art of letting my voice come out of my belly. And what is beyond my art, that will be done by the sun, for the sun is on the side of Yusuf and Biskra. YUSUF. The sun is a friend of the Moslem, but not to be relied upon. You may get burned, girl!--Take a drink of water first of all, for I see that your hands are shrivelled, and---- _He lifts up one of the rugs and steps down into a sort of cellar, from which he brings back a bowl filled with water; this he hands to_ BISKRA. BISKRA. [_Raising the bowl to her mouth_] And my eyes are already beginning to see red--my lungs are parching--I hear--I hear--do you see how the sand is sifting through the roof--the strings of my guitar are crooning--the Simoom is here! But the Frank is not! YUSUF. Come down here, Biskra, and let the Frank die by himself. BISKRA. First hell, and then death! Do you think I'll weaken? [_Pours the water on one of the sand piles_] I'll water the sand, so that revenge may grow out of it, and I'll dry up my heart. Grow, O hatred! Burn, O sun! Smother, O wind! YUSUF. Hail to you, mother of Ben Yusuf--for you are to bear the son of Yusuf, the avenger--you! _The wind is increasing. The curtain in front of the door begins to flap. A red glimmer lights up the room, but changes into yellow during the ensuing scene_. BISKRA. The Frank is coming, and--the Simoom is here!--Go! YUSUF. In half an hour you shall see me again. [_Pointing toward a sand pile_] There is your hour-glass. Heaven itself is measuring out the time for the hell of the infidels! [_Goes down into the cellar_. SECOND SCENE BISKRA. GUIMARD _enters looking very pale; he stumbles, his mind is confused, and he speaks in a low voice_. GUIMARD. The Simoom is here!--What do you think has become of my men? BISKRA. I led them west to east. GUIMARD. West--to east!--Let me see!--That's straight east--and west!--Oh, put me on a chair and give me some water! BISKRA. [_Leads_ GUIMARD _to one of the sand piles and makes him lie down on the floor with his feet on the sand_] Are you comfortable now? GUIMARD. [_Staring at her_] I feel all twisted up. Put something under my head. BISKRA. [_Piling the sand higher under his feet_] There's a pillow for your head. GUIMARD. Head? Why, my feet are down there--Isn't that my feet? BISKRA. Of course! GUIMARD. I thought so. Give me a stool now--under my head. BISKRA. [_Pulls out the aloe plant and pushes it under Guimard's legs_] There's a stool for you. GUIMARD. And then water!--Water! BISKRA. [_Fills the empty bowl with sand and hands it to_ GUIMARD] Drink while it's cold. GUIMARD. [_Putting his lips to the bowl_] It is cold--and yet it does not still my thirst! I cannot drink it--I abhor water--take it away! BISKRA. There's the dog that bit you! GUIMARD. What dog? I have never been bitten by a dog. BISKRA. The Simoom has shrivelled up your memory--beware the delusions of the Simoom! Don't you remember the mad greyhound that bit you during the last hunt at Bab-el-Wad? GUIMARD. The hunt at Bab-el-Wad? That's right!--Was it a beaver-coloured----? BISKRA. Bitch? Yes.--There you see. And she bit you in the calf. Can't you feel the sting of the wound? GUIMARD. [_Reaches out a hand to feel his calf and pricks himself on the aloe_] Yes, I can feel it.--Water! Water! BISKRA. [_Handing him the sand-filled bowl_] Drink, drink! GUIMARD. No, I cannot! Holy Mother of God--I have rabies! BISKRA. Don't be afraid! I shall cure you, and drive out the demon by the help of music, which is all-powerful. Listen! GUIMARD. [_Screaming_] Ali! Ali! No music; I can't stand it! And how could it help me? BISKRA. If music can tame the treacherous spirit of the snake, don't you think it may conquer that of a mad dog? Listen! [_She sings and accompanies herself on the guitar_] Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra! Simoom! Simoom! YUSUF. [_Responding from below_] Simoom! Simoom! GUIMARD. What is that you are singing, Ali? BISKRA. Have I been singing? Look here--now I'll put a palm-leaf in my mouth. [_She puts a piece of leaf between her teeth; the song seems to be coming from above_] Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra! YUSUF. [_From below_] Simoom! Simoom! GUIMARD. What an infernal jugglery! BISKRA. Now I'll sing! BISKRA and YUSUF. [_Together_] Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra! Simoom! GUIMARD. [_Rising_] What are you, you devil who are singing with two voices? Are you man or woman? Or both? BISKRA. I am Ali, the guide. You don't recognise me because your senses are confused. But if you want to be saved from the tricks played by sight and thought, you must believe in me--believe what I say and do what I tell you. GUIMARD. You don't need to ask me, for I find everything to be as you say it is. BISKRA. There you see, you worshipper of idols! GUIMARD. I, a worshipper of idols? BISKRA. Yes, take out the idol you carry on your breast. GUIMARD _takes out a locket_. BISKRA. Trample on it now, and then call on the only God, the Merciful One, the Compassionate One! GUIMARD. [_Hesitating_] Saint Edward--my patron saint? BISKRA. Can he protect you? Can he? GUIMARD. No, he cannot!--[_Waking up_] Yes, he can! BISKRA. Let us see! _She opens the gate; the curtain flaps and the grass on the floor moves_. GUIMARD. [_Covering his mouth_] Close the door! BISKRA. Throw down the idol! GUIMARD. No, I cannot. BISKRA. Do you see? The Simoom does not bend a hair on me, but you, the infidel one, are killed by it! Throw down the idol! GUIMARD. [_Throws the locket on the floor_] Water! I die! BISKRA. Pray to the Only One, the Merciful and Compassionate One! GUIMARD. How am I to pray? BISKRA. Repeat after me. GUIMARD. Speak on! BISKRA. There is only one God: there is no other God but He, the Merciful, the Compassionate One! GUIMARD. "There is only one God: there is no other God but He, the Merciful, the Compassionate One." BISKRA. Lie down on the floor. GUIMARD _lies down unwillingly_. BISKRA. What do you hear? GUIMARD. I hear the murmuring of a spring. BISKRA. There you see! God is one, and there is no other God but He, the Merciful and Compassionate One!--What do you see? GUIMARD. I can hear a spring murmur--I can see the light of a lamp--in a window with green shutters--on a white street---- BISKRA. Who is sitting at the window? GUIMARD. My wife--Elise! BISKRA. Who is standing behind the curtain with his arm around her neck? GUIMARD. That's my son, George. BISKRA. How old is your son? GUIMARD. Four years on the day of Saint Nicholas. BISKRA. And he can already stand behind the curtain with his arm around the neck of another man's wife? GUIMARD. No, he cannot--but it is he! BISKRA. Four years old, you say, and he has a blond mustache? GUIMARD. A blond mustache, you say?--Oh, that's--my friend Jules. BISKRA. Who is standing behind the curtain with his arm around your wife's neck? GUIMARD. Oh, you devil! BISKRA. Do you see your son? GUIMARD. No, I don't see him any longer. BISKRA. [_Imitates the tolling of bells on the guitar_] What do you see now? GUIMARD. I see bells ringing--I taste dead bodies--their smell in my mouth is like rancid butter--faugh! BISKRA. Can't you hear the priest chanting the service for a dead child? GUIMARD. Wait!--I cannot hear--[_Wistfully_] But do you want me to?--There!--I can hear it! BISKRA. Do you see the wreath on the coffin they are carrying? GUIMARD. Yes---- BISKRA. There are violet ribbons on it--and there are letters printed in silver--"Farewell, my darling George--from your father." GUIMARD. Yes, that's it! [_He begins to cry_] My George! O George, my darling boy!--Elise--wife--can't you console me?--Oh, help me! [_He is groping around_] Elise, where are you? Have you left me? Answer! Call out the name of your love! A VOICE. [_Coming from the roof_] Jules! Jules! GUIMARD. Jules! But my name is--what is my name? It is Charles! And she is calling Jules! Elise--my beloved wife--answer me--for your spirit is here--I can feel it--and you promised never to love anybody else---- _The_ VOICE _is heard laughing_. GUIMARD. Who is laughing? BISKRA. Elise--your wife. GUIMARD. Oh, kill me! I don't want to live any longer! Life sickens me like sauerkraut at Saint-Doux--You there--do you know what Saint-Doux is? Lard! [_He tries to spit_] Not a drop of saliva left!--Water--water--or I'll bite you! _The wind outside has risen to a full storm_. BISKRA. [_Puts her hand to her mouth and coughs_] Now you are dying, Frank! Write down your last wishes while there is still time--Where is your note-book? GUIMARD. [_Takes out a note-book and a pencil_] What am I to write? BISKRA. When a man is to die, he thinks of his wife--and his child! GUIMARD. [_Writes_] "Elise--I curse you! Simoom--I die----" BISKRA. And then sign it, or it will not be valid as a testament. GUIMARD. What shall I sign? BISKRA. Write: Lâ ilâha illâ 'llâh. GUIMARD. [_Writing_] It is written.--And can I die now? BISKRA. Now you can die--like a craven soldier who has deserted his people! And I am sure you'll get a handsome burial from the jackals that will chant the funeral hymn over your corpse. [_She drums the signal for attack on the guitar_] Can you hear the drums--the attack has begun--on the Faithful, who have the sun and the Simoom on their side--they are now advancing--from their hiding-places--[_She makes a rattling noise on the guitar_] The Franks are firing along the whole line--they have no chance to load again--the Arabs are firing at their leisure--the Franks are flying! GUIMARD. [_Rising_] The Franks never flee! BISKRA. The Franks will flee when they hear the call to retreat. [_She blows the signal for "retreat" on a flute which she has produced from under her burnoose_. GUIMARD. They are retreating--that's the signal--and I am here--[_He tears off his epaulets_] I am dead! [_He falls to the ground_. BISKRA. Yes, you are dead!--And you don't know that you have been dead a long time. [_She goes to the ossuary and takes from it a human skull_. GUIMARD. Have I been dead? [_He feels his face with his hands_. BISKRA. Long! Long!--Look at yourself in the mirror here! [_She holds up the skull before him_. GUIMARD. Ah! That's me! BISKRA. Can't you see your own high cheek-bones? Can't you see the eyes that the vultures have picked out? Don't you know that gap on the right side of the jaw where you had a tooth pulled? Can't you see the hollow in the chin where, grew the beard that your Elise was fond of stroking? Can't you see where used to be the ear that your George kissed at the breakfast-table? Can't you see the mark of the axe--here in the neck--which the executioner made when he cut off the deserter's head---- GUIMARD, _who has been watching her movements and listening to her words with evident horror, sinks down dead_. BISKRA. [_Who has been kneeling, feels his pulse; then she rises and sings_] Simoom! Simoom! [_She opens both gates; the curtain flutters like a banner in the wind; she puts her hand up to her mouth and falls over backward, crying_] Yusuf! THIRD SCENE BISKRA. GUIMARD (_dead_). YUSUF _comes out of the cellar_. YUSUF. [_Having examined the body of_ GUIMARD, _he looks for_ BISKRA] Biskra! [_He discovers her and takes her up in his arms_] Are you alive? BISKRA. Is the Frank dead? YUSUF. If he is not, he will be. Simoom! Simoom! BISKRA. Then I live! But give me some water! YUSUF. [_Carrying her toward the cellar_] Here it is!--And now Yusuf is yours! BISKRA. And Biskra will be your son's mother, O Yusuf, great Yusuf! YUSUF. My strong Biskra! Stronger than the Simoom! _Curtain_. DEBIT AND CREDIT (DEBET OCH KREDIT) AN ACT 1893 CHARACTERS AXEL, _Doctor of Philosophy and African explorer_ THURE, _his brother, a gardener_ ANNA, _the wife of_ THURE MISS CECILIA THE FIANCÉ _of_ CECILIA LINDGREN, _Doctor of Philosophy and former school-teacher_ MISS MARIE THE COURT CHAMBERLAIN THE WAITER DEBIT AND CREDIT _A well-furnished hotel room. There are doors on both sides_. FIRST SCENE THURE _and his_ WIFE. THURE. There's some style to this room, isn't there? But then the fellow who lives here is stylish, too. WIFE. Yes, so I understand. Of course, I've never seen your brother, but I've heard a whole lot. THURE. Oh, gossip! _My_ brother, the doctor, has gone right across Africa, and that's something everybody can't do. So it doesn't matter how many drinks he took as a young chap---- WIFE. Yes, your brother, the doctor! Who is nothing but a school-teacher, for that matter---- THURE. No, he's a doctor of philosophy, I tell you---- WIFE. Well, that's nothing but one who teaches. And that's just what my brother is doing in the school at Åby. THURE. Your brother is all right, but he is nothing but a public-school teacher, and that's not the same as a doctor of philosophy--which isn't a boast either. WIFE. Well, no matter what he is or what you call him, he has cost us a whole lot. THURE. Of course it has been rather costly, but then he has brought us a lot of pleasure, too. WIFE. Fine pleasures! When we've got to lose house and home for his sake! THURE. That's so--but then we don't know yet if his slip-up on the loan had some kind of cause that he couldn't help. I guess it isn't so easy to send registered letters from darkest Africa. WIFE. Whether he has any excuses or not doesn't change the matter a bit. But if he wants to do something for us--it's nothing more than he owes us. THURE. Well, we'll see, we'll see!--Anyhow, have you heard they've already given him four decorations? WIFE. Well, that doesn't help us any. I guess it'll only make him a little more stuck-up. Oh, no, it'll be some time before I get over that the sheriff had to come down on us with the papers--and bring in other people as witnesses--and then--the auction--and all the neighbours coming in and turning all we had upside down. And do you know what made me sorer than all the rest? THURE. The black---- WIFE. Yes, it was that my sister-in-law should bid in my black silk dress for fifteen crowns. Think of it--fifteen crowns! THURE. You just wait--just wait a little! We might get you a new silk dress---- WIFE. [_Weeping_] But it'll never be the same one--the one my sister-in-law bid in. THURE. We'll get another one then!--Now, just look at that gorgeous hat over there! I guess it must be one of those royal chamberlains who's talking with Axel now. WIFE. What do I care about that! THURE. Why, don't you think it's fun that a fellow who has the same name as you and I gets to be so respected that the King's own household people have to visit him? If I remember right, you were happy for a whole fortnight when your brother, the school-teacher, had been asked to dine at the bishop's. WIFE. I can't remember anything of the kind. THURE. Of course you can't! WIFE. But I do remember the fifteenth of March, when we had to leave our place for his sake, and we hadn't been married more than two years, and I had to carry away the child on my own arm--Oh!--and then, when the steamer came with all the passengers on board just as we had to get out--all the cocked hats in the world can't make me forget that! And, for that matter, what do you think a royal chamberlain cares about a plain gardener and his wife when they've just been turned out of house and home? THURE. Look here! What do you think this is? Look at all his decorations!--Look at this one, will you! _He takes an order out of its case, holds it in the palm of his hand, and pats it as if it were a living thing_. WIFE. Oh, that silly stuff! THURE. Don't you say anything against them, for you never can tell where you'll end. The gardener at Staring was made a director and a knight on the same day. WIFE. Well, what does that help us? THURE. No, of course not--it doesn't help us--but these things here [_pointing to the orders_] may help us a whole lot in getting another place.--However, I think we've waited quite a while now, so we'd better sit down and make ourselves at home. Let me help you off with your coat--come on now! WIFE. [_After a slight resistance_] So you think we're going to be welcome, then? I have a feeling that our stay here won't last very long. THURE. Tut, tut! And I think we're going to have a good dinner, too, if I know Axel right. If he only knew that we're here--But now you'll see! [_He presses a button and a_ WAITER _enters_] What do you want--a sandwich, perhaps? [_To the_ WAITER] Bring us some sandwiches and beer.--Wait a moment! Get a drink for me--the real stuff, you know! [_The_ WAITER _goes out_] You've got to take care of yourself, don't you know. SECOND SCENE THURE _and his_ WIFE. AXEL. The CHAMBERLAIN. AXEL. [_To the_ CHAMBERLAIN] At five, then--in full dress, I suppose? CHAMBERLAIN. And your orders! AXEL. Is it necessary? CHAMBERLAIN. Absolutely necessary, if you don't want to seem rude, and that's something which you, as a democrat, want least of all. Good-bye, doctor! AXEL. Good-bye. _In leaving, the_ CHAMBERLAIN _bows slightly to_ THURE _and his_ WIFE, _neither of whom returns the salute_. THIRD SCENE AXEL. THURE _and his_ WIFE. AXEL. Oh, is that you, old boy?--It seems an eternity since I saw you last. And this is your wife?--Glad to see you! THURE. Thanks, brother! And I wish you a happy return after your long trip. AXEL. Yes, that was something of a trip--I suppose you have read about it in the papers---- THURE. Oh, yes, I've read all about it. [_Pause_] And then father sent you his regards. AXEL. Oh, is he still sore at me? THURE. Well, you know the old man and his ways. If only you hadn't been a member of that expedition, you know, he would have thought it one of the seven wonders of the world. But as you were along, of course, it was nothing but humbug. AXEL. So he's just the same as ever! Simply because I am _his_ son, nothing I ever do can be of any value. It means he can't think very much of himself either.--Well, so much for that! And how are you getting along nowadays? THURE. Not very well, exactly! There's that old loan from the bank, you know---- AXEL. Yes, that's right! Well, what happened to it? THURE. Oh, what happened was that I had to pay it. AXEL. That's too bad! But we'll settle the matter as soon as we have a chance. _The_ WAITER _comes in with_ THURE's _order on a tray_. AXEL. What's that? THURE. Oh, it was only me who took the liberty of ordering a couple of sandwiches---- AXEL. Right you were! But I think we ought to have some wine, so I could drink the health of my sister-in-law, as I couldn't get to the wedding. THURE. Oh, no--not for us! Not so early in the morning! Thanks very much! AXEL. [_Signals to the_ WAITER, _who goes out_] I should have asked you to stay for dinner, but I have to go out myself. Can you guess where I am going? THURE. You don't mean to say you're going to the Palace? AXEL. Exactly--I am asked to meet the Monarch himself. THURE. Lord preserve us!--What do you think of that, Anna? _His_ WIFE _turns and twists on her chair as if in torment, quite unable to answer_. AXEL. I suppose the old man will turn republican after this, when he hears that His Majesty cares to associate with me. THURE. See here, Axel--you'll have to pardon me for getting back to something that's not very pleasant--but it has to be settled. AXEL. Is it that blessed old loan? THURE. Yes, but it isn't only that. To put it plain--we've had to stand an execution for your sake, and now we're absolutely cleaned out. AXEL. That's a fine state of affairs! But why in the world didn't you get the loan renewed? THURE. Well, that's it! How was I to get any new sureties when you were away? AXEL. Couldn't you go to my friends? THURE. I did. And the result was--what it was. Can you help us out now? AXEL. How am I going to help you now? Now when all my creditors are getting after me? And it won't do for me to start borrowing when they are just about to make a position for me. There's nothing that hurts you more than to borrow money. Just wait a little while, and we'll get it all straightened out. THURE. If we're to wait, then everything's up with us. This is just the time to get hold of a garden--this is the time to start digging and sowing, if you are to get anything up in time. Can't you get a place for us? AXEL. Where am I to get hold of a garden? THURE. Among your friends. AXEL. My friends keep no gardens. Now, don't you hamper me when I try to get up on firm ground! When I am there I'll pull you up, too. THURE. [_To his_ WIFE] He doesn't want to help us, Anna! AXEL. I cannot--not this moment! Do you think it reasonable that I, who am seeking a job myself, should have to seek one for you, too? What would people be saying, do you think? "There, now," they would say, "we've got not only him but his relatives to look after!" And then they would drop me entirely. THURE. [_Looks at his watch; then to his wife_] We've got to go. AXEL. Why must you go so soon? THURE. We have to take the child to a doctor. AXEL. For the Lord's sake, have you a child, too? WIFE. Yes, we have. And a sick child, which lost its health when we had to move out into the kitchen so that the auction could be held. AXEL. And all this for my sake! It's enough to drive me crazy! For my sake! So that I might become a famous man!--And what is there I can do for you?--Do you think it would have been better if I had stayed at home?--No, worse--for then I should have been nothing but a poor teacher, who certainly could not have been of any use to you whatever.--Listen, now! You go to the doctor, but come back here after a while. In the meantime I'll think out something. THURE. [_To his_ WIFE] Do you see now, that he wants to help us? WIFE. Yes, but can he do it? That's the question. THURE. He can do anything he wants. AXEL. Don't rely too much on it--or the last state may prove worse than the first.--Oh, merciful heavens, to think that you have a sick child, too! And for my sake! THURE. Oh, I guess it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. WIFE. Yes, so you say, who don't know anything about it---- THURE. Well, Axel, we'll see you later then. LINDGREN _appears in the doorway_. WIFE. [_To_ THURE] Did you notice he didn't introduce us--to the chamberlain? THURE. Oh, shucks, what good would that have been? [_They go out_. FOURTH SCENE AXEL. LINDGREN, _who is shabbily dressed, unshaved, apparently fond of drinking, and looking as if he had just got out of bed_. AXEL _is startled for a moment at the sight of_ LINDGREN. LINDGREN. You don't recognise me? AXEL. Yes, now I do. But you have changed a great deal. LINDGREN. Oh, you think so? AXEL. Yes, I do, and I am surprised to find that these years can have had such an effect---- LINDGREN. Three years may be pretty long.--And you don't ask me to sit down? AXEL. Please--but I am rather in a hurry. LINDGREN. You have always been in a hurry. [_He sits down; pause._ AXEL. Why don't you say something unpleasant? LINDGREN. It's coming, it's coming! [_He wipes his spectacles; pause._ AXEL. How much do you need? LINDGREN. Three hundred and fifty. AXEL. I haven't got it, and I can't get it. LINDGREN. Oh, sure!--You don't mind if I help myself to a few drops? _He pours out a drink from the bottle brought by the_ Waiter _for_ THURE. AXEL. Won't you have a glass of wine with me instead? LINDGREN. No--why? AXEL. Because it looks bad to be swilling whisky like that. LINDGREN. How very proper you have become! AXEL. Not at all, but it hurts my reputation and my credit. LINDGREN. Oh, you have credit? Then you can also give me a lift, after having brought me down. AXEL. That is to say: you are making demands? LINDGREN. I am only reminding you that I am one of your victims. AXEL. Then, because of the gratitude I owe you, I shall bring these facts back to your mind: that you helped me through the university at a time when you had plenty of money; that you helped to get my thesis printed---- LINDGREN. That I taught you the methods which determined your scientific career; that I, who then was as straight as anybody, exercised a favourable influence on your slovenly tendencies; that, in a word, I made you what you are; and that, finally, when I applied for an appropriation to undertake this expedition, you stepped in and took it. AXEL. No, I got it. Because I, and not you, was held to be the man for the task. LINDGREN. And that settled me! Thus, one shall be taken, and the other left!--Do you think that was treating me fairly? AXEL. It was what the world calls "ungrateful," but the task was achieved, and by it science was enriched, the honour of our country upheld, and new regions opened for the use of coming generations. LINDGREN. Here's to you!--You have had a lot of oratorical practice--But have you any idea how unpleasant it feels to play the part of one used up and cast off? AXEL. I imagine it must feel very much like being conscious of ingratitude, and I can only congratulate you at not finding yourself in a position as unpleasant as my own.--But let us return to reality. What can I do for you? LINDGREN. What do you think? AXEL. For the moment--nothing. LINDGREN. And in the next moment you are gone again. Which means that this would be the last I saw of you. [_He pours out another drink_. AXEL. Will you do me the favour of not finishing the bottle? I don't want the servants to suspect me of it. LINDGREN. Oh, go to hell! AXEL. You don't think it's pleasant for me to have to call you down like this, do you? LINDGREN. Say--do you want to get me a ticket for the banquet to-night? AXEL. I am sorry to say that I don't think you would be admitted. LINDGREN. Because--- AXEL. You are drunk! LINDGREN. Thanks, old man!--Well, will you let me have a look at your botanical specimens, then? AXEL. No, I am going to describe them myself for the Academy. LINDGREN. How about your ethnographical stuff? AXEL. No, that's not my own. LINDGREN. Will you--let me have twenty-five crowns? AXEL. As I haven't more than twenty myself, I can only give you ten. LINDGREN. Rotten! AXEL. Thus stand the affairs of the man everybody envies. Do you think there is anybody in whose company I might feel happy? Not one! Those that are still down hate me for climbing up, and those already up fear one coming from below. LINDGREN. Yes, you are very unfortunate! AXEL. I am! And I can tell you that after my experience during the last half-hour, I wouldn't mind changing place with you. What a peaceful, unassailable position he holds who has nothing to lose! What a lot of interest and sympathy those that are obscure and misunderstood and over-looked always arouse! You have only to hold out your hand and you get a coin. You have only to open your arms, and there are friends ready to fall into them. And then what a powerful party behind you--formed of the millions who are just like you! You enviable man who don't realise your own good fortune! LINDGREN. So you think me that far down, and yourself as high up as all that?--Tell me, you don't happen to have read to-day's paper? [_He takes a newspaper from his pocket_. AXEL. No, and I don't care to read it either. LINDGREN. But you ought to do it for your own sake. AXEL. No, I am not going to do it--not even for _your_ sake. It is as if you said: "Come here and let me spit at you." And then you are silly enough to demand that I shall come, too.--Do you know, during these last minutes I have become more and more convinced that if I had ever come across you in the jungle, I should beyond all doubt have picked you off with my breech-loader? LINDGREN. I believe it--beast of prey that you are! AXEL. It isn't safe to settle accounts with one's friends, or with persons with whom one has been intimate, for it is hard to tell in advance who has most on the debit side. But as you are bringing in a bill, I am forced to look it over.--You don't think it took me long to discover that back of all your generosity lay an unconscious desire to turn me into the strong arm which you lacked--to make me do for you what you couldn't do for yourself? I had imagination and initiative--you had nothing but money and--"pull." So I am to be congratulated that you didn't eat me, and I may be excused for eating you--my only choice being to eat or be eaten! LINDGREN. You beast of prey! AXEL. You rodent, who couldn't become a beast of prey--although that was just what you wished! And what you want at this moment is not so much to rise up to me as to pull me down to where you are.--If you have anything of importance to add, you had better hurry up, for I am expecting a visit. LINDGREN. From your fiancée? AXEL. So you have snooped that out, too? LINDGREN. Sure enough! And I know what Marie, the deserted one, thinks and says--I know what has happened to your brother and his wife---- AXEL. Oh, you know my fiancée? For, you see, it so happens that I am not yet engaged! LINDGREN. No, but I know _her_ fiancé. AXEL. What does that mean? LINDGREN. Why, she has been running around with another fellow all the time--So you didn't know that? AXEL. [_As he listens for something going on outside_] Oh, yes, I knew of it, but I thought she was done with him--See here, if you'll come back in a quarter of an hour, I'll try to get things arranged for you in some way or another. LINDGREN. Is that a polite way of showing me the door? AXEL. No, it's an attempt to meet an old obligation. Seriously! LINDGREN. Well, then I'll go--and come back--Good-bye for a while. FIFTH SCENE AXEL. LINDGREN. _The_ WAITER. _Then the_ FIANCÉ, _dressed in black, with a blue ribbon in the lapel of his coat_. WAITER. There's a gentleman here who wants to see you. AXEL. Let him come in. _The_ WAITER _goes out, leaving the door open behind him. The_ FIANCÉ _enters_. LINDGREN. [_Observing the newcomer closely_] Well, good-bye. AXEL--and good luck! [_He goes out_. AXEL. Good-bye. SIXTH SCENE AXEL. _The_ FIANCÉ [_much embarrassed_] AXEL. With whom have I the honour----? FIANCÉ. My name is not a name in the same way as yours, Doctor, and my errand concerns a matter of the heart---- AXEL. Oh, do you happen to be--You know Miss Cecilia? FIANCÉ. I am the man. AXEL. [_Hesitating for a moment; then with decision_] Please be seated. [_He opens the door and beckons the_ WAITER. _The_ WAITER _enters_. AXEL. [_To the_ WAITER] Have my bill made out, see that my trunk is packed, and bring me a carriage in half an hour. WAITER. [_Bowing and leaving_] Yes, Doctor. AXEL. [_Goes up to the_ FIANCÉ _and sits down on a chair beside him_] Now let's hear what you have to say? FIANCÉ. [_After a pause, with unction_] There were two men living in the same city, one rich and the other poor. The rich man had sheep and cattle in plenty. The poor man owned nothing but one ewe lamb---- AXEL. What does that concern me? FIANCÉ. [_As before_] One ewe lamb, which he had bought and was trying to raise. AXEL. Oh, life's too short. What do you want? Are you and Miss Cecilia still engaged? FIANCÉ. [_Changing his tone_] I haven't said a word about Miss Cecilia, have I? AXEL. Well, sir, you had better get down to business, or I'll show you the door. But be quick about it, and get straight to the point, without any frills---- FIANCÉ. [_Holding out his snuff-box_] May I? AXEL. No, thanks. FIANCÉ. A great man like you has no such little weaknesses, I suppose? AXEL. As you don't seem willing to speak, I shall. Of course, it is none of your business, but it may do you good to learn of it, as you don't seem to know it: I am regularly engaged to Miss Cecilia, who formerly was your fiancée. FIANCÉ. [_Startled_] Who was? AXEL. Because she has broken with you. FIANCÉ. I know nothing about it. AXEL. [_Taking a ring from the pocket of his waistcoat]_ That's strange, but now you do know. And here you can see the ring she has given me. FIANCÉ. So she has broken with me? AXEL. Yes, as she couldn't be engaged to two men at the same time, and as she had ceased to care for you, she had to break with you. I might have told you all this in a more decent fashion, if you hadn't stepped on my corns the moment you came in. FIANCÉ. I didn't do anything of the kind. AXEL. Cowardly and disingenuous--cringing and arrogant at the same time! FIANCÉ. [_Gently_] You are a hard man, Doctor. AXEL. No, but I may become one. You showed no consideration for my feelings a moment ago. You sneered, which I didn't. And that's the end of our conversation. FIANCÉ. [_With genuine emotion_] I feared that you might take away from me my only lamb--but you wouldn't do that, you who have so many---- AXEL. Suppose I wouldn't--are you sure she would stay with you anyhow? FIANCÉ. Put yourself in my place, Doctor---- AXEL. Yes, if you'll put yourself in mine. FIANCÉ. I am a poor man---- AXEL. So am I! But judging by what I see and hear, you have certain bliss waiting for you in the beyond. That's more than I have.--And, furthermore, I have taken nothing away from you: I have only received what was offered me. Just as you did! FIANCÉ. And I who had been dreaming of a future for this young woman--a future full of brightness---- AXEL. Pardon me a piece of rudeness, but you began it: are you so sure that the future of this young woman will not turn out a great deal brighter by my side? FIANCÉ. You are now reminding me of my humble position as a worker---- AXEL. No, I am reminding you of that young woman's future, which you have so much at heart. And as I am told that she has ceased to care for you, but does care for me, I am only taking the liberty to dream of a brighter future for her with the man she loves than with the man she doesn't love. FIANCÉ. You are a strong man, you are, and we little ones were born to be your victims! AXEL. See here, my man, I have been told that you got the better of another rival for Cecilia's heart, and that you were not very scrupulous about the means used for the purpose. How do you think that _victim_ liked you? FIANCÉ. He was a worthless fellow. AXEL. From whom you saved the girl! And now I save her from you! Good-bye! SEVENTH SCENE AXEL. _The_ FIANCÉ. CECILIA. FIANCÉ. Cecilia! CECILIA _draws back from him_. FIANCÉ. You seem to know your way into this place? AXEL. [_To the_ FIANCÉ] You had better disappear! CECILIA. I want some water! FIANCÉ. [_Picking up the whisky bottle from the table_] The bottle seems to be finished!--Beware of that man, Cecilia! AXEL. [_Pushing the_ FIANCÉ _out through the door_] Oh, your presence is wholly superfluous--get out! FIANCÉ. Beware of that man, Cecilia! [_He goes out_. EIGHTH SCENE AXEL. CECILIA. AXEL. That was a most unpleasant incident, which you might have spared me--both by breaking openly with him and by not coming to my room. CECILIA. [_Weeping_] So I am to be scolded, too? AXEL. Well, the responsibility had to be fixed, and now, when that's done--we can talk of something else.--How are you, to begin with? CECILIA. So, so! AXEL. Not well, that means? CECILIA. How are you? AXEL. Fine--only a little tired. CECILIA. Are you going with me to see my aunt this after-noon? AXEL. No, I cannot, for I have to drive out. CECILIA. And that's more fun, of course. You go out such a lot, and I--never! AXEL. Hm! CECILIA. Why do you say "hm"? AXEL. Because your remark made an unpleasant impression on me. CECILIA. One gets so many unpleasant impressions these days---- AXEL. For instance? CECILIA. By reading the papers. AXEL. So you have been reading those scandalous stories about me! And you believe them? CECILIA. One doesn't know what to believe. AXEL. So you really suspect me of being the unscrupulous fellow pictured in those stories? And as you are nevertheless willing to marry me, I must assume that you are moved by purely practical considerations and not by any personal attraction. CECILIA. You speak so harshly, as if you didn't care for me at all! AXEL. Cecilia--are you willing to leave this place with me in fifteen minutes? CECILIA. In fifteen minutes! For where! AXEL. London. CECILIA. I am not going with you until we are married. AXEL. Why? CECILIA. Why should we leave like that, all of a sudden? AXEL. Because--it's suffocating here! And if I stay, they'll drag me down so deep that I'll never get up again. CECILIA. How strange! Are you as badly off as that? AXEL. Do you come with me, or do you not? CECILIA. Not until we are married--for afterward you would never marry me. AXEL. So that's your faith in me!--Will you sit down for a moment, then, while I go in and write a couple of letters? CECILIA. Am I to sit here alone, with all the doors open? AXEL. Well, don't lock the door, for then we are utterly lost. [_He goes out to the left_. CECILIA. Don't be long! _She goes up to the door leading to the hallway and turns the key in the lock_. NINTH SCENE CECILIA _alone for a moment. Then_ MARIE _enters_. CECILIA. Wasn't the door locked? MARIE. Not as far as I could see!--So it was meant to be locked? CECILIA. I haven't the honour? MARIE. Nor have I. CECILIA. Why should you? MARIE. How refined! Oh, I see! So it's you! And I am the victim--for a while! CECILIA. I don't know you. MARIE. But I know you pretty well. CECILIA. [_Rises and goes to the door at the left_] Oh, you do? [_Opening the door and speaking to_ AXEL] Come out here a moment! TENTH SCENE CECILIA. MARIE. AXEL. AXEL. [_Entering; to_ MARIE] What do you want here? MARIE. Oh, one never can tell. AXEL. Then you had better clear out. MARIE. Why? AXEL. Because what there was between us came to an end three years ago. MARIE. And now there is another one to be thrown on the scrap heap? AXEL. Did I ever give you any promises that were not kept? Have I ever owed you anything? Have I ever said a word about marriage? Have we had any children together? Have I been the only one to receive your favours? MARIE. But now you mean to be the only one? With that one over there! CECILIA. [_Goes up to_ MARIE] What do you mean?--I don't know you! MARIE. No, but there was a time when you did know me. And I remember that when we met in the streets we called each other by our first names. [_To_ AXEL] And now you are going to marry her? No, you know, you are really too good for that! AXEL. [_To_ CECILIA] Have you known that woman before? CECILIA. No. MARIE. You ought to be ashamed of yourself? I simply didn't recognise you at first because of your swell clothes---- AXEL _gazes intently at_ CECILIA. CECILIA. [_To_ AXEL] Come--I'll go with you! AXEL. [_Preoccupied_] In a moment! Just wait a while! I am only going in to write another letter--But now we'll close the door first of all. MARIE. No, thank you, I don't want to be locked in as she was a while ago. AXEL. [_Interested_] Was the door locked? CECILIA. [_To_ MARIE] You don't dare say that the door was locked! MARIE. As you expected it to be locked, I suppose you had tried to lock it and had not succeeded---- AXEL. [_Observes_ CECILIA; _then to_ MARIE] It always seemed to me that you were a nice girl, Marie. Will you let me have my letters back now? MARIE. No. AXEL. What are you going to do with them? MARIE. I hear that I can sell them, now when you have become famous. AXEL. And get your revenge at the same time? MARIE. Exactly. AXEL. Is it Lindgren----? MARIE. Yes!--And here he is now himself. ELEVENTH SCENE CECILIA. MARIE. AXEL. LINDGREN. LINDGREN. [_Enters in high spirits_] Well, what a lot of skirts! And Marie, too--like the cuckoo that's in every nest! Now listen, Axel! AXEL. I hear you even when I don't see you. You're in a fine humour--what new misfortune has befallen me? LINDGREN. I was only a little sour this morning because I hadn't had a chance to get wound up. But now I've had a bite to eat--Well, you see--at bottom you don't owe me anything at all. For what I did, I did out of my heart's goodness, and it has brought me both honour and pleasure--and what you got was a gift and no loan! AXEL. Now you are altogether too modest and generous. LINDGREN. Not at all! However, one favour calls for another. Would you mind becoming my surety on this note? AXEL _hesitates_. LINDGREN. Well, you needn't be afraid that I'm going to put you in the same kind of fix as your brother did---- AXEL. What do you mean? It was I who put him---- LINDGREN. Yes, to the tune of two hundred crowns--but he got your name as surety for five years' rent---- AXEL. [_In a low voice_] Jesus Christ! LINDGREN. What's that?--Hm--hm! AXEL. [_Looking at his watch_] Just wait a few minutes--I have only to write a couple of letters. CECILIA _starts to go with him_. AXEL. [_Holds her back_] Just a few minutes, my dear--[_He kisses her on the forehead_] Just a few minutes! [_He goes toward the left_. LINDGREN. Here's the note--you might sign it while you are at it. AXEL. Give it to me! [_He goes out with an air of determination_. TWELFTH SCENE CECILIA. MARIE. LINDGREN. LINDGREN. Well, girls, are you on good terms again? MARIE. Oh, yes, and before we get away, we'll be on still better terms. CECILIA _makes a face_. MARIE. I should like to have some fun to-day. LINDGREN. Come along with me! I'll have money! MARIE. No! CECILIA _sits down with evident anxiety near the door through which_ AXEL _disappeared--as if seeking support in that direction_. LINDGREN. Let's take in the fireworks to-night--then we can see how a great man looks in red light--what do you say to that, Cissie dear? CECILIA. Oh, I'll be sick if I have to stay here longer! MARIE. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. LINDGREN. Scrap, girls, and I'll watch you! Fight till the fur flies--won't you? THIRTEENTH SCENE CECILIA. MARIE. LINDGREN. THURE _and his_ WIFE _enter_. LINDGREN. Well, well! Old friends! How are you? THURE. All right. LINDGREN. And the child? THURE. The child? LINDGREN. Oh, you have forgotten it?--Are you equally forgetful about names? THURE. Names? LINDGREN. Signatures!--He must be writing an awful lot in there! THURE. Is my brother, the doctor, in there? LINDGREN. I don't know if the doctor is there, but your brother went in there a while ago.--And, for that matter, we might find out. [_He knocks at the door_] Silent as the grave! [_Knocks again_] Then I'll walk right in. [_He goes out; everybody appears restless and anxious_. CECILIA. What can it mean? MARIE. Well, we'll see now. THURE. What has happened here? WIFE. Something is up!--You'll see he doesn't help us! LINDGREN. [_Returns, carrying in his hand a small bottle and some letters_] What does it say? [_He reads the label on the bottle_] Cyanide of potassium!--How stupid! What a sentimental idiot--to kill himself for so little--[_Everybody cries out_] So you were no beast of prey, my dear Axel!--But-[_He stares through the open door into the adjoining room_]--he's not there--and his things are gone, too. So he has skipped out! And the bottle has never been opened! That means--he meant to kill himself, but changed his mind!--And these are his posthumous writings. "To Miss Cecilia"--seems to contain some round object--probably an engagement ring--there you are!--"To my brother THURE" [_He holds up the letter to the light_]--with a piece of blue paper inside--must be a note--for the amount involved! You're welcome! _The_ FIANCÉ _appears in the doorway at the right_. THURE. [_Who has opened his letter_] Do you see that he helped us after all---- WIFE. Oh, in that way! LINDGREN. And here's my note--without his name--He's a strong one, all right! _Diable!_ MARIE. Then the fireworks will be called off, I suppose? FIANCÉ. Was there nothing for me? LINDGREN. Yes, I think there was a fiancée--somewhere over there!--I tell you, that fellow is a wonder at clearing up tangled affairs!--Of course, it makes me mad to think that I let myself be fooled--but I'll be darned if I don't think I would have done just as he did!--And so would you, perhaps?--Or what do you think? _Curtain_. ADVENT (ADVENT) A MIRACLE PLAY 1899 CHARACTERS _The_ JUDGE _The_ OLD LADY, _wife of the Judge_ AMELIA ADOLPH _The_ NEIGHBOUR ERIC THYRA _being the same person_ _The_ OTHER ONE _The_ FRANCISCAN _The_ PLAYMATE _The_ WITCH _The_ PRINCE _Subordinate characters, shadows, etc._ ACT I. THE VINEYARD WITH THE MAUSOLEUM ACT II. THE DRAWING-ROOM ACT III. THE WINE-CELLAR THE GARDEN ACT IV. THE CROSS-ROADS THE "WAITING-ROOM" THE CROSS-ROADS ACT V. THE DRAWING-ROOM THE "WAITING-ROOM" ACT I _The background represents a vineyard. At the left stands a mausoleum. It consists of a small whitewashed brick building with a door and a pointed window that lacks mullions and panes. The roof is made of red tiles. A cross crowns the gable. Clematis vines with purple-coloured, cross-shaped flowers cover the front wall, at the foot of which appear a number of other flowers_. _A peach-tree carrying fruit stands near the foreground. Be-neath it sit the_ JUDGE _and the_ OLD LADY. _The_ JUDGE _wears a green cap with a peak, yellow knee-breeches, and--a blue coat--all dating back to_ 1820. _The_ OLD LADY _wears a kerchief on her head and carries a stick, spectacles, and snuff-box. She has the general appearance of a "witch." At the right is a small expiatory chapel containing an image of the Holy Virgin. The fence in front of it is hung with wreaths and nosegays. A prie-dieu is placed against the fence_. JUDGE. Life's eve has at last brought the sunshine which its morning promised us. Early rains and late rains have blessed meadow and field. And soon the songs of the vintagers will be heard all over the country. OLD LADY. Don't talk like that; somebody might hear you. JUDGE. Who could be listening here, and what harm could it do to thank God for all good gifts? OLD LADY. It's better not to mention one's good fortune lest misfortune overhear it. JUDGE. What of it? Was I not born with a caul? OLD LADY. Take care, take care! There are many who envy us, and evil eyes are watching us. JUDGE. Well, let them! That's the way it has always been. And yet I have prospered. OLD LADY. So far, yes. But I don't trust our neighbour. He has been going around the village saying that we have cheated him out of his property--and much more of the same kind which I don't care to repeat. Of course, it doesn't matter when one has a clean conscience and can point to a spotless life. Slander cannot hurt me. I go to confession and mass, and I am prepared to close my eyes whenever my hour may strike in order to open them again when I shall stand face to face with my Judge. And I know also what I am going to answer then. JUDGE. What are you going to answer? OLD LADY. Like this: I was not without fault, O Lord, but even if I was but a poor, sinful human creature, I was nevertheless a little better than my neighbour. JUDGE. I don't know what has brought you to these thoughts just now, and I don't like them. Perhaps it is the fact that the mausoleum is to be consecrated in a few days? OLD LADY. Perhaps that is it, for, as a rule, I don't give much thought to death. I have still every tooth left in my mouth, and my hair is as plentiful as when I was a bride. JUDGE. Yes, yes--you have eternal youth, you as well as I, but just the same we shall have to pass away. And as fortune has smiled on us, we have wanted to avail ourselves of the privilege of resting in ground belonging to ourselves And so we have built this little tomb for ourselves here, where every tree knows us, where every flower will whisper of our labours, and our troubles, and our struggles---- OLD LADY. Yes, struggles against envious neighbours and ungrateful children---- JUDGE. There you said it: ungrateful children.--Have you seen anything of Adolph? OLD LADY. No, I haven't seen him since he started out this morning to raise the money for the rent. JUDGE. The money which he will never get--and I still less. But he knows now that the time of grace is up, for this is the third quarter rent that he has failed to pay. OLD LADY. Yes, out with him into the world, and let him learn to work instead of sitting here and playing at son-in-law. I'll keep Amelia and the children---- JUDGE. Do you think Amelia will let herself be separated from Adolph? OLD LADY. I think so, when it is a question whether her children are to inherit anything from us or not--No, look! There it is again! _On the wall of the mausoleum appears a spot of sunlight like those which children are fond of producing with a small mirror_.[1] _It is vibrating as if it were reflected by running water_. JUDGE. What is it? What is it? OLD LADY. On the mausoleum. Don't you see? JUDGE. It's the reflection of the sun on the river. It means---- OLD LADY. It means that we'll see the light of the sun for a long time to come---- JUDGE. On the contrary. But that's all one. The best pillow for one's head is a good conscience, and the reward of the righteous never fails.--There's our neighbour now. NEIGHBOUR. [_Enters_] Good evening, Judge. Good evening, madam. JUDGE. Good evening, neighbour. How goes it? It wasn't yesterday we had the pleasure. And how are your vines, I should have asked? NEIGHBOUR. The vines, yes--there's mildew on them, and the starlings are after them, too. JUDGE. Well, well! There's no mildew on my vines, and I have neither seen nor heard of any starlings. NEIGHBOUR. Fate does not distribute its gifts evenly: one shall be taken and the other left. OLD LADY. I suppose there are good reasons for it? NEIGHBOUR. I see! The reward of the righteous shall not fail, and the wicked shall not have to wait for their punishment. JUDGE. Oh, no malice meant! But you have to admit, anyhow, that it's queer: two parcels of land lie side by side, and one yields good harvests, the other poor ones---- NEIGHBOUR. One yields starlings and the other not: that's what I find queerer still. But, then, everybody wasn't born with a caul, like you, Judge. JUDGE. What you say is true, and fortune _has_ favoured me. I am thankful for it, and there are moments when I feel proud of it as if I had deserved it.--But listen, neighbour--you came as if you had been sent for.--That leasehold of mine is vacant, and I wanted to ask you if you care to take it. [Footnote 1: In Sweden such spots are called "sun-cats."] _The_ OLD LADY _has in the meantime left her seat and gone to the mausoleum, where she is busying herself with the flowers_. NEIGHBOUR. Oh, the leasehold is vacant. Hm! Since when? JUDGE. Since this morning. NEIGHBOUR. Hm! So!--That means your son-in-law has got to go? JUDGE. Yes, that good-for-nothing doesn't know how to manage. NEIGHBOUR. Tell me something else, Judge. Haven't you heard that the state intends to build a military road across this property? JUDGE. Oh, I have heard some rumours to that effect, but I don't think it's anything but empty talk. NEIGHBOUR. On the contrary, I have read it in the papers. That would mean condemnation proceedings, and the loser would be the holder of the lease. JUDGE. I cannot think so, and I would never submit to it. I to leave this spot where I expect to end my days in peace, and where I have prepared a final resting-place to escape lying with all the rest---- NEIGHBOUR. Wait a minute! One never knows what may prove one's final resting-place. My father, who used to own this property, also expected to be laid to rest in his own ground, but it happened otherwise. As far as the leasehold is concerned, I must let it go. JUDGE. As you please. On my part the proposition was certainly disinterested, as you are a man without luck. For it is no secret that you fail in everything you undertake, and people have their own thoughts about one who remains as solitary and friendless as you. Isn't it a fact that you haven't a single friend? NEIGHBOUR. Yes, it's true. I have not a single friend, and that doesn't look well. It is something I cannot deny. JUDGE. But to turn to other matters--is it true, as the legend has it, that this vineyard once was a battle-field, and that this explains why the wine from it is so fiery? NEIGHBOUR. No, that isn't what I have heard. My father told me that this had been a place of execution, and that the gallows used to stand where the mausoleum is now. JUDGE. Oh, how dreadful! Why did you tell me? NEIGHBOUR. Because you asked, of course.--And the last man to be hanged on this spot was an unrighteous judge. And now he lies buried here, together with many others, among them being also an innocent victim of his iniquity. JUDGE. What kind of stories are those! [_He calls out_] Caroline! NEIGHBOUR. And that's why his ghost has to come back here. Have you never seen him, Judge? JUDGE. I have never seen anything at all! NEIGHBOUR. But I have seen him. As a rule, he appears at the time when the grapes are harvested, and then they hear him around the wine-press down in the cellar. JUDGE. [_Calling out_] Caroline! OLD LADY. What is it? JUDGE. Come here! NEIGHBOUR. And he will never be at peace until he has suffered all the torments his victim had to pass through. JUDGE. Get away from here! Go! NEIGHBOUR. Certainly, Judge! I didn't know you were so sensitive. [_He goes out_. OLD LADY. What was the matter? JUDGE. Oh, he told a lot of stories that upset me. But-but--he is plotting something evil, that fellow! OLD LADY. Didn't I tell you so! But you always let your tongue run whenever you see anybody--What kind of foolish superstition was he giving you? JUDGE. I don't want to talk of it. The mere thought of it makes me sick. I'll tell you some other time.--There's Adolph now! ADOLPH. [_Entering_] Good evening! JUDGE. [_After a pause_] Well? ADOLPH. Luck is against me. I have not been able to get any money. JUDGE. I suppose there are good reasons for it? ADOLPH. I can see no reason why some people should fare well and others badly. JUDGE. Oh, you can't?--Well, look into your own heart; search your own thoughts and actions, and you'll find that you have yourself to blame for your misfortunes. ADOLPH. Perhaps I may not call myself righteous in every respect, but at least I have no serious crimes on my conscience. OLD LADY. You had better think well---- ADOLPH. I don't think that's needful, for my conscience is pretty wakeful---- JUDGE. It can be put to sleep---- ADOLPH. Can it? Of course I have heard of evil-doers growing old in crime, but as a rule their consciences wake up just before death; and I have even heard of criminals whose consciences have awakened after death. JUDGE. [_Agitated_] So that they had to come back, you mean? Have you heard that story, too? It's strange that everybody seems to have heard it except me---- OLD LADY. What are you talking about? Stick to business instead. ADOLPH. Yes, I think that's wiser, too. And, as the subject has been broached, I want to tell you what I propose---- JUDGE. Look here, my boy! I think it a good deal more appropriate that I should tell you what I have decided. It is this: that from this day you cease to be my tenant, and that before the sun sets you must start out to look for work. ADOLPH. Are you in earnest? JUDGE. You ought to be ashamed! I am not in the habit of joking. And you have no cause for complaint, as you have been granted respite twice. ADOLPH. While my crops have failed three times. Can I help that? JUDGE. Nor have I said so. But I can help it still less. And you are not being judged by me. Here is the contract--here's the broken agreement. Was that agreement broken by me? Oh, no! So I am without responsibility and wash my hands of the matter. ADOLPH. This may be the law, but I had thought there ought to be some forbearance among relatives--especially as, in the natural course of events, this property should pass on to your offspring. OLD LADY. Well, well: the natural course of events! He's going around here wishing the life out of us! But you just look at me: I am good for twenty years more. And I am _going_ to live just to spite you! JUDGE. [_To_ Adolph] What rudeness--what a lack of all human feeling--to ask a couple of old people outright: are you not going to die soon? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, I say! But now you have broken the last tie, and all I can say is: go your way, and don't let yourself be seen here any more! ADOLPH. That's plain talk! Well, I'll go, but not alone---- OLD LADY. So-o--you imagined that Amelia, our own child, should follow you out on the highways, and that all you would have to do would be to unload one child after another on us! But we have already thought of that and put a stop to it---- ADOLPH. Where is Amelia? Where? OLD LADY. You may just as well know. She has gone on; a visit to the convent of the Poor Clares--only for a visit. So now you know it's of no use to look for her here. ADOLPH. Some time you will have to suffer for your cruelty in depriving a man in distress of his only support. And if you break up our marriage, the penalty of that breach will fall on you. JUDGE. You should be ashamed of putting your own guilt on those that are innocent! Go now! And may you hunger and thirst, with every door closed to you, until you have learned gratitude! ADOLPH. The same to you in double measure!--But let me only bid my children good-bye, and I will go. JUDGE. As you don't want to spare your children the pain of leave-taking, I'll do so--have already done it, in fact. ADOLPH. That, too! Then I believe you capable of all the evil that has been rumoured. And now I know what our neighbour meant when he said that you couldn't--endure the sun! JUDGE. Not another word! Or you will feel the heavy hand of law and justice---- _He raises his right hand so that the absence of its forefinger becomes visible_. ADOLPH. [_Takes hold of the hand and examines it_] The hand of justice!--The hand of the perjurer whose finger stuck to the Bible when he took his false oath! Woe unto you! Woe! For the day of retribution is at hand, and your deeds will rise like corpses out of these hillsides to accuse you. OLD LADY. What is that he is saying? It feels as if he were breathing fire at us!--Go, you lying spirit, and may hell be your reward! ADOLPH. May Heaven reward you--according to your deserts--and may the Lord protect my children! [_He goes out_. JUDGE. What was that? Who was it that spoke? It seemed to me as if the voice were coming out of some huge underground hall. OLD LADY. Did you hear it, too? JUDGE. God help us, then!--Do you remember what he said about the sun? That struck me as more peculiar than all the rest. How could he know--that it is so? Ever since my birth the sun has always burned me, and they have told me this is so because my mother suffered from sunstroke before I was born--but that you also---- OLD LADY. [_Frightened_] Hush! Talk of the devil, and--Isn't the sun down? JUDGE. Of course it is down! OLD LADY. How can that spot of sunlight remain on the mausoleum, then? [_The spot moves around_. JUDGE. Jesus Maria! That's an omen! OLD LADY. An omen, you say! And on the grave! That doesn't happen every day--and only a few chosen people who are full of living faith in the highest things---- [_The spot of light disappears_. JUDGE. There is something weird about the place to-night, something ghastly.--But what hurt me most keenly was to hear that good-for-nothing wishing the life out of us in order to get at the property. Do you know what I--well, I wonder if I dare to speak of it---- OLD LADY. Go on! JUDGE. Have you heard the story that this spot here used to be a place of execution? OLD LADY. So you have found that out, too? JUDGE. Yes--and you knew it?--Well, suppose we gave this property to the convent? That would make the ground sacred, and it would be possible to rest in peace in it. The income might go to the children while they are growing up, and it would mean an additional gain, as Adolph would be fooled in his hope of inheriting from us. I think this a remarkably happy solution of a difficult problem: how to give away without losing anything by it. OLD LADY. Your superior intelligence has again asserted itself, and I am quite of your opinion. But suppose condemnation proceedings should be started--what would happen then? JUDGE. There is plenty of time to consider that when it happens. In the meantime, let us first of all, and as quietly as possible, get the mausoleum consecrated---- FRANCISCAN. [_Enters_] The peace of the Lord be with you, Judge, and with you, madam! JUDGE. You come most conveniently, Father, to hear something that concerns the convent---- FRANCISCAN. I am glad of it. _The spot of light appears again on the mausoleum_. OLD LADY. And then we wanted to ask when the consecration of the mausoleum might take place. FRANCISCAN. [_Staring at her_] Oh, is that so? JUDGE. Look, Father--look at that omen---- OLD LADY. Yes, the spot must be sacred, indeed---- FRANCISCAN. That's a will-o'-the-wisp. OLD LADY. Is it not a good sign? Does it not carry some kind of message? Does it not prompt a pious mind to stop and consider? Would it not be possible to turn this place into a refuge for desert wanderers who are seeking---- FRANCISCAN. Madam, let me speak a word to you in private. [_He moves over to the right._ OLD LADY. [_Following him_] Father? FRANCISCAN. [_Speaking in a subdued voice_] You, madam, enjoy a reputation in this vicinity which you don't deserve, for you are the worst sinner that I know of. You want to buy your pardon, and you want to steal heaven itself, you who have already stolen from the Lord. OLD LADY. What is it I hear? FRANCISCAN. When you were sick and near death you made a vow to the Lord that in case of recovery you would give a monstrance of pure gold to the convent church. Your health was restored and you gave the holy vessel, but it was of silver--gilded. Not for the sake of the gold, but because of your broken vow and your deception, you are already damned. OLD LADY. I didn't know it. The goldsmith has cheated me. FRANCISCAN. You are lying, for I have the goldsmith's bill. OLD LADY. Is there no pardon for it? FRANCISCAN. No! For it is a mortal sin to cheat God. OLD LADY. Woe is me! FRANCISCAN. The settlement of your other crimes will have to take place within yourself. But if you as much as touch a hair on the heads of the children, then you shall learn who is their protector, and you shall feel the iron rod. OLD LADY. The idea--that this infernal monk should dare to say such things to me! If I am damned--then I want to be damned! Ha, ha! FRANCISCAN. Well, you may be sure that there will be no blessing for your house and no peace for yourself until you have suffered every suffering that you have brought on others.--May I speak a word with you, Judge? _The_ JUDGE _approaches_. OLD LADY. Yes, give him what he deserves, so that one may be as good as the other. FRANCISCAN. [_To the_ Judge] Where did you get the idea of building your tomb where the gallows used to stand? JUDGE. I suppose I got it from the devil! FRANCISCAN. Like the idea of casting off your children and robbing them of their inheritance? But you have also been an unrighteous judge--you have violated oaths and accepted bribes. JUDGE. I? FRANCISCAN. And now you want to erect a monument to yourself! You want to build yourself an imperishable house in heaven! But listen to me: this spot will never be consecrated, and you may consider it a blessing if you are permitted to rest in common ground among ordinary little sinners. There is a curse laid on this soil, because blood-guilt attaches to it and because it is ill-gotten. JUDGE. What am I to do? FRANCISCAN. Repent, and restore the stolen property. JUDGE. I have never stolen. Everything has been legally acquired. FRANCISCAN. That, you see, is the worst part of all--that you regard your crimes as lawful. Yes, I know that you even consider yourself particularly favoured by Heaven because of your righteousness. But now you will soon see what harvest is in store for you. Thorns and thistles will grow in your vineyard. Helpless and abandoned you shall be, and the peace of your old age will turn into struggle and strife. JUDGE. The devil you say! FRANCISCAN. Don't call him--he'll come anyhow! JUDGE. Let him come! Because we believe, we have no fear! FRANCISCAN. The devils believe also, and tremble!--Farewell! [_He goes out_. JUDGE. [_To his wife_] What did he say to you? OLD LADY. You think I'll tell? What did he have to say to you? JUDGE. And you think I'll tell? OLD LADY. Are you going to keep any secrets from me? JUDGE. And how about you? It's what you have always done, but I'll get to the bottom of your tricks some time. OLD LADY. Just wait a little, and I'll figure out where you keep the money that is missing. JUDGE. So you are hiding money, too! Now there is no longer any use in playing the hypocrite--just let yourself be seen in all your abomination, you witch! OLD LADY. I think you have lost your reason--not that it was much to keep! But you might at least preserve an appearance of decency, if you can---- JUDGE. And you might preserve your beauty--if you can! And your perennial youth--ha, ha, ha! And your righteousness! You must have known how to bewitch people, and hoodwink them, for now I see how horribly ugly and old you are. OLD LADY. [_On whom the spot of light now appears_] Woe! It is burning me! JUDGE. There I see you as you really are! [_The spot jumps to the_ JUDGE] Woe! It is burning me now! OLD LADY. And how you look! [_Both withdraw to the right_. [_The_ NEIGHBOUR _and_ AMELIA _enter from the left_. NEIGHBOUR. Yes, child, there is justice, both human and divine, but we must have patience. AMELIA. I am willing to believe that justice is done, in spite of all appearances to the contrary. But I cannot love my mother, and I have never been able to do so. There is something within me that keeps telling me that she is not only indifferent to me but actually hostile. NEIGHBOUR. So you have found it out? AMELIA. Why--she hates me, and a mother couldn't do that! NEIGHBOUR. Well, well! AMELIA. And I suffer from not being able to do my duty as a child and love her. NEIGHBOUR. Well, as _that_ has made you suffer, then you will soon--in the hour of retribution--learn the great secret of your life. AMELIA. And I could stand everything, if she were only kind to my children. NEIGHBOUR. Don't fear on that account, for her power is now ended. The measure of her wickedness has been heaped full and is now overflowing. AMELIA. Do you think so? But this very day she tore my Adolph away from me, and now she has humiliated me still further by dressing me as a servant girl and making me do the work in the kitchen. NEIGHBOUR. Patience! AMELIA. Yes, so you say! Oh, I can understand deserved suffering, but to suffer without cause---- NEIGHBOUR. My dear child, the prisoners in the penitentiary are suffering justly, so there is no honour in that; but to be permitted to suffer unjustly, that's a grace and a trial of which steadfast souls bring home golden fruits. AMELIA. You speak so beautifully that everything you say seems true to me.--Hush! There are the children--and I don't want them to see me dressed like this. _She and the_ NEIGHBOUR _take up a position where they are hidden by a tall shrub_. ERIC _and_ THYRA _enter; the spot of light rests now on one of them and now on the other_. ERIC. Look at the sun spot! THYRA. Oh, you beautiful sun! But didn't he go to bed a while ago? ERIC. Perhaps he is allowed to stay up longer than usual because he has been very good all day. THYRA. But how could the sun be good? Now you are stupid, Eric. ERIC. Of course the sun can be good--doesn't he make the grapes and the peaches? THYRA. But if he is so good, then he might also give us a peach. ERIC. So he will, if we only wait a little. Aren't there any on the ground at all? THYRA. [_Looking_] No, but perhaps we might get one from the tree. ERIC. No, grandmother won't let us. THYRA. Grandmother has said that we mustn't shake the tree, but I thought we could play around the tree so that one might fall down anyhow--of itself. ERIC. Now you are stupid, Thyra. That would be exactly the same thing. [_Looking up at the tree_] Oh, if only a peach would fall down! THYRA. None will fall unless you shake. ERIC. You mustn't talk like that, Thyra, for that is a sin. THYRA. Let's pray God to let one fall. ERIC. One shouldn't pray God for anything nice--that is, to eat!--Oh, little peach, won't you fall? I want you to fall! [_A peach falls from the tree, and_ ERIC _picks it up_] There, what a nice tree! THYRA. But now you must give me half, for it was I who said that the tree had to be shaken---- OLD LADY. [_Enters with a big birch rod_] So you have been shaking the tree--now you'll see what you'll get, you nasty children---- ERIC. No, grandmother, we didn't shake the tree! OLD LADY. So you are lying, too. Didn't I hear Thyra say that the tree had to be shaken? Come along now, and I'll lock you up in the cellar where neither sun nor moon is to be seen---- AMELIA. [_Coming forward_] The children are innocent, mother. OLD LADY. That's a fine thing--to stand behind the bushes listening, and then to teach one's own children how to lie besides! NEIGHBOUR. [_Appearing_] Nothing has been spoken here but the truth, madam. OLD LADY. Two witnesses behind the bushes--exactly as if we were in court. But I know the tricks, I tell you, and what I have heard and seen is sufficient evidence for me.--Come along, you brats! AMELIA. This is sinful and shameful---- _The_ NEIGHBOUR _signals to_ AMELIA _by putting his finger across his lips_. AMELIA. [_Goes up to her children_] Don't cry, children! Obey grandmother now--there is nothing to be afraid of. It is better to suffer evil than to do it, and I know that you are innocent. May God preserve you! And don't forget your evening prayer! _The_ OLD LADY _goes out with the children_. AMELIA. Belief comes so hard, but it is sweet if you can achieve it. NEIGHBOUR. Is it so hard to believe that God is good--at the very moment when his kind intentions are most apparent? AMELIA. Give me a great and good word for the night, so that I may sleep on it as on a soft pillow. NEIGHBOUR. You shall have it. Let me think a moment.--This is it: Isaac was to be sacrificed---- AMELIA. Oh, no, no! NEIGHBOUR. Quiet, now!--Isaac was to _be_ sacrificed, but he never was! AMELIA. Thank you! Thank you! And good night! _She goes out to the right_. NEIGHBOUR. Good night, my child! [_He goes slowly out by a path leading to the rear_. THE PROCESSION OF SHADOWS _enters from the mausoleum and moves without a sound across the stage toward the right; between every two figures there is a distance of five steps_: DEATH _with its scythe and hour-glass_. THE LADY IN WHITE--_blond, tall, and slender; on one of her fingers she wears a ring with a green stone that seems to emit rays of light_. THE GOLDSMITH, _with the counterfeit monstrance_. THE BEHEADED SAILOR, _carrying his head in one hand_. THE AUCTIONEER, _with hammer and note-book_. THE CHIMNEY-SWEEP, _with rope, scraper, and broom_. THE FOOL, _carrying his cap with the ass's ears and bells at the top of a pole, across which is placed a signboard with the word "Caul" on it_. THE SURVEYOR, _with measuring rod and tripod_. THE MAGISTRATE, _dressed and made up like the_ JUDGE; _he carries a rope around his neck; and his right hand is raised to show that the forefinger is missing_. _The stage is darkened at the beginning of the procession and remains empty while it lasts_. _When it is over, the_ JUDGE _enters from the left, followed by the_ OLD LADY. JUDGE. Why are you playing the ghost at this late hour? OLD LADY. And how about yourself? JUDGE. I couldn't sleep. OLD LADY. Why not? JUDGE. Don't know. Thought I heard children crying in the cellar. OLD LADY. That's impossible. Oh, no, I suppose you didn't dare to sleep for fear I might be prying in your hiding-places. JUDGE. And you feared I might be after yours! A pleasant old age this will be for Philemon and Baucis! OLD LADY. At least no gods will come to visit us. JUDGE. No, I shouldn't call them gods. _At this moment the_ PROCESSION _begins all over again, starting from the mausoleum as before and moving in silence toward the right_. OLD LADY. O Mary, Mother of God, what is this? JUDGE. Merciful heavens! [_Pause_] OLD LADY. Pray! Pray for us! JUDGE. I have tried, but I cannot. OLD LADY. Neither can I! The words won't come--and no thoughts! [_Pause_] JUDGE. How does the Lord's Prayer begin? OLD LADY. I can't remember, but I knew it this morning. [_Pause_] Who is the woman in white? JUDGE. It is she--Amelia's mother--whose very memory we wanted to kill. OLD LADY. Are these shadows or ghosts, or nothing but our own sickly dreams? JUDGE. [_Takes up his pocket-knife_] They are delusions sent by the devil. I'll throw cold steel after them.--Open the knife for me, Caroline! I can't, don't you see? OLD LADY. Yes, I see--it isn't easy without a forefinger.--But I can't either! [_She drops the knife_] JUDGE. Woe to us! Steel won't help here! Woe! There's the beheaded sailor! Let us get away from here! OLD LADY. That's easy to say, but I can't move from the spot. JUDGE. And I seem to be rooted to the ground.--No, I am not going to look at it any longer! [_He covers his eyes with one hand_. OLD LADY. But what is it? Mists out of the earth, or shadows cast by the trees? JUDGE. No, it's our own vision that plays us false. There I go now, and yet I am standing here. Just let me get a good night's sleep, and I'll laugh at the whole thing!--The devil! Is this masquerade never going to end? OLD LADY. But why do you look at it then? JUDGE. I see it right through my hand--I see it in the dark, with my eyelids closed! OLD LADY. But now it's over. _The_ PROCESSION _has passed out_. JUDGE. Praised be--why, I can't get the word out!--I wonder if it will be possible to sleep to-night? Perhaps we had better send for the doctor? OLD LADY. Or Father Colomba, perhaps? JUDGE. He can't help, and he who could won't!--Well, let the Other One do it then! THE OTHER ONE _enters from behind the Lady Chapel. He is extremely thin and moth-eaten. His thin, snuff-coloured hair is parted in the middle. His straggly beard looks as if it were made out of tow. His clothes are shabby and outgrown, and he seems to wear no linen. A red woollen muffler is wound around his neck. He wears spectacles and carries a piece of rattan under his arm_. JUDGE. Who is that? THE OTHER ONE. [_In a low voice_] I am the Other One! JUDGE. [_To his wife_] Make the sign of the cross! I can't! THE OTHER ONE. The sign of the cross does not frighten me, for I am undergoing my ordeal merely that I may wear it. JUDGE. Who are you? THE OTHER ONE. I became the Other One because I wanted to be the First One. I was a man of evil, and my punishment is to serve the good. JUDGE. Then you are not the Evil One? THE OTHER ONE. I am. And it is my task to torment you into finding the cross, before which we are to meet some time. OLD LADY. [_To_ JUDGE] Don't listen to him! Tell him to go! THE OTHER ONE. It won't help. You have called me, and you'll have to bear with me. _The_ JUDGE _and the_ OLD LADY _go out to the left_. THE OTHER ONE _goes after them_. _Curtain_. ACT II _A huge room with whitewashed walls and a ceiling of darkened beams. The windows are small and deeply set, with bars on the outside. The room is crowded with furniture of every kind: wardrobes, chiffoniers, dressers, chests, tables. On the furniture are placed silver services, candelabra, candlesticks, pitchers, table ware, vases, statues, etc. There is a door in the rear. Portraits of the_ JUDGE _and the_ OLD LADY _hang on the rear wall, one on either side of the door. A harp stands beside a small sewing-table with an easy chair near it_. AMELIA _is standing before a table at the right, trying to clean a coffee-set of silver_. _The sun is shining in through the windows in the background_. NEIGHBOUR. [_Enters_] Well, child, how is your patience? AMELIA. Thank you, neighbour, it might be worse. But I never had a worse job than this silver service here. I have worked at it for half an hour and cannot get it clean. NEIGHBOUR. That's strange, but I suppose there are reasons for it, as the Judge says. Could you sleep last night? AMELIA. Thank you, I slept very well. But do you know that father spent the whole night in the vineyard with his rattle----? NEIGHBOUR. Yes, I heard him. What kind of foolish idea was that? AMELIA. He thought he heard the starlings that had come to eat the grapes. NEIGHBOUR. Poor fellow! As if the starlings were abroad nights!--And the children? AMELIA. Well, the children--she is still keeping them in the cellar, and I hope she won't forget to give them something to eat. NEIGHBOUR. He who feeds the birds will not forget your children, my dear Amelia. And now I'll tell you something which, as a rule, shouldn't be told. There is a small hole in the wall between the Judge's wine-cellar and my own. When I was down there this morning to get the place aired out, I heard voices. And when I looked through the hole, I saw Eric and Thyra playing with a strange little boy. AMELIA. You could see them, neighbour? And---- NEIGHBOUR. They were happy and well---- AMELIA. Who was their playmate? NEIGHBOUR. That's more than I can guess. AMELIA. This whole dreadful house is nothing but secrets. NEIGHBOUR. That is true, but it is not for us to inquire into them. JUDGE. [_Enters, carrying a rattle_] So you are in here conspiring, neighbour! Is it not enough that your evil eye has brought the starlings into my vineyard? For you do have the evil eye--but we'll soon put it out. I know a trick or two myself. NEIGHBOUR. [_To_ AMELIA] Is it worth while to set him right? One who doesn't believe what is told him! [_He goes out_. AMELIA. No, this is beyond us! JUDGE. Tell me, Amelia, have you noticed where your mother is looking for things when she believes herself to be alone? AMELIA. No, father. JUDGE. I can see by your eyes that you know. You were looking this way. [_He goes up to a chest of drawers and happens to get into the sunlight_] Damn the sun that is always burning me! [_He pulls down one of the shades and returns to the chest of drawers_] This must be the place!--Now, let me see! The stupidest spot is also the cleverest, so that's where I must look--as in this box of perfume, for instance--And right I was! [_He pulls out a number of bank-notes and stocks_] What's this? Twelve English bills of a pound each. Twelve of them!--Oho! Then it is easy to imagine the rest. [_Pushes the bills and securities into his pockets_] But what is it I hear? There are the starlings again! [_He goes to an open window and begins to play the rattle_] Get away there! OLD LADY. [_Enters_] Are you still playing the ghost? JUDGE. Are you not in the kitchen? OLD LADY. No, as you see, I am not. [_To_ AMELIA] Are you not done with the cleaning yet? AMELIA. No, mother, I'll never get done with it. The silver won't clean, and I don't think it is real. OLD LADY. Not real? Let me see!--Why, indeed, it's quite black! [_To the_ JUDGE, _who in the meantime has pulled down another shade_] Where did you get this set from? JUDGE. That one? Why, it came from an estate. OLD LADY. For your services as executor! What you got was like what you gave! JUDGE. You had better not make any defamatory remarks, for they are punishable under the law. OLD LADY. Are you crazy, or was there anything crazy about my remark? JUDGE. And for that matter, it is silver--sterling silver. OLD LADY. Then it must be Amelia's fault. A VOICE. [_Coming through the window from the outside_] The Judge can turn white into black, but he can't turn black into white! JUDGE. Who said that? OLD LADY. It seemed as if one of the starlings had been speaking. JUDGE. [_Pulling down the remaining shade_] Now the sun is here, and a while ago it seemed to be over there. OLD LADY. [_To_ AMELIA] Who was it that spoke? AMELIA. I think it was that strange school-teacher with the red muffler. JUDGE. Ugh! Let us talk of something else. SERVANT GIRL. [_Enters_] Dinner is served. [_She goes out; a pause follows_. OLD LADY. You go down and eat, Amelia. AMELIA. Thank you, mother. [_She goes out_. _The_ JUDGE _sits down on a chair close to one of the chests_. OLD LADY. [_Sliding up to the chest of drawers >where the box of perfume stands_] Are you not going to eat anything? JUDGE. No, I am not hungry. How about you? OLD LADY. I have just eaten. [_Pause_. JUDGE. [_Takes a piece of bread from his pocket_] Then you'll excuse me, I'm sure. OLD LADY. There's a roast of venison on the table. JUDGE. You don't say so! OLD LADY. Do you think I poison the food? JUDGE. Yes, it tasted of carbolic acid this morning. OLD LADY. And what I ate had a sort of metallic taste---- JUDGE. If I assure you that I have put nothing whatever in your food---- OLD LADY. Then I don't believe you. But I can assure you---- JUDGE. And I won't believe it. [_Eating his bread_] Roast of venison is a good thing--I can smell it from here--but bread isn't bad either. [_Pause_. OLD LADY. Why are you sitting there watching that chest? JUDGE. For the same reason that makes you guard those perfumes. OLD LADY. So you have been there, you sneak-thief! JUDGE. Ghoul! OLD LADY. To think of it--such words between us! _Us_! [_She begins to weep_. JUDGE. Yes, the world is evil and so is man. OLD LADY. Yes, you may well say so--and ungrateful above all. Ungrateful children rob you of the rent; ungrateful grandchildren rob the fruit from the trees. You are right, indeed: the world is evil---- JUDGE. I ought to know, I who have had to witness all the rottenness, and who have been forced to pass the death sentence. That is why the mob hates me, just as if I had made the laws---- OLD LADY. It doesn't matter what the people say, if you have only a clean conscience--[_Three loud knocks are heard from the inside of the biggest wardrobe_] What was that? Who is there? JUDGE. Oh, it was that wardrobe. It always cracks when there is rain coming. [_Three distinct knocks are heard again_. OLD LADY. It's some kind of performance started by that strolling charlatan. _The cover of the coffee-pot which_ AMELIA _was cleaning, opens and drops down again with a bang; this happens several times in succession_. JUDGE. What was _that_, then? OLD LADY. Oh, yes, it's that same juggler. He can play tricks, but he can't scare me. [_The coffee-pot acts as before._ JUDGE. Do you think he is one of those mesmerists? OLD LADY. Well, whatever it happens to be called---- JUDGE. If that's so, how can he know our private secrets? OLD LADY. Secrets? What do you mean by that? _A clock begins to strike and keeps it up as if it never meant to stop_. JUDGE. Now I am getting scared. OLD LADY. Then Old Nick himself may take me if I stay here another minute! [_The spot of sunlight appears suddenly on the portrait of the_ OLD LADY] Look! He knows that secret, too! JUDGE. You mean that there is a portrait of _her_ behind yours? OLD LADY. Come away from here and let us go down and eat. And let us see whether we can't sell off the house and all the rest at auction---- JUDGE. You are right--sell off the whole caboodle and start a new life!--And now let us go down and eat. THE OTHER ONE _appears in the doorway_. _The_ JUDGE _and the_ OLD LADY _draw back from him_. JUDGE. That's an ordinary human being! OLD LADY. Speak to him! JUDGE. [_To_ THE OTHER ONE] Who are you, sir? THE OTHER ONE. I have told you twice. That you don't believe me is a part of your punishment, for if you could believe, your sufferings would be shortened by it. JUDGE. [_To his wife_] It's--_him_--sure enough! For I feel as if I were turning into ice. How are we to get rid of him?--Why, they say that the unclean spirits cannot bear the sound of music. Play something on the harp, Caroline. _Though badly frightened, the_ OLD LADY _sits down at the table on which the harp stands and begins to play a slow prelude in a minor key_. THE OTHER ONE _listens reverently and with evident emotion_. OLD LADY. [_To the_ JUDGE] Is he gone? THE OTHER ONE. I thank you for the music, madam. It lulls the pain and awakens memories of better things even in a lost soul--Thank you, madam!--Speaking of the auction, I think you are doing right, although, in my opinion, an honest declaration of bankruptcy would be still better--Yes, surrender your goods, and let every one get back his own. JUDGE. Bankruptcy? I have no debts---- THE OTHER ONE. No debts! OLD LADY. My husband _has_ no debts! THE OTHER ONE. No debts! That would be happiness, indeed! JUDGE. Well, that's the truth! But other people are in debt to me---- THE OTHER ONE. Forgive them then! JUDGE. This is not a question of pardon, but of payment---- THE OTHER ONE. All right! Then you'll be made to pay!--For the moment--farewell! But we'll meet frequently, and the last time at the great auction! [_He goes out backward_. JUDGE. He's afraid of the sun--he, too! Ha-ha! THE OTHER ONE. Yes, for some time yet. But once I have accustomed myself to the light, I shall hate darkness. [_He disappears_. OLD LADY. [_To the_ JUDGE] Do you really think he is--the Other One? JUDGE. Of course, that's not the way he is supposed to look but then times are changing and we with them. They used to say that he had gold and fame to give away, but this fellow goes around dunning---- OLD LADY. Oh, he's a sorry lot, and a charlatan--that's all! A milksop who doesn't dare to bite, no matter how much he would like to! THE OTHER ONE. [_Standing in the doorway again_] Take care, I tell you! Take care! JUDGE. [_Raising his right hand_] Take care yourself! THE OTHER ONE. [_Pointing at the_ JUDGE _with one hand as if it were a revolver_] Shame! JUDGE. [_Unable to move_] Woe is me! THE OTHER ONE. You have never believed in anything good. Now you shall have to believe in the Evil One. He who is _all goodness_ can harm nobody, you see, and so he leaves that to such villains as myself. But for the sake of greater effectiveness, you two must torture yourselves and each other. OLD LADY. [_Kneeling before_ THE OTHER ONE] Spare us! Help us! Mercy! THE OTHER ONE. [_With a gesture as if he were tearing his clothes_] Get up, woman! Woe is me! There is One, and One only, to whom you may pray! Get up now, or--Yes, now you believe, although I don't wear a red cloak, and don't carry sword or purse, and don't crack any jokes--but beware of taking me in jest! I am serious as sin and stern as retribution! I have not come to tempt you with gold and fame, but to chastise you with rods and scorpions--[_The clock begins to strike again; the stage turns dark_] Your time is nearly up. Therefore, put your house in order--because die you must! [_A noise as of thunder is heard_] Whose voice is speaking now? Do you think _he_ can be scared off with your rattle when he comes sweeping across your vineyard? Storm and Hail are his names; destruction nestles under his wings, and in his claws he carries punishment. Put on your caul now, and don your good conscience. [_The rattling of the hail-storm is heard outside_. JUDGE. Mercy! THE OTHER ONE. Yes, if you promise repentance. JUDGE. I promise on my oath---- THE OTHER ONE. You can take no oath, for you have already perjured yourself. But promise first of all to set the children free--and then all the rest! JUDGE. I promise! Before the sun has set, the children shall be here! THE OTHER ONE. That's the first step ahead, but if you turn back, then you'll see that I am as good as my name, which is--Legion! _He raises the rattan, and at that moment the_ JUDGE _comes able to move again_. _Curtain_. ACT III _A wine-cellar, with rows of casks along both side walls. The doorway in the rear is closed by an iron door_. _Every cask is marked with the name of the urine kept in it. Those nearest the foreground have small shelves above the taps, and the shelves hold glasses_. _At the right, in the foreground, stands a wine-press and near it are a couple of straw-bottomed chairs_. _Bottles, funnels, siphons, crates, etc., are scattered about the place_. ERIC _and_ THYRA _are seated by the wine-press_. ERIC. I think it's awfully dull. THYRA. I think grandmother is nasty. ERIC. You mustn't talk like that. THYRA. No, perhaps not, but she _is_ nasty. ERIC. You mustn't, Thyra, for then the little boy won't come and play with us again. THYRA. Then I won't say it again. I only wish it wasn't so dark. ERIC. Don't you remember, Thyra, that the boy said we shouldn't complain---- THYRA. Then I won't do it any more--[_The spot of sunlight appears on the ground_] Oh, look at the sun-spot! [_She jumps up and places her foot on the light._ ERIC. You mustn't step on the sun, Thyra. That's a sin! THYRA. I didn't mean to step on him. I just wanted to have him. Now see--I have him in my arms, and I can pat him.--Look! Now he's kissing me right on the mouth. _The_ PLAYMATE _enters from behind one of the casks; he wears a white garment reaching below his knees, and a blue scarf around the waist; on his feet are sandals; he is blond, and when he appears the cellar grows lighter_. ERIC. [_Goes to meet him and shakes hands with him_] Hello, little boy!--Come and shake hands, Thyra!--What's your name, boy? You must tell us to-day. _The_ PLAYMATE _merely looks at him_. THYRA. You shouldn't be so forward, Eric, for it makes him bashful.--But tell me, little boy, who is your papa? PLAYMATE. Don't be so curious. When you know me better, you'll learn all those things.--But let us play now. THYRA. Yes, but nothing instructive, for that is so tedious. I want it just to be nice. PLAYMATE. [_Smiling_] Shall I tell a story? THYRA. Yes, but not out of the Bible, for all those we know by heart---- _The_ PLAYMATE _smiles again_. ERIC. You say such things, Thyra, that he gets hurt---- PLAYMATE. No, my little friends, you don't hurt me--But now, if you are really good, we'll go and play in the open---- ERIC. Oh, yes, yes!--But then, you know, grandmother won't let us---- PLAYMATE. Yes, your grandmother has said that she wished you were out, and so we'll go before she changes her mind. Come on now! THYRA. Oh, what fun! Oh---- _The door in the rear flies open and through the doorway is seen a sunlit field planted with rye ready for the harvest. Among the yellow ears grow bachelor's-buttons and daisies_. PLAYMATE. Come, children! Come into the sunlight and feel the joy of living! THYRA. Can't we take the sun-spot along? It's a pity to leave it here in the darkness. PLAYMATE. Yes, if it is willing to go with you. Call it! ERIC _and_ THYRA _go toward the door, followed by the spot of light_. ERIC. Isn't it a nice little spot! [_Talks to the spot as if it were a cat_] Puss, puss, puss, puss! PLAYMATE. Take it up on your arm, Thyra, for I don't think it can get over the threshold. THYRA _gets the spot of light on her arm, which she bends as if carrying something_. _All three go out; the door closes itself. Pause_. _The_ JUDGE _enters with a lantern, the_ OLD LADY _with the birch rod_. OLD LADY. It's cool and nice here, and then there is no sun to bother you. JUDGE. And how quiet it is. But where are the children? [_Both look for the children_. JUDGE. It looks as if they had taken us at our word. OLD LADY. Us? Please observe that I didn't promise anything, for he--you know--talked only to you toward the end. JUDGE. Perhaps, but this time we had better obey, for I don't want to have any more trouble with hail-storms and such things.--However, the children are not here, and I suppose they'll come back when they get hungry. OLD LADY. And I wish them luck when they do! [_The rod is snatched out of her hand and dances across the floor; finally it disappears behind one of the casks_] Now it's beginning again. JUDGE. Well, why don't you submit and do as he--you know who!--says? I, for my part, don't dare to do wrong any longer. The growing grapes have been destroyed, and we must take pleasure in what is already safe. Come here, Caroline, and let us have a glass of something good to brace us up! [_He knocks on one of the casks and draws a glass of wine from it_] This is from the year of the comet--anno 1869, when the big comet came, and everybody said it meant war. And, of course, war did break out. [_He offers a filled glass to his wife_. OLD LADY. You drink first! JUDGE. Well, now--did you think there might be poison in this, too? OLD LADY. No, really, I didn't--but--we'll never again know what peace is, or happiness! JUDGE. Do as I do: submit! [_He drinks_. OLD LADY. I want to, and I try to, but when I come to think how badly other people have treated us, I feel that I am just as good as anybody else. [_She drinks_] That's a very fine wine! [_She sits down_. JUDGE. The wine is good, and it makes the mind easier.--Yes, the wiseacres say that we are rapscallions, one and all, so I can't see what right anybody has to go around finding fault with the rest. [_He drinks_] My own actions have always been legal; that is, in keeping with prevailing laws and constitutions. If others happened to be ignorant of the law, they had only themselves to blame, for no one has a right to ignorance of that kind. For that reason, if Adolph does not pay the rent, it is he who breaks the law, and not I. OLD LADY. And yet the blame falls on you, and you are made to appear like a criminal. Yes, it is as I have always said: there is no justice in this world. If you had done right, you should have brought suit against Adolph and turned out the whole family. But then it isn't too late yet---- [_She drinks_. JUDGE. Well, you see, if I were to carry out the law strictly, then I should sue for the annulment of his marriage, and that would cut him off from the property---- OLD LADY. Why don't you do it? JUDGE. [_Looking around_] We-e-ell!--I suppose that would settle the matter once for all. A divorce would probably not be granted, but I think it would be possible to get the marriage declared invalid on technical grounds---- OLD LADY. And if there be no such grounds? JUDGE. [_Showing the influence of the wine_] There are technical grounds for everything, if you only look hard enough. OLD LADY. Well, then! Think of it--how that good-for-nothing is wishing the life out of us--but now he'll see how "the natural course of events" makes the drones take to the road---- JUDGE. Ha-ha! You're right, quite right! And then, you know, when I think it over carefully--what reason have we for self-reproach? What wrong have we done? It's mean to bring up that about the monstrance--it didn't hurt anybody, did it? And as for my being guilty of perjury: that's a pure lie. I got blood-poison in the finger--that's all--and quite a natural thing. OLD LADY. Just as if I didn't know it. And I may as well add that this hail-storm a while ago--why, it was as plain a thing as if it had been foretold in the Farmer's Almanac! JUDGE. Exactly! That's what I think too. And for that reason, Caroline, I think we had better forget all that fool talk--and if you feel as I do, we'll just turn to another priest and get him to consecrate the mausoleum. OLD LADY. Well, why shouldn't we? JUDGE. Yes, why shouldn't we? Perhaps because that mesmerist comes here and talks a lot of superstitious nonsense? OLD LADY. Tell me, do you really think he is nothing but a mesmerist? JUDGE. [_Blustering_] That fellow? He's a first-class charlatan. A che-ar-la-tan! OLD LADY. [_Looking around_] I am not so sure. JUDGE. But I am sure. Su-ure! And if he should ever come before my eyes again--just now, for instance--I'll drink his health and say: here's to you, old humourist! [As _he raises the glass, it is torn out of his hand and is seen to disappear through the wall_] What was that? [_The lantern goes out._ OLD LADY. Help! [_A gust of wind is heard, and then all is silence again_. JUDGE. You just get some matches, and I'll clear this matter up. For I am no longer afraid of anything. Not of anything! OLD LADY. Oh, don't, don't! THE OTHER ONE. [_Steps from behind one of the casks_] Now we'll have to have a talk in private. JUDGE. [_Frightened_] Where did you come from? THE OTHER ONE. That is no concern of yours. JUDGE. [_Straightening himself up_] What kind of language is that? THE OTHER ONE. Your own!--Off with your cap! [_He blows at the_ JUDGE, _whose cap is lifted off his head and falls to the ground_] Now you shall hear sentence pronounced: you have wanted to sever what has been united by Him whose name I may not mention. Therefore you shall be separated from her who ought to be the staff of your old age. Alone you must run the gauntlet. Alone you must bear the qualms of sleepless nights. JUDGE. Is that mercy? THE OTHER ONE. It is justice; it is the law: an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth! The gospel has a different sound, but of that you didn't want to hear. Now, move I along. [_He beats the air with the rattan._ _The scene changes to a garden with cypresses and yew-trees clipped in the shape of obelisks, candelabra, vases, etc. Under the trees grow roses, hollyhocks, foxgloves, etc. At the centre of it is a spring above which droops a gigantic fuchsia in full bloom_.[1] _Back of the garden appears a field of rye, all yellow and ready to be cut. Bachelor's-buttons and daisies grow among the rye. A scarecrow hangs in the middle of the field. The distant background is formed by vineyards and light-coloured rocks with beech woods and ruined castles on them_. _A road runs across the stage in the near background. At the right is a covered Gothic arcade. In front of this stands a statue of the Madonna with the Child_. ERIC _and_ THYRA _enter hand in hand with the_ PLAYMATE. ERIC. Oh, how beautiful it is! THYRA. Who is living here? PLAYMATE. Whoever feels at home has his home here. THYRA. Can we play here? PLAYMATE. Anywhere except in that avenue over there to the right. ERIC. And may we pick the flowers? PLAYMATE. You may pick any flowers you want, but you mustn't touch the tree at the fountain. THYRA. What kind of tree is that? ERIC. Why, you know, it is one of those they call [_lowering his voice_] "Christ's Blood-drops." THYRA. You should cross yourself, Eric, when you mention the name of the Lord. ERIC. [_Makes the sign of the cross_] Tell me, little boy, why mustn't we touch the tree? THYRA. You should obey without asking any questions, Eric.--But tell me, little boy, why is that ugly scarecrow hanging there? Can't we take it away? PLAYMATE. Yes, indeed, you may, for then the birds will come and sing for us. ERIC _and_ THYRA _run into the rye-field and tear down the scarecrow_. ERIC. Away with you, you nasty old scarecrow! Come and eat now, little birds! [_The Golden Bird comes flying from the right and perches on the fuchsia_] Oh, see the Golden Bird, Thyra! THYRA. Oh, how pretty it is! Does it sing, too? [_The bird calls like a cuckoo_. ERIC. Can you understand what the bird sings, boy? PLAYMATE. No, children, the birds have little secrets of their own which they have a right to keep hidden. THYRA. Of course, Eric, don't you see, otherwise the children could tell where the nests are, and then they would take away the eggs, and that would make the birds sorry, and they couldn't have any children of their own. ERIC. Don't talk like a grown-up, Thyra. PLAYMATE. [_Putting a finger across his lips_] Hush! Somebody is coming. Now let us see if he likes to stay with us or not. _The_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP _enters, stops in surprise, and begins to look around_. PLAYMATE. Well, boy, won't you come and play with us? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. [_Takes off his cap; speaks bashfully_] Oh, you don't want to play with me. PLAYMATE. Why shouldn't we? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. I am sooty all over. And besides I don't know how to play--I hardly know what it is. THYRA. Think of it, the poor boy has never played. PLAYMATE. What is your name? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. My name? They call me Ole--but---- PLAYMATE. But what's your other name? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. Other name? I have none. PLAYMATE. But your papa's name? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. I have no papa. PLAYMATE. And your mamma's? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. I don't know. PLAYMATE. He has no papa or mamma. Come to the spring here, boy, and I'll make you as white as a little prince. CHIMNEY-SWEEP. If anybody else said it, I shouldn't believe it---- PLAYMATE. Why do you believe it then, when I say it? CHIMNEY-SWEEP. I don't know, but I think you look as if it would be true. PLAYMATE. Give the boy your hand, Thyra!--Would you give him a kiss, too? THYRA. [_After a moment's hesitation_] Yes, when you ask me! [Footnote 1: The Swedish name of this plant is "Christ's Blood-drops."] _She kisses the_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP. _Then the_ PLAYMATE _dips his hand in the spring and sprays a little water on the face of the_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP, _whose black mask at once disappears, leaving his face white_. PLAYMATE. Now you are white again. And now you must go behind that rose-bush there and put on new clothes. CHIMNEY-SWEEP. Why do I get all this which I don't deserve? PLAYMATE. Because you don't believe that you deserve it. CHIMNEY-SWEEP. [_Going behind the rose-bush_] Then I thank you for it, although I don't understand what it means. THYRA. Was he made a chimney-sweep because he had been bad? PLAYMATE. No, he has never been bad. But he had a bad guardian who took all his money away from him, and so he had to go out into the world to earn a living--See how fine he looks now! _The_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP _enters dressed in light summer clothes_. PLAYMATE. [_To the_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP] Go to the arcade now, and you'll meet somebody you love--and who loves you! CHIMNEY-SWEEP. Who could love me? PLAYMATE. Go and find out. _The_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP _goes across the stage to the arcade, where he is met by the_ LADY IN WHITE, _who puts her arms around him_. THYRA. Who is living in there? PLAYMATE. [_With his finger on his lips_] Polly Pry!--But who is coming there? _The_ OLD LADY _appears on the road with a sack on her back and a stick in her hand_. ERIC. It's grandmother! Oh, now we are in for it! THYRA. Oh, my! It's grandmother! PLAYMATE. Don't get scared, children. I'll tell her it's my fault. ERIC. No, you mustn't, for then she'll beat you. PLAYMATE. Well, why shouldn't I take a beating for my friends? ERIC. No, I'll do it myself! THYRA. And I, too! PLAYMATE. Hush! And come over here--then you won't be scolded. [_They hide_. OLD LADY. [_Goes to the spring_] So, this is the famous spring that is said to cure everything--after the angel has stirred it up, of course!--But I suppose it is nothing but lies. Well, I might have a drink anyhow, and water is water. [_She bends down over the spring_] What is it I see? Eric and Thyra with a strange boy! What can it mean? For they are not here. It must be an oracle spring. [_She takes a cup that stands by the spring, fills it with water and drinks_] Ugh, it tastes of copper--he must have been here and poisoned the water, too! Everything is poisoned! Everything!--And I feel tired, too, although the years have not been hard on me--[_She looks at her reflection in the spring and tosses her head_] On the contrary, I look quite youthful--but it's hard to walk, and still harder to get up--[_She struggles vainly to rise_] My God, my God, have mercy! Don't leave me lying here! PLAYMATE. [_Makes a sign to the children to stay where they are; then he goes up to the_ OLD LADY _and wipes the perspiration from her forehead_] Rise, and leave your evil ways! OLD LADY. [_Rising_] Who is that?--Oh, it's you, my nice gentleman, who has led the children astray? PLAYMATE. Go, ungrateful woman! I have wiped the sweat of fear from your brow; I have raised you up when your own strength failed you, and you reward me with angry words. Go--go! OLD LADY _stares astonished at him; then her eyes drop, and she turns and goes out_. ERIC _and_ THYRA _come forward_. ERIC. But I am sorry for grandmother just the same, although she is nasty. THYRA. It isn't nice here, and I want to go home. PLAYMATE. Wait a little! Don't be so impatient.--There comes somebody else we know. _The_ JUDGE _appears on the road_. PLAYMATE. He cannot come here and defile the spring. [_He waves his hand; the spot of sunlight strikes the_ JUDGE, _making him turn around and walk away_] It is nice of you to be sorry for the old people, but you must believe that what I do is right. Do you believe that? ERIC _and_ THYRA. Yes, we believe it, we believe it! THYRA. But I want to go home to mamma! PLAYMATE. I'll let you go. THE OTHER ONE _appears in the background and hides himself behind the bushes_. PLAYMATE. For now I must go. The Angelus bell will soon be ringing---- ERIC. Where are you going, little boy? PLAYMATE. There are other children I must play with--far away from here, where you cannot follow me. But now, when I leave you here, don't forget what I have told you: that you mustn't touch the tree! ERIC. We'll obey! We will! But don't go away, for it will soon be dark! PLAYMATE. How is that? Anybody who has a good conscience and knows his evening prayer has nothing, nothing to be afraid of. THYRA. When will you come back to us, little boy? PLAYMATE. Next Christmas I come back, and every Christmas!--Good night, my little friends! _He kisses their foreheads and goes out between the bushes; when he reappears in the background, he is carrying a cross with a banner like that carried by the Christ-Child in old paintings; the Angelus bell begins to ring; as he raises the banner and waves it in greeting to the children, he becomes surrounded by a clear, white light; then he goes out_. ERIC _and_ THYRA _kneel and pray silently while the bell is ringing_. ERIC. [_Having crossed himself_] Do you know who the boy was, Thyra? THYRA. It was the Saviour! THE OTHER ONE _steps forward_. THYRA. [_Scared, runs to Eric, who puts his arms around her to protect her_] My! ERIC. [_To_ THE OTHER ONE] What do you want? You nasty thing! THE OTHER ONE. I only wanted--Look at me! ERIC. Yes? THE OTHER ONE. I am looking like this because once I touched the tree. Afterward it was my joy to tempt others into doing the same. But now, since I have grown old, I have come to repent, and now I am remaining here to warn men, but nobody believes me--nobody--because I lied once. ERIC. You don't need to warn us, and you can't tempt us. THE OTHER ONE. Tut, tut, tut! Not so high-and-mighty, my little friend! Otherwise it's all right. ERIC. Well, go away then, for I don't want to listen to you, and you scare my sister! THE OTHER ONE. I am going, for I don't feel at home here, and I have business elsewhere. Farewell, children! AMELIA. [_Is heard calling from the right_] Eric and Thyra! ERIC _and_ THYRA. Oh, there is mamma--dear little mamma! AMELIA _enters_. ERIC _and_ THYRA _rush into her arms_. THE OTHER ONE _turns away to hide his emotion_. _Curtain_. ACT IV _A cross-roads surrounded by pine woods. Moonlight_. _The_ WITCH _stands waiting_. OLD LADY. Well, at last, there you are. WITCH. You have kept me waiting. Why have you called me? OLD LADY. Help me! WITCH. In what way? OLD LADY. Against my enemies. WITCH. There is only one thing that helps against your enemies: be good to them. OLD LADY. Well, I declare! I think the whole world has turned topsyturvy. WITCH. Yes, so it may seem. OLD LADY. Even the Other One--you know who I mean--has become converted. WITCH. Then it ought to be time for you, too. OLD LADY. Time for me? You mean that my years are burdening me? But it is less than three weeks since I danced at a wedding. WITCH. And you call that bliss! Well, if that be all, you shall have your fill of it. For there is to be a ball here to-night, although I myself cannot attend it. OLD LADY. Here? WITCH. Just here. It will begin whenever I give the word---- OLD LADY. It's too bad I haven't got on my low-necked dress. WITCH. You can borrow one from me--and a pair of dancing shoes with red heels. OLD LADY. Perhaps I might also have a pair of gloves and a fan? WITCH. Everything! And, in particular, any number of young cavaliers who will proclaim you the queen of the ball. OLD LADY. Now you are joking. WITCH. No, I am not joking. And I know that they have the good taste at these balls to choose the right one for queen--and in speaking of the right one, I have in mind the most worthy---- OLD LADY. The most beautiful, you mean? WITCH. No, I don't--I mean the worthiest. If you wish, I'll start the ball at once. OLD LADY. I have no objection. WITCH. If you step aside a little, you'll find your maid--while the hall is being put in order. OLD LADY. [_Going out to the right_] Think of it--I am going to have a maid, too! You know, madam, that was the dream of my youth--which never came true. WITCH. There you see: "What youth desires, age acquires." [_She blows a whistle_] _Without curtain-fall, the stage changes to represent the bottom of a rocky, kettle-shaped chasm. It is closed in on three sides by steep walls of black rock, wholly stripped of vegetation. At the left, in the foreground, stands a throne. At the right is a platform for the musicians_. _A bust of Pan on a square base stands in the middle of the stage, surrounded by a strange selection of potted plants: henbane, burdock, thistle, onion, etc._ _The musicians enter. Their clothing is grey; their faces are chalk-white and sad; their gestures tired. They appear to be tuning their instruments, but not a sound is heard_. _Then comes the_ LEADER OF THE ORCHESTRA. _After him, the guests of the ball: cripples, beggars, tramps. All are pulling on black gloves as they come in. Their movements are dragging; their expressions funereal_. _Next: The_ MASTER OF CEREMONIES, _who is really_ THE OTHER ONE_--a septuagenarian dandy wearing a black wig which is too small for him, so that tufts of grey hair appear underneath. His mustaches are waxed and pointed. He wears a monocle and has on an outgrown evening dress and top-boots. He looks melancholy and seems to be suffering because of the part he has to play._ _The_ SEVEN DEADLY SINS _enter and group themselves around the throne as follows_: PRIDE COVETOUSNESS LUST ANGER GLUTTONY ENVY SLOTH _Finally the_ PRINCE _enters. He is hunchbacked and wears a soiled velvet coat with gold buttons, ruffles, sword, and high boots with spurs_. _The ensuing scene must be played with deadly seriousness, without a trace of irony, satire, or humour. There is a suggestion of a death-mask in the face of every figure. They move noiselessly and make simple, awkward gestures that convey the impression of a drill_. PRINCE. [_To the_ MASTER OF CEREMONIES] Why do you disturb my peace at this midnight hour? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Always, brother, you are asking why. Have you not seen the light yet? PRINCE. Only in part. I can perceive a connection between my suffering and my guilt, but I cannot see why I should have to suffer eternally, when He has suffered in my place. MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Eternally? You died only yesterday. But then time ceased to exist to you, and so a few hours appear like an eternity. PRINCE. Yesterday? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Yes.--But because you were proud and wanted no assistance, you have now to bear your own sufferings. PRINCE. What have I done, then? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. What a sublime question! PRINCE. But why don't you tell? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. As our task is to torture each other by truth-telling--were we not called "heroes of truth" in our lifetime?--I shall tell you a part of your own secret. You were, and you are still, a hunchback---- PRINCE. What is that? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. There you see! You don't know what is known to everybody else. But all those others pitied you, and so you never heard the word that names your own deformity. PRINCE. What deformity is that? Perhaps you mean that I have a weak chest? But that is no deformity. MASTER OF CEREMONIES. A "weak chest"--yes, that is your own name for the matter. However, people kept the disfigurement of your body hidden from you, and they tried to assuage your misfortune by showing you sympathy and kindness. But you accepted their generosity as an earned tribute, their encouraging words as expressions of admiration due to your superior physique. And at last you went so far in conceit that you regarded yourself as a type of masculine beauty. And when, to cap it all, woman granted you her favours out of pity, then you believed yourself an irresistible conqueror. PRINCE. What right have you to say such rude things to me? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Right? I am filling the saddening duty which forces one sinner to punish another. And soon you will have to fulfil the same cruel duty toward a woman who is vain to the verge of madness--a woman resembling you as closely as she possibly could. PRINCE. I don't want to do it. MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Try to do anything but what you must, and you'll experience an inner discord that you cannot explain. PRINCE. What does it mean? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. It means that you cannot all of a sudden cease to be what you are: and you are what you have wanted to become. [_He claps his hands_. _The_ OLD LADY _enters, her figure looking as aged and clumsy as ever; but she has painted her face and her head is covered by a powdered wig; she wears a very low-necked, rose-coloured dress, red shoes, and a fan made out of peacock feathers_. OLD LADY. [_A little uncertain_] Where am I? Is this the right place? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Quite right, for you are in the place we call the "waiting-room." It is so called [_he sighs],_ because here we have to spend our time waiting--waiting for something that will come some time---- OLD LADY. Well, it isn't bad at all--and there is the music--and there is a bust--of whom? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. It's a pagan idol called Pan, because to the ancients he was all they had. And as we, in this place, are of the old order, more or less antiquated, he has been put here for us to look at. OLD LADY. Why, we are not old---- MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Yes, my Queen. When the new era opened [_he sighs_], we couldn't keep up with it, and so we were left behind---- OLD LADY. The new era? What kind of talk is that? When did it begin? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. It is easy to figure out when the year one began--It was night, for that matter; the stars were shining brightly, and the weather must have been mild, as the shepherds remained in the open---- OLD LADY. Oh, yes, yes--Are we not going to dance here to-night? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Of course, we are. The Prince is waiting for a chance to ask you---- OLD LADY. [_To the_ MASTER OF CEREMONIES] Is he a real Prince? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. A real one, my Queen. That is to say, he has full reality in a certain fashion---- OLD LADY. [_To the_ PRINCE, _who is asking her to dance_] You don't look happy, my Prince? PRINCE. I am not happy. OLD LADY. Well, I can't say that I find it very hilarious--and the place smells of putty, as if the glazier had just been at work here. What is that strange smell, as of linseed-oil? PRINCE. [_With an expression of horror_] What are you saying? Do you mean that charnel-house smell? OLD LADY. I fear I must have said something impolite--but then, it isn't for the ladies to offer pleasantries--that's what the cavalier should do---- PRINCE. What can I tell you that you don't know before? OLD LADY. That I don't know before? Let me see--No, then I had better tell you that you are very handsome, my Prince. PRINCE. Now you exaggerate, my Queen. I am not exactly handsome, but I have always been held what they call "good-looking." OLD LADY. Just like me--I never was a beauty--that is, I _am_ not, considering my years--Oh, I am so stupid!--What was it I wanted to say? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Let the music begin! _The musicians appear to be playing, but not a sound is heard_. MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Well? Are you not going to dance? PRINCE. [_Sadly_] No, I don't care to dance. MASTER OF CEREMONIES. But you must: you are the only presentable gentleman. PRINCE. That's true, I suppose--[_pensively_] but is that a fit occupation for me? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. How do you mean? PRINCE. At times it seems as if I had something else to think of, but then--then I forget it. MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Don't brood--enjoy yourself while youth is with you and the roses of life still bloom on your cheeks. Now! Up with the head, and step lively---- _The_ PRINCE _grins broadly; then he offers his hand to the_ OLD LADY, _and together they perform a few steps of a minuet_. OLD LADY. [_Interrupting the dance_] Ugh! Your hands are cold as ice! _goes to the throne_] Why are those seven ladies not dancing? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. How do you like the music, Queen? OLD LADY. It's splendid, but they might play a little more _forte_---- MASTER OF CEREMONIES. They are soloists, all of them, and formerly each one of them wanted to make himself heard above the rest, and so they have to use moderation now. OLD LADY. But I asked why the seven sisters over there are not dancing. Couldn't you, as master of ceremonies, make them do so? MASTER OF CEREMONIES. I don't think it would be of any use trying, for they are obstinate as sin--But please assume your throne, my Queen. We are going to perform a little play in honour of the occasion---- OLD LADY. Oh, what fun! But I want the prince to ... escort me---- PRINCE. [_To the_ MASTER OF CEREMONIES] Have I got to do it? OLD LADY. You ought to be ashamed of yourself--you with your hunch! PRINCE. [_Spits in her face_] Hold your tongue, you cursed old hag! OLD LADY. [_Cuffs him on the ear_] That'll teach you! PRINCE. [_Jumps at her and knocks her down_] And that's, for you! _All the rest cover their faces with their hands_. PRINCE. [_Tears off the_ OLD LADY'S _wig so that her head appears totally bald_] There's the false scalp! Now we'll pull out the teeth! MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Enough! Enough! _He helps the_ OLD LADY _to rise, and gives her a kerchief to cover her head_. OLD LADY. [_Crying_] Goodness gracious, that I could let myself be fooled like that! But I haven't deserved any better, I admit. PRINCE. No, you have deserved a great deal worse. You should leave my hunch alone, for otherwise hell breaks loose--It's a miserable thing to see an old woman like you so foolish and so degraded. But, then, you are to be pitied--as all of us are to be pitied. ALL. We are all to be pitied! PRINCE. [_With a sneer_] The queen! OLD LADY. [_In the same tone_] The prince!--But haven't we met before? PRINCE. Perhaps--in our youth--for I am old, too. You had too much frippery on before--but now, when the disguise has been taken away--I begin to distinguish certain features---- OLD LADY. Don't say anything more--don't say anything more--Oh, what have I come to--what is happening to me? PRINCE. Now I know: you are my sister! OLD LADY. But--my brother is dead! Have I been deceived? Or are the dead coming back? PRINCE. Everything comes back. OLD LADY. Am I dead or am I living? PRINCE. You may well ask that question, for I don't know the difference. But you are exactly the same as when I parted from you once: just as vain and just as thievish. OLD LADY. Do you think you are any better? PRINCE. Perhaps! I am guilty of all the seven deadly sins, but you have invented the eighth one--that of robbing the dead. OLD LADY. What are you thinking of now? PRINCE. Twelve years in succession I sent you money to buy a wreath for mother's grave, and instead of buying it you kept the money. OLD LADY. How do you know? PRINCE. How I came to know of it is the only thing that interests you about that crime of yours. OLD LADY. Prove it! PRINCE. [_Taking a number of bills from his pocket_] Here is the money! _The_ OLD LADY _sinks to the ground. A church bell begins to ring. All bend their heads, but nobody kneels_. LADY IN WHITE. [_Enters, goes up to the_ OLD LADY, _and assists her in rising_] Do you know me? OLD LADY. No. LADY IN WHITE. I am Amelia's mother. You have taken the memory of me away from her. You have erased me from her life. But now you are to be wiped out, and I shall recover my child's love and the prayers my soul needs. OLD LADY. Oh, somebody has been telling tales to that hussy--then I'll set her to herd the swine---- _The_ PRINCE _strikes her on the mouth_. LADY IN WHITE. Don't strike her! OLD LADY. Are you interceding for me? LADY IN WHITE. It is what I have been taught to do. OLD LADY. You hypocrite! If you only dared, you would wish me buried as deep as there are miles from here to the sun! MASTER OF CEREMONIES. Down with you--monster! [As _he touches her with his staff she falls to the ground_ _Again the scene is changed while the curtain remains up. The bust of Pan sinks into the earth. The musicians and the throne with its attendant sins disappear behind pieces of; scenery that are lowered from above. At last the cross-roads with the surrounding pine woods appear again, and the_ OLD LADY _is discovered lying at the foot of a sign-post_. WITCH. Get up! OLD LADY. I cannot--I am frozen stiff---- WITCH. The sun will rise in a moment. The cock has crowed. The matin bells are ringing. OLD LADY. I don't care for the sun. WITCH. Then you'll have to walk in darkness. OLD LADY. Oh, my eyes! What have you done to me? WITCH. I have only turned out the light because it troubled you. Now, up and away with you--through cold and darkness--until you drop! OLD LADY. Where is my husband?--Amelia! Eric and Thyra! My children! WITCH. Yes, where are they? But wherever they may be, you shall not see them until your pilgrimage is ended. Now, up and away! Or I will loose my dogs! _The_ OLD LADY _gropes her way out_. _The court-room. In the background is the desk of the presiding judge, decorated in white and gold with the emblems of justice. In front of the desk, covering the centre of the floor, stands a big table, and on it are placed writing-materials, inkstand, Bible, bell, and gavel_. _The axe of the executioner hangs on the rear wall, with a pair of handcuffs below it and a big black crucifix above_. _The_ JUDGE _enters and makes his way into the room on tiptoe. The bell rings. The gavel raps once on the table. All the chairs are pulled up to the table at once. The Bible is opened. The candles on the table become lighted_. _For a moment the_ JUDGE _stands still, stricken with horror. Then he resumes his advance toward a huge cabinet. Suddenly the doors of this fly open. A number of documents are thrown out, and the_ JUDGE _picks them up_. JUDGE. [_Reassured_] This time I am in luck! Here are the accounts of my guardianship; here is the contract for the lease--my report as executor--all of it! [_The handcuffs on the wall begin to clank_] Make all the noise you please! As long as the axe stays still, I won't be scared. [_He puts the documents on the table and goes back to close the door of the cabinet, but this flies open again as soon as he shuts it_] Everything has a cause: _ratio sufficiens_. This door must have a spring with which I am not familiar. It surprises me that I don't know it, but it cannot scare me. [_The axe moves on the wall_] The axe moved--as a rule, that foretells an execution, but to-day it means only that its equilibrium has become disturbed in some way. Oh, no, nothing will give me pause but seeing my own ghost--for that would be beyond the tricks of any charlatan. _The_ GHOST _enters from behind the cabinet; the figure resembles in every way the_ JUDGE, _but where the eyes should be appear two white surfaces, as on a plaster bust_. JUDGE. [_Frightened_] Who are you? GHOST. I am not--I have been. I have been that unrighteous judge who is now come here to receive his sentence. JUDGE. What have you done then, poor man? GHOST. Everything wrong that an unrighteous judge might do. Pray for me, you whose conscience is clear---- JUDGE. Am I--to pray for you? GHOST. Yes, you who have caused no innocent blood to be shed---- JUDGE. That's true; that's something I haven't done. And besides, as I have always obeyed the letter of the law, I have good reason to let myself be called a righteous judge--yes, without irony! GHOST. It would, indeed, be a bad moment for joking, as the Invisible Ones are sitting in judgment---- JUDGE. What do you mean? Who are sitting in judgment? GHOST. [_Pointing to the table_] You don't see them, but I do. [_The bell rings; a chair is pushed back from the table_] Pray for me! JUDGE. No, I won't. Justice must take its course. You must have been a great offender to reach consciousness of your guilt so late. GHOST. You are as stern as a good conscience. JUDGE. That's just the word for it. Stern, but just! GHOST. No pity, then? JUDGE. None whatever. GHOST. No mercy? JUDGE. No mercy! _The gavel raps on the table; the chairs are pushed away_. GHOST. Now the verdict is being delivered. Can't you hear? JUDGE. I hear nothing. GHOST. [_Pointing to the table_] And you see nothing? Don't you see the beheaded sailor, the surveyor, the chimney-sweep, the lady in white, the tenant---- JUDGE. I see absolutely nothing. GHOST. Woe unto you, then, when your eyes become opened as mine have been. Now the verdict has been given: guilty! JUDGE. Guilty! GHOST. You have said it--yourself! And you have already been sentenced. All that remains now is the big auction. _Curtain._ ACT V _The same room as in the second act, but it is now arranged for the auction. Benches are placed in the middle of the room. On the table behind which the auctioneer is to preside stand the silver coffee-set, the clock, vases, candelabra, etc._ _The portraits of the_ JUDGE _and the_ OLD LADY _have been taken down and are leaning against the table_. _The_ NEIGHBOUR _and_ AMELIA _are on the stage_. AMELIA. [_Dressed as a scrub-woman_] Before my mother left, she ordered me to clean the hallway and the stairs. It is winter now, and cold, and I cannot say that it has been any pleasure to carry out her order---- NEIGHBOUR. So you didn't get any pleasure out of it? Well, my child, I must say that you demand rather too much of yourself. But as you have obeyed, and stood the test, your time of trial shall be over, and I will let you know your life's secret. AMELIA. Speak out, neighbour, for I dare hardly trust my good resolutions much longer. NEIGHBOUR. Well, then! The woman you have been calling mother is your stepmother. Your father married her when you were only one year old. And the reason you have never seen your mother is that she died when you were born. AMELIA. So that was it!--How strange to have had a mother and yet never to have seen her! Tell me--did you ever see her? NEIGHBOUR. I knew her. AMELIA. How did she look? NEIGHBOUR. Well, how _did_, she look?--Her eyes were blue as the blossom of the flax--her hair was yellow as the dry stalks of wheat---- AMELIA. And tall and slender--and her hand was small and white as if it had touched nothing but silk in all her days--and her mouth was shaped like a heart, and her lips looked as if none but good words had ever passed them. NEIGHBOUR. How can you know all that? AMELIA. Because that is the image which appears in my dreams when I have not been good--And then she raises her hand as if to warn me, and on one of her fingers there is a ring with a green stone that seems to radiate light. It is she!--Tell me, neighbour, is there a picture of her in the place? NEIGHBOUR. There used to be one, but I don't know whether it's still here. AMELIA. So this one is my stepmother? Well, God was good when he let me keep my mother's image free from stain--and hereafter I shall find it quite natural that this other woman is cruel to me. NEIGHBOUR. Cruel stepmothers exist to make children kind. And you were not kind, Amelia, but you have become so, and for that reason I shall now give you a Christmas present in advance. _He takes the portrait of the_ OLD LADY _out of its frame, when in its place appears a picture in water-colours corresponding to the description given above_. AMELIA. [_Kneeling in front of the picture_] My mother--mother of my dreams! [_Rising_] But how can I keep the picture when it is to be sold at auction? NEIGHBOUR. You can, because the auction has already taken place. AMELIA. Where and when was it held? NEIGHBOUR. It was held elsewhere--in a place not known to you--and to-day the things are merely to be taken away. AMELIA. What a lot of queer things are happening! And how full of secrets the house is!--But tell me, where is my stepmother? I have not seen her in a long time. NEIGHBOUR. I suppose it must be told: she is in a place from which nobody returns. AMELIA. Is she dead? NEIGHBOUR. She is dead. She was found frozen to death in a swamp into which she had stumbled. AMELIA. Merciful God have pity on her soul! NEIGHBOUR. So he will in time, especially if you pray for her. AMELIA. Of course I will. NEIGHBOUR. How good you have become, my child--as a result of her becoming so bad! AMELIA. Don't say so now when she is dead---- NEIGHBOUR. Right you are! Let her rest in peace! AMELIA. But where is my father? NEIGHBOUR. That's a secret to all of us. But it is sweet of you to ask for him before you ask for your own Adolph. AMELIA. Adolph--yes, where is he? The children are crying for him, and Christmas is near.--Oh, what a Christmas this will be to us! NEIGHBOUR. Leave to each day its own trouble--and now take your Christmas present and go. The affairs connected with the auction are to be settled, and then you'll hear news. AMELIA. [_Takes the portrait of her mother_] I go, but no longer alone--and I have a feeling that something good is about to happen, but what I cannot tell. [_She goes out to the right_. NEIGHBOUR. But I know! Yet you had better go, for what is about to happen here should not be seen by children. _He opens the door in the rear and rings a bell to summon the people to the auction. The people enter in the following order_: THE POOR, _a large number of them; the_ SAILOR; _the_ CHIMNEY-SWEEP; _the_ NEIGHBOUR, who takes his place in front of the rest; _the_ WIDOW _and the_ FATHERLESS CHILDREN; _the_ SURVEYOR; THE OTHER ONE, _carrying the auctioneer's hammer and a pile of documents_. THE OTHER ONE. [_Takes his place at the table and raps with the hammer_] At a compulsory auction held at the court-house for the disposal of property left by the late circuit judge, the items now to be described were bid in by the Court on behalf of absent creditors, and may now be obtained and taken away by their respective owners. JUDGE. [_Enters, looking very aged and miserable_] In the name of the law--hold! THE OTHER ONE. [_Pretends to throw something at the_ JUDGE, _who stands aghast and speechless_] Don't speak of the law! Here the Gospel is preached--but not for you, who wanted to buy heaven with stolen money.--First: the widow and her fatherless children. There is the silver set which the judge accepted from you for his false report as executor. In his stained hands the silver has turned black, but I hope that in yours it will once more turn white.--Then we come to the ward, who had to become a chimney-sweep, after being cheated out of his inheritance. Here are the receipted bills and the property due to you from your guardian. And you need not thank him for his accounting.--Here stands the surveyor who, although he was innocent, had to serve two years in prison because he had made an illegal partition--the maps handed to him for the purpose having been falsified in advance. What can you do for him, Judge? Can you undo what has happened, or restore his lost honour? JUDGE. Oh, that fellow--give him a bill and he'll be satisfied! His honour wasn't worth a penny, anyhow. THE OTHER ONE. [_Slaps the_ JUDGE _on the mouth, while the rest spit at him and mutter with clinched fists_] Here is the brother of the sailor who was beheaded in spite of his innocence. Can you restore his brother to life? No! And you cannot pay for his life with yours, as it is not worth as much.--And finally we come to the neighbour whom you cheated out of his property in a perfectly legal way. Not familiar with the tricks of the law, the neighbour has, contrary to prevailing practice, placed the judge's son-in-law in charge of the property as life tenant, wiping out his previous indebtedness and making him also legal heir to the property. JUDGE. I appeal to a higher court! THE OTHER ONE. This case has passed through all the instances except the highest, and that far you cannot reach with your stamped papers. For if you tried, all these poor people whom you have robbed of their living would cry out: Guilty!--Thus we are done with all that could be properly disposed of. What remains here still undisposed of goes to the poor: clocks, vases, jewelry and other valuables that have served as bribes, graft, tips, souvenirs--all in a perfectly legal way because evidence and witnesses were wanting. You poor, take back your own! Your tears have washed the guilt from the ill-gotten goods. [_The_ POOR _begin to plunder_] And now remains the last item to be sold by me. This pauper here, formerly a judge, is offered to the lowest bidder for board at the expense of the parish. How much is offered? [_Silence_] No offer? [_Silence_] First, second, third time--no offer? [_To the_ JUDGE] There, you see! Nobody wants you. Well, then, I have to take you myself and send you to your well-earned punishment. JUDGE. Is there no atonement? THE OTHER ONE. Yes, punishment atones.--Take him into the woods and stone him in accordance with the law of Moses--for no other law was ever known to him. Away with him! [_The people pounce on the_ JUDGE _and jostle him_. _The scene changes to the "waiting-room." The same setting as in the second scene of the fourth act: a kettle-shaped chasm surrounded by steep black rocks. (The same people are on the stage.)_ _In the background appear a pair of huge scales for the weighing of newcomers_. _The_ JUDGE _and the_ OLD LADY _are seated opposite each other at a small table_. JUDGE. [_Staring in front of himself as if lost in a dream_] Hush!--I had a dream! They were throwing stones at me--and yet I felt no pain--and then everything turned black and vacant until this moment--How long it may have lasted, I cannot tell--Now I am beginning to hear again--and to feel. It feels as if I were being carried--oh, how cold it is--they are washing me, I think--I am lying in something that has six sides like a cell in a honeycomb and that smells like a carpenter shop--I am being carried, and a bell is ringing--Wait! Now I am riding, but not in a street-car, although the bell is ringing all the time--Now I am sinking down, down, as if I were drowning--boom, boom, boom: three knocks on the roof--and then the lessons begin--the teacher is leading--and now the boys are singing--What can it be?--And then they are knocking on the roof again, incessantly--boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom--silence--it's over! [_He wakes up_] Where am I? I choke! It's so stuffy and close here!--Oh, it's you!--Where are we? Whose bust is that? OLD LADY. They say it is the new god. JUDGE. But he looks like a goat. OLD LADY. Perhaps it is the god of the goats? JUDGE. "The goats on the left side--" What is that I am recalling? PRINCE. It is the god Pan. JUDGE. Pan? PRINCE. Exactly! Just exactly! And when, in the night, the shepherds--no, not _those_ shepherds--catch sight of a hair of his hide they are seized with panic---- JUDGE. [_Rising_] Woe! I don't want to stay here! Woe! Can't I get out of here? I want to get out! [_He runs around, looking vainly for a way out._ THE OTHER ONE. [_Enters dressed as a Franciscan friar_] You'll find nothing but entrances--no exits! JUDGE. Are you Father Colomba? THE OTHER ONE. No, I am The Other One. JUDGE. As a monk? THE OTHER ONE. Don't you know that The Other One turns monk when he grows old; and don't you think it is well that he does so some time? But, seriously speaking--for here everything is serious--this is my holiday attire, which I am permitted to wear only this one day of the year in order that I may remember what I have had and what I have lost. JUDGE. [_Alarmed_] What day of the year is it to-day? THE OTHER ONE. [_Bending his head with a sigh_] It is Christmas Eve! JUDGE. [_Approaching the_ OLD LADY] Think of it, it is Christmas Eve?--And you know I don't dare to ask where we are--I dare not--but let us go home, home to our children, to our own---- [_He cries_. OLD LADY. Yes, let us go from here, home to ourselves, that we may start a new life in peace and harmony---- THE OTHER ONE. It is too late! OLD LADY. Oh, dear, sweet fellow--help us, have mercy on us, forgive us! THE OTHER ONE. It is too late! JUDGE. [_Taking the_ OLD LADY _by the hand_] I am choking with dread! Don't ask him where we are; I don't want to know! But one thing I do want to know: will there ever be an end to this? THE OTHER ONE. Never!--That word "end" is not known to us here. JUDGE. [_Crushed_] No end! [_Looking around_] And does the sun never enter this place of damp and cold? THE OTHER ONE. Never, for those who dwell here have not loved the sun! JUDGE. It is true: I have cursed the sun.--May I confess my sins? THE OTHER ONE. No, you must keep them to yourself until they begin to swell and stop up your throat. OLD LADY. [_Kneeling_] O--I don't know how to pray! _She rises and walks restlessly back and forth, wringing her hands_. THE OTHER ONE. Because for you there is no one to whom you might pray. OLD LADY. [_In despair_] Children--send somebody to give me a word of hope and pardon. THE OTHER ONE. It will not be done. Your children have forgotten you--they are now rejoicing at your absence. _A picture appears on the rocky wall in the rear: the home, with_ ADOLPH, AMELIA, ERIC, _and_ THYRA _around the Christmas tree; in the background, the_ PLAYMATE. JUDGE. You say they are seated at the Christmas table rejoicing at our misfortune?--No, now you lie, for they are better than we! THE OTHER ONE. What new tune is that? I have always heard that you were a righteous man---- JUDGE. I? I was a great sinner--the greatest one that ever was! THE OTHER ONE. Hm! Hm! JUDGE. And if you say anything of the children you are guilty of a sin. I know that they are praying for us. OLD LADY. [_On her knees_] I can hear them tell their rosaries: hush--I hear them! THE OTHER ONE. You are completely mistaken. What you hear is the song of the workmen who are tearing down the mausoleum. JUDGE. The mausoleum! Where we were to have rested in peace! PRINCE. Shaded by a dozen wreaths. JUDGE. Who is that? PRINCE. [_Pointing to the_ OLD LADY] She is my sister, and so you must be my brother-in-law. JUDGE. Oh--that lazy scamp! PRINCE. Look here! In this place we are all lazy scamps. JUDGE. But we are not all hunchbacks! PRINCE. [_Strikes him a blow on the mouth_] Don't touch the hunch or there will be hell to pay! JUDGE. What a way to treat a man of my ability and high social position! What a Christmas! PRINCE. Perhaps you expected your usual creamed codfish and Christmas cake? JUDGE. Not exactly, but there ought to be something to feed on---- PRINCE. Here we are keeping a Christmas fast, you see. JUDGE. How long will it last? PRINCE. How long? We don't measure time here, because it has ceased to exist, and a minute may last a whole eternity. OLD LADY. We suffer only what our deeds have deserved--so don't complain---- PRINCE. Just try to complain, and you'll see what happens.--We are not squeamish here, but bang away without regard for legal forms. JUDGE. Are they beating carpets out there--on a day like this? PRINCE. No, it is an extra ration of rod all around as a reminder for those who may have forgotten the significance of the day. JUDGE. Do they actually lay hands on our persons? Is it possible that educated people can do things like that to each other? PRINCE. This is a place of education for the badly educated; and those who have behaved like scoundrels are treated like such. JUDGE. But this passes all limits! PRINCE. Yes, because here we are in the limitless! Now get ready! I have already been out there and had my portion. JUDGE. [_Appalled_] What humiliation! That's to strip you of all human worth! PRINCE. Ha ha! Human worth! Ha ha!--Look at the scales over there. That's where the human worth is--and invariably found wanting. JUDGE. [_Sits down at the table_] I could never have believed---- PRINCE. No, you could only believe in your caul and your own righteousness. And yet you had both Moses and the Prophets and more besides--for the very dead walked for your benefit. JUDGE. The children! The children! Is it not possible to send them a word of greeting and of warning? PRINCE. No! Eternally, no! _The_ WITCH _comes forward with a big basketful of stereoscopes._ JUDGE. What is it? WITCH. Christmas gifts for the righteous. Stereoscopes, you know. [_Handing out one_] Help yourself. They don't cost anything. JUDGE. There's a kind soul at last. And a little attention to a man of my age and rank does honour both to your tact and to your heart---- WITCH. That's very nice of you, Judge, but I hope you don't mind my having given some thought to the others, too. JUDGE. [_Disappointed_] Are you poking fun at me, you damned old hag? WITCH. [_Spitting in his face_] Hold your tongue, petti-fogger! JUDGE. What company I have got into! WITCH. Is it not good enough for you, you old perjurer, you grafter, you forger, you robber of orphans, you false pleader? Now have a look in the peep-show and take in the great spectacle: "From the Cradle to the Grave." There is your whole biography and all your victims--just have a look now. That's right! JUDGE _looks in the stereoscope; then he rises with horror stamped on his face_. WITCH. I hope this slight attention may add to the Christmas joy! _She hands a stereoscope to the_ OLD LADY, _and proceeds thereafter to give one to each person present_. JUDGE. [_Sitting at the table, where now the_ OLD LADY _takes a seat opposite him_] What do you see? OLD LADY. Everything is there; everything!--And do you notice that everything is black? All life that seemed so bright is now black, and even moments which I thought full of innocent joy have an appearance of something nauseating, foul, almost criminal. It is as if all my memories had decayed, including the fairest among them---- JUDGE. You are right. There is not one memory that can bring light into this darkness. When I look at her who was the first love of my youth, I see nothing but a corpse. When I think of my sweet Amelia, there appears--a harlot. The little ones make faces at me like gutter-snipes. My court has become a pigsty; the vineyard, a rubbish-heap full of thistles; and the mausoleum--Oh, horrors!--an outhouse! When I think of the green woods, the leafage appears snuff-coloured and the trunks look bleached as mast tops. The blue river seems to flow out of a dung-heap and the blue arch above it looks like a smoky roof--Of the sun itself I can recall nothing but the name; and what was called the moon--the lamp that shed its light on bays and groves during the amorous nights of my youth--I can remember only as--no, I cannot remember it at all. But the words are left, although they have only sound without sense.--Love, wine, song! Flowers, children, happiness!--Don't the words sound pretty? And it is all that is left!--Love? What _was_ it, anyhow? OLD LADY. What was it?--Two cats on a back-yard fence. JUDGE. [_Sheepishly_] Yes, that's it! That's what it was! Three dogs on a sidewalk. What a sweet recollection! OLD LADY. [_Pressing his hand_] Yes, it is sweet! JUDGE. [_Looking at his watch_] My watch has stopped. I am so hungry--and I am thirsty, too, and I long for a smoke. But I am also tired and want to sleep. All my desires are waking. They claw at me and hound me, but not one of them can I satisfy. We are lost! Lost, indeed! OLD LADY. And I long for a cup of tea more than I can tell! JUDGE. Hot green tea--that's just what I should like now--with a tiny drop of rum in it. OLD LADY. No, not rum! I should prefer some cakes---- PRINCE. [_Who has drawn near to listen_] Sugared, of course? I fear you'll have to whistle for them. OLD LADY. Oh, this dreadful language hurts me more than anything, else. PRINCE. That's because you don't know yet how something else is going to hurt you. JUDGE. What is that? OLD LADY. No, don't! We don't want to know! Please! PRINCE. Yes, I am going to tell. It begins with---- OLD LADY. [_Puts her fingers in her ears and cries out_] Mercy! Don't, don't, don't! PRINCE. Yes, I will--and as my brother-in-law is curious, I'll tell it to him. The second letter is---- JUDGE. This uncertainty is worse than torture--Speak out, you devil, or I'll kill you! PRINCE. Kill, ha ha! Everybody is immortal here, body and soul, what little there is left. However, the third letter is--and that's all you'll know! MAN IN GREY. [_A small, lean man with grey clothes, grey face, black lips, grey beard, and grey hands; he speaks in a very low voice_] May I speak a word with you, madam? OLD LADY. [_Rising in evident alarm_] What is it about? MAN IN GREY. [_Smiling a ghastly, malicious smile_] I'll tell--out there. OLD LADY. [_Crying_] No, no; I won't! MAN IN GREY. [_Laughing_]; It isn't dangerous. Come along! All I want is to _speak_ to you. Come now! [_They go toward the background and disappear_. PRINCE. [_To the_ JUDGE] A little Christmas entertainment is wholesome. JUDGE. Do you mean to maltreat a woman? PRINCE. Here all injustices are abolished, and woman is treated as the equal of man. JUDGE. You devil! PRINCE. That's all right, but don't call me hunchback, for that touches my last illusion. THE OTHER ONE. [_Steps up to the table_] Well, how do you like our animal magnetism? It _can_ work wonders on black-guards! JUDGE. I understand nothing of all this. THE OTHER ONE. That's just what is meant, and it is very nice of you to admit that there are things you don't understand. JUDGE. Granting that I am now in the realm of the dead---- THE OTHER ONE. Say "hell," for that is what it's called. JUDGE. [_Stammering_] Th-then I should like to remind you that He who once descended here to redeem all lost---- PRINCE. [_At a sign from_ THE OTHER ONE _he strikes the_ JUDGE _in the face_] Don't argue! JUDGE. They won't even listen to me! It is beyond despair! No mercy, no hope, no end! THE OTHER ONE. Quite right! Here you find only justice and retribution--especially justice: an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth! Just as you wanted it! JUDGE. But among men there is pardon--and that you don't have here. THE OTHER ONE. Monarchs alone possess the right to pardon. And as a man of law you ought to know that a petition for pardon must be submitted before it can be granted. JUDGE. For me there can be no pardon! THE OTHER ONE. [_Gives the_ PRINCE _a sign to step aside_] You feel, then, that your guilt is too great? JUDGE. Yes. THE OTHER ONE. Then I'll speak kindly to you. There is an end, you see, if there is a beginning. And you have made a beginning. But the sequel will be long and hard. JUDGE. Oh, God is good! THE OTHER ONE. You have said it! JUDGE. But--there is one thing that cannot be undone--there is one! THE OTHER ONE. You are thinking of the monstrance which should have been of gold but was of silver? Well, don't you think that He who changed water into wine may also change silver into gold? JUDGE. [_On his knees_] But my misdeed is too great, too great to be forgiven. THE OTHER ONE. Now you overestimate yourself again. But rise up. We are about to celebrate Christmas in our own fashion.--The light of the sun cannot reach here, as you know--nor that of the moon. But on this night, and on this alone, a star rises so far above the rocks that it is visible from here. It is the star that went before the shepherds through the desert--and _that_ was the morning star. [_He claps his hands together_. _The bust of Pan sinks into the ground. The_ OLD LADY _returns, looking reassured and quietly happy. With a suggestion of firm hope in mien and gesture, she goes up to the_ JUDGE _and takes his hand. The stage becomes filled with shadows that are gazing up at the rocks in the rear_. CHORUS I. [_Two sopranos and an alto sing behind the stage, accompanied only by string instruments and a harp_.] Puer natus est nobis; Et filius datus est nobis, Cujus imperium super humerum ejus; Et vocabitur nomen ejus Magni consilii Angelus. CHORUS II. [_Soprano, alto, tenor, basso_.] Cantate Domino canticum novum Quia mirabilia fecit! _The star becomes visible above the rocks in the rear. All kneel down. A part of the rock glides aside, revealing a tableau: the crib with the child and the mother; the shepherds adoring at the left, the three Magi at the right_. CHORUS III. [_Two sopranos and two altos.]_ Gloria in excelsis Deo Et in terra pax Hominibus bonæ voluntatis! _Curtain_. THE THUNDERSTORM (OVÄDER) A CHAMBER PLAY 1907 CHARACTERS THE MASTER, _a retired government official_ THE CONSUL, _his brother_ STARCK, _a confectioner_ AGNES, _daughter of Starck_ LOUISE, _a relative of the Master_ GERDA, _the Master's divorced wife_ FISCHER, _second husband of Gerda_ THE ICEMAN THE LETTER-CARRIER THE LAMPLIGHTER THE LIQUORDEALER'S MAN THE MILKMAID SCENE I--IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE SCENE II--INSIDE THE HOUSE SCENE III--IN FRONT OF THE HOUSE FIRST SCENE _The front of a modern house with a basement of granite. The upper parts are of brick covered with yellow plastering. The window-frames and other ornaments are of sandstone. A low archway leads through the basement to the court and serves also as entrance to the confectioner's shop. The corner of the house appears at the right of the stage, where the avenue opens into a small square planted with roses and various other flowers. At the corner is a mail-box. The main floor, above the basement, has large windows, all of which are open. Four of these windows belong to an elegantly furnished dining-room. The four middle windows in the second story have red shades which are drawn; the shades are illumined by light from within_. _Along the front of the house runs a sidewalk with trees planted at regular intervals. There is a lamp-post in the extreme foreground and beside it stands a green bench_. STARCK, _the confectioner, comes out with a chair and sits down on the sidewalk_. _The_ MASTER _is visible in the dining-room of the main floor, seated at the table. Behind him appears an oven built of green majolica tiles. On its mantelshelf stands a large photograph between two candelabra and some vases containing flowers. A young girl in a light dress is just serving the final course_. _The_ MASTER'S _brother, the_ CONSUL, _appears in front of the house, coming from the left, and knocks with his walking-stick on the sill of one of the dining-room windows_. CONSUL. Will you soon be through? MASTER. I'll come in a moment. CONSUL. [_Saluting the confectioner_] Good evening, Mr. Starck. It's still hot---- STARCK. Good evening, Consul. Yes, it's the dog-day heat, and we have been making jam all day. CONSUL. Is that so? It's a good year for fruit, then? STARCK. It might be worse. Well, the spring was cold, but the summer turned out unbearably hot. It was hard on us who had to stay in the city. CONSUL. I got back from the country yesterday--one begins to wish oneself back when the evenings grow dark. STARCK. Neither I nor my wife have been out of the city. Of course, business is at a standstill, but you have to be on hand to make ready for the winter. First come strawberries, then cherries, then raspberries, and last gooseberries, cantaloupes and all the fall fruits---- CONSUL. Tell me something, Mr. Starck. Is the house here to be sold? STARCK. Not that I have heard. CONSUL. There are a lot of people living here? STARCK. Something like ten families, I think, counting those in the rear also. But nobody knows anybody else. There is unusually little gossiping in the house. It seems rather as if everybody were hiding. I have lived here ten years, and during the first two years we had for neighbours a strange family that kept very quiet in the daytime. But at night they began to stir about, and then carriages would come and fetch things away. Not until the end of the second year did I learn that they had been running a private sanatorium, and that what was being taken away at night were dead bodies. CONSUL. Horrible! STARCK. And they call it the Silent House. CONSUL. Yes, there isn't much talking done here. STARCK. More than one drama has been played here, nevertheless. CONSUL. Tell me, Mr. Starck, who lives up there on the second floor, right above my brother? STARCK. Up there, where the light comes through the red shades--a tenant died there during the summer. Then the place stood empty for a month, and a week ago a new family moved in. I haven't seen them. I don't know their name. I don't think they ever go out. Why did you ask, Consul? CONSUL. Whew--I don't know! Those four red shades look like stage curtains behind which some sanguinary tragedies are being rehearsed--or I imagine so, at least. There is a palm at one of the windows looking like a rod made of wire--you can see the shadow of it on the shade. If only some people were to be seen---- STARCK. I have seen plenty of them, but not until later--at night. CONSUL. Was it men or women you saw? STARCK. Both, I guess--but now I must get back to my pots. [_He disappears into the gateway_. MASTER. [_Still inside, has risen from the table and lighted a cigar; he is now standing at the open window, talking to his brother outside_] I'll be ready in a moment. Louise is only going to sew a button on one of my gloves. CONSUL. Then you mean to go down-town? MASTER. Perhaps we'll take a turn in that direction--Whom were you talking with? CONSUL. Just the confectioner---- MASTER. Oh, yes--a very decent fellow--and, for that matter, my only companion here during the summer. CONSUL. Have you really stayed at home every night--never gone out? MASTER. Never! Those light evenings make me timid. They are pleasant in the country, of course, but here in the city they produce the effect of something unnatural--almost ghastly. But no sooner has the first street lamp been lighted than I feel calm once more and can resume my evening walks. In that way I can get tired and sleep better at night. [LOUISE _hands him the glove_] Thank you, my child. You can just as well leave the windows open, as there are no mosquitoes. [_To the_ CONSUL] Now I'm coming. _A few moments later he can be seen coming out of the house on the side facing the square; he stops at the corner to drop a letter in the mail-box; then he comes around the corner to the front of the house and sits down on the bench beside his brother_. CONSUL. But tell me: why do you stay in the city when you _could_ be in the country? MASTER. I don't know. I have lost my power of motion. My memory has tied me for ever to these rooms. Only within them can I find peace and protection. In there--yes! It is interesting to look at your own home from the outside. Then I imagine that some other man is pacing back and forth in there--Just think: for ten years I have been pacing back and forth in there! CONSUL. Is it ten years now? MASTER. Yes, time goes quickly--once it is gone. But when it is still going it seems slow enough.--That time the house was new. I watched them putting down the hard-wood floor in the dining-room and painting the doors; and _she_ was permitted to pick out the wall-paper, which is still there--Yes, that was then! The confectioner and I are the oldest tenants in the place, and he, too, has had a few experiences of his own--he is one of those people who never succeed but are always in some kind of trouble. In a way, I have been living his life also, and bearing his burdens besides my own. CONSUL. Does he drink, then? MASTER. No-o--nothing of that kind, but there is no _go_ to him. Well, he and I know the history of this house: how they have arrived in bridal coaches and left in hearses, while the mail-box at the corner became the recipient of all their confidences. CONSUL. There was a death here in the middle of the summer, wasn't there? MASTER. Yes, a case of typhoid--the man was manager of a bank--and then the flat stood vacant for a month. The coffin came out first, then the widow and the children, and last of all the furniture. CONSUL. That was on the second floor? MASTER. Yes, up there, where you see the light--where those new people are, about whom I know nothing at all. CONSUL. Haven't you seen anything of them either? MASTER. I never ask any questions about the other tenants. What comes to me unasked, I accept--but I never make any wrong use of it, and I never interfere, for I am anxious for the peace of my old age. CONSUL. Old age--yes! I think it's nice to grow old, for then there isn't so much left to be recorded. MASTER. Indeed, it is nice. I am settling my accounts, both with life and with people, and I have already begun to pack for the journey. Of course, the solitude has its draw-backs, but when there is nobody who can make any demands on you, then you have won your freedom--the freedom to come and go, to think and act, to eat and sleep, in accordance with your own choice. _At this moment the shade in one of the windows on the second floor is raised a little way, so that part of a woman's dress becomes visible. Then it is quickly drawn again_. CONSUL. They are astir up there--did you see? MASTER. Yes, there is such a lot of mystery about it--and at night it is worse than ever. Sometimes there is music, but it's always bad; and sometimes I think they are playing cards; and long after midnight carriages drive up and take away people.--I never make a complaint against other tenants, for then they want to get even, and nobody wants to change his ways. The best thing is to remain oblivious of everything. _A gentleman, dressed in a dinner coat but bareheaded, comes out of the house and drops a big pile of letters into the mail-box; then he disappears into the house again_. CONSUL. That fellow must have a lot of correspondence. MASTER. It looked to me like circulars. CONSUL. But who is he? MASTER. Why, that's the new tenant up there on the second floor. CONSUL. Oh, is that so! What do you think he looked like? MASTER. I don't know. Musician, conductor, a touch of musical comedy, with a leaning to vaudeville--gambler--Adonis--a little of everything---- CONSUL. Black hair should have gone with that pale complexion of his, but his hair was brown--which means that it had been dyed, or that he wears a wig. A tuxedo at home indicates an empty wardrobe, and the movements of his hands as he dropped the letters into the box suggested shuffling and cutting and dealing--[_At this moment waltz music becomes faintly audible from the second floor_] Always waltzes--perhaps they have a dancing-school--but it's always the same waltz--what's the name of it now? MASTER. Why, I think--that's "Pluie d'or"--I know it by heart. CONSUL. Have you heard it in your own house? MASTER. Yes, that one and the "Alcazar Waltz." LOUISE _becomes visible in the dining-room, where she is putting things in order and wiping the glassware on the buffet_. CONSUL. Are you still pleased with Louise? MASTER. Very. CONSUL. Isn't she going to marry? MASTER. Not that I know of. CONSUL. Is there no fiancé in sight? MASTER. Why do you ask? CONSUL. Have you had any thoughts of that kind? MASTER. I? No, thank you! When I married the last time I was not too old, as we had a child in due time, but I have grown too old since then, and now I want to spend my evening in peace--Do you think I want another master in my own house, who would rob me of life and honour and goods? CONSUL. Oh, nobody took your life or your goods---- MASTER. Do you mean to say that my honour suffered any harm? CONSUL. Don't you know? MASTER. What _do_ you mean? CONSUL. In leaving you, she killed your honour. MASTER. Then I have been a dead man for five years without knowing it. CONSUL. You haven't known it? MASTER. No, but now I'll tell you in a few words what really happened. When, at fifty, I married a girl much younger than myself--one whose heart I had won and who gave me her hand fearlessly and willingly--then I promised her that if ever my age should become a burden to her youth I would go my own way and give her back her freedom. Since the child had come in due time, and neither one of us wanted another, and since our little girl had begun to grow apart from me, so that I had come to feel superfluous, I did go my way--that is, I took a boat, as we were living on an island--and that was the end of the whole story. I had redeemed my promise and saved my honour--what more besides? CONSUL. All right--but she thought it an attack on her own honour, because she had meant to go away herself. And so she killed you by tacit accusations which never reached your ears. MASTER. Did she accuse herself also? CONSUL. No, she had no reason to do so. MASTER. Then no harm has been done. CONSUL. Do you know what has become of her and the child since then? MASTER. I don't want to know! Having at last outlived the horrors of longing, I came to regard the whole business as buried; and as none but beautiful memories were left behind in our rooms, I remained where I was. However, I thank you for that piece of valuable information! CONSUL. Which one? MASTER. That she had no reason for self-accusation, for if she had it would constitute an accusation against me---- CONSUL. I think you are living under a serious misconception---- MASTER. If I am, leave me alone! A clear conscience--comparatively clear, at least--has always been the diving-suit that has enabled me to descend into the vast deeps without being suffocated. [_Rising_] To think of it--that I got out of it with my life! And now it's all over!--Suppose we take a turn down the avenue? CONSUL. All right, then we can see them light the first street lamp of the season. MASTER. But won't the moon be up to-night--the harvest-moon? CONSUL. Why, I think the moon is full just now---- MASTER. [_Going to one of the windows and talking into the dining-room_] Please hand me my stick, Louise. The light one--I just want to hold it in my hand. LOUISE. [_Handing out a cane of bamboo_] Here it is, sir. MASTER. Thank you, my girl. Now turn out the light in the dining-room if you have nothing to do there. We'll be gone a little while--I cannot tell just how long. _The_ MASTER _and the_ CONSUL _go out to the left_. LOUISE _remains standing by the open window_. STARCK _comes out of the gateway_. STARCK. Good evening, Miss Louise. It's awfully hot!--So your gentlemen have disappeared? LOUISE. They have gone for a stroll down the avenue--the first time my master has gone out this summer. STARCK. We old people love the twilight, which covers up so many defects both in ourselves and others. Do you know, Miss Louise, my old woman is getting blind, but she won't have an operation performed. She says there is nothing to look at, and that sometimes she wishes she were deaf, too. LOUISE. Well, one does feel that way--at times. STARCK. Of course, you are leading a very quiet life in there, with plenty of everything, and nothing to worry about. I have never heard a loud voice or the slamming of a door--perhaps, even, it is a little too quiet for a young lady like yourself? LOUISE. Not at all! I love the quiet, and whatever is dignified, graceful, measured--with nobody blurting out things, and all thinking it a duty to overlook the less pleasant features of daily life. STARCK. And you have never any company? LOUISE. No, only the consul comes here--and the like of the love between those two brothers I have never seen. STARCK. Who is the elder of the two? LOUISE. That's more than I can tell. Whether there is a year or two between them, or they are twins, I don't know, for they treat each other with mutual respect, as if each one of them was the elder brother. AGNES _appears, trying to get past_ STARCK _without being seen by him_. STARCK. Where are you going, girl? AGNES. Oh, I am just going out for a little walk. STARCK. That's right, but get back soon. AGNES _goes out_. STARCK. Do you think your master is still mourning the loss of his dear ones? LOUISE. He doesn't mourn--he doesn't even feel any regrets, for he doesn't want them back--but he is always with them in his memory, where he keeps only their beautiful traits. STARCK. But doesn't the fate of his daughter trouble him at times? LOUISE. Yes, he cannot help fearing that the mother may have married again, and then, of course, everything depends on how the child's stepfather turns out. STARCK. I have been told that the wife refused alimony at first, but that now, when five years have passed, she has sent him a lawyer with a demand for many thousands---- LOUISE. [_With reserve_] I know nothing about it. STARCK. I believe, however, that she was never more beautiful than in his memory---- THE LIQUORDEALER'S MAN. [_Enters, carrying a crateful of bottles_] Excuse me, but does Mr. Fischer live here? LOUISE. Mr. Fischer? Not so far as I know. STARCK. Perhaps Fischer is the name of that fellow on the second floor? Around the corner--one flight up. THE LIQUORDEALER'S MAN. [_Going toward the square_] One flight up--thanks. [_He disappears around the corner_. LOUISE. Carrying up bottles again--that means another sleepless night. STARCK. What kind of people are they? Why don't they ever show themselves? LOUISE. I suppose they use the back-stairs, for I have never seen them. But I do hear them. STARCK. Yes, I have also heard doors bang and corks pop--and the popping of other things, too, I guess. LOUISE. And they never open their windows, in spite of the heat--they must be Southerners.--Why, that's lightning--a lot of it!--I guess it's nothing but heat-lightning, for there has been no thunder. A VOICE. [_Is heard from the basement_] Starck, dear, won't you come down and help me put in the sugar! STARCK. All right, old lady, I'm coming! [_To_ LOUISE] We are making jam, you know. [_As he goes_] I'm coming, I'm coming! [_He disappears into the gateway again_. LOUISE _remains standing at the window_. CONSUL. [_Enters slowly from the right_] Isn't my brother back yet? LOUISE. No, sir. CONSUL. He wanted to telephone, and I was to go ahead. Well, I suppose he'll be here soon.--What's this? [_He stoops to pick up a post-card_] What does it say?--"Boston club at midnight: Fischer."--Do you know who Fischer is, Louise? LOUISE. There was a man with a lot of wine looking for Fischer a while ago--up on the second floor. CONSUL. On the second floor--Fischer! Red shades that make the place look like a drug-store window at night! I fear you have got bad company in the house. LOUISE. What is a Boston club? CONSUL. Oh, there need be no harm in it at all--in this case I don't know, however.--But how did the post-card--? Oh, it was _he_ who dropped it a while ago. Then I'll put it back in the box.--Fischer? I have heard that name before. In connection with something I cannot recall just now--May I ask a question, Miss Louise: does my brother never speak of--the past? LOUISE. Not to me. CONSUL. Miss Louise--one more question---- LOUISE. Excuse me, but here comes the milk, and I have to receive it. [_She leaves the dining-room_. _The_ MILKMAID _appears from the right and enters the house from the square_. STARCK. [_Comes out again, takes off his white linen cap, and puffs with heat_] In and out, like a badger at its hole--it's perfectly horrid down there by the ovens--and the evening doesn't make it any cooler. CONSUL. All this lightning shows that we are going to have rain--Well, the city isn't pleasant, exactly, but up here you have quiet at least: never any rattling carriages, and still less any street-cars--it's just like the country. STARCK. Of course, it's quiet, but it's too quiet for business. I know my trade, but I am a poor salesman--have always been, and can't learn--or it may be something else. Perhaps I haven't got the proper manner. For when customers act as if I were a swindler I get embarrassed at first, and then as mad as it is possible for me to become. But nowadays I haven't the strength to get really mad. It has been worn out of me--everything gets worn out. CONSUL. Why don't you go to work for somebody else? STARCK. Who would want me? CONSUL. Have you ever tried? STARCK. What would be the use of it? CONSUL. Oh--well! _At this moment a long-drawn "O-oh" is heard from the apartment on the second floor_. STARCK. What, in the name of Heaven, are they up to in that place? Are they killing each other? CONSUL. I don't like this new and unknown element that has come into the house. It is pressing on us like a red thunder-cloud. What kind of people are they? Where do they come from? What do they want here? STARCK. It's so very dangerous to delve in other people's affairs--you get mixed up in them yourself---- CONSUL. Do you know anything about them? STARCK. No, I don't know anything at all. CONSUL. Now they're screaming again, this time in the stairway---- STARCK. [_Withdrawing into the gateway and speaking in a low voice_] I don't want to have anything to do with this. GERDA, _the divorced wife of the_ MASTER, _comes running from the house into the square. She is bareheaded, with her hair down, and very excited. The_ CONSUL _approaches her, and they recognise each other. She draws back from him_. CONSUL. So it's you--my former sister-in-law? GERDA. Yes, it is I. CONSUL. How did you get into this house, and why can't you let my brother enjoy his peace? GERDA. [_Bewildered_] They didn't give us the right name of the tenant below--I thought he had moved--I couldn't help it---- CONSUL. Don't be afraid--you don't have to be afraid of me, Gerda! Can I be of any help to you? What's happening up there? GERDA. He was beating me! CONSUL. Is your little girl with you? GERDA. Yes. CONSUL. So she has got a stepfather? GERDA. Yes. CONSUL. Put up your hair and calm yourself. Then I'll try to straighten this matter out. But spare my brother---- GERDA. I suppose he hates me? CONSUL. No, don't you see that he has been taking care of your flowers in the bed over there? He brought the soil himself, in a basket, don't you remember? Don't you recognise your blue gentians and the mignonette, your _Malmaison_ and _Merveille de Lyons_ roses, which he budded himself? Don't you understand that he has cherished the memory of yourself and of the child? GERDA. Where is he now? CONSUL. Taking a walk along the avenue, but he will be here in a few minutes with the evening papers. When he comes from that side he uses the back door, and he goes straight into the dining-room to read the papers. Stand still and he won't notice you.--But you must go back to your own rooms---- GERDA. I can't! I can't go back to that man. CONSUL. Who is he, and what? GERDA. He--has been a singer. CONSUL. Has been--and what is he now? An adventurer? GERDA. Yes! CONSUL. Keeps a gambling-house? GERDA. Yes! Consul. And the child? Bait? GERDA. Oh, don't say that! CONSUL. It's horrible! GERDA. You are too harsh about the whole thing. CONSUL. Of course, filth must be handled gently--so very gently! But a just cause should be dragged in the dirt. Why did you defile his honour, and why did you lure me into becoming your accomplice? I was childish enough to trust your word, and I defended your unjust cause against his. GERDA. You forget that he was too old. CONSUL. No, he wasn't _then_, as you had a child at once. When he proposed, he asked if you wanted to have a child with him, and he vowed in the bargain to give you back your freedom when his promise had been kept and old age began to weigh him down. GERDA. He deserted me, and that was an insult. CONSUL. Not to you! Your youth prevented it from being a reflection on you. GERDA. He should have let me leave him. CONSUL. Why? Why did you want to heap dishonour on him? GERDA. One of us had to bear it. CONSUL. What strange paths your thoughts pursue! However, you have killed him, and fooled me into helping you. How can we rehabilitate him? GERDA. If he is to be rehabilitated, it can only be at my expense. CONSUL. I cannot follow your thoughts, which always turn to hatred. But suppose we leave the rehabilitation alone and think only of how his daughter is to be saved: what can we do then? GERDA. She is my child. She's mine by law, and my husband is her father---- CONSUL. Now _you_ are too harsh about it! And you have grown cruel and vulgar--Hush! Here he comes now. _The_ MASTER _enters from the left with a newspaper in his hand; he goes into the house pensively by the back door, while the_ CONSUL _and_ GERDA _remain motionless, hidden behind the corner of the house_. _Then the_ CONSUL _and_ GERDA _come down the stage. A moment later the_ MASTER _becomes visible in the dining-room, where he sits down to read the paper_. GERDA. It was he! CONSUL. Come over here and look at your home. See how he has kept everything as it was--arranged to suit your taste.--Don't be afraid. It's so dark out here that he can't see us. The light in the room blinds him, you know. GERDA. How he has been lying to me! CONSUL. In what respect? GERDA. He hasn't grown old! He had grown tired of me--that was the whole thing! Look at his collar--and his tie--the very latest fashion! I am sure he has a mistress! CONSUL. Yes, you can see her photograph on the mantelshelf, between the candelabra. GERDA. It is myself and the child! Does he still love me? CONSUL. Your memory only! GERDA. That's strange! _The_ MASTER _ceases to read and stares out through the window_. GERDA. He is looking at us! CONSUL. Don't move! GERDA. He is looking straight into my eyes. CONSUL. Be still! He doesn't see you. GERDA. He looks as if he were dead---- CONSUL. Well, he has been killed. GERDA. Why do you talk like that? _An unusually strong flash of heat-lightning illumines the figures of the_ CONSUL _and_ GERDA. _The_ MASTER _rises with an expression of horror on his face_. GERDA _takes refuge behind the corner of the house_. MASTER. Carl Frederick! [_Coming to the window_] Are you alone? I thought--Are you really alone? CONSUL. As you see. MASTER. The air is so sultry, and the flowers give me a headache--I am just going to finish the newspaper. [_He resumes his former position._ CONSUL. Now let us get at your affairs. Do you want me to go with you? GERDA. Perhaps! But it will be a hard struggle. CONSUL. But the child must be saved. And I am a lawyer. GERDA. Well, for the child's sake, then! Come with me! [_They go out together._ MASTER. [_Calling from within_] Carl Frederick, come in and have a game of chess!--Carl Frederick! _Curtain_. SECOND SCENE _Inside the dining-room. The brick stove appears at the centre of the rear wall. To the left of it there is a door leading into the pantry. Another door to the right of it leads to the hallway. At the left stands a buffet with a telephone on it. A piano and a tall clock stand at the right. There are doors in both side walls_. _The_ MASTER _is in the room, and_ LOUISE _enters as the curtain rises_. MASTER. Where did my brother go? LOUISE. [_Alarmed_] He was outside a moment ago. He can't be very far away. MASTER. What a dreadful noise they are making up above! It is as if they were stepping on my head! Now they are pulling out bureau drawers as if they were were preparing for a journey--running away, perhaps.--If you only knew how to play chess, Louise! LOUISE. I know a little---- MASTER. Oh, if you just know how to move the pieces, that will be enough--Sit down, child. [_He sets up the chess pieces_] They are carrying on up there so that they make the chandelier rattle--and the confectioner is heating up down below. I think I'll have to move soon. LOUISE. I have long thought that you ought to do so anyhow. MASTER. Anyhow? LOUISE. It isn't good to stay too long among old memories. MASTER. Why not? As time passes, all memories grow beautiful. LOUISE. But you may live twenty years more, and that is too long a time to live among memories which, after all, must fade and which may change colour entirely some fine day. MASTER. How much you know, my child!--Begin now by moving a pawn--but not the one in front of the queen, or you will be mate in two moves. LOUISE. Then I start with the knight---- MASTER. Hardly less dangerous, girl! LOUISE. But I think I'll start with the knight just the same. MASTER. All right. Then I'll move my bishop's pawn. STARCK _appears in the hallway, carrying a tray_. LOUISE. There's Mr. Starck with the tea-cakes. He doesn't make any more noise than a mouse. [_She rises and goes out into the hallway to receive the tray, which she then carries into the pantry_. MASTER. Well, Mr. Starck, how is the old lady? STARCK. Oh, thank you, her eyes are about as usual. MASTER. Have you seen anything of my brother? STARCK. He is walking back and forth outside, I think. MASTER. Has he got any company? STARCK. No-o--I don't think so. MASTER. It wasn't yesterday you had a look at these rooms, Mr. Starck. STARCK. I should say not--it's just ten years ago now---- MASTER. When you brought the wedding-cake.--Does the place look changed? STARCK. It is just as it was--the palms have grown, of course--but the rest is just as it was. MASTER. And will remain so until you bring the funeral cake. When you have passed a certain age, nothing changes, nothing progresses--all the movement is downward like that of a sleigh going down-hill. STARCK. Yes, that's the way it is. MASTER. And it is peaceful, the way I have it here. No love, no friends, only a little company to break up the solitude. Then human beings are just human beings, without any claims on your feelings and sympathies. Then you come loose like an old tooth, and drop out without pain or regrets. Take Louise, for instance--a pretty young girl, the sight of whom pleases me like a work of art that I don't wish to possess--there is nothing to disturb our relationship. My brother and I meet like two old gentlemen who never get too close to each other and never exact any confidences. By taking up a neutral position toward one's fellow-men, one attains a certain distance--and as a rule we look better at a distance. In a word, I am pleased with my old age and its quiet peace--[_Calling out_] Louise! LOUISE. [_Appearing in the doorway at the left and speaking pleasantly as always_] The laundry has come home, and I have to check it off. [_She disappears again_. MASTER. Well, Mr. Starck, won't you sit down and chat a little--or perhaps you play chess? STARCK. I can't stay away from my pots, and the oven has to be heated up at eleven. It's very kind of you, however---- MASTER. If you catch sight of my brother, ask him to come in and keep me company. STARCK. So I will--so I will! [_He goes_. MASTER. [_Alone; moves a couple of pieces on the chess-board; then gets up and begins to walk about_] The peace of old age--yes! [_He sits down at the piano and strikes a few chords; then he gets up and walks about as before_] Louise! Can't you let the laundry wait a little? LOUISE. [_Appears again for a moment in the doorway at the left_] No, I can't, because the wash-woman is in a hurry--she has husband and children waiting for her. MASTER. Oh! [_He sits down at the table and begins to drum with his fingers on it; tries to read the newspaper, but tires of it; lights matches only to blow them out again at once; looks repeatedly at the big clock, until at last a noise is heard from the hallway_] Is that you, Carl Frederick? THE MAIL-CARRIER. [_Appears in the doorway_] It's the mail. Excuse me for walking right in, but the door was standing open. MASTER. Is there a letter for me? THE MAIL-CARRIER. Only a post-card. [_He hands it over and goes out_. MASTER. [_Reading the post-card_] Mr. Fischer again! Boston club! That's the man up above--with the white hands and the tuxedo coat. And to me! The impertinence of it! I have got to move!--Fischer!--[_He tears up the card; again a noise is heard, in the hallway_] Is that you, Carl Frederick? THE ICEMAN. [_Without coming into the room_] It's the ice! MASTER. Well, it's nice to get ice in this heat. But be careful about those bottles in the box. And put one of the pieces on edge so that I can hear the water drip from it as it melts--That's my water-clock that measures out the hours--the long hours--Tell me, where do you get the ice from nowadays?--Oh, he's gone!--Everybody goes away--goes home--to hear their own voices and get some company-[_Pause_] Is that you, Carl Frederick? _Somebody in the apartment above plays Chopin's_ Fantaisie Impromptu, Opus 66, _on the piano_--_but only the first part of it_. MASTER. [_Begins to listen, is aroused, looks up at the ceiling_] My _Impromptu_? [_He covers his eyes with one hand and listens_. _The_ CONSUL _enters through the hallway_. MASTER. Is that you, Carl Frederick? _The music stops_. CONSUL. It is I. MASTER. Where have you been so long? CONSUL. I had some business to clear up. Have you been alone? MASTER. Of course! Come and play chess now. CONSUL. I prefer to talk. And you need also to hear your own voice a little. MASTER. True enough--only it is so easy to get to talking about the past. CONSUL. That makes us forget the present. MASTER. There is no present. What's just passing is empty nothingness. One has to look ahead or behind--and ahead is better, for there lies hope! CONSUL. [_Seating himself at the table_] Hope--of what? MASTER. Of change. CONSUL. Well! Do you mean to say you have had enough of the peace of old age? MASTER. Perhaps. CONSUL. It's certain then. And if now you had the choice between solitude and the past? MASTER. No ghosts, however! CONSUL. How about your memories? MASTER. They don't walk. They are only poems wrought by me out of certain realities. But if dead people walk, then you have ghosts. CONSUL. Well, then--in your memory--who brings you the prettiest mirage: the woman or the child? MASTER. Both! I cannot separate them, and that's why I never tried to keep the child. CONSUL. But do you think you did right? Did the possibility of a stepfather never occur to you? MASTER. I didn't think that far ahead at the time, but afterward, of course, I have had--my thoughts--about--that very thing. CONSUL. A stepfather who abused--perhaps debased--your daughter? MASTER. Hush! CONSUL. What is it you hear? MASTER. I thought I heard the "little steps"--those little steps that came tripping down the corridor when she was looking for me.--It was the child that was the best of all! To watch that fearless little creature, whom nothing could frighten, who never suspected that life might be deceptive, who had no secrets! I recall her first experience of the malice that is in human beings. She caught sight of a pretty child down in the park, and, though it was strange to her, she went up to it with open arms to kiss it--and the pretty child rewarded her friendliness by biting her in the cheek first and then making a face at her. Then you should have seen my little Anne-Charlotte. She stood as if turned to stone. And it wasn't pain that did it, but horror at the sight of that yawning abyss which is called the human heart. I have been confronted with the same sight myself once, when out of two beautiful eyes suddenly shot strange glances as if some evil beast had appeared behind those eyes. It scared me literally so that I had to see if some other person were standing behind that face, which looked like a mask.--But why do we sit here talking about such things? Is it the heat, or the storm, or what? CONSUL. Solitude brings heavy thoughts, and you ought to have company. This summer in the city seems to have been rather hard on you. MASTER. Only these last few weeks. The sickness and that death up above--it was as if I had gone through it myself. The sorrows and cares of the confectioner have also become my own, so that I keep worrying about his finances, about his wife's eye trouble, about his future--and of late I have been dreaming every night about my little Anne-Charlotte. I see her surrounded by dangers--unknown, undiscovered, nameless. And before I fall asleep my hearing grows so unbelievably acute that I can hear her little steps--and once I heard her voice---- CONSUL. But where is she then? MASTER. Don't ask me! CONSUL. And if you were to meet her on the street? MASTER. I imagine that I should lose my reason or fall in a faint. Once, you know, I stayed abroad very long, during the very time when our youngest sister was growing up. When I returned, after several years, I was met at the steam-boat landing by a young girl who put her arms around my neck. I was horrified at those eyes that searched mine, but with unfamiliar glances--glances that expressed absolute terror at not being recognised. "It is I," she repeated again and again before at last I was able to recognise my own sister. And that's how I imagine it would be for me to meet my daughter again. Five years are enough to render you unrecognisable at that age. Think of it: not to know your own child! That child, who is the same as before, and yet a stranger! I couldn't survive such a thing. No, then I prefer to keep the little girl of four years whom you see over there on the altar of my home. I want no other one. [_Pause_] That must be Louise putting things to rights in the linen closet. It has such a clean smell, and it reminds me--oh, the housewife at her linen closet; the good fairy that preserves and renews; the housewife with her iron, who smooths out all that has been ruffled up and who takes out all wrinkles--the wrinkles, yes--[_Pause_] Now--I'll--go in there to write a letter. If you'll stay, I'll be out again soon. [_He goes out to the left_. _The_ CONSUL _coughs_. GERDA. [_Appears in the door to the hallway_] Are you--[_The clock strikes_] Oh, mercy! That sound--which has remained in my ears for ten years! That clock which never kept time and yet measured the long hours and days and nights of five years. [_She looks around_] My piano--my palms--the dinner-table--he has kept it in honour, shining as a shield! My buffet--with the "Knight in Armour" and "Eve"--Eve with her basketful of apples--In the right-hand upper drawer, way back, there was a thermometer lying--[_Pause_] I wonder if it is still there? [_She goes to the buffet and pulls out the right-hand drawer_] Yes, there it is! CONSUL. What does that mean? GERDA. Oh, in the end it became a symbol--of instability. When we went to housekeeping the thermometer was not put in its place at once--of course, it ought to be outside the window. I promised to put it up--and forgot it. He promised, and forgot. Then we nagged each other about it, and at last, to get away from it, I hid it in this drawer. I came to hate it, and so did he. Do you know what was back of all that? Neither one of us believed that our relationship would last, because we unmasked at once and gave free vent to our antipathies. To begin with, we lived on tiptoe, so to speak--always ready to fly off at a moment's notice. That was what the thermometer stood for--and here it is still lying! Always on the move, always changeable, like the weather. [_She puts away the thermometer and goes over to the chess-board_] My chess pieces! Which he bought to kill the time that hung heavy on our hands while we were waiting for the little one to come. With whom does he play now? CONSUL. With me. GERDA. Where is he? CONSUL. He is in his room writing a letter. GERDA. Where? CONSUL. [_Pointing toward the left_] There. GERDA. [_Shocked_] And here he has been going for five years? CONSUL. Ten years--five of them alone! GERDA. Of course, he loves solitude. CONSUL. But I think he has had enough of it. GERDA. Will he turn me out? CONSUL. Find out for yourself! You take no risk, as he is always polite. GERDA. I didn't make that centrepiece---- CONSUL. That is to say, you risk his asking you for the child. GERDA. But it was he who should help me find it again---- CONSUL. Where do you think Fischer has gone, and what can be the purpose of his flight? GERDA. To get away from the unpleasant neighbourhood, first of all; then to make me run after him. And he wanted the girl as a hostage, of course. CONSUL. As to the ballet--that's something the father _must not_ know, for he hates music-halls. GERDA. [_Sitting down in front of the chess-board and beginning, absent-mindedly, to arrange the pieces_] Music-halls--oh, I have been there myself. CONSUL. You? GERDA. I have accompanied on the piano. CONSUL. Poor Gerda! GERDA. Why? I love that kind of life. And when I was a prisoner here, it wasn't the keeper, but the prison itself, that made me fret. CONSUL. But now you have had enough? GERDA. Now I am in love with peace and solitude--and with my child above all. CONSUL. Hush, he's coming! GERDA. [_Rises as if to run away, but sinks down on the chair again_] Oh! CONSUL. Now I leave you. Don't think of what you are to say. It will come of itself, like the "next move" in a game of chess. GERDA. I fear his first glance most of all, for it will tell me whether I have changed for better or for worse--whether I have grown old and ugly. CONSUL. [_Going out to the right_] If he finds you looking older, then he will dare to approach you. If he finds you as young as ever, he will have no hope, for he is more diffident than you think.--Now! _The_ MASTER _is seen outside, passing by the door leading to the pantry; he carries a letter in his hand; then he disappears, only to become visible again a moment later in the hallway, where he opens the outside door and steps out_. CONSUL. [_In the doorway at the right_] He went out to the mail-box. GERDA. No, this is too much for me! How can I possibly ask _him_ to help me with this divorce? I want to get out! It's too brazen! CONSUL. Stay! You know that his kindness has no limits. And he'll help you for the child's sake. GERDA. No, no! CONSUL. And he is the only one who can help you. MASTER. [_Enters quickly from the hallway and nods at_ GERDA, _whom, because of his near-sightedness, he mistakes for_ LOUISE; _then he goes to the buffet and picks up the telephone, but in passing he remarks to_ GERDA] So you're done already? Well, get the pieces ready then, and we'll begin all over again--from the beginning. GERDA _stands paralysed, not understanding the situation_. MASTER. [_Speaks in the telephone receiver, with his back to_ Gerda] Hello!--Good evening! Is that you, mother?--Pretty well, thank you! Louise is waiting to play a game of chess with me, but she is a little tired after a lot of bother--It's all over now--everything all right--nothing serious at all.--If it's hot? Well, there has been a lot of thundering, right over our heads, but nobody has been struck. False alarm!--What did you say? Fischer?--Yes, but I think they are going to leave.--Why so? I know nothing in particular.--Oh, is that so?--Yes, it leaves at six-fifteen, by the outside route, and it gets there--let me see--at eight-twenty-five.--Did you have a good time?--[_With a little laugh_] Oh, he's impossible when he gets started! And what did Marie have to say about it?--How I have had it during the summer? Oh, well, Louise and I have kept each other company, and she has got such an even, pleasant temper.--Yes, she is very nice, indeed!--Oh, no, nothing of that kind! GERDA, _who has begun to understand, rises with an expression of consternation on her face_. MASTER. My eyes? Oh, I am getting a little near-sighted. But I feel like the confectioner's old wife: there is nothing to look at. Wish I were deaf, too! Deaf and blind! The neighbours above make such a lot of noise at night--it's a gambling club--There now! Somebody got on the wire to listen. [_He rings again_. LOUISE _appears in the door to the hallway without being seen by the_ MASTER; GERDA _stares at her with mingled admiration and hatred_; LOUISE _withdraws toward the right_. MASTER. [_At the telephone_] Is that you? The cheek of it--to break off our talk in order to listen!--To-morrow, then, at six-fifteen.--Thank you, and the same to you!--Yes, I will, indeed!--Good night, mother! [_He rings off_. LOUISE _has disappeared_. GERDA _is standing in the middle of the floor_. MASTER. [_Turns around and catches sight of_ GERDA, _whom he gradually recognises; then he puts his hand to his heart_] O Lord, was that you? Wasn't Louise here a moment ago? GERDA _remains silent_. MASTER. [_Feebly_] How--how did you get here? GERDA. I hope you pardon--I just got to the city--I was passing by and felt a longing to have a look at my old home--the windows were open---- [_Pause_. MASTER. Do you find things as they used to be? GERDA. Exactly, and yet different--there is a difference MASTER. [_Feeling unhappy_] Are you satisfied--with your life? GERDA. Yes. I have what I was looking for. MASTER. And the child? GERDA. Oh, she's growing, and thriving, and lacks nothing. MASTER. Then I won't ask anything more. [_Pause_] Did you want anything--of me--can I be of any service? GERDA. It's very kind of you, but--I need nothing at all now when I have seen that you lack nothing either. [_Pause]_ Do you wish to see Anne-Charlotte? MASTER. I don't think so, now when I have heard that she is doing well. It's so hard to begin over again. It's like having to repeat a lesson at school--which you know already, although the teacher doesn't think so--I have got so far away from all that--I live in a wholly different region--and I cannot connect with the past. It goes against me to be impolite, but I am not asking you to be seated--you are another man's wife--and you are not the same person as the one from whom I parted. GERDA. Am I then so--altered? MASTER. Quite strange to me! Your voice, glance, manner---- GERDA. Have I grown old? MASTER. That I cannot tell!--They say that not a single atom in a person's body remains wholly the same after three years--and in five years everything is renewed. And for that reason you, who stand over there, are not the same person as the sufferer who once sat here--you seem such a complete stranger to me that I can only address you in the most formal way. And I suppose it would be just the same in the case of my daughter, too. GERDA. Don't speak like that. I would much rather have you angry. MASTER. Why should I be angry? GERDA. Because of all the evil I have done you. MASTER. Have you? That's more than I know. GERDA. Didn't you read the papers in the suit? MASTER. No-o! I left that to my lawyer. [_He sits down_. GERDA. And the decision of the court? MASTER. No, why should I? As I don't mean to marry again, I have no use for that kind of documents. _Pause_. GERDA _seats herself_. MASTER. What did those papers say? That I was too old? GERDA'S _silence indicates assent_. MASTER. Well, that was nothing but the truth, so that need not trouble you. In my answer I said the very same thing and asked the Court to set you free again. GERDA. You said, that---- MASTER. I said, not that I _was_, but that I was about to _become_ too old _for you_! GERDA. [_Offended_] For me? MASTER. Yes.--I couldn't say that I was too old when we married, for then the arrival of the child would have been unpleasantly explained, and it was _our_ child, was it not? GERDA. You know that, of course! But---- MASTER. Do you think I should be ashamed of my age?--Of course, if I took to dancing and playing cards at night, then I might soon land in an invalid's chair, or on the operating-table, and that would be a shame. GERDA. You don't look it---- MASTER. Did you expect the divorce to kill me? _The silence of_ GERDA _is ambiguous_. MASTER. There are those who assert that you _have_ killed me. Do you think I look like a dead man? GERDA _appears embarrassed_. MASTER. Some of your friends are said to have caricatured me in the papers, but I have never seen anything of it, and those papers went into the dump five years ago. So there is no need for your conscience to be troubled on my behalf. GERDA. Why did you marry me? MASTER. Don't you know why a man marries? And you know, too, that I didn't have to go begging for love. And you ought to remember how we laughed together at all the wiseacres who felt compelled to warn you.--But why you led me on is something I have never been able to explain--When you didn't look at me after the marriage ceremony, but acted as if you had been attending somebody else's wedding, then I thought you had made a bet that you could kill me. As the head of the department, I was, of course, hated by all my subordinates, but they became your friends at once. No sooner did I make an enemy than he became _your_ friend. Which caused me to remark that, while it was right for you not to hate your enemies, it was also right that you shouldn't _love_ mine!--However, seeing where you stood, I began to prepare for a retreat at once, but before leaving I wanted a living proof that you had not been telling the truth, and so I stayed until the little one arrived. GERDA. To think that you could be so disingenuous! MASTER. I learned to keep silent, but I never lied!--By degrees you turned all my friends into detectives, and you lured my own brother into betraying me. But worst of all was that your thoughtless chatter threw suspicions on the legitimacy of the child. GERDA. All that I took back! MASTER. The word that's on the wing cannot be pulled back again. And worse still: those false rumours reached the child, and now she thinks her mother a---- GERDA. For Heaven's sake! MASTER. Well, that's the truth of it. You raised a tall tower on a foundation of lies, and now the tower of lies is tumbling down on your head. GERDA. It isn't true! MASTER. Yes, it is! I met Anne-Charlotte a few minutes ago---- GERDA. You have met---- MASTER. We met on the stairs, and she said I was her uncle. Do you know what an uncle is? That's an elderly friend of the house and the mother. And I know that at school I am also passing as her uncle.--But all that is dreadful for the child! GERDA. You have met---- MASTER. Yes. But why should I tell anybody about it? Haven't I a right to keep silent? And, besides, that meeting was so shocking to me that I wiped it out of my memory as if it had never existed. GERDA. What can I do to rehabilitate you? MASTER. You? What could you do? That's something I can only do myself. [_For a long time they gaze intently at each other_] And for that matter, I have already got my rehabilitation. [_Pause_. GERDA. Can't I make good in some way? Can't I ask you to forgive, to forget---- MASTER. What do you mean? GERDA. To restore, to repair---- MASTER. Do you mean to resume, to start over again, to reinstate a master above me? No, thanks! I don't want you. GERDA. And this I had to hear! MASTER. Well, how does it taste? [_Pause_. GERDA. That's a pretty centrepiece. MASTER. Yes, it's pretty. GERDA. Where did you get it? [_Pause_. LOUISE _appears in the door to the pantry with a bill in her hand_. MASTER. [_Turning toward her_] Is it a bill? GERDA _rises and begins to pull on her gloves with such violence that buttons are scattered right and left_. MASTER. [_Taking out the money_] Eighteen-seventy-two. That's just right. LOUISE. I should like to see you a moment, sir. MASTER. [_Rises and goes to the door, where_ LOUISE _whispers something into his ear_] Oh, mercy---- LOUISE _goes out_. MASTER. I am sorry for you, Gerda! GERDA. What do you mean? That I am jealous of your servant-girl? MASTER. No, I didn't mean that. GERDA. Yes, you meant that you were too old for me, but not for her. I catch the insulting point--She's pretty--I don't deny it--for a servant-girl---- MASTER. I am sorry for you, Gerda! GERDA. Why do you say that? MASTER. Because you are to be pitied. Jealous of my servant--that ought to be rehabilitation enough. GERDA. Jealous, I---- MASTER. Why do you fly in a rage at my nice, gentle kinswoman? GERDA. "A little more than kin." MASTER. No, my dear, I have long ago resigned myself--and I am satisfied with my solitude--[_The telephone rings, and he goes to answer it_] Mr. Fischer? No, that isn't here.--Oh, yes, that's me.--Has he skipped?--With whom, do you say?--with Starck's daughter! Oh, good Lord! How old is she?--Eighteen! A mere child! [_Rings off_. GERDA. I knew he had run away.--But with a woman!--Now you're pleased. MASTER. No, I am not pleased. Although there is a sort of solace to my mind in finding justice exists in this world. Life is very quick in its movements, and now you find yourself where I was. GERDA. Her eighteen years against my twenty-nine--I am old--too old for him! MASTER. Everything is relative, even age.--But now let us get at something else. Where is your child? GERDA. My child? I had forgotten it! My child! My God! Help me! He has taken the child with him. He loves Anne-Charlotte as his own daughter--Come with me to the police--come! MASTER. I? Now you ask too much. GERDA. Help me! MASTER. [_Goes to the door at the right_] Come, Carl Frederick--get a cab--take Gerda down to the police station--won't you? CONSUL. [_Enters_] Of course I will! We are human, are we not? MASTER. Quick! But say nothing to Starck. Matters may be straightened out yet--Poor fellow--and I am sorry for Gerda, too!--Hurry up now! GERDA. [_Looking out through the window_] It's beginning to rain--lend me an umbrella. Eighteen years--only eighteen--quick, now! _She goes out with the_ CONSUL. MASTER. [_Alone_] The peace of old age!--And my child in the hands of an adventurer!--Louise! LOUISE _enters_. MASTER. Come and play chess with me. LOUISE. Has the consul---- MASTER. He has gone out on some business. Is it still raining? LOUISE. No, it has stopped now. MASTER. Then I'll go out and cool off a little. [_Pause_] You are a nice girl, and sensible--did you know the confectioner's daughter? LOUISE. Very slightly. MASTER. Is she pretty? LOUISE. Ye-es. MASTER. Have you known the people above us? LOUISE. I have never seen them. MASTER. That's an evasion. LOUISE. I have learned to keep silent in this house. MASTER. I am forced to admit that pretended deafness can be carried to the point where it becomes dangerous.--Well, get the tea ready while I go outside and cool off a little. And, one thing, please--you see what is happening, of course--but don't ask me any questions. LOUISE. I? No, sir, I am not at all curious. MASTER. I am thankful for that! _Curtain_. THIRD SCENE _The front of the house as in the First Scene. There is light in the confectioner's place in the basement. The gas is also lit on the second floor, where now the shades are raised and the windows open_. STARCK _is sitting near the gateway_. MASTER. [_Seated on the green bench_] That was a nice little shower we had. STARCK. Quite a blessing! Now the raspberries will be coming in again---- MASTER. Then I'll ask you to put aside a few jars for us. We have grown tired of making the jam ourselves. It only gets spoiled. STARCK. Yes, I know. Jars of jam are like mischievous children: you have to watch them all the time. There are people who put in salicylic acid, but those are newfangled tricks in which I take no stock. MASTER. Salicylic acid--yes, they say it's antiseptic--and perhaps it's a good thing. STARCK. Yes, but you can taste it--and it's a trick. MASTER. Tell me, Mr. Starck, have you got a telephone? STARCK. No, I have no telephone. MASTER. Oh! STARCK. Why do you ask? MASTER. Oh, I happened to think--a telephone is handy at times--for orders--and important communications---- STARCK. That may be. But sometimes it is just as well to escape--communications. MASTER. Quite right! Quite right!--Yes, my heart always beats a little faster when I hear it ring--one never knows what one is going to hear--and I want peace--peace, above all else. STARCK. So do I. MASTER. [_Looking at his watch_] The lamplighter ought to be here soon. STARCK. He must have forgotten us, for I see that the lamps are already lit further down the avenue. MASTER. Then he'll be here soon. It will be a lot of fun to see our lamp lighted again. _The telephone in the dining-room rings_. LOUISE _comes in to answer the call. The_ MASTER _rises and puts one hand up to his heart. He tries to listen, but the public cannot hear anything of what is said within. Pause. After a while_ LOUISE _comes out by way of the square_. MASTER. [_Anxiously_] What news? LOUISE. No change. MASTER. Was that my brother? LOUISE. No, it was the lady. MASTER. What did she want? LOUISE. To speak to you, sir. MASTER. I don't want to!--Have I to console my executioner? I used to do it, but now I am tired of it.--Look up there! They have forgotten to turn out the light--and light makes empty rooms more dreadful than darkness--the ghosts become visible. [_In a lowered voice_] And how about Starck's Agnes? Do you think he knows anything? LOUISE. It's hard to tell, for he never speaks about his sorrows--nor does anybody else in the Silent House! MASTER. Do you think he should be told? LOUISE. For Heaven's sake, no! MASTER. But I fear it isn't the first time she gave him trouble. LOUISE. He never speaks of her. MASTER. It's horrible! I wonder if we'll get to the end of it soon? [_The telephone rings again_] Now it's ringing again. Don't answer. I don't want to hear anything.--My child--in such company! An adventurer and a strumpet!--It's beyond limit!--Poor Gerda! LOUISE. It's better to have certainty. I'll go in--You must do something! MASTER. I cannot move--I can receive blows, but to strike back--no! LOUISE. But if you don't repel a danger, it will press closer; and if you don't resist, you'll be destroyed. MASTER. But if you refuse to be drawn in, you become unassailable. LOUISE. Unassailable? MASTER. Things straighten out much better if you don't mess them up still further by interference. How can you want me to direct matters where so many passions are at play? Do you think I can suppress anybody's emotions, or give them a new turn? LOUISE. But how about the child? MASTER. I have surrendered my rights--and besides--frankly speaking--I don't care for them--not at all now, when _she_ has been here and spoiled the images harboured in my memory. She has wiped out all the beauty that I had cherished, and now there is nothing left. LOUISE. But that's to be set free! MASTER. Look, how empty the place seems in there--as if everybody had moved out; and up there--as if there had been a fire. LOUISE. Who is coming there? AGNES _enters, excited and frightened, but trying hard to control herself; she makes for the gateway, where the confectioner is seated on his chair_. LOUISE [_To the_ MASTER] There is Agnes? What can this mean? MASTER. Agnes? Then things are getting straightened out. STARCK. [_With perfect calm_] Good evening, girl! Where have you been? AGNES. I have been for a walk. STARCK. Your mother has asked for you several times. AGNES. Is that so? Well, here I am. STARCK. Please go down and help her start a fire under the little oven. AGNES. Is she angry with me, then? STARCK. You know that she cannot be angry with you. AGNES. Oh, yes, but she doesn't say anything. STARCK. Well, girl, isn't it better to escape being scolded? AGNES _disappears into the gateway_. MASTER. [_To_ LOUISE] Does he know, or doesn't he? LOUISE. Let's hope that he will remain in ignorance. MASTER. But what can have happened? A breach? [_To_ STARCK] Say, Mr. Starck---- STARCK. What is it? MASTER. I thought--Did you notice if anybody left the house a while ago? STARCK. I saw the iceman, and also a mail-carrier, I think. MASTER. Oh! [_To_ LOUISE] Perhaps it was a mistake--that we didn't hear right--I can't explain it--Or maybe he is not telling the truth? What did she say when she telephoned? LOUISE. That she wanted to speak to you. MASTER. How did it sound? Was she excited? LOUISE. Yes. MASTER. I think it's rather shameless of her to appeal to me in a matter like this. LOUISE. But the child! MASTER. Just think, I met my daughter on the stairway, and when I asked her if she recognised me she called me uncle and told me that her father was up-stairs. Of course, he is her stepfather, and has all the rights--They have just spent their time exterminating me, blackguarding me---- LOUISE. A cab is stopping at the corner. STARCK _withdraws into the gateway_. MASTER. I only hope they don't come back to burden me again! Just think: to have to hear my child singing the praise of her father--the other one! And then to begin the old story all over again: "Why did you marry me?"--"Oh, you know; but what made you want me?"--"You know very well!"--And so on, until the end of the world. LOUISE. It was the consul that came. MASTER. How does he look? LOUISE. He is taking his time. MASTER. Practising what he is to say, I suppose. Does he look satisfied? LOUISE. Thoughtful, rather---- MASTER. Hm!--That's the way it always was. Whenever he saw that woman he became disloyal to me. She had the power of charming everybody but me. To me she seemed coarse, vulgar, ugly, stupid; to all the rest she seemed refined, pleasant, handsome, intelligent. All the hatred aroused by my independence centred in her under the form of a boundless sympathy for whoever wronged me in any way. Through her they strove to control and influence me, to wound me, and, at last, to kill me. LOUISE. Now, I'll go in and watch the telephone--I suppose this storm will pass like all others. MASTER. Men cannot bear independence. They want you to obey them. Every one of my subordinates in the department, down to the very messengers, wanted me to obey him. And when I wouldn't they called me a despot. The servants in our house wanted me to obey them and eat food that had been warmed up. When I wouldn't, they set my wife against me. And finally my wife wanted me to obey the child, but then I left, and then all of them combined against the tyrant--which was I!--Get in there quick now, Louise, so we can set off our mines out here. _The_ CONSUL _enters from the left_. MASTER. Results--not details--please! CONSUL. Let's sit down. I am a little tired. MASTER. I think it has rained on the bench. CONSUL. It can't be too wet for me if you have been sitting on it. MASTER. A you like!--Where is my child? CONSUL. Can I begin at the beginning? MASTER. Begin! CONSUL [_Speaking slowly_] I got to the depot with Gerda--and at the ticket-office I discovered him and Agnes---- MASTER. So Agnes was with him? CONSUL. And so was the child!--Gerda stayed outside, and I went up to them. At that moment _he_ was handing Agnes the tickets, but when she discovered that they were for third class she threw them in his face and walked out to the cab-stand. MASTER. Ugh! CONSUL. As soon as I had established a connection with the man, Gerda hurried up and got hold of the child, disappearing with it in the crowd---- MASTER. What did the man have to say? CONSUL. Oh, you know--when you come to hear the other side--and so on. MASTER. I want to hear it. Of course, he isn't as bad as we thought--he has his good sides---- CONSUL. Exactly! MASTER. I thought so! But you don't want me to sit here listening to eulogies of my enemy? CONSUL. Oh, not eulogies, but ameliorating circumstances---- MASTER. Did you ever want to listen to me when I tried to explain the true state of affairs to you? Yes, you did listen--but your reply was a disapproving silence, as if I had been lying to you. You have always sided with what was wrong, and you have believed nothing but lies, and the reason was--that you were in love with Gerda! But there was also another reason---- CONSUL. Brother, don't say anything more! You see nothing but your own side of things. MASTER. How can you expect me to view my conditions from the standpoint of my enemy? I cannot take sides against myself, can I? CONSUL. I am not your enemy. MASTER. Yes, when you make friends with one who has wronged me!--Where is my child? CONSUL. I don't know. MASTER. What was the outcome at the depot? CONSUL. He took a south-bound train alone. MASTER. And the others? CONSUL. Disappeared. MASTER. Then I may have them after me again. [_Pause]_ Did you see if they went with him? CONSUL. He went alone. MASTER. Well, then we are done with that one, at least. Number two--there remain now--the mother and the child. CONSUL. Why is the light burning up there in their rooms? MASTER. Because they forgot to turn it out. CONSUL. I'll go up---- MASTER. No, don't go!--I only hope that they don't come back here!--To repeat, always repeat, begin the same lesson all over again! CONSUL. But it has begun to straighten out. MASTER. Yet the worst remains--Do you think they will come back? CONSUL. Not she--not since she had to make you amends in the presence of Louise. MASTER. I had forgotten that! She really did me the honour of becoming jealous! I do think there is justice in this world! CONSUL. And then she learned that Agnes was younger than herself. MASTER. Poor Gerda! But in a case like this you mustn't tell people that justice exists--an avenging justice--for it is sheer falsehood that they love justice! And you must deal gently with their filth. And Nemesis--exists only for the other person.--There it's ringing again? That telephone makes a noise like a rattlesnake! LOUISE _becomes visible at the telephone inside. Pause_. MASTER. [_To_ LOUISE] Did the snake bite? LOUISE. [_At the window_] May I speak to you, sir? MASTER. [_Going up to the window_] Speak out! LOUISE. The lady has gone to her mother, in the country, to live there with her little girl. Master. [_To his brother_] Mother and child in the country--in a good home! Now it's straightened out!--Oh! LOUISE. And she asked us to turn out the light up-stairs. MASTER. Do that at once, Louise, and pull down the shades so we don't have to look at it any longer. LOUISE _leaves the dining-room_. STARCK. [_Coming out on the sidewalk again and looking up]_ I think the storm has passed over. MASTER. It seems really to have cleared up, and that means we'll have moonlight. CONSUL. That was a blessed rain! STARCK. Perfectly splendid! MASTER. Look, there's the lamplighter coming at last! _The_ LAMPLIGHTER _enters, lights the street lamp beside the bench, and passes on_. MASTER. The first lamp! Now the fall is here! That's our season, old chaps! It's getting dark, but then comes reason to light us with its bull's-eyes, so that we don't go astray. LOUISE _becomes visible at one of the windows on the second floor; immediately afterward everything is dark up there_. Master. [_To_ Louise] Close the windows and pull down the shades so that all memories can lie down and sleep in peace! The peace of old age! And this fall I move away from the Silent House. _Curtain_. AFTER THE FIRE (BRÄNDA TOMTEN) A CHAMBER PLAY 1907 CHARACTERS RUDOLPH WALSTRÖM, _a dyer_ THE STRANGER, _who is_) } ARVID WALSTRÖM } _brother of_ RUDOLPH ANDERSON, _a mason (brother-in-law of the gardener)_ MRS. ANDERSON, _wife of the mason_ GUSTAFSON, _a gardener (brother-in-law of the mason)_ ALFRED, _son of the gardener_ ALBERT ERICSON, _a stone-cutter_ (_second cousin of the hearse-driver_) MATHILDA, _daughter of the stone-cutter_ THE HEARSE-DRIVER (_second cousin of the stone-cutter_) A DETECTIVE SJÖBLOM, _a painter_ MRS. WESTERLUND, _hostess at "The Last Nail," formerly a nurse at the dyer's_ MRS. WALSTRÖM, _wife of the dyer_ THE STUDENT THE WITNESS AFTER THE FIRE FIRST SCENE _The left half of the background is occupied by the empty shell of a gutted one-story brick house. In places the paper remains on the walls, and a couple of brick stoves are still standing_. _Beyond the walls can be seen an orchard in bloom._ _At the right is the front of a small inn, the sign of which is a wreath hanging from a pole. Tables and benches are placed outside._ _At the left, in the foreground, there is a pile of furniture and household utensils that have been saved from the fire_. SJÖBLOM, _the painter, is painting the window-frames of the inn. He listens closely to everything that is said_. ANDERSON, _the mason, is digging in the ruins_. _The_ DETECTIVE _enters_. DETECTIVE. Is the fire entirely out? ANDERSON. There isn't any smoke, at least. DETECTIVE. Then I want to ask a few more questions. [_Pause_] You were born in this quarter, were you not? ANDERSON. Oh, yes. It's seventy-five years now I've lived on this street. I wasn't born when they built this house here, but my father helped to put in the brick. DETECTIVE. Then you know everybody around here? ANDERSON. We all know each other. There is something particular about this street here. Those that get in here once, never get away from it. That is, they move away, but they always come back again sooner or later, until at last they are carried out to the cemetery, which is way out there at the end of the street. DETECTIVE. You have got a special name for this quarter, haven't you? ANDERSON. We call it the Bog. And all of us hate each other, and suspect each other, and blackguard each other, and torment each other [_Pause_. DETECTIVE. The fire started at half past ten in the evening, I hear--was the front door locked at that time? ANDERSON. Well, that's more than I know, for I live in the house next to this. DETECTIVE. Where did the fire start? ANDERSON. Up in the attic, where the student was living. DETECTIVE. Was he at home? ANDERSON. No, he was at the theatre. DETECTIVE. Had he gone away and left the lamp burning, then? ANDERSON. Well, that's more than I know. [_Pause_. DETECTIVE. Is the student any relation to the owner of the house? ANDERSON. No, I don't think so.--Say, you haven't got anything to do with the police, have you? DETECTIVE. How did it happen that the inn didn't catch fire? ANDERSON. They slung a tarpaulin over it and turned on the hose. DETECTIVE. Queer that the apple-trees were not destroyed by the heat. ANDERSON. They had just budded, and it had been raining during the day, but the heat made the buds go into bloom in the middle of the night--a little too early, I guess, for there is frost coming, and then the gardener will catch it. DETECTIVE. What kind of fellow is the gardener? ANDERSON. His name is Gustafson---- DETECTIVE. Yes, but what sort of a man is he? ANDERSON. See here: I am seventy-five--and for that reason I don't know anything bad about Gustafson; and if I knew I wouldn't be telling it! [_Pause_. DETECTIVE. And the owner of the house is named Walström, a dyer, about sixty years old, married---- ANDERSON. Why don't you go on yourself? You can't pump me any longer. DETECTIVE. Is it thought that the fire was started on purpose? ANDERSON. That's what people think of all fires. DETECTIVE. And whom do they suspect? ANDERSON. The insurance company always suspects anybody who has an interest in the fire--and for that reason I have never had anything insured. DETECTIVE. Did you find anything while you were digging? ANDERSON. Mostly one finds all the door-keys, because people haven't got time to take them along when the house is on fire--except now and then, of course, when they have been taken away---- DETECTIVE. There was no electric light in the house? ANDERSON. Not in an old house like this, and that's a good thing, for then they can't put the blame on crossed wires. DETECTIVE. Put the blame?--A good thing?--Listen---- ANDERSON. Oh, you're going to get me in a trap? Don't you do it, for then I take it all back. DETECTIVE. Take back? You can't! ANDERSON. Can't I? DETECTIVE. No! ANDERSON. Yes! For there was no witness present. DETECTIVE. No? ANDERSON. Naw! _The_ DETECTIVE _coughs. The_ WITNESS _comes in from the left_. DETECTIVE. Here's _one_ witness. ANDERSON. You're a sly one! DETECTIVE. Oh, there are people who know how to use their brains without being seventy-five. [_To the_ WITNESS] Now we'll continue with the gardener. [_They go out to the left_. ANDERSON. There I put my foot in it, I guess. But that's what happens when you get to talking. MRS. ANDERSON _enters with her husband's lunch in a bundle_. ANDERSON. It's good you came. MRS. ANDERSON. Now we'll have lunch and be good--you might well be hungry after all this fuss--I wonder if Gustafson can pull through--he'd just got done with his hotbeds and was about to start digging in the open--why don't you eat?--and there's Sjöblom already at work with his putty--just think of it, that Mrs. Westerlund got off as well as she did--morning, Sjöblom, now you've got work, haven't you? MRS. WESTERLUND _comes in_. MRS. ANDERSON. Morning, morning, Mrs. Westerlund--you got out of this fine, I must say, and then---- MRS. WESTERLUND. I wonder who's going to pay me for all I am losing to-day, when there's a big funeral on at the cemetery, which always makes it a good day for me, and just when I've had to put away all my bottles and glassware---- MRS. ANDERSON. Who's that they're burying to-day? I see such a lot of people going out that way--and then, of course, they've come to see where the fire was, too. MRS. WESTERLUND. I don't think they're burying anybody, but I've heard they're going to put up a monument over the bishop--worst of it is that the stone-cutter's daughter was going to get married to the gardener's son--him, you know, who's in a store down-town--and now the gardener has lost all he had--isn't that his furniture standing over there? MRS. ANDERSON. I guess that's some of the dyer's, too, seeing as it came out helter-skelter in a jiffy--and where's the dyer now? MRS. WESTERLUND. He's down at the police station testifying. MRS. ANDERSON. Hm-hm!--Yes, yes!--And there's my cousin now--him what drives the hearse--he's always thirsty on his way back. HEARSE-DRIVER. [_Enters_] How do, Malvina! So you've gone and started a little job of arson out here during the night, have you? Looks pretty, doesn't it. Would have been better to get a new shanty instead, I guess. MRS. WESTERLUND. Oh, mercy me! But whom have you been taking out now? HEARSE-DRIVER. Can't remember what his name was--only _one_ carriage along, and no flowers on the coffin at all. MRS. WESTERLUND. Sure and it wasn't any happy funeral, then! If you want anything to drink you'll have to go 'round to the kitchen, for I haven't got things going on this side yet, and, for that matter, Gustafson is coming here with a lot of wreaths--they've got something on out at the cemetery to-day. HEARSE-DRIVER. Yes, they're going to put up a moniment to the bishop--'cause he wrote books, I guess, and collected all kinds of vermin--was a reg'lar vermin-hunter, they tell me. MRS. WESTERLUND. What's that? HEARSE-DRIVER. Oh, he had slabs of cork with pins on 'em, and a lot of flies--something beyond us here--but I guess that's the proper way--can I go out to the kitchen now? MRS. WESTERLUND. Yes, if you use the back door, I think you can get something wet---- HEARSE-DRIVER. But I want to have a word with the dyer before I drive off--I've got my horses over at the stone-cutter's, who's my second cousin, you know. Haven't got any use for him, as you know, too, but we're doing business together, he and I--that is, I put in a word for him with the heirs, and so he lets me put my horses into his yard--just let me know when the dyer shows up--luck, wasn't it, that he didn't have his works here, too---- [_He goes out, passing around the inn_. MRS. WESTERLUND _goes into the inn by the front door_. ANDERSON, _who has finished eating, begins to dig again_. MRS. ANDERSON. Do you find anything? ANDERSON. Nails and door-hinges--all the keys are hanging in a bunch over there by the front door. MRS. ANDERSON. Did they hang there before, or did you put them there? ANDERSON. No, they were hanging there when I got here. MRS. ANDERSON. That's queer--for then somebody must have locked all the doors and taken out the keys before it began burning! That's queer! ANDERSON. Yes, of course, it's a little queer, for in that way it was harder to get at the fire and save things. Yes--yes! [_Pause_. MRS. ANDERSON. I worked for the dyer's father forty years ago, I did, and I know the people, both the dyer himself and his brother what went off to America, though they say he's back now. The father, he was a real man, he was, but the boys were always a little so-so. Mrs. Westerlund over here, she used to take care of Rudolph, and the two brothers never could get along, but kept scrapping and fighting all the time.--I've seen a thing or two, I have--yes, there's a whole lot what has happened in that house, so I guess it was about time to get it smoked out.--Ugh, but that was a house! One went this way and another that, but back they had to come, and here they died and here they were born, and here they married and were divorced.--And Arvid, the brother what went off to America--him they thought dead for years, and at least he didn't take what was coming to him after his father, but now they say he's come back, though nobody has seen him--and there's such a lot of talking--Look, there's the dyer back from the police station! ANDERSON. He doesn't look happy exactly, but I suppose that's more than can be expected--Well, who's that student that lived in the attic? How does he hang together with the rest? MRS. ANDERSON. Well, that's more than I know. He had his board there, and read with the children. ANDERSON. And also with the lady of the house? MRS. ANDERSON. No-o, they played something what they called tennis, and quarrelled the rest of the time--yes, quarrelling and backbiting, that's what everybody is up to in this quarter. ANDERSON. Well, when they broke the student's door open they found hairpins on the floor--it had to come out, after all, even if the fire had to sweep over it first---- MRS. ANDERSON. I don't think it was the dyer that came, but our brother-in-law, Gustafson---- ANDERSON. He's always mad, and to-day I suppose he's worse than ever, and so he'll have to come and dun me for what I owe him, seeing what he has lost in the fire---- MRS. ANDERSON. Now you shut up! GUSTAFSON. [_Enters with a basketful of funeral wreaths and other products of his trade_] I wonder if I am going to sell anything to-day so there'll be enough for food after all this rumpus? ANDERSON. Didn't you carry any insurance? GUSTAFSON. Yes, I used to have insurance on the glass panes over my hotbeds, but this year I felt stingy, and so I put in oiled paper instead--gosh, that I could be such a darned fool!--[_Scratching his head_] I don't get paid for that, of course. And now I've got to cut and paste and oil six hundred paper panes. It's as I have always said: that I was the worst idiot among us seven children. Gee, what an ass I was--what a booby! And then I went and got drunk yesterday. Why in hell did I have to get drunk that day of all days--when I need all the brains I've got to-day? It was the stone-cutter who treated, because our children are going to get married to-night, but I should have said no. I didn't want to, but I'm a ninny who can't say no to anybody. And that's the way when they come and borrow money of me--I can't say no--darned fool that I am! And then I got in the way of that policeman, who snared me with all sorts of questions. I should have kept my mouth shut, like the painter over there, but I can't, and so I let out this, that, and the other thing, and he put it all down, and now I am called as a witness! ANDERSON. What was it you said? GUSTAFSON. I said I thought--that it looked funny to me--and that somebody must have started it. ANDERSON. Oh, that's what you said! GUSTAFSON. Yes, pitch into me--I've deserved it, goose that I am! ANDERSON. And who could have started it, do you think?--Don't mind the painter, and my old woman here never carries any tales. GUSTAFSON. Who started it? Why, the student, of course, as it started in his room. ANDERSON. No--_under_ his room! GUSTAFSON. Under, you say? Then I _have_ gone and done it!--Oh, I'll come to a bad end, I'm sure!--_Under_ his room, you say--what could have been there--the kitchen? ANDERSON. No, a closet--see, over there! It was used by the cook. GUSTAFSON. Then it must have been her. ANDERSON. Yes, but don't you say so, as you don't know. GUSTAFSON. The stone-cutter had it in for the cook last night--I guess he must have known a whole lot---- ANDERSON. You shouldn't repeat what the stone-cutter says, for one who has served isn't to be trusted---- GUSTAFSON. Ash, that's so long ago, and the cook's a regular dragon, for that matter--she'd always haggle over the vegetables---- ANDERSON. There comes the dyer from the station now--you'd better quit! _The_ STRANGER _enters, dressed in a frock coat and a high hat with mourning on it; he carries a stick_. MRS. ANDERSON. It wasn't the dyer, but he looks a lot like him. STRANGER. How much is one of those wreaths? GARDENER. Fifty cents. STRANGER. Oh, that's not much. GARDENER. No, I am such a fool that I can't charge as I should. STRANGER. [_Looking around_] Has there--been a fire--here? GARDENER. Yes, last night. STRANGER. Good God! [_Pause_] Who was the owner of the house? GARDENER. Mr. Walström. STRANGER. The dyer? GARDENER. Yes, he used to be a dyer, all right. [_Pause_. STRANGER. Where is he now? GARDENER. He'll be here any moment. STRANGER. Then I'll look around a bit--the wreath can lie here till I come back--I meant to go out to the cemetery later. GARDENER. On account of the bishop's monument, I suppose? STRANGER. What bishop? GARDENER. Bishop Stecksen, don't you know--who belonged to the Academy. STRANGER. Is he dead? GARDENER. Oh, long ago! STRANGER. I see!--Well, I'll leave the wreath for a while. _He goes out to the left, studying the ruins carefully as he passes by_. MRS. ANDERSON. Perhaps he came on account of the insurance. ANDERSON. Not that one! Then he would have asked in a different way. MRS. ANDERSON. But he looked like the dyer just the same. ANDERSON. Only he was taller. GUSTAFSON. Now, I remember something--I should have a bridal bouquet ready for to-night, and I should go to my son's wedding, but I have no flowers, and my black coat has been burned. Wouldn't that make you--Mrs. Westerlund was to furnish the myrtle for the bride's crown, being her godmother--that's the myrtle she stole a shoot of from the dyer's cook, who got hers from the dyer's first wife--she who ran away--and I was to make a crown of it, and I've clean forgotten it--well, if I ain't the worst fool that ever walked the earth! [_He opens the inn door_] Mrs. Westerlund, can I have the myrtle now, and I'll do the job!--I say, can I have that myrtle! Wreath, too, you say--have you got enough for it?--No?--Well, then I'll let the whole wedding go hang, that's all there is to it!--Let them walk up to the minister's and have him splice them together, but it'll make the stone-cutter mad as a hornet.--What do you think I should do?--No, I can't--haven't slept a wink the whole night.--It's too much for a poor human creature.--Yes, I am a ninny, I know--go for me, will you!--Oh, there's the pot--thanks! And then I need scissors, which I haven't got--and wire--and string--where am I to get them from?--No, of course, nobody wants to break off his work for a thing like that.--I'm tired of the whole mess--work fifty years, and then have it go up in smoke! I haven't got strength to begin over again--and the way it comes all at once, blow on blow--did you ever! I'm going to run away from it! [_He goes out_. RUDOLPH WALSTRÖM. [_Enters, evidently upset, badly dressed_, _his hands discoloured by the dyes_] Is it all out now, Anderson? ANDERSON. Yes, now it's out. RUDOLPH. Has anything been discovered? ANDERSON. That's a question! What's buried when it snows comes to light when it thaws! RUDOLPH. What do you mean, Anderson? ANDERSON. If you dig deep enough you find things. RUDOLPH. Have you found anything that can explain how the fire started? ANDERSON. Naw, nothing of that kind. RUDOLPH. That means we are still under suspicion, all of us. ANDERSON. Not me, I guess. RUDOLPH. Oh, yes, for you have been seen up in the attic at unusual hours. ANDERSON. Well, I can't always go at usual hours to look for my tools when I've left them behind. And I did leave my hammer behind when I fixed the stove in the student's room. RUDOLPH. And the stone-cutter, the gardener, Mrs. Westerlund, even the painter over there--we are all of us under suspicion--the student, the cook, and myself more than the rest. Lucky it was that I had paid the insurance the day before, or I should have been stuck for good.--Think of it: the stone-cutter suspected of arson--he who's so afraid of doing anything wrong! He's so conscientious _nowadays_ that if you ask him what time it is he won't swear to it, as his watch _may_ be wrong. Of course, we all know he got two years, but he's reformed, and I'll swear now he's the straightest man in the quarter. ANDERSON. But the police suspect him because he went wrong once--and he ain't got his citizenship back yet. RUDOLPH. Oh, there are so many ways of looking at a thing--so many ways, I tell you.--Well, Anderson, I guess you'd better quit for the day, seeing as you're going to the wedding to-night. ANDERSON. Yes, that wedding--There was somebody looking for you a while ago, and he said he would be back. RUDOLPH. Who was it? ANDERSON. He didn't say. RUDOLPH. Police, was it? ANDERSON. Naw, I don't think so.--There he is coming now, for that matter. [_He goes out, together with his wife_. _The_ STRANGER _enters_. RUDOLPH. [_Regards him with curiosity at first, then with horror; wants to run away, but cannot move_] Arvid! STRANGER. Rudolph! RUDOLPH. So it's you! STRANGER. Yes. [_Pause_. RUDOLPH. You're not dead, then? STRANGER. In a way, yes!--I have come back from America after thirty years--there was something that pulled at me-- I wanted to see my childhood's home once more--and I found those ruins! [_Pause_] It burned down last night? RUDOLPH. Yes, you came just in time. [_Pause_. STRANGER. [_Dragging his words_] That's the place--such a tiny place for such a lot of destinies! There's the dining-room with the frescoed walls: palms, and cypresses, and a temple beneath a rose-coloured sky--that's the way I dreamt the world would look the moment I got away from home. And the stove with its pale blossoms growing out of conches. And the chimney cupboard with its metal doors--I remember as a child, when we had just moved in, somebody had scratched his name on the metal, and then grandmother told us it was the name of a man who had killed himself in that very room. I quickly forgot all about it, but when I later married a niece of the same man, it seemed to me as if my destiny had been foretold on that plate of metal.--You don't believe in that kind of thing, do you?--However, you know how my marriage ended! RUDOLPH. Yes, I've heard---- STRANGER. And there's the nursery--yes! RUDOLPH. Don't let us start digging in the ruins! STRANGER. Why not? After the fire is out you can read things in the ashes. We used to do it as children, in the stove---- RUDOLPH. Come and sit down at the table here! STRANGER. What place is that? Oh, the tavern--"The Last Nail"--where the hearse-drivers used to stop, and where, once upon a time, condemned culprits were given a final glass before they were taken to the gallows--Who is keeping it? RUDOLPH. Mrs. Westerlund, who used to be my nurse. STRANGER. Mrs. Westerlund--I remember her. It is as if the bench sank from under me, and I was sent tumbling through the past, sixty whole years, down into my childhood. I breathe the nursery air and feel it pressing on my chest. You older ones weighed me down, and you made so much noise that I was always kept in a state of fright. My fears made me hide in the garden--then I was dragged forward and given a spanking--always spankings--but I never knew why, and I don't know it yet. And yet she was my mother---- RUDOLPH. Please! STRANGER. Yes, you were the favourite, and as such you always had her support--Then we got a stepmother. Her father was an undertaker's assistant, and for years we had been seeing him drive by with funerals. At last he came to know us so well by sight that he used to nod and grin at us, as if he meant to say: "Oh, I'll come for you sooner or later!" And then he came right into our house one day, and had to be called grandfather--when our father took his daughter for his second wife. RUDOLPH. There was nothing strange in that. STRANGER. No, but somehow, as our own destinies, and those of other people, were being woven into one web---- RUDOLPH. Oh, that's what happens everywhere---- STRANGER. Exactly! It's the same everywhere. In your youth you see the web set up. Parents, relatives, comrades, acquaintances, servants form the warp. Later on in life the weft becomes visible. And then the shuttle of fate runs back and forth with the thread--sometimes it breaks, but is tied up again, and it goes on as before. The reed clicks, the thread is packed together into curlicues, and one day the web lies ready. In old age, when the eye has learned how to see, you discover that those curlicues form a pattern, a monogram, an ornament, a hieroglyph, which only then can be interpreted: that's life! The world-weaver has woven it! [_Pause; he rises_] Over there, in that scrap-heap, I notice the family album. [_He walks a few steps to the right and picks up a photograph album_] That's the book of our family fate. Grandfather and grandmother, father and mother, brothers and sisters, relatives, acquaintances--or so-called "friends"--schoolmates, servants, godparents. And, strange to say, wherever I have gone, in America or Australia, to Hongkong or the Congo, everywhere I found at least one countryman, and as we began to dig it always came out that this man knew my family, or at least some godfather or maid servant--that, in a word, we had some common acquaintances. I even found a relative in the island of Formosa---- RUDOLPH. What has put those ideas into your head? STRANGER. The fact that life, however it shaped itself--I have been rich and poor, exalted and humbled; I have suffered a shipwreck and passed through an earthquake--but, however life shaped itself, I always became aware of connections and repetitions. I saw in one situation the result of another, earlier one. On meeting _this_ person I was reminded of _that_ one whom I had met in the past. There have been incidents in my life that have come back time and again, so that I have been forced to say to myself: this I have been through before. And I have met with occurrences that seemed to me absolutely inevitable, or predestined. RUDOLPH. What have you done during all these years? STRANGER. Everything! I have beheld life from every quarter, from every standpoint, from above and from below, and always it has seemed to me like a scene staged for my particular benefit. And in that way I have at last become reconciled to a part of the past, and I have come to excuse not only my own but also other people's so-called "faults." You and I, for instance, have had a few bones to pick with each other---- RUDOLPH _recoils with a darkening face_. STRANGER. Don't get scared now---- RUDOLPH. I never get scared! STRANGER. You are just the same as ever. RUDOLPH. And so are you! STRANGER. Am I? That's interesting!--Yes, you are still living in that delusion about your own bravery, and I remember exactly how this false idea became fixed in your mind. We were learning to swim, and one day you told how you had dived into the water, and then mother said: "Yes, Rudolph, he has courage!" That was meant for me--for me whom you had stripped of all courage and self-assurance. But then came the day when you had stolen some apples, and you were too cowardly to own up to it, and so you put it on me. RUDOLPH. Haven't you forgotten that yet? STRANGER. I haven't forgotten, but I have forgiven.--From here, where I am sitting, I can see that very tree, and that's what brought it into my mind. It's over there, you see, and it bears golden pippins.--If you look, you'll see that one of its biggest branches has been sawed off. For it so happened that I didn't get angry with you on account of my unjust punishment, but my anger turned against the tree. And two years later that big branch was all dried up and had to be sawed off. It made me think of the fig-tree that was cursed by the Saviour, but I was not led into any presumptuous conclusions.--However, I still know all those trees by heart, and once, when I had the yellow fever in Jamaica, I counted them over, every one. Most of them are still there, I see. There's the snow-apple which has red-striped fruit--a chaffinch used to nest in it. There's the melon-apple, standing right in front of the garret where I used to study for technological examinations; there's the spitzenburg, and the late astrachan; and the pear-tree that used to look like a poplar in miniature; and the one with pears that could only be used for preserves--they never ripened, and we despised them, but mother treasured them above all the rest; and in that tree there used to be a wryneck that was always twisting its head around and making a nasty cry--That was fifty years ago! RUDOLPH. [_Irately_] What are you driving at? STRANGER. Just as touchy and ill-tempered as ever! It's interesting.--There was no special purpose back of my chatter--my memories insist on pushing forward--I remember that the garden was rented to somebody else once, but we had the right to play in it. To me it seemed as if we had been driven out of paradise--and the tempter was standing behind every tree. In the fall, when the ground was strewn with ripe apples, I fell under a temptation that had become irresistible---- RUDOLPH. You stole, too? STRANGER. Of course I did, but I didn't put it off on you!--When I was forty I leased a lemon grove in one of the Southern States, and--well, there were thieves after the trees every night. I couldn't sleep, I lost flesh, I got sick. And then I thought of--poor Gustafson here! RUDOLPH. He's still living. STRANGER. Perhaps he, too, stole apples in his childhood? RUDOLPH. Probably. STRANGER. Why are your hands so black? RUDOLPH. Because I handle dyed stuffs all the time.--Did you have anything else in mind? STRANGER. What could that have been? RUDOLPH. That my hands were not clean. STRANGER. Fudge! RUDOLPH. Perhaps you are thinking of your inheritance? STRANGER. Just as mean as ever! Exactly as you were when eight years old! RUDOLPH. And you are just as heedless, and philosophical, and silly! STRANGER. It's a curious thing--but I wonder how many times before we have said just what we are saying now? [_Pause_] I am looking at your album here--our sisters and brothers--five dead! RUDOLPH. Yes. STRANGER. And our schoolmates? RUDOLPH. Some taken and some left behind. STRANGER. I met one of them in South Carolina--Axel Ericson--do you remember him? RUDOLPH. I do. STRANGER. One whole night, while we were on a train together, he kept telling me how our highly respectable and respected family consisted of nothing but rascals; that it had made its money by smuggling--you know, the toll-gate was right here; and that this house had been built with double walls for the hiding of contraband. Don't you see that the walls are double? RUDOLPH. [_Crushed_] So that's the reason why we had closets everywhere? STRANGER. The father of that fellow, Ericson, had been in the custom-house service and knew our father, and the son told me a lot of inside stories that turned my whole world of imagined conditions topsyturvy. RUDOLPH. You gave him a licking, I suppose? STRANGER. Why should I lick him?--However, my hair turned grey that night, and I had to edit my entire life over again. You know how we used to live in an atmosphere of mutual admiration; how we regarded our family as better than all others, and how, in particular, our parents were looked up to with almost religious veneration. And then I had to paint new faces on them, strip them, drag them down, eliminate them. It was dreadful! Then the ghosts began to walk. The pieces of those smashed figures would come together again, but not properly, and the result would be a regular wax cabinet of monsters. All those grey-haired gentlemen whom we called uncles, and who came to our house to play cards and eat cold suppers, they were smugglers, and some of them had been in the pillory--Did you know that? RUDOLPH. [_Completely overwhelmed_] No. STRANGER. The dye works were merely a hiding-place for smuggled yarn, which was dyed in order to prevent identification. I can still remember how I used to hate the smell of the dyeing vat--there was something sickeningly sweet about it. RUDOLPH. Why did you have to tell me all this? STRANGER. Why should I keep silent about it and let you make yourself ridiculous by your boasting about that revered family of yours? Have you never noticed people grinning at you? RUDOLPH. No-o! [_Pause_. STRANGER. I am now looking at father's bookcase in the pile over there. It was always locked, you remember. But one day, when father was out, I got hold of the key. The books in front I had seen through the glass doors, of course. There were volumes of sermons, the collected works of great poets, handbooks for gardening, compilations of the statutes referring to customs duties and the confiscation of smuggled goods; the constitution; a volume about foreign coins; and a technical work that later determined my choice of a career. But back of those books there was room for other things, and I began to explore. First of all I found the rattan--and, do you know, I have since learned that that bitter plant bears a fruit from which we get the red dye known as "dragon's blood": now, isn't that queer! And beside the rattan stood a bottle labelled "cyanide of potassium." RUDOLPH. I suppose it was meant for use over at the works. STRANGER. Or elsewhere, perhaps. But this is what I had in mind: there were some bundles of pamphlets with illustrated covers that aroused my interest. And, to put it plain, they contained the notorious memoirs of a certain chevalier--I took them out and locked the case again. And beneath the big oak over there I studied them. We used to call that oak the Tree of Knowledge--and it was, all right! And in that way I left my childhood's paradise to become initiated, all too early, into those mysteries which--yes! RUDOLPH. You, too? STRANGER. Yes, I, too! [_Pause_] However--let us talk of something else, as all that is now in ashes.--Did you have any insurance? RUDOLPH. [_Angrily_] Didn't you ask that a while ago? STRANGER. Not that I can recall. It happens so often that I confuse what I have said with what I have intended to say, and mostly because I think so intensely--ever since that day when I tried to hang myself in the closet. RUDOLPH. What is that you are saying? STRANGER. I tried to hang myself in the closet. RUDOLPH. [_Speaking very slowly_] Was that what happened that Holy Thursday Eve, when you were taken to the hospital--what the rest of us children were never permitted to know? STRANGER. [_Speaking in the same manner_] Yes.--There you can see how little we know about those that are nearest to us, about our own homes and our own lives. RUDOLPH. But why did you do it? STRANGER. I was twelve years old, and tired of life! It was like groping about in a great darkness--I couldn't understand what I had to do here--and I thought the world a madhouse. I reached that conclusion one day when our school was turned out with torches and banners to celebrate "the destroyer of our country." For I had just read a book which proved that our country had been brought to destruction by the worst of all its kings--and that was the one whose memory we had to celebrate with hymns and festivities.[1] [_Pause_. RUDOLPH. What happened at the hospital? STRANGER. My dear fellow, I was actually put into the morgue as dead. Whether I was or not, I don't know--but when I woke up, most of my previous life had been forgotten, and I began a new one, but in such a manner that the rest of you thought me peculiar.--Are you married again? RUDOLPH. I have wife and children--somewhere. STRANGER. When I recovered consciousness I seemed to myself another person. I regarded life with cynical calm: it probably had to be the way it was. And the worse it turned out the more interesting it became. After that I looked upon myself as if I were somebody else, and I observed and studied that other person, and his fate, thereby rendering myself callous to my own sufferings. But while dead I had acquired new faculties--I could see right through people, read their thoughts, hear their intentions. In company, I beheld them stripped naked--Where did you say the fire started? RUDOLPH. Why, nobody knows. STRANGER. But the newspapers said that it began in a closet right under the student's garret--what kind of a student is he? RUDOLPH. [_Appalled_] Is it in the newspapers? I haven't had time to look at them to-day. What more have they got? STRANGER. They have got everything. RUDOLPH. Everything? STRANGER. The double walls, the respected family of smugglers, the pillory, the hairpins---- RUDOLPH. What hairpins? STRANGER. I don't know, but they are there. Do you know? RUDOLPH. Naw! STRANGER. Everything was brought to light, and you may look for a stream of people coming here to stare at all that exposed rottenness. RUDOLPH. Lord have mercy! And you take pleasure at seeing your family dragged into scandal? STRANGER. My family? I have never felt myself related to the rest of you. I have never had any strong feeling either for my fellow men or myself. I think it's interesting to watch them--that's all--What sort of a person is your wife? RUDOLPH. Was there anything about her, too? STRANGER. About her and the student. RUDOLPH. Good! Then I was right. Just wait and you'll see!--There comes the stone-cutter. STRANGER. You know him? RUDOLPH. And so do you. A schoolmate--Albert Ericson. STRANGER. Whose father was in the customs service and whose brother I met on the train--he who was so very well informed about our family. RUDOLPH. That's the infernal cuss who has blabbed to the papers, then! ERICSON _enters with a pick and begins to look over the ruins_. STRANGER. What a ghastly figure! RUDOLPH. He's been in jail--two years. Do you know what he did? He made some erasures in a contract between him and myself---- STRANGER. You sent him to jail! And now he has had his revenge! RUDOLPH. But the queerest part of it is that nowadays he is regarded as the most honest man in the whole district. He has become a martyr, and almost a saint, so that nobody dares say a word against him. STRANGER. That's interesting, indeed! DETECTIVE. [_Entering, turns to_ Ericson] Can you pull down that wall over there? ERICSON. The one by the closet? DETECTIVE. That's the one. ERICSON. That's where the fire started, and I'm sure you'll find a candle or a lamp around there--for I know the people! DETECTIVE. Go ahead then! ERICSON. The closet door was burned off, to be sure, but the ceiling came down, and that's why we couldn't find out, but now we'll use the beak on it! [_He falls to with his pick_] Ho-hey, ho-ho!--Ho-hey, leggo!--Ho-hey, for that one!--Do you see anything? DETECTIVE. Not yet. ERICSON. [_Working away as before_] Now I can see something!--The lamp has exploded, but the stand is left!--Who knows this forfeit for his own?--Didn't I see the dyer somewhere around here? DETECTIVE. There he is sitting now. [_He picks the lamp from the debris and holds it up_] Do you recognise your lamp, Mr. Walström? RUDOLPH. That isn't mine--it belonged to our tutor. DETECTIVE. The student? Where is he now? RUDOLPH. He's down-town, but I suppose he'll soon be here, as his books are lying over there. DETECTIVE. How did his lamp get into the cook's closet? Did he have anything to do with her? RUDOLPH. Probably! DETECTIVE. The only thing needed now is that he identify the lamp as his own, and he will be arrested. What do you think of it, Mr. Walström? RUDOLPH. I? Well, what is there to think? DETECTIVE. What reason could he have for setting fire to another person's house? RUDOLPH. I don't know. Malice, or mere mischief--you never can tell what people may do--Or perhaps there was something he wanted to cover up. DETECTIVE. That would have been a poor way, as old rottenness always will out. Did he have any grudge against you? RUDOLPH. It's likely, for I helped him once when he was hard up, and he has hated me ever since, of course. DETECTIVE. Of course? [_Pause_] Who is he, then? RUDOLPH. He was raised in an orphanage--born of unknown parents. DETECTIVE. Haven't you a grown-up daughter, Mr. Walström? RUDOLPH. [_Angered_] Of course I have! DETECTIVE. Oh, you have! [_Pause; then to_ ERICSON] Now you bring those twelve men of yours and pull down the walls quick. Then we'll see what new things come to light. [_He goes out_. ERICSON. That'll be done in a jiffy. [_Goes out_. [_Pause_. STRANGER. Have you really paid up your insurance? RUDOLPH. Of course! STRANGER. Personally? RUDOLPH. No, I sent it in as usual. STRANGER. You sent it--by somebody else! That's just like you!--Suppose we take a turn through the garden and have a look at the apple-trees. RUDOLPH. All right, and then we'll see what happens afterward. STRANGER. Now begins the most interesting part of all. RUDOLPH. Perhaps not quite so interesting if you find yourself mixed up in it. STRANGER. I? RUDOLPH. Who can tell? STRANGER. What a web it is! RUDOLPH. There was a child of yours that went to the orphanage, I think? STRANGER. God bless us!--Let's go over into the garden! _Curtain_. [Footnote 1: This refers to King Charles XII of Sweden, whose memory Strindberg hated mainly because of the use made of it by the jingo elements of the Swedish upper classes.] SECOND SCENE _The same setting as before with the exception that the walls have been torn down so that the garden is made visible, with its vast variety of spring flowers--daphnes, deutzias, daffodils, narcissuses, tulips, auriculas--and with all the fruit-trees in bloom_. ERICSON, ANDERSON _and his old wife_, GUSTAFSON, _the_ HEARSE-DRIVER, MRS. WESTERLUND, _and the painter_, SJÖBLOM, _are standing in a row staring at the spot where the house used to be_. STRANGER. [_Entering_] There they stand, enjoying the misfortune that's in the air and waiting for the victim to appear--he being the principal item. That the fire was incendiary they take for granted, merely because they want it that way.--And all these rascals are the friends and comrades of my youth. I am even related to the hearse-driver through my stepmother, whose father used to help carry out the coffins--[_He speaks to the crowd of spectators_] Look here, you people, I shouldn't stand there if I were you. There may have been some dynamite stored in the cellar, and if such were the case an explosion might take place any moment. _The curious crowd scatters and disappears_. STRANGER. [Stoops _over the scrap-heap and begins to poke in the books piled there_] Those are the student's books--Same kind of rot as in my youth--Livy's Roman history, which is said to be lies, every word--But here's a volume out of my brother's library--"Columbus, or the Discovery of America"! My own book, which I got as a Christmas gift in 1857. My name has been erased. This means it was stolen from me--and I accused one of our maids, who was discharged on that account! Fine business! Perhaps it led to her ruin--fifty years ago! Here is the frame of one of our family portraits; my renowned grandfather, the smuggler, who was put in the pillory--fine!--But what is this? The foot-piece of a mahogany bed--the one in which I was born! Oh, damn!--Next item: a leg of a dinner-table--the one that was an heirloom. Why, it was supposed to be of ebony, and was admired on that account! And now, after fifty years, I discover it to be made of painted maple. Everything had its colours changed in our house to render it unrecognisable, even the clothes of us children, so that our bodies always were stained with various dyes. Ebony--humbug! And here's the dining-room clock--smuggled goods, that, too--which has measured out the time for two generations. It was wound up every Saturday, when we had salt codfish and a posset made with beer for dinner. Like all intelligent clocks, it used to stop when anybody died, but when I died it went on just as before. Let me have a look at you, old friend--I want to see your insides. [_As he touches the clock it falls to pieces_] Can't stand being handled! Nothing could stand being handled in our home--nothing! Vanity, vanity!--But there's the globe that was on top of the clock, although it ought to have been at the bottom. You tiny earth: you, the densest and the heaviest of all the planets--that's what makes everything on you so heavy--so heavy to breathe, so heavy to carry. The cross is your symbol, but it might just as well have been a fool's cap or a strait-jacket--you world of delusions and deluded!--Eternal One--perchance Thy earth has gone astray in the limitless void? And what set it whirling so that Thy children were made dizzy, and lost their reason, and became incapable of seeing what really is instead of what only seems?--Amen!--And here is the student! _The_ STUDENT _enters and looks around in evident search of somebody_. STRANGER. He is looking for the mistress of the house. And he tells everything he knows--with his eyes. Happy youth!--Whom are you looking for? STUDENT. [_Embarrassed_] I was looking---- STRANGER. Speak up, young man--or keep silent. I understand you just the same. STUDENT. With whom have I the honour---- STRANGER. It's no special honour, as you know, for once I ran away to America on account of debts---- STUDENT. That wasn't right. STRANGER. Right or wrong, it remains a fact.--So you were looking for Mrs. Walström? Well, she isn't here, but I am sure that she will come soon, like all the rest, for they are drawn by the fire like moths---- STUDENT. By a candle! STRANGER. That's what _you_ say, but I should rather have said "lamp," in order to choose a more significant word. However, you had better hide your feelings, my dear fellow, if you can--I can hide mine!--We were talking of that lamp, were we not? How about it? STUDENT. Which lamp? STRANGER. Well, well! Every one of them lies and denies!--The lamp that was placed in the cook's closet and set fire to the house? STUDENT. I know nothing about it. STRANGER. Some blush when they lie and others turn pale. This one has invented an entirely new manner. STUDENT. Are you talking to yourself, sir? STRANGER. I have that bad habit.--Are your parents still living? STUDENT. They are not. STRANGER. Now you lied again, but unconsciously. STUDENT. I never tell a lie! STRANGER. Not more than three in these few moments! I know your father. STUDENT. I don't believe it. STRANGER. So much the better for me!--Do you see this scarf-pin? It's pretty, isn't it? But I never see anything of it myself--I have no pleasure in its being there, while everybody else is enjoying it. There is nothing selfish about that, is there? But there are moments when I should like to see it in another man's tie so that I might have a chance to admire it. Would you care to have it? STUDENT. I don't quite understand--Perhaps, as you said, it's better not to wear it. STRANGER. Perhaps!--Don't get impatient now. She will be here soon.--Do you find it enviable to be young? STUDENT. I can't say that I do. STRANGER. No, youth is not its own master; it has never any money, and has to take its food out of other hands; it is not permitted to speak when company is present, but is treated as an idiot; and as it cannot marry, it has to ogle other people's wives, which leads to all sorts of dangerous consequences. Youth--humbug! STUDENT. That's right! As a child, you want to grow up--that is, reach fifteen, be confirmed, and put on a tall hat. When you are that far, you want to be old--that is, twenty-one. Which means that nobody wants to be young. STRANGER. And when you grow old in earnest, then you want to be dead. For then there isn't much left to wish for.--Do you know that you are to be arrested? STUDENT. Am I? STRANGER. The detective said so a moment ago. STUDENT. Me? STRANGER. Are you surprised at that? Don't you know that in this life you must be prepared for anything? STUDENT. But what have I done? STRANGER. You don't have to do anything in order to be arrested. To be suspected is enough. STUDENT. Then everybody might be arrested! STRANGER. Exactly! The rope might be laid around the neck of the whole race if justice were wanted, but it isn't. It's a disgusting race: ugly, sweating, ill-smelling; its linen dirty, its stockings full of holes; with chilblains and corns--ugh! No, an apple-tree in bloom is far more beautiful. Or look at the lilies in the field--they seem hardly to belong here--and what fragrance is theirs! STUDENT. Are you a philosopher, sir? STRANGER. Yes, I am a great philosopher. STUDENT. Now you are poking fun at me! STRANGER. You say that to get away. Well, begone then! Hurry up! STUDENT. I was expecting somebody. STRANGER. So I thought. But I think it would be better to go and meet---- STUDENT. She asked you to tell me? STRANGER. Oh, that wasn't necessary. STUDENT. Well, if that's so--I don't want to miss---- [_He goes out_. STRANGER. Can that be my son? Well, if it comes to the worst--I was a child myself once, and it was neither remarkable nor pleasant--And I am his--what of it? And for that matter--who knows?--Now I'll have a look at Mrs. Westerlund. She used to work for my parents--was faithful and good-tempered; and when she had been pilfering for ten years she was raised to the rank of a "trusted" servant. [_He seats himself at the table in front of the inn_] There are Gustafson's wreaths--just as carelessly made as they were forty years ago. He was always careless and stupid in all he did, and so he never succeeded with anything. But much might be pardoned him on account of his self-knowledge. "Poor fool that I am," he used to say, and then he would pull off his cap and scratch his head.--Why, there's a myrtle plant! [_He knocks at the pot_] Not watered, of course! He always forgot to water his plants, the damned fool--and yet he expected them to grow. SJÖBLOM, _the painter, appears_. STRANGER. I wonder who that painter can be. Probably he belongs also to the Bog, and perhaps he is one of the threads in my own web. SJÖBLOM _is staring at the_ STRANGER _all this time_. STRANGER. [_Returning the stare_] Well, do you recognise me? SJÖBLOM. Are you--Mr. Arvid? STRANGER. Have been and am--if perception argues being. [_Pause_. SJÖBLOM. I ought really to be mad at you. STRANGER. Well, go on and be so! However, you might tell me the reason. That has a tendency to straighten matters out. SJÖBLOM. Do you remember---- STRANGER. Unfortunately, I have an excellent memory. SJÖBLOM. Do you remember a boy named Robert? STRANGER. Yes, a regular rascal who knew how to draw. SJÖBLOM. And I was to go to the Academy in order to become a real painter, an artist. But just about that time-colour-blindness was all the go. You were studying at the Technological Institute then, and so you had to test my eyes before your father would consent to send me to the art classes. For that reason you brought two skeins of yarn from the dye works, one red and the other green, and then you asked me about them. I answered--called the red green and the green red--and that was the end of my career---- STRANGER. But that was as it should be. SJÖBLOM. No--for the truth of it was, I could distinguish the colours, but not--the _names_. And that wasn't found out until I was thirty-seven---- STRANGER. That was an unfortunate story, but I didn't know better, and so you'll have to forgive me. SJÖBLOM. How can I? STRANGER. Ignorance is pardonable! And now listen to me. I wanted to enter the navy, made a trial cruise as mid-shipman, seemed to become seasick, and was rejected! But I could stand the sea, and my sickness came from having drunk too much. So my career was spoiled, and I had to choose another. SJÖBLOM. What have I got to do with the navy? I had been dreaming of Rome and Paris---- STRANGER. Oh, well, one has so many dreams in youth, and in old age too, for that matter. Besides, what's the use of bothering about what happened so long ago? SJÖBLOM. How you talk! Perhaps you can give me back my wasted life---- STRANGER. No, I can't, but I am under no obligation to do so, either. That trick with the yarn I had learned at school, and you ought to have learned the proper names of the colours. And now you can go to--one dauber less is a blessing to humanity!--There's Mrs. Westerlund! SJÖBLOM. How you _do_ talk. But I guess you'll get what's coming to you! MRS. WESTERLUND _enters_. STRANGER. How d'you do, Mrs. Westerlund? I am Mr. Arvid--don't get scared now! I have been in America, and how are you? I am feeling fine! There has been a fire here, and I hear your husband is dead--policeman, I remember, and a very nice fellow. I liked him for his good humour and friendly ways. He was a harmless jester, whose quips never hurt. I recall once---- MRS. WESTERLUND. O, merciful! Is this my own Arvid whom I used to tend---- STRANGER. No, that wasn't me, but my brother--but never mind, it's just as well meant. I was talking of your old man who died thirty-five years ago--a very nice man and a particular friend of mine---- MRS. WESTERLUND. Yes, he died. [_Pause_] But I don't know if--perhaps you are getting him mixed up---- STRANGER. No, I don't. I remember old man Westerlund perfectly, and I liked him very much. MRS. WESTERLUND. [_Reluctantly_] Of course it's a shame to say it, but I don't think his temper was very good. STRANGER. What? MRS. WESTERLUND. Well--he had a way of getting around people, but he didn't mean what he said--or if he did he meant it the other way around---- STRANGER. What is that? Didn't he mean what he was saying? Was he a hypocrite? MRS. WESTERLUND. Well, I don't like to say it, but I believe---- STRANGER. Do you mean to say that he wasn't on the level? MRS. WESTERLUND. N--yes--he was--a little--well, he didn't mean exactly what he said--And how have you been doing, Mr. Arvid? STRANGER. Now a light is dawning on me!--The miserable wretch! And here I have been praising him these thirty-five years. I have missed him, and I felt something like sorrow at his departure--I even used some of my tobacco allowance to buy a wreath for his coffin. MRS. WESTERLUND. What was it he did? What was it? STRANGER. The villain! [_Pause_] Well--he fooled me--it was Shrove Tuesday, I remember. He told me that if one took away every third egg from a hen she would lay so many more. I did it, got a licking, and came near getting into court. But _I_ never suspected him of having told on me.--He was always hanging around our kitchen looking for tid-bits, and so our maids could do just what they pleased about the garbage--oh, now I see him in his proper aspect!--And here I am now getting into a fury at one who has been thirty-five years in his grave?--So he was a satirist, he was--and I didn't catch on--although I understand him now. MRS. WESTERLUND. Yes, he was a little satirical all right--_I_ ought to know that! STRANGER. Other things are coming back to me now--and I have been saying nice things about that blackguard for thirty-five years! It was at his funeral I drank my first toddy--And I remember how he used to flatter me, and call me "professor" and "the crown prince"--ugh--And there is the stone-cutter! You had better go inside, madam, or we'll have a row when that fellow begins to turn in his bills. Good-bye, madam--we'll meet again! MRS. WESTERLUND. No we won't. People ought never to meet again--it is never as it used to be, and they only get to clawing at each other--What business did you have to tell me all those things--seeing everything was all right as it was [_She goes out_. ERICSON, _the stone-cutter, comes in_. STRANGER. Come on! ERICSON. What's that? STRANGER. Come on, I said! ERICSON _stares at him_. STRANGER. Are you looking at my scarf-pin? I bought it in London. ERICSON. I am no thief! STRANGER. No, but you practise the noble art of erasure. You wipe out! ERICSON. That's true, but that contract was sheer robbery, and it was strangling me. STRANGER. Why did you sign it? ERICSON. Because I was hard up. STRANGER. Yes, that _is_ a motive. ERICSON. But now I am having my revenge. STRANGER. Yes, isn't it nice! ERICSON. And now _they_ will be locked up. STRANGER. Did _we_ ever fight each other as boys? ERICSON. No, I was too young. STRANGER. Have we never told lies about each other, or robbed each other, or got in each other's way, or seduced each other's sisters? ERICSON. Naw, but my father was in the customs service and yours was a smuggler. STRANGER. There you are! That's something, at least! ERICSON. And when my father failed to catch yours he was discharged. STRANGER. And you want to get even with me because your father was a good-for-nothing? ERICSON. Why did you say a while ago that there was dynamite in the cellar? STRANGER. Now, my dear sir, you are telling lies again. I said there _might_ be dynamite in the cellar, and everything is possible, of course. ERICSON. And in the meantime the student has been arrested. Do you know him? STRANGER. Very little--his mother more, for she was a maid in our house. She was both pretty and good, and I was making up to her--until she had a child. ERICSON. And were you not its father? STRANGER. I was not. But as a denial of fatherhood is not allowed, I suppose I must be regarded as a sort of stepfather. ERICSON. Then they have lied about you. STRANGER. Of course. But that's a very common thing. ERICSON. And I was among those who testified against you--under oath! STRANGER. I have no doubt about it, but what does it matter? Nothing matters at all! But now we had better quit pulling--or we'll get the whole web unravelled. ERICSON. But think of me, who have perjured myself---- STRANGER. Yes, it isn't pleasant, but such things will happen. ERICSON. It's horrible--don't you find life horrible? STRANGER. [_Covering his eyes with his hand_] Yes, horrible beyond all description! ERICSON. I don't want to live any longer! STRANGER. Must! [_Pause_] Must! [_Pause_] Tell me--the student is arrested, you say--can he get out of it? ERICSON. Hardly!--And now, as we are talking nicely, I'll tell you something: he is innocent, but he cannot clear himself. For the only witness that can prove him innocent would, by doing so, prove him guilty--in another way. STRANGER. She with the hairpins, isn't it? ERICSON. Yes. STRANGER. The old one or the young one? ERICSON. You have to figure that out yourself. But it isn't the cook. STRANGER. What a web this is!--But who put the lamp there? ERICSON. His worst enemy. STRANGER. And did his worst enemy also start the fire? ERICSON. That's beyond me! Only Anderson, the mason, knows that. STRANGER. Who is he? ERICSON. The oldest one in the place--some kind of relative of Mrs. Westerlund--knows all the secrets of the house--but he and the dyer have got some secrets together, so he won't tell anything. STRANGER. And the lady--my sister-in-law--who is she? ERICSON. Well--she was in the house as governess when the first wife cleared out. STRANGER. What sort of character has she got? ERICSON. Hm! Character? I don't quite know what that is. Do you mean trade? The old assessment blanks used to call for your name and "character"--but that meant occupation instead of character. STRANGER. I mean her temper. ERICSON. Well, it changes, you know. In me it depends on the person with whom I am talking. With decent people I am decent, and with the cruel ones I become like a beast of prey. STRANGER. But I was talking of her temper under ordinary circumstances. ERICSON. Well, nothing in particular. Gets angry if you tease her, but comes around after a while. One cannot always have the same temper, of course. STRANGER. I mean, is she merry or melancholy? ERICSON. When things go right, she is happy, and when they go wrong, she gets sorry or angry--just like the rest of us. STRANGER. Yes, but how does she behave? ERICSON. Oh, what does it matter?--Of course, being an educated person, she behaves politely, but nevertheless, you know, she can get nasty, too, when her blood gets to boiling. STRANGER. But that doesn't make me much wiser. ERICSON. [_Patting him on the shoulder_] No, sir, we never get much wiser when it's a question of human beings. STRANGER. Oh, you're a marvel!--And how do you like my brother, the dyer? [_Pause_. ERICSON. Oh, his manners are pretty decent. And more than that I don't know, for what he keeps hidden I can't find out, of course. STRANGER. Excellent! But--his hands are always blue, and yet you know that they are white beneath the dye. ERICSON. But to make them so they should be scraped, and that's something he won't permit. STRANGER. Good!--Who are the young couple coming over there? ERICSON. That's the gardener's son and my daughter, who were to have been married to-night, but who have had to postpone it on account of the fire--Now I shall leave, for I don't want to embarrass them. You understand--I ain't much as a father-in-law. Good-bye! [_He goes out_. _The_ Stranger _withdraws behind the inn, but so that he remains visible to the spectators_. Alfred _and_ Mathilda _enter hand in hand_. ALFRED. I had to have a look at this place--I had to---- MATHILDA. Why did you have to look at it? ALFRED. Because I have suffered so much in this house that more than once I wished it on fire. MATHILDA. Yes, I know, it kept the sun out of the garden, and now everything will grow much better--provided they don't put up a still higher house---- ALFRED. Now it's open and pleasant, with plenty of air and sunlight, and I hear they are going to lay out a street---- MATHILDA. Won't you have to move then? ALFRED. Yes, all of us will have to move, and that's what I like--I like new things--I should like to emigrate---- MATHILDA. Mercy, no! Do you know, our pigeons were nesting on the roof. And when the fire broke out last night they kept circling around the place at first, but when the roof fell in they plunged right into the flames--They couldn't part from their old home! ALFRED. But we must get out of here--must! My father says that the soil has been sucked dry. MATHILDA. I heard that the cinders left by the fire were to be spread over the ground in order to improve the soil. ALFRED. You mean the ashes? MATHILDA. Yes; they say it's good to sow in the ashes. ALFRED. Better still on virgin soil. MATHILDA. But your father is ruined? ALFRED. Not at all. He has money in the bank. Of course he's complaining, but so does everybody. MATHILDA. Has he--The fire hasn't ruined him? ALFRED. Not a bit! He's a shrewd old guy, although he always calls himself a fool. MATHILDA. What am I to believe? ALFRED. He has loaned money to the mason here--and to others. MATHILDA. I am entirely at sea! Am I dreaming?--The whole morning we have been weeping over your father's misfortune and over the postponement of the wedding---- ALFRED. Poor little thing! But the wedding is to take place to-night---- MATHILDA. Is it not postponed? ALFRED. Only delayed for a couple of hours so that my father will have time to get his new coat. MATHILDA. And we who have been weeping---- ALFRED. Useless tears--such a lot of tears! MATHILDA. I am mad because they were useless--although--to think that my father-in-law could be such a sly one! ALFRED. Yes, he is something of a joker, to put it mildly. He is always talking about how tired he is, but that's nothing but laziness--oh, he's lazy, I tell you---- MATHILDA. Don't say any more nasty things about him--but let us get away from here. I have to dress, you know, and put up my hair.--Just think, that my father-in-law isn't what I thought him--that he could be fooling us like that and not telling the truth! Perhaps you are like that, too? Oh, that I can't know what you really are! ALFRED. You'll find out afterward. MATHILDA. But then it's too late. ALFRED. It's never too late---- MATHILDA. All you who lived in this house are bad--And now I am afraid of you---- ALFRED. Not of me, though? MATHILDA. I don't know what to think. Why didn't you tell me before that your father was well off? ALFRED. I wanted to try you and see if you would like me as a poor man. MATHILDA. Yes, afterward they always say that they wanted to try you. But how can I ever believe a human being again? ALFRED. Go and get dressed now. I'll order the carriages. MATHILDA. Are we to have carriages? ALFRED. Of course--regular coaches. MATHILDA. Coaches? And to-night? What fun! Come--hurry up! We'll have carriages! ALFRED. [_Gets hold of her hand and they dance out together_] Hey and ho! Here we go! STRANGER. [_Coming forward_] Bravo! _The_ DETECTIVE _enters and talks in a low tone to the_ Stranger, _who answers in the same way. This lasts for about half a minute, whereupon the_ DETECTIVE _leaves again_. MRS. WALSTRÖM. [_Enters, dressed in black, and gazes long at the_ Stranger] Are you my brother-in-law? STRANGER. I am. [_Pause_] Don't I look as I have been described--or painted? MRS. WALSTRÖM. Frankly, no! STRANGER. No, that is generally the case. And I must admit that the information I received about you a while ago does not tally with the original. MRS. WALSTRÖM. Oh, people do each other so much wrong, and they paint each other in accordance with some image within themselves. STRANGER. And they go about like theatrical managers, distributing parts to each other. Some accept their parts; others hand them back and prefer to improvise. MRS. WALSTRÖM. And what has been the part assigned to you? STRANGER. That of a seducer. Not that I have ever been one! I have never seduced anybody, be she wife or maid, but once in my youth I was seduced, and that's why the part was given to me. Strange to say, it was forced on me so long that at last I accepted it. And for twenty years I carried the bad conscience of a seducer around with me. MRS. WALSTRÖM. You were innocent then? STRANGER. I was. MRS. WALSTRÖM. How curious! And to this day my husband is still talking of the Nemesis that has pursued you because you seduced another man's wife. STRANGER. I fully believe it. But your husband represents a still more interesting case. He has created a new character for himself out of lies. Tell me: isn't he a coward in facing the struggles of life? MRS. WALSTRÖM. Of course he is a coward! STRANGER. And yet he boasts of his courage, which is nothing but brutality. MRS. WALSTRÖM. You know him pretty well. STRANGER. Yes, and no!--And you have been living in the belief that you had married into a respected family which had never disgraced itself? MRS. WALSTRÖM. So I believed until this morning. STRANGER. When your faith crumbled! What a web of lies and mistakes and misunderstandings! And that kind of thing we are supposed to take seriously! MRS. WALSTRÖM. Do you? STRANGER. Sometimes. Very seldom nowadays. I walk like a somnambulist along the edge of a roof--knowing that I am asleep, and yet being awake--and the only thing I am waiting for is to be waked up. MRS. WALSTRÖM. You are said to have been across to the other side? STRANGER. I have been across the river, but the only thing I can recall is--that there everything _was_ what it pretended to be. That's what makes the difference. MRS. WALSTRÖM. When nothing stands the test of being touched, what are you then to hold on to? STRANGER. Don't you know? MRS. WALSTRÖM. Tell me! Tell me! STRANGER. Sorrow brings patience; patience brings experience; experience brings hope; and hope will not bring us to shame. MRS. WALSTRÖM. Hope, yes! STRANGER. Yes, hope! MRS. WALSTRÖM. Do you ever think it pleasant to live? STRANGER. Of course. But that is also a delusion. I tell you, my dear sister-in-law, that when you happen to be born without a film over your eyes, then you see life and your fellow creatures as they are--and you have to be a pig to feel at home in such a mess.--But when you have been looking long enough at blue mists, then you turn your eyes the other way and begin to look into your own soul? There you find something really worth looking at. MRS. WALSTRÖM. And what is it you see? STRANGER. Your own self. But when you have looked at that you must die. MRS. WALSTRÖM. [_Covers her eyes with her hands; after a pause she says_] Do you want to help me? STRANGER. If I can. MRS. WALSTRÖM. Try. STRANGER. Wait a moment!--No, I cannot. He is innocently accused. Only you can set him free again. But that you cannot do. It's a net that has not been tied by men---- MRS. WALSTRÖM. But he is not guilty. STRANGER. Who is guilty? [_Pause_. MRS. WALSTRÖM. No one! It was an accident! STRANGER. I know it. MRS. WALSTRÖM. What am I to do? STRANGER. Suffer. It will pass. For that, too, is vanity. MRS. WALSTRÖM. Suffer? STRANGER. Yes, suffer! But with hope! MRS. WALSTRÖM. [_Holding out her hand to him_] Thank you! STRANGER. And let it be your consolation MRS. WALSTRÖM. What? STRANGER. That you don't suffer innocently. MRS. WALSTRÖM _walks out with her head bent low_. _The_ STRANGER _climbs the pile of debris marking the site of the burned house_. RUDOLPH. [_Comes in, looking happy_] Are you playing the ghost among the ruins? STRANGER. Ghosts feel at home among ruins--And now you are happy? RUDOLPH. Now I am happy. STRANGER. And brave? RUDOLPH. Whom have I got to fear, or what? STRANGER. I conclude from your happiness that you are ignorant of one important fact--Have you the courage to bear a piece of misfortune? RUDOLPH. What is it? STRANGER. You turn pale? RUDOLPH. I? STRANGER. A serious misfortune! RUDOLPH. Speak out! STRANGER. The detective was here a moment ago, and he told me--in confidence---- RUDOLPH. What? STRANGER. That the premium on your insurance was paid up two hours too late. RUDOLPH. Great S----! what are you talking of? I sent my wife to pay the premium. STRANGER. And she sent the bookkeeper--and he got there too late. RUDOLPH. Then I am ruined? [_Pause_. STRANGER. Are you crying? RUDOLPH. I am ruined! STRANGER. Well, is that something that cannot be borne? RUDOLPH. How am I to live? What am I to do? STRANGER. Work! RUDOLPH. I am too old--I have no friends Stranger. Perhaps you'll get some now. A man in misfortune always seems sympathetic. I had some of my best hours while fortune went against me. RUDOLPH. [_Wildly_] I am ruined! STRANGER. But in my days of success and fortune I was left alone. Envy was more than friendship could stand. RUDOLPH. Then I'll sue the bookkeeper. STRANGER. Don't! RUDOLPH. He'll have to pay---- STRANGER. How little you have changed! What's the use of living, when you learn so little from it? RUDOLPH. I'll sue him, the villain!--He hates me because I gave him a cuff on the ear once. STRANGER. Forgive him--as I forgave you when I didn't demand my inheritance. RUDOLPH. What inheritance? STRANGER. Always the same! Merciless! Cowardly! Disingenuous!--Depart in peace, brother! RUDOLPH. What inheritance is that you are talking of? STRANGER. Now listen, Rudolph--my brother after all: my own mother's son! You put the stone-cutter in jail because he did some erasing--all right! But how about your own erasures from my book, "Christopher Columbus, or the Discovery of America"? RUDOLPH. [_Taken aback_] What's that? Columbus? STRANGER. Yes, _my_ book that became yours! RUDOLPH _remains silent_. STRANGER. Yes, and I understand now that it was you who put the student's lamp in the closet--I understand everything. But do _you_ know that the dinner-table was not of ebony? RUDOLPH. It wasn't? STRANGER. It was nothing but maple. RUDOLPH. Maple! STRANGER. The pride and glory of the house--valued at two thousand crowns! RUDOLPH. That, too? So that was also humbug! STRANGER. Yes! RUDOLPH. Ugh! STRANGER. Thus the debt is settled. The case is dropped--the issue is beyond the court--the parties can withdraw---- RUDOLPH. [_Rushing out_] I am ruined! STRANGER. [_Takes his wreath from the table_] I meant to take this wreath to the cemetery--to my parents' grave--but I will place it here instead--on the ruins of what was once their home--my childhood's home! [_He bends his head in silent prayer_] And now, wanderer, resume thy pilgrimage! _Curtain_. PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG PLAYS. FIRST SERIES: The Dream Play, The Link, The Dance of Death--Part I and Part II. PLAYS. SECOND SERIES: There are Crimes and Crimes, Miss Julia, The Stronger, Creditors, Pariah. PLAYS. THIRD SERIES: Swanwhite, Simoom, Debit and Credit, Advent, The Thunder Storm, After the Fire. PLAYS. FOURTH SERIES: The Bridal Crown, The Spook Sonata, The First Warning, Gustavus Vasa. CREDITORS. PARIAH. MISS JULIA. THE STRONGER. THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES. 
44106	----	(Scans generously made available by the Internet Archive.) THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL BY AUGUST STRINDBERG TRANSLATED BY ELLIE SCHLEUSSNER BOSTON SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS 1913 _Translated from the "Litterarisches Echo,"_ _August 15, 1911_ STRINDBERG'S WORKS (BY I.E. PORITZKY, BERLIN) The republication of _The Confession of a Fool_ represents the last link in the chain of Strindberg's autobiographical novels. A German version of the book was published as far back as 1893, but it was mutilated, abbreviated, corrupted, and falsified to such an extent that the attorney-general, misled by the revolting language, blamed the author for the misdeeds of the translator and prohibited the sale of the book. This was a splendid advertisement for this profound work, but there were many who would have rejoiced if the translation had been completely ignored. It distorted Strindberg's character and was the cause of many prejudices which exist to this day. Schering's new translation is an attempt to make reparation for this crime. "It is impossible," he says, "that any attorney-general can now doubt the high morality of this book." Strindberg himself has called it a _terrible book_, and has regretted that he ever wrote it. He has never published it in Swedish, his own language, because not only is it too personal in character, but it also revealed a still bleeding wound. It contains the relentless description of his first marriage, so superbly candid an account, that one is reminded of the last testament of a man for whom death has no longer any terror. We know from his fascinating novel Separated, how painful the burden was which he had to bear, and how terribly he suffered during the period of his first marriage. So much so, indeed, that he had to write this book before he could face the thought of death with composure. Doubtless, a man for whom life holds no longer any charm would give us a genuinely truthful account of his inner life, and there is no denying that a book which takes its entire matter from the inner life is of vastly greater importance and on an immeasurably higher level than a million novels, be they written ever so well. The great importance of _The Confession of a Fool_ lies in the fact that it depicts the struggle of a highly intellectual man to free himself from the slavery of sexuality, and from a woman who is a typical representative of her sex. Apart from this, it is an intense joy from an artistic point of view to follow the "confessor" through the book, as he looks at himself from all sides in order to gain self-knowledge; that he conceals nothing from us, not even those deep secrets which he would fain keep even in the face of death. One sees Strindberg brooding over his own soul to fathom its depths. He plumbs its hidden profoundnesses, he takes to pieces the inner wheels of his mechanism, so as to know for himself and to show us how he is made and what is the cause of the instinct which drives him to confess and to create. He opens wide his heart and lets us see that he carries in his breast his heaven and also his horrible hell. We see angels and devils fighting in his soul for supremacy, and the divine in him stepping between them with its creative Let there be! THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL PART I I It was on the thirteenth of May, 1875, at Stockholm. I well remember the large room of the Royal Library which extended through a whole wing of the Castle, with its beechen wainscoting, brown with age like the meerschaum of a much-used cigar-holder. The enormous room, with its rococo headings, garlands, chains and armorial bearings, round which, at the height of the first floor, ran a gallery supported by Tuscan columns, was yawning like a great chasm underneath my feet; with its hundred thousand volumes it resembled a gigantic brain, with the thoughts of long-forgotten generations neatly arranged on shelves. A passage running from one end of the room to the other divided the two principal parts, the walls of which were completely hidden by shelves fourteen feet high. The golden rays of the spring sun were falling through the twelve windows, illuminating the volumes of the Renaissance, bound in white and gold parchment, the black morocco bindings mounted with silver of the seventeenth century, the red-edged volumes bound in calf of a hundred years later, the green leather bindings which were the fashion under the Empire, and the cheap covers of our own time. Here theologians were on neighbourly terms with apostles of magic, philosophers hobnobbed with naturalists, poets and historians dwelt in peace side by side. It reminded one of a geological stratum of unfathomable depth where, as in a puddingstone, layer was piled upon layer, marking the successive stages arrived at by human folly or human genius. I can see myself now. I had climbed on to the encircling gallery, and was engaged in arranging a collection of old books which a well-known collector had just presented to the library. He had been clever enough to ensure his own immortality by endowing each volume with his ex-libris bearing the motto "Speravit infestis." Since I was as superstitious as an atheist, this motto, meeting my gaze day after day whenever I happened to open a volume, had made an undeniable impression on me. He was a lucky fellow, this brave man, for even in misfortune he never abandoned hope.... But for me all hope was dead. There seemed to be no chance whatever that my drama in five acts, or six tableaux, with three transformation scenes on the open stage, would ever see the footlights. Seven men stood between me and promotion to the post of a librarian--seven men, all in perfect health, and four with a private income. A man of twenty-six, in receipt of a monthly salary of twenty crowns, with a drama in five acts stowed away in a drawer in his attic, is only too much inclined to embrace pessimism, this apotheosis of scepticism, so comforting to all failures. It compensates them for unobtainable dinners, enables them to draw admirable conclusions, which often have to make up for the loss of an overcoat, pledged before the end of the winter. Notwithstanding the fact that I was a member of a learned Bohemia, which had succeeded an older, artistic Bohemia, a contributor to important newspapers and excellent, but badly paying magazines, a partner in a society founded for the purpose of translating Hartmann's _Philosophy of the Unconscious_, a member of a secret federation for the promotion of free love, the bearer of the empty title of a "royal secretary," and the author of two one-act plays which had been performed at the Royal Theatre, I had the greatest difficulty to make ends meet. I hated life, although the thought of relinquishing it had never crossed my mind; on the contrary, I had always done my best to continue not only my own existence but also that of the race. It cannot be denied that pessimism, misinterpreted by the multitude and generally confused with hypochondria, is really a quite serene and even comforting philosophy of life. Since everything is relatively nothing, why make so much fuss, particularly as truth itself is mutable and short-lived? Are we not constantly discovering that the truth of yesterday is the folly of to-morrow? Why, then, waste strength and youth in discovering fresh fallacies? The only proven fact is that we have to die. Let us live then! But for whom? For what purpose? Alas!... When Bernadotte, that converted Jacobite, ascended the throne and all the rubbish which had been discarded at the end of the last century was re-introduced, the hopes of the generation of 1860, to which I belonged, were dashed to the ground with the clamorously advertised parliamentary reform. The _two houses_, which had taken the place of the _four estates_, consisted for the greater part of peasants. They turned Parliament into a sort of town council, where everybody, on the best of terms with everybody else, looked after his own little affairs, without paying the least regard to the great problems of life and progress. Politics were nothing more nor less than a compromise between public and private interests. The last remnants of faith in what was then "the ideal" were vanishing in a ferment of bitterness. To this must be added the religious reaction which marked the period after the death of Charles XV, and the beginning of the reign of Queen Sophia of Nassau. There were plenty of reasons, therefore, to account for an enlightened pessimism, reasons other than personal ones.... The dust caused by the rearrangement of the books was choking me. I opened the window for a breath of fresh air and a look at the view beyond. A delicious breeze fanned my face, a breeze laden with the scent of lilac and the rising sap of the poplars. The lattice-work was completely hidden beneath the green leaves of the honey-suckle and wild vine; acacias and plane trees, well acquainted with the fatal whims of a northern May, were still holding back. It was spring, though the skeleton of shrub and tree was still plainly visible underneath the tender young green. Beyond the parapet with its Delft vases bearing the mark of Charles XII, the masts of the anchored steamers were rising, gaily decorated with flags in honour of the May-day festival. Behind them glittered the bottle-green line of the bay, and from its wooded shores on either side the trees were mounting higher and higher, gradually, like steps, pines and Scotch firs on one side and soft green foliage on the other. All the boats lying at anchor were flying their national colours, more or less symbolic of the different nations. England with the dripping scarlet of the blood of her famous cattle; Spain striped red and yellow, like the Venetian blinds of a Moorish balcony; the United States with their striped bed-tick; the gay tricolour of France by the side of the gloomy German flag with its sinister iron cross close to the flagstaff, ever reminiscent of mourning; the jerkinet of Denmark; the veiled tricolour of Russia. They were all there, side by side, with outspread wings, under the blue cover of the northern sky. The noise of carriages, whistles, bells and cranes lent animation to the picture; the combined odours of oil, leather, salt herrings and groceries mingled with the scent of the lilac. An easterly wind blowing from the open sea, cooled by the drift ice of the Baltic, freshened the atmosphere. I forgot my books as soon as I turned my back to them and was leaning out of the window, all my senses taking a delicious bath; below, the guards were marching past to the strains of the march from Faust. I was so intoxicated with the music, the flags, the blue sky, the flowers, that I had not noticed the porter entering my office in the meantime with the mail. He touched my shoulder, handed me a letter and disappeared. Hm!... a letter from a lady. I hastily opened the envelope, anticipating some delightful adventure ... surely it must be something of that sort ... it was! "Meet me punctually at five o'clock this afternoon before No. 65 Parliament Street. You will know me by the roll of music in my hand." A short time ago a little vixen had made a fool of me, and I had sworn to take advantage of the first favourable opportunity to revenge myself. Therefore I was willing enough. There was only one thing which jarred on me; the commanding, dictatorial tone of the note offended my manly dignity. How could this unknown correspondent dare to attack me unawares in this manner? What were they thinking of, these women, who have such a poor opinion of us men? They do not ask, they command their conquests! As it happened I had planned an excursion with some of my friends for this very afternoon. And, moreover, the thought of a flirtation in the middle of the day in one of the principal streets of the town was not very alluring. At two o'clock, however, I went into the chemical laboratory where the excursionists had arranged to assemble. They were already crowding the ante-room: doctors and candidates of philosophy and medicine, all of them anxious to learn the programme of the entertainment in store. I had made up my mind in the meantime, and with many apologies refused to be one of the party. They clamoured for my reasons. I produced my letter and handed it to a zoologist who was looked upon as an expert in all matters pertaining to love; he shook his head while perusing it. "No good, that...." he muttered disconnectedly; "wants to be married ... would never sell herself ... family, my dear old chap ... straight path ... but do what you like. You'll find us in the Park, later on, if the spirit moves you to join us, and I have been wrong about the lady...." At the hour indicated I took up my position near the house mentioned, and awaited the appearance of the unknown letter-writer. The roll of music in her hand, what was it but a proposal of marriage? It differed in no way from the announcements on the fourth page of certain newspapers. I suddenly felt uneasy; too late--the lady had arrived and we stood looking at each other. My first impression--I believe in first impressions--was quite vague. She was of uncertain age, between twenty-nine and forty, fantastically dressed. What was she? Artist or blue-stocking? A sheltered woman or one living a free and independent life? Emancipated or cocotte? I wondered.... She introduced herself as the fiancée of an old friend of mine, an opera singer, and said that he wished me to look after her while she was staying in town. This was untrue, as I found out later on. She was like a little bird, twittering incessantly. After she had talked for half-an-hour I knew all about her; I knew all her emotions, all her thoughts. But I was only half interested, and asked her if I could do anything for her. "I take care of a young woman!" I exclaimed, after she had explained what she wanted. "Don't you know that I am the devil incarnate?" "You only think you are," she replied; "but I know you thoroughly. You're unhappy, that's all. You ought to be roused from your gloomy fancies." "You know me thoroughly? You really think so? I'm afraid all you know is the now antiquated opinion your fiancé has of me." It was no use talking, my "charming friend" was well informed and knew how to read a man's heart, even from a distance. She was one of those obstinate creatures who strive to sway the spirits of men by insinuating themselves into the hidden depths of their souls. She kept up a large correspondence, bombarded all her acquaintances with letters, gave advice and warning to young people, and knew no greater happiness than to direct and guide the destinies of men. Greedy of power, head of a league for the salvation of souls, patroness of all the world, she had conceived it her mission to save me! She was a schemer of the purest water, with little intelligence but a great deal of female impudence. I began to tease her by making fun of everything, the world, men, religion. She told me my ideas were morbid. "Morbid! My dear lady, my ideas morbid? They are, on the contrary, most healthy and of the latest date. But what about yours now? They are relics of a past age, commonplaces of my boyhood, the rubbish of rubbish, and you think them new? Candidly speaking, what you offer me as fresh fruit is nothing but preserved stuff in badly soldered tins. Away with it! It's rotten! You know what I mean." She left me without a word of good-bye, furious, unable to control herself. When she had gone I went to join my friends in the Park, and spent the evening with them. I had not quite got over my excitement on the following morning when I received a communication from her. It was a vainglorious letter in which she overwhelmed me with reproaches, largely tempered by forbearance and compassion; she expressed ardent wishes for my mental health, and concluded by arranging a second meeting, and stating that we ought to pay a visit to her fiancé's aged mother. As I rather pride myself on my manners, I resigned myself to my fate; but, determined to get off as cheaply as possible, I made up my mind to appear perfectly indifferent to all questions relating to religion, the world and everything else. But how wonderful! The lady, dressed in a tightly fitting cloth dress, trimmed with fur, and wearing a large picture hat, greeted me most cordially; she was full of the tender solicitude of an elder sister, avoided all dangerous ground, and was altogether so charming that our souls, thanks to a mutual desire to please, met in friendly talk, and before we parted a feeling of genuine sympathy had sprung up between us. After having paid our call we took advantage of the lovely spring day and went for a stroll. I am not sure whether it was from an imperative desire to pay her out, or whether I felt annoyed at having been made to play the part of a confidant; whatever it was, the iniquitous idea occurred to me to tell her, in strict confidence, that I was practically engaged to be married; this was only half a lie, for I was really paying at that time a good deal of attention to a certain lady of my acquaintance. On hearing this, her manner changed. She talked to me like a grandmother, began to pity the girl, questioned me about her character, her looks, her social status, her circumstances. I painted a portrait well calculated to excite her jealousy. Our eager conversation languished. My guardian angel's interest in me waned when she suspected a rival who might possibly be equally anxious to save my soul. We parted, still under the influence of the chill which had gradually arisen between us. When we met on the following day we talked exclusively of love and my supposed fiancée. But after we had visited theatres and concerts for a week and taken numerous walks together, she had gained her object. The daily intercourse with her had become a habit of which I felt unable to break myself. Conversation with a woman who is above the commonplace has an almost sensual charm. The souls touch, the spirits embrace each other. One morning, on meeting her as usual, I found her almost beside herself. She was full of a letter which she had just received. Her fiance was furiously jealous. She accused herself of having been indiscreet; he was recommending her the utmost reserve in her intercourse with me: he seemed to have a presentiment that the matter would end badly. "I can't understand such detestable jealousy," she said, deeply distressed. "Because you don't understand the meaning of the word 'love,'" I answered. "Love! Ugh!" "Love, my dear lady, is consciousness of possession in its greatest intensity. Jealousy is but the fear of losing what one possesses." "Possesses! Disgusting!" "Mutually possesses, since each possesses the other." But she refused to understand love in that sense. In her opinion love was something disinterested, exalted, chaste, inexplicable. She did not love her fiancé, but he was head over ears in love with her. When I said so she lost her temper, and then confessed that she had never loved him. "And yet you contemplate marrying him?" "Because he would be lost if I didn't." "Always that mania for saving souls!" She grew more and more angry; she maintained that she was not, and never had been, really engaged to him. We had caught each other lying; what prospects! There remained nothing for me to do now but to make a clean breast of it, and contradict my previous statement that I was "as good as engaged." This done, we were at liberty to make use of our freedom. As she had now no longer any cause for jealousy, the game began afresh, and this time we played it in deadly earnest. I confessed my love to her--in writing. She forwarded the letter to her fiancé. He heaped insults on my head--by post. I told her that she must choose between him and me. But she carefully refrained from doing so, for her object was to have me, him, and as many more as she could get, kneeling at her feet and adoring her. She was a flirt, a _mangeuse d'hommes_, a chaste polyandrist. But, perhaps for want of some one better, I had fallen in love with her, for I loathed casual love-affairs, and the solitude of my attic bored me. Towards the end of her stay in town I invited her to pay me a visit at the library. I wanted to dazzle her, show myself to her in impressive surroundings, so as to overawe this arrogant little brain. I dragged her from gallery to gallery, exhibiting all my bibliographical knowledge. I compelled her to admire the miniatures of the Middle Ages, the autographs of famous men. I evoked the great historical memories held captive in old manuscripts and prints. In the end her insignificance came home to her and she became embarrassed. "But you are a very learned man!" she exclaimed. "Of course I am," I laughed. "Oh, my poor old mummer!" she murmured, alluding to her friend, the opera singer, her so-called fiancé. But if I had flattered myself that the mummer was now finally disposed of, I was mistaken. He was threatening to shoot me--by post; he accused me of having robbed him of his future bride. I proved to him that he could not have been robbed, for the simple reason that he had not possessed anything. After that our correspondence ceased and gave way to a menacing silence. Her visit was drawing to an end. On the eve of her departure I received a jubilant letter from her, telling me of an unexpected piece of good luck. She had read my play to some people of note who had influence with stage managers. The play had made such an impression on them that they were anxious to make my acquaintance. She would tell me all the details in the afternoon. At the appointed hour I met her and accompanied her on a shopping expedition to make a few last purchases. She was talking of nothing but the sensation my play had created, and when I explained to her that I hated patronage of any sort, she did her utmost to convert me to her point of view. I paid little attention to her and went on grumbling. The idea of ringing at unknown front doors, meeting strangers and talking to them of everything except that which was nearest to my heart, was hateful to me; I could not whine like a beggar for favours. I was fighting her as hard as I could when suddenly she stopped before a young, aristocratic-looking lady, very well, even elegantly dressed, with movements full of softness and grace. The lady, whom she introduced as Baroness X, said a few words to me which the noise of the crowd rendered all but inaudible. I stammered a reply, annoyed at having been caught in a trap set for me by a wily little schemer. For I felt certain the meeting had been premeditated. A few seconds more and the Baroness had gone, but not without having personally repeated the invitation which my companion had already brought me a little earlier in the afternoon. The girlish appearance and baby face of the Baroness, who must have been at least twenty-five years of age, surprised me. She looked like a school-girl; her little face was framed by roguish curls, golden as a cornfield on which the sun is shining; she had the shoulders of a princess and a supple, willowy figure; the way in which she bowed her head expressed at the same time candour, respect and superiority. And this delicious, girlish mother had read my play without hurt or injury? Was it possible? She had married a captain of the Guards, was the mother of a little girl of three, and took a passionate interest in the theatre, without, however, having the slightest prospect of ever being able to enter the profession herself; a sacrifice demanded from her by the rank and position not only of her husband, but also of her father-in-law, who had recently received the appointment of a gentleman-in-waiting. This was the position of affairs when my love-dream melted away. A steamer was bearing my lady-love into the presence of her mummer. He would vindicate his rights now and take a delight in making fun of my letters to her: just retribution for having laughed at his letters in the company of his inamorata while she was staying here. On the landing-stage, at the very moment of our affectionate farewell, she made me promise to call on the Baroness without delay. These were the last words we exchanged. The innocent daydreams, so different from the coarse orgies of learned Bohemia, left a void in my heart which craved to be filled. The friendly, seemingly harmless intercourse with a gentlewoman, this intercourse between two people of opposite sexes, had been sweet to me after my long solitude, for I had quarrelled with my family and was, therefore, very lonely. The love of home life, which my Bohemian existence had deadened for a while, was reawakened by my relations with a very ordinary but respectable member of the other sex. And, therefore, one evening at six o'clock, I found myself at the entrance gate of a house in North Avenue. How ominous! It was the old house which had belonged to my father, the house in which I had spent the most miserable years of my childhood, where I had fought through the troubles and storms of adolescence, where I had been confirmed, where my mother had died, and where a stepmother had taken her place. I suddenly felt ill at ease, and my first impulse was one of flight. I was afraid to stir up the memories of the misery of my youth and early manhood. There was the courtyard with its tall ash trees; how impatiently I used to wait for the tender young green on the return of spring; there was the gloomy house, built against a sand-quarry, the unavoidable collapse of which had lowered the rents. But in spite of the feeling of depression caused by so many melancholy memories, I pulled myself together, entered, walked upstairs and rang the bell. As I stood listening to the sound echoing through the house, I had a feeling that my father would presently come and open the door to me. But a servant appeared and disappeared again to announce me. A few seconds afterwards I stood face to face with the Baron, who gave me a hearty welcome. He was a man of about thirty years of age, tall and strong, with a noble carriage and the perfect manners of a gentleman. His full, slightly swollen face was animated by a pair of intensely sad blue eyes. The smile on his lips was for ever giving way to an expression of extraordinary bitterness, which spoke of disappointments, plans miscarried, illusions fled. The drawing-room, once upon a time our dining-room, was not furnished in any particular style. The Baron, who bore the name of a famous general, a Turenne or Condé of our country, had filled it with the portraits of his ancestors, dating back to the Thirty Years' War; heroes in white cuirasses with wigs of the time of Louis XIV. Amongst them hung landscapes of the Düsseldorf school of painting. Pieces of old furniture, restored and gilded, stood side by side with chairs and easy-chairs of a more modern date. The whole room seemed to breathe an atmosphere of peace and domestic love. Presently the Baroness joined us; she was charming, almost cordial, simple and kind. But there was a certain stiffness in her manner, a suspicion of embarrassment which chilled me until I discovered a reason for it in the sound of voices which came from an adjacent room. I concluded that she had other visitors, and apologised for having called at an inconvenient time. They were playing whist in the next room, and I was forthwith introduced to four members of the family: the gentleman-in-waiting, a retired captain, and the Baroness's mother and aunt. As soon as the old people had sat down again to play, we younger ones began to talk. The Baron mentioned his great love of painting. A scholarship, granted him by the late King Charles XV, had enabled him to pursue his studies at Düsseldorf. This fact constituted a point of contact between us, for I had had a scholarship from the same king, only in my case it had been granted for literary purposes. We discussed painting, the theatre, the personality of our patron. But gradually the flow of conversation ceased, largely checked by the whist players, who joined in every now and then, laying rude fingers on sensitive spots, tearing open scarcely healed wounds. I began to feel ill at ease in this heterogeneous society and rose to go. The Baron and his wife, who accompanied me to the door, dropped their constrained manner as soon as they were out of earshot of the old people. They asked me to a friendly dinner on the following Saturday, and after a little chat in the passage we parted as old friends. II Punctually at three o'clock on the following Saturday I started for the house in North Avenue. I was received like an old friend and unhesitatingly admitted to the intimacies of the home. Mutual confidences added a delightful flavour to the meal. The Baron, who was dissatisfied with his position, belonged to a group of malcontents which had arisen under the new rule of King Oscar. Jealous of the great popularity which his late brother had enjoyed, the new ruler took pains to neglect all plans fostered by his predecessor. The friends of the old order, its frank joviality, its toleration and progressive endeavour, stood aside, therefore, and formed an intellectual opposition without, however, taking any part in party politics. While we sat, evoking the ghosts of the past, our hearts were drawn together. All prejudices nursed in the heart of the commoner against the aristocracy, which since the parliamentary reform of 1865 had gradually receded more and more into the background, vanished and gave place to a feeling of sympathy for the fallen stars. The Baroness, a native of Finland, was a new-comer in Sweden, and not sufficiently informed to take part in our conversation. But as soon as dinner was over she went to the piano and began to sing, and both the Baron and I discovered that we possessed an hitherto unsuspected talent for the duets of Wennerberg. The hours passed rapidly. We amused ourselves by casting the parts and reading a short play which had just been played at the Royal Theatre. But suddenly our spirits flagged and the inevitable pause ensued; that awkward pause which is sure to occur after exhaustive efforts to shine and make conquests. Again the memories of the past oppressed me and I grew silent. "What's the matter?" asked the Baroness. "There are ghosts in this house," I replied, trying to account for my silence. "Ages ago I lived here--yes, yes, ages ago, for I am very old." "Can't we drive away those ghosts?" she asked, looking at me with a bewitching expression, full of motherly tenderness. "I'm afraid we can't; that's the privilege of some one else," laughed the Baron; "she alone can banish the gloomy thoughts. Come now, you are engaged to Miss Selma?" "No, you are mistaken, Baron; it was love's labour lost." "What! is she bound to some one else?" asked the Baron, scrutinising my face. "I think so." "Oh, I'm sorry! That girl's a treasure. And I'm certain that she is fond of you." And forthwith the three of us began to rail against the unfortunate singer, accusing him of attempting to compel a woman to marry him against her will. The Baroness tried to comfort me by insisting that things were bound to come right in the end, and promised to intercede for me on her next trip to Finland, which was to take place very shortly. "No one shall succeed," she assured me, with an angry flash in her eyes, "in forcing that dear girl into a marriage of which her heart doesn't approve." It was seven o'clock as I rose to go. But they pressed me so eagerly to spend the evening with them that I almost suspected them of being bored in each other's company, although they had only been married for three years, and Heaven had blessed their union with a dear little girl. They told me that they expected a cousin, and were anxious that I should meet her and tell them what I thought of her. While we were still talking, a letter was handed to the Baron. He tore it open, read it hastily, and, with a muttered exclamation, handed it to his wife. "Incredible!" she exclaimed, glancing at the contents, and, after a questioning look at her husband, she continued: "She's my own cousin, you know, and her parents won't permit her to stay at our house because people have been gossiping." "It's preposterous!" exclaimed the Baron. "A mere child, pretty, innocent, unhappy at home, who likes being with us, her near relatives ... and people gossiping! Bah!" Did a sceptic smile betray me? His remark was followed by a dead silence, a certain confusion, badly concealed under an invitation to take a turn round the garden. I left after supper, about ten o'clock, and no sooner had I crossed the threshold than I began to ponder on the happenings of that eventful day. In spite of every appearance of happiness, and notwithstanding their evident affection, I felt convinced that my friends harboured a very formidable skeleton in their cupboard. Their wistful eyes, their fits of absent-mindedness, something unspoken, but felt, pointed to a hidden grief, to secrets, the discovery of which I dreaded. Why in the world, I asked myself, do they live so quietly, voluntary exiles in a wretched suburb? They were like two shipwrecked people in their eagerness to pour out their hearts to the first comer. The Baroness in particular perplexed me. I tried to call up her picture, but was confused by the wealth of contradictory characteristics which I had discovered in her, and from which I had to choose. Kindhearted, amiable, brusque, enthusiastic, communicative and reserved, cold and excitable, she seemed to be full of whims, brooding over ambitious dreams. She was neither commonplace nor clever, but she impressed people. Of Byzantine slenderness, which allowed her dress to fall in simple, noble folds, like the dress of a St. Cecilia, her body was of bewitching proportions, her wrists and ankles exquisitely beautiful. Every now and then the pale, somewhat rigid features of her little face warmed into life and sparkled with infectious gaiety. It was difficult to say who was master in the house. He, the soldier, accustomed to command, but burdened with a weak constitution, seemed submissive, more, I thought, from indifference than want of will-power. They were certainly on friendly terms, but there was none of the ecstasy of young love. When I made their acquaintance they were delighted to rejuvenate themselves by calling up the memories of the past before a third person. In studying them more closely, I became convinced that they lived on relics, bored each other, and the frequent invitations which I received after my first call proved that my conclusions were correct. * * * * * On the eve of the Baroness's departure for Finland I called on her to say good-bye. It was a lovely evening in June. The moment I entered the courtyard I caught sight of her behind the garden railings; she was standing in a shrubbery of aristolochias, and the transcendent beauty of her appearance came upon me almost with a shock. She was dressed in a white _piqué_ dress, richly embroidered, the masterpiece of a Russian serf; her chain, brooches and bangles of alabaster seemed to throw a soft light over her, like lamplight falling through an opalescent globe. The broad green leaves threw death-like hues on her pale face, with its shining coal-black eyes. I was shaken, utterly confused, as if I were gazing at a vision. The instinct of worship, latent in my heart, awoke, and with it the desire to proclaim my adoration. The void which had once been filled by religion ached no longer; the yearning to adore had reappeared under a new form. God was deposed, but His place was taken by woman, woman who was both virgin and mother; when I looked at the little girl by her side, I could not understand how that birth had been possible, for the relationship between her and her husband seemed to put all sexual intercourse out of the question; their union appeared essentially spiritual. Henceforth this woman represented to me a soul incarnate, a soul pure and unapproachable, clothed with one of those radiant bodies which, according to the Scriptures, clothe the souls of the dead. I worshipped her--I could not help worshipping her. I worshipped her just as she was, as she appeared to me at that moment, as mother and wife; wife of a particular husband, mother of a particular child. Without her husband my longing to worship could not have been satisfied, for, I said to myself, she would then be a widow, and should I still worship her as such? Perhaps if she were mine--my wife?... No! the thought was unthinkable. And, moreover, married to me, she would no longer be the wife of this particular man, the mother of this particular child, the mistress of this particular house. Such as she was I adored her, I would not have her otherwise. Was it because of the melancholy recollections which the house always awakened in me, or was it because of the instincts of the commoner who never fails to admire the upper classes, the purer blood?--a feeling which would die on the day on which she stood less high--the adoration which I had conceived for her resembled in every point the religion from which I had just emancipated myself. I wanted to adore, I was longing to sacrifice myself, to suffer without hope of any other reward but the ecstasies of worship, self-sacrifice and suffering. I constituted myself her guardian angel. I wanted to watch over her, lest the power of my love should sweep her off her feet and engulf her. I carefully avoided being alone with her, so that no familiarity which her husband might resent should creep in between us. But to-day, on the eve of her departure, I found her alone in the shrubbery. We exchanged a few commonplaces. But presently my excitement rose to such a pitch that it communicated itself to her. Gazing at her with burning eyes, I saw the desire to confide in me forming itself in her heart. She told me that the thought of a separation from husband and child, however short, made her miserable. She implored me to spend as much of my leisure with them as I could, and not to forget her while she was looking after my interests in Finland. "You love her very much--with all your heart, don't you?" she asked, looking at me steadfastly. "Can you ask?" I replied, depressed by the painful lie. For I had no longer any doubt that my May dream had been nothing more than a fancy, a whim, a mere pastime. Afraid of polluting her with my passion, fearful of entangling her against my will in the net of my emotions, intending to protect her against myself, I dropped the perilous subject and asked after her husband. She pulled a face, evidently interpreting my somewhat strange behaviour quite correctly. Perhaps, also--the suspicion rose in my mind much later--he found pleasure in the thought that her beauty confused me. Or, maybe, she was conscious at that moment of the terrible power she had acquired over me, a Joseph whose coldness was only assumed, whose chastity was enforced. "I'm boring you," she said smilingly; "I'd better call for reinforcements." And with a clear voice she called to her husband, who was in his room upstairs. The window was thrown open and the Baron appeared, a friendly smile on his open countenance. A few minutes later he joined us in the garden. He was wearing the handsome uniform of the Guards and looked very distinguished. With his dark-blue tunic, embroidered in yellow and silver, his tall, well-knit figure, he formed an exquisite contrast to the slender woman in white who stood at his side. They were really a strikingly handsome couple; the charms of the one served but to heighten those of the other. The sight of them was an artistic treat, a brilliant spectacle. After dinner the Baron proposed that we should accompany his wife on the steamer as far as the last customs station. This proposal, to which I gladly agreed, seemed to give the Baroness a great deal of pleasure; she was delighted with the prospect of admiring the Stockholm Archipelago from the deck of a steamer on a beautiful summer night. At ten o'clock on the following evening we met on board the steamer a short time before the hour of starting. It was a clear night; the sky was a blaze of brilliant orange, the sea lay before us, calm and blue. We slowly steamed past the wooded shores, in a light which was neither day nor night, but had the qualities of both, and impressed the beholder as being sunrise and sunset at the same time. After midnight our enthusiasm, which had been kept alive by the constantly changing panorama and the memories which it called up, cooled a little. We were fighting against an overwhelming desire to sleep. The early dawn found us with pallid faces, shivering in the morning breeze. We suddenly became sentimental; we swore eternal friendship; it was fate that had thrown us together--we dimly discerned that fatal bond which was to connect our lives in the future. I was beginning to look haggard, for I had not yet regained my strength after an attack of intermittent fever; they treated me like an ailing child; the Baroness wrapped her rug round me and made me drink some wine, all the while talking to me with a mother's tenderness. I let them have their way. I was almost delirious with want of sleep; my pent-up feelings overflowed; this womanly tenderness, the secret of which none but a motherly woman knows, was a new experience to me. I poured out on her a deluge of respectful homage; over-excited by sleeplessness, I became lightheaded, and gave the reins to my poetical imagination. The wild hallucinations of the sleepless night took shape, vague, mystic, unsubstantial; the power of my suppressed talent revealed itself in light visions. I spoke for hours, without interruption, drawing inspiration from two pairs of eyes, which gazed at me fascinated. I felt as if my frail body was being consumed by the burning fire of my imagination. I lost all sense of my corporeal presence. Suddenly the sun rose, the myriads of islets which seem to be swimming in the bay appeared enveloped in flames; the branches of the pines glowed like copper, the slender needles yellow as sulphur; the window-panes of the cottages, dotted along the shore, sparkled like golden mirrors; the columns of smoke rising from the chimneys indicated that breakfasts were being cooked; the fishing-boats were setting sail to bring in the outspread nets; the seagulls, scenting the small herring underneath the dark green waves, were screaming themselves hoarse. But on the steamer absolute silence reigned. The travellers were still fast asleep in their cabins, we alone were on deck. The captain, heavy with sleep, was watching us from the bridge, wondering, no doubt, what we could be talking about. At three o'clock in the morning the pilot cutter appeared from behind a neck of land, and parting was imminent. Only a few of the larger islands now separated us from the open sea; the swell of the ocean was already distinctly discernible; we could hear the roar of the huge breakers on the steep cliffs at the extreme end of the land. The time to say good-bye had arrived. They kissed one another, he and she, full of painful agitation. She took my hand in hers and pressed it passionately, her eyes full of tears; she begged her husband to take care of me, and implored me to comfort him during her absence. I bowed, I kissed her hand without a thought of the proprieties, oblivious of the fact that I was betraying my secret. The engines stopped, the steamer slowed down, the pilot took up his position between decks. Two steps towards the accommodation ladder--I descended, and found myself at the side of the Baron in the pilot cutter. The steamer towered above our heads. Leaning against the rail, the Baroness looked down upon us with a sad smile, her innocent eyes brimming over with tears. The propeller slowly began to move, the giant got under way again, her Russian flag fluttering in the breeze. We were tossing on the rolling waves, waving our handkerchiefs. The little face grew smaller and smaller, the delicate features were blotted out, two great eyes only remained gazing at us fixedly, and presently they too were swallowed up like the rest. Another moment and only a fluttering bluish veil, attached to a Japanese hat, was visible, and a waving white handkerchief; then only a white spot, a tiny white dot; now nothing but the unwieldy giant, wrapped in grey smoke.... We went ashore at the Pilots and Customs Station, a popular summer resort. The village was still asleep; not a soul was on the landing-stage, and we turned and watched the steamer altering her course to starboard, and disappearing behind the rocky island which formed the last bulwark against the sea. As the steamer disappeared the Baron leaned against my shoulder, and I fancied I could hear a sob; thus we stood for a while without speaking a word. Was this excessive grief caused by sleeplessness--by the exhaustion following a long vigil? Had he a presentiment of misfortune, or was it merely the pain of parting with his wife? I couldn't say. We went to the village, depressed and taciturn, in the hope of getting some breakfast. But the inn was not yet astir. We walked through the street and looked at the closed doors, the drawn blinds. Beyond the village we came upon an isolated spot with a quiet pool. The water was clear and transparent, and tempted us to bathe our eyes. I produced a little case and took from it a clean handkerchief, a toothbrush, a piece of soap and a bottle of eau de Cologne. The Baron laughed at my fastidiousness, but, nevertheless, availed himself gratefully of the chance of a hasty toilet, borrowing from me the necessary implements. On returning to the village I noticed the smell of coal-smoke coming from the direction of the alder trees on the shore. I implied by a gesture that this was a last farewell greeting brought by the wind from the steamer. But the Baron pretended not to understand my meaning. He was a distressing sight at breakfast, with his big, sleepy head sunk on his breast, and his swollen features. Both of us suffered from self-consciousness; he was in a gloomy mood and kept up an obstinate silence. Once he seized my hand and apologised for his absent-mindedness, but almost directly afterwards he relapsed into gloom. I made every effort to rouse him, but in vain; we were out of harmony, the tie between us was broken. An expression of coarseness and vulgarity had stolen into his face, usually so frank and pleasant. The reflection of the charm, the living beauty of his beloved wife had vanished; the uncouth man had appeared. I was unable to guess at his thoughts. Did he suspect my feelings? To judge from his behaviour he must have been a prey to very conflicting emotions, for at one minute he pressed my hand, calling me his best, his only friend, at the next he seemed oblivious of my presence. I discovered with a feeling of dismay that we only lived in her and for her. Since our sun had set we seemed to have lost all individuality. I determined to shake him off as soon as we got back to town, but he held on to me, entreating me to accompany him to his house. When we entered the deserted home, we felt as if we had entered a chamber of death. A moisture came into our eyes. Full of confusion and embarrassment, I did not know what to do. "It's too absurd," I said at last, laughing at myself; "here are a captain of the Guards and a royal secretary whimpering like---- "It's a relief," he interrupted me. He sent for his little girl, but her presence only aggravated the bitter feeling of regret at our loss. It was now nine o'clock in the morning. He had come to the end of his powers of endurance, and invited me to take a nap on the sofa while he went to lie down on his bed. He put a cushion under my head, covered me with his military cloak and wished me a sound sleep, thanking me cordially for having taken compassion on his loneliness. His brotherly kindness was like an echo of his wife's tenderness; she seemed to fill his thoughts completely. I sank into a deep sleep, dimly aware, at the moment before losing consciousness, of his huge form stealing to my improvised couch with a murmured question as to whether I was quite comfortable. It was noon when I awoke. He was already up. He hated the idea of being alone, and proposed that we should breakfast together in the Park. I readily fell in with his suggestion. We spent the day together, talking about all sorts of things, but every subject led us back to her on whose life our own lives seemed to have been grafted. III I spent the two following days alone, yearning for the solitude of my library, the cellars of which, once the sculpture rooms of the museum, suited my mood. The large room, built in the rococo style and looking on to the "Lions' Court," contained the manuscripts. I spent a great deal of time there, reading at haphazard anything which seemed old enough to draw my attention from recent events. But the more I read, the more the present melted into the past, and Queen Christine's letters, yellow with age, whispered into my ears words of love from the Baroness. To avoid the company of inquisitive friends, I shunned my usual restaurant. I could not bear the thought of degrading my tongue by confessing my new faith before those scoffers; they should never know. I was jealous of my own personality, which was henceforth consecrated to her only. As I went through the streets, I had a vision of acolites walking before me, their tinkling bells announcing to the passers-by the approach of the Holy of Holies enshrined in the monstrance of my heart. I imagined myself in mourning, deep mourning for a queen, and longed to bid the crowd bare their heads at the passing of my stillborn love, which had no chance of ever quickening into life. On the third day I was roused from my lethargy, by the rolling of drums and the mournful strains of Chopin's Funeral March. I rushed to the window and noticed the captain marching by at the head of his Guards. He looked up at my window and acknowledged my presence with a nod and a smile. The band was playing his wife's favourite piece, at his orders, and the unsuspicious musicians had no inkling that they played it in her honour for him and for me, and before an even less auspicious audience. Half-an-hour later the Baron called for me at the library. I took him through the passages in the basement, overcrowded with cupboards and shelves, into the manuscript room. He looked cheerful, and at once communicated to me the contents of a letter he had received from his wife. All was going on well. She had enclosed a note for me. I devoured it with my eyes, trying hard to hide my excitement. She thanked me frankly and graciously for having looked after "her old man"; she said she had felt flattered by my evident grief at parting, and added that she was staying with my "guardian angel," to whom she was getting more and more attached. She expressed great admiration for her character, and, in conclusion, held out hopes of a happy ending. That was all. So she was in love with me, this "guardian angel" of mine! This monster! The very thought of her now filled me with horror. I was compelled to act the part of a lover against my will; I was condemned to play an abominable farce, perhaps all my life long. The truth of the old adage that one cannot play with fire without burning one's fingers came home to me with terrible force. Caught in my own trap, I pictured to myself in my wrath the detestable creature who had forced herself upon me: she had the eyes of a Mongolian, a sallow face, red arms. With angry satisfaction I recalled her seductive ways, her suspicious behaviour, which more than once had set my friends wondering what species of woman it was with whom I was seen so constantly walking about the parks and suburbs. The remembrance of her tricks, her attentions, her flattering tongue, gave me a kind of vicious pleasure. I remembered a way she had of pulling out her watch and showing a little bit of dainty underclothing. I remembered a certain Sunday in the Park. We were strolling along the broad avenues when she all at once proposed that we should walk through the shrubbery. Her proposal irritated me, for the shrubbery had an evil reputation, but she answered all my objections with a short "Bother propriety!" She wanted to gather anemones under the hazel bushes. She left me standing in the avenue and disappeared behind the shrubs. I followed, confused. She sat down in a sheltered spot under an alder tree, spreading out her skirts and showing off her feet, which were small but disfigured by bunions. An uncomfortable silence fell between us. I thought of the old maids of Corinth.... She looked at me with an expression of childlike innocence ... she was safe from me, her very plainness saved her, and, moreover, I took no pleasure in easy conquests. Every one of these details, which I had always put away from me as odious, came into my mind and oppressed me, now that there seemed a prospect of winning her. I prayed fervently for the comedian's success. But I had to be patient and hide my feelings. While I was reading his wife's note, the Baron sat down at the table, which was littered with old books and documents. He was playing with his carved ivory baton, absent-mindedly, as if he were conscious of his inferiority in literary matters. He defeated all my attempts to interest him in my work with an indifferent, "Yes, yes, very interesting!" Abashed by the evidences of his rank, his neckpiece, the sash, the brilliant uniform, I endeavoured to readjust the balance by showing off my knowledge. But I only succeeded in making him feel uncomfortable. The sword versus the pen! Down with the aristocrat, up with the commoner! Did the woman, when later on she chose the father of her children from the aristocracy of the brain, see the future, clairvoyantly, without being conscious of it? In spite of his constant efforts to treat me as his equal, the Baron, without admitting it even to himself, was always constrained in my presence. At times he paid due deference to my superior knowledge, tacitly acknowledging his inferiority to me in certain respects; at other times he would ride the high horse; then a word from the Baroness was sufficient to bring him to his senses. In his wife's eyes the inherited coat of arms counted for very little, and the dusty coat of the man of letters completely eclipsed the full-dress uniform of the captain. Had he not been himself aware of this when he donned a painter's blouse and entered the studio at Düsseldorf as the least of all the pupils? In all probability he had, but still there always remained a certain refinement, an inherited tradition, and he was by no means free from the jealous hatred which exists between students and officers. For the moment I was necessary to him, as I shared his sorrow, and therefore he invited me to dine with him. After the coffee he suggested that we should both write to the Baroness. He brought me paper and pen, and compelled me to write to her, against my will; I racked my brain for platitudes under which to hide the thoughts of my heart. When I had finished my letter I handed it to the Baron and asked him to read it. "I never read other people's letters," he answered, with hypocritical pride. "And I never write to another man's wife without that man's full knowledge of the correspondence." He glanced at my letter, and, with an enigmatical smile, enclosed it in his own. I saw nothing of him during the rest of the week, until I met him one evening at a street corner. He seemed very pleased to see me, and we went into a café to have a chat. He had just returned from the country, where he had spent a few days with his wife's cousin. Without ever having met that charming person, I was easily able to draw a mental picture of her from the traces of her influence on the Baron's character. He had lost his haughtiness and his melancholy. There was a gay, somewhat dissipated look on his face, and he enriched his vocabulary by a few expressions of doubtful taste; even the tone of his voice was altered. "A weak mind," I said to myself, "swayed by every emotion; a blank slate on which the lightest of women may write sense or folly, according to her sweet will." He behaved like the hero in comic opera; he joked, told funny tales and was in boisterous spirits. His charm was gone with his uniform; and when, after supper, slightly intoxicated, he suggested that we should call on certain female friends of his, I thought him positively repulsive. With the exception of the neckpiece, the sash and the uniform, he really possessed no attractions whatever. When his intoxication had reached its climax, he lost all sense of shame and began to discuss the secrets of his married life. I interrupted him indignantly and proposed that we should go home. He assured me that his wife allowed him full license during her absence. At first I thought this more than human, but later on it confirmed the opinion I had formed of the Baroness's naturally frigid temperament. We parted very early, and I returned to my room, my brain on fire with the indiscreet disclosure which I had been made to listen to. This woman, although apparently in love with her husband, after a union of three years not only permitted him every freedom, but did so without claiming the same right for herself. It was strange, unnatural, like love without jealousy, light without shade. No! it was impossible; there must be another cause. He had told me the Baroness was naturally cold. That, too, seemed strange. Or was she really an embodiment of the virgin mother, such as I had already dimly divined? And was not chastity, purity of the soul, so closely linked to refinement of manners, a characteristic, an attribute of a superior race? I had not been deceived, then, in my youthful meditations when a young girl roused my admiration without in the least exciting my senses. Beautiful childish dreams! Charming ignorance of woman, that problem unspeakably more complex than a bachelor ever dreams of! At last the Baroness returned, radiant with health; the memories awakened by meeting again the friends of her girlhood seemed to have rejuvenated her. "Here is the dove with the olive branch," she said, handing me a letter from my so-called sweetheart. With anything but genuine enjoyment I waded through the presumptuous twaddle, the effusions of a heartless blue-stocking, anxious to win independence by marriage--any marriage, and while I was reading I made up my mind to put an end to the matter. "Do you know for certain," I asked the Baroness, "whether the lady is engaged to the singer or not?" "Yes and no." "Has she given him her word?" "No." "Does she want to marry him?" "No." "Do her parents wish it?" "No." "Why is she so determined to marry him, then?" "Because ... I don't know." "Is she in love with me?" "Perhaps she is." "Then she is simply a husband-hunter. She has but one thought, to make a bargain with the highest bidder. She doesn't know what love is." "What is love?" "A passion stronger than all others, a force of nature absolutely irresistible, something akin to thunder, to rising floods, a waterfall, a storm----" She gazed into my eyes, forgetting the reproaches which, in the interest of her friend, had risen to the tip of her tongue. "And is your love for her a force like that?" she asked. I had a strong impulse to tell her everything. But, supposing I did?... The bond between us would be broken, and, without the lie which protected me from my criminal passion, I should be lost. Afraid of committing myself, I asked her to drop the subject. I said that my cruel sweetheart was dead as far as I was concerned, and that all that remained for me to do was to forget her. The Baroness did her utmost to comfort me, but she did not cloak the fact that I had a dangerous rival in the singer, who was on the spot and in personal contact with his lady-love. The Baron, evidently bored by our conversation, interrupted us peevishly, telling us that we should end by burning our fingers. "This meddling with other people's love affairs is utter folly!" he exclaimed, almost rudely; the Baroness's face flushed with indignation. I hastily changed the subject to avoid a scene. The ball had been set rolling. The lie, originally a mere whim, grew. Full of apprehension and shame, I told myself fairy tales which I ended in believing. In them I played the part of the ill-starred lover, a part which came easy enough, for with the exception of the object of my tenderness, the fairy tales agreed in every detail with reality. I was indeed caught in my own net. One day, on returning home, I found "her" father's card. I returned his call at once. He was a little old man, unpleasantly like his daughter, the caricature of a caricature. He treated me in every way as he would his prospective son-in-law. He inquired about my family, my income, my prospects. It was a regular cross-examination. The matter threatened to become serious. What was I to do? Hoping to divert his attention from me, I made myself as insignificant as possible in his eyes. The reason of his visit to Stockholm was obvious. Either he wanted to shake off the singer, whom he disliked, or the lady had made up her mind to honour me with her hand if an expert should approve of her bargain. I showed myself from my most unpleasant side, avoided every opportunity of meeting him, refused even an invitation to dinner from the Baroness; I tired my unlucky would-be father-in-law out by giving him the slip again and again, pleading urgent duty at the library, until I had gained my purpose, and he departed before the appointed time. Did my rival ever guess to whom he was indebted for his matrimonial misery when he married his bride-elect? No doubt he never knew, and proudly imagined that he had ousted me. An incident which to some extent affected our destiny was the sudden departure of the Baroness and her little daughter to the country. It was in the beginning of August. For reasons of health she had chosen Mariafred, a small village on the Lake of Mälar, where at the moment the little cousin happened to be staying with her parents. This hurried departure on the day after her home-coming struck me as very extraordinary; but, as it was none of my business, I made no comment. Three days passed, then the Baron wrote asking me to call. He appeared to be restless, very nervous and strange. He told me that the Baroness would be back almost immediately. "Indeed!" I exclaimed, more astonished than I cared to show. "Yes!... her nerves are upset, the climate doesn't suit her. She has written me an unintelligible letter which frightens me. I have never been able to understand her whims ... she gets all sorts of fantastic ideas into her head. Just at present she imagines that you are angry with her!" "I!" "It's too absurd!" he continued, "but don't take any notice of it when she returns; she's ashamed of her moods; she's proud, and if she thought you disapproved of her, she would only commit fresh follies." "It has come at last," I said to myself; "the catastrophe is imminent!" And from that moment my thoughts were bent on flight, for I had no desire to figure as the hero of a romance of passion. I refused the next invitation, making excuses which were badly invented and wrongly understood. The result was a call from the Baron; he asked me what I meant by my unfriendly conduct? I did not know what explanation to give, and he took advantage of my embarrassment and exacted a promise from me to join them in an excursion. I found the Baroness looking ill and worn out; only the black eyes in the livid face seemed alive and shone with unnatural brilliancy. I was very reserved, spoke in indifferent tones and said as little as possible. On leaving the steamer, we went to a famous hotel where the Baron had arranged to meet his uncle. The supper, which was served in the open, was anything but gay. Before us spread the sinister lake, shut in by gloomy mountains; above our heads waved the branches of the lime trees, the blackened trunks of which were over a hundred years old. We talked commonplaces, but our conversation was dull and soon languished. I fancied that I could feel the after-effects of a quarrel between my hosts, which had not yet been patched up and was on the verge of a fresh outbreak. I ardently desired to avoid the storm, but, unfortunately, uncle and nephew left the table to discuss business matters. Now the mine would explode! As soon as we were alone the Baroness leaned toward me and said excitedly-- "Do you know that Gustav is angry with me for coming back unexpectedly?" "I know nothing about it." "Then you don't know that he'd been building on meeting my charming cousin on his free Sundays?" "My dear Baroness," I exclaimed, interrupting her, "if you want to bring charges against your husband, hadn't you better do it in his presence?" ... What had I done? It was brutal, this harsh, uncompromising rebuke, flung into the face of a disloyal wife in defence of a member of my own sex. "How dare you!" she cried, amazed, changing colour. "You're insulting me!" "Yes, Baroness, I am insulting you." All was over between us, for ever. As soon as her husband returned she hastened towards him, as if she were seeking protection from an enemy. The Baron noticed that something was wrong, but he could not understand her excitement. I left them at the landing-stage, pretending that I had to pay a visit at one of the neighbouring villas. I don't know how I got back to town. My legs seemed to carry a lifeless body; the vital node was cut, I was a corpse walking along the streets. Alone! I was alone again, without friends, without a family, without anything to worship. It was impossible for me to recreate God. The statue of the Madonna had fallen down; woman had shown herself behind the beautiful image, woman, treacherous, faithless, with sharp claws! When she attempted to make me her confidant, she was taking the first step towards breaking her marriage vows; at that moment the hatred of her sex was born in me. She had insulted the man and the sex in me, and I took the part of her husband against her. Not that I flattered myself with being a virtuous man, but in love man is never a thief, he only takes what is given to him. It is woman who steals and sells herself. The only time when she gives unselfishly is when she betrays her husband. The prostitute sells herself, the young wife sells herself; the faithless wife only gives to her lover that which she has stolen from her husband. But I had not desired this woman in any other way than as a friend. Protected from me by her child, I had always seen her invested with the insignia of motherhood. Always seeing her at the side of her husband, I had never felt the slightest temptation to indulge in pleasures which are gross in themselves, and ennobled only by entire and exclusive possession. I returned to my room annihilated, completely crushed, more lonely than ever, for I had dropped my Bohemian friends from the very outset of my relations with the Baroness. IV I occupied in those days a fairly large attic with two windows which looked on the new harbour, the bay and the rocky heights of the southern suburbs. Before the windows, on the roof, I had managed to create a garden of tiny dimensions. Bengal roses, azaleas and geraniums provided me in their turn with flowers for the secret cult of my Madonna with the child. It had become a daily habit with me to pull down the blinds towards the evening, arrange my flower-pots in a semicircle, and place the picture of the Baroness, with the lamplight full on it, amongst them. She was represented on this portrait as a young mother, with somewhat severe, but deliciously pure features, her delicate head crowned with a wealth of golden hair. She wore a light dress which reached up to her chin and was finished off with a pleated frill; her little daughter, dressed in white, was standing on a table by the side of her, gazing at the beholder with pensive eyes. How many letters "to my friends" had I not written before this portrait and sent off on the following morning addressed to the Baron! These letters were at that time the only channel into which I could pour my literary aspirations, and my inmost soul was laid bare in them. To open a career for the erratic, artistic soul of the Baroness, I had tried to encourage her to seek an outlet for her poetic imagination in literary work. I had provided her with the masterpieces of all literatures, had taught her the first principles of literary composition by furnishing endless summaries, commentaries and analyses, to which I added advice and practical illustrations. She had been only moderately interested, for she doubted her literary talent from the outset. I told her that every educated person possessed the ability to write at least a letter, and was therefore a poet or author _in posse_. But it was all in vain; the passion for the stage had taken firm hold of her obstinate brain. She insisted that she was a born elocutionist, and, because her rank prevented her from following her inclination and going on the stage (an ardently desired contingency), she posed as a martyr, heedless of the disastrous consequences which threatened to overtake her home life. Her husband sympathised with my benevolent efforts, undertaken in the hope of saving the domestic peace of the family from shipwreck. He was grateful, although he had not the courage to take an active and personal interest in the matter. The Baroness's opposition notwithstanding, I had continued my efforts and urged her in every letter to break the fateful spell which held her, and make an effort to write a poem, a drama, or a novel. "Your life has been an eventful one," I said to her in one of my letters; "why not make use of your own experience?" And, quoting from Börne, I added, "Take paper and pen and be candid, and you are bound to become an authoress." "It's too painful to live an unhappy life all over again," she had replied. "I want to find forgetfulness in art; I want to merge my identity into characters different from my own." I had never asked myself what it was that she wanted to forget. I knew nothing of her past life. Did she shrink from allowing me to solve the riddle? Was she afraid of handing me the key to her character? Was she anxious to hide her true self behind the personalities of stage heroines, or did she hope to increase her own magnitude by assuming the identities of her superiors? When I had come to the end of my arguments, I suggested that she should make a start by translating the works of foreign authors; I told her this would help to form her style and make her known to publishers. "Is a translator well paid?" she asked. "Fairly well," I replied, "if she knows her business." "Perhaps you will think me mercenary," she continued, "but work for its own sake doesn't attract me." Like so many women of our time, she was seized with the mania of earning her own living. The Baron made a grimace plainly indicative of the fact that he would far rather see her taking an active interest in the management of her house and servants, than contributing a few shillings towards the expenses of a neglected home. Since that day she had given me no peace, begging me to find her a good book and a publisher. I had done my utmost, and had succeeded in procuring for her two quite short articles, destined for "Miscellaneous Items" in one of the illustrated magazines, which did not, however, remunerate its contributors. For a whole week I heard nothing of the work, which could easily have been accomplished in a couple of hours. She lost her temper when the Baron teasingly called her a sluggard; in fact, she was so angry that I saw he had touched a very sore spot, and stopped all further allusions, afraid of making serious mischief between the couple. This was how matters stood at the time of my rupture with her. ... I sat in my attic with her letters before me on the table. As I re-read them, one after the other, my heart ached for her. She was a soul in torment, a power wasted, a voice unable to make itself heard, just like myself. This was the secret of our mutual sympathy. I suffered through her as if she were a diseased organ grafted on my sick soul, which had itself become too blunted and dull to sense the pleasure of exquisite pain. And what had she done that I should deprive her of my sympathy? In a moment of jealousy she had complained to me of her unhappy marriage. And I had repulsed her, I had spoken harshly to her, when I ought to have reasoned with her; it would not have been an impossible task, for hadn't her husband told me that she allowed him every licence? I was seized with an immense compassion for her; no doubt, in her soul lay, shrouded in profound mystery, fateful secrets, physical and psychical aberrations. It seemed to me that I should be guilty of a terrible wrong if I let her come to ruin. When my depression had reached its climax I began a letter to her, asking her to forgive me. I begged her to forget what had happened, and tried to explain the painful incident by a misunderstanding on my part. But the words would not come, my pen refused to obey me. Worn out with fatigue, I threw myself on my bed. The following morning was warm and cloudy, a typical August morning. At eight o'clock I went to the library, melancholy and depressed. As I had a key, I was able to let myself in and spend three hours in perfect solitude before the general public began to arrive. I wandered through the passages, between rows of books on either side, in that exquisite solitude which is not loneliness, in close communion with the great thinkers of all times. Taking out a volume here and there, I tried to fix my mind on some definite subject in order to forget the painful scene of yesterday. But I could not banish the desecrated image of the fallen Madonna from my mind. When I raised my eyes from the pages, which I had read without understanding a word, I seemed to see her, as in a vision, coming down the spiral staircase, which wound in endless perspective at the back of the galleries. She lifted the straight folds of her blue dress, showing her perfect feet and slender ankles, looking at me furtively, with a sidelong glance, tempting me to the betrayal of her husband, soliciting me with that treacherous and voluptuous smile which I had yesterday seen for the first time. The apparition awakened all the sensuality which had lain dormant in my heart for the last three months, for the pure atmosphere which surrounded her had kept away from me all lascivious thoughts. Now all the passion which burnt in me concentrated itself on a single object. I desired her. My imagination painted for me the exquisite beauty of her white limbs. I selected a work on art which contained illustrations of all the famous sculptures in the Italian museums, hoping to discover this woman's formula by systematic scientific research. I wanted to find out species and genus to which she belonged. I had plenty to choose from. Was she Venus, full-bosomed and broad-hipped, the normal woman, who awaits her lover, sure of her triumphant beauty? No! Juno, then, the fertile mother, who keeps her regal charms for the marriage-bed? By no means! Minerva, the blue-stocking, the old maid, who hides her flat bosom under a coat of mail? On no account! Diana then, the pale goddess of night, fearful of the sun, cruel in her enforced chastity, more boy than girl, modest because she needs must be so--Diana, who could not forgive Actæon for having watched her while bathing? Was she Diana? The species, perhaps, but not the genus! The future will speak the last word! With that delicate body, those exquisite limbs, that sweet face, that proud smile, that modestly veiled bosom, could she be yearning for blood and forbidden fruit? Diana? Yes, unmistakably Diana! I continued my research; I looked through a number of publications on art stored up in this incomparable treasure-house of the State, so as to study the various representations of the chaste goddess. I compared; like a scientist, I proved my point, again and again rushing from one end of the huge building to the other to find the volumes to which I was being referred. The striking of a clock recalled me from the world of my dreams; my colleagues were beginning to arrive, and I had to enter on my daily duties. I decided to spend the evening at the club with my friends. On entering the laboratory, I was greeted with deafening acclamations, which raised my spirits. The centre of the room was occupied by a table dressed like an altar, in the middle of which stood a skull and a large bottle of cyanide of potassium. An open Bible, stained with punch spots, lay beside the skull. Surgical instruments served as bookmarkers. A number of punch-glasses were arranged in a circle all round. Instead of a ladle a retort was used for filling the glasses. My friends were on the verge of intoxication. One of them offered me a glass bowl containing half-a-pint of the fiery drink, and I emptied it at one gulp. All the members shouted the customary "Curse it!" I responded by singing the song of the ne'er-do-wells-- Deep potations And flirtations Are life's only end and aim ... After this prelude an infernal row arose, and, amid shouts of applause, I delivered myself of a stream of vulgar platitudes, abusing and insulting women in high-flown verses, mixed with anatomical terms. Intoxicated with the coarse suggestions, the vulgar profanation, I surpassed myself in heaping insults on the head of my Madonna. It was the morbid result of my unsatisfied longing. My hatred for the treacherous idol broke out with such virulence that it afforded me a sort of bitter comfort. My messmates, poor devils, acquainted with love in its lowest aspect only, listened eagerly to my vile denunciations of a lady of rank, who was utterly beyond their reach. The drunkenness increased. The sound of men's voices delighted my ears after I had passed three months amid sentimental whining, mock modesty and hypocritical innocence. I felt as if I had torn off the mask, thrown back the veil under which Tartuffe concealed his cupidity. In imagination I saw the adored woman indulging every whim and caprice, merely to escape the boredom of a dull existence. All my insults, my infamous invectives and abuse I addressed to her, furious with the power in me which successfully strove against my committing a crime. At this moment the laboratory appeared to me to be a hallucination of my over-excited brain, the temple of monstrous orgies in which all the senses participated. The bottles on the shelves gleamed in all the colours of the rainbow: the deep purple of red lead; the orange of potash, the yellow of sulphur, the green of verdigris, the blue of vitriol. The atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke; the smell of the lemons, used in brewing the punch, called up visions of happier countries. The piano, intentionally out of tune and badly treated, groaned Beethoven's march in a manner which made it unrecognisable. The pallid faces of the revellers see-sawed in the blue-black smoke which rose from, the pipes. The lieutenant's sash, the black beard of the doctor of philosophy, the physician's embroidered shirt front, the skull with its empty sockets; the noise, the disorder, the abominable discords, the lewd images evoked, bewildered and confused my maddened brain, when suddenly, with one accord, there arose a cry uttered by many voices-- "To the women, you men!" The whole assembly broke into the song-- Deep potations And flirtations Are life's only end and aim ... Hats and overcoats were donned, and the whole horde trooped out. Half-an-hour later we had arrived at our destination. The fires in the huge stoves spluttered and crackled, stout was ordered, and the saturnalias, which rendered the remainder of the night hideous, began. V When I awoke on the following morning in my own bed in broad daylight, I was surprised to find that I had regained complete mastery over myself. Every trace of unhealthy sentimentality had disappeared; the cult of the Madonna had been forgotten in the excesses of the night. I looked upon my fantastic love as a weakness of the spirit or the flesh, which at the moment appeared to me to be one and the same thing. After I had had a cold bath and eaten some breakfast, I returned to my daily duties, content that the whole matter was at an end. I plunged into my work, and the hours passed rapidly. It was half-past twelve when the porter announced the Baron. "Is it possible?" I said to myself, "and I had been under the impression that the incident was closed!" I prepared myself for a scene. The Baron, radiant with mirth and happiness, squeezed my hand affectionately. He had come to ask me to join in another excursion by steamer, and see the amateur theatricals at Södertälje, a small watering-place. I declined politely, pleading urgent business. "My wife," he recommenced, "would be very pleased if you could manage to come.... Moreover, Baby will be one of the party...." Baby, the much-discussed cousin.... He went on urging me in a manner at once irresistible and pathetic, looking at me with eyes so full of melancholy that I felt myself weakening. But instead of frankly accepting his invitation, I replied with a question-- "The Baroness is quite well?" "She wasn't very well yesterday; in fact, she was really ill, but she is better since this morning. My dear fellow," he added after a slight pause, "what passed between you the night before last at Nacka? My wife says that you had a misunderstanding, and that you are angry with her without any reason." "Really," I answered, a little taken aback, "I don't know myself. Perhaps I had a little too much to drink. I forgot myself." "Let's forget all about it then, will you?" he replied briskly, "and let us be friends as before. Women are often strangely touchy, as you know. It's all right, then; you'll come, won't you? To-day at four. Remember, we are counting on you...." I had consented!... Unfathomable enigma! A misunderstanding!... But she had been ill!... Ill with fear ... with anger ... with.... The fact that the little unknown cousin was about to appear upon the scene added a new interest, and with a beating heart I went on board the steamer at four o'clock, as had been arranged. The Baroness greeted me with sisterly kindness. "You're not angry with me because of my unkind words?" she began. "I'm very excitable...." "Don't let us speak about it," I replied, trying to find her a seat behind the bridge. "Mr. Axel ... Miss Baby!..." The Baron was introducing us. I was looking at a girl of about eighteen, of the soubrette type, exactly what I had imagined. She was small, very ordinary-looking, dressed simply, but with a certain striving after elegance. But the Baroness! Pale as death, with hollow cheeks, she looked more fragile than ever. Her bangles jingled at her wrists; her slender neck rose from her collar, plainly-showing the blue arteries winding towards the ears which, owing to the careless way in which she had arranged her hair, stood out from her head more than usual. She was badly dressed, too. The colours of her frock were crude, and did not blend. I could not help thinking that she was downright plain, and, as I looked at her, my heart was filled with compassion, and I cursed my recent conduct towards her. This woman a coquette? She was a saint, a martyr, bearing undeserved sorrow. The steamer started. The lovely August evening on the Lake of Mälar tempted one to peaceful dreams. Was it accidental or intended? The little cousin and the Baron were sitting side by side at a distance sufficiently great to prevent our overhearing each other. Leaning towards her, he talked and laughed incessantly, with the gay, rejuvenated face of an accepted lover. From time to time he looked at us, slyly, and we nodded and smiled back. "A jolly girl, the little one, isn't she?" remarked the Baroness. "It seems so," I answered, uncertain how to take her remark. "She knows how to cheer up my melancholy husband. I don't possess that gift," she added, with a frank and kindly smile at the group. And as she spoke the lines of her face betrayed suppressed sorrow, tears held back, superhuman resignation; across her features glided, cloud-like, those incomprehensible reflections of kindness, resignation and self-denial, common to pregnant women and young mothers. Ashamed of my misinterpretation of her character, tortured by remorse, nervous, I suppressed with difficulty the tears which I felt rising to my eyes. "But aren't you jealous?" I asked, merely for the sake of saying something. "Not at all," she answered, quite sincerely and without a trace of malice. "Perhaps you'll think it strange, but it's true. I love my husband; he is very kind-hearted; and I appreciate the little one, for she's a nice girl. And there is really nothing wrong between them. Shame on jealousy, which makes a woman look plain; at my age one has to be careful." And, indeed, she looked so plain at that moment that it wrung my heart. Acting thoughtlessly, on impulse, I advised her, with fatherly solicitude, to put a shawl round her shoulders, pretending that I was afraid of her catching cold. She let me arrange the fleecy fabric round her face, framing it, and transforming her into a dainty beauty. How pretty she was when she thanked me smilingly! A look of perfect happiness had come into her face; she was grateful like a child begging for caresses. "My poor husband! How glad I am to see him a little more cheerful! He is full of trouble!... If you only knew!" "If I'm not indiscreet," I ventured, "then, for Heaven's sake, tell me what it is that makes you so unhappy. I feel that there is a great sorrow in your life. I have nothing to offer you but advice; but, if I can in any way serve you, I entreat you to make use of my friendship." My poor friends were in financial difficulties: the phantom of ruin--that ghastly nightmare!--was threatening them. Up to now the Baron's inadequate income had been supplemented by his wife's dowry. But they had recently discovered that the dowry existed on paper only, it being invested in worthless shares. The Baron was on the point of sending in his papers, and looking out for a cashier's billet in a bank. "That's the reason," she concluded, "why I want to make use of the talent I possess, for then I could contribute my share to the necessary expenses of the household. It's all my fault, don't you see? I'm to blame for the difficulties in which he finds himself; I've ruined his career...." What could I say or do in such a sad case which went far beyond my power of assistance? I attempted to smooth away her difficulties, to deceive myself about them. I assured her that things would come all right, and, in order to allay her fears, I painted for her the picture of a future without cares, full of bright prospects. I quoted the statistics of national economy to prove that better times were coming in which her shares would improve; I invented the most extraordinary remedies; I conjured up a new army organization which would bring in its train unexpected promotion for her husband. It was all pure invention, but, thanks to my power of imagination, courage and hope returned to her, and her spirits rose. After landing, and while we were waiting for the commencement of the play, we went for a walk in the Park. I had not, as yet, exchanged one word with the cousin. The Baron never left her side. He carried her cloak, devoured her with his eyes, bathed her in a flood of words, warmed her with his breath, while she remained callous and self-possessed, with vacant eyes and hard features. From time to time, without apparently moving a muscle of her face, she seemed to say things to which the Baron replied with shrieks of laughter, and, judging from his animated face, she must have been indulging pretty freely in repartee, innuendoes and double-entendres. At last the doors opened, and we went in to take our seats, which had not been reserved. The curtain rose. The Baroness was blissfully happy to see the stage, smell the mingled odours of painted canvas, raw wood, rouge and perspiration. They played _A Whim_. A sudden indisposition seized me, the result of the distressing memories of my vain efforts to conquer the stage, and also, perhaps, the consequence of the excesses of the previous night. When the curtain fell, I left my seat and made my way to the restaurant, where I refreshed myself with a double-absinthe, and remained until the performance was over. My friends met me after the play, and we went to have supper together. They seemed tired, and unable to hide their annoyance at my flight. Nobody spoke a word while the table was being laid. A desultory conversation was started with the greatest difficulty. The cousin remained mute, haughty, reserved. We discussed the menu. After consulting with me, the Baroness ordered _hors d'oeuvres_. Roughly--too roughly for my unstrung nerves, the Baron countermanded the order. Lost in gloomy thoughts, I pretended not to hear him, and called out "_Hors d'oeuvres_ for two!" for her and for me, as she had originally ordered. The Baron grew pale with anger. There was thunder in the air, but not another word was spoken. I inwardly admired my courage in thus answering a rudeness with an insult, bound to have serious consequences in any civilised country. The Baroness, encouraged by the way in which I had stood up for her, began teasing me in order to make me laugh. But in vain. Conversation was impossible; nobody had anything to say, and the Baron and I exchanged angry glances. In the end my opponent whispered a remark in his neighbour's ear; in reply she made a grimace, nodded, pronounced a few syllables without moving her lips, and regarded me scornfully. I felt the blood rising to my head, and the storm would have burst there and then if an unexpected incident had not served as a lightning conductor. In an adjacent room a boisterous party had been strumming the piano for the last half-hour; now they began singing a vulgar song, with the doors standing wide open. The Baron turned to the waiter: "Shut that door," he said curtly. The door had hardly been closed when it was again burst open. The singers repeated the chorus, and challenged us with impertinent remarks. The moment for an explosion had arrived. I jumped up from my chair; with two strides I was at the door and banged it in the faces of the noisy crew. Fire in a powder-barrel could not have had a more rousing effect than my determined stand against the enemy. A short struggle ensued, during which I kept hold of the door-handle. But the door yielded to the vigorous pull from the other side, and I was dragged towards the howling mob, who threw themselves upon me, eager for a hand-to-hand tussle. At that moment I felt a touch on my shoulder, and heard an indignant voice asking "these gentlemen whether they had no sense of honour, that they attacked in a body one single opponent?"... It was the Baroness who, under the stress of a strong emotion, forgetting the dictates of convention and good manners, betrayed warmer feelings than she probably was aware of. The fight was over. The Baroness regarded me with searching eyes. "You're a brave little hero," she said. "I was trembling for you." The Baron called for the bill, asked to see the landlord and requested him to send for the police. After this incident perfect harmony reigned amongst us. We vied in expressions of indignation about the rudeness of the natives. All the suppressed wrath of jealousy and wounded vanity was poured on the heads of those uncouth louts. And later on, as we sat drinking punch in one of our own rooms, our old friendship burst into fresh flames; we forgot all about the police, who, moreover, had failed to put in an appearance. On the following morning we met in the coffee-room, full of high spirits, and in our inmost hearts glad to have done with a disagreeable business, the consequences of which it would have been difficult to foretell. After the first breakfast we went for a walk on the banks of the canal, in couples, and with a fair distance between us. When we had arrived at a lock where the canal made a strong curve, the Baron waited and turned to his wife with an affectionate, almost amorous smile. "D'you remember this place, Marie?" he asked. "Yes, yes, my dear, I remember," she answered, with a mingled expression of passion and sadness. Later on she explained his question to me. "It was here where he first told me of his love ... one evening, under this very birch-tree, while a brilliant shooting-star flashed across the sky." "That was three years ago," I completed her explanation, "and you are reviving old memories already. You live in the past because the present doesn't satisfy you." "Oh, stop!" she exclaimed; "you've taken leave of your senses.... I loathe the past, and I am grateful to my husband for having delivered me from a vain mother whose doting tyranny was ruining me. No, I adore my husband, he's a loyal friend to me...." "As you like, Baroness; I'll agree with anything, to please you." At the stated hour we went on board to return to town, and after a delightful passage across the blue sea, with its thousands of green islands, we arrived in Stockholm, where we parted. I had made up my mind to return to work, determined to tear this love out of my heart, but I soon found that I had reckoned without forces much stronger than myself. On the day after our excursion I received an invitation to dinner from the Baroness; it was the anniversary of her wedding-day. I could not think of a plausible excuse, and, although I was afraid of straining our friendship, I accepted the invitation. To my great disappointment, I found the house turned upside down, undergoing the process of a general cleaning; the Baron was in a bad temper, and the Baroness sent her apologies for the delayed dinner. I walked up and down the garden with her irritable, hungry husband, who seemed unable to control his impatience. After half-an-hour's strenuous effort my powers of entertaining him were exhausted, and conversation ceased. He took me into the dining-room. Dinner was laid, and the appetisers[1] had been put on the table, but the mistress of the house was still invisible. "If we took a snack standing," said the Baron, "we should be able to wait." Afraid of offending the Baroness, I did my utmost to dissuade him, but he remained obstinate, and being, as it were, between two fires, I was compelled to acquiesce in his proposal. At last the Baroness entered: radiant, young, pretty; she was dressed in a diaphanous silk frock, yellow, like ripe corn, with a mauve stripe, reminiscent of pansies; this was her favourite combination of colours. The well-cut dress suited her girlish figure to perfection, and emphasised the beautiful contour of the shoulders and the curve of the exquisitely modelled arms. I handed her my bunch of roses, wishing her many happy returns of the day; I also took good care to put all the blame for our rude impatience on the Baron. When her eyes fell on the disordered table, she pursed up her lips and addressed a remark to her husband which was more stinging than humorous; he was not slow to reply to the undeserved rebuke. I threw myself into the breach by recalling the incidents of the previous day which I had already discussed with the Baron. "And what d'you think of my charming cousin?" asked the Baroness. "She's very amiable," I replied. "Don't you agree with me, my dear fellow, that the child is a perfect treasure?" exclaimed the Baron, in a voice which expressed parental solicitude, sincere devotion and pity for this imp of Satan, supposed to be martyred by imaginary tyrants. But in spite of the stress laid by her husband on the word "child," the Baroness continued mercilessly-- "Just look how that dear Baby has changed the style in which my husband does his hair!" The parting which the Baron had been accustomed to wear had indeed disappeared. Instead of it, his hair was dressed in the manner of the young students, his moustache waxed--a style which did not suit him. Through an association of ideas, my attention was drawn to the fact --which, however, I kept to myself--that the Baroness, too, had adopted from the charming cousin certain details of dressing her hair, of wearing her clothes, of manner even. It made me think of the elective affinities of the chemists, in this case acting on living beings. The dinner dragged on, slowly and heavily, like a cart which has lost its fourth wheel, and wearily lumbers along on the three remaining ones. But the cousin, henceforth the indispensable complement of our quartet, which, without her, was beginning to be out of harmony, was expected to come later on and take coffee with us. At dessert I proposed a toast to the married couple, in conventional terms, without spirit or wit, like champagne which has grown flat. Husband and wife, animated by the memories of the past, kissed tenderly, and, in mimicking their former fond ways, became affectionate, amorous even, just as an actor will feel genuinely depressed when he has been feigning tears. Or was it that the fire was still smouldering underneath the ashes, ready to burst into fresh flames if fanned by a skilful hand? It was impossible to guess how matters stood. After dinner we went into the garden and sat in the summer-house, the window of which looked on to the street. Digestive processes did not favour conversation. The Baron stood at the window, absent-mindedly watching the street, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the cousin. Suddenly he darted off like an arrow, evidently with the intention of going to meet the expected guest. Left alone with the Baroness, I at once became embarrassed; I was not naturally self-conscious, but she had a queer way of looking at me and paying me compliments on certain details of my appearance. After a long, almost painful silence, she burst out laughing, and pointing in the direction in which the Baron had disappeared, she exclaimed-- "Dear old Gustav, he is head-over-ears in love!" "It looks like it," I replied. "And you are really not jealous?" "Not at all," she assured me. "I'm in love myself with the pretty little cat. And you?" "Oh, I'm all right. I don't want to be rude, but I shall never feel in the least in sympathy with your cousin." And this was true. From the first moment I had taken a dislike to this young woman, who, like myself, was of middle-class origin. She saw in me the odious witness, or rather the dangerous rival, hunting in the preserves which she had reserved for herself, and from which she hoped to force her way into society. Her keen grey eyes had at once recognised in me an acquaintance of whom she could make no use; her plebeian instinct scented an adventurer in me. And up to a certain point she was right, for I had entered the Baron's house in the hope of finding a patron for my unfortunate drama; unluckily, the relations between my friends and the stage were non-existent, a mere fabrication of my friend from Finland, and, with the exception of a few compliments, my play had never been mentioned. It was also undeniable that there was a marked difference in the Baron's manner whenever his charmer was present. He was fickle and easily impressed, and evidently beginning to regard me with the eyes of the sorceress. We had not long to wait; the pair appeared at the garden gate, merrily talking and laughing. The girl was brimming over with fun and merriment; she used bad language, a little too freely perhaps, but with excellent taste; she uttered double-entendres with such an appearance of perfect innocence that it was impossible to credit her with the knowledge of the meaning of her ambiguous words. She smoked and drank without forgetting for one single moment that she was a woman, and, what is more, a young woman. There was nothing masculine about her, nothing emancipated, nor was she in the least prudish. She was certainly amusing, and time passed quickly. But what surprised me most and ought to have been a warning to me, was the excessive mirth with which the Baroness greeted any doubtful remark which fell from the girl's lips. Then a wild laugh, a cynical expression would flit over her countenance, giving evidence that she was deeply versed in the secrets of excess. While we were thus amusing ourselves, the Baron's uncle joined our little party. A retired captain, a widower of many years' standing, very chivalrous, of pleasing manners, a little daring in his old-fashioned courteousness, he was, thanks to his connection with the family, the declared favourite of these ladies, whose affections he had succeeded in winning. He looked upon it as his right to fondle them, kiss their hands, pat their cheeks. As he came in, both of them fell on his neck with little exclamations of pleasure. "Take care, my little ones! Two at a time is too much for an old fellow like me. Take care! You are burning yourselves. Quick, down with your hands, or I won't be responsible for anything." The Baroness held her cigarette, poised between her lips, towards him. "A little fire, please, uncle!" "Fire! Fire! I'm sorry I can't oblige you, my child, my fire has gone out," he answered slyly. "Has it?" She boxed his ears with her finger-tips. The old man seized her arm, held it between his hands and felt it up to her shoulder. "You're not as thin as you look, my darling," he said, stroking her soft flesh through her sleeve. The Baroness did not object. The compliment seemed to please her. Playfully, smilingly, she pushed up her sleeve, exposing a beautifully-modelled arm, daintily rounded and white as milk. Almost immediately, however, remembering my presence, she hastily pulled it down again; but I had seen a spark of the consuming fire which burned in her eyes, an expression which comes into the face of a woman in the transports of love. The burning match which I held between my fingers, with the intention of lighting a cigarette, accidentally dropped between my coat and waistcoat. With a terrified scream, the Baroness rushed at me and tried to extinguish the flame between her fingers. "Fire! Fire!" she shrieked, her cheeks scarlet with excitement. Losing my self-control, I started back and pressed her hand against my breast, as if to smother the smouldering fire; then, shamefacedly releasing myself and pretending that I had escaped a very real danger, I thanked the Baroness, who was still unable to control her agitation. We talked till supper-time. The sun had set, and the moon rose behind the cupola of the Observatory, illuminating the apple trees in the orchard. We amused ourselves by trying to differentiate between the apples suspended from the branches and half-hidden by the leaves, which looked sedge-green in the pale moonlight. The ordinary blood-red Calville seemed but a yellow spot; the greyish Astrachan apple had turned green, the Rennet a dark, brownish red, and the others had changed colour in proportion. The same thing had happened with the flowers. The dahlias presented to our eyes unknown tints, the stocks shone in the colours of another planet, the hues of the Chinese asters were indefinable. "There, you see, Baroness," I said, commenting on the phenomenon, "how everything in the world is imaginary. Colour does not exist in the abstract; everything depends on the nature of the light. Everything is illusion." "Everything?" she said softly, remaining standing before me and gazing at me with eyes magnified by the darkness. "Everything, Baroness!" I lied, confused by this living apparition of flesh and blood, which at the moment terrified me by its unearthly loveliness. The dishevelled golden hair formed a luminous aureole round her pale, moonlit face; her exquisitely proportionate figure rose by my side, tall and straight and more slender than ever in the striped dress, the colours of which had changed to black and white. The stocks breathed their voluptuous perfumes, the crickets chirped in the grass, wet with the falling dew, a gentle breeze rustled in the trees, twilight wrapped us round with its soft mantle; everything invited to love; nothing but the cowardice of respectability kept back the avowal which trembled on my lips. Suddenly an apple dropped from a wind-shaken bough and fell at our feet. The Baroness stooped, picked it up and gave it to me, with a significant gesture. "Forbidden fruit!" I murmured. "No, thank you." And to efface the impression of this blunder, which I had committed against my will, I hastened to improvise a satisfactory explanation of my words, hinting at the parsimony of the owner. "What would the owner say if he saw me?" "That you are at least a knight without reproach," she replied disapprovingly, glancing at the shrubbery which effectively screened the Baron and her cousin from indiscreet observers. When we rose from the supper-table the Baron proposed that we should accompany "the dear child" home. At the front door he offered her his arm, and then turned to me. "Look after my wife, old man," he said, "and prove to her that you really are the perfect cavalier I know you to be." His voice was full of tender solicitude. I felt ill at ease. As the evening was warm the Baroness, leaning lightly on me, was carrying her scarf in her hand, and from her arm, the graceful outline of which was plainly perceptible through the thin silk, emanated a magnetic current which excited in me an extraordinary sensitiveness. I imagined that I could detect, at the height of my deltoid muscle, the exact spot where the sleeve of her under-garment ended. My sensitiveness was intensified to such a degree that I could have traced the whole anatomy of that adorable arm. Her biceps, the great elevator which plays the principal part when two people embrace each other, pressed mine, flesh against flesh, in supple rhythms. In walking along, side by side, I could distinguish the curve of her hips through the skirts which brushed against my legs. "You walk splendidly, you must be a perfect dancer," she said, as if to encourage me to break an embarrassing silence. And after a few moments, during which she must have felt the quivering of my overstrung nerves, she asked, a little sarcastically, with the superiority of a woman of the world-- "Are you shivering?" "Yes, I'm cold." "Then why not put on your overcoat?" Her voice was soft and velvety, like a caress. I put on my coat, a veritable straight jacket, and so was better protected against the warmth which flowed from her body into mine. The sound of her little feet, keeping time with my footsteps, drew our nervous systems so closely together that I felt almost as if I were walking on four feet, like a quadruped. In the course of that fateful walk a pruning occurred of the kind which gardeners call "ablactation," and which is brought about by bringing two boughs into the closest proximity. From that day I no longer belonged to myself. She had inoculated me with her blood; our nerves were in a state of high tension; the unborn lives within her yearned for the quickening fiat which would call them into existence; her soul craved for union with my spirit, and my spirit longed to pour itself into this delicate vessel. Had all this happened to us without our knowledge? Impossible to say. Once more back in my room, I determinately faced the question of the future. Should I flee from danger and forget, should I try to make my fortune abroad? The idea flashed through my mind to go to Paris, the centre of civilisation. Once there, I would bury myself in the libraries, be lost in the museums. In Paris I should produce a great work. No sooner had I conceived this plan, than I took the necessary steps to carry it out. After a month had elapsed I was in a position to pay my farewell visits. An unexpected incident which happened very opportunely served as a convenient pretext with which to cloak my flight. Selma, my whilom Finnish friend, was having her banns published. I was, therefore, so to speak, compelled to seek forgetfulness and healing for my wounded heart in distant countries. Anyhow, it was as good an excuse as any I could think of. My departure was delayed for a few weeks in deference to the entreaties of my friends, who were dreading the equinoctial gales; I had decided to go by steamer to Havre. Furthermore, my sister's wedding was to take place early in October, and this necessitated a further postponement of my project. During this time I received frequent invitations from the Baroness. The cousin had returned to her parents, and the three of us generally spent the evenings together. The Baron, unconsciously influenced by the strong will of his wife, seemed more favourably disposed towards me; moreover, my impending departure had reassured him completely, and he treated me with his former friendliness. One evening the Baroness's mother was entertaining a small circle of intimate friends, when the Baroness, stretched out listlessly on the sofa, suddenly put her head on her mother's lap and loudly confessed her intense admiration for a well-known actor. Did she want to torture me, to see the effect which such a confession would have on me? I don't know. But the old lady, tenderly stroking her daughter's hair, looked at me. "If ever you write a novel," she said, "let me draw your attention to this particular type of passionate womanhood. It's an extraordinary type! She's never happy unless she is in love with some one else beside her husband." "It's quite true what mamma says," agreed the Baroness, "and just at present I'm in love with that man! He's irresistible!" "She's mad," laughed the Baron, wincing, yet anxiously trying to appear unconcerned. Passionate womanhood! The words sank into my heart, for, jesting apart, those words spoken by an old woman, and that old woman her own mother, must have contained more than a grain of truth. [1] Note of the translator: It is customary in Sweden to begin dinner with savoury sandwiches, which are usually placed on a side-table. These sandwiches are intended to excite the appetite of the diners, and are called "appetisers." VI My departure was imminent. On the eve of my leaving I invited the Baron and his wife to a bachelor's dinner in my attic. To hide the meanness of the furniture, my little home was wearing its Sunday clothes, and had the appearance of a sacred temple. My damaged wicker sofa was pushed against the wall between the two window recesses, one of which was filled by my writing-table and the improvised garden, the other by my book-shelves; an imitation tiger-skin was thrown over it, and held in its place by invisible tacks. The left was taken up by my large bed-sofa, with its gaudy tick cover. Above it, on the side wall, hung a vividly-coloured map of the world. On the right-hand side stood my chest of drawers with its swing glass, both in the Empire style and decorated with brass ornaments; a wardrobe with a bust of plaster of Paris and a wash-stand, for the moment banished behind the window curtains, completed the furniture. The walls, with their decorations of framed sketches, made a gay and varied show. A china chandelier, of the shape which is occasionally met with in churches and which I had discovered at an antiquary's, was suspended from the ceiling. The cracks were skilfully concealed by a wreath of artificial ivy which I had found some little time ago at my sister's. Beneath the three-armed chandelier stood the dining-table. A basket filled with Bengal roses, which glowed red among the dark foliage, was placed on the white damask tablecloth, and the roses, reaching up to and mingling with the drooping ivy shoots, gave the whole the effect of a flower show. Round the basket which held the roses stood an array of wine glasses, red, green and opal, which I had bought cheaply, at a sale, for each of them had a flaw. The same thing applied to the dinner service: plates, salt-cellars and sugar-bowl of Chinese, Japanese and Swedish porcelain. I had but a dozen cold dishes to offer to my friends, most of them chosen more with an eye to their decorative value than because they were good to eat, for the meal was to consist principally of oysters. My landlady had good-naturedly lent me the indispensable articles for the banquet, an unprecedented event in my attic.... At last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting: these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a poet, the research of a scientist, the good taste of an artist. The fondness for dainty food, the love of flowers, suggested the love of women. If the table had not been laid for three, one might have guessed at an intimate feast for two, the first delights of a love-adventure, instead of a feast of reconciliation which it actually was. My room had not seen a female visitor since that horrible woman whose boots had left ineradicable traces on the woodwork of my sofa. The looking-glass on the chest of drawers had reflected no female figure since then. And now a woman of blameless life, a mother, a lady of education and refinement, was coming to consecrate this place which had seen so much work, misery and pain. And, I thought in a transport of poetic inspiration, it is indeed a sacred festival, since I am prepared to sacrifice my heart, my peace, perhaps my life, to ensure the happiness of my friends. Everything was ready when I heard footsteps on the fourth floor landing. I hastily lit the candles, for the last time straightened the basket containing the roses, and a moment later my guests, exhausted with having climbed four flights of stairs, stood panting before my door. I opened. The Baroness, dazzled by the lights, clapped her hands as if she were admiring a successful stage setting. "Bravo!" she exclaimed, "you are a first-class stage manager." "Yes," I replied, "I occasionally amuse myself with play-acting, for the sake of discipline and patience." I took off her cloak, bade her be welcome, and made her sit down on the sofa. But she could not keep still. With the curiosity of a woman who has never been in a bachelor's chambers, but has gone straight from her father's house to that of her husband, she began to examine the room. She seized my penholder, handled my blotter, searched about as if she were determined to discover a secret. Strolling to my book-shelves, she glanced curiously at the back of the volumes. In passing the looking-glass she stopped for a few seconds to arrange her hair and push the end of a piece of lace into the opening of her blouse. She examined the furniture, piece by piece, and smelt the flowers, all the time uttering little cries of delight. When she had finished her voyage of discovery round my room, she asked me, naively, without any _arrière-pensée_, seeking with her eyes a piece of furniture which appeared to be missing-- "But where do you sleep?" "On the sofa." "Oh, how jolly a bachelor's life must be!" And the forgotten dreams of her girlhood awoke in her brain. "It's often very dull," I replied. "Dull to be one's own master, have one's own home, be free from all supervision! Oh, what would I not give to be independent! Matrimony is abominable! Isn't it so, darling?" She turned towards the Baron, who had been listening to her good-naturedly. "Yes, it _is_ dull," he agreed, smilingly. Dinner was ready and the banquet began. The first glass of wine made us feel merry, but all of a sudden, remembering the occasion for our unceremonious meeting, a feeling of sadness mingled with our enjoyment. We began to talk of the pleasant days we had spent together. In imagination we again passed through all the little adventures of our excursions. And our eyes shone, our hearts beat more quickly, we shook hands and clinked glasses with one another. The hours passed rapidly, and we realised with growing distress that the moment of parting was approaching. At a sign from his wife the Baron produced an opal ring from his pocket and held it out to me. "Here, my dear old fellow," he said, "take this little keepsake as a token of our gratitude for the friendship which you have shown us. May fate give you your heart's desire! This is my sincerest wish, for I love you as a brother and respect you as a man of honour! A pleasant journey! We will not say 'farewell,' but 'to the day of our next meeting.'" As a man of honour? Had he guessed my motive? Read my conscience? Not at all!... For in well-chosen words, anxious to explain his little speech, he burst out into a string of abuse of poor Selma; he accused her of having broken her word, of having sold herself to a man who ... well, to a man whom she did not love, a man who owed his happiness merely to my extraordinary decency. My extraordinary decency! I felt ashamed, but, carried away by the sincerity of this simple heart, which judged a little too hastily, perhaps, I suddenly felt very unhappy, inconsolably unhappy, and I kept up the lie dressed in the outer semblance of truth. The Baroness, deceived by my clever acting, misled by my assumed indifference, believed me to be in earnest, and with motherly tenderness tried to comfort me. "Have done with her!" she urged; "forget all about her. There are plenty of girls, far better than she is. Don't fret, she's not worth crying for, since she couldn't even wait for you. Besides, I may tell you now--I've heard things about her...." And with a pleasure which she was quite unable to conceal, she proceeded to disgust me still further with my supposed idol. "Just think," she exclaimed, "she practically proposed to an officer of good family, and she made herself out to be ever so much younger than she is ... she's nothing but a common flirt, take my word for it." A disapproving gesture from the Baron made her realise her mistake; she pressed my hand and apologised, looking at me with eyes so wistful and tender that I felt as if I should die of grief. The Baron, slightly intoxicated, made sentimental speeches, took me into his confidence, overwhelmed me with brotherly love, attacked me with endless toasts, which seemed to lose themselves in infinity. His swollen face beamed benevolently. He looked at me with his caressing, melancholy eyes; their glance dissipated every shadow of doubt of the sincerity of his friendship which I might have entertained. Surely he was nothing but a big, good-natured child, of unquestionable integrity; and I made a vow to behave honourably towards him, even if it should kill me. We rose from the table to say good-bye, perhaps for ever. The Baroness burst out sobbing, and hid her face on her husband's shoulder. "I must be mad," she exclaimed, "to be so fond of this dear boy that his going away almost breaks my heart!" And with an outburst of affection, at once pure and impure, interested and disinterested, passionate and full of angelic tenderness, she put her arms round my neck and kissed me in her husband's presence; then she made the sign of the cross over me and turned to go. My old charwoman, who was waiting on the threshold, wiped her eyes, and we all shed tears. It was a solemn moment, never to be forgotten. The sacrifice had been made. * * * * * I went to bed at one o'clock in the morning, but I was unable to sleep; fear of missing the steamer kept me awake. Worn out by the farewell parties which had been following one on the top of the other for a week, my nerves unhinged from too much drinking, stupid from idleness, overwrought by the excitement of the evening, I tossed between the sheets until the day broke. Knowing that my will-power was temporarily enfeebled, and loathing railway journeys, because the shaking and jolting is injurious to the spine, I had elected to travel by steamer; moreover, this would prevent any attempt on my part to draw back. The boat was to start at six o'clock in the morning, and the cab called for me at five. I started on my way alone. It was a windy October morning, foggy and cold. The branches of the trees were covered with hoar frost. When I arrived on the North Bridge, I imagined for a second that I was the victim of an hallucination: there was the Baron, walking in the same direction as my cab. Contrary to our agreement, he had risen early, and had come to see me off. Deeply touched by this unexpected proof of friendship, I felt altogether unworthy of his affection, and full of remorse for ever having thought evil of him. We arrived at the landing-stage. He accompanied me on board, examined my cabin, introduced himself to the captain, and recommended me to his special attention. He behaved like an elder brother, a devoted friend, and we said good-bye to each other, deeply moved. "Take care of yourself, old man," he said. "You are not looking well." I really felt quite ill, but I pulled myself together until the mooring ropes were cast adrift. Then a sudden terror of this long and senseless journey seized me, a frantic desire to throw myself into the water and swim to the shore. But I had not the strength to yield to my impulse, and remained standing on deck, undecided what to do, waving my handkerchief in response to my friend's greeting until he disappeared, blotted out by the vessels which rode at anchor in the roads. The boat was a heavily loaded cargo steamer, with but one cabin on the main deck. I went to my berth, stretched myself on the mattress and pulled the blankets over me, determined to sleep through the first twenty-four hours, so as to prevent any attempt at escape on my part. I must have been unconscious for half-an-hour, when I suddenly started from my sleep as if I had received an electric shock, a very ordinary result of dissipation and sleeplessness. In a second the whole dreary reality had flashed into my mind. I went on deck to exercise my stiff limbs. I watched the barren brown shores receding before my eyes, the trees stripped of their leaves, the yellowish-grey meadows; in the hollows of the rocks snow was already lying. The water looked grey with sepia-coloured spots; the sky was leaden and full of gloom; the dirty deck, the uncouth sailors--everything contributed to deepen my depression. I felt an unspeakable longing for human companionship, but there did not appear to be a single passenger--not one! I climbed on the bridge to look for the captain. I found him a bear of the worst description, absolutely unapproachable. I was a prisoner for ten days, solitary, cast away among people without understanding, without feeling. It was torture. I resumed my walk on deck, up and down, in all directions, as if my restless movements could increase the speed of the boat. My burning brain worked under high pressure; a thousand ideas flashed into my mind in a second; the suppressed memories rose, pushing and chasing each other. A pain like toothache began to torment me, but in my confusion I could neither describe nor locate it. The further the steamer advanced into the open sea, the greater became the strain. I felt as if the bond which bound me to my native country, to my family, to her, was tearing asunder. Deserted by everybody, tossing on the high seas between heaven and earth, I seemed to be losing all foothold, and in my loneliness I felt afraid of everything and everybody. It was, doubtless, a sign of constitutional weakness, for I remembered that as a boy I had cried bitter tears on a pleasure trip, at the sudden thought of my mother; I was twelve years old then, but, bodily, I was developed far in advance of my years. The reason, in my opinion, was that I had been born prematurely, or perhaps even attempts had been made to suppress life before it could properly be said to have come into existence. Such things happen only too frequently in large families. At any rate, I felt sure that this was the cause of the despondency which invariably overcame me when I was about to make a change in my surroundings. Now, in tearing myself away from my familiar environment, I was tormented with dread of the future, the unknown country, the ship's crew. Impressionable, like every prematurely born child, whose exposed nerves are waiting for the still bleeding skin; defenceless like a crab which, having cast its shell, seeks protection underneath the stones, and feels every change of the sinking barometer, I wandered about, trying to find a soul stronger than mine, take hold of a firm hand, feel the warmth of a human presence, look into a friendly eye. Like a squirrel in its cage, I ran round the upper deck, picturing to myself the ten days of suffering which awaited me. I remembered that I had only been on board for an hour! A long hour, more like a day of agony ... and not a glimmer of hope at the end of this accursed journey! I tried to reason with myself, and all the time rebelled against reason. Who compelled me to go? Who had a right to blame me if I returned?... Nobody! And yet!... Shame, the fear of making myself a laughing-stock, honour! No! No! I must abandon all hope. Moreover, the boat would not call anywhere on her way to Havre. Forward then, and courage! But courage depends on strength of body and mind, and at the moment I lacked both. Haunted by my dreary thoughts, I turned towards the lower deck, for by now I knew the upper deck down to its smallest details, and the sight of its rails, rigging and tackling bored me like a book read until one knows it by heart. On my way I almost tumbled over a person seeking shelter from the wind behind the cabin. It was an old lady, dressed in black, with grey hair and a careworn face. She gazed at me attentively, with sympathetic eyes. I walked up to her and spoke to her. She answered me in French, and we soon became acquainted. After the exchange of a few commonplaces, we confided to each other the purpose of our journey. She was not travelling for pleasure. The widow of a timber-merchant, she had been staying with a relative in Stockholm, and was now on her way to visit her insane son, confined in a lunatic asylum at Havre. Her account was so simple and yet so heartrending that it affected me strongly, and probably her story, impressing itself on the cells of my already overwrought brain, led up to what followed. All of a sudden the lady ceased talking, and, gazing at me with a look of dismay, exclaimed, sympathetically-- "Are you ill?" "I?" "Yes, you look ill. You should try and get some sleep." "To tell you the truth, I never closed my eyes last night, and I am over-tired. I've been suffering from sleeplessness for some time, and nothing seems to be able to procure me the much-needed rest." "Let me try. Go to bed at once. I will give you a draught that will send you to sleep standing." She rose, pushed me gently before her, and forced me to go to bed. Then she disappeared for a moment and returned with a small flask, containing a sleeping draught. She gave me a dose in a spoon. "Now you are sure to be able to sleep." I thanked her, and she carefully covered me with the blankets. How well she understood what she was about! She radiated warmth, that warmth which a baby seeks in the arms of its mother. Under the gentle touch of her hands I grew calm, and two minutes later unconsciousness began to steal over me. I seemed to have become an infant again. I saw my mother busying herself round my bed and caring for me. Gradually her fading features mingled and became one with the finely-chiselled face of the Baroness and the sympathetic expression of the compassionate nurse who had just left me. In the care of these women, who hovered round my bed, I faded away like a paling colour, went out like a candle, lost consciousness. When I awoke I did not remember any dream, but a fixed idea haunted me, as if it had been suggested to me during my sleep: I must see the Baroness again, or I shall go out of my mind! Shivering with cold, I sprang from my bed; the salt-laden wind, penetrating through every chink and cranny, had made it damp. When I stepped out of my cabin the sky was pale grey, like iron. On deck the great waves washed the tackling, watered the planks and splashed my face with foam. I looked at my watch and calculated the distance which the steamer must have travelled while I slept. In my opinion we were now in the archipelago of Norrköping; all hope of return was therefore dead. Everything was strange to me, the scattered islands in the bay, the rugged coast, the shape of the cottages dotted along the shore, and the cut of the sails on the fishing-smacks. Amid these unfamiliar surroundings I felt the first pangs of home-sickness. A sullen wrath choked me, I felt a wild despair in finding myself packed on this cargo-boat in spite of myself, in deference to a higher power, in the imperious name of Honour! When my wrath had exhausted itself, my strength had come to an end. Leaning against the rail, I let the waves lash my burning face, while my eyes greedily devoured the coastline, eager to discover a ray of hope. And again and again my mind returned to the idea of swimming to the shore. For a long time I stood gazing at the swiftly-receding outlines of the coast. The wind had dropped, and I grew calmer, rays of a tranquil happiness illuminated my soul; the pressure on my surcharged brain grew less; pictures of beautiful summer days, memories of my first youth came into my mind, although I was at a loss to understand why I should suddenly think of them. The boat was rounding a promontory: the roofs of red houses with white garlands rose above the Scotch firs; a flagstaff became visible, the gay patchwork of the gardens, a bridge, a chapel, a church steeple, a graveyard.... Was it a dream? A delusion? No, it was the quiet seaside place where I had spent many summers in my student days. Up there was the tiny house where I had passed a night, last spring, with her and him, after we had spent the day sailing on the sea and wandering through the woods. It was there--there--on the top of that hill, under the ash-trees, on the balcony, where I had seen her delicate face, illuminated by the sunshine of her golden hair, and crowned by the little Japanese hat with the blue veil, while her small, gloved hand had beckoned me to come to dinner.... She was there now, I could see her plainly, she was waving her handkerchief to me.... I could hear her melodious voice ... but ... what was happening? The boat was slowing down, the engine stopped ... the pilot cutter came to meet us ... in an instant ... a flash of thought--a single, obsessing thought, moved me with electric force--with the spring of a tiger I bounded up the stairs which led to the bridge--I stood before the captain--I shouted-- "Have me put ashore at once--or I shall go mad!" The captain looked at me sharply, scrutinisingly, and without vouchsafing a reply, dismayed as if he had looked into the face of an escaped lunatic, he called to the second officer and said, imperatively-- "Have this gentleman and his luggage put ashore. He is ill." Before five minutes had elapsed, I was on board the pilot cutter; they rowed with such vigour that we landed in a very short time. I possess the remarkable gift of becoming blind and deaf when it suits me. I was walking along the road leading to the hotel without having heard or seen anything hurtful to my vanity; neither a glance from the pilots, betraying that they guessed my secret, nor a disparaging remark from the man who was carrying my luggage. Arrived at the hotel, I asked for a room, ordered an absinthe, lighted a cigar and began to reflect. "Had I gone mad? Was I in such imminent peril of insanity that an immediate landing had been necessary?" In my present state of mind I was incapable of forming an opinion, for a madman, according to the verdict of the doctors, is not conscious of his mental disorder, and the association of his ideas proves nothing against their irregularity. Like a scientist, I examined similar occurrences which had happened to me before. When I was still a boy at college, my nervous excitability, exaggerated by exasperating events, passion, the suicide of a friend, distrust of the future, had been increased to such an extent that everything filled me with apprehension, even in broad daylight. I was afraid to stay in a room by myself; I was haunted by my own spectre, and my friends took it in turns to spend the night with me, while the candles burned and the fire crackled in the stove. Another time, in an attack of wild despair, following on all sorts of misfortunes, I ran across country, wandered through the woods, and at last climbed to the top of a pine tree. There I sat astride on a branch and made a speech to the Scotch firs which spread out their branches below me, endeavouring to drown their voices, imagining that I was a speaker addressing an assembled crowd. It was not so very far from here, on an island where I had spent many summers, and the headland of which was plainly visible from where I stood. Remembering that incident, with all its ridiculous details, I could not help admitting to myself that, at any rate at times, I was subject to mental delusions. What was I to do now? Should I communicate with my friends before the rumour of my attack had reached the town? But the disgrace and shame of having to acknowledge that henceforth I was on a level with the irresponsible! The thought was unbearable. Lie, then! Double without being able to throw the pursuers off the scent. It went against the grain. Tormented by doubts, hesitating between different plans of escape from this maze, I longed to run away in order to be spared the terrible questions which awaited me. Like a wild beast which feels the approach of death, I thought of hiding myself in the wood to die. With that idea in my mind, I went slowly through the narrow streets. I climbed over huge rocks, saturated and rendered slippery by the autumnal rains, crossed a stubble field, reached the little house where I once had lived. The shutters were tightly closed; the wild vine which covered the walls up to the roof was stripped of its leaves, and the green lattice-work was plainly visible. As I stood again upon that sacred spot, sacred to my heart because it had seen the first blossoming of our friendship, the sense of my loss, which for a time had been forced into the background, reasserted itself. Leaning against one of the supports of the wooden balcony, I wept like a forsaken child. I remembered having read in the _Thousand and One Nights_ that lovers fall ill with unsatisfied longing, and that their cure depends entirely on the possession of the beloved one. Snatches of Swedish folk-songs came into my mind, about young maidens who, in despair of ever being united to the object of their affections, waste away, and bid their mothers prepare their deathbeds for them. I thought of Heine, the old sceptic, who sings of the tribe of the Asra, "who die when they love." There could have been no doubt of the genuineness of my passion, for I had gone back to childhood, obsessed by one thought, one picture, one single, overpowering sensation, prostrating me and rendering me unable to do anything but sigh. To distract my thoughts, I let my eyes travel over the glorious landscape spread out at my feet. The thousands of islands bristling with Scotch firs, with here and there a pine tree, which seemed to swim in the enormous bay, gradually decreased in size and transformed themselves into reefs, cliffs and sandbanks, until the huge archipelago terminated at the grey-green line of the Baltic, where the breakers dashed against the steep bulwarks of the remotest cliffs. The shadows of the drifting clouds fell in coloured strips on the surface of the water, passing from dark brown through all the shades of bottle-green and Prussian blue to the snowy white of the crested waves. Behind a fortress, situated on a steep cliff, rose a column of black smoke, ascending without a break from an invisible chimney, to be blown down again by the wind on to the foaming waves. All of a sudden the dark hull of the cargo-boat which I had just left came into view. The sight wrung my heart, for the steamer seemed like a witness of my disgrace. Like a shying horse, I bolted and fled into the wood. Underneath the pointed arches of the Scotch firs, through the needles of which the wind whistled, my anguish increased. Here we had been walking together when the spring sunshine lay on the tender green, when the Scotch firs put forth their purple blossoms, which exhale a perfume like that of the wild strawberry; when the juniper scattered its yellow pollen into the wind; when the anemones pushed their white heads through the dead leaves under the hazel bushes. Her little feet had pressed the soft, brown moss, spread out like a rug, while with a silvery voice she had sung her Finnish songs. Guided by the clear light of remembrance, I found again the two gigantic trees, grown together in an unending embrace; the two trunks were bending to the violent gusts of the wind, and rubbed against each other with a grating noise. From here she had taken a little footpath to gather a water-lily which grew in a swamp. With the zeal of a setter I tried to discover the trace of her pretty foot, the imprint of which, however light, I felt sure I could not miss. With bent shoulders and eyes glued to the ground, I searched the path without finding anything. The ground was covered with the foot-prints of the deer, and I might just as well have tried to follow the trail of a wood nymph, than discover the spot which the dainty shoe of the adored woman had trod. Nothing but mud-holes, refuse, fungi, toadstools, puff-balls, decaying and decayed, and the broken stalks of flowers. Arrived at the edge of the swamp, which was filled with black water, I found a certain fleeting comfort in the thought that it had once reflected the sweetest face in all the world. In vain I looked for the spot where the water lilies grew; it was covered up by dead leaves, blown down by the wind from the birch trees. I retraced my footsteps and plunged into the heart of the forest; the soughing of the wind in the branches deepened with the growing size of the trees. In the very depth of despair I sobbed aloud, the tears raining down my cheeks; like a wild stag I trampled on the fungi and toadstools, tore up the young plants, dashed myself against the trees. What did I want? I didn't know myself. My pulses throbbed, an inexpressible longing to see her again came over me. She, whom I loved too deeply for desire, had taken possession of my soul. And now that everything was at an end, I longed to die, for life without her was impossible. But, with the cunning of a madman, I decided to get some satisfaction out of my death by contracting pneumonia, or a similar fatal disease; for in that case, I argued, I should have to be in bed for some time; I could see her again and could kiss her hand in saying good-bye for ever. Comforted by this sudden thought, I turned my steps towards the coast; it was not difficult to find it, I had but to be guided by the roar of the breakers, which led me across the wood. The coast was precipitous and the water deep, everything as it should be. With careful attention, which betrayed nothing of my sinister purpose, I undressed myself; I hid my clothes in a plantation of alder trees and pushed my watch into a hole in the rock. The wind was cold; at this time of the year, in October, the temperature of the water could be but a few degrees above freezing-point. I took a run over the rocks and threw myself headlong into the water, aiming at a cleft between two gigantic waves. I felt as if I had fallen into red-hot lava. But I rose quickly to the surface, dragging up with me pieces of seaweed which I had glimpsed at the bottom, and the tiny vesicles of which were scratching my legs. I swam out into the open sea, breasting the huge waves, greeted by the laughter of the sea gulls and the cawing of the crows. When my strength began to fail, I turned and swam back to the cliff. Now the moment of greatest importance had arrived. According to all instructions given to bathers, the real danger consists in remaining too long out of the water in a state of nudity. I sat down on the rock which was most fully exposed to the wind, and allowed the October gale to lash my bare back. My muscles, my chest immediately contracted, as if the instinct of self-preservation would protect the vital organs at any price. But I was unable to remain on the same spot, and, seizing the branch of an alder tree, I climbed to its top. The tree swayed with the convulsive, uncontrollable movements of my muscles. In this way I succeeded in remaining in the same place for some time. The icy air scorched my skin like a red-hot iron. At last I was convinced that I had attained my end, and hastily dressed myself. In the meantime night had fallen. When I re-entered the wood it was quite dark. Terror seized me; I knocked my head against the lower branches of the trees, and was obliged to feel my way along. Suddenly, under the influence of my frantic fear, my senses became so acute that I could tell the variety of the trees which surrounded me by the rustling of their branches. What depth there was in the bass of the Scotch firs, with their firm and closely-set needles, forming, as it were, gigantic guitars; the tall and more pliable stems of the pines gave a higher note; their sibilant fife resembled the hissing of a thousand snakes; the dry rustling of the branches of the birch trees recalled to me memories of my childhood, with its mingled griefs and pleasures; the rustling of the dead leaves clinging to the branches of the oaks sounded like the rustling of paper; the muttering of the junipers was almost like the whispering voices of women, telling each other secrets. The gale tore off the branch of an alder tree, and it crashed to the ground with a hollow thud. I could have distinguished a pine cone from the cone of a Scotch fir by the sound it made in falling; my sense of smell detected the proximity of a mushroom, and the nerves of my large toe seemed to feel whether it trod on soil, clubmoss or maidenhair. Guided by the acuteness of my sensations, I came to the enclosure of the graveyard, and walked up the wooden steps. I felt a momentary pleasure in the sound of the weeping willow lashing the tombstones which they overhung. At last, stiff with cold, shaking at every unexpected noise, I reached the village and walked past the houses, which shone feebly in the dark, to the hotel. As soon as I had arrived in my room I sent off a telegram to the Baron, informing him of my sudden illness and enforced landing. Then I drew up for him a full statement of my mental condition, mentioning my former attacks, and asking him to keep the matter quiet. I gave him to understand that my illness was caused by the conduct of my unfaithful love, whose publicly announced engagement had robbed me of all hope. I went to bed exhausted, certain of having contracted a fatal fever. Then I rang for the servant and asked her to send for a doctor. On her reply that no doctor was available, I begged her to send for a clergyman, so that I could make my last wishes known to him. And from that moment I was prepared to die or go out of my mind. The clergyman appeared almost immediately. He was a man about thirty, and looked like a farm laborer in Sunday clothes. Red-haired and freckled, with a half-vacant look in his eyes, he did not inspire me with sympathy; for a long time I could find no words, for I did not know what to say to this man, who possessed neither education, the wisdom of age, nor a knowledge of the human heart. He remained standing in the centre of the room, self-conscious, like a provincial in the presence of the inhabitant of a large city, until I motioned him to take a chair. Then he began his cross-examination. "You have sent for me, sir? You are in trouble?" "Yes." "There is no happiness but in Jesus." Although I was hankering after quite another sort of happiness, I did not contradict him, and the evangelist rambled on, uninterruptedly, monotonously, verbosely. The old tenets of the catechism lulled me gently to sleep, and the presence of a human being entering into spiritual relationship with my soul gave me new strength. But the preacher, suddenly doubting my sincerity, interrupted his discourse with a question-- "Do you hold the true faith?" "No," I replied, "but go on speaking, your words are doing me good...." And he returned to his work. The monotonous sound of his voice, the radiations from his eyes, the warmth which emanated from his body, affected me like a magnetic fluid. In half-an-hour's time I was fast asleep. When I awoke, the mesmerist had gone; the servant brought me a sleeping-draught, with strict injunctions from the chemist to be careful, as the bottle contained sufficient poison to kill a man. Needless to say, as soon as she had turned her back, I drank the whole contents of the flask at a gulp. Then, firmly determined to die, I buried myself under the blankets, and sleep was not long in coming. When I opened my eyes on the following morning I was not in the least surprised to find my room flooded by the rays of a brilliant sun, for my sleep had been visited by bright and rosy dreams. "I dream, therefore I exist," I said to myself. I felt my body all over, so as to discern the height of the fever, or the presence of any signs of pneumonia. But, in spite of my firm resolution to bring about a crisis, my condition was fairly normal. My brain, although a little stupefied, functioned easily, no longer under the high pressure of the previous day, and twelve hours' sleep had fully restored the vigor which, thanks to bodily exercises of all descriptions, practised since my early youth, I usually enjoyed. ... A telegram was handed me. My friends were informing me that they would arrive by the two o'clock boat. I was overwhelmed with shame. What was I to say? What attitude was I to adopt?... I reflected.... My reawakened manhood rebelled against humiliating resolutions; after a hasty review of the circumstances, I decided to remain at the hotel until I had completely recovered, and continue my journey by the next steamer. In this way honour would be saved, and the visit from my friends would be but one more leave-taking--the very last. When I remembered what had occurred on the previous day, I hated myself. That I, the strong-minded, the sceptic, should have committed such absurdities! And that clergyman's visit! How was I to explain that? It was true, I had only sent for him in his official capacity, and, as far as I was concerned, he had but acted as a hypnotist! But to outsiders it was bound to look like a conversion. Monstrous confessions would very likely be hinted at, a criminal's last avowal of his crime on his deathbed. What a pretty topic for the villagers who stood in close communication with the town! What a treat for the porters! A trip abroad, undertaken at once, was the only way out of this unbearable situation. Like a castaway, I spent the morning in walking up and down before the verandah, watching the barometer, studying the time-tables. Time passed fairly rapidly. The steamer appeared at the mouth of the estuary before I had made up my mind whether to walk to the landing-stage or remain at the hotel. As I had no desire to be stared at by an inquisitive crowd, I at last went to my room. A few minutes later I heard the voice of the Baroness: she was making inquiries of the landlady about my health. I went out to meet her, and she almost kissed me before the eyes of all the by-standers. With a heart full to overflowing, she deplored my illness, which she regarded as the result of overwork, and advised me to return to town, and put off my journey until the spring. She was beautiful to-day. In her closely-fitting fur coat, with its long and supple hairs, she looked like a llama. The sea-breezes had brought the blood to her cheeks, and in her eyes, magnified by the excitement of her visit, I could read an expression of infinite tenderness. In vain I begged her not to alarm herself on my account, and assured her that I had almost fully recovered. She found that I looked like a corpse, declared me unfit for work, and treated me like a child. And how sweetly she played the part of a mother! The tone of her voice was a caress; she playfully used terms of endearment; she wrapped her shawl around me; at table she spread my dinner-napkin over my knees, poured out some wine for me, looked after me in every way. I wondered why she did not thus devote herself to her child rather than to the man who was all the time striving to hide his passion, which threatened to defy all control. In this disguise of the sick child, it seemed to me that I was like the wolf who, after having devoured the grandmother, lies down on her bed waiting for Little Red Riding-hood, that he may devour her also. I blushed before this unsophisticated and sincere husband, who overwhelmed me with kindness, asked for no explanations. And yet I was not at fault. I obstinately hardened my heart, and received all the attentions which the Baroness showered on me with an almost insulting indifference. At dessert, when the time for the return journey had come, the Baron proposed that I should return with them. He offered me a room in his house which, he said, was waiting to receive me. I am glad to say that my answer was a decided refusal. Terrified at this dangerous playing with fire, I was firm in my decision. I would stay here for a week to recover entirely, and then return to town to my old attic. In spite of all their objections, I persisted. Strange; as soon as I pulled myself together and made a determined stand, the Baroness became almost hostile to me. The more I vacillated and humored her whims, the fonder she seemed of me, the more she praised my wisdom, my amiability. She swayed and bewildered me, but as soon as I opposed her seriously, she turned her back on me and treated me with dislike, almost with rudeness. While we were discussing the Baron's proposal to live under one roof, she drew a glowing picture of such an arrangement, dwelling on the pleasantness of being able to see one another at any time without a previous invitation. "But, my dear Baroness," I objected, "what would people say if you were to receive a bachelor into your young _ménage_?" "What does it matter what people say?" "But your mother, your aunt? Moreover, my man's pride rebels against a measure which is only permissible in the case of a minor." "Bother your man's pride! Do you think it manly to perish without opening your lips?" "Yes, it behooves a man to be strong." She grew angry, and refused to admit that a man's case differed from that of a woman. Her woman's logic confused my brain. I turned to the Baron, whose answering smile showed plainly what a small opinion he had of female brain-power. About six o'clock the steamer weighed anchor and bore my friends away. I returned to the hotel alone. It was a splendid evening. The sun had set in an orange-coloured sky, white stripes were lying on the deep blue water, a coppery moon was rising behind the Scotch firs. I was sitting at a table in the dining-room, lost in thought, now mournful, now serene, and did not notice the landlady until she stood close by me. "The lady who's just left is your sister, isn't she?" she asked. "Not at all." "Isn't she? How strangely you resemble one another! I should have sworn that you are brother and sister." I was not in the mood to continue such a conversation, but it left me in a ferment of thoughts. Had my constant intercourse with the Baroness affected the expression of her features? Or had the expression of her face influenced mine during this six months' union of our souls? Had the instinctive desire to please one another at any price been the cause of an unconscious selection of gestures and expressions, suppressing the less pleasing in favour of the more seductive? It was not at all unthinkable that a blending of our souls had taken place, and that we no longer belonged to ourselves. Destiny, or rather instinct, had played its fateful, inevitable part; the ball had been set rolling, overthrowing and destroying everything that barred its way: honour, reason, happiness, loyalty, wisdom, virtue! ... And this guilelessness to propose to receive under her roof an ardent young man, a man of the age when the passions are so strong that control is often almost impossible! Was she vicious, or had love obscured her reason? Vicious! No, a thousand times no! I appreciated her candid ways, her gaiety, her sincerity, her motherly tenderness. That she was eccentric, that her mind was badly balanced, she had herself acknowledged in speaking of her faults--but vicious? No! Even the little tricks which she occasionally resorted to in order to cheer me up were much more the tricks of a mature woman who amuses herself by teasing and bewildering a timid youth, and then laughs at his confusion, than those of a coquette whose object it is to excite a man's passions. But I must exorcise the demon, and continue to mislead my friends. I sat down at the writing-table and wrote a letter on the hackneyed subject of my unhappy love affair. I added two impassioned poems entitled "To Her"--poems which could be understood in two ways. It was open to the Baroness to be annoyed. Letter and poems remained unanswered; perhaps the trick had grown threadbare, perhaps the subject was no longer found interesting. The calm and tranquil days which followed hastened my recovery. The surrounding landscape seemed to have adopted the favourite colours of the adored woman. The wood, in which I had spent hours of purgatory, now smiled on me. Never in my morning rambles did I find as much as the shadow even of a painful memory lurking in its deep recesses, where I had fought with all the demons of the human heart. Her visit, and the certainty that I should see her again, had given me back life and reason. VII Knowing from experience that nobody who returns unexpectedly is quite welcome, it was not without a feeling of constraint, not without misgivings, that I called on the Baroness as soon as I was back in town. In the front garden everything proclaimed the winter; the trees were bare, the garden seats had been removed; there were gaps in the fence where the gates had been; the wind was playing with the withered leaves on the paths; the cellar holes were stuffed with straw. I found it difficult to breathe in the close atmosphere of the drawing-room, heated by a tiled stove. Fixed to the walls, the stoves had the appearance of sheets suspended from the ceiling, large and white. The double-windows hung in their hinges, every chink was pasted over with paper; the space between the inner and outer windows was filled with snow-white cotton wool, giving the large room the appearance of a death-chamber. In imagination I endeavoured to strip it of its semi-fashionable furniture, and recall its former aspect of rough homeliness. In those days the walls had been bare, the floor plain deal; the memory of the black dinings table, which could boast of no cover and with its eight legs resembled a huge spider, called up the severe faces of my father and stepmother. The Baroness received me cordially, but her melancholy face betrayed grief. Both uncle and father-in-law were there, playing cards with the Baron in an adjoining room. I shook hands with the players, and then returned with the Baroness into the drawing-room. She sat down in an arm-chair underneath the lamp and took up some crochet work. Taciturn, morose, not at all pretty, she left the conversation entirely to me, and since she made no replies, it soon degenerated into a monologue. I watched her from my chimney comer as she sat with drooping head, bending over her work. Profoundly mysterious, lost in thought, she seemed at times oblivious of my presence. I wondered whether I had called at an inconvenient time, or whether my return to town had really created the unfavourable impression which I had half anticipated. All at once my eyes, travelling round the room, were arrested by a display of her ankles underneath the tablecloth. I beheld her finely-shaped calf, clothed in a white stocking; a gaily embroidered garter belted that charming muscle which turns a man's brain because it stimulates his imagination and tempts him to the construction of the whole of the remaining form. Her arched foot with its high instep was dressed in a Cinderella's slipper. At the time I took it for an accident, but later on I learned that a woman is always conscious of being looked at when she exhibits more than her ankles. Fascinated by the sight I changed the conversation, and aptly turned it on the subject of my supposed love affair. She drew herself up, turned towards me, and glanced at me sharply. "You can at least pride yourself on being a faithful lover!" My eyes remained riveted on the spot underneath the tablecloth, where the snowy stocking shone below the cherry-coloured ribbon. With an effort I pulled myself together; we looked at each other; her pupils shone large in the lamplight. "Unfortunately I can!" I replied dryly. The sound of the falling cards and the exclamations of the players accompanied this brief passage of arms. A painful silence ensued. She resumed her crochet work, and with a quick movement allowed the skirts to drop over her ankles. The spell was broken. My eyes were gazing at a listless woman, badly dressed. Before another quarter of an hour had gone by I took my leave, pretending that I did not feel well. As soon as I arrived in my attic I brought out my play, which I had resolved to re-write. Hard work would help me to get over this hopeless love, otherwise bound to end in a crime from which inclination, instinct, cowardice and education made me shrink. And once more I decided to break off these fatal relations. An unexpected incident came to my assistance: two days later the cataloguing of a library, belonging to a collector who lived at some distance from the town, was offered to me. And thus I came to pitch my tent in a spacious room, lined with books up to the ceiling, of an old manor house dating from the seventeenth century. Sitting there, I could let my imagination travel through all the epochs of my country's history. The whole Swedish literature was represented, from the old prints of the fifteenth century to the latest publications. I gave myself up to my work, eager to find forgetfulness--and I succeeded. A week had elapsed and I had never once missed my friends. On Saturday, the day on which the Baroness generally was "at home," an orderly brought me an invitation from the Baron, full of friendly rebuke for having kept away from them so long. I was half-pleased, half-sorry to find myself able to send an amiable refusal in reply, regretting that my time was no longer my own. When a second week had gone by another orderly, in full dress, brought me another communication; this time it came from the Baroness. It was a rather curt request to call and see her husband, who, she said, was laid up with a cold. She begged me to let them have news of me. It was impossible to make further excuses, and so I went. The Baroness did not look well, and the slightly indisposed Baron seemed bored. He was in bed, and I was asked to go and see him. The sight of this Holy of Holies, which I had been spared up to now, excited my instinctive repugnance; this sharing of a common room by a married couple, this perpetual presence of a witness on the thousand occasions which demand privacy, revolted me. The large bed which the Baron occupied, brazenly proclaimed the intimacy of their union; the heap of pillows, piled up by the side of the sick man, boldly marked the wife's place. The dressing-table, the wash-stands, the towels, everything struck me as being unclean, and I had to make myself blind to overcome my disgust. After a few words at the foot end of the bed, the Baroness invited me to take a glass of liqueur in the drawing-room, and, as if she had divined them, she gave expression to my thoughts as soon as we were alone. In short, disjointed sentences she poured out her heart to me. "Isn't it wretched?" "What?" "You know what I mean.... A woman's existence: without an object in life, without a future, without occupation. It's killing me!" "But your child, Baroness! It will soon be time to begin her education.... And she may have brothers and sisters...." "I will have no more children! Am I in the world for the sole purpose of being a nurse?" "Not a nurse, but a mother in the highest meaning of the word, equal to her task." "Mother or housekeeper! Thank you! One can hire a housekeeper! It's easier. And then? How am I to occupy myself? I have two maids, excellent substitutes. No! I want to live...." "Go on the stage?" "Yes!" "But that's out of the question!" "I know that only too well! And it irritates me, makes me stupid ... kills me!" "What about a literary career? It's not in such bad repute as the stage!" "The dramatic art is, in my opinion, the highest of all arts. Come what may, I shall never cease to regret the fact that I have missed my vocation. And what have I got in exchange?... A disappointment!" The Baron called to us, and we returned to his bedside. "What was she talking about?" he asked me. "We were talking about the theatre," I replied. "She's crazy!" "Not as crazy as you think," retorted the Baroness, and left the room, slamming the door. "She doesn't sleep at night," began the husband, growing confidential. "No?" "She plays the piano, she lies on the sofa, or, rather, she chooses the hours of the night to do her accounts. For heaven's sake, my dear young sage, tell me what I'm to do to put an end to this madness!" "Perhaps if she had a large family?" I ventured. He pulled a face, then he tried to look unconcerned. "She was very ill after her first baby was born ... and the doctor has warned her ... and moreover, children cost so much.... You understand?" I understood, and I took care not to refer again to the subject. I was too young at the time to know that it is the patient who orders the doctor what to prescribe for her. Presently the Baroness returned with her little girl, and began to put her to bed in her small iron cot. But the little one refused to be undressed, and began to scream. After a few futile attempts to calm her, her mother threatened her with the rod. I cannot bear to see a child being punished without losing my temper. I remembered on one such occasion raising my hand against my own father. I allowed my anger to get the better of me, and interfered. "Allow me," I said ... "but do you think that a child cries without a reason?" "She's naughty." "Then there's some cause for it. Perhaps she's sleepy, and our presence and the lamplight irritate her." She agreed, taken aback, and, perhaps, conscious that her shrewish conduct had produced an unfavourable impression on me. This glimpse of her home life cured me for some weeks of my love, and I must confess that the scene with the rod had contributed more than anything else to my disillusion. The autumn dragged on monotonously and Christmas drew near. The arrival of a newly-married couple from Finland, friends of the Baroness, brought a little more life in our relationship, which had lost much of its charm. Thanks to the Baroness, I received numerous invitations, and presented myself in evening dress at suppers, dinners and occasionally even at a dance. While moving in this, her world, which in my opinion lacked dignity, I could not help noticing that the Baroness, under cover of an exaggerated candour, paid a great deal of attention to the young men, watching me furtively all the while, however, to see the effect of her conduct on me. Irritated and disgusted by her brazen flirtations, which I considered bad form, I responded by a callouse indifference. It hurt me that the woman whom I adored should behave like a vulgar coquette. She always seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, and prolonged the parties till the small hours of the morning; I became the more and more convinced that she was discontented and bored with her home life; that her longing for an artistic career was dictated by a petty vanity, a desire to be seen and enjoy herself. Vivacious, full of exuberant spirits, of a restless disposition, she possessed the art to shine; she was always the centre of a crowd, more in consequence of a certain gift to attract people than because of her natural charms. Her great vitality, her nervous excitability, compelled the most refractory to listen to her, to pay homage to her. And I also noticed that as soon as her nervous force was exhausted, the spell was broken, and she was left sitting alone and unnoticed in a quiet corner. Ambitious, yearning for power, perhaps heartless, she took care that the men paid her every attention; the society of women had no attraction for her. Doubtless, she had made up her mind to see me at her feet, doting, vanquished, sighing. One day, after an evening of triumph, she told one of her friends that I was head over ears in love with her. When I called at her friend's house a short time afterwards, I stupidly remarked that I had hoped to meet the Baroness. "Oh, indeed!" laughed the lady of the house, "you haven't come to see me then! How unkind of you!" "Well, I haven't. To tell you the truth, I'm here by appointment." "A tryst, then!" "You may call it so, if you like! Anyhow, you'll give me credit for having put in a prompt appearance!" The meeting had indeed been arranged by the Baroness. I had but carried out her instructions in calling. She had given me away to save her own skin. I paid her out by spoiling a number of parties for her, for my absence robbed her of the enjoyment which she drew from the contemplation of my sufferings. But I had to pay a heavy penalty! Watching the houses to which I knew her to be invited, I plunged the dagger into my heart, trembling with jealous rage whenever I saw her, in the arms of a partner, gliding past the windows in her blue silk dress, with her sunny curls rising and falling in the quick movements of the dance, with her charming figure, on the tiniest feet in the world. VIII We had navigated the cape of the New Year and spring was approaching. We had spent the winter in gay festivities, in intimate companionship, the three of us. But it had all been very dreary: we had quarrelled and become reconciled, fought battles and made armistices, teased one another and become the best of friends again. I had stayed away and had come back. Now March was near, a fateful month in the countries of the north, because passion becomes all-powerful and the destinies of lovers are fulfilled: vows are broken, the ties of honour, of family, of friendship are set side. The Baron was on duty early in the month, and invited me to spend a day with him at the guard-house. I accepted his invitation. A son of the people, a descendant of the middle-classes, cannot but be impressed by the insignia of the highest power in the land. At the side of my friend I walked along the passage, continually saluted by passing officers; I listened to the rattling of the swords; the "Who goes there?" of the sentinels, the beating of the drums. We arrived at the guard-room. The military decorations of the room stirred my imagination; the portraits of the great generals filled me with reverence; the colours taken at Lützen and Leipzic, the new flags, the bust of the reigning king, the helmets, the resplendent breast-pieces, the plans of battles, all these roused in me that feeling of uneasiness which the lower classes feel in contemplating the symbols of the ruling powers. And in his impressive surroundings the personality of the captain became more imposing; I kept close to his side in case any unpleasantness should arise. As we entered a lieutenant rose and saluted, standing, and I, too, felt myself the superior of these lieutenants, the sworn foes of the sons of the people, and the authors' rivals in the favour of the ladies. A soldier brought us a bowl of punch, and we lighted our cigars. The Baron, anxious to amuse me, showed me the Golden Book of the regiment, an artistic collection of sketches, water paintings and drawings, all of them representing distinguished officers, who had during the last twenty years belonged to the Royal Guards; portraits of the men who had been the envy and admiration of my school friends, whom they had aped in their boyish games. It tickled my middle-class instincts to see all those favourites of fortune caricatured in this book, and counting on the applause of the democratic Baron, I indulged in little sallies at the expense of those disarmed rivals. But the boundary-line of the Baron's democratic sympathies differed from mine, and he resented my sallies; the spirit of caste prevailed: he turned the leaves more quickly, and did not stop until he came to a large drawing representing the insurrection of 1868. "Look at this!" he said, with a sarcastic smile, "how we charged into that mob!" "Did you take part in it?" "Didn't I! I was on duty that day, and my orders were to protect the stand opposite the monument which the mob was attacking. A stone hit my helmet. I was Serving out the cartridges, when a royal messenger on horseback arrived and stopped my little band from firing. But I remained proof-butt and target for the stones thrown by the crowd. That's all I ever got for my democratic sympathies." And after a pause he continued, still laughing and trying to catch my eye-- "You remember the occasion?" "Perfectly," I said; "I was walking in the procession of the students." But I did not mention the fact that I was one of that special mob on which he had been so anxious to fire. My sense of justice had been outraged because that particular stand had been reserved for a favoured few and denied to the people on a public festival. I had been on the side of the attacking party, and had not forgotten the stones which I had flung at the soldiers. The moment I heard him pronounce the word "mob" with aristocratic disdain, I remembered and understood my feeling of discomfort in entering the enemy's fortress, and the sudden change which had come over my friend's features at my sarcasms depressed me. The hatred of race, the hatred of caste, tradition, rose between us like an insurmountable barrier, and as I regarded him sitting there, the sword between his knees--a sword of honour, the hilt of which was ornamented with the name and crown of the royal giver--I felt strongly that our friendship was but an artificial one, the work of a woman, who constituted the only link between us. The haughty tone of his voice, the expression of his face, seemed more and more in harmony with his surroundings and took him further and further away from me. To bridge over the gulf which separated us, I changed the conversation and inquired after his wife and little daughter. Instantly his brow cleared, his features relaxed and resumed their normal expression of good-nature. Seeing him look at me with the benevolent eyes of the ogre caressing Tom Thumb, I made bold to pull three hairs out of the ogre's beard. "Cousin Matilda is expected at Easter, isn't she?" I asked. "She is." "I shall make love to her." He emptied his glass. "You can try," he sneered, with a murderous scowl. "Try? Is it possible that her affections are otherwise engaged?" "Not ... that I know of! But ... I think I may say that.... Well, you can try!" And with a tone of deepest conviction-- "You may be sure to get your money's worth!" This sneering remark was an insult, and roused my desire to defy him. If I made love to that other woman, it might not only save me from my criminal passion, but it would also give satisfaction to the Baroness, whose legitimate feelings had been outraged. It had grown dark. I rose to go home. The captain accompanied me past the sentinels. We shook hands at the barrier gate, which he slammed after me as if he wanted to challenge me. * * * * * Spring had come. The snow had melted, the streets were free from ice. Half-starved children were selling little bunches of liverwort in the streets. The windows of the flower-shops glowed with azaleas, rhododendron and other early blossoms; golden oranges gleamed in the greengrocers' shops; lobsters, radishes and cauliflower appeared on the costers' barrows. Under the North Bridge the waves reflected the rays of the sun. On the quays the steamers were being newly rigged and painted in sea-green and scarlet. The men who had grown weak in the winter darkness, recovered in the sunlight. Woe to the weakling when love gives free play to the long-restrained passions! The pretty little she-devil had arrived, and was staying with the Baroness. I paid her a great deal of attention. She had apparently been informed of my designs, and consequently she amused herself with me. We had been playing a duet, and she was leaning against my left arm with her right shoulder. The Baroness noticed it and winced. The Baron glared at me with jealous rage. At one moment he was jealous of his wife, at the next he accused me of flirting with the cousin. Whenever he left his wife, to whisper in a corner to Matilda, and I started a conversation with the Baroness, he lost his temper and interrupted our conversation with an irrelevant question. I answered him with a sarcastic smile, and sometimes I took no notice whatever of him. One evening we were all having supper in the strictest family circle. The mother of the Baroness was present. She had grown fond of me, and with the prevision frequently met with in old women, suspected that something was going on behind the scenes. Following an impulse of motherly love, dreading some unknown danger, she seized my hands, and holding me with her eyes said gravely-- "I'm sure that you're a man of honour. I don't know what's going on in this house. But promise me that you will watch over my daughter, my only child, and if ever anything should happen ... which must not happen, promise that you will come to me and tell me everything." "I promise," I answered, and kissed her hand in the Russian fashion, for she had been married to a Russian for many years and had been left a widow not very long ago. And I shall keep my promise! We were dancing on the edge of a crater. The Baroness had grown pale, emaciated, plain. The Baron was jealous, rude and insolent. If I stayed away for a day or two, he sent for me; received me with open arms and tried to explain everything by a misunderstanding, while in reality we understood each other only too well. The Lord knows what was going on in this house! One evening the charming Matilda had retired into her bedroom to try on a ball dress. The Baron quietly disappeared soon after, leaving me alone with his wife. After half-an-hour had gone by, I asked what had become of her husband? "He's playing lady's maid to Matilda," she replied. I understood. Presently, evidently regretting her words, she added-- "There's no harm in it; they're relations. One shouldn't be too ready to think evil!" Then she changed her tone. "Are you jealous?" "Are you?" "Perhaps I shall be by and by." "God grant that you will be soon! It's the wish of a true friend." The Baron returned, and with him the girl, dressed in a pale green evening dress, cut very low. I pretended to be dazzled by her appearance, and screening my eyes with both my hands, exclaimed-- "Don't you know that it's dangerous to look at you?" "Isn't she lovely?" asked the Baroness in a strange voice. After a short time the couple withdrew, and for the second time we were left by ourselves. "Why are you so unkind to me these days?" she asked, with tears in her voice, gazing at me wistfully, with the eyes of an ill-treated dog. "I?... I had no idea that...." "You've changed towards me; I wonder why.... If I'm to blame in any way...." She pushed her chair closer to mine, looked at me with luminous eyes, trembled and ... I jumped up. "The Baron's absence is really extraordinary, don't you think so? This confidence on his part is insulting!" "What d'you mean?" "It's not right of him to leave his wife alone with a young man and shut himself up with a girl.... "You're right, it's an insult to me.... But your manners!..." "Never mind my manners! It's hateful! I shall despise you if you won't be more jealous of your dignity.... What are those two doing?" "He's interested in Matilda's ball dress!" she answered, with an innocent face and a fleeting smile. "What do you want me to do?" "A man doesn't assist a woman at her toilet unless there are certain relations between them." "She is a child, he says, and looks upon him as a father." "I should never allow any children to play 'papa and mamma,' much less grown-up people." The Baroness rose, went out of the room and returned with her husband. We spent the rest of the evening in making experiments with animal magnetism. I made a few passes over her forehead, and she acknowledged that it calmed her nerves. But all of a sudden, just as she was going into a trance, she shook herself, started to her feet, and looked at me with troubled eyes. "Let me go!" she exclaimed; "I won't! You are bewitching me!" "It's your turn now to try your magnetic powers," I said, and I submitted to the same treatment to which I had subjected her. I sat with half-closed eyes; there was deep silence on the other side of the piano; my glances strayed to the legs and the lyre-shaped pedal of the instrument and ... I thought I must be dreaming, and sprang up from my chair. At the same moment the Baron appeared from behind the piano and offered me a glass of punch. The four of us raised our glasses. The Baron looked at his wife-- "Drink to your reconciliation with Matilda," he pleaded. "Your health, little witch!" exclaimed the Baroness with a smile, and turning to me she added-- "I must tell you we quarrelled about you!" For a moment I did not know how to reply. Then I asked her to explain her words. "No, no! no explanation!" answered a chorus of voices. "That's a pity," I replied; "in my opinion we've been playing 'hide-and-seek' far too long." The rest of the evening passed amid general constraint. "Well, I don't care!" I muttered on my way home, searching my conscience. What was the meaning of all this? Was it nothing but the innocent whim of a fantastic mind? Two women quarrelling over a man! They must be jealous, then. Was the Baroness mad that she gave herself away in such a manner? I did not think so. I felt sure there was something else at the bottom of it. "What _is_ going on in this house?" I asked myself, brooding over the strange scene which had startled me in the evening, the very improbability of which made me hesitate to believe that I had seen anything really wrong. This senseless jealousy, the apprehension of the old mother, the love of the Baroness, stimulated by the spring air, all this confused my mind, seethed and fermented in my brain, and after spending a sleepless night, I decided for a second time not to see her again, and so prevent the threatening calamity. With this intention I arose in the morning and wrote her a sensible, candid and humble letter; in carefully chosen language I protested against an excessive abuse of friendship; firmly, without any explanation, I asked for forgiveness of my sins, blamed myself for having caused ill-feeling between relatives, and goodness knows what else I said! The result was that I met the Baroness, as if by accident, on leaving the library at my usual time. She stopped me on the North Bridge, and we walked together through one of the avenues leading to Charles XII Square. Almost with tears in her eyes she entreated me to come back, not to ask for explanations, but just to be one of them again as in the old days. She was charming this morning. But I loved her too dearly to compromise her. "Leave me! You are ruining your reputation," I said, watching the passers-by, whose curious glances embarrassed us. "Go home at once, or I shall leave you standing here!" She looked at me with eyes so full of misery that I longed to kneel down before her, kiss her feet and ask her forgiveness. But instead I turned my back on her and hastily disappeared down a side street. After dinner I went home to my attic, glowing with the satisfaction of a duty done, but with a broken heart. Her eyes haunted me. A short rest gave me back my determination. I rose and looked at the almanac which hung on the wall. It was the thirteenth of March. "Beware the Ides of March!" These famous words, which Shakespeare quotes in his _Julius Cæsar_, sounded in my ears as the servant entered, bringing me a note from the Baron. In it he begged me to spend a lonely evening with him, saying that his wife was not well and that Matilda was going out. I had not the nerve to refuse, and so I went. The Baroness, more dead than alive, met me in the drawing-room, pressed my hand against her heart and thanked me warmly for having resolved not to rob her of a friend, a brother, for the sake of a mere nothing, a misunderstanding. "I really think she's going out of her mind," laughed the Baron, releasing me from her hands. "I _am_ mad, I know, mad with joy that our friend has come back to us after he had decided to leave us for ever." And she burst into tears. "She's been suffering a great deal," explained her husband, disconcerted by this scene. And, indeed, she looked as if she were in a high fever. A sombre fire burned in her eyes, which seemed to take up half of the little face; her cheeks were of a greenish pallor. The sight of her hurt me. Her frail body was shaken by fits of coughing. Her uncle and father-in-law arrived unexpectedly. The fuel in the great stove was replenished, and we sat down before the fire, without lighting the lamps, to enjoy the cosy hour of the gathering twilight. She took a seat by my side, while the three men began to talk politics. I saw her eyes shine through the dusk, I felt the warmth which radiated from her body. Her skirts brushed against me, she leaned over to say something meant for me alone, and attacked me with a whispered question-- "Do you believe in love?" "No!" My "no" struck her like a blow, for I had at the same time jumped up and changed my seat. She must be mad, I thought; and afraid of a scene I suggested that we should have the lamps lighted. During supper uncle and father-in-law discussed cousin Matilda to their heart's content, praising her domesticity, her skill in needlework. The Baron, who had drunk several glasses of punch, burst out into extravagant eulogies and deplored, with alcoholic tears, the unkind treatment to which the "dear child" was subjected at home. But when apparently in the very depth of sympathetic sorrow, he suddenly pulled out his watch and prepared to leave us, as if called away by the stern voice of duty. "You must excuse me, gentlemen," he said, "but I have promised Baby to meet her and see her home. Don't let me disturb you, I shall be back in an hour." The old Baron, his father, vainly tried to detain him; his artful son insisted on keeping his word and slipped away, after having extracted a promise from me to await his return. We remained at table for another quarter of an hour and then went into the drawing-room; the two old gentlemen soon left us and retired to the uncle's room, which the nephew had fitted up for him a little while ago. I cursed fate for having caught me in a trap which I had done my utmost to avoid. I steeled my throbbing heart; proudly, as a cock raises his comb, I raised my head; my hair bristled like the hair of a sheep dog, and I determined to crush at the outset any attempt to create a tearful or amorous scene. Leaning against the stove I smoked my cigar, silent, cold and stiff, awaiting events. The Baroness was the first to speak. "Why do you hate me?" "I don't hate you." "Remember how you treated me only this morning!" "Please, don't speak of it!" The unaccustomed rudeness of my replies, for which there was no adequate reason, was a strategical error. She saw through me and changed her tactics. "You wanted to run away from me," she continued. "Shall I tell you why I suddenly went to Mariafred?" "Probably for the same reason for which I decided to go to Paris." "Then ... it's clear," she said. "And now?" I expected a scene. But she remained calm and regarded me mournfully. I had to break the silence which was fraught with more danger than any words could possibly contain. "Now that you know my secret," I said, "let me give you a word of warning. If you want me to come here occasionally, you mustn't ever lose your head. My love for you is of such an exalted nature, that I could live contentedly at your side, without any other wish but to see you. If you should ever forget your duty, if you should betray by as much as a look the secret which lies locked in our hearts, then I shall confess everything to your husband, come what will!" Carried away by my words, full of enthusiasm, she raised her eyes to heaven. "I swear it to you!... How strong and good you are!... How I admire you! Oh! but I'm ashamed! I should like to surpass your honesty ... shall I tell Gustav everything?" "If you like ... but then we shall never meet again. After all, it's not his business. The feelings which animate my heart are not criminal; and even if he knew everything, would it be in his power to kill my love! No! That I love the woman of my choice is my own affair as long as my passion does not infringe the rights of another. However, do as you please. I am prepared for anything!" "No, no! He must know nothing; and since he permits himself every licence----" "There I don't agree with you! The cases are not identical. If he chooses to degrade himself, so much the worse for him. But that's no reason why----" "No, no!..." The ecstasy was over. We had come back to earth. "No! No!" I repeated. "And don't you agree that it's beautiful, new, almost unique--to love, to tell one another of it.... Nothing else!" "It's as beautiful as a romance," she cried, clapping her hands like a child. "But it doesn't generally happen like that in fiction!" "And how good it is to remain honest!" "The only thing to do!" "And we shall always meet as before, without fear----" "And without reproach----" "And without misunderstandings! And you are sure that Matilda is nothing----" "Oh! hush!" The door opened. How commonplace! The two old gentlemen crossed the drawing-room carrying a dark lantern. "Notice how life is a medley of petty troubles and divine moments!" I said to her; "notice how reality differs from fiction. Could I dare to draw a scene like this in a novel or a drama without being accused of being humdrum? Just think--a confession of love without kisses, genuflexions or protestations, terminated by the appearance of two old men throwing the light of a dark lantern on the lovers! And yet therein lies the secret of Shakespeare's greatness, who shows us Julius Cæsar in dressing-gown and slippers, starting from his sleep at night, frightened by childish dreams." The bell rang. The Baron and pretty Matilda were returning home. As he had a guilty conscience, he overwhelmed us with amiability. And I, eager to show myself in my new part, told him a barefaced lie. "I've been quarrelling with the Baroness for the last hour!" He gave us a scrutinising look, full of vindictiveness, and scenting the air like a hound, seemed to catch the wrong scent. IX What unparalleled guilelessness it argues to believe that there could be love without passion! There was danger even in the secret which existed between us. It was like a child conceived in secrecy, it grew and strove to see the light. Our longing to meet and compare notes increased; we yearned to live again through the last year in which we had been trying to deceive one another. We resorted to all kinds of trickery. I introduced the Baroness to my sister, who, having married the head-master of a school, a man with an old, aristocratic name, in a way belonged to her set. We often met by appointment; our meetings were harmless to begin with, but after a while passion sprang up and desire awoke. In the first days following our mutual confession, she gave me a packet of letters, written partly before, partly after the thirteenth of March. These letters, into which she had poured all her sorrow, all her love, had never been intended to reach me. "_Monday_. "MY DEAR FRIEND, "I am longing to see you, to-day as always. I want to thank you for listening to me yesterday without that sarcastic smile with which it is now your rule to regard me! I turn to you trustfully, at a moment when I am in dire need of your friendship, and you cover your face with a mask. Why? Is it necessary that you should disguise your feelings? You have yourself admitted in one of your letters that it is a mask. I hope it is, I can see it is, and yet it hurts me, for it makes me think that I have committed a fault of some sort ... and I wonder: What is he thinking of me? "I am jealous of your friendship; I am afraid that some day you might despise me. Tell me that it will never happen! You must be good and loyal to me. You must forget that I am a woman--don't I only too often forget it myself! "I was not angry with you for what you said yesterday, but it surprised and pained me. Do you really believe me capable of wanting to excite my husband's jealousy for the sake of taking a mean revenge? Think of the danger to which I should expose myself if I attempted to win him back through jealousy! What should I gain? His anger would fall upon your head, and we should for ever be separated! And what would become of me without you, who are dearer to me than life! "I love you with a sister's tenderness, not with the whims of a coquette.... It is true that I have known moments when I longed, when it would have been heaven, to take your head into my hands, to look deep into your dear eyes, so full of wisdom; and I am sure I should have kissed you on your forehead, but never in your life would you have received a purer kiss. "I am not responsible for my affectionate temperament, and if you were a woman, I should love you just as much, provided that I could respect a woman as highly as I respect you.... "Your opinion of Matilda makes me very happy. One has to be a woman to be pleased about such a thing. But what am I to do? Think of my position in case everybody sided with her! And I am to blame for whatever happens. I encouraged this flirtation because I considered it no more serious than a child's game. Feeling sure of his affection, I allowed my husband perfect liberty. The consequences have proved my error.... "_Wednesday_. "He is in love with her and has told me so. The matter has surpassed all limits, and I have laughed at it. ... Think: after seeing you to the door, he came back to me, took my hands, looked into my face--I trembled, for my conscience was not clear--and said entreatingly: 'Don't be angry with me, Marie! I love Matilda!' What was I to do? Should I cry or laugh? And he confessed this to me, to me who am tormented by remorse, forced to love you from afar, hopelessly! Oh, these stupid ideas of honour! How senseless they are! Let him indulge his passion! You are my dear love, and my woman's heart shall never get the better of me and make me forget my duties as a wife and mother. But ... notice the conflicting double nature of my feelings ... I love you both, and I could never live without him, the brave, honest friend of my heart ... nor without you either." "_Friday_. "At last you have lifted the veil which for so long has hidden the secret of my heart. And you don't despise me! Merciful God! You even love me. You have spoken the words which you had determined to leave for ever unspoken. You love me! And I am a guilty woman, a criminal, because I love you in return. May God forgive me! For I love him too, and could not bear the thought of leaving him. "How strange it is!... To be loved! Loved tenderly! By him and by you! I feel so happy, so calm, that my love cannot possibly be a crime! Surely I should feel remorse if it were--or am I so hardened? "How ashamed I am of myself! It was I who had to speak the first word of love. My husband is here, he puts his arms round me, and I let him kiss me. Am I sincere? Yes! Why did he not take care of me while there was yet time? "The whole is like a novel. What will be the end? Will the heroine die? Will the hero marry another? Will they be separated? And will the end be satisfactory from a moral point of view? "If I were with you at this moment, I should kiss your brow with the same devotion with which the devotee kisses the crucifix, and I should put from me all baseness, all artificiality.... Was this hypocrisy, or did I deceive myself? Were they nothing but passion, these semi-religious ecstasies? No, not passion only. The desire of propagation has become more complicated, and even with the lower animals moral characteristics are transmitted through sexual love. Therefore love affects both body and soul, and one is nothing without the other. If it were but passion, why should she prefer a delicate, nervous, sickly youth to a giant like him? If it were only the love of the soul, why this longing to kiss me, why this admiration for my small feet, my well-shaped hands and nails, my intellectual forehead, my abundant hair? Or were those hallucinations caused by the intoxication of her senses, excited by her husband's excesses? Or did she feel instinctively that an ardent youth like me would make her far more happy than the inert mass which she called her husband? She was no longer jealous of his body, therefore she had ceased looking upon him in the light of a lover. But she was jealous of my person, and therefore she was in love with me!... One day, when visiting my sister, the Baroness was seized with an attack of hysterics. She threw herself on the sofa and burst into tears, infuriated with the disgraceful conduct of her husband, who was spending the evening with Matilda at a regimental ball. In a passionate outburst she threw her arms round me and kissed me on the forehead. I returned kiss for kiss. She called me by endearing names. The bond between us was growing stronger and my passion was increasing. In the course of the evening I recited Longfellow's "Excelsior" to her. Genuinely touched by this beautiful poem, I fixed my eyes on her, and as if she were hypnotised, her face reflected every shade of feeling expressed on my own. She had the appearance of an ecstatic, of a seer. After supper her maid called for her with a cab to take her home. I meant to come no further with her than the street, but she insisted on my getting into the cab, and in spite of my protestations she ordered her maid to sit on the box, by the side of the driver. As soon as I was alone with her I took her in my arms, silently, without a word. I felt her delicate body thrill and yield under my kisses. But I shrank from crime--and left her at her door, unhurt, ashamed of herself and, perhaps, also a little angry. I no longer had any doubts now; I saw clearly. She was trying to tempt me. It was she who had given the first kiss, she who had taken the initiative in everything. From this moment I was going to play the part of the tempter, for, although a man of firm principles on the point of honour, I was by no means a Joseph. On the following day we met at the National Museum. How I adored her as I saw her coming up the marble staircase, under the gilded ceiling, as I watched her little feet tripping over the flags of variegated stucco, her aristocratic figure clothed in a black velvet costume, trimmed with military braid. I hurried to meet her and, like a page, bent my knees before her. Her beauty, which had blossomed under my kisses, was striking. The rich blood in her veins shone through her transparent cheeks: this statue, almost the statue of an old maid, had quickened under my caresses, and grown warm at the fire of life. Pygmalion had breathed on the marble and held a goddess in his arms. We sat down before a statue of Psyche, acquired in the Thirty Years' War. I kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, and she received my kisses with a rapturous smile. I played the tempter, employing all the sophisms of the orator, all the arts of the poet. "I entreat you," I said, "leave your polluted house; don't consent any longer to live this life of three--or you'll force me to despise you. Return to your mother, devote yourself to art; in a year you will be able to appear before the footlights. Then you will be free to live your own life." She added fuel to the fire; I became more and more incensed and warmed to my subject. I deluged her with a flood of words, the object of which was to extract a promise from her to tell her husband everything, for then, I argued, we should no longer be responsible for the consequences. "But supposing things end badly for us?" she interposed. "Even if we should lose everything! I could no longer love you if I could no longer respect both of us. Are you a coward? Do you crave the reward and refuse to bring the sacrifice? Be as noble as you are beautiful, dare the fatal leap, even at the risk of perishing! Let everything be lost save our honour! If we go on like this, we shall both be guilty in a very short time, for my love is like lightning, which will strike you! I love you as the sun loves the dew--to drink it. Therefore, quick to the scaffold! Sacrifice your head so that you may keep your hands clean! Don't imagine that I could ever debase myself and be content to share you with a third, never, never!" She feigned resistance, but in reality she threw a grain of powder into the open flames. She complained of her husband and hinted at things, the very thought of which made my blood boil. He, the numskull, poor as myself, without prospects, indulged in the luxury of two mistresses, while I, the man of talent, the aristocrat of the future, sighed and writhed under the torture of my unsatisfied longings. But all of a sudden she veered round and tried to calm my excited nerves by reminding me of our agreement to be brother and sister. "No, not that dangerous game of brother and sister! Let us be man and woman, lover and beloved! This alone is worthy of ourselves! I adore you! I adore everything belonging to you, body and soul, your golden hair and your straightforwardness, the smallest feet that ever wore shoes in Sweden, your candour, your eyes which shine in the dusk, your bewitching smile, your white stocking and your cherry-coloured garter.... "What?" "Yes, my lovely princess, I have seen everything! And now I want to kiss your throat and the dimples on your shoulders; I will smother you with my kisses, strangle you between my arms as with a necklet. My love for you fills me with the strength of a god. Did you think me delicate? I was an imaginary invalid, or, rather, I pretended to be ill! Beware of the sick lion! Don't come near his den or he will kill you with his caresses! Down with the dishonest mask! I want you and I will have you! I've wanted you from the first moment I set eyes on you! The story of Selma, the Finlander, is nothing but a fairy tale ... the friendship of our dear Baron a lie ... he loathes me, the man of the middle-classes, the provincial, the _déclassé_, as I loathe him, the aristocrat!" This avalanche of revelations excited her very little, for it told her nothing new: she had been aware of it without my avowal. And we separated with the firm resolution not to meet again until she had told her husband everything. * * * * * I spent the evening at home, anxious and uneasy, waiting for telegrams from the seat of war. To distract my thoughts, I emptied a sack containing old books and papers on the floor, and sat down among this litter to examine and classify it. But I found it impossible to concentrate my thoughts on my task; I stretched myself out at full length, resting the back of my head on my hands and, my eyes fixed with a hypnotic stare on the candles burning in the old chandelier, I lost myself in a reverie. I was longing for her kisses, and thinking out plans of making her my own. As she was sensitive and strange, I felt that the utmost delicacy would be necessary, that I must allow matters to arrange themselves; that a single clumsy movement would spoil everything. I lighted a cigarette and imagined that I was lying in a meadow; it amused me to view my little room from below. Everything seemed new to me. The sofa, the witness of many pleasant hours, brought me back to my dreams of love, which, however, were quickly paralysed by the fear that happiness would be wrecked on the rocks of my uncompromising principles. Analysing the thought which had checked my ardour, I discovered in it a great deal of cowardice, fear of the consequences, a little sympathy with the man who stood in danger of being betrayed, a little disgust with the unclean pell-mell; a little genuine respect for the woman whom I could not bear to see degrading herself; a little pity with the daughter, a mere nothing of compassion with the mother of my beloved, in case of a scandal; and quite in the background of my miserable heart a vague presentiment of the difficulty I should find later on, if ever I should wish to sever our connection. "No," I said to myself, "all or nothing! She must be mine alone, and for ever!" While I was thus musing, there came a gentle tapping at my door, and almost simultaneously a lovely head appeared in the opening, flooding my attic with sunshine, and with its roguish smile drawing me away from my papers into the arms of my beloved. After a hailstorm of kisses on her lips, which were fresh with the cold outside, I asked-- "Well, what has he decided to do?" "Nothing! I haven't told him yet!" "Then you are lost! Flee, unhappy woman!" And keeping firm hold of her, I took off her close-fitting fur coat, removed her beaded hat and drew her to the fire. Then she found words. "I hadn't the courage.... I wanted to see you once again before the catastrophe, for God knows, he may decide to divorce me...." I closed her lips with mine, pushed a little table to her seat and brought from my cupboard a bottle of good wine and two glasses. By the side of them I set a basket with roses and two lighted candles, arranging everything in the manner of an altar. For a footstool I gave her a priceless old edition of Hans Sachs, bound in calf, furnished with gold locks and ornamented with a portrait of Luther. I had borrowed the book from the Royal Library. I poured out some wine. I gathered a rose and fastened it in the golden thicket of her hair. My lips touched the glass raised to drink to her health, to our love. I knelt down before her and worshipped her. "How beautiful you are!" For the first time she saw me as a lover. She was delighted. She took my head between her hands, kissed it and smoothed with her fingers the tangled strains of my unruly hair. Her beauty filled me with respect. I looked at her with veneration, as one looks at the statue of a saint. She was enchanted to see me without the hated mask; my words intoxicated her, and she was filled with delirious joy when she found that my love for her was at once tender, respectful and full of ardour. I kissed her shoes, blackening my lips; I embraced her knees without touching the hem of her dress; I loved her just as she was, fully dressed, chaste as an angel, as if she had been born clothed, with wings outside her dress. Suddenly the tears came into my eyes, I could not have said why. "Are you crying?" she asked. "What is the matter?" "I don't know. I'm too happy, that's all." "You, capable of tears! You, the man of iron!" "Alas! I know tears only too well!" Being a woman of experience, she imagined that she possessed the secret remedy for my secret sorrow. She rose from the sofa and pretended to be interested in the papers scattered about on the floor. "You seemed to be stretched out on the grass when I came in," she said, smiling archly. "What fun to make hay in the middle of the winter!" She sat down on a pile of papers; I threw myself down beside her. Another hailstorm of kisses, the goddess stooped towards me, ready to surrender. Gradually I drew her closer to me, holding her captive with my lips, so as not to give her time to break the spell my eyes had cast over her, and free herself. We sat on the "grass" like lovers, yielding to our passion like fully dressed angels, and rose up content, happy, without remorse, like angels who have not fallen. Love is inventive! We had sinned without sinning, yielded without surrendering. How precious is the love of a woman of experience! She is merciful to the young apprentice; she finds her pleasure in giving, not in receiving.... Suddenly she recovered her senses, remembered the claims of reality and prepared to go. "Until to-morrow, then!" "Until to-morrow!" X He had been told everything, and she called herself guilty, for he had wept. He had wept scalding tears! Was it simplicity or artfulness on his part? Doubtless both. Love and delusion are inseparable, and it is difficult to know ourselves as we really are. But he was not angry with us, and did not insist on separating us, on condition that we should respect his good name. "He is more noble and generous than we are," she said in her letter, "and he still loves both of us." What a milksop! He consented to receive in his house a man who had kissed his wife; he believed us to be sexless, able to live side by side, like brother and sister. It was an insult to my manhood; henceforth he had ceased to exist for me. I stayed at home, a prey to the bitterest disappointment. I had tasted the apple, and it had been snatched from me. My imperious love had repented; she was suffering from remorse; she overwhelmed me with reproaches--she, the temptress! A fiendish idea flashed through my mind. Had I been too reserved? Did she want to break with me because I had been too timid? Since the thought of the crime from which I shrank had not seemed to disturb her, her passion must be stronger than mine.... But come back to me once more, my love, and I will teach you better. At ten o'clock I received a letter from the Baron, in which he said that his wife was seriously ill. My reply was a request to be left in peace. "I have been long enough the cause of unpleasantness between you; forget me, as I will forget you." Towards noon a second letter arrived: "Let us once more revive our old friendship. I have always respected you, and, in spite of your error, I am convinced that you have behaved like a man of honour. Let us bury the past. Come back to me as a brother, and the matter will be forgotten." The pathetic simplicity, the perfect confidence of the man touched me; in my reply I mentioned my misgivings, and begged him not to play with fire, but leave me in future unmolested. At three o'clock in the afternoon I received a last communication: the Baroness was dying; the doctor had just left her; she had asked for me. The Baron entreated me not to refuse her request, and I went. Poor me! I entered. The room smelt of chloroform. The Baron received me with great agitation and tears in his eyes. "What's the matter?" I asked, with the calmness of a doctor. "I don't know. But she has been at death's door." "And the doctor, what did he say?" "He shook his head and said it was not a case for him." "Has he given her a prescription?" "No." He took me into the dining-room, which had been transformed into a sick-room. She was lying on a couch, stiff, haggard; her hair was falling over her shoulders, her eyes glowed like red-hot coals. She moved her hand, and her husband put it into mine. Then he returned into the drawing-room and left us by ourselves. My heart remained unmoved; I did not trust my eyes; the unusual spectacle roused my suspicions. "Do you know that I nearly died?" "Yes." "And you don't feel sorry?" "Oh yes!" "You are not moved, you have no look of sympathy, no look of commiseration." "You have your husband!" "Hasn't he himself brought us together?" "What are you suffering from?" "I'm very ill. I shall have to consult a specialist." "Oh!" "I'm afraid! It's terrible! If you knew how I have suffered!... Put your hand on my head ... it does me good.... Now smile at me ... your smile fills me with new life!..." "The Baron---" "You are going? You are leaving me?" "What can I do for you?" She began to cry. "You surely can't want me to play the lover here, close to your child, your husband?" "You are a monster! A man without a heart! A----" "Good-bye, Baroness!" I went. The Baron accompanied me through the drawing-room, but, quick though he was, he could not prevent me from catching sight of a woman's skirt disappearing through one of the other doors. This awakened the suspicion in me that the whole had been a farce. The Baron closed the door behind me with a bang which echoed through the staircase, and gave me the impression that I had been kicked out. I felt sure that I had not been mistaken. I had assisted at the _dénoûment_ of a sentimental play with a double plot. This mysterious illness, what was it? Hysteria? No. Science has given it the name of "nymphomania"; freely translated it means, the desire of a woman for children, moderated and disguised by time and the conventions, but suddenly breaking out with irresistible force. This woman, always living in a state of semi-celibacy, unwilling to take upon herself the burden of motherhood, and yet dissatisfied with the incompleteness of her married life, was driven into the arms of a lover, to the commission of a crime, and, at the very moment when she thought that her lover was incontestably hers, he slipped through her fingers, and he, too, left her unsatisfied. How miserable a mistake was matrimony! How pitiful a passion was love! When I had finished my analysis I had come to the conclusion that the unsatisfactory nature of their relationship had driven both husband and wife to seek happiness elsewhere. The disappointment at my flight had brought the Baroness back into the arms of her husband, whose love had received a fresh stimulus, and who would henceforth strive to make her more happy. They were reconciled, and everything was at an end. Exit the devil. The curtain falls. * * * * * No, it was not at an end. She visited me again in my room, and I drew from her a full confession, brutal in its candour. In the first year of her marriage she knew nothing of the ecstasies of love. After her baby was born, her husband grew indifferent to her, and their relations became strained. "Then you've never been happy with this man with the physique of a giant?" "Never ... sometimes perhaps ... hardly ever." "And now?" She blushed. "The doctor has advised him not to go on sinning against nature." She sank back on the sofa and hid her face in her hands. Excited by these intimate confessions, I made an attempt to put my arms round her. She offered no resistance, she trembled and breathed heavily, but suddenly she felt remorse and repulsed me. Strange enigma which was beginning to provoke me! What did she want from me? Everything! But she shrank from the real crime, the illegitimate child. I took her in my arms and kissed her, I tried to rouse her passion. She freed herself and left me, but, I thought, a shade less disappointed than before. And now, what? Confess to the husband? It has been done. Give him details?... There are no details to give. * * * * * She continued to visit me. And whenever she came, she sat down on the sofa on the plea of fatigue. I was ashamed of my timidity; furious at my humiliation; afraid that she might think me a fool; conflicting emotions wore away my self-control, and the day came when I watched her from my window, walking away slowly, until she was hidden by the turn of the street. I sighed heavily. The son of the people had carried off the white skin, the plebeian had won the aristocrat, the swineherd had mated with the princess! But he had paid a heavy price. * * * * * A storm was brewing. All sorts of rumours circulated in the town. The fair fame of the Baroness had suffered. Her mother asked me to call on her. I went. "Is it true that you are in love with my daughter?" "It is true." "And are you not ashamed?" "I glory in it." "She has told me that she loves you." "I was aware of that.... I am sorry for you. I regret the possible consequences, but what am I to do? No doubt it is a deplorable business, but we are not guilty, neither she nor I. When we discovered our danger, we warned the Baron. Wasn't that acting correctly?" "I'm not complaining of your conduct now, but I must protect the honour of my daughter, of her child, of the family! Surely you don't want to ruin us?" The poor old woman cried bitterly. She had put all her eggs in one basket: the aristocratic alliance of her daughter, which was to rehabilitate her own family. She roused my compassion, and I succumbed to her sorrow. "Command me," I said; "I will do whatever you wish." "Leave this place, go away from here, I implore you." "I will do so, but on one condition." "And that is?" "That you will ask Miss Matilda to return to her family." "Is that an accusation?" "More than that, a denunciation. For I believe I'm right in saying that her presence at the Baron's house is not conducive to happiness." "I agree with you. Oh, that girl! I shall tell her what I think of her! But you, you will leave to-morrow?" "To-night, if you like." At this stage the Baroness appeared, and unceremoniously interrupted our conversation. "You must stay! You shall stay!" she said imperatively. "Matilda must go!" "Why?" asked her mother, in amazement. "Because I mean to have a divorce. Gustav has treated me like an abandoned woman before Matilda's stepfather. I shall prove to them that they're mistaken." What a heartrending scene! Is there a surgical operation so painful as the tearing asunder of family ties? All passions are let loose, all uncleanness hidden in the depth of the soul stands revealed. The Baroness took me apart and repeated to me the contents of a letter from her husband to Matilda: abuse of us, and an assurance of his undying love for the girl, in terms which proved that he had deceived us from the very beginning. The ball has now gained the volume of a rock; it goes on rolling, and crushes alike the innocent and the guilty. * * * * * In spite of all the coming and going a settlement seemed as far off as ever. Fresh misfortunes happened. The bank did not pay the ordinary yearly dividend; ruin was menacing. The threatening poverty was made the pretext for the divorce, for the Baron could no longer maintain his family. For appearances' sake he asked his colonel whether his wife's proposed theatrical career would in any way interfere with his own. The colonel gave him to understand that if his wife went on the stage, he would have to leave the service. A splendid opportunity for abusing aristocratic prejudices! During all this time the Baroness, under medical treatment for some internal trouble, continued to live at her husband's house, although they were now practically separated. She was always in pain, irritable and despondent, and I found it impossible to rouse her from her deep depression; my strenuous effort to inspire her with some of my youthful confidence was wasted. In vain I drew for her glowing pictures of the career of an artist, the independent life in a home of her own, a home like mine, where she would enjoy freedom of body and soul. She listened to me without replying; the stream of my words seemed to galvanise her like a magnetic current, without penetrating to her consciousness. * * * * * An agreement between the two parties had been arrived at at last. It was decided that after all legal formalities had been complied with, the Baroness should proceed to Copenhagen, where an uncle of hers was living. The Swedish consul at Copenhagen would communicate with her on her supposed flight from her husband's house, and she would inform him of her wish to have her marriage annulled. After that she would be free to make her own plans for the future, and return to Stockholm. Her dowry would remain in the possession of her husband, as well as all the furniture, with the exception of a very few things; the little girl would continue to live with her father, unless the latter contracted a second marriage, but the Baroness would have the right to see her child whenever she wished. The financial question gave rise to a violent scene. To save the remnants of a fortune which had almost disappeared, the father of the Baroness had made a will in which he left everything to his daughter. Her scheming mother had obtained possession of the inheritance, and was paying her son-in-law a certain percentage. Since such a procedure was illegal, the Baron insisted that the will should now come into force. The old mother-in-law, furious at the reduction of her income, denounced her son-in-law to her brother, Matilda's father, as the girl's lover. The storm burst. The colonel threatened to cashier the Baron; a lawsuit was impending. Now, the Baroness left no stone unturned to save the father of her child. And to clear him I was made the scapegoat. I was prevailed upon to write a letter to Matilda's father, in which I took the sins of everybody and the responsibility for all the mischief on my own shoulders, called God to witness that the Baron and the girl were innocent, and asked the offended father to forgive me for all the crimes I had committed--I, the only penitent one! It was a beautiful action and a good one, and the Baroness loved me for it as a woman loves a man who has allowed her to trample on his honour, his self-respect, his good name. In spite of my resolution not to be mixed up in these unsavoury family matters, I had been unable to steer clear of them. The mother-in-law paid me many visits, and, always appealing to my love for her daughter, tried to incite me against the Baron, but in vain; I took my orders from no one but the Baroness. Moreover, on this point I sided with the father. As he was taking charge of the child, the dowry, imaginary or otherwise, belonged undoubtedly to him. Oh, this month of April! What a springtime of love! The beloved woman on the sick-bed, intolerable meetings at which the two families washed their dirty linen, which I certainly never had the least desire to come into contact with; tears; rudeness; a chaos which brought to light everything base that had hitherto been hidden under the veneer of education. That comes of raising a nest of hornets about one's ears!... No wonder that love suffered under such conditions. Where is the charm of a woman who is always worn out with contention, whose conversation bristles with legal terms? Again and again I attempted to instil into her my thoughts of consolation and hope, even though they were often anything but spontaneous, for I had come to the end of my nerve-power; and she accepted everything, sucked my brain dry, consumed my heart. In exchange she looked upon me as a dustbin, into which she threw all her rubbish, all her grief, all her troubles, all her cares. In this hell I lived my life, dragged on my misery, worked for a bare sufficiency. When she came to see me of an evening and found me working, she sulked; and it was not until I had wasted a couple of hours with tears and kisses that I succeeded in convincing her of my love. She conceived love as never-ending admiration, a servile readiness to please, unceasing sacrifice. I was crushed down by my heavy responsibility. I could see the moment not very far off when misery, or the birth of a child, would force me into a premature marriage. She had claimed but three thousand francs for one year, with which she intended to defray the costs of her artistic training. I had no faith in her dramatic career. Her pronunciation still betrayed her Finnish descent, and her features were too irregular for the stage. To keep her from brooding I made her repeat poetry. I constituted myself her teacher. But she was too much occupied with her disappointments, and when, after a rehearsal, she had to admit that her progress was very small, she was inconsolable. How dreary our love was! Instead of being the source from which flowed strength to cope with our difficulties, it was a prolonged torture. Joy was no sooner born than it was slain, and we parted, dissatisfied, robbed of the greatest happiness life has to give. A poor phantom was our love! But my monogamic nature recoiled from change. Our love, sad as it was, was yet the source from which sprang exquisite spiritual joys, and my inextinguishable longing was the guarantee for its endurance. XI It was on the first of May. All the necessary documents had been signed. Her departure was fixed for the day after to-morrow. She came to me and threw her arms round me. "Now I belong to you alone; take me!" As we had never discussed marriage, I did not quite understand what she meant, and we sat in my little attic, sad and thoughtful. Everything was permitted to us now, but temptation had diminished. She accused me of indifference, and I proved the contrary to her. Thereupon she accused me of sensuality. Adoration, incense it was what she wanted! She had hysterics, and complained that I no longer loved her. Already!... After half-an-hour of flattery and blandishments she grew calmer, but she was not really herself until she had reduced me to tears of despair. Then she made a fuss of me. The more humble I was, the more I knelt before her, small and miserable, the more she loved me. She hated strength and manliness in me; to win her love I had to pretend to be wretched, so that she could pose as the stronger, play "little mother" and console me. We had supper in my room; she laid the table and prepared the meal. After supper I claimed the rights of a lover, and she made no resistance. How wonderful is the rejuvenating power of love! A young girl lay in my arms, trembling, and brutality was transformed into tenderness. Surely the animal had no part in this union of souls! Alas! is it ever possible to say where the spiritual ends and the animal begins? Reassured on the question of her health, she gave herself to me whole-heartedly; she was radiant with joy, content and happy; her beauty shone out; her eyes sparkled. My poor attic had become a temple, a sumptuous palace; I lighted the broken chandelier, my reading lamp, all the candles, to illuminate our happiness, the joy of living, the only thing which makes our miserable lives endurable. For these moments of rapture accompany us on our thorny pilgrimage through life; the memory of these fleeting hours helps us to live, and outlive our former selves. "Don't speak ill of love," I said to her. "Worship nature in all her forces; honour God, who compels us to be happy in spite of ourselves!" She made no reply, for she was happy. Her yearning was stilled; my kisses had driven the warm blood through her beating heart into her cheeks; the flame of the candle was mirrored in her eyes moist with tears; the rainbow tints of her veins appeared more vivid, like the plumage of the birds in the springtime. She looked like a girl of sixteen, so delicate, so pure were her contours; the dainty head with its masses of golden hair, half-buried in the cushions, might have been a child's. Thus she reclined on my sofa, like a goddess, allowing me to worship her, while she regarded me with furtive glances, half shamefaced, half provoking. How chaste in her abandonment is the beloved woman when she surrenders herself to the caresses of her lover! And man, though her superior mentally, is only happy when he has won the woman who is his true mate. My former flirtations, my love affairs with women of a lower class, appeared to me like crimes, like a sin against the race. The white skin, the perfect feet, the delicate hands, were they signs of degeneration? Were they not rather on a par with the glossy skin of the wild beast, its slim, sinewy legs, which show hardly any muscle? The beauty of a woman is the sum total of characteristics which are worthy of transmission through the agency of the man who can appreciate them. This woman had been pushed aside by her husband; therefore she no longer belonged to him, for she had ceased to please him. He could see no beauty in her, and it was left to me to achieve the blossoming of a flower, the rare loveliness of which the seer, the elect only, could perceive. Midnight was striking. From the barracks close by came the "Who goes there?" of the relieving guards. It was time to part. I accompanied my beloved on her way home, and, as we were walking along side by side, I tried to kindle in her the fire of my enthusiasm, my new hopes; I startled her with the plans which her kisses had ripened in me. She came closer, as if to find strength in contact with me, and I gave her back tenfold what I had received from her. When we had arrived at the high railings she noticed that she had forgotten her key. How annoying! But, bent on showing her my mettle by penetrating into the lion's den, I climbed the railings, dashed across the courtyard and knocked at the front door, prepared for a stormy reception from the Baron. My throbbing heart was thrilled by the thought of fighting my rival before her eyes. The favoured lover was transformed into a hero! But, luckily, it was only a servant who came to open the door, and we said good-night to each other formally, calmly, with the maid, who had not taken the trouble to respond to our "Good-evening," looking on in contemptuous silence. * * * * * Henceforth she felt sure of my love, and so she abused it. She came to see me to-day. She could not find words enough to praise her husband. Deeply affected by Matilda's departure, he had succumbed to his wife's pressure, and made her a promise to save appearances by accompanying her to the station, for, she argued, if both he and I were to see her off, her departure would not have the appearance of flight. Moreover, she told me that the Baron, no longer angry with me, had consented to receive me at his house, and, in order to put a stop to the rumours, show himself during the next few days about the town in my company. I appreciated the generosity of this big, ingenuous child, with the honest heart, and, out of consideration for him, I demurred. "We're not going to disgrace him like that. Never!" "Remember that it is a question of my child's honour." "Doesn't his honour count for something?" But she laughed at the idea of considering other people's honour. Looked upon me as eccentric. "But that beats everything! You're making me a by-word, you're degrading us all! It's folly! It's unworthy!" I exclaimed. She cried; and, after she had sobbed for an hour and overwhelmed me with reproaches, I succumbed to the irresistible weapon of her tears, and consented to do her bidding. But I cursed the despot, I cursed the falling crystal drops which increased tenfold the power of her glances. She was stronger than both her husband and myself. She was leading us by the nose into disgrace! Why did she want this reconciliation? Was she afraid of a war to the knife between me and the Baron? Did she dread possible disclosures?... ... What a punishment she had inflicted on me by compelling me to revisit this dreary house! But, cruel egoist that she was, she had no sympathy with another's terrors. I have had to promise her, on my oath, to deny the whole story of the illicit relationship which existed between the Baron and her cousin, so as to stop all slander. I went to this last meeting with slow steps and a sinking heart. The little garden smiled at me with its blossoming cherry trees, its sweet-scented daffodils. The shrubbery, where her marvellous beauty had bewitched me, was bursting into leaf; the turned-up flower-beds looked like black shrouds spread out on the lawn; I pictured the forsaken little girl wandering about there alone, looked after by a servant, and learning her lessons; I pictured her growing up, awakening to the facts of life, and being told one day that her mother had deserted her. I mounted the stairs of the fatal house, which was built against a sand quarry, and called up the memories of my childhood. Friendship, family, love, all had been jeopardised, and, in spite of our efforts to comply with the law of the land, crime had stained its threshold. Who was to blame? The Baroness opened the folding doors and secretly kissed me between the wings. I could not suppress a momentary feeling of loathing, and indignantly pushed her aside. It reminded me of the servants' flirtations at the back door, and filled me with disgust. Behind the door! Slut! without pride, without dignity! She pretended that I was reluctant to enter the drawing-room, and asked me in a loud voice to come in, at the very moment when, embarrassed by the humiliating situation in which I found myself, I hesitated, and was on the point of retracing my footsteps. A flash from her eyes, and my hesitation was gone; paralysed by her self-command, I gave in. Everything in the drawing-room pointed to the breaking up of the household. Underlinen, dresses, petticoats were scattered all over the furniture. The writing-table was littered with a pile of stockings, a short time ago the delight of my eyes, to-day an abomination. She came and went, counted and folded up, brazenly, shamelessly. "Had I corrupted her in so short a time?" I asked myself, gazing at this exhibition of a respectable woman's underclothing. She examined one piece after another, and put on one side everything which needed repairing; she noticed that on one garment the tapes were missing; she laid it aside with perfect unconcern. I seemed to be present at an execution; I felt sick with misery, while she listened absent-mindedly to my futile conversation about unimportant details. I was waiting for the Baron, who had locked himself into the dining-room and was writing letters. At last the door opened; I started apprehensively, but it was only the little girl who came in, puzzled to know the reason of all this upset. She ran up to me, accompanied by her mother's spaniel, and held up her forehead to be kissed. I blushed. I felt angry, and turned to the Baroness. "You might at least have spared me this!" But she did not understand what I meant. "Mamma is going away, darling, but she'll soon be back and bring you lots of toys." The little dog begged for a caress--he, too! A little later the Baron appeared. He walked up to me, broken, crushed, and pressed my hand, unable to utter a word. I honoured his evident grief by a respectful silence, and he withdrew again. The dusk was beginning to gather in the corners of the room. The maid lighted the lamps without seeming to notice my presence. Supper was announced. I wanted to go. But the Baron added his pressing invitation to that of the Baroness, and in so touching and sincere a manner that I accepted and stayed. And we sat down to supper, the three of us, as in the old days. It was a solemn moment. We talked of all that had happened, and with moist eyes asked one another the question: "Who is to blame?" Nobody, destiny, a series of incidents, paltry in themselves, a number of forces. We shook hands, clinked our glasses together and spoke of our undying friendship exactly as in the days gone by. The Baroness alone kept up her spirits. She made the programme for the following day: the meeting at the railway station, the walks through the town, and we agreed to everything. At last I rose to go. The Baron accompanied us into the drawing-room. There he laid the hand of the Baroness into mine and said, with choking voice-- "Be her friend. My part is played out. Take care of her, guard her from the wickedness of the world, cultivate her talent: you are better able to do it than I, a poor soldier. God protect you!" He left us; the door closed behind him, and we were alone. Was he sincere at that moment? I thought so at the time, and I should like to think so still. He was of a sentimental nature, and, in his way, fond of us; doubtless, the thought of seeing the mother of his child in the hands of an enemy would have been painful to him. It is possible that later on, under adverse influence, he boasted of having fooled us. But such a thing would really have been foreign to his character--and is it not a well-known fact that no one likes to admit having been duped? It was six o'clock at night. I was pacing the large hall of the Central Station. The train for Copenhagen would leave at six-fifteen, and neither the Baron nor the Baroness had appeared. I felt like the spectator of the last act of a terrible tragedy, I was longing wildly for the end. Another quarter of an hour and there would be peace. My nerves, disordered by these successive crises, required rest, and the coming night would restore some of the nerve force which I had used up and squandered for the love of a woman. She arrived at the last moment, in a cab, drawn by a mare which the driver was leading by the bridle. Always careless and always too late! She rushed towards me like a lunatic. "The traitor! He has broken his word! He's not coming!" she exclaimed so loudly that she attracted the attention of the passers-by. It was certainly unfortunate, but I could not help respecting him for it. "He's quite right. He has common-sense on his side," I said, seized with a spirit of contradiction. "Be quick! Take a ticket for Copenhagen, or I shall stay here!" she ordered. "No! If I went with you it would look like an elopement. All Stockholm would talk about it to-morrow." "I don't care.... Make haste!" "No! I won't!" But I could not help pitying her at the moment, and the situation was becoming unbearable. A quarrel, a lover's quarrel was inevitable. She knew it instinctively, and, seizing my hands, she implored me with her eyes; the ice melted; the sorceress won; I wavered ... I succumbed.... "To Katrineholm then!" "Very well, if you'd rather." She was having her luggage registered. Everything was lost, including honour, and I had before me the prospect of a painful journey. The train moved out of the station. We were alone in a first-class compartment. The Baron's non-appearance had depressed us. It was an unforeseen danger and a bad omen. An uneasy silence reigned in the carriage; one of us had to break it. She was the one to speak. "Axel, you don't love me any more!" "Perhaps not," I replied, worn out by a month of chaos. "And I have sacrificed everything to you!" "Sacrificed everything?... To your love, perhaps, but not to me. And have I not sacrificed my life to you? You are angry with Gustav and you're venting your anger on me ... be reasonable." Tears, tears! What a wedding tour! I steeled my nerves, put on my armour. I became indifferent, impenetrable. "Restrain your emotions! From to-day you must use your common-sense. Weep, weep until the source of your tears is dry, but then lift up your head. You are a foolish woman, and I have honoured you as a queen, as a ruler! I have done your bidding because I thought myself the weaker of the two! Unfortunately! Don't make me despise you. Don't ever try to blame me alone for what has happened. I admired Gustav's shrewdness last night. He has realised that the great events in life have always more than one cause. Who is to blame? You? I? He? She? The threatening ruin, your passion for the stage, your internal trouble, the inheritance from your thrice-married grandfather? Your mother's hatred of bearing children which is the cause of your vacillating disposition? The idleness of your husband, whose profession left him too much leisure? My instincts? The instincts of the man who has risen from the lower classes? My accidental meeting with your Finnish friend who brought us together? An endless number of motives, a few of which only are known to us. Don't debase yourself before the mob who will unanimously condemn you to-morrow; don't believe, like those poor in spirit, that you can solve such an intricate problem by taking neither the crime nor the criminal seriously!... And, moreover, have I seduced you? Be candid with yourself, with me, while we're here alone, without witnesses." But she would not be candid. She could not, for candour is not a woman's characteristic. She knew herself to be an accomplice in crime; she was tortured by remorse. She had but one thought, to ease her conscience by throwing the whole blame on me. I left her to herself, and wrapped myself in a callous silence. Night fell. I opened the window and leaned against the door, gazing at the quickly-passing black Scotch firs, behind which the pale moon was rising. Then a lake passed, surrounded by birch trees; a brook bordered by alders; cornfields, meadows, and then Scotch firs again, a long stretch of them. A mad desire to throw myself out of the carriage seized me; a desire to escape from this prison where I was watched by an enemy, kept spell-bound by a witch. But the anxiety for her future oppressed me like a nightmare; I felt responsible for her, who was a stranger to me, for her unborn children, for the support of her mother, her aunt, her whole family, for centuries to come. I should make it my business to procure for her success on the stage; I should bear all her sorrows, her disappointments, her failures, so that one day she could throw me in the dust like a squeezed-out lemon--me, my whole life, my brain, the marrow of my spine, my life-blood; all in exchange for the love which I gave her, and which she accepted and called "sacrificing herself to me." Delusions of love! hypnotism of passion! She sat without moving until ten o'clock, sulking. One more hour and we should have to say good-bye. All at once, with a word of apology, she put her two feet on the cushioned seat, pretending to be worn out with fatigue. Her languid glances, her tears had left me unmoved; I had kept my head, my strength of purpose in spite of her fallacious logic. Now everything collapsed. I beheld her adorable boots, a tiny piece of her stocking. Down on your knees, Sampson! Put your head in her lap, press your cheeks against her knees, ask her to forgive you for the cruel words with which you have lashed her--and which she didn't even understand! Slave! Coward! You lie in the dust before a stocking, you, who thought yourself strong enough to conquer a world! And she, she only loves you when you debase yourself; she buys you cheaply at the price of a few moments of gratified passion, for she has nothing to lose. The engine whistled; the train glided into the station; I had to leave her. She kissed me with motherly affection, made the sign of the cross on my forehead--although she was a Protestant--commended me to the Lord, begged me to take care of myself, and not to give way to fretting. The train steamed out into the night, choking me with its bituminous smoke. I breathed--at last--the cool evening air, and enjoyed my freedom. Alas! but for a moment. No sooner had I arrived at the village inn than I broke down. I loved her, yes, I loved her, just as I had seen her at the moment of parting; for that moment recalled to me the first sweet days of our friendship, when she was the lovely, womanly tender mother, who spoiled and caressed me as if I had been a little child. And yet I loved her ardently, desired to make this stormy woman my wife. I asked for writing material, and wrote her a letter in which I told her that I would pray to God for her happiness. Her last embrace had led me back to God, and, under the influence of her parting kiss, still fresh on my lips, I denied the new faith, which teaches the progress of humanity. * * * * * The first stage in the downfall of a man had been reached; the others were sure to follow--to utter degradation, to the verge of insanity. PART II I On the day after our departure the whole town knew that Baroness X had eloped with one of the librarians of the Royal Library. This was only what was to be expected, to be dreaded! After all my efforts to save her good name, we had forgotten everything in a moment of weakness. She had spoiled all our plans, and all that remained for me to do was to take the responsibility on my own shoulders and grapple to the best of my ability with the consequences which threatened to ruin her theatrical career; there was only one theatre where she could possibly appear, and loose morals were not likely to increase her chances of an engagement at the Royal Theatre. On the morning after my return I made an excuse to call on the chief librarian, who was slightly unwell and unable to go out. The sole object of my visit was the establishment of an alibi. After leaving him I strolled through the main streets and thoroughfares and arrived at my office at the usual hour. I spent the evening at the Press Club, and deliberately set the rumour afloat that there was but one reason for the divorce, and that was the Baroness's determination to enter the theatrical profession. I maintained that husband and wife were on the best of terms, and that their separation was but the inevitable result of class prejudice. If I had only known what harm I was doing myself by spreading these rumours and proclaiming her innocence! ... But no, I should not have acted otherwise. The papers scrambled eagerly for the smart society scandal, but the public scoffed at this irresistible love of art, a more or less doubtful phenomenon always, but more especially when the stage is concerned. The women in particular were sceptical, and the forsaken child remained an ugly fact which nothing could explain away. In the meantime I received a letter--a perfect howl of anguish--from Copenhagen. Tortured by remorse, by a yearning for her deserted child, she asked me to come to her at once, complaining bitterly of her relatives who, she asserted, were making her life one long drawn-out agony. She charged them with having suppressed, in collusion with her husband, an important document, which was essential for the final decision in the case. I refused to leave town, but wrote a few angry lines to the Baron. His reply was so insolent that it led to a complete rupture between us. One or two telegrams passed, and peace was re-established. The document was found, and the proceedings went on. I spent my evenings in writing long letters to her, giving her minute instructions how to comport herself in the circumstances. These letters were intended to cheer and encourage her. I advised her to work, to study her art, to visit the theatres. In my anxiety to supplement her income, I urged her to write on anything which she found interesting, and undertook to get her articles accepted by a first-class paper. No answer. I had every reason to believe that her independent spirit resented my well-meant interference. A week passed; a week full of care, unrest and hard work. Then, early one morning, before I was up, I received a letter from Copenhagen. The tone of her letter was calm and serene; she seemed unable to hide a certain pride on account of the quarrel between the Baron and myself. (She was in a fair position to form an opinion, since she had received the respective letters from both of us.) She found the "duel" not without style, and admired my pluck. "It is a pity," she concluded her letter, "that two men like you and the Baron should not be friends." Further on she gave me a detailed account of what she was doing to while away the time. She was evidently enjoying herself; she had made her way into second-rate artistic circles, a fact which I did not like. She described an evening spent at some assembly-rooms in the company of a number of young men, who paid her a great deal of attention; she had made the conquest of a musician, a youth who had sacrificed his family to his art. "What a strange similarity between our two cases!" she remarked. Then followed a detailed biography of the interesting martyr and the request not to be jealous. "What did she mean?" I wondered, taken aback by the half-sarcastic, half-familiar tone of her letter, which appeared to be written between two entertainments. Was it possible that this coldly voluptuous madonna belonged to the class of born wantons, that she was a coquette, a cocotte? I sat down at once and indited a furious scolding; I painted her picture as she then appeared to me. I called her Madame Bovary; I entreated her to break the spell which was leading her to a precipice. In reply, "as a proof of her absolute faith in me," she sent me the letters which the young enthusiast had written to her. Love letters! The same old use of the term friendship, the inexplicable sympathy of the souls, and the whole list of the trite and to us both so familiar words: brother and sister, little mother, playmates, and so on, cloaks and covers under which lovers are wont to hide, to abandon themselves ultimately to their passions. What was I to think? Was she mentally deranged? Was she an unconscious criminal who remembered nothing of the terrible experience of the last two months, when the hearts of three people were on fire for her? And I who had been made to play the part of a Cinderella, a scape-goat, a man of straw, I was toiling to remove all obstacles from her way to the irregular life of the theatre. A fresh blow! To see the woman whom I adored wallow in the gutter. My soul was filled with unspeakable compassion, I had a foreboding of the fate which awaited her, perverse woman that she was, and vowed to lift her up, to strengthen and support her, to do everything in my power to shield her from a fatal catastrophe. Jealous! That vulgar word invented by a woman in order to mislead the man she has deceived or means to deceive. The hoodwinked husband shows his anger, and the word jealous is flung in his face. Jealous husband--husband betrayed! And there are women who look upon jealousy as synonymous with impotence, so that the betrayed husband can only shut his eyes, powerless in the face of such accusations. She returned after a fortnight, pretty, fresh, in high spirits, and full of bright memories, for she had thoroughly enjoyed herself. She was wearing a new dress with touches of brilliant colouring, which struck me as vulgar. I was puzzled. The woman who used to dress so simply, so quietly, with such exquisite taste, was adopting a colour scheme which was positively garish. Our meeting was colder than either of us had expected; there was a constrained silence at first, followed by a sudden outburst. The flatteries of her new friends had turned her head; she gave herself airs, teased me, made fun of me. She spread her gorgeous dress over my old sofa, to hide its shabbiness. Her old power over me reasserted itself, and for a moment I forgot all resentment in a passionate kiss; nevertheless, a slight feeling of anger remained at the bottom of my heart, and presently found vent in a torrent of reproaches. Subdued by my impetuosity, which contrasted so strangely with her own indolent nature, she took refuge in tears. "How can you be so absurd as to imagine that I was flirting with that young man?" she sobbed. "I promise you never to write to him again, although I'm sure he'll think it rude of me." Rude! One of her favourite catchwords! A man pays her attention, in other words makes advances to her, and she listens politely, for fear of being rude. What a woman! But fate was against me. I was lying at her feet, her beautiful little feet, encased in tiny shoes. She was wearing black silk stockings, which added to my confusion; her leg was a little fuller than it had been; the black legs in a cloud of petticoats were the legs of a she-devil. Her constant fear of motherhood irritated me; I lied to her; I told her that she had nothing to fear from me; that I knew how to cheat nature. I repeated my assurances until I finished by believing in them myself, and in the end succeeded in setting her mind at ease by promising to be responsible for all consequences. She was living with her mother and aunt in the second story of a house in one of the main thoroughfares. As she threatened to visit me in my own room if they prevented me from seeing her, I was allowed to call. But the thought of the supervision of these two old women, whom I knew to be watching us through the keyhole all the time, was almost beyond bearing. The divorced husband and wife were beginning to realise how much they had lost. The Baroness, once a respected married woman, mistress of an aristocratic establishment, had returned to the conditions of her childhood. She was under the control of her mother, almost a prisoner in one room, kept by two old women, who were themselves in needy circumstances. The mother never lost an opportunity of reminding her of her careful bringing up and how she had been fitted to take an honourable social position, and the daughter remembered the happy days following her release from the parental yoke. Bitter words were spoken on both sides, tears and insults were all too frequent, and I had to pay for them when I called in the evening ... to visit a prisoner under the eyes of a warder and witness. When the strain of these painful meetings became unbearable, we ventured to meet two or three times in the park. But we only jumped from the frying-pan into the fire, for now we were exposed to the contemptuous stare of the crowd. We hated the spring sunshine which illuminated our misery. We missed the darkness, we longed for the winter, which made it easier for us to hide our shame. Alas! the summer was coming with its long nights, which know no darkness. Our former friends dropped us, one after the other. Even my sister, intimidated by the now universal gossip, grew suspicious and estranged when the ex-baroness, at a little supper party, tried to keep up her spirits by taking too much wine, became intoxicated, proposed a toast, smoked cigarettes, and generally behaved in a way which excited the disgust of the women and the contempt of the men. "That woman's a common prostitute!" said a respectable married man and father of a family to my brother-in-law, and the latter took the first chance to repeat the remark to me. When on the following Sunday evening we arrived at my sister's house, where we had been invited to supper, the servant informed us, to our consternation, that her master and mistress were out. We spent the evening in my room, a prey to anger and despair, seeking comfort in the thought of suicide. I pulled down the blinds to shut out the daylight, and we sat together in misery, waiting for night and darkness, before we ventured out again into the street. But the summer sun did not set until late, and at eight o'clock we both felt hungry. Neither of us had any money, and there was nothing to eat or drink in the cupboard. These moments were some of the most wretched moments of my life, and gave me a foretaste of misery to come. Reproaches, cold kisses, floods of tears, remorse, disgust. I tried to persuade her to go home and have supper with her mother, but she was afraid of the daylight; moreover, her heart sank at the thought of the necessary explanation. She had eaten nothing since two o'clock, and the melancholy prospect of going to bed supperless aroused the wild beast hunger in her. She had grown up in a wealthy home, and had been used to every kind of luxury; she had no idea what poverty meant, and consequently she was completely unstrung. I, who had been familiar with hunger from childhood, suffered torture to see her in such a desperate position. I ransacked my cupboard, but could find nothing; I searched the drawers of my writing-table, and there, amongst all sorts of keep-sakes, faded flowers, old love-letters, discoloured ribbons, I found two sweets which I had kept in remembrance of a funeral. I offered them to her just as they were, wrapped in black paper and tinfoil. A distressing banquet indeed, these sweets in their mourning dress! Depressed, humiliated, apprehensive, I raged and thundered furiously against all respectable women whose doors were closed to us, who would have none of us. "Why this hostility and contempt? Had we committed a crime? Surely not; it was but a question of a straightforward divorce; we were complying with all the rules and requirements of the law." "We have been behaving too correctly," she said, trying to comfort herself. "The world is but a pack of knaves. It winks at open, shameless adultery, but condemns divorce. A high standard of morality indeed!" We were agreed on the subject. But the facts remained. The crime continued to hang over our heads, which drooped under its weight. I felt like a boy who has robbed a bird's nest. The mother had flown away, the little ones lay prostrate, chirping plaintively, bereft of the protecting warmth of the mother's wings. And the father? He was left desolate in the ruined home. I pictured him of a Sunday evening, an evening like this, when the family assembles round the fire-place, alone in the drawing-room, with the silenced piano; alone in the dining-room, eating his solitary dinner; alone always.... "Oh, no, nothing of the kind!" she interrupted my musings; "you are quite mistaken! You would be much more likely to find him lounging on the comfortable sofa at Matilde's brother-in-law's; he has had a good dinner with plenty of wine, and is gently squeezing the hand of my poor, dear, libelled little cousin, laughing at the outrageous stories told of his wife's ill-conduct--his wife, who refused to countenance his infidelity. And both of them, surrounded and upheld by the sympathy and applause of this hypocritical world, are eager to throw the first stone at us." Her words set me thinking, and after a while I expressed the opinion that the Baron had led us by the nose; that he had schemed to rid himself of a troublesome wife, so as to be able to marry again, and had managed to secure her dowry, in spite of the law. She became indignant at once. "You have no right to say anything against him! It was all my fault!" "Why have I no right to say anything against him? Is his person sacred?" One might almost have thought so, for whenever I attacked him she took his part. Was it the freemasonry of caste which prompted her to stand up for him? Or were there secrets in her life which made her fear his enmity? I could not solve the riddle, nor discover the reason of her loyalty to him, which no disloyalty on his part could shake. The sun set at last, and we parted. I slept the sleep of the famished; I dreamed that I was making desperate efforts to wing my way heavenwards, with a millstone round my neck. * * * * * Misfortune dogged our footsteps. We approached one of the theatrical managers with the request to give us a date for her first appearance. He replied that he could not, in his official position, have anything to do with a runaway wife. We left no stone unturned, but all our efforts were doomed to failure. A year hence her resources would be exhausted, and she would be thrown on the street. It was my business, the business of the poor Bohemian, to save her from that fate. To avoid every possibility of a misunderstanding, she called on an old friend of hers, a former tragedienne, whom up to quite recently she had constantly met in society, and who had cringed like a dog before the "golden-haired Baroness," her "little fairy." The great actress, a notoriously unfaithful wife, grown grey in vice at the side of her husband, received the honest sinner with insults and closed her door to her. We had tried everything! There remained nothing but revenge. "Very well," I said to her, "why not try writing? Write a play, get it produced at this very theatre? Why descend when there is a possibility of rising? Put your foot on that old woman! With one stride rise far above her head! Show off this lying, hypocritical, vicious society, which opens its houses to prostitutes, but closes them to a divorced wife. It's good stuff for a play." But she was one of those soft natures, very susceptible, very easily impressed, but unable to strike back. "No, no revenge!" And cowardly and revengeful at the same time, she left vengeance to God; it came to the same thing in the end, but it put the responsibility on a man of straw. But I persevered, and at last fortune favoured me. I had an order from a publisher to edit an illustrated book for children. "Write the text," I suggested; "you will be paid a hundred francs for it." I supplied her with reference books; I made her believe that she had done the work unaided, and she pocketed the hundred francs. But I paid a heavy penalty. The publisher stipulated that my name, which had come before the public as that of a playwright, should appear on the title-page. It was literary prostitution, and my enemies, who had predicted my incapacity of distinguishing myself in literature, triumphed. After that I persuaded her to write an article for one of the morning papers. She acquitted herself fairly well. The article was accepted, but the paper made no payment. I wore myself out in trying to raise a sovereign, and, succeeding after endless efforts, I handed it over to her with the white lie that it represented her remuneration from the paper. Poor Marie! She was delighted to give her small earnings to her old mother, who supplemented her income by letting furnished apartments. The old ladies began to look upon me as their saviour; copies of translations, unanimously rejected by theatrical managers in bygone days, appeared from drawers, where they had long lain forgotten. I was credited with the wondrous capacity to effect their acceptance, and burdened with futile commissions which interfered with my work and caused me no end of trouble. I had to fall back on my small savings because I wasted my time and used up my nervous energy; I could only afford one meal a day, and reverted to my old habit of going to bed without supper. Encouraged by her few little successes, Marie undertook to write a play in five acts. I seemed to have sown into her soul all the sterile seed of my poetic inspirations. In this virgin soil it germinated and grew, while I remained unproductive, like a flower which shakes out its seed and withers. My soul was lacerated, sick to death. The influence of that little female brain, so different from the brain of a man, disturbed and disordered the mechanism of my thoughts. I was at a loss to understand why I thought so highly of her literary gifts, why I kept on urging her to write, for with the exception of her letters to me, which were mostly personal and frequently quite commonplace, I had no proof that she could write at all. She had become my living poem; she had taken the place of my vanished talent. Her personality was grafted on mine and was dominating it. I existed only through her; I, the mother-root, led an underground life, nourishing this tree which was growing sunwards and promising wonderful blossoms. I delighted in its marvellous beauty, never dreaming that the day would come when the offshoot would separate from the exhausted trunk, to bloom and dazzle independently, proud of the borrowed splendour. The first act of her play was finished. I read it. Under the spell of my hallucination I found it perfect; I loudly expressed by sincere admiration and heartily congratulated the author. She was herself astonished at her talent, and I prophesied for her a brilliant future. But all of a sudden our plans were changed. Marie's mother remembered a friend, an artist, a very wealthy woman with a fine estate, and, what was of greater importance still, closely in touch with one of our leading actors whose wife was the rival and sworn enemy of the great tragedienne, Marie's former friend. The artist, a spinster, vouched for the high moral standard of this couple, and they expressed themselves ready to undertake the guidance and supervision of Marie's studies until her first appearance in public. Marie was invited to stay for a fortnight with her mother's friend to discuss the matter. There she was to meet the great actor and his wife who, to fill her cup of happiness, had used their influence with the manager of the theatre on her behalf with very satisfactory results. His former reported refusal was thereby entirely contradicted, and turned out to have been a fabrication of her mother's, invented for the sole purpose of keeping her daughter off the stage. Marie's future appeared to be safe. I could breathe freely, sleep undisturbed, work. She stayed away for a fortnight. To judge from her scanty letters she was anything but dull. Her new friends, to whom she had given proofs of her talent, had told her that she would do well on the stage. On her return she engaged rooms in a farmhouse and arranged with the farmer's wife to board her. She was free of her warders now, and we could spend unchaperoned week-ends together. Life was smiling at us, a little sadly, it is true, for a certain melancholy, the effect of her divorce, always remained. But in the country the burden of convention weighs less heavily than in town, and the summer sun soon dispelled the gloom which hung over our lives. II Her appearance under the patronage of the two famous actors was announced in the autumn and put a stop to all gossip. I did not like the part chosen for her. It was a small character-part in an old-fashioned play. But her teacher and patron counted on the sympathy of the audience and the effect of a good scene, in which she refused an aristocratic suitor who saw in her a rare ornament for his drawing-room, and declared that in her eyes the noble heart of the poor young man was infinitely more precious than all the wealth and title of the nobleman. As I was dismissed from my post as her teacher, I was able to devote all my time and attention to my scientific studies, and the writing of a paper destined for some academy or other. This was necessary in order to prove myself a man of letters and efficient librarian. With ardent zeal I gave myself up to ethnographical research in connection with the farthest East. It acted like opium on my brain, which was exhausted by the struggles, cares and pains I had undergone. Inspired by the ambition to show myself worthy of my beloved, whose future appeared in the rosiest hues, I achieved wonders of industry; I shut myself up in the vaults of the Royal Castle from morning till night; I suffered from the damp and icy atmosphere without a complaint; I defied poverty and need. * * * * * Marie's appearance in public was postponed by the death of her little daughter, who died of brain fever; another month of tears, reproaches and remorse followed. "It is a judgment on you," declared the child's grand-mother, glad to thrust the poisoned dagger into the heart of the daughter-in-law whom she hated because she had brought dishonour on her name. Marie was broken-hearted, and spent day and night at the bedside of the dying child, under the roof of her former husband, chaperoned by her late mother-in-law. The father was overcome with grief at the death of his only child, and, bowed down with sorrow, he longed to meet again the friend of former days, the witness of the past. One evening, a few days after the little girl's funeral, my landlady informed me that the Baron had called and had left a message to the effect that he hoped to see me at his house. Considering the unusual circumstances which had led up to the breach, I wanted anything but a reconciliation. I sent him a polite refusal. A quarter of an hour had hardly elapsed when Marie herself appeared, dressed in deep mourning, her eyes full of tears, and begged me to comply with the request of the inconsolable Baron. I found this mission in abominable taste. I rated her soundly, and pointed out to her how ambiguous and unjustifiable in the eyes of the world such a situation would be. She upbraided me with my prejudices, implored me, appealed to my generous disposition, and ended by overruling all my objections; I agreed to the indelicate proposal. I had sworn never again to enter the house in which the drama had been enacted. But the widower had removed. He had taken rooms not far from us; I was glad to be spared a renewed visit to the old place, and accompanied the divorced wife on her visit to her late husband. The mourning, the evident grief, the grave and gloomy appearance of the house all combined to rob our meeting of any trace of strangeness or embarrassment. The habit of seeing these two people together was a bar to any feeling of jealousy on my part, and the tactful and cordial bearing of the Baron helped to reassure me completely. We dined together, we drank and played cards just as in the old days. On the following day we met in my room; on a third evening at Marie's, who was now living in the house of an old lady. We fell into our former habits, and Marie was happy to see us together. It comforted her, and since we had ourselves under perfect control nobody was offended or aggrieved. The Baron looked upon us as being secretly engaged, his love for Marie seemed to be dead. Sometimes he even talked of his unhappy love-affair, for Matilda was carefully watched by her father and out of his reach.... Marie teased and comforted him alternately, and he made no secret, now, of his true feelings. At parting their intimacy was more marked, but instead of rousing my jealousy it merely excited my disgust. One day Marie told me that she had been to see the Baron, and stayed to have dinner with him; she justified her visit by saying that she had to talk to him on urgent business in connection with her daughter's estate which the Baron inherited. I objected to this want of taste; in fact, I told her that her conduct was downright indecent. She burst out laughing, teasingly reminded me of my former railings against prejudice, and in the end I joined in her laughter. It was ridiculous, it was unusual, but it was good form to laugh at everything, and a splendid thing to see virtue rewarded. After that she visited the Baron whenever she pleased, and I believe he helped her to study her part. Up to now we had had no quarrels, for any jealousy I might have felt disappeared as soon as I got used to the state of things, and I never quite lost the old illusion that they were husband and wife. But one evening Marie came to see me alone. On helping her to remove her cloak I noticed that her dress was somewhat deranged. It roused my suspicions. She sat down on the sofa opposite the looking-glass, talking volubly all the time. Her conversation struck me as forced, she cast furtive glances at her reflection and stealthily tried to smooth her hair. A horrible thought flashed into my mind. Unable to control my agitation, I exclaimed-- "Where have you been?" "With Gustav." "What did you do there?" She started, but quickly suppressing her emotion, she replied-- "I was studying my part." "It's a lie!" She made an angry exclamation; she accused me of being absurdly jealous, deluged me with explanations. I wavered, and as we were invited out that evening I had to postpone all further investigation. Thinking of this incident to-day, I would swear a solemn oath that she committed bigamy in those days, to say the least of it. But at that time I was completely deceived by her trickery. What had happened?... Probably this-- She had dined alone with the Baron; they had had coffee and liqueurs; she was seized with that after-dinner lassitude; the Baron advised her to lie down on the sofa and rest awhile, a proposal which did not displease her ... and the rest followed as a matter of course. Solitude, complete confidence, old memories, increased temptation, and the lonely man succumbed. Why deny themselves, as long as no one knew? She was her own mistress, since she had never taken money from her lover, and to break a promise--what is that to a woman! Perhaps she already regretted his loss; perhaps she had come to the conclusion that he understood her needs better than I; perhaps, now that her curiosity was satisfied, she yearned again for the stronger man; for in the struggle for the love of a woman the sensitive and delicate lover, may he be never so ardent, is always beaten by the athlete. It was more than probable that she gave herself to him, more especially as she was free from responsibility and her woman's heart pitied the lonely man. Had I been in the place of the offended husband should I have acted otherwise? I hardly think so. But since the beloved lips never tired of using the sublime words "honour," "decency," "morality," I refused to harbour any suspicions. For these reasons a woman will always get the better of her lover, if he be a man of honour. He flatters himself that he is the only one, because he wants' to be the only one, and the wish is father to the thought. To-day Marie's loyalty seems to me in the highest degree improbable, incredible, impossible. It was also a significant fact that the Baron, when we were alone together, always manifested a lively interest in other women; and one evening, after dining with him at a restaurant, he went so far as to ask me for certain addresses. Doubtless this was done in order to deceive me. Another thing which struck me was his attitude towards Marie; he treated her with a somewhat contemptuous courtesy; she behaved like a cocotte, and her passion for me seemed to be more and more on the wane. III At last Marie appeared before the footlights. She was a success for many and complex reasons. Firstly, everybody was curious to see a baroness on the stage; secondly, the middle-classes were sympathetic because they delighted in the blow dealt to aristocratic prestige by this divorce; the bachelors, the sexless, the enemies of matrimonial slavery, lavished flowers on her; not to forget the friends and relations of the great actor, who were interested in her because he had been her teacher and was bringing her out. After the performance the Baron asked both of us, and the old lady with whom Marie was living, to supper. Everybody was charmed with the result and intoxicated with the success. I was displeased with Marie's appearance because she had not removed her make-up, and her hair was still dressed as she had worn it on the stage. She was no longer the virginal mother with whom I had fallen in love, but an actress with insolent gestures, bad manners, boastful, overbearing, behaving with a kind of offensive foppishness. In her imagination she had scaled the highest summits of art, and she dismissed all my remarks, my suggestions, with a shrug of her shoulders or a condescending, "My dear, you know nothing about it." The Baron wore a look of dejection, like an unhappy lover. But for my presence he would have kissed her. Under the influence of an incredible quantity of Madeira he opened his heart to us, and regretted that art, the divine, should claim so many cruel sacrifices. The press--which had been well managed--confirmed her success, and an engagement seemed likely to follow. Two photographers fought for the honour of being permitted to photograph the debutante. A successful little magazine sold the portrait of the new star, together with her biography. What struck me most in looking at these new portraits was the fact that not one of them resembled the old one in my possession. Was it possible that her character, the expression of her face, could have changed in so short a time, in a year? Or was she a different woman when she reflected the love, the tenderness, the compassion which my eyes radiated as soon as I looked at her? The expression of her face on these portraits was vulgar, hard and insolent, every feature expressed a cruel coquetry, a challenge. One pose in particular disgusted me. She was represented leaning over the back of a low chair in such a manner that the beholder could see her bosom, which was only partly hidden by a fan resting against the upper part of her dress. Her eyes seemed riveted on the eyes of an invisible person, not myself, for my love, coupled with respect and tenderness, never caressed her with the shameless sensuality which roused in her the passion of a wanton. The photograph reminded me of those obscene pictures which are furtively offered to the passers-by at the doors of low coffee-houses under cover of the night. When she offered me this portrait I refused to accept it. "What!" she exclaimed in a piteous voice, which for a moment revealed her carefully concealed want of true refinement, "you refuse my photograph? Then you don't love me any more!" When a woman says to her lover, "You don't love me any more," she has already ceased to love him. I knew from this moment that her love was growing cold. She realised that her feeble soul had drawn from me the courage, the boldness necessary to arrive at her goal, and she wanted to be rid of the troublesome creditor. She had been stealing my thoughts while she seemed to scorn them with her contemptuous, "You know nothing about it, my dear!" This uncultured woman, whose only accomplishment was her fluent French, whose education had been neglected, who had been brought up in the country, who knew nothing of literature or the stage, to whom I had given the first lessons in the correct pronunciation of Swedish, to whom I had explained the secrets of metrics and prosody, treated me as if I were an idiot. I advised her to select for her second appearance in public, which was to take place shortly, the principal part in the best melodrama on the repertoire. She refused. But a few days later she informed me casually that the idea had occurred to her to choose this particular part. I analysed it for her, sketched the costumes, drew her attention to all the points to be made, showed her how to make her entrances and exits, and pointed out to her the features which should be specially emphasized. A secret struggle went on between the Baron and myself. He, who stage-managed the performances of the Royal Guards, instructed the play-acting soldiers, fondly imagining himself to be better acquainted with theatrical affairs than I was. Marie valued his so-called hints more highly; accepted him as her authority, scorned my suggestions. Oh! the vileness of his conception of æsthetics! He extolled the commonplace, the vulgar, the banal, because, as he said, it was true nature. I admitted his arguments as far as modern comedy was concerned, for here the characters are depicted among the thousand details of everyday life. But his theory became impossible when applied, for instance, to English melodrama; great passions cannot be expressed in the same way as the whims and witticisms of a drawing-room conversation. But this distinction was too subtle for a mediocre brain, which could only generalise and assume that because a certain thing happened in one case, it must infallibly become the rule and happen in all others. On the day before her appearance Marie showed me her dresses. In spite of my opposition and entreaties she had chosen a dull grey material, most unbecoming to her because it gave her complexion an ashen hue. Her only reply had been a curt repulse and the truly feminine argument-- "But Mrs. X., the great tragedienne, created the part in a grey dress!" "True, but Mrs. X. is not fair like you! And what suits a dark woman doesn't always suit a fair one." She had not been able to see my point and had only been angry with me. I had prophesied a fiasco, and her second appearance really was a dead failure. The tears, the reproaches, the insults even which followed! As misfortune would have it, a week later the great actress appeared in the same part, in a special performance, and received cart-loads of flowers. Of course Marie was furious with me and made me responsible for her failure, simply because I had prophesied it; the grief and disappointment brought her still nearer to the Baron; it drew them together with the sympathy which always unites inferior characters. I, the man of letters, the playwright, the dramatic critic, at home in all the literatures, through my work and position at the library in correspondence with the finest intellects of the world, I was cast aside like a worn-out garment, treated like an idiot, considered of no more importance than a footman or a dog. But although her second appearance had been a failure, she was engaged with a pay of 2,400 crowns[1] per annum. She had acquitted herself fairly well, but she had no great career before her. She would never rise above the level of a "useful actress"; she would be cast for small parts, society women, mere dressed-up dolls, and spend her days at the dressmaker's. Three, four, sometimes five different dresses on one and the same evening would swallow up her insufficient pay. What bitter disappointments, what heart-rending scenes, as she watched her parts grow smaller and smaller, until they consisted of a few sentences only. Her room had the appearance of a dressmaker's workshop, littered with dress materials, patterns and millinery. The mother, the real _grande dame_ who had left her drawing-rooms, renounced dress and fashion, to devote her life to a lofty ideal of art, had become a bungling seamstress who worked at her sewing machine till midnight, so that she might play before an indifferent bourgeoisie for a few minutes the part of a society woman. The waste of time behind the scenes during rehearsal, when she stood in the wings for hours waiting for her cue which should bring her before the footlights to say two or three words, developed in her a taste for gossip, for idle talk and risky stories; it killed all honest striving to rise above her condition; the soul was shorn of its wings and was flung to earth, into the gutter. The disintegrating process went on. She continued to deteriorate, and after her dresses had been remodelled again and again for want of means to buy new ones, she was deprived of even her small parts and degraded to the role of a walker on. Poverty was staring her in the face, and her mother, a modern Cassandra, made life a burden to her; the public, well acquainted with her sensational divorce, and the premature death of her little girl, cried out against the unfaithful wife, the unnatural mother. It was but a question of time and the manager of the theatre would not be able to protect her against the antipathy of the audience; the great actor, her teacher, disowned her and admitted his mistake in believing in her talent. So much ado, so much unhappiness, to humour a woman who did not know her own mind. And still matters grew worse, for Marie's mother suddenly died of heart disease, of a broken heart, as it was called, broken with sorrow, caused by her unnatural daughter. Again my honour was involved. I was furious with the injustice of the world, and made a desperate effort to vindicate her honour. I proposed the foundation of a weekly paper, for the discussion of the drama, music, literature and art, and she, thankful now for every effort to help her, gratefully accepted my proposal. In this paper she was to make her début as a critic and writer of feuilletons, and so gradually become acquainted with publishers. She sunk two hundred crowns in the enterprise. I undertook the editorial work and proof-reading. Since I was well aware of my complete incapacity as a business manager, I left her to attend to the sale and advertisements, the proceeds of which she was to share with the manager of her theatre, who was also the proprietor of a news stall. The first number was set and looked very well indeed. It contained a leader written by one of our rising artists; an original article from a correspondent in Rome; another one from Paris; a critique on a musical performance by a distinguished writer and contributor to one of the first Stockholm papers; a literary review written by myself; a feuilleton and reports on first nights by Marie. It would have been impossible to improve the arrangements made; the great thing was to publish the first number at the time advertised. Everything was ready, but at the last moment we lacked the necessary funds and credit. Alas! I had put my fate into the hands of a woman! On the day of the publication she remained calmly in bed and slept till broad daylight. Convinced that everything was well, I went to town, but everywhere on my way I was greeted with sarcastic smiles. "Well, where is the wonderful paper to be had?" I was asked the question dozens of times by the numerous people interested in its appearance. "Everywhere!" "Or nowhere!" I went into a newspaper shop. "We haven't received it yet," said the assistant behind the counter. I rushed to the printing-office. It had not left the press yet. A complete failure! We had an angry scene. Her inborn carelessness and ignorance of the publishing trade exonerated her to some extent. She had completely relied on her friend, the theatrical manager. The two hundred crowns were gone. My time, my honour, the eager thought I had devoted to the scheme, all were wasted. In this general shipwreck one haunting thought remained: our condition was hopeless. I proposed that we should die together. What was to become of us? She was quite broken down and I had not the strength to lift her up a second time. "Let us die," I said to her. "Don't let us degenerate into walking corpses and obstruct the path of the living." She refused. What a coward you were, my proud Marie! And how cruel it was of you to make me a witness of the spectacle of your downfall, the laughter and sneers of the onlookers! I spent the evening at my club, and when I went home that night I was intoxicated. I went to see her early on the following morning. The alcohol seemed to have made me more clear-sighted. For the first time I noticed the change in her. Her room was untidy, her dress slovenly, her beloved little feet were thrust into a pair of old slippers, the stockings hung in wrinkles round her ankles. What squalor! Her vocabulary had become enriched by some ugly theatrical slang; her gestures were reminiscent of the street, her eyes looked at me with hatred, an expression of bitterness drew down the corners of her mouth. She remained stooping over her work, without looking at me, as if she were thinking evil thoughts. Suddenly, without raising her head, she said hoarsely-- "Do you know, Axel, what a woman is justified in expecting from the man with whom she is on intimate terms, such as we are?" Thunderstruck, unwilling to trust my ears, I faltered-- "No ... what?" "What does a woman expect from her lover?" "Love!" "And what else?" "Money!" The vulgar word saved her from further questioning, and I left her, convinced that I had guessed correctly. "Prostitute! Prostitute!" I said to myself, stumbling through the streets, the autumnal appearance of which depressed my spirits. We had arrived at the last stage.... All that remained to do was to make payment for pleasures received, to admit the trade without shame. If she had been poor, at least, suffering from want! But she had just come into her mother's money, the entire furniture of a house, and a number of shares, some of doubtful value, but nevertheless representing two or three thousand crowns; moreover, she was still receiving her pay regularly from the theatre. I could not understand her attitude ... until suddenly I remembered her landlady and intimate friend. She was an abominable, elderly woman, with the suspicious manners of a procuress; nobody knew how she lived; she was always in debt, yet always extravagantly and strikingly dressed; somehow she managed to ingratiate herself with people, and she always ended by asking them for a small loan, eternally bewailing her miserable existence. A shady character, who hated me because I saw through her. Now I suddenly remembered an incident which had happened two or three months ago, but which had not interested me at the time. The woman had extracted a promise from a friend of Marie's to lend her a thousand crowns. The promise had remained a promise. Eventually Marie, giving way to pressure and anxious to save the reputation of her friend, who was badly compromised, guaranteed to find the money, and actually raised the sum. But instead of gratitude she reaped nothing but reproaches from her friend, and when it came to explanations, the old-woman insisted on her perfect innocence and laid the full blame on Marie's shoulders. I had at the time expressed my dislike and distrust of her, and urged Marie to have nothing to do with an individual whose manipulations came very close to blackmail. But she had exonerated her false friend at the time.... Later on she told a different story altogether, talked of a misunderstanding; in the end the whole incident became "an invention of my evil imagination." Possibly this woman had suggested to Marie the vile idea of "presenting me with the bill." It must have been so, for the suggestion had not been made easily and was most unlike her. I tried to make myself believe it, hope it. If she had merely asked me for the money which she had invested in the paper, the money which had been lost through her fault--that would have been female mathematics. Or, if she had insisted on an immediate marriage! But she had no wish to be married, I was sure of that. It was a question of paying for the love, the kisses she had given me. It was payment she demanded.... Supposing I sent her in my bill: for my work according to time and quality, for the waste of brain power, of nerve force, for my heart's blood, my name, my honour, my sufferings; the bill for my career, ruined, perhaps, for ever. But no, it was her privilege to send in the first bill; I took no exception to that. I spent my evening at a restaurant, wandered through the streets and pondered the problem of degradation. Why is it so painful to watch a person sink? It must be because there is something unnatural in it, for nature demands personal progress, evolution, and every backward step means the disintegration of force. The same argument applies to the life of the community where everybody strives to reach the material or spiritual summits. Thence comes the tragic feeling which seizes us in the contemplation of failure, tragic as autumn, sickness and death. This woman, who had not yet reached her thirtieth year, had been young, beautiful, frank, honest, amiable, strong and well-bred; in two short years she had been so degraded, had fallen so low. For a moment I tried to blame myself; the thought that the fault was mine would have been a comfort to me, for it would have made her shame seem less. But try as I would, I did not succeed, for had I not taught her the cult of the beautiful? the love of high ideals? the longing to do noble acts? While she adopted the vulgarities of her theatrical friends, I had improved, I had acquired the manners and language of fashionable society, I had learned that self-control which keeps emotion in check and is considered the hall-mark of good breeding. I had become chaste in love, anxious to spare modesty, not to offend against beauty and seemliness, for thus only can we forget the brutality of an act which to my mind is much more spiritual than physical. I was rough sometimes, it is true, but never vulgar. I killed, but never wounded. I called a spade a spade, but never hinted and insinuated; my ideas were my own, prompted by the situations in which I happened to find myself; I never tried to dazzle with the witticisms of musical comedies or comic papers. I loved cleanliness, purity, beauty in my daily surroundings; I preferred to refuse an invitation to accepting it and appearing badly dressed. I never received her in dressing-gown and slippers; I may not always have been able to offer a guest more than bread and butter and a glass of beer, but there was always a clean table-cloth. I had not set her a bad example; it was not my fault that she had deteriorated. Her love for me was dead, therefore she did not want to please me any longer. She belonged to the public, it was that fact which had made her the wanton who could calmly present her bill for so many nights of pleasure.... During the next few days I shut myself up in my library. I mourned for my love, my splendid, foolish, divine love. All was over, and the battlefield on which the struggle had raged was silent and still. Two dead and so many wounded to satisfy a woman who was not worth a pair of old shoes! If her passion had at least been roused by the longing for motherhood, if she had been guided by the unrealised instincts which force those unfortunates who are mothers on the streets! But she detested children; in her eyes motherhood was degrading. Unnatural and perverse woman that she was, she debased the maternal instinct to a vulgar pleasure. Her race was doomed to extinction because she was a degenerate, in the process of dissolution; but she concealed this dissolution under high-sounding phrases, proclaimed that it was our duty to live for higher ends, for the good of humanity at large. I loathed her now, I tried to forget her. I paced the room, up and down, up and down, before the rows of book-shelves, unable to rid myself of the accursed night-mare which haunted me. I had no desire for her, or for her company, for she inspired me with disgust; and yet a deep compassion, an almost paternal tenderness made me feel responsible for her future. I knew that if I left her to her own devices, she would go under, and end either as the mistress of her late husband, or the mistress of all the world. I was powerless to lift her up, powerless to struggle out of the morass into which we had fallen. I resigned myself to remain tied to her, even if I had to witness and share in her downward course. She was dragging me down with her--life had become a burden to me, I had lost all enthusiasm for my work. The instinct of self-preservation, hope, were dead. I wanted nothing, desired nothing. I had developed into a complete misanthrope; I frequently turned away from the door of my restaurant and, forgoing dinner, returned home, threw myself on my sofa and buried myself under my rugs. There I lay, like a wild beast that has received its death wound, rigid, with an empty brain, unable to think or sleep, waiting for the end. One day, however, I was sitting in a back room of my restaurant, a private room where lovers meet and shabby coats hide themselves, both afraid of the daylight. All at once a well-known voice woke me from my reverie: a man wished me a good afternoon. He was an unsuccessful architect, a lost member of our late Bohemia, which was now scattered to all the winds. "You are still among the living, then?" he said, sitting down opposite me. "I am ... but what about you?" "I'm so-so ... off to Paris to-morrow ... some fool left me ten thousand crowns." "Lucky dog!" "Unfortunately I have to devour it all by myself...." "The misfortune is not so great, I know a set of teeth ready to help you." "Really? Would you care to come?..." "Only too glad to!" "Is it a bargain then?" "It's a bargain." "To-morrow night, by the six o'clock train, to Paris...." "And afterwards?..." "A bullet through the head!" "The devil! Where did you get this idea from?" "From your face! Suicide is plainly written on it!" "Haruspex! Well, pack up and come along!" When I saw Marie that night I told her the good news. She listened with every appearance of pleasure, wished me a pleasant time, and repeated again and again that it would do me a world of good, would refresh me mentally. In short, she seemed well pleased, and overwhelmed me with affection, which touched me deeply. We spent the evening together, talking of the days which had gone by. We made no plans, for we had lost faith in the future. Then we parted.... For ever? ... The question was not mooted; we silently agreed to leave it to chance to reunite us or not. [1] A Swedish crown is equivalent to 1s. 4d. IV The journey really rejuvenated me. It stirred up the memories of my early youth and I felt a mad joy surging in my heart; I wanted to forget the last two years of misery, and not for one single moment did I feel inclined to speak of Marie. The whole tragedy of the divorce was like a repulsive heap of offal, from which I was eager to fly without turning round. I could not help smiling in my sleeve at times, like a fugitive who is firmly resolved not to be taken again; I felt like a debtor who has escaped from his creditors and is hiding in a distant country. For two weeks I revelled in the Paris theatres, museums and libraries. I received no letters from Marie, and was beginning to hope that she had got over our separation and that everything was well in the best of all possible worlds. But after a certain time I grew tired of wandering about, and sated with so many new and strong impressions; things began to lose their interest. I stayed in my room and read the papers, oppressed by vague apprehensions, by an inexplicable uneasiness. The vision of the white woman, the Fata Morgana of the virginal mother began to haunt me and disturbed my peace. The picture of the insolent actress was wiped out of my memory; I remembered only the Baroness, young, beautiful; her fragile body transfigured and clothed with the beauty of the Land of Promise, dreamed of by the ascètes. I was indulging in those painful and yet delicious dreams when I received a letter from Marie, in which she informed me in heartbreaking words that she was about to become a mother, and implored me to save her from dishonour. Without a moment's hesitation I packed my portmanteau. I left Paris by the first train for Stockholm. I was going to make her my wife. I had no doubt about the paternity of the expected baby. I looked upon the result of our irregular relations as a blessing, as the end of our sufferings; but also as a fact which burdened us with a heavy responsibility, which might spell ruin; at the same time, however, it was the starting point into the unknown; something quite new. Moreover, I always had a very high conception of married life; I considered it the only possible form under which two persons of opposite sex could live together. Life together held no terror for me. My love received a fresh stimulus from the fact that Marie was about to become a mother; she arose purified, ennobled, from the mire of our illicit relationship. On my arrival at Stockholm she received me very ungraciously and accused me of having deceived her. We had a painful scene--but need she have been so surprised after all that had happened during the last twelve months? She hated matrimony. Her objectionable friend had impressed upon her that a married woman is a slave who works for her husband gratuitously. I detest slaves, and therefore proposed a modern _ménage_, in keeping with our views. I suggested that we should take three rooms, one for her, one for myself and a common room. We should neither do our own housekeeping, nor have any servants in the house. Dinner should be sent in from a neighbouring restaurant, breakfast and supper be prepared in the kitchen by a daily servant. In this way expenses were easily calculated and the causes for unpleasantness reduced to a minimum. To avoid every suspicion of living on my wife's dowry, I suggested that it should be settled on her. In the North a man considers himself dishonoured by the acceptance of his wife's dowry, which in civilised countries forms a sort of contribution from the wife, and creates in her the illusion that her husband is not keeping her entirely. To avoid a bad start it is the custom in Germany and Denmark for the wife to furnish the house; this creates the impression on the husband that he is living in his wife's house, and in the latter that she is in her own home, maintaining her husband. Marie had recently inherited her mother's furniture, articles without any intrinsic value, their only claim to distinction being a certain sentimental merit of old association and an air of antiquity. She proposed that she should furnish the rooms, arguing that it would be absurd to buy furniture for three rooms when she had enough for six. I willingly agreed to her proposal. There only remained one more point, the main one, the expected baby. We were agreed on the necessity of keeping its birth a secret, and we decided to place it with a reliable nurse until such time as we could adopt it. The wedding was fixed for the 31st of December. During the remaining two months I strained every nerve to make adequate provision for the future. For this purpose, and knowing that Marie would soon be compelled to renounce her work at the theatre, I renewed my literary efforts. I worked with such ease that at the end of the first month I was able to offer for publication a volume of short stories, which was accepted without difficulty. Fortune favoured me; I was appointed assistant-librarian with a salary of twelve hundred crowns, and when the collections were transferred from the old building to the new one I received a bonus of six hundred crowns. This was good fortune indeed, and taken together with other favourable omens I began to think that a relentless fate had tired of persecuting me. The first and foremost magazine in Finland offered me a post on the staff as reviewer at fifty crowns for each article. The official Swedish Journal, published by the Academy, gave me the much-coveted order to write the reviews on art for thirty-five crowns the column. Besides all this I was entrusted with the revision of the classics which were being published at that time. All this good fortune came to me in those two months, the most fateful months of my whole life. My short stories appeared almost immediately and were a great success. I was hailed as a master of this particular style; it was said that the book was epoch-making in the literature of Sweden, because it was the first to introduce modern realism. It was unspeakable happiness to me to lay at the feet of my poor, adored Marie a name which, apart from the titles of a royal secretary, and assistant-librarian, was beginning to be known, with every prospect of a brilliant future. Some day I should be able to give her a fresh start, to re-open her theatrical career, which for the moment had been interrupted by, perhaps, undeserved misfortune. Fortune was smiling at us with a tear in the eye.... The banns were published. I packed my belongings and said good-bye to my attic, the witness of many joys and sorrows. I marched into that prison which all fear, but which, perhaps, we had less cause to dread than others, since we had foreseen all dangers, removed all stumbling blocks.... And yet.... PART III I What inexpressible happiness it is to be married! To be always near the beloved one, safe from the prying eyes of the fatuous world. It is as if one had regained the home of one's childhood with its sheltering love, a safe port after the storm, a nest which awaits the little ones. Surrounded by nothing but objects which belonged to her, mementoes and relics of her parents' house, I felt as if I were a shoot grafted on her trunk; the oil paintings of her ancestors deluded me into thinking that I had been adopted by her family, because her ancestors will also be the ancestors of my children. I received everything from her hand; she made me wear her father's watch and chain; my dinner was served on her mother's china; she poured on me a continuous stream of trifling presents, relics of old times, which had belonged to famous warriors celebrated by the poets of her country, a fact which impressed me not a little. She was the benefactress, the generous giver of all these gifts, and I entirely forgot that it was I who had reclaimed her, lifted her out of the mire, made her the wife of a man with brilliant prospects; forgot that she had been an unknown actress, a divorced wife condemned by her sisters, a woman whom very probably I had saved from the worst. What a happy life we led! We realised the dream of freedom in marriage. No double-bed, no common bed-room, room, no common dressing-room; nothing unseemly degraded the sanctity of our union. Marriage as we understood and realised it was a splendid institution. The tender good-nights, repeated again and again; the joy of wishing each other good-morning, of asking how we had slept, were they not due to the fact that we occupied separate rooms? How delightful were the stolen visits to each other, the courtesy and tenderness which we never forgot! How different compared with the brazen boldness, the more or less graciously endured brutalities which are as a rule inseparable from matrimony. I got through an amazing amount of work, staying at home by the side of my beloved wife who was sewing tiny garments for the expected baby. What a lot of time I had wasted in rendezvous and idleness in the days gone by! * * * * * After a month of the closest companionship Marie was laid up with a premature confinement. We had a tiny daughter, hardly able to draw breath. Without a moment's delay the baby was taken charge of by a nurse whom we knew to be a decent woman, and two days later it passed away as it had come, without pain, from sheer want of vitality, just after it had received private baptism. The mother received the news with regret, but it was regret not unmingled with relief. A burden of infinite cares and worries had fallen off her shoulders, for well she knew that social prejudice would not have permitted her to keep the prematurely-born infant under our own roof. After this incident we firmly made up our minds to one thing: No more children! We dreamed of a life together, a life of perfect comradeship, of a man and a woman, loving and supplementing each other, but living their own lives, restlessly straining every nerve to realise their individual ambitions. Now that every obstacle had been removed, every threatening danger overcome, we began to breathe freely and reconsider our position. I was ostracised by my relations, no meddlesome member of my family threatened the peace of our home, and since the only relative of my wife's who lived on the spot was her aunt, we were spared the frequent calls and visits which so often give rise to serious troubles and trials in a young _ménage_. II Six weeks later I made the discovery that two intruders had insinuated themselves into my wife's confidence. One of them was a dog, a King Charles, a blear-eyed little monster, which greeted me with deafening yelping and barking every time I entered the house, just as if I had been a stranger. I always disliked dogs, those protectors of cowards who lack the courage to fight an assailant themselves; but I particularly disliked this dog, because it was a relic of her first marriage, a constant reminder of her late husband. The first time I protested, and ordered it to lie down, my wife reproached me gently, and made excuses for the little beast, which she called her late daughter's legacy, pretending to be horror-struck at this suddenly revealed strain of cruelty in my disposition. One day I found traces of the little monster on the drawing-room carpet. I punished it, and she called me a coward who ill-treated dumb creatures. "But what else could I do, my dear? It's no use arguing with animals; they don't understand our language." She began to cry, and sobbingly confessed that she could not help being afraid of a cruel man.... And the monster continued to dirty the drawing-room carpet. I decided to take the trouble to train the dog, and did my utmost to convince her that a little perseverance does wonders with an intelligent animal. She lost her temper, and for the first time drew my attention to the fact that the carpet belonged to her. "Take it away, then; I never undertook to live in a pig-sty." The carpet remained where it was, but the dog was watched more carefully; my remonstrances had some effect. Nevertheless fresh catastrophes occurred. In order to keep down our expenditure and save the trouble and expense of a kitchen fire, we decided to have a cold supper in the evening. Entering the kitchen accidentally on one occasion, I was amazed to find a roaring fire and the maid engaged in frying veal cutlets. "Who are these cutlets for?" "For the dog, sir." My wife joined us. "My dear girl----" "Excuse me, I paid for them!" "But I have to be content with a cold supper! I fare worse than your dog.... And I, too, pay." She paid! Henceforth the dog was looked upon as a martyr. Marie and a friend, a brand-new friend, adopted the habit of worshipping the beast, which they had decorated with a blue ribbon, behind locked doors. And the dear friend heaved a sigh at the thought of so much human malice incarnate in my detestable person. An irrepressible hatred for this interloper who was everywhere in my way, took possession of me. My wife, with a down pillow and some blankets, made a bed for it which obstructed my way whenever I wanted to say good-morning or good-night to her. And on every Saturday, the day I looked forward to through a week of toil, counting on a pleasant evening with her alone when, undisturbed, we could talk of the past and make plans for the future, she spent three hours with her friend in the kitchen; the maid made up a blazing fire; the whole place was turned upside down--and why? Because Saturday was the monster's tub-day. "Don't you think you are treating me heartlessly, cruelly?" "How dare you call her heartless?" exclaimed the friend. "A gentler soul never breathed. Why, she doesn't even shrink from sacrificing her own and her husband's happiness to a poor forsaken animal!" Some little time after I sat down to a dinner which was below criticism. For some time past the food which was sent in daily from a neighbouring restaurant had been steadily deteriorating, but my beloved wife, with her irresistible sweetness, had made me believe that I had grown more fastidious. And I had not doubted her word, for I always took her at her own valuation and looked upon her as the soul of truth and candour. The fatal dinner was served. There was nothing on the dish but bones and sinews. "What is this you are putting before me?" I asked the maid. "I am sorry, sir," she replied, "but I had orders to reserve the best pieces for the dog." Beware of the woman who has been found out! Her wrath will fall on your head with fourfold strength. She sat as if struck by lightning, unmasked, shown up as a liar, a cheat even, for she had always insisted that she was paying for the dog's food out of her own pocket. Her pallor and silence made me feel sorry for her. I blushed for her, and hating to see her humiliated, I behaved like a generous conqueror, and tried to console her. I playfully patted her cheek and told her not to mind. But generosity was not one of her virtues. She burst into a torrent of angry words: My origin was very evident; I had no education, no manners, since I rebuked her before a servant, a stupid girl who had misunderstood her instructions. There was no doubt that I, and I only, was to blame. Hysterics followed, she grew more and more violent, jumped up from her chair, threw herself on the sofa, raved like a maniac, sobbed and screamed that she was dying. I was sceptical, and remained untouched. Such a fuss, and all about a dog! But she continued to scream; it was a frightful scene; a terrible cough shook her frame, which since her confinement had grown even more fragile; I was deceived after all, and sent for the doctor. He came, examined her heart, felt her pulse, and surlily turned to go; I stopped him on the threshold. "Well?" "H'm! nothing at all," he answered, putting on his overcoat. "Nothing?... But...." "Nothing whatever.... You ought to know women.... Good day!" If I had only known then what I know now, if I had known the secret, the remedy for hysteria which I have discovered since! But the only thing which occurred to me at the time was to kiss her eyes and ask her pardon. And that was what I did. She pressed me to her heart, called me her sensible child who should take care of her because she was very delicate, very weak, and would die one day if her little boy had not the sense to avoid scenes. To make her quite happy I took her dog upon my knees and stroked its back; and for the next half hour I was rewarded with looks full of the tenderest affection and gratitude. From that day the dog was allowed to do exactly as it liked, and it dirtied the place without shame or restraint. Sometimes it seemed to me that it did it out of revenge. But I controlled my temper. I waited for a favourable opportunity, for the happy chance which would deliver me from the torture of a life spent in an unclean home.... And the moment arrived. On returning to dinner one day, I found my wife in tears. She was in great distress. Dinner was not ready. The maid was looking for the lost dog. Hardly able to conceal my joy, I made every effort to comfort my inconsolable wife. But she could not understand my sympathy with her grief, for she realised my inward satisfaction in finding the enemy gone. "You are delighted, I know you are," she exclaimed. "You find amusement in the misfortunes of your friends. That shows how full of malice you are, and that you don't love me any more." "My love for you is as great as ever it was, believe me, but I detest your dog." "If you love me, you must love my dog too!" "If I didn't love you, I should have struck you before now!" The effect of my words was startling. To strike a woman! Carried away by her resentment, she reproached me with having turned out her dog, poisoned it. We went to every police-station, we paid a visit to the knacker, and in the end the disturber of our peace and happiness was recovered. My wife and her friend, regarding me as a poisoner, or at any rate a potential poisoner, celebrated its recovery with great rejoicings. Henceforth the monster was kept a prisoner in my wife's bedroom; that charming retreat of love, furnished with exquisite taste, was turned into a dog's kennel. Our small flat became uninhabitable, our home-life full of jars. I ventured to make a remark to the effect, but my wife replied that her room was her own. Then I started on a merciless crusade. I left her severely alone; and by and by she found my reserve unbearable. "Why do you never come to say good-morning to me now?" "Because I can't get near you." She sulked. I sulked too. For another fortnight I lived in celibacy. Then, tired out, she found herself compelled to make friends. She took the first step, but she hated me for it. She decided to have the troublesome interloper destroyed. But instead of having it done forthwith, she invited her friend to assist her in the enactment of a farewell farce, entitled "The Last Moments of the Condemned." She went to the length of begging me on her knees to embrace the wretched little brute as a proof that I harboured no ill-will, arguing that dogs might possibly have an immortal soul and that we might meet again in another world. The result was that I gave the dog its life and freedom, an action which found its reward in her gratitude. At times I fancied that I was living in a lunatic asylum, but one does not stand upon trifles when one is in love. This scene, "The Last Moments of the Condemned," was renewed every six months during the next three years. You, reader, who read this plain tale of a man, a woman and a dog, will not deny me your compassion, for my sufferings lasted three times three hundred and sixty-five days of twenty-four hours each. You will perhaps admire me, for I remained alive. If it be true, however, that I am insane, as my wife maintains, blame no one but myself, for I ought to have had the courage to get rid of the dog once and for all. III Marie's friend was an old maid of about forty years, mysterious, full of ideals with which I had lost all sympathy long ago. She was my wife's consoler. In her arms she wept over my dislike of her dog. She was a ready listener to Marie's abuse of matrimony, the slavery of women. She was rather reserved and careful not to interfere; anyhow I noticed nothing, for I was completely preoccupied with my work. But I had an idea that she was in the habit of borrowing small sums from my wife. I said nothing until one day I saw her carrying off some of the table silver with the intention of pawning it for her own benefit. I said a word or two about it to Marie, and gave her to understand that even under the dotal system this sort of comradeship was very unwise. She never dreamed of helping me, her husband and best friend, in this way, although I was in difficulties and worried by debts. "Since you listen to such proposals from strangers," I said to her, "why not lend me your shares? I could raise money on them." She objected, arguing that the shares had fallen so low as to be practically valueless and consequently unsaleable. Moreover it was against her principles to transact business with her husband. "But you don't object to a stranger, who can give you no security whatever, who lives on a pension of seventy-five crowns, per annum! Don't you think it wrong to refuse to help your husband who is trying to make a career, and provision for you when you have spent your own money, not to mention the fact that your interests are identical with his?" She yielded, and the loan of three thousand five hundred francs, or thereabouts, in doubtful shares, was granted. From this day onward she looked upon herself as my patroness, and told everybody who cared to listen that she had safeguarded my career by sacrificing her dowry. The fact of my being a well-known writer before I had ever set eyes on her was quite lost sight of. But it was bliss to me to look up to her, to be indebted to her for everything: my life, my future, my happiness. In our marriage contract I had insisted on settling all her property on herself, partly because her financial affairs were chaos. The Baron owed her money; but instead of paying her in cash, he had guaranteed a loan which she had raised. In spite of all my precautions I was requested by the bank on the morning after our wedding to guarantee the sum. My objections were so much waste of breath; the bank did not look upon my wife as responsible, since by her second marriage she had again legally become a minor. To my great indignation I was compelled to sign the guarantee, to put my signature by the side of that of the Baron. In my perfect simplicity I had no idea of what I was doing. It merely seemed to me that what every man of the world would have done in my place, was the right thing to do. * * * * * One evening, while I was closeted in my room with a friend, the Baron called. It was his first call since our wedding. My predecessor's visit seemed to me in bad taste, to say the least of it; but since he did not mind meeting me, I pretended to be pleased to see him. When I accompanied my friend to the door, however, I did not think it necessary to introduce him. Later on, my wife reproached me for the omission, and called me unmannerly. I accused both her and the Baron of tactlessness. A violent quarrel ensued, in which she called me a boor. One word led to another, and certain pictures were mentioned which had once belonged to the Baron, but were now decorating my walls. I begged her to send them back to him. "You cannot return presents without hurting the giver," she exclaimed. "He doesn't dream of returning the presents you gave him, but keeps them as a proof of his friendship and trust." The pretty word "trust" disarmed me. But my eye fell on a piece of furniture which awakened unpleasant memories. "Where does this writing-table come from?" "It was my mother's." She was speaking the truth, although she omitted to add that it had passed through her first husband's house. What a strange lack of delicacy, what bad form, how utterly regardless of my honour! Was it done intentionally so as to depreciate me in the eyes of my fellow-men? Had I fallen into a trap set by an unscrupulous woman? I wondered.... Yet I surrendered unconditionally without struggling against her subtle logic, convinced that her aristocratic bringing-up ought to serve me as a guide in all doubtful cases where my education did not suffice. She had a ready answer to everything. The Baron had never bought a single piece of furniture. Everything belonged to her--and since the Baron did not scruple to keep my wife's furniture, I need not scruple to accept all articles which belonged to my own wife. The last phrase: "Since the Baron did not scruple to keep my wife's furniture," caused me lively satisfaction. Because the pictures which hung in my drawing-room were proofs of a noble trust and evidenced the ideal character of our relationship, they remained where they were; I even carried simplicity to the length of telling all inquisitive callers who cared to know who the giver of those landscapes was. I never dreamed in those days that it was I, the man belonging to the middle-classes, who possessed tact and delicacy, instincts which are as frequently found amongst the lower strata of society as they are wanting in men and women of the upper ones, where coarse minds are only too often cleverly concealed under a thin layer of veneer. Would that I had known what manner of woman she was in whose hands I had laid my fate! But I did not know it. IV As soon as Marie had got over her confinement, which compelled her to live quietly for a time, she was seized with a craving for excitement. Under the pretext of studying her art, she visited the theatres and went to public entertainments while I stayed at home and worked. Protected by the title of a married woman, she was received in circles which had been closed to the divorced wife. She was anxious that I should accompany her, for she considered the fact of her husband's absence prejudicial to her best interests. But I resisted, and while claiming for myself personal freedom, according to our verbal agreement, I allowed her absolute liberty, and let her go where she pleased. "But no one ever sets eyes on the husband," she objected. "People will understand him," I replied. The husband! The very way in which she pronounced the word conveyed opprobrium; and she fell into the habit of treating me with a certain amount of superciliousness. During the solitary hours which I spent at home I worked at my ethnographical treatise, which was to be the ladder on which I hoped to climb to promotion at the library. I was in correspondence with all the learned authorities in Paris, Berlin, Petersburg, Irkutsk and Peking, and, seated at my writing-table, I held in my hand the threads of a perfect net of inter-relations which stretched all over the world. Marie did not approve of this work. She would have preferred to see me engaged in writing comedies, and was angry with me. I begged her to await results, and not condemn my work prematurely as waste of time. But she would have none of these Chinese researches which brought in no money. A new Xanthippe, she severely tried my Socratic patience by reiterating that I was frittering away her dowry--her dowry! My life was a strange mingling of sweetness and bitterness, and one of my greatest worries was Marie's theatrical career. In March it was rumoured that the company of the Royal Theatre would be reduced at the end of May, the period when contracts were renewed. This gave rise to fresh floods of tears during the next three months, in addition to the usual every-day grievances. The house was overrun by all the failures from the Royal Theatre. My soul, broadened and uplifted by the knowledge I had acquired, and the growth and development of my talent, rebelled against the presence of these unfit ones, these incapables who possessed no culture, who were detestable on account of their vanity, their ceaseless flow of banalities, uttered in the slang of the theatre, which they called new truths. I became so sick of the torture of their tittle-tattle that I begged to be in future excused from my wife's parties. I urged her to cut her connection with those mental lepers, those disqualified ones, whose presence must of necessity depress us and rob us of our courage. "Aristocrat!" she sneered. "Aristocrat, if you like, but aristocrat in the true sense of the word," I replied; "for I yearn for the summits of genius, not for the mole-hills of the titled aristocracy. Nevertheless, I suffer all the sorrows of the disinherited." When I ask myself to-day how I could have lived for years the slave of a woman who treated me disgracefully, who shamelessly robbed me in company of her friends and her dog, I come to the conclusion that it was thanks to my moderation, to my ascetic philosophy of life, which taught me not to be exacting, especially in love. I loved her so much that I irritated her, and more than once she plainly showed me that my passionate temperament bored her. But everything was forgotten and forgiven at those rare moments when she caressed me, when she took my throbbing head into her lap, when her fingers played with my hair. This was happiness unspeakable, and like a fool I stammered out the confession that life without her would be impossible, that my existence hung on a thread which she held in her hand. In this way I fostered a conviction in her that she was a higher being, and the consequence was that she treated me with flattery and blandishments as if I were a spoilt child. She knew that I was in her power, and did not scruple to abuse it. When the summer came she went into the country and took her maid with her. She moreover persuaded her friend to accompany her, for she was afraid of feeling lonely during the week when my work kept me at the library. It was in vain that I objected, that I reminded her that her friend was not in a position to pay, and that our means were limited; Marie looked upon me as a "spirit of evil," and reproached me with speaking ill of everybody. I gave in eventually, in order to avoid unpleasantness. I gave in--alas! I always gave in. After a whole week's loneliness I welcomed Saturday as a red-letter day. With a jubilant heart I caught an early train and then set out joyfully for half-an-hour's walk under the scorching sun, carrying bottles and provisions for the week. My blood danced through my veins, my pulse throbbed at the thought of seeing Marie in a few moments; she would come to meet me with open arms, her hair flying in the breeze, her face rosy with the sweet country air. In addition I was hungry and looking forward to a gay little dinner, for I had eaten nothing since my early breakfast. At last the cottage among the fir-trees, close to the lake, came in sight. At the same time I caught a glimpse of Marie and her friend, in light summer dresses, stealing away to the bathing vans. I shouted to them with all the power of my lungs. They could not help hearing me, for they were well within earshot. But they only hastened their footsteps, as if they were running away from me, and disappeared into a bathing van. What did it mean? The maid appeared as soon as she heard my footsteps in the house; she looked uneasy, afraid. "Where are the ladies?" "They have gone to bathe, sir." "When will dinner be ready?" "Not before four o'clock, sir. The ladies have only just got up, and I have been busy helping the young lady to dress." "Did you hear me call?" "Yes, sir." ... So they had really run away from me, driven from my presence by an uneasy conscience, and, hungry and tired as I was, I had to wait for a couple of hours for my dinner. What a reception after a week full of hard work and longing! The thought that she had run away from me like a school-girl caught breaking the rules stabbed me like a dagger. When she returned to the house I was fast asleep on the sofa, and in a very bad temper. She kissed me as if nothing had happened, trying to prevent the storm from breaking. But self-control is not always possible. A hungry stomach has no ears, and a distressed heart is not soothed by deceitful kisses. "Are you angry?" "My nerves are on edge, don't irritate me." "I'm not your cook!" "I never said you were, but don't prevent the cook we have from doing her work!" "You forget that Amy, as our paying guest, is entitled to the services of our maid." "Didn't you hear me calling?" "No!" She was telling me lies.... I felt as if my heart would break. Dinner--my eagerly-looked-for dinner--was a long torture. The afternoon was dismal; Marie wept and inveighed against matrimony, holy matrimony, the only true happiness in the world, crying on the shoulder of her friend, covering her villainous little dog with kisses. Cruel, false, deceitful--and sentimental! And so it went on during the whole summer in infinite variety. I spent my Sundays with two imbeciles and a dog. They were trying to make me believe that all our unhappiness was due to my irritable nerves and persuade me to consult a doctor. I had intended to take my wife for a sail on Sunday morning, but she did not get up before dinner time; after dinner it was too late. And yet this tender-hearted woman, who tortured me with pin-pricks, cried bitterly one morning because the gardener was killing a rabbit for dinner, and confessed to me in the evening that she had been praying that the poor little beast's sufferings might be short. Not long ago I saw somewhere a statement made by a psychopathist to the effect that an exaggerated love for animals combined with indifference towards the sufferings of one's fellow-creatures is a symptom of insanity. Marie could pray for a rabbit and at the same time torment her husband with smiling lips. On our last Sunday in the country she took me aside, talked in flattering terms of my generosity, appealed to my kind heart and begged me to cancel Miss Amy's debt to us, pleading her very small means. I consented without discussing the matter, without telling her that I had anticipated the suggestion, foreseen the trick, the inevitable trick. But she, armed to the teeth with arguments, even when she was unopposed, continued-- "If not, I could, if necessary, pay her share for her!" No doubt she could have done so. But could she have paid for the annoyance and trouble caused by her friend?... Ah, well--husband and wife must not fall out over trifles. V In the commencement of the new year a general crisis shook the credit of the old country, and the Bank which had issued the shares lent to me by Marie failed. I received notice that the loan would be called in. I was forced to pay cash for the sum I had been compelled to guarantee. It was a heavy blow, but after endless difficulties I came to terms with the creditors, who agreed to a year's respite. It was a terrible year, the worst period of my life. As soon as things were a little more settled I began to make every effort to extricate myself. In addition to my work at the library I started a novel on modern morals and customs; filled newspapers and periodicals with essays, and completed my scientific treatise. Marie, at the expiration of her contract with the theatre, was re-engaged for another year, but her pay was reduced to fourteen hundred crowns.... Now I was better off than she, for she had lost her capital in the general smash. She was in a vile temper, and made me suffer for it. To re-establish the equilibrium, and thinking of nothing but her independence, she attempted to raise a loan, but these attempts proved abortive and only led to unpleasantness. Acting thoughtlessly, despite her good intentions, she did me harm with her efforts to save herself and render my task more easy. I appreciated her good intentions, but I could not help remonstrating. Always capricious and wayward, she showed unmistakable signs of malice and fresh events disclosed a state of mind which filled me with apprehension. A fancy-dress ball, for instance, was given at the theatre, and I had her promise not to attend the ball in male attire. She had bound herself by a solemn oath, for I had been very emphatic on the subject. On the morning after the ball I was told that she had not only broken her promise, but that she had gone to supper later on with some of her male friends. I was angry because she had lied to me, and the thought of the subsequent supper made me feel uneasy. "Well," she replied, when I expostulated with her, "am I not free to please myself?" "No, you are a married woman! You bear my name, and we are responsible to each other. Whenever you compromise yourself, you compromise me, and, in fact, you do me a greater injury than you do yourself." "That means that I am not free?" "Nobody can be absolutely free in a community where every individual is inextricably mixed up with the fate of others. Supposing I had invited some women friends to supper, what would you have said?" She insisted that she was free to do as she liked; that she was at liberty, if she felt so inclined, to ruin my reputation; that her freedom was, in fact, absolute. She was a savage; freedom, as she interpreted it, was the rule of an autocrat who trampled the honour and happiness of her fellow creatures into the dust. This scene, which began with a quarrel, led to floods of tears and ended with hysterics, was followed by another which made me feel even more uneasy, more especially as I was not sufficiently initiated into the secrets of sexual life to deal with its anomalies, which terrified me, like all anomalies which are difficult of explanation. One evening, when the maid was busy making up Marie's bed for the night, I heard a half-suppressed scream and smothered laughter, as if some one were being tickled. I felt a sudden fear; an inexplicable terror and a wave of passionate anger swept over me; I opened the door quickly and caught Marie, with her hands on the girl's shoulders, in the act of pressing her lips upon her white throat. "What are you doing," I exclaimed furiously, "are you mad?" "I am only teasing her," answered Marie cynically. "What has that to do with you?" "It has everything to do with me! Come here!" And under four eyes I explained to her the nature of her offence. But she accused me of a vicious imagination, told me that I was perverted and saw vice everywhere. It is a fatal thing to catch a woman red-handed. She deluged me with abuse. In the course of the discussion I reminded her of the love she had confessed to have felt for her cousin, pretty Matilda. With an expression of angelic innocence she replied that she herself had been amazed at the strength of her feelings, as she had never thought it possible for one woman to be so deeply in love with another. This naïve confession reassured me. I remembered that one evening, at my brother-in-law's, Marie had quite openly spoken of her passionate love for her cousin, without blushing, without being conscious that there was anything at all unusual in her conduct. But I was angry. I recommended her to beware of fancies which, though harmless to begin with, degenerated only too often into vice and led to disastrous results. She made some inane reply, treated me like a fool--she loved treating me as if I were the most ignorant of ignoramuses--and finished off by saying that I had been telling her a pack of lies. What was the use of explaining to her that offences of that sort were legal offences? What was the use of trying to convince her that medical books termed caresses calculated to arouse amorous feelings in others "vicious"? I, I was the debauchee, steeped in vice. Nothing could persuade her to stop her innocent gambols. She belonged to that class of unconscious criminals who should be confined in a house of correction and not allowed to be at large. Towards the end of the spring she introduced a new friend, one of her colleagues, a woman of about thirty, a fellow sufferer, threatened, like Marie herself, with the lapse of her contract, and therefore, in my opinion, worthy of compassion. I was sorry to see this woman, once a celebrated beauty, reduced to such straits. No one knew why her contract was not to be renewed, unless it was because of the engagement of the daughter of a famous actress; one triumph always demands hecatombs of victims. Nevertheless, I did not like her; she was self-assertive and always gave me the impression of a woman on the look-out for prey. She flattered me, tried to fascinate me, in order, no doubt, to take advantage of me. Jealous scenes took place occasionally between the old friend and the new one, one abused the other, but I refused to take sides.... Before the summer was over Marie was expecting another baby. Her confinement would take place in February. It came upon us like a bolt from the blue. It was now necessary to strain every effort to make port before the fatal day dawned. My novel appeared in November. It was an enormous success. Money was plentiful, we were saved! I had reached the goal. I breathed freely. I had made my way; I was appreciated at last and hailed with acclamations as a master. The years of trouble and black care were over; we were looking forward to the birth of this child with great joy. We christened it in anticipation and bought Christmas presents for it. My wife was happy and proud of her condition, and our intimate friends fell into the habit of asking how "the little chap" was, just as if he had already arrived. Famous now and content with my success, I determined to rehabilitate Marie and save her ruined career. To achieve this I planned a play in four acts, and offered it to the Royal Theatre. It contained a sympathetic part in which she had every chance of reconquering the public. On the very day of her confinement I heard that the play was accepted and that she had been cast for the principal part. Everything was well in the best of all worlds; the broken tie between me and my family was firmly reknitted by the birth of the baby. The good time, the spring-time of my life had arrived. There was bread in the house, and even wine. The mother, the beloved, the adored, was taking new pleasure in life, and had regained all her former beauty. The indifference and neglect with which she had treated her first baby were transformed into the tenderest care for the newborn infant. VI Summer had come again. I was in a position to ask for a few months' leave, which I purported spending with my--family in the solitude of one of the green islands on the shores of the Stockholm Archipelago. I was beginning to reap the harvest of my scientific researches. My treatise was read by the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres in the Institut de France. I was elected a member of several foreign scientific societies, and the Imperial Russian Geographical Society conferred its medal upon me. At the age of thirty I had won an excellent position in the literary and scientific world and a brilliant future lay before me. It was pure happiness to lay my trophies at Marie's feet.... But she was angry with me because I had "disturbed the equilibrium." I had to make myself small to spare her the humiliation of having to look up to her husband. Like the good-natured giant in the fable I allowed her to pull my beard, and as a consequence she presumed on my good-nature. She took a pleasure in belittling me before the servants and before her friends who were on visiting terms with us, especially her women friends. She gave herself airs; raised by me on a pedestal, she posed-as my superior, and the more insignificant I pretended to be, the more she trampled on me. I deliberately fostered in her the delusion that I had to thank her for my fame, which she did not understand and which she apparently thought little of. I took a positive delight in making myself out to be inferior to her. I contented myself with being no more than the husband of a charming woman, and eventually she came to believe that she, and not I, possessed genius. This applied even to the details of everyday life. Being an excellent swimmer myself, for instance, I taught her to swim. In order to encourage her, I simulated nervousness, and the pleasure she took in ridiculing my efforts and talking of her own grand achievements was a constant source of amusement to me. The days passed; into the worship of my wife as mother a new thought stole and began to haunt me persistently: I was married to a woman of thirty--a critical age, the beginning of a period full of dangers and pitfalls--I could see indications every now and then which made me feel nervous, indications, perhaps not fraught with disaster for the moment, but which carried in them the germ of discord. After her confinement physical antagonism came to be added to incompatibility of temper; sexual intercourse between us became odious. When her passion was aroused, she behaved like a cynical coquette. Sometimes she took a malicious delight in making me jealous; at other times she let herself go to an alarming extent, possibly, I thought, under pressure of licentious and perverse desires. One morning we went out in a sailing boat, accompanied by a young fisherman. I took charge of tiller and mainsail, while the lad was attending to the foresail. My wife was sitting near him. The wind dropped and silence reigned in the boat. All at once I noticed that the young fisherman, from under his cap, was casting lewd glances in the direction of my wife's feet.... Her feet? ... Perhaps there was more to be seen; I could not tell from where I sat. I watched her. Her passionate eyes devoured the young man's frame. In order to remind her of my presence I made a sudden gesture, like a dreamer rousing himself from a dream. She pulled herself together with an effort, and, her eyes resting on the huge tops of his boots, she clumsily extricated herself from an awkward position by remarking-- "I wonder whether boots of this sort are expensive?" What was I to think of such a stupid remark? To divert her mind from the voluptuous current of her thoughts, I made the lad change places with me under some pretext or other. I tried to forget this irritating scene; tried to persuade myself that I had been mistaken, although similar scenes were stored up in my memory, recollections of her burning eyes scrutinising the lines of my body underneath my clothes. * * * * * A week later my suspicions were re-awakened by an incident which once and for all destroyed all my hopes of ever seeing this perverse woman realise my ideal of motherhood. One of my friends spent a week-end with us. He made himself very agreeable to her. She rewarded his courtesy by flirting with him outrageously. It grew late; we said good-night to each other and separated. I thought that she had gone to bed. Half-an-hour later I heard voices on the balcony. I stepped out quickly, and found wife and friend sitting together, drinking liqueurs. I treated the matter as a joke, but on the following morning I reproached her with making me a public laughing-stock. She laughed, called me a man of prejudices, cursed with a fantastic and vicious imagination ... in fact, deluged me with her whole repertory of futile arguments. I lost my temper; she had hysterics and played her part so well that I apologised for doing her an injustice. Doing her an injustice--when I considered her conduct absolutely culpable! Her final words silenced me completely. "Do you think," she said contemptuously, "I could bear to go through divorce proceedings a second time?" And brooding over my troubles I slept with the calm of the duped husband. What is a coquette?... A woman who makes advances. Coquetry is nothing but making advances. And what is jealousy?... The fear of losing one's most precious possession.... The jealous husband? A ridiculous individual because of his absurd objection to lose his most precious possession. VII Success followed success. All our debts were paid. It rained money. But although a great proportion of my income went towards household expenses, our financial position was chaos. Marie, who kept the accounts and had the cash, was always clamouring for more money, and her constant demands were the cause of violent scenes. Her contract with the theatre was not renewed. It goes without saying that I had to bear the consequences. It was all my fault!... If only she had never married me!... The part which I had written for her was forgotten; she had indeed completely ruined it, for she had bungled it, and played it without the slightest conception of its subtleties. About this time much interest was aroused in what has been called the "woman question." The famous Norwegian male blue-stocking had written a play on the subject, and all feeble minds were obsessed by a perfect mania of finding oppressed women everywhere. I fought against those foolish notions, and consequently was dubbed "mysogynist," an epithet which has clung to me all my life. A few home-truths on the occasion of our next quarrel threw Marie into a violent fit of hysterics. It was just after the greatest discovery of the nineteenth century in the treatment of neurotic diseases had been made. The remedy was as simple as all great truths. When the screams of the patient were at their loudest, I seized a water-bottle and thundered the magic words-- "Get up, or I shall pour this water over you!" She stopped screaming at once--and shot at me a look of sincere admiration, mingled with deadly hatred. For a moment I was taken aback, but my reawakened manhood would not be denied.... Again I lifted the water-bottle-- "Stop your screaming, or I shall pour this water over you!" She rose to her feet, called me a blackguard, a wretch, an impostor--signs that my remedy had been effective. Husbands, duped or otherwise, believe me, for I am your sincere friend: this is the secret of the great cure for hysterics; remember it, maybe the time will come when you need it. * * * * * From that day my death was irrevocably settled. My love began to detest me. I knew too much of female cunning; there was no room for me in this world. The sex had determined my physical and mental destruction, and my own wife, as the avenging fury, had accepted the awful and difficult mission of torturing me to death. She began her task by introducing her friend into the house as a tenant, persuading her to rent a furnished room contiguous to our flat; she did that in spite of my most violent opposition. She went to the length of suggesting that she should take her meals with us, a proposition which I fought tooth and nail. But notwithstanding my protest and all my precautions, I was constantly brought into contact with the intruder. I could almost fancy that I was a bigamist. The evenings which I should have spent in my wife's company I spent by myself, for she remained invisible, closeted with her friend. They enjoyed themselves in her room at my expense, smoking my cigarettes and drinking my wine. I hated the woman, and since I could not hide my feelings--at any rate not sufficiently--I many a time brought on my head Marie's wrath for having been found wanting in courtesy towards the "poor child." Not satisfied with having estranged Marie from husband and child--the baby was boarded out with a neighbour, a termagant of forty-five years of age--the fair friend demoralised the cook; the consumption of beer rose to the almost incredible quantity of five hundred bottles a month; my cook sat in the kitchen intoxicated, fast asleep; the food was wasted. The fair friend was a _mangeuse d'hommes_, and I was her prey. One day Marie showed me a cloak which she said she wanted to buy. I disapproved the colour and cut, and advised her to choose another. The friend, who happened to be present, kept it for herself, and I forgot all about it. Two weeks later I received a bill for a cloak bought by my wife. I inquired into the matter and found that Marie had lent herself to a trick well known by the theatrical demi-monde. As usual, she was furious with me when I asked her to break off her connection with the adventuress.... And things grew worse and worse. A few days later Marie, trying to work on my feelings, posing as the submissive wife, asked me, quite humbly, whether I had any, objection to her chaperoning the "poor child" on a visit to an old friend of her late father's, whom she intended to ask for a loan. The request struck me as so strange that it set me thinking, especially when I took into account her friend's bad reputation. I implored Marie, for our child's sake, to open her eyes, to rouse herself from the trance in which she seemed to live, and which would surely end with her complete ruin--her only reply was a repetition of her old phrase: "Your base imagination...." And still matters declined. Her friend gave a luncheon for the secret purpose of beguiling on this occasion a well-known actor into making her a proposal of marriage. A fresh revelation awaited me, a revelation which effectually roused me from my lethargy. Champagne had been drunk, and the ladies had taken more than was good for them. Marie was reclining in an arm-chair, and before her knelt her friend, kissing her on the lips. The famous actor, interested in the strange spectacle, called to one of his friends, and pointing at the couple as if he were bringing proof of an accusation, exclaimed-- "Look here! D'you see?" Doubtless he was alluding to certain rumours, and there was a hidden meaning in the laughing words. As soon as we arrived home, I implored Marie to shake off this fatal infatuation and be more careful of her reputation. She made no secret of the pleasure she found in kissing pretty women; her friend was not the only one of her colleagues whom she treated in this way; at the theatre, in the dressing-rooms she bestowed the same favour on others. She had no intention of denying herself this pleasure, this innocent pleasure, which in my perverted imagination only was vicious. It was impossible to make her see her conduct in a different light; there was but one remedy.... * * * * * She was again going to be a mother; this time she was furious, but her condition kept her at home for a time. VIII After her confinement she changed her tactics. Whether she was influenced by fear of the consequences of her perverted passions, or whether her female instincts had been reawakened, I cannot say. She paid a great deal of attention to young men; but she did it too openly to make me really, jealous. Without an engagement, with nothing to occupy her time, full of whims, despotic, she was bent on war with me to the knife. One day she tried to prove to me that it was cheaper to keep three servants than two. As I thought it waste of time to argue with a lunatic, I simply turned her out of my room. She swore vengeance. She engaged a third maid, who was absolutely superfluous in the house. Consequently no work was done at all. Everything was turned upside down, the three girls quarrelled all day long, drank beer and entertained their lovers at my expense. To complete the picture of my matrimonial happiness, one of my children fell ill. This brought two more servants into the house and the visits of two doctors. At the end of the month I had to face a deficit of five hundred crowns. I redoubled my energies to meet the expenses, but the strain on my nerves was beginning to tell. She was for ever taunting me with having squandered her more than doubtful dowry, and forced me to make an allowance to her aunt in Copenhagen. This woman accused me of having wasted her "fortune," and her incredibly silly arguments irritated me beyond endurance. She affirmed that Marie's mother, on her deathbed, had distinctly expressed the wish that she should share my wife's inheritance. I failed to see what that had to do with me, for the "fortune" which she was to inherit existed in imagination only; but the fact remained that the burden of the aunt, who was lazy and incapable, was added to my other burdens. I gave way in the matter; I even agreed to guarantee a sum of money, raised by an older friend, adventuress number one, for my beloved wife had hit on the idea of selling me her favour. I admitted everything for the privilege of kissing her; I admitted having wasted her dowry, squandered her aunt's "fortune," ruined her theatrical career by marrying her, even having undermined her health. Holy matrimony was degraded to legal prostitution. She carefully treasured up all my admissions, and worked them into a legend which the papers greedily snapped up later on, and which was assiduously spread by all those of her friends whom I had turned out, one after the other. My ruin had become an obsession with her. At the end of the year I found that I had given her twelve thousand crowns for household expenses, and I was compelled to ask my publishers for a sum in advance. Whenever I reproached her with her extravagance, she invariably replied-- "Well, why have children and make your wife miserable? When I consider that I gave up a splendid position to marry you...." But I had an answer to that taunt-- "As Baroness, my dear, your husband gave you three thousand crowns and debts. I give you three times as much, more than three times as much." She said nothing, but she turned her back upon me, and in the evening I admitted all her charges; I agreed that three thousand is three times as much as ten thousand that I was a blackguard, a miser, a "bel ami," who had risen at the expense of his adored wife, adored more especially in her nightgown. She poured all her venom into the first chapter of a novel, the subject of which was the exploitation of an oppressed wife by a criminal husband. Through my writings, on the other hand, always glided the white wraith of a lovely golden-haired woman, a madonna, a young mother. I was for ever chanting her praises, creating a glorious myth round the figure of the wondrous woman who by God's grace had been sent to brighten the thorny path of a poet.... And the critics never tired of lauding the "good genius" of a pessimistic novelist, of pouring on her full measures of entirely undeserved praise.... The more I suffered under the persecutions of my shrew, the more eagerly I strove to weave a crown of light for her sacred head. The more I was depressed by the reality, the more I became inspired by my hallucinations of her loveliness ... alas for the magic of love! IX MIDSUMMER IN WINTER Winter night, the streets forsaken, Ice-king holds the world in thrall; Sudden gusts of wind awaken Eerie sounds, the walls are shaken By the wild, rebellious call. Gay as gods we have been dining, All alone, just you and I. Light the candles, let their shining Drive out darkness and repining, Perfect joy is nigh. Draw the blinds, the shutters tighten! Safely screened from prying eyes, Take the cup and pledge me! brighten Winter-gloom with song, and lighten Darkness with sweet harmonies. Sing of woods, or sing the wonder Of the sea, serene and bland; Or the sea, that lashed asunder Breaks in crashing peals of thunder On the foam-flecked sand. Like a great enchanted river, Full of witchcraft is your voice; See my pelargoniums quiver Like a leafy wood a-shiver In the breeze when daylight dies. On my screen, her ensign flying, Leaps a brig with white sails set; Snugly on the hearthrug lying Silky fur with sable vying, Sleeps your Persian cat. In the mirror's clear perspective I can see our little home; Wrapped in dreams, my introspective Humour conjures up affective Scenes of past joys, joys to come. On the desk where I was writing Falls the candle's mellow glow; Falls on virgin sheets, exciting Rose-warm blushes, softly lighting Their unblemished snow. In your chamber's sweet seclusion, Hung with green, a vernal nook, I can glimpse a wild confusion-- Tangled skeins in rank profusion Cover work and household book. In the glass our eyes are meeting; Flashing blue, like tempered steel Are your glances, but a fleeting Smile from tender lips in greeting, Tells me that your heart is leal. Radiant brow, my soul entrancing, Puts the candle-light to shame; From your jewels flashing, dancing Sparks are flying and enhancing Long-lashed eyes' alluring flame. Hush! the bell disturbs the slumber Of the house--the postman's ring! Let him be! His dreary lumber Shall not darken and encumber Love's eternal spring. Letter-box holds proofs and letters Safely under lock and key; Sing and play! Till morn unfetters These officious care-begetters Love our guerdon be. Sing, beloved, my soul's desire! World holds, naught but you and me; Sing with lips no love can tire, Sing of passion's quenchless fire, Fill the night with ecstasy! X There were times when I had no doubt that my wife hated me and wished to get rid of me in order to marry again. Sometimes strange reflections in the expression of her face made me suspect her of having a lover, and her coldness towards me strengthened my suspicion; all of a sudden my smouldering jealousy burst into fierce flames, our marriage was shaken to its very foundations, and hell opened wide at our feet. My wife declared that she was ill, suffering from some vague disease of the spine or the back, she was uncertain which. I sent for the family doctor, an old college friend of mine. He diagnosed rheumatic knots on the muscles of the back, and prescribed a course of massage. I had no objection to make, for there seemed to be no doubt of the reality of the disease. As I had no idea of the intimate nature of the treatment, I remained completely absorbed in my literary work, and paid no attention whatever to the progress of the cure. My wife did not appear to be dangerously ill, for she came and went as usual, visited the theatres, never refused an invitation, and was always the last to leave a party. One evening, at a small gathering of friends, some one suddenly began to bewail the dearth of lady doctors. The speaker maintained that it must be very unpleasant for a woman to undress before a stranger, and, turning to Marie, he said-- "Am I not right? Isn't it very unpleasant?" "Oh! a doctor doesn't count." The nature of the treatment was revealed to me by a sudden flash. I noticed an expression of sensuality on Marie's face, an expression which had puzzled me for some time, and a terrible suspicion gripped my heart. She undressed before a notorious voluptuary! And I had been completely ignorant of it. When we were alone, I asked her for an explanation. She described the treatment, apparently quite unconcerned. "But don't you mind?" "Why should I mind? "You always appeared to me almost prudish in your modesty." Two days later the doctor called to see one of the children. Seated in my room, I overheard a more than strange conversation between him and my wife. They were laughing and whispering. Presently they entered my room, the smile still on their lips. Plunged in sinister speculations, my mind kept wandering from the subject of our conversation; by and by it drifted to women patients. "You thoroughly understand women's complaints, don't you, old boy?" I said. Marie looked at me. She was furious. There was so much hatred blazing in her eyes that I felt a cold thrill running down my back. When the doctor had left, she turned on me furiously. "Prostitute!" I flung the word into her face. It escaped my lips against my will, giving expression to an intuitive flash which I had not had time to analyse. The insult came home to me and oppressed me. My eyes fell on the children, and with a contrite heart I apologised. But she remained angry, so angry that nothing would soften her. To make amends for the great injustice which I had done her, and to some extent, also, influenced by her hatred, I conceived the idea of arranging for her a pleasure trip to Finland in the shape of a theatrical tour, extending over several weeks. I started negotiations with theatrical managers, succeeded in coming to terms, and raised the money. She went to Finland, where she won patriotic victories and a number of laurel wreaths. I was left alone with the children. I fell ill. Believing myself to be on the point of death, I sent her a telegram, asking her to return home. As she had fulfilled all her engagements, this did not interfere with business. On her return I was better; she accused me of having brought her back on false pretences, telegraphed lies, merely to take her away from her relations and her native country.... Soon after her return I noticed a new phase, a phase which filled me with increased uneasiness. Contrary to her former habits, she gave herself to me unreservedly. What was the reason? I wondered, but I felt no inclination to probe too deeply.... On the next morning and the days which followed she talked of nothing but the pleasant time she had spent in Finland. Carried away for the moment by her memories, she told me that she had made the acquaintance of an engineer on the steamer, an enlightened, up-to-date man, who had convinced her that there was no such thing as sin in the abstract, and that circumstances and destiny alone were responsible for all happenings. "Certainly, my dear," I agreed, "but for all that our actions do not fail to draw their consequences after them. I admit that there is no such thing as sin, because there is no personal God; nevertheless we are responsible to those we wrong. There may be no sin in the abstract, but crime will exist as long as there is a Law. We may smile at the theological conception of it, but vengeance or, rather, retribution, remains a fact, and the aggressor never escapes." She had grown grave, but pretended not to understand me. "Only the wicked revenge themselves," she said at last. "Agreed; but with so many wicked people in the world, who can be sure that he is dealing with a man brave enough not to retaliate?" "Fate guides our actions." "True; but Fate also guides the dagger of the avenger." * * * * * ... At the end of the month she had a miscarriage, sufficient proof, I thought, of her infidelity. And from that moment suspicion grew slowly into certainty and filled my heart with bitterness. She did her utmost to persuade me that I was "mad," that my suspicions were but the figments of an overworked brain. And once again she forgave me. To mark our reconciliation I wrote a play containing a splendid part for her, a part which it was impossible to ruin. On the seventeenth of August I handed her the play together with the deed of gift, which conferred on her all the rights. She could do with it what she liked as long as she herself played the part which I had written for her. It was the result of two months' strenuous work. She accepted it without a word of thanks, a sacrifice due to Her Majesty, the second-rate actress. XI Our housekeeping went from bad to worse. I was unable to interfere, for she regarded every opinion expressed by me, every suggestion of a change made by me, as an insult. I had to remain passive, powerless in face of the wanton extravagance of the servants who wasted the food and neglected the children. There was nothing but misery, discomfort and quarrels. When she returned from her journey to Finland, the expenses of which I had paid in advance, she had two hundred crowns in her pocket, the financial result of her performances.... Since she kept the cash I made a mental note of the sum, and when she asked me for money, long before the date on which it was due, I asked her, surprised by the unexpected demand, what she had done with her money? She replied that she had lent it to her friend, and argued that according to the law she was free to dispose of all moneys earned by her. "And I?" I replied.... Moreover, to withdraw housekeeping money is not disposing.... "It's a different thing in the case of the woman!" "In the case of the oppressed woman, you mean? In the case of the female slave who permits the man to defray, the whole expenses of the household? These are the logical consequences of the humbug called 'the emancipation of woman.'" Emile Augier's prophesies in the _Fourchambault_, with reference to the dotal system have indeed been fulfilled. The husband has become the slave of the wife. And there are plenty of men who allow themselves to be deceived to such an extent that they dig their own graves. Fools! While the misery of my married life slowly unfolded itself, as a ribbon winds off a spool, I took advantage of my literary reputation to tilt at foolish prejudice and attack antiquated superstitions. I wrote a volume of satires. I threw a handful of pebbles at the principal charlatans of the metropolis, not forgetting the sexless women. I was at once denounced as a writer of pamphlets. Marie was strong in her disapproval, and immediately made friends with the enemy. She was respectability personified, and complained bitterly of the misery of being tied to a scandalmonger! She lost sight of the fact that the satirist was also a famous novelist and had made a name as a playwright. She was a saint, a martyr. She deplored the dismal prospects of her unhappy children. They would have to bear the consequences of the dishonourable actions of a father who had squandered their mother's dowry, ruined her theatrical career, ill-treated her.... One day a paragraph appeared in one of the papers stating that I was insane; a brochure, written to order and paid for in cash, spread abroad the martyrdom of Marie and her friends; not one of the absurdities which her little brain had hatched was forgotten. She had won the game. And as she saw me go down before my enemies, she assumed the role of the tender mother, weeping over the prodigal son. Amiable to all the world, except to me, she drew all my friends over to her side, false ones and true ones alike. Isolated, in the power of a vampire, I abandoned all attempt at defence. Could I raise my hand against the mother of my children, the woman whom I loved? Never! I succumbed. She surrounded me with kindness--abroad, at home she had nothing for me but contempt and insults. * * * * * I was exhausted by overwork and misery; I suffered much from headaches, nervous irritability, indigestion ... the doctor diagnosed catarrh of the stomach. It was a very unexpected result of mental strain. It was strange that the illness did not break out until after I had decided to go abroad, the only means of escape, so it seemed to me, from the net woven round me by those countless friends who were everlastingly condoling with my wife. The symptoms of this mysterious malady first showed themselves on the day succeeding a visit to the laboratory of an old friend, from where I had taken a bottle of cyanide; it was to bring me release, and I had locked it in a piece of furniture belonging to my wife. Paralysed and depressed, I was lying on the sofa, watching my children at play, thinking of the beautiful days that lay behind me, preparing myself for death. I determined to leave nothing in writing which could throw light on the cause of my death and my sinister suspicions. I was ready to make my exit, disappear from ken, killed by the woman whom I forgave with my last breath. Marie was watching me out of the corners of her eyes; wondering, perhaps, how much longer I should linger on this earth, before I left her to enjoy in peace the income which the collected works of the famous writer would yield her, and the sum which doubtless Government would grant her towards the education of the children. She was a success in my play, so big a success that the critics called her a great tragedienne. She almost burst with pride. She was allowed to choose her next part; the result was a complete fiasco. Now she could no longer deny the fact that it was I who had made her, that she had to thank me for her laurels, and feeling herself in my debt, the strength of her hatred increased. She besieged the various theatrical managers, but could find no engagement. Eventually I was obliged to reopen negotiations with Finland. I was willing to leave my country, my friends, my publisher, to settle in the midst of her friends who were my enemies. But Finland would have none of her. Her career was over. During all this time she led the life of a woman free from all duties as mother and wife. My health did not permit me to accompany her to the artistic circles which she frequented, and consequently she went alone. Sometimes she did not come home until early in the morning, very often she was intoxicated and made sufficient noise to wake up the whole house. I could hear her stumbling into the night nursery where she slept. What is a man to do in a case of this sort? Is he to denounce his own wife? Impossible! Divorce her? No! I looked upon the family as an organism, like the organism of a plant; a whole, of which I was a part. I could not exist independently of it; without the mother, life seemed impossible to me, even if I had had the custody of the children. My heart's blood, transmitted through my wife, flowed through the veins of their small bodies. The whole was like a system of arteries intimately connected and interdependent. If a single one were cut, my life would ebb away with the blood which trickled down and was sucked up by the sand. For this reason the infidelity of the wife is a terrible crime. One cannot help sympathising with the "Kill her!" of a well-known author, who shows us a father stricken to death because he has come to doubt the legitimacy of his offspring. Marie, on the other hand, identified herself with the crazy endeavours to increase women's rights and liberties, and fully endorsed the new doctrine that the woman who deceives her husband is not guilty, because she is not his property. I could not degrade myself to spy on her, I did not want proof which meant death to me. I wanted to deceive myself, live in a world of my own, which I could create at my pleasure. But I was deeply wounded. I doubted the legitimacy of my children; I was haunted by the suspicion that although they bore my name and were supported by my earnings, they were yet not my children. Nevertheless, I loved them, for they had come into my life as a pledge of my future existence. Deprived of the hope to live again in my children, I floated in mid-air, like a poor phantom, breathing through roots which were not my own. Marie seemed to lose patience, because I lingered so long. It was true before witnesses she treated me with the tender love of a mother, but when no one was present she tortured me, just as the little acrobat is pinched by his father behind the scenes. She tried to hasten my end by cruelty. She invented a new torture; justifying her conduct with my temporary weakness, she treated me as if I were a cripple. One day, proudly boasting of her physical strength, she threatened to strike me. She rushed at me, but I seized her by the wrists and forced her down on the sofa. "Admit that I am the stronger, in spite of my illness!" She did not admit it; she merely looked disconcerted, and, furious at having made a mistake, she left the room, sulking. In our mutual struggle she had all the advantages of the woman and actress. It was impossible for me, a hardworking man, to hold my own against an idle woman who spent all her time spinning intrigues. In an unequal struggle of this sort the man is certain to be caught in the end in a net which enmeshes him on all sides. "In love," said Napoleon, that most excellent judge of women, "one only wins by flight." But how could a carefully guarded prisoner escape? and as for a man sentenced to death.... * * * * * My brain recovered after a rest, and I conceived a plan of escape from this stronghold, although it was most carefully guarded by my wife and the friends which she had so successfully duped. I used cunning; I wrote a letter to the doctor in which I expressed a haunting dread of insanity, and suggested a trip abroad as a remedy. The doctor fell in with my suggestion, and I at once informed Marie of his opinion against which there was no appeal. "By doctor's orders!" Her very formula when she had successfully dictated to the doctor the treatment she wished him to prescribe for her. She grew pale when she heard it. "I don't want to leave my country!" "Your country?... Finland's your country! And as far as I know, there is nothing in Sweden which you could possibly miss; you have no relations here, no friends, no career." "I refuse to accompany you!" "Why?" She hesitated, and after a while continued-- "Because I'm afraid of you! I won't be left alone with you!" "You are afraid of a lamb that you lead by the nose? You aren't serious!" "You are a knave, and I won't stay with you unprotected!" I felt sure that she had a lover. Or else she was afraid of my discovering her indiscretions. So she was afraid of me, of me who crouched at her feet like a dog, whose leonine mane she had clipped, leaving him but a fringe like a horse's; who waxed his moustache and wore up and down collars, to be better equipped for the struggle with dangerous rivals. Her fear of me increased my dread and stimulated my suspicions. "This woman has a lover whom she is loath to leave, or else she is afraid of retribution," I said to myself. After endless discussions she wheedled a promise out of me to stay away no longer than a year. The will to live returned, and I eagerly finished a volume of poems which was to be published in the winter following my departure. Summer in my heart, I sang with fresh inspiration. I sang of my beloved wife as she appeared to me on the day of our first meeting, a blue veil fluttering from her straw hat, a blue veil which became the flag which I hoisted when I sailed into the stormy sea. One evening I read this poem to a friend. Marie listened with profound attention. When I had finished she burst into tears, put her arms round me and kissed me. A perfect actress, she played before my friend the part of the loving wife. And the simpleton regarded me from that day as a jealous fool whom heaven had blessed with the sweetest of wives. "She loves you, old boy," my friend assured me again and again. And four years later he reminded me of the scene as a convincing proof of her fidelity. "I swear to you at that moment she was sincere," he reiterated. Sincere in her remorse, perhaps! Face to face with my love which transformed the wanton into a madonna. It was not very surprising. XII SUN-MISTS He looked round anxiously to see if everything was there, as if it were possible to see anything at all in that confusion of people and luggage on the upper deck. He felt guilty of an unknown crime, until the steamer had passed the mill. He was dazzled by the blinding sun, the sea appeared to be boundless, and the hazy blue mountains called him with irresistible force. His eyes fell on the children's perambulator; the one painted white with the blue cover, not the other one; he knew it so well, there were little white milkspots on the blue cover. And over there was the big arm-chair and the drawing-room sofa and the bath with the flower-pots. How dusty the poor things looked, they had spent the whole winter in a cloud of tobacco smoke; the pelargoniums used to stand on the writing-table in the lamplight, in the early spring, when the evenings were still long; the arm-chair stood to the right of the writing-table, and whenever he looked up from his work, whenever the restless pen stopped for a second, he received a friendly nod. But when there was no one sitting in the arm-chair, his tired eyes travelled to the cretonne flowers on the sofa; but there were so many eyes staring into the room, and how the lamp flickered! Ah! it was the sun shining on the upper deck! What was that over there? A pair of eyes familiar last year--how dull they were! Had he been ill? No! They had not met since last year; one never met in town, one was so busy there! One left one's school and went home! The children had had measles.... It was cold on deck, he had better go downstairs into the saloon. There were the eyes again, staring at the sofa and the arm-chair. But they looked happy, longing, yearning for something which must surely happen. He left his place and stepped forward to let the fresh breeze cool his face. Smoke and the smell of food were rising from the kitchen. There was the cook, taking a rest, trying to grow cool. And the large cabin! The table-cloth was as white as it had been last year, the silver epergne sparkled as before, the flowers on the sideboard were as new and fresh, the lamps were swinging in their brass brackets; everything was exactly as it had been before, and yet everything was new, thanks to the ever-rejuvenating power of nature, thanks to spring! And the shore glided past, a long, triumphant march past, now threatening and sinister, now happy and smiling, but always new, endowed with eternal youth. He was the helpless sport of gloomy dreams; he was pressed in between houses in narrow, dark streets; he was at the bottom of a well; he was trying to creep through a tunnel and was held fast; bricks were being heaped on his breast, when he was awakened by a loud knocking at the window shutters. He jumped up, but the room was pitch dark; he opened the shutters and a sea of light and green greeted his eyes. Oh, Nature! Reality which surpasses all dreams! Behold, you dreamer, your brain could never invent such a dream, and yet you would talk of cold reality! The morning sun was shining on an August landscape. He put a piece of bread in his pocket, slung his drinking-cup across his shoulder, took a stick and a basket and went out in search of sport--sport, not bloodshed. His path lay between oak trees and hazels; autumn flowers grew here, flowers which had waited until after the passing of the scythe before they appeared, so that they could enjoy life undisturbed until the frost killed them. He crossed the stubble field, climbed over the fence, and the sport began. On the short, springy turf, woven of reed-grass and stunted mudwort, the mushrooms lay scattered like new-laid eggs, waiting for the sun to enable them to fulfil their destiny before they decayed; but that was impossible now, since fate had decreed that they should die in their youth. He left the battlefield and entered the forest with its odour of turpentine--health and sick-room--balm for the wounded breast, as the saying is; he walked below the branches in a dead calm, while twenty yards above his head the tempest shrieked. A woodcock flew up; the branches rattled. If only he had a gun! Why does a man long for a gun whenever he happens to come across a harmless creature of the woods? There are many occasions in life when a gun would be much more in its place. Here was a cart track; the wheels of the cart, drawn by oxen, had cut deeply into the turf; nevertheless, a red species of the poisonous spit-devils had shot up in the ruts; maybe they required strake-nails and kicks from the hoofs of oxen before they could enter into material existence. The wood opened out and the path ceased at a place where many trees had been felled; before him lay what remained of the giants of the forest, cut down by the axe because it had been impossible to dig them-up with the roots. He gazed at a huge stump which had been attacked by a host of fungi of all sizes; they had settled on it as a swarm of flies settles on carrion, but their crowd was densest round the decayed parts which they could overcome more easily; they looked starved, pale and bloodless; they were neither pretty nor poisonous, like the spit-devils; they were merely useful. Denser and darker grew the wood; the Scotch firs mingled their branches with the moss which covered the ground, embraced the stones and built cool little huts for the yellow merulius which grew embedded in the moss and enjoyed a short life, protected alike from scorching sun and preying insects. The ground became damp; the bog-myrtle, in times gone by highly valued and eagerly gathered on account of its medicinal qualities, grew undisturbed between tiny hillocks, at the foot of degenerated grey pines which had died of superabundance. A woodpecker hammered high above and stopped every now and then to listen whether the sound betrayed a hollow. The sun's rays were scorching; the ground became stony, the wood opened again; he could hear a low, muffled roar; fresh breezes, laden with the smell of oysters, cooled his face; he caught glimpses of a shining blue expanse through the lower branches of the Scotch firs. A few more steps up the incline--and before him lay the sea--the sea! The waves leaped up the cliffs and were thrown down again, only to begin their game afresh. Off with the clothes and down into the deep! What was it that he saw down there for the space of a moment? A different world, where the trees were red like seaweed and the air emerald green like the waves; now he was again on the surface amid the bellowing, fighting breakers; he fought with them until he was tired; he lay on his back and floated; they threw him up sky-high, they dragged him down into dark chasms, as if they meant to throw him into the abyss; he ceased to wish, he ceased to will; he made no resistance; his body had lost all weight; the law of gravity no longer applied to him; he floated between water and air--in absolute calm, devoid of all sensation. He let the waves carry him to the shore, the shallow, sandy shore, where it formed a lumber-room between the rocks for the sea's collection of all things it could not devour; here they lay, sorted, washed and polished; broken oars, a legion of corks, bark, reed-pipes, staves and hoops. He sat down and stared at a broken plank. * * * * * They had been shut up in the house for a week, for it was raining. He had established himself in the window-seat, for one of the panes was all colours with age and sunlight, and when he looked through it at the grey, cloud-covered expanse of water, the sun seemed to be shining; the grey reefs, where the seagulls nested, looked red, the air was flooded with gold, the trees were of a brilliant emerald green; and if he looked through the window-pane at a certain angle he could see a rainbow in the sky, and that kindled in him the hope of fine weather. Far away, out in the sea, there was a small island, an island which looked less profaned than the other islands; the Scotch firs grew more closely together; the cliffs were greener and the shore was covered with reeds. His soul yearned for it, for from there he could see the open sea. And the sun shone again. He set sail and steered for the little island. The boat danced over the rolling waves, the channel broadened; far away the green island called him; it swam nearer steadily, until at last the boat was moored among the whispering reeds and he landed. His dream had been realised; he was alone among the trees and reefs, with the sea before him and the infinite blue sky above his head. No sound betrayed the disturbing vicinity of a human being, no sail on the horizon, no cottage on the shore. A solitary oyster-plover flew away from him, terrified, uttering its impotent: help! help! A family of creek-ducks, led by the mother, scudded away, running on the water, frightened by the arrival of dread man; a grey adder uncurled and made good its escape, slipping away between the stones, like a tiny, winding brooklet. The seagulls came flying from the reefs to have a look at the intruder, screamed like little children and hurried away again. A crow rose from a large Scotch fir; it fluttered and beat its wings, screamed and threatened and groaned and escaped to outlying reefs; every living thing shunned the dreaded being who had fled from his own kind. He walked along the sandy shore; he came upon the skeleton of a pine-tree, washed by the sea and bleached by the sun to a deadly pallor; it lay there like a skeleton of a dragon and between its ribs flowered the purple lythrum and the golden lysimachia; little piles of shells lay heaped round the wild aster which lived its life on empty sepulchres; the air was laden with the scent of valerian which grew in profusion on a bed of evil-smelling seaweed. He left the shore and turned his footsteps towards the wood. How tall and straight the trees were, a little too straight perhaps, but he could see the sea through the trunks, the sea--solitude--nature! The ground was as smooth as if it had been stamped down and flattened by human feet; here was the stump of a tree--the axe had been here; over there a nettle grew, men had been here; there could be no mistake, for the nettle is a parasite which follows in the wake of man and never ventures into the solitude of the woods or the large stretches of meadow-land; the nettle is vermin, supported by man, and can only exist in the vicinity of man; it collects all dust and dirt on its hairy, sticky leaves and burns the finger which touches it,--a magnificent breed, nourished by sin. He went on. His eyes fell on a sparrow, the denizen of the gutter and backyard--the winged creature which feels at home in the dust, bathes in dirt and should have been a rat since it makes no use of its wings--man's jackal. What was it doing out here where there were no men? What did it live on? On the seed of the nettle? A few more steps and he found the sole of a shoe; a large foot, a foot deformed by hard work, had trodden heavily on this sole. Between the trunks he came upon a fire-place made of boulders, an altar perhaps, on which Nature's conqueror had sacrificed to Strength. The fire had long been extinct, but the effects of it were still visible. The ground was dug up as if by the hoofs of animals, the trees were stripped of their bark, even the rocks were broken; there was a gigantic well in the mountain, filled with dirty brown water; the bowels of the earth had been laid bare and the broken pieces scattered as if by naughty children, disappointed because they had not found what they sought. But a great piece of mountain was missing. It had been taken away with a feldspar to the china factory, and only when there was no more to be got, man had stayed away. He fled from the devastation, down to his boat. He noticed the traces of footsteps on the sand. He cursed and turned to fly when he suddenly saw in a flash that he had been cursing himself; and all at once he understood why the seagulls and the adder and all the others had shunned him, and he retraced his footsteps, for he could not escape from himself. He gazed at the sea through his field-glasses in the direction whence he had come. A white dress and a blue cover shone among the oak-trees. He climbed into the boat, ate his bread, drank a liqueur and muttered, seizing the oars-- "You, whose every desire has been fulfilled, who possess the best of all things Life has to bestow, why are you discontent?" XIII At last the house had been cleansed of her friends. The last one, the pretty one, had disappeared in the company of a well-known professor, who had returned from an expedition with four orders and an assured position. Having no home of her own, the fair lady had lived in my house, cost free. She had seized the opportunity, fastened herself on to the poor fellow and seduced him one evening in a cab, where, for some reason or other, she found herself with him; she forced him into marrying her by making a scandalous scene in a third house, to which they had both been invited. As soon as she felt sure of her position she dropped the mask, and at a party, under the influence of too much wine, she called Marie a degenerate. A colleague, who happened to hear the remark, thought it his duty to tell me at once. Marie, with a few words, proved that the accusation was unjust, and in future my door was closed to the lady, although this meant the loss of my old friend for ever. I was not sufficiently curious to go more deeply into the meaning of the word "degenerate," but it left its sting in my bleeding flesh. New insults, uttered by the same impure lips, referred to the suspicious life Marie had led during her tour in Finland. My old suspicions arose with fresh vigor, her miscarriage, our conversation on destiny, her complete surrender.... All these things strengthened my intention to leave the country. Marie had discovered the use of a sick poet, and constituted herself sister of mercy, sick-nurse, keeper even, if a keeper was required. She wove a martyr's crown for her own head, acted with absolute independence behind my back, and, as I discovered later on, went so far as to borrow money from my friends in my name. At the same time valuable pieces of furniture disappeared from our house, and were carted to adventuress No. I, to be sold by the letter. All this aroused my attention. "Had Marie expenses of which I was ignorant?" I often asked myself this question. Was this the cause of those secret sales? The cause of the enormous housekeeping expenditure? And if this was the cause, what was the object of them? I enjoyed the income of a Swedish minister of State, a larger income than that of a Swedish general, and yet I led a miserable life; it was as if my feet were fettered, as if I were dragging a leaden weight with me wherever I went. And yet we lived very simply. Our table was the table of a labourer; the food was cooked so badly that it was at times uneatable. We drank beer or brandy, like a working-man; our cellar was so inferior that our friends upbraided us more than once. I smoked nothing but--a pipe. I had hardly any recreation, only very occasionally, about once a month, I spent an evening with friends. Once only, beside myself with anger, I determined to look into the matter. I asked an experienced lady for advice. She laughed when I asked her whether our household expenses were not rather, high, and told me that we must be mad. I had every reason therefore to believe in extraordinary and secret expenditure. But the object? the object? Relations? friends? lovers? Nobody cares to enlighten a husband, and so everybody becomes an accessory in crime.... * * * * * After endless preparations the date of our departure was fixed. But now a new difficulty arose, a difficulty which I had long forseen and which was accompanied by a series of unpleasant scenes. The dog was still alive! How much annoyance it had caused me already! especially as so much attention was devoted to him that the children were habitually neglected. However, the day had dawned when to my inexpressible joy Marie's idol and my evil genius, old, diseased, half-rotten, was to end its days; Marie herself now desired the animal's death, and only the thought of the innocent pleasure which its disappearance would cause me led her to postpone the "dog-question" again and again, and invent fresh annoyances to make me pay for the longed-for relief. But at last a farewell feast was arranged. She made heart-rending scenes, had a fowl killed, of which I, still a semi-invalid, received the bones, and then--we were in the country at the time--she went to town, taking the dog with her. After two days' absence she announced her return in a few cold words. What else could a murderer expect? Full of happiness, freed of a burden which I had borne for six years, I went to the landing-stage to meet her, expecting to find her alone. She received me as if I were a poisoner, her eyes were suffused with tears, and when I approached to kiss her, she pushed me aside. Carrying in her arms a large parcel of extraordinary shape, she walked on, slowly, as if she were walking in a funeral procession, with a certain rhythm as if to the strains of a funeral march. The parcel held the corpse! The funeral ceremony had been reserved for me! She ordered a coffin and sent for two men to dig a grave. Although determined to have nothing to do with the matter, I was compelled to be present at the obsequies of the murdered innocent. It was most touching. Marie collected her thoughts and then prayed to God for the victim and its slayer. Amid the laughter of the onlookers she placed a cross on the grave, the cross of the Saviour who had--at last--delivered me from a monster, innocent itself, but yet terrible as the embodiment and instrument of the malice of a woman who lacked the courage to persecute her husband openly. After a few days' mourning, during which she refused to have anything to say to me--for she could have nothing to say to a murderer--we left for Paris. PART IV I The main destination of my journey was Paris, where I hoped to meet old friends, well acquainted with my eccentricities; congenial spirits who understood my moods, knew all about my whims, admired my courage, and were consequently in a position to gauge accurately the temporary state of my mind. In addition to this some of the foremost of the Scandinavian poets had just taken up a permanent abode in Paris; I meant to claim their protection and with their help defy Marie's sinister schemes; for she intended to have me shut up in a lunatic asylum. During the whole journey she continued her hostilities and treated me as a person altogether beneath contempt, whenever we were without witnesses. She was always lost in thought, absent-minded, indifferent. In vain I took her sight-seeing in the towns where we were forced to spend the nights; she took no interest in anything, saw nothing, hardly listened to me. My attentions bored her; she seemed to be fretting for something. But for what? For the country where she had suffered, in which she had not left one single friend, but--a lover, perhaps? During the whole time she behaved like the most unpractical and ignorant of women; she displayed none of the qualities of the organiser and manager of which she had boasted so much. She insisted on staying at the most expensive hotels, and for the sake of one night she often had the whole furniture rearranged; a badly served cup of tea provoked interviews with the hotel proprietor; the noise which she made in the corridors drew unflattering comments upon us. We missed the best trains because she would lie in bed until dinner-time; through her carelessness our luggage went astray; and when we left, her tips to the servants were of the meanest. "You are a coward!" she said in reply to one of my remonstrances. "And you are ill-bred and slovenly!" It was a charming pleasure-trip, indeed. * * * * * As soon as we had arrived in Paris and settled down among my friends, who were proof against her spells, she found that I had got the better of her, and felt like a wild animal caught in a trap. She was furious because the leading Norwegian poet received me warmly, and overwhelmed me with kindness. She promptly detested him, for she sensed in him a friend who might some day raise his voice in my favour. One evening, at a dinner given to artists and writers, he proposed my health, calling me the chief representative of modern Swedish literature. Marie, poor martyr by reason of her marriage with the "notorious pamphleteer," was present. The applause of the diners depressed her to a degree which excited my compassion, and when the speaker tried to make me promise to stay for at least two years in France, I could no longer resist the wistful expression of her eyes. To comfort her, to give her pleasure, I replied that I never took an important decision without consulting with my wife. My reward was a grateful look and the sympathy of all the women present. But my friend remained obdurate. He urged me to prolong my stay, and with a fine flourish of oratory asked all those present to support his proposition. All raised their glasses in response. My friend's obstinacy always remained inexplicable to me, although I quite well understood at the time that a secret struggle was being fought between my wife and him, the motive of which I could not guess. Maybe he was better informed than I, and had penetrated my secret with the clear-sightedness which frequently accompanies first impressions; moreover, he was himself married to a woman of strange morals. * * * * * Marie did not feel at home in Paris, where her husband's genius was generally acknowledged, and after three months' stay she hated the beautiful city. She was indefatigable in warning me of "the false friends who would one day bring me misfortune." She was again expecting to become a mother, and again life with her was unbearable. But this time I had no reason to doubt the paternity of the expected baby. Our stay in Paris came to an end; we broke up our tents and slowly made our way to Switzerland. _Isn't It Enough?_ It does not matter very much that the wealthy man did not ask Jesus what he should do in order to solve the problem of life, for Jesus would very likely have replied in the same way in which He replied to the question relating to the Kingdom of Heaven: "Go and sell all thou hast and give it to the poor." But it is a pity that the wealthy man did not carry out this suggestion, and above all things that he did not live to see a scorching day in June in the year 1885 in the humble form of a sixty-year-old coster who pushed a heavy barrow down the Avenue de Neuilly, ceaselessly calling out in a voice trembling with hunger and increasing age-- "Cresson de fontaine! La santé du corps! Quatre liards la botte! Quatre liards la botte!" He went down on the left side of the avenue, halting before every door; but everywhere the porters' wives shook their heads, for the younger and stronger ones had stolen a march on the old man, and had already supplied the necessary requirements for the day. He reached Porte Mailot and gazed down the avenue which stretched before him, apparently endlessly, down towards the Seine. He took off his black cotton cap and with the sleeve of his blue blouse wiped the perspiration off his forehead. Should he turn round and walk up on the right side, or should he go to Paris to try his luck there? the wonderful luck to earn the few pence by virtue of which he could keep up sufficient strength to push his barrow along when to-morrow had dawned? Should he invest his last shilling in the payment of the toll and go on to meet the unknown fate awaiting him? He took the risk, paid the octroi and trudged along the Avenue de la Grande Armée. The sun had risen higher in the sky, and the pavements were still warm from the previous day; the gay town smelled like the close, fetid atmosphere of the bedroom, which streamed through the open windows and hung heavily in the still air. The sunbeams heated the dust which rose in clouds from the carpets beaten against the doorsteps; showy advertisements flashed from privies and news-stalls, and a suffocating smell of ammonia penetrated through the half-open doors; cigar ends, tobacco, manure, orange skins, celery stalks, pieces of paper from forgotten refuse heaps were carried away by the rushing stream which gushed from the main and swept everything towards the gratings of the gutter. The old man cried his wares, but carts and omnibuses drowned his voice, and no one bought. Tired, forsaken by every one, he sat down on a seat under the plane trees. But the sunbeams found him out, and scorched him in spite of the dusty leaves. How dismal the sun appeared to the worn-out traveller, who longed for an overcast sky and a downpour to relieve the unbearable heat, which robbed his nerves of their strength and shrivelled up his muscles. Yet the torture of the excessive heat did not make him insensible to the torture of hunger and the dread of the morrow. He rose, seized the shafts of his barrow, and toiled up the steep incline which leads to the Arc de Triomphe, shouting incessantly-- "Quatre liards la botte!" At the last street corner a little dressmaker bought two bunches. He dragged himself through the Champs Elysées, and met the wealthy man, seated in his carriage behind his English coachman, on his way to the Bois de Boulogne, there to brood over the problem of life. The palaces and large restaurants bought nothing; the fierce rays of the sun dried up the water-cress, and the long green leaves of his cauliflowers hung limp, so that he was obliged to sprinkle them with water at the fountain near the Rond-Point. It was noon when he passed the Place de la Concorde and arrived at the Quays. Before the restaurants men were sitting and lunching; some of them had already arrived at the coffee. They looked well-fed, but bored, as if they were fulfilling a melancholy and painful duty by keeping alive. But to the old man they were happy mortals who had staved off death for a few hours, while he felt his soul shrinking like a dried apple. The barrow rattled past the Pont-Neuf, and every stone against which the wheels pushed shook the muscles and nerves of his tired arms. He had not broken his fast since the early morning; his voice sounded thin like the voice of a consumptive, so that his cries were more like cries for help now, with little preliminary sighs caused by want of breath. His feet were burning and his hands trembled; he felt as if the marrow in his spine were melting with the heat, and the thin blood hammered in his temples as he turned towards the city, seeking the shade of the Quai de l'Horloge. He halted for a moment before a wine-shop in the Place de Parvis, half inclined to spend his few pennies on a glass of wine. But he pulled himself together and trudged on, past Notre-Dame, towards the Morgue. He could not drag himself away from this mysterious little house, where so many problems of life have been solved, and he entered. How cool and beautiful it was inside, where the dead lay on marble slabs, the hoar-frost on their hair and beards sparkling as on a beautiful, bright winter day. Some of them looked distressed, because the rush of the water into their lungs, or the stab of the knife into the heart, had given them pain; one of them smiled as if he were glad that all was over; one lay there with an expression of indifference on his face, as if nothing mattered; the problem was solved, at any rate: he had lived until he died. No more clothes required, no more food, no shelter! No sorrow, no cares. All held in their grasp the greatest boon life has to bestow: a calm which neither want, failure of crops, sickness, death, war or famine, American wheat or the hard laws which regulate wages, could disturb. Sleep without dreams, how gentle a sleep! And without an awakening, how splendid! The old man must have envied the sleepers, for he turned his head on leaving, to feast his eyes once more on the sight of those blessed ones, who slept in cool seclusion behind the large glass panes. He plodded on to the other side of the church and stopped at the principal entrance. He asked the dealer in relics to keep an eye on his barrow, and entered. He stirred the holy water with his right hand and cooled lips and brow. Inside the church it was cool, for the sunbeams were powerless to penetrate the stained-glass windows. The pulpit was occupied by a little abbé, freshly shaved, with traces of powder still visible on his bluish skin; he was speaking, and the old man listened. "'Consider the lilies in the field,'" said the abbé, "'how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like any one of these! Consider the ravens: for they neither sow nor reap; which neither have store-houses nor barn; and God feedeth them: how much more are ye better than the fowls!'" "How much more are we better than the fowls!" sighed the old man. "But rather seek ye the Kingdom of God," concluded the abbé, "and all else will be added, to you." "All else," sighed the old man, "all else! First the Kingdom of God, and then all else." Leaning against a pillar in the side aisle, the wealthy man, holding a Baedeker in his hand, tried to solve the problem of the essence and origin of life by means of a careful study of the architecture of the past. He did not believe in the Kingdom of God, but he brooded over the purpose of life, and could not understand why a man should go to so much trouble to kill time until he was seventy or at the most eighty years old. Had it not been against all conventions, he would have gone to the old man and said to him who had already passed his allotted time-- "Give me your solution of the problem of life!" And the old man, unless he had been too exhausted with hunger and thirst, would have answered-- "The problem of life, as I understood it, is the maintenance of one's own life." "Is that all?" the wealthy man would have answered, astonished. "All? Isn't it enough? All?" "We do not understand one another." "No, we do not understand one another; we have never understood one another." "Because you are a selfish old man, who has lived but for himself. But humanity...." "Sir, I too have lived for humanity, for I have brought up and educated four children, a problem which was more difficult perhaps to solve than yours, the solution of which you can buy at any bookseller's. Yes, go, sell all you have and give it to the poor, then you will see whether there is room in life for anything else!" But the wealthy man preferred to leave the problem unsolved and keep his gold; therefore he continued to study his Baedeker, and did not ask the poor coster for his opinion. The old man, with faith unshaken, left the church, the abbé's comforting words ringing in his ears: "Take no heed of to-morrow," and crossed to the left shore of the river. At the corner of the Boulevard St. Michel he was fortunate enough to sell six centimes' worth of his stuff at a reduced price. And on he trudged and turned into the Rue Bonaparte. It was afternoon, that saddest time of the day when the sun is setting, but darkness has not yet fallen, darkness which brings in its train peace for the weary souls who long to rest and play for a while before they are compelled to face torturing dreams and memories. He sat down on a stone step and counted his money: eighty centimes; that was twenty centimes less than the franc which he had spent at the gate. How could he pay six francs to the nursery gardener? How could he buy food and drink, how return before nightfall to Suresnes? He saw in imagination the endless Champs Elysées, the long Avenue de la Grande Armée, the terrible Avenue Neuilly. No, it was too far to go back, too far. He looked about searchingly, and his dim eyes were dazzled by the gleam of the blue and red glass bottles in the chemist's shop on the other side of the street, which sparkled in the rays of the setting sun. They stood on long shelves, filled with bottles and boxes; patent medicines for indigestion; appetite restoratives; powders to calm feverish brains which had brooded too long over the riddle of life; means of protection from over-population or increasing poverty; headache pencils for those who tried to solve social problems; rouge for night-birds, tabloids for nervous ailments and financially independent people. All these things could be bought there. The old man rose hastily, as if a buyer had beckoned to him, and entered the chemist's shop. "Six centimes' worth of laudanum, please," he said. "My wife is suffering from convulsions." And as if to prove his words, he lifted his right hand to show the ring on his third finger. But there was only a white line and a groove in the brown skin. But the chemist, who, perhaps, had also been waiting for a buyer, took no notice of his gesture; he filled a small bottle with the required liquid, licked a label, bit a cork, took the money, and resumed the study of his pharmacopoeia. What business was it of his? The old man, the bottle in his pocket, staggered out of the shop, once again seized the shafts, and wandered up the street. He stopped at a bookseller's, and as if to make one more bid for good fortune, he called out for the last time-- "Quatre liards la botte! Quatre liards la botte!" Afraid that somebody might beckon to him in reply, he put the bottle to his lips and greedily drank the dark-red liquid, as if to quench a burning thirst. The pupils of his eyes contracted as if he were staring into the sun; a vivid scarlet flame shot across his cheeks, his knees bent, and he fell on the edge of the gutter. He snored loudly like a man in a sound sleep; the perspiration stood in large drops on his face, and there was a quivering movement of his legs. By the time the police had arrived he lay quite still, but the expression of his face plainly betrayed his last conscious thoughts-- "Life was sometimes good, evil every now and then, but the best thing came last. I solved the problem as well as I could, and it was not easy, although the rich man found that it was not enough. But we did not understand one another. It is a pity that men are not meant to understand one another." II Arrived in Switzerland, we took rooms in a private hotel, so as to avoid all quarrels on the subject of housekeeping. Marie made up for lost time, for being alone now, and unbacked by sympathising friends, I was again in her power. From the very beginning she posed as the keeper of a harmless lunatic. She made the acquaintance of the doctor, informed proprietor and proprietress, the waitresses, the servants, the other guests. I was shut off from association with intelligent people of my own kindred who understood me. At meals she revenged herself for the silence to which she had been condemned in Paris. She missed no opportunity of joining in the conversation, and literally inundated us with a never-ending stream of foolish twaddle which, she knew, irritated me horribly. And since the uncultured, commonplace crowd among whom we lived always very politely agreed with her, there was nothing for me to do but to keep silence; they regarded my silence as a proof of my inferiority. She looked ill and fragile, and appeared to be suffering from a great grief; she treated me with dislike and contempt. All I loved, she detested: she was disappointed with the Alps because I admired them; she scorned the beautiful walks; she avoided being alone with me; she made a practice of anticipating my wishes so as to thwart them; she said Yes whenever I said No, and vice versa; there was no doubt that she hated me. Alone and solitary in a strange country, I was compelled to seek her society; but since we never talked for fear of quarrelling, I had to be content with merely seeing her at my side, with feeling that I was not quite isolated. My illness became worse; I was so ill that I could take nothing but beef tea; I lay awake at night, suffering agonies, tortured by an unbearable thirst which I tried to relieve by drinking cold milk. My brain, keen and refined by study and culture, was thrown into confusion by contact with a coarser brain; every attempt to bring it into harmony with my wife's caused me to have convulsions. I tried to get into touch with strangers. But they treated me with the forbearance which a sane person usually shows to a lunatic. For three months I hardly opened my lips. At the end of that time I noticed with horror that I had almost lost my voice, and, from sheer want of practice, had no longer any control of the spoken word. Determined not to be defeated in the struggle, I began a brisk correspondence with my friends in Sweden. But their guarded language, their deep sympathy, their well-meant advice, plainly betrayed the opinion which they had formed of my mental condition. She triumphed. I was on the verge of insanity, and the first symptoms of persecutional mania showed themselves. Mania? Did I say mania? I was being persecuted, there was nothing irrational in the thought. It was just as if I had become a child again. Extremely feeble, I lay for hours on the sofa, my head on her knees, my arms round her waist, like Michel Angelo's Pieta. I buried my face in her lap, and she called me her child. "Your child, yes," I stammered. I forgot my sex in the arms of the mother, who was no longer female, but sexless. Now she regarded me with the eyes of the conqueror, now she looked at me kindly, seized with the sudden tenderness which the hangman is said to feel sometimes for his victim. She was like the female spider which devours her mate immediately after the hymeneal embrace. * * * * * While I suffered thus, Marie led a mysterious life. She always remained in bed till the one o'clock dinner. After dinner she went to town, frequently without any definite purpose, and did not return until supper, sometimes even later. When I was asked where she had gone, I replied-- "To town!" And the inquirer smiled furtively. I never suspected her. I never thought of playing the spy. After supper she remained in the drawing-room, talking to strangers. At night she often treated the servants to liqueurs; I heard their whispering voices, but I never stooped so low as to listen at her door.... What was it that held me back? I don't know. Only an instinct, I suppose, which teaches us that those actions are unmanly and dishonourable. Moreover, it had become a sort of religion with me to leave her an absolutely free hand. * * * * * Three months passed. Then the fact suddenly struck me that our expenditure was enormous. Now that our expenses were regulated, it was easy to check them. We paid twelve francs a day at our hotel, that is three hundred and sixty francs a month, and I had given Marie a thousand francs a month. She had therefore spent six hundred francs a month in incidental expenses. I asked her to account for her extravagance. "The money has been spent on incidental items!" she exclaimed furiously. "What! with an ordinary expenditure of three hundred and sixty francs, you spent six hundred francs incidentally? Do you take me for a fool?" "I don't deny that you have given me a thousand francs, but you have spent the greater part on yourself!" "Have I? Let's see! Tobacco (very inferior quality), and cigars at one penny each: ten francs; postage: ten francs; what else?" "Your fencing lessons!" "I've only had one: three francs!" "Riding lessons!" "Two: five francs." "Books!" "Books? Ten francs--together thirty francs; let us say one hundred francs; that leaves five hundred francs for incidental expenses.... Preposterous!" "Do you mean to say I'm robbing you? You cad!" What could I say? Nothing at all!... I was a cad, and on the following day all her friends in Sweden were informed of the progress of my insanity. And gradually the myth grew and developed. The salient characteristics of my personality became more and more unmistakable as time went on, and instead of the harmless poet, a mythological figure was sketched, blackened, touched up until it closely resembled a criminal. I made an attempt to escape to Italy, where I felt sure of meeting artists and men after my own heart. The attempt was a failure. We returned to the shores of the Lake of Geneva, there to await Marie's confinement. When the child was a few days old, Marie, the martyr, the oppressed wife, the slave without rights, implored me to have it baptised. She knew very well that in my controversial writings I had fought Christianity tooth and nail, and was therefore strongly opposed to the ritual of the church. Although she was not in the least religious herself, and had not set a foot inside a church for the last ten years, or been to communion for goodness knows how long; although she had only prayed for dogs, fowls and rabbits, the thought of this baptism, which she meant to elaborate into a great festival, completely obsessed her. I had no doubt that the motive which actuated her was the thought of my dislike to ceremonies which I considered insincere, and which are opposed to all my convictions. But she implored me with tears in her eyes, appealed to my kind and generous nature. In the end I yielded to her importunity, on condition, however, that I was not expected to be present at the ceremony. She kissed my hand, thanked me effusively for what she called a mark of my affection for her, and assured me that her baby's baptism was a matter of conscience to her, a very vital point. The ceremony took place. After her return from church, she ridiculed the "farce" in the presence of many witnesses, posed as a free-thinker, made fun of the ceremonial, and even boasted that she knew nothing whatever of the church into which her son had just been received. She had won the game and could afford to laugh at the whole business; the "vital question" transformed itself into a victory over me, a victory which served to strengthen the hands of my adversaries. Once again I had humiliated myself, laid myself open to attack, in order to humour the fads and fancies of an overbearing woman. But my measure of calamities was not yet full. A Scandinavian lady appeared, on the scene, full of the mania called the "Emancipation of Woman." She and Marie became friends at once, and between them I had no chance. She brought with her the cowardly book of a sexless writer who, rejected by all parties, became a traitor to his own sex by embracing the cause of all the blue-stockings of the civilised world. After having read _Man and Woman_, by Emile Girardin, I could well understand that this movement was bound to result in great advantages to the hostile camp of the women. To depose man and put woman in his place by the re-introduction of the matriarchate; to dethrone the true lord of creation who evolved civilisation, spread the benefits of culture, created all great ideals, art, the professions, all that there is great and beautiful in the world, and crown woman who, with few exceptions, has not shared in the great work of civilisation, constituted to me a challenge to my sex. The very thought of having to witness the apotheosis of those intelligences of the iron age, those manlike creatures, those semi-apes, that pack of dangerous animals, roused my manhood. It was strange, but I was cured of my illness, cured through my intense repugnance to an enemy who, though intellectually my inferior, was more than a match for me on account of her complete lack of moral feeling. In a tribal war the less honest, the more crafty, tribe generally remains in possession of the battlefield. The more a man respects woman, the more leisure he leaves her to arm and prepare herself for the fight, the smaller are his prospects of winning the battle. I determined to take the matter seriously. I armed myself for this new duel and wrote a book which I flung, like a gauntlet, at the feet of the emancipated women, those fools who demanded freedom at the price of man's bondage. In the following spring we changed our hotel. Our new abode was a kind of purgatory where I was continually watched by twenty-five women who, incidentally, furnished me with copy for my book. In three months' time the volume was ready for publication. It was a collection of stories of matrimonial life with an introduction in which I voiced a great number of disagreeable home-truths. "Woman," I contended, "is not a slave, for she and her children are supported by her husband's work. She is not oppressed, for nature has ordained that she should live under the protection of the man while she fulfills her mission in life as mother. Woman is not man's intellectual equal; the man, on the other hand, cannot bear children. She is not an essential factor in the great work of civilisation; this is man's domain, for he is better fitted to grapple with spiritual problems than she is. Evolution teaches us that the greater the difference between the sexes, the stronger and more fit will be the resulting offspring. Consequently the aping of the masculine, the equality of the sexes, means retrogression, and is utter folly, the last dream of romantic and idealistic socialism. "Woman, man's necessary complement, the spiritual creation of man, has no right to the privileges of her husband, for she can only be called 'the other half of humanity' by virtue of her numbers, proportionally she is merely the sixth part of a sixth. She should not, therefore, invade the labour market as long as it falls to the lot of the man to provide for his wife and family. And the fact should not be lost sight of that every time a woman wrests an appointment from a man, there is one more old maid or prostitute." The fury of the feminists, and the formidable party which they formed, may easily be imagined when one realises that they demanded the confiscation of my book and brought a lawsuit against me. But despite their attempt to represent my attack as an offence against religion (the folly of the unsexed actually aspired to raise their cause to the dignity of a religion), they were not clever enough to win their case. Marie obstinately opposed my intention to go to Sweden unaccompanied by her; to take my family with me was out of the question on account of my limited means. Secretly she was afraid that I might escape from her strict guardianship and, worse still, that my appearance in court, before the public, would give the lie to the rumours concerning my mental condition which she had so sedulously disseminated. She pleaded illness, without, however, being able to make a definite statement as to the nature of her illness, and kept her bed. Nevertheless I decided to appear personally in court, and left for Sweden. The letters which I wrote to her during the following six weeks, while I was threatened with two years' penal servitude, were full of love, love rekindled by our separation. My overwrought brain cast a glamour over her fragile form, wove a resplendent halo round her sweet face; restraint and longing clothed her with the white garments of the guardian angel. Everything that was base, ugly, evil, disappeared; the madonna of my first love-dream reappeared. I went so far as to admit to an old friend, a journalist, "that the influence of a good woman had made me more humble and pure-minded." Probably this confession made the round of the papers of the United Kingdoms. Did the unfaithful wife laugh when she read it? The public got its money's worth, at any rate. Marie's replies to my love-letters bore witness to the keen interest which she took in the financial side of the question. But her opinion underwent a change in the same proportion in which the ovations I received in the theatre, in the street and in court increased, and she called the judges stupid, and regretted that she was not a member of the jury. She met my ardent declarations of love with clever reserve; she refused to be drawn into an argument, and confined herself to the repetition of the words: "To understand one another," "To comprehend each other's nature and ideas." She blamed my failure to understand her for the unhappiness of our marriage. But I could swear that she herself never understood a single word of the language of her learned poet. Amongst the number of her letters there was one which reawakened my old suspicions. I had mentioned my intention to live permanently abroad, if I was fortunate enough to escape the meshes of the law. This upset her; she scolded me, threatened me with the loss of her love; she appealed to my pity, went down on her knees before me, as it were, evoked the memory of my mother, and confessed that the thought of never again seeing her country (by which she did not mean Finland) sent cold shudders down her spine and would kill her. Why cold shudders? I wondered.... To this day I have not found an explanation. I was acquitted. A banquet was given in my honour, and--oh, irony of fate!--Marie's health was drunk "because she had persuaded me to appear personally before my judges." It was indeed amusing! As soon as possible I returned to Geneva, where my family had lived during my absence. To my great surprise Marie, whom I had believed to be ill and in bed, met me at the station; she looked well and happy, but a trifle absent-minded. I soon recovered my spirits, and the evening and night which followed fully compensated me for all the sufferings I had endured during those six weeks. On the following day I discovered that we were living in a boarding-house which was mainly patronised by students and light women. While listening to their chatter, it came home to me with a pang that Marie had found pleasure in drinking and playing cards with these shady characters. The familiar tone which prevailed revolted me. Marie posed to the students as the little mother (her old game); she was the bosom friend of the most objectionable of the women; she introduced her to me: a slut, who came down to dinner semi-intoxicated. And in this hell my children had lived for six weeks! Their mother approved of the place, for she was without prejudices! And her illness--her simulated illness--had not prevented her from taking part in the amusements of this disreputable company. She lightly dismissed all my remonstrances. I was jealous, a stickler, a snob.... And again it was war between us. * * * * * We were now confronted by a new difficulty: the question of the education of the children. The nurse, an uneducated country girl, was made their governess, and, in collusion with the mother, committed the most outrageous follies. Both women were indolent, and liked to stay in bed until broad daylight. Consequently the children were obliged to stay in bed also, during the morning, no matter how wide awake they were; if they insisted on getting up, they were punished. As soon as I became aware of this state of things, I interfered; without much ado I sounded the reveille in the nursery, and was greeted with shouts of delight as a deliverer from bondage. My wife reminded me of our contract: personal freedom--her interpretation of which was the limitation of the liberty of others--but I took no notice of her. The monomania of weak and inferior brains, that desire to equalise what can never be equal, was the cause of much mischief in my family. My elder daughter, a precocious child, had for years been allowed to play with my illustrated books, and had, besides, enjoyed many of the priviliges usually enjoyed by the firstborn. Because I would not extend the same privileges to the younger one, who had no idea of handling an expensive book, I was accused of injustice. "There ought to be no difference whatever," she said. "No difference? Not even in the quantity of clothes and shoes?" There was no direct reply to my remark, but a contemptuous "fool" made up for the omission. "Every one according to merit and ability! This for the elder, that for the younger one!" But she refused to understand my meaning, and stubbornly maintained that I was an unjust father, and "hated" my younger daughter. To tell the truth, I was more attached to the elder one, because she awakened in me memories of the first beautiful days of my life, and because, also, she was sensible in advance of her years; I may also have been influenced by the fact that the younger one was born at a time when I had grave doubts of my wife's fidelity. The mother's "justice," I may say, evidenced itself in complete indifference to the children. She was always either out or asleep. She was a stranger to them, and they became devoted to me; their preference for me was so marked that it aroused her jealousy, and in order to conciliate her, I made a practice of letting her distribute the toys and sweets which I bought for them, hoping that in this way she might win their affection. The little ones were a very important factor in my life, and in my darkest moments, when I was almost broken by my isolation, contact with them bound me afresh to life and their mother. For the sake of the children the thought of divorcing my wife was unthinkable; an ominous fact, as far as I was concerned, for I was becoming more and more her abject slave. III The result of my attack on the strongholds of the feminists soon made itself felt. The Swiss press attacked me in such a manner that my life in Switzerland became unbearable. The sale of my books was prohibited, and I fled, hunted from town to town, to France. But my former Paris friends had deserted me. They had become my wife's allies, and, surrounded and hemmed in like a wild beast, I again changed the arena; almost without means I at last made port in a colony of artists in the neighbourhood of Paris. Alas! I was caught in a net, and I remained enmeshed for ten miserable months! The society in which I found myself consisted of young Scandinavian artists, recruited from various professions, some of them of strange origin; but, worse still, there was a number of lady-artists, women without prejudices, completely emancipated and so enamoured with hermaphroditic literature that they believed themselves the equals of man. They tried to conceal their sex as far as possible by adopting certain masculine characteristics; they smoked, drank, played billiards ... and made love to each other. They wallowed in the lowest depths of immorality. As an alternative to utter isolation, we made friends with two of those monstrous women; one of them was a writer, the other an artist. The writer called on me first, as is customary when one happens to be a well-known author. My wife was jealous at once: she was anxious to win an ally sufficiently enlightened to appreciate my arguments against the unsexed. But certain events happened which made my henceforth notorious mania break out in irrepressible fury. The hotel boasted of an album which contained caricatures of all the well-known Scandinavians, sketched by Scandinavian artists. My portrait was amongst them, adorned with a horn cleverly contrived by the manipulation of a lock of hair. The artist was one of our most intimate friends. I concluded that my wife's infidelity was an open secret; everybody knew it, everybody except myself. I asked the proprietor of the collection for an explanation. Marie had taken care to inform him of my mental condition soon after our arrival, and he swore that the decoration of my forehead existed in my imagination only, that there was no trace of it in the sketch, and that I had worked myself into a passion for no reason whatever. I had to be content with this explanation until I was able to obtain more reliable information. One evening we were sipping our coffee in the hotel garden in the company of an old friend who had just arrived from Sweden. It was still broad daylight, and from where I sat I could watch every expression on Marie's face. The old man gave us all the latest news. Amongst other names he mentioned that of the doctor who had treated my wife by massage. She did not let the name pass without comment, but interrupted him with a defiant-- "Ah! you know the doctor?" "Oh yes, he is a very popular man.... I mean to say he enjoys a certain reputation----" "As a conceited fool," I interposed. Marie's cheeks grew pale; a cynical smile drew up the corners of her mouth, so that her white teeth became visible. The conversation dropped amid a general sense of embarrassment. When I was left alone with my friend, I begged him to tell me frankly what he knew of those rumours which were giving me so much uneasiness. He swore a solemn oath that he knew nothing. I continued urging him, and at last drew from him the following enigmatical words of comfort-- "Moreover, my dear fellow, if you suspect one man, you may be sure that there are several." That was all. But from this day onward Marie, who had been so fond of telling tales, of mentioning the doctor's name in public, that it sometimes seemed as if she were trying to get accustomed to talk about him without blushing, never again alluded to him. This discovery impressed me so much that I took the trouble to search my memory for similar evidence. I recollected a play which had appeared at the time of her divorce. It threw light, vague, uncertain light, it is true, but yet sufficient light, on the channel which led up to the source of those rumours. A play--by the famous Norwegian blue-stocking, the promoter of the "equality-mania," had fallen into my hands. I had read it without connecting it in the least with my own case. Now, however, I applied it easily, so easily that the blackest suspicions of my wife's good fame seemed justified. This was the story of the play-- A photographer (the realism of my writings had won me this designation) had married a girl of doubtful morality. She had been the mistress of a smelter, and funds which she received from her former lover kept her home going. She made herself proficient in her husband's profession; and while she worked left him to loaf and spend his time in the cafés, drinking with boon companions. The facts, albeit disguised in this way, must have been plain enough to the publisher; for although the latter knew that Marie was a translator, he did not know that I edited her translations and paid her the proceeds of her work without condition or deduction. Matters did not improve when the unfortunate photographer discovered that his daughter, whom he idolised, had come into the world prematurely and was not his child at all, that he had been duped by his wife when she had prevailed on him to marry her. To complete his degradation the deceived husband accepted a large sum from the old lover in lieu of damages. In this I saw an allusion to Marie's loan which the Baron had guaranteed; it was the same guarantee which I had been compelled to countersign on our wedding-day. I could not, at first, see any similitude between the illegitimate birth of the child in the play and my own case, for my little daughter was not born until two years after our marriage. But I reflected.... What about the child who died?... I was on the right track!... Poor little dead baby!... It had been the cause of our marriage which otherwise might never have taken place. I knew that my conclusion was not altogether sound, nevertheless I had arrived at a conclusion of some sort. Everything fitted in. Marie had visited the Baron after the divorce, he was on friendly terms with us, the walls of my home were decorated with his pictures, there was the loan, and all the rest of it. I was determined to act, and laid my plans accordingly. I intended to suggest that Marie should draw up an indictment, or rather a defence, which would clear us both, for both of us had been attacked by the feminists' man of straw; he, doubtless, had been bribed into undertaking this profitable job. When Marie entered my room, I received her in the most friendly manner. "What is the matter?" she asked. "A very serious thing which concerns us both!" I told her the story of the play, and added that the actor who played the part of the photographer had made up to resemble me. She reflected, silently, a prey to very evident excitement. Then I suggested the defence. "If it is true, tell me; I shall forgive you. If the little one who died was indeed Gustav's baby, well--you were free at the time; vague promises only bound you to me, and you had never accepted any money from me. As for the hero of the play, he behaved, in my opinion, like a man of heart; he was incapable of ruining the future prospects of his wife and daughter. The money which he accepted on behalf of the child was nothing but a quite legitimate compensation for an injury done to him." She listened with great attention; her small soul nibbled at the bait without, however, swallowing it. To judge from the calm which smoothed her conscience-stricken features, my assertion that she had a right to dispose of her body because she had never taken money from me pleased her. She agreed that the deceived husband was a man of heart. "A noble heart," she maintained. The scene ended without my succeeding to draw a confession from her. I showed her the way out of the difficulty; I appealed to her for advice as to the best means of repairing our honour; suggested that we should publish our "defence" in the shape of a novel, and so cleanse ourselves before the world and our children from all those infamies.... I talked for an hour. She sat at my writing-table, playing with my penholder, in a state of intense agitation, without making a sound, only giving vent occasionally to a short exclamation. I went out for a walk and then played a game of billiards. When I returned, after a couple of hours, I found her still sitting in the same place, motionless, like a statue. She roused herself when she heard my footsteps. "You were setting a trap for me!" she exclaimed. "Not at all! Do you think I want to lose the mother of my children for ever?" "I consider you capable of anything. You want to be rid of me; you made an attempt some time ago when you introduced a certain friend of yours to me." She mentioned a name which had never before been mentioned in this connection. "You hoped that I should betray you with him, didn't you?" "Who told you that?" "Helga!" "Helga?" She was Marie's last "friend" before we left Sweden. The revenge of the Lesbian! "And you believed her?" "Of course I did.... But I deceived you both, him and you!" "You mean there was a third?" "I didn't say so!" "But you just confessed it! Since you deceived both of us, you must have deceived me! That is a logical conclusion." She fought my arguments desperately, and demanded that I should prove them. "Prove them!..." Her treachery, surpassing the lowest depths of degradation of which I held a human heart capable, weighed on me like a crushing load. I bowed my head, I fell on my knees, I whined for mercy. "You believed in the tittle-tattle of that woman! You believed that I wanted to be rid of you! And yet I have never been anything to you but a true friend, a faithful husband; I can't live without you! You complained of my jealousy ... while I regarded all women who run after me, trying to make love to me, as evil spirits. You believed what that woman said!... Tell me, did you really believe it?" She was moved to compassion, and, all at once, yielding to a prompting to tell the truth, she confessed that she had never really believed it. "And you deceived me.... Confess it, I'll forgive you.... Deliver me from the terrible, pitiless thoughts which torment me.... Confess it...." She confessed nothing, and merely confined herself to calling my friend a "scoundrel." A scoundrel he, my most intimate, my closest friend! Oh, that I lay before her dead! Life was unbearable.... During dinner she was more than kind to me. When I had gone to bed, she came into my room, and, sitting on the edge of my bed, stroked my hands, kissed my eyes, and at last, shaken to the very foundation of her soul, burst into uncontrollable weeping. "Don't cry, darling, tell me what's the matter; let me comfort you!..." She stammered unintelligible, disconnected words about my generous heart, my kindness, my forbearance, the great compassion which I extended even to the worst of sinners. How absurd it all was! I accused her of infidelity, she praised and caressed me. But the fire had been kindled, and the flames could not be extinguished. She had deceived me. I must know the name of my rival! The following week was one of the darkest of my whole life. I fought a desperate fight against all those inbred principles which we inherit, or, rather, which we acquire through education. I resolved to open Marie's letters and make sure how I stood with her. And yet, although I allowed her to open all communications which came for me during my absence, I recoiled from tampering with the sacred law of the inviolability of letters, this most subtle obligation imposed on us by silent agreement between the whole community. But my desire to know the full truth was stronger than my sense of honour, and a day dawned when the sacred law was forgotten. A letter had arrived; I opened it with trembling fingers; my hands shook as if they were unfolding the death-warrant of my honour. It was a letter from the adventuress, friend No. 1. The subject of it was my insanity, mockingly, contemptuously discussed; it concluded with a prayer that God might soon deliver "her dear Marie" from her martyrdom by extinguishing the last glimmer of my reason. I copied the worst passages, re-sealed the envelope, and laid the letter aside, ready to hand it to my wife with the evening mail. When the time came I gave it to her, and sat down by her side to watch her while she read it. When she came to the part where the writer prayed for my death--at the top of the second page--she burst into shrill laughter. So my beloved wife saw no other way out of her difficulties than my death. It was her only hope of escape from the consequences of her indiscretions. When I was gone, she would cash my life insurance and receive the pension due to the widow of a famous writer; then she would marry again, perhaps, or remain a gay widow all her life ... my beloved wife.... _Moriturus sum!_ I resolved to hasten the catastrophe by a liberal recourse to absinthe, sole source of happiness now, and in the meantime play billiards to calm my excited brain. * * * * * A fresh complication confronted me, worse, if possible, than any of the previous ones. The authoress who had pretended to be in love with me made a conquest of Marie, and Marie became so devoted to her that her attachment gave rise to a great deal of gossip. This roused the jealousy of the authoress's former "inseparable," a fact which was not calculated to contradict the ugly rumours. One evening Marie asked me whether I was in love with her friend.... "No, on the contrary! A common tippler! You can't be serious!" "I am mad on her," she replied. "It is strange, isn't it?... I am afraid of being alone with her!" "Why?" "I don't know! She is so charming ... delicious...." "Indeed...." In the following week we invited some of our Paris friends, artists, without scruples or prejudices, and their wives. The men came, but alone; the wives sent apologies, so transparent that they amounted to insults. Dinner degenerated into perfect orgy. The scandalous conduct of the men revolted me. They treated Marie's two friends as if they were prostitutes, and when every one was more or less intoxicated I saw one of the officers present repeatedly kissing my wife. I waved my billiard cue above their heads and demanded an explanation. "He's a friend of my childhood, a relative! Don't make yourself a laughing-stock, you silly!" replied Marie. "Moreover, it is a Russian custom to kiss in public, and we are Russian subjects." "Rubbish!" exclaimed one of the convives. "A relative? Humbug!" I nearly committed a murder then. I had every intention to ... but the thought of leaving my children without father and mother arrested my arm. When the company had left I had a scene with Marie. "Prostitute!" "Why?" "Because you submit to being treated like one." "Are you jealous?" "Yes, I am jealous; jealous of my honour, the dignity of my family, the reputation of my wife, the future of my children! It is because of your unworthy conduct that we are ostracised by all decent women. To allow a stranger to kiss you in public! Don't you realise that you are mad, that you neither see, nor hear, nor understand what you are doing, that you are absolutely devoid of all sense of duty? I shall have you shut up if you don't mend your ways, and, to begin with, I forbid you to have anything more to do with those two women!" "It's all your fault! You egged me on!" "I wanted to see how far you would go!" "See how far I would go! What proof have you that the relationship between me and my friends is such as you suspect?" "What proof! None! But I have your admissions, your slippery tales. And didn't one of your friends admit that in her own country she would fall into the hands of the law?" "I thought you denied the existence of vice!" "I don't care how your friends amuse themselves so long as their amusements do not interfere with the welfare of my family. From the moment, however, that their 'peculiarities,' if you prefer this word, threaten to injure us, they are, as far as we are concerned, criminal acts. True, as a philosopher, I don't admit the existence of vice, but only of physical or moral defects. And, quite recently, when this unnatural tendency was discussed in the French parliament, all the French physicians of note were of opinion that it was not the province of the law to interfere in these matters, except in cases where the interests of individual citizens were violated." I might as well have preached to stone walls. How could I hope to make this woman, who acknowledged no other law but her animal instincts, grasp a philosophical distinction! To be quite sure of the facts, I wrote to a friend in Paris and asked him to tell me the plain truth. In his reply, which was very candid, he told me that my wife's perverse tendencies were no secret in Scandinavia, and that the two Danes were well-known Lesbians in Paris. We were in debt at our hotel, and had no money; therefore we were unable to move. But the two Danish ladies got into trouble with the peasants, and were compelled to leave. We had known them for eight months, and an abrupt termination of our friendship was impossible; moreover, they belonged to good families, and were well educated; they had been comrades in trouble, and I resolved to grant them a retreat with honours. A farewell banquet was therefore arranged in the studio of one of the young artists. At dessert, when every one was more or less gay with the wine which had been drunk, Marie, overcome by her feelings, rose to sing a song of her own composition. It was an imitation of the well-known song in _Mignon_, and in it she bade farewell to her friend. She sang with fire and genuine feeling, her almond-shaped eyes were full of tears and glowed softly in the reflection of the candle-light; she opened her heart so wide that even I was touched and charmed. There was a candour, an ingenuousness in this woman's love-song to a woman, so pathetic that it kept all unchaste thoughts at bay. And how strange it was! She had neither the appearance nor the manners of the hermaphrodite; she was essentially woman; loving, tender, mysterious, unfathomable woman. How different from her was the object of her tenderness! She was a pure Russian type, with masculine features, a hooked nose, a massive chin, yellow eyes and bloated cheeks, a flat chest, crooked fingers--a truly hideous woman--a peasant would not have looked at her. When she had finished her song Marie sat down by the side of this freak; the latter rose, took Marie's head in her two hands and kissed her on the lips. That at least was pure and unadulterated sensuality. I drank with the Russian until she was quite intoxicated; she stumbled, looked at me with large, bewildered eyes, and, sobbing like an imbecile, clutched the wall to support herself. I had never before seen such ugliness in human shape. The banquet ended with a row in the street. On the following morning the two Danes left. * * * * * Marie passed through a terrible crisis; I was genuinely sorry for her; her longing for her friend, her suffering, were unmistakable. It was a genuine instance of unhappy love. She went for solitary walks in the woods, sang love-songs, visited the favourite haunts of her friends, exhibited every symptom of a wounded heart. I began to entertain fears for her sanity. She was unhappy, and I could not console her. She avoided my caresses, pushed me aside when I tried to kiss her. My heart was full of hatred for the woman who had robbed me of my wife's love. Perfectly unconscious of herself, Marie made no secret of the identity of the person for whom she was mourning. She talked of nothing but her love and her sorrow. It was incredible! * * * * * The two friends carried on a brisk correspondence. Infuriated with her indifference to me, I one day seized one of her friend's letters. It was a genuine love-letter. "My 'darling, my little puss, my clever, delicate, tender, noble-hearted Marie; that coarse husband of yours is but a stupid brute...." and so on. The letter further suggested that she should leave me, and proposed ways and means of escape.... I stood up against my rival, and on the same evening--oh, my God! Marie and I fought in the moonshine. She bit my hands, I dragged her to the river to drown her like a kitten--when suddenly I saw a vision of my children. It brought me to my senses. I resolved to put an end to myself, but before doing so I determined to write the story of my life. * * * * * The first part of the book was finished when the news spread through the village that the Danish ladies had engaged rooms. I instantly had the trunks packed, and we left for German Switzerland. IV Lovely Argovia! Sweet Arcady, where the postmaster tends his flocks, where the colonel drives the only cab, where the young girls are virgins when they marry, and the young men shoot at targets and play the drum. Utopia! land of the golden beer and smoked sausages; birthplace of the game of ninepins, the House of Habsburg, William Tell, rustic merry-makings and naïve songs straight from the heart, pastors' wives and vicarage idylls! Peace returned to our troubled hearts. I recovered, and Marie, weary of strife, wrapped herself in undisguised indifference. We played backgammon as a safety-valve, and our conversations, so fraught with danger, were replaced by the rolling of dice. I drank good, wholesome beer instead of wine and the nerve-shattering absinthe. The influence of our environment soon made itself felt. I was amazed to find that such serene calm could follow the storms we had weathered, that the elasticity of the mind could withstand so many shocks, that we could forget the past, that I could fancy myself the happiest husband of the most faithful wife. Marie, deprived of all society and friends, uncomplainingly devoted herself to her children. After a month had elapsed the little ones were dressed in frocks which she had cut out and made with her own hands. She was never impatient with them, and allowed them to absorb her completely. For the first time now I noticed a certain lassitude in her; her love of pleasure was less pronounced, approaching middle-age made itself felt. How grieved she was when she lost her first tooth! Poor girl! She wept, put her arms round me and implored me never to cease loving her. She was now thirty-seven years old. Her hair had grown thinner, her bosom had sunk like the waves of the sea after a storm, the stairs tired her little feet, her lungs no longer worked with the old pressure. And I, although I had not yet reached my prime, although my strength was increasing and I enjoyed excellent health, I loved her more than ever at the thought that now she would belong entirely to me and her children. Shielded from temptation, surrounded by my tender care, she would grow old in the fulfilment of her duties towards her family.... Her return to a more normal state of mind manifested itself in many pathetic ways. Realising her hazardous position as the wife of a comparatively young man of thirty-eight, she took it into her head to be jealous of me; she was more particular about the details of her dress, and took care of herself during the day, so that she might be fresh and able to please me in the evening. She need have had no fear, for I am monogamous by temperament, and, far from abusing the situation, I did my utmost to spare her the cruel pangs of jealousy by giving her proof after proof of my renewed love. * * * * * In the autumn I made up my mind to make a tour through French Switzerland; I intended to be away for three weeks, and never stay longer than a day at any one place. Marie, still clinging to the idea of my shattered health, tried to dissuade me. "I am sure it will kill you," she reiterated. "We shall see!" The tour was a point of honour with me, an attempt to win her back completely, to reawaken in her the love of the virile. * * * * * I returned after incredible hardships, strong, brown and healthy. There was a look of admiration, a challenge in her eyes when she met me, which was, however, quickly superseded by a look of disappointment. I, on the other hand, after my three weeks' absence and abstinence, treated her as a man treats a beloved mistress, a wife from whom he has been parted all too long. I put my arm round her waist and, like a conqueror, seized my own, after a journey of forty-eight hours without a break.... She did not know what to think; she was amazed, afraid of betraying her real feelings; frightened at the thought of finding the "tamer" in her husband. When my excitement had abated a little, I noticed that Marie's expression had undergone a change. I scrutinised her appearance: her missing tooth had been replaced, a fact which made her look much younger. Certain details of her dress betrayed a wish to please. It roused my attention. I soon discovered the reason in the presence of a young girl of about fourteen, with whom she was exceedingly friendly. They kissed one another, went for walks together, bathed together.... There was nothing left for me to do but to take her away it once. V We took rooms in a German private hotel on the shores of the Lake of Lucerne. Marie relapsed into her former ways. She paid a great deal of attention to one of the guests, a young officer; played ninepins with him, and took melancholy walks in the garden while I worked. I noticed at dinner that they exchanged tender glances, although no words were uttered. They seemed to caress one another with the eyes. I resolved to put them to the test at once, and, turning round sharply, looked straight into my wife's face. She tried to throw me off the scent by letting her eyes glide along the young man's temples until they rested on the wall, on a spot which was adorned by a huge poster advertising a brewery. She made an inane remark to cover her confusion. "Is that a new brewery?" she stammered. "Yes ... but don't imagine that you can hoodwink me," I retorted. She bent her neck, as if I had pulled in the reins, and remained silent. Two days later, in the evening, on pretence of being tired, she kissed me good-night and left the room. I too went to bed, and after reading for a little while, fell asleep. All of a sudden I awoke. Some one was playing the piano in the drawing-room; a voice was singing--it was Marie's voice. I arose and called the children's nurse. "Go and tell your mistress to go to bed at once," I said. "Tell her that if she refuses I shall come down myself and shake her in the presence of the whole company." Marie came up-stairs at once. She seemed ashamed, and with an air of injured innocence she asked me why I had sent her so strange a message; why I would not allow her to stay in the drawing-room, although there were other ladies present? "I don't mind your staying in the drawing-room," I replied angrily. "But I do object to your sly ways of getting rid of me whenever you want to be there by yourself." "If you insist, very well, I'll go to bed." This candour, this sudden submission.... What had happened? * * * * * Winter had set in in good earnest. There was an abundance of snow; the sky was leaden, and we were cut off from all society. Everybody had left; we were the last guests in the modest hotel. The extreme cold compelled us to take our meals in the large public dining-room of the restaurant. One morning, while we were at luncheon, a strong, thick-set man, rather nice-looking, evidently belonging to the servant class, entered, sat down at one of the tables, and asked for a glass of wine. Marie scrutinised the stranger in her free and easy manner, took his measure, as it were, and became lost in a reverie. The man went away, confused and flattered by her attention. "A nice-looking man," she remarked, turning to the host. "He used to be my porter." "Was he? He really is unusually good-looking for his class! A very nice-looking man indeed!" And she went into details, praising his virile beauty in terms which puzzled our host. On the following morning the dashing ex-porter was already in his place when we entered. Dressed in his Sunday best, hair and beard trimmed, he appeared to be fully aware of his conquest. He bowed; my wife acknowledged his bow with a graceful bending of her head; he squared his shoulders and gave himself the airs of a Napoleon. He returned on the third day, determined to break the ice. He started a polite conversation, reminiscent of the back-door, all the while addressing himself directly to my wife without wasting any time over the usual trick of first conciliating the husband. It was intolerable! Marie, in the presence of her husband and children, allowed herself to be drawn into a discussion by a stranger. Once more I tried to open her eyes, begged her to be more careful of her reputation. Her only answer was her usual: "You have a nasty mind!" A second Apollo came to the rescue. He was the village tobacconist, an undersized man, at whose shop Marie was in the habit of making small purchases. More shrewd than the porter, he tried to make friends with me first; he was of a more enterprising nature. At the first meeting he stared impudently at Marie and loudly exclaimed to our host-- "I say, what a distinguished-looking family!" Marie's heart caught fire, and the village beau returned night after night. One evening he was intoxicated, and therefore more insolent than usual. He approached Marie while we were playing backgammon, and asked her to explain the rules of the game to him. I answered as civilly as I could under the circumstances, and the worthy man returned to his seat, snubbed. Marie, more sensitive than I, was under the impression that she ought to make amends for my rudeness; she turned to him with the first question which came into her mind-- "Do you play billiards?" she said. "No, madame, or rather, I play badly...." He rose again, approached a step or two, and offered me a cigar. I declined. He turned to Marie. "Won't you smoke, madame?" Fortunately for her, for the tobacconist and the future of my family, she too declined, but she refused in a manner which flattered him. How dared this man offer a lady a cigarette in a restaurant in the presence of her husband? Was I a jealous fool? Or was my wife's conduct so scandalous that she excited the desire of the first-comer? We had a scene in our room, for I regarded her as a somnambulist whom it was my duty to awaken. She was walking straight to her doom, without being in the least aware of it. I gave her an epitome of her sins, old and new, and minutely criticised her conduct. Silently, with a pale face and dream-shadowed eyes, she listened until I had finished. Then she rose and went down-stairs to bed. But this time--for the first time in my life--I fell so low as to play the spy. I crept down-stairs, found her bedroom door, and looked through the keyhole. The rich glow of the lamp fell on the children's nurse, who sat opposite the door right in the field of my vision. Marie was pacing the room excitedly, vehemently denouncing my unfounded suspicions; she conducted her case as a criminal conducts his defence. And yet I was innocent, quite innocent, in spite of all my opportunities to sin.... She produced two glasses of beer, and they drank together. They sat down, side by side, and Marie looked at her caressingly. Closer and closer she moved to the girl, put her head on the shoulders of this new friend, slipped her arm round her waist and kissed her.... Poor Marie! Poor, unhappy woman, who sought comfort far from me, who alone could set her mind at rest and give her peace. All of a sudden she drew herself up, listened, and pointed towards the door. "Some one's there!" I slipped away. When I returned to my post of observation I noticed that Marie was half undressed, exposing her shoulders to the gaze of the girl, who, however, remained quite unmoved. Then she resumed her defence. "There can be no doubt that he is mad! I shouldn't be surprised if he tried to poison me.... I suffer unbearable pains in my inside.... But no, it's hardly probable ... perhaps I ought to fly to Finland.... What do you think?... Only it would kill him, for he loves the children...." What was this, if not the outpourings of an evil conscience?... Stung with remorse, she was terror-stricken and sought refuge on the bosom of a woman! She was a perverted child; an unfaithful wife, a criminal; but, above all, she was an unhappy woman. I lay awake all night, a prey to my tormenting thoughts. At two o'clock in the morning I heard her moaning in her sleep. Full of pity, I knocked on the floor to dispel the visions which terrified her. It was not the first time that I had done this. She thanked me on the following morning for having awakened her from her nightmare. I made much of her, and begged her to tell me, her best friend, everything. "Tell you what?... I have nothing to tell." I should have given her absolution for whatever crime she had confessed to me at that moment, for my heart was full of compassion. I loved her with an infinite love, despite of, or perhaps because of, all the misery she had wrought. She was but an unhappy woman. How could I raise my hand against her? But instead of delivering me once and for all from the terrible doubts which haunted me, she offered me the most strenuous resistance. She had persuaded herself that I was insane; her instinct of self-preservation had built up a legend behind which she could shield herself from the attacks of her anguished conscience. * * * * * _Sunwards_. Not a single ray of sunlight had gladdened the little village of Gersau on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne for three long weeks, not, in fact, since the beginning of October, when the Foehn began to blow. There had been a dead calm; after sunset I had fallen asleep and slept until I was awakened, in the middle of the night, by the ringing of the church bells and a noise which mingled with the peculiar rushing sound of the tempest as it came sweeping across the Alps, flung itself on the southern shore of the lake, was compressed into the valley and forced into the streets of our village, where it tore at the signs, shook the window shutters, rattled the slates and howled through the branches of trees and shrubs. The waves of the lake dashed against the dam, foamed over the border and plashed against the sides of the boats. Handfuls of storm-lashed sand were flung at our windows; the leaves, torn from their branches, went dancing and whirling by, the doors of the stoves clattered, the walls shook. I looked out of the window; the church was lighted up, and the bells were ringing to awaken those who still slept. In these parts the Foehn is accounted as full of danger as an earthquake, for it does not only sweep away the houses, but it tears the mountains to pieces and flings them into the valleys. Our house was situated at the base of a mountain which, though only fifteen hundred metres high, carried on its summit a loose litter of rocks, peculiarly adapted to stone-throwing on a large scale. The tempest raged for three hours, then the danger was over; but on the following morning everybody in the village knew that at Schwyz a rock had fallen on a farmhouse and carried away the right wing without injury to those who lived in the left. After this warm but terrific gale a fog descended on village and lake. The sky was overcast, but no rain fell; yet there was no sunshine. This continued for three weeks, and if the outlook had been grey to begin with, it ended by being black. The beautiful alpine landscape, the unrivalled restorer of flagging spirits, had lost its potency, for it was impossible to see further ahead than a hundred yards up the steep rocks; the heart became heavy as lead and indescribably depressed. The tourists had turned their faces homewards, the hotels were empty, November was upon us, sombre and gloomy. The hours dragged on wearily; one longed for the end of the dreary day and the cheerful light of the lamps; the dismal sky was grey, the lake was grey, the landscape was grey. No wind, no rain, no thunder. Nature, so varied and diversified, had become monotonous, calm and quiet; so peaceful that an earthquake would have been a relief. Wherever the light did not fall, greyness reigned; vision was dimmed, and drowsiness, akin to laziness, enveloped the soul. One evening, when I complained to the magistrate of the long absence of the sun, he answered with the phlegm which characterises the German-Swiss-- "The sun! You can see the sun all day long on the Hochfluh!" The Hochfluh was one of the small mountain ranges which surrounded the valley in which we lived; it was only two hundred metres lower than the Sulitelma, and consequently a favourite walk of young English tourists. Being a worshipper of the sun, I decided to make a pilgrimage to my deity, and early one November morning I set out on my travels. The inhabitants of Gersau, living at the base of a mountain which, as I have already mentioned, every now and then transforms itself into a volcano and rains rocks and stones on the valleys, have from time immemorial cultivated the habit of preparing themselves for death by visiting their church three times a day, at morning, noon and evening. I was not surprised, therefore, to meet the church-goers now, at eight o'clock in the morning, carrying their Prayer Books in their hands. Two old women, patiently performing their daily half-mile trudge to morning prayers, were counting their beads on the highroad. One of them started the angelic salutation "Ave Maria!" and her companion joined in the burden "In sæcula sæculorum, Amen." They kept up their monotonous' mumbling the whole way, and though this counting of beads may not have done any actual good, it at least prevented any misuse of the tongue; I could not help thinking of the well-known anecdote of the count who made his butler whistle whenever he was busy in the wine cellar. Soon after I had left the old women and the highroad behind, and begun the ascent, I came upon some sights which were so striking that they made a lasting impression on me. Close to the first curve of the road grew a walnut tree, to which were nailed a crucifix and a tablet; the inscription on the latter informed the passer-by that farmer Seppi, while busy with the harvest, fell from the tree and was killed. God have mercy on his soul! Pray for him! Amen! At the next corner there was a queer little shrine built of whitewashed bricks, small like a child's dolls'-house. A peep through the railings disclosed pictures of the Holy Family, painted, perhaps, in the sixteenth century, and a legend to the effect that criminals on their way to execution were allowed a few minutes' respite before the shrine to utter a last prayer. I was, therefore, on the road which led to the gallows, and a few minutes later I arrived at the place of execution, a pleasant open spot on the top of an overhanging cliff which jutted out in the direction of the lake. From this point one had a magnificent view. To bid farewell to life with a last look at such a picture as greets the eye from the summit of Pilatus, Buechserhorn or Buergenstock is quite conceivably a genuine pleasure. Even Voltaire could have felt none of the repugnance which was excited in him by the idea of being hanged in secret, a contingency which filled him with such extreme disgust, that he was quite consistent in accusing Rousseau of a vanity so great that it would permit him to submit cheerfully to be hanged, if he could be sure of his name being nailed to the gallows. In the distance, near the shore, I could dimly discern a faint outline of a haunted little church, called "Kindlimord" because a grief-stricken father is said there to have killed his starving child. I left these four melancholy landmarks behind me in the grey morning light, and hastened my ascent to those happier heights where the sun was shining. Very soon beeches took the place of chestnut and walnut trees. I rested for a while in a dairy cottage in the company of fine cattle and a horrible cur, and then entered cloudland. I seemed to be walking in a dense fog, which grew in density and almost completely blotted out the landscape. The effort to see made my eyes ache; trees and shrubs loomed indistinctly through a cloud of smoke; the millions of cobwebs which festooned the branches were richly studded with raindrops; it looked as if the old woman of the wood, if there is such a being, had hung up thousands of lace handkerchiefs to dry. It was difficult to breathe; the fog hung on my coat, hair, beard and eyebrows, gave out a stale, sickly smell, and rendered the rocks so smooth and slippery that I could hardly keep my footing; it darkened the heart of the wood, where the trunks were quickly swallowed up in a monotonous grey, which limited the range of vision to a few yards. I had to climb up through this layer of fog, extending about a thousand metres upwards, a cold and damp purgatory, before I could reach the sun; and I struggled on, with sublime faith in the magistrate's word of honour that the fog would cease before the mountain ceased and grey space began. I had no barometer with me, but I felt that I was ascending, that the fog was growing less dense, and that I was approaching a purer atmosphere. A feeling of intoxication seized me--a faint glimmer from above dimly illuminated the narrow pass, like the first dawn of day shining through the picture of a landscape painted on a window-blind; the trees stood out more distinctly, the field of vision increased, the tinkling of cowbells--from above--fell on my ear. And now, right on the summit, there hung a golden cloud; a few more steps and the stunted beeches and brushwood shone and glittered, dazzling splashes of gold, copper, bronze and silver, wherever a stream of broken sunlight fell on the faded foliage which was still clinging to the branches. I was standing in an autumn landscape looking out into a sun-bathed summerland; through my mind flashed the memory of a sail on the Lake of Mälar; I remembered how I was sitting in the sunshine, watching the passing of a black hail-storm no further off than a cable-length to leeward. And now I, too, stood in the sunlight, gazing at a northern landscape made up of firs and birch trees, green fields and red cattle, little brown cottages with old women on the thresholds, knitting socks for father, who was toiling far down in the canton of Tessin; my eyes rested on potato fields and lavender bushes, dahlias and marigolds. The sun dried my hair and coat, and warmed my shivering limbs; I bared my head before the glowing orb, source and preserver of all there is, completely indifferent whether I was worshipping unquenchable flames of burning hydrogen, or the not yet scientifically acknowledged primordial substance, helium. Was it not the All-Father, who had given birth to the Cosmos, the Almighty, the Lord of life and death, ice and heat, summer and winter, dearth and plenty? My eyes, which had been feasting on summer joy and green fields, plunged into the gloom of the abyss whence I had climbed. The mantle of cold and darkness which had been lying on the surface of the lake was cold and dark no longer; dazzling clouds, like snowy, sunlit piles of wool, hid from my gaze the twilight and the polluted earth; above them rose snow-clad peaks, glistening and sparkling, fashioned of condensed silver fog, a crystallised solution of air and sunlight, drift-ice on a sea of newly fallen snow. It was a vision of transcendent beauty, compared to which the cowbell-idyll under the birch trees was commonplace. The dead silence was suddenly broken by a sound from below, where melancholy men and women toiled and trembled in the grey gloom. It was a splashing sound which approached deliberately; so deliberately that my eyes unconsciously tried to follow its course under the cloud-cover. It sounded like a millstream, a brook swollen with rain, a tidal wave. Then a scream rent the air, loud and wild, as if all the dwellers in the four cantons were calling for help against Uri-Rotstock; it was the shrill whistle of the paddle-boat which, penetrating the layer of clouds, gained in volume in the pure air and was caught up and tossed from rock to rock by the redundant echo of the Hochfluh. It was noon! Time to begin my descent through the fog down to the greyness, the darkness, the damp, the dirt, and wait for another three weeks, perhaps, for another glimpse of the sun. VI After the New Year we left Switzerland and took up our abode in Germany; we had decided to stay for a while at the lovely shores of the Lake of Constance. In Germany, the land of militarism, where the patriarchate is still in full force, Marie felt completely out of it. No one would listen to her futile talk about women's rights. Here young girls had just been forbidden to attend the University lectures; here the dowry of a woman who marries an officer of the army has to be deposited with the War Office; here all government appointments are reserved for the man, the breadwinner of the family. Marie struggled and fought as if she had been caught in a trap. On her first attempt to hoodwink me she was severely taken to task by the women. For the first time in my life I found the fair sex entirely on my side; henceforth she had to play second fiddle. The friendly intercourse with the officers braced me; their manners influenced mine; and after ten years of spiritual emasculation my manhood reasserted itself. I let my hair grow as it liked, and abolished the fringe on which Marie had insisted; my voice, which had grown thin from everlastingly speaking in soothing tones to a woman, regained its former volume. The hollows in my cheeks filled out, and although I was now beginning my fortieth year my whole physique gained in strength and vigour. I was friendly with all the women in the house, and soon fell into the habit of taking a very active part in the conversation, while Marie, poor, unpopular Marie, once again sat in silence. She began to be afraid of me. One morning, for the first time in the last six years of our marriage, she appeared fully dressed in my bedroom before I was up. I could not understand this sudden move, but we had a stormy scene, during which she admitted that she was jealous of the girl who came into my room every morning to light the fire in my stove. "And I do detest your new ways!" she exclaimed. "I hate this so-called manliness, and loathe you when you give yourself airs!" Well, I knew that it had always been the page, the lap-dog, the weakling, "her child" that she loved. The virago never loves virility in her husband, however much she may admire it elsewhere. I became more and more popular with the women. I sought their society; my whole nature was expanding in the friendly warmth which they emanated, these true women, who inspired the respectful love, the genuine devotion which a man only feels for a womanly woman. * * * * * We were discussing our return home. But again my old suspicions tormented me. I shrank from the renewal of old relations with former friends, some of whom might quite conceivably have been my wife's lovers. To put an end to my doubts, I determined to cross-examine her, for my letters to friends in Sweden had been so much waste of paper. I had been unable to elicit a candid statement. Everybody pitied the "mother." No one cared whether or not the "father" would be ruined by the ridicule which threatened to befall him. An excellent idea occurred to me. I would make use of the resources of the new science of psychology and thought-reading. I introduced it into our evening amusements, as if it were a game, employing the methods of Bishop and his kind. Marie was suspicious. She charged me with being a spiritualist; laughingly called me a superstitious free-thinker; overwhelmed me with abuse--in fact, used every means in her power to divert my attention from practices the danger of which she apparently anticipated. I pretended to give in, and dropped hypnotism, but I resolved to make my attack some time when she was off her guard. The opportunity came one evening when we were sitting alone in the dining-room, facing each other. I gradually led the conversation to gymnastics. I succeeded in interesting her so much that she became excited and, compelled either by my will-power or the association of ideas which I had aroused in her mind, she mentioned massage. This suggested the pain caused by the treatment, and remembering her own experience in this connection she exclaimed-- "Oh yes, the treatment is certainly painful--I can feel the pain now when I think of----" She paused. She bowed her head to hide her pallor; her lips moved as if she were anxious to change the subject; her eyelids flickered. A terrible silence followed which I prolonged as much as possible. This was the train of thought which I had set in motion and guided, full steam on, in the intended direction. In vain she tried to put on the brake. The abyss lay before her; she could not stop the engine. With a superhuman effort she broke from the grip of my eyes and rushed out of the room. The blow had struck home. She returned a few minutes later; her face had lost its strained expression. Under pretence of demonstrating to me the beneficial effect of massage, she came behind my chair and stroked my head. Unfortunately the little scene was acted before a mirror. A furtive glance showed me her pale, terrified face, her troubled eyes which scrutinised my features ... our searching glances met. Contrary to her habit she came and sat on my knee, put her arms round me lovingly and murmured that she was very sleepy. "What wrong have you committed to-day that you caress me like this?" I asked. She hid her face on my shoulder, kissed me and went out of the room, bidding me good-night. I am perfectly well aware that this sort of evidence would not satisfy a jury, but it was sufficient for me, who knew her so well. And to my thinking the evidence was strengthened by the fact that a short time ago my brother-in-law had forbidden the doctor his house, because the latter had made advances to my sister. * * * * * I was therefore determined not to return to my own country. At home I should be compelled to associate daily with men whom I distrusted, and to escape the ridicule which inevitably falls to the share of the duped husband, I fled to Vienna. Alone in my hotel, the vision of the wife I had worshipped haunted me. Utterly unable to work, I began a correspondence with her. I wrote her love-letters twice a day. The unknown town affected me like a cemetery. I moved through the thronging crowd like a phantom. But after a while my imagination began to people this solitude. I invented a romantic story for the sole reason of introducing Marie into this dreary desert, and soon life was pulsing everywhere. I pictured her as a famous singer, and to lend my dream a semblance of reality and make of the fine city a more convincing background for her, I made the acquaintance of the director of the Conservatoire. I, who detested the theatre, visited the opera or a concert every night. Everything interested me intensely, because I reported everything to her. No sooner had I arrived at my hotel than I sat down and gave her a minute description of Miss So-and-so's performance, drawing comparisons which were invariably in her own favour. Her spirit pervaded the picture galleries. I spent an hour before the Venus of Guido Reni in the Belvedere, because she was so like my beloved. In the end my longing grew so irresistible that I packed my box and returned home as fast as the express could carry me. Surely I was bewitched; there was no means of escape from her. I had a royal reception. My love-letters seemed to have rekindled Marie's love. I ran up the little garden to meet her. I covered her face with passionate kisses. I took her little head between my hands. "Can you really work magic, little witch?" "What do you mean? Your journey was not an attempt at flight, was it?" "It was! But you are stronger than I am.... I throw down my arms...." On my writing-table lay a spray of red roses. "You do love me a little?" She was covered with confusion like a young girl--she blushed ... it was all over with me, my honour, my efforts to break the chains which bound me, and which I longed for when I was free. Six months went by; we lived in a wonderful dream: we chirruped like starlings, we kissed, our love was endless. We played duets and backgammon. The most beautiful days of the last five years were surpassed. Spring had returned in the autumn of our lives! And had we not dreaded the approach of the winter? * * * * * I was fast again in her toils. She was convinced that the love philtre which she had given me to drink had intoxicated me afresh, and relapsed into her former indifference. She neglected her appearance, and despite all my remonstrances no longer took the trouble to make the best of herself. I foresaw that the result would be coldness on both sides, in spite of ourselves. Even her preference for her own sex reappeared, more dangerous and more pitiable, for this time she made love to young girls. One evening we had invited the commandant and his fourteen-year-old daughter, cur hostess and her daughter, a girl of fifteen, and a third girl of about the same age to a quiet little dinner-party, which was to be followed by a dance. Towards midnight--to this day I grow hot when I think of it--I saw that Marie, who had been drinking freely, had gathered the young girls round her and, looking at them with lascivious eyes, was kissing them on the lips. The commandant was watching the scene from a dark corner of the room, hardly able to control himself. In imagination I saw prison, penal servitude, a scandal which we could never live down; I made a rush at the group and broke it up, telling the girls to join in the dancing.... When we were left alone I took Marie to task. We argued and stormed till daylight. Since she had had more wine than was good for her, she lost her head and confessed things which I had never even dreamed of. Beside myself with anger, I repeated all my indictments, all my suspicions, and added a new charge, in which I did not really believe myself. "And this mysterious illness, these headaches from which I suffer...." "What! You blame me for that too!" I had not meant what she insinuated; I had merely referred to the symptoms of cyanide poisoning which I had observed in myself. All of a sudden a reminiscence flashed into my mind; the thought of something which at the time had seemed too improbable that it had left no permanent trace in my memory.... My suspicion was strengthened when I remembered a certain epithet used in an anonymous letter which I had received a short time after Marie's divorce. The letter referred to her as "the prostitute of Södertälje." What did it mean? I had made inquiries which had come to nothing. Was I on the point of making a fresh discovery? When the Baron, Marie's first husband, made her acquaintance at Södertälje, she was half and half engaged to a young officer, a man with admittedly bad health. Poor Gustav had played the part of a greenhorn. That accounted for the warm gratitude which she felt for him even after the divorce; she had confessed at the time that he had delivered her from dangers ... what dangers she had not mentioned. But "the prostitute of Södertälje"? I reflected ... the retired life which the young couple led, without friends, without society; they had been ostracised by the class to which they belonged. Had Marie's mother, formerly a governess of middle-class origin, who had wheedled Marie's father into a marriage with her; who had fled to Sweden to escape from pressing debts; had she, the widow who so cleverly contrived to conceal her poverty, stooped to sell her daughter when they were living at Södertälje? The old woman, a coquette still at the age of sixty, had always inspired me with mingled feelings of compassion and dislike; mean, pleasure-loving, with the manners of an adventuress, a veritable "man-eater," she regarded every man as her legitimate prey. She had made me support her sister; she had deceived her first son-in-law, the Baron, with the story of a dowry swindled out of one of her creditors. Poor Marie! Her remorse, her unrest, her dark moods were rooted in that shady past. In putting old events by the side of new ones I had the key to the quarrels between mother and daughter, brutal quarrels, frequently verging on violence. I could understand Marie's hitherto incomprehensible words, "I could kick my mother!" Had her game been to silence the old woman? Probably; for the latter had threatened to ruin our lives by confessing "everything." There could have been no doubt of Marie's dislike for her mother, to whom the Baron frequently referred as "that old blackguard," an invective which he justified with the half-truth that she had taught her daughter all the tricks of coquetry to enable her to catch a husband. All these coincidences strengthened my determination to separate from her. It had to be! There was no alternative. And I left for Copenhagen to make inquiries into the past of the woman in whose keeping I had confided my honour. * * * * * In meeting my countrymen after several years' absence I found that they had formed very definite opinions of me; the eager exertions of Marie and her friends had borne fruit. She was a holy martyr; I was a madman, whose lunacy consisted in believing himself to be saddled with an unfaithful wife. Make inquiries? It was like beating my head against a stone wall. People listened to what I had to say with a furtive smile and stared at me as if I were a rare animal. No information was vouchsafed to me; I was deserted by every one, especially by those who secretly yearned for my ruin, so that they might rise over my fallen body. I returned to my prison. Marie met me with evident misgivings; I learned more from the expression of her face than I had learned during the whole of my melancholy journey. For two months I champed upon the bit; then I fled for the fourth time, in the height of summer, this time to Switzerland. But the chain which held me was not an iron chain which I might have been able to break; it was rather an indiarubber cable, elastic and capable of infinite expansion. The stronger the tension, the more irresistibly I was pulled back to the starting point. Once more I returned, to be rewarded with open contempt; she was sure that another attempt to free myself from her net would kill me, and my death was her only hope. I fell ill, severely ill, so that I believed myself to be dying; I made up my mind to write the whole story of the past. I could see plainly now that I had been in the power of a vampire. I only wanted to live long enough to cleanse my name from the filth with which she had sullied it. I wanted to live long enough to revenge myself; but first of all I must have proofs of her infidelity. I hated her now with a hatred more fatal than indifference because it is the anthithesis of love. I hated her because I loved her. It was on a Sunday, while we were dining in the summer-arbour, that the electric fluid which had gathered during the last ten years discharged itself. I cannot remember my actual motive, but I struck her, for the first time in my life. I struck her face repeatedly, and when she tried to defend herself I seized her wrists and forced her on her knees. She gave a terrified scream. The temporary satisfaction which I had felt at my action gave way to dismay, for the children, frightened to death, cried out with fear. It was a horrible moment! It is a crime, a most unnatural crime, to strike a woman, a mother, in the presence of her children. It seemed to me that the sun ought to hide his face.... I felt sick to death. And yet there was peace in my soul, like the calm after a storm, a satisfaction such as is only derived from duty done. I regretted my action, but I felt no remorse. My deed had been as inevitable as cause and effect. In the evening I saw her walking in the moonlit garden. I joined her; I kissed her. She did not object; she burst into tears. We walked for a few minutes, then she accompanied me to my room and stayed with me until midnight. How strange is life! In the afternoon I had struck her. At night she held me in her arms and kissed me. What an extraordinary woman she was, to kiss her executioner with willing lips! Why had I not known it before? If I had struck her ten years ago I should now have been the happiest of husbands. Remember this, my brothers, if ever you are deceived by a woman! But she had no intention of foregoing her revenge. A few days after this incident she came into my room, began telling me a long, rambling story, and after endless digressions gave me to understand that she had once, only once, been violated; it had happened, she said, while on her theatrical tour in Finland. It was true, then! She implored me not to think that it had happened more than once; not to suspect her of having had a lover. That meant several times, several lovers. "Then it is true that you have deceived me, and in order to deceive the world, too, you have invented the myth of my insanity. To hide your crime more completely you meant to torture me to death. You are a criminal. I have no longer any doubt of it. I shall divorce you!" She threw herself on her knees, weeping bitterly, and asking me to forgive her. "I'll forgive you; nevertheless our marriage must be annulled." * * * * * On the following day she was very quiet; on the second day she had regained her former self-possession; on the third she behaved in every respect like an innocent woman. Since she had confessed herself, she was more than innocent; she was a martyr who treated me with insulting condescension. She did not realise the consequences of a crime such as she had committed, and therefore she did not understand my dilemma. If I continued to live with her, I became a public laughing-stock; on the other hand, to leave her spelled disaster also; my life was ruined. Ten years of martyrdom to be paid for with a few blows and a day of tears. Was it fair? For the last time I left my home, secretly, for I had not the heart to say good-bye to the children. On a beautiful Sunday afternoon I went on board a steamer bound for Constance. I had decided to visit my friends in France, and there to write the story of this woman, the true representative of the age of the unsexed. At the last moment Marie appeared on the landing-stage, tear-stained, excited, feverish, yet pretty enough to turn the head of any man. But I remained cold, callous, silent, and received her treacherous kiss without returning it. "Say at least that we are parting friends!" "Enemies for the short time which remains for me on earth!" We parted. The steamer started. I watched her walking along the quay, trying to draw me back with the magic of her eyes which had held me under their spell for so many years. She came and went like a forsaken little dog. I waited for the moment when she would jump into the water; I should jump after her, and we should drown together. But she turned away and disappeared in a little side-street, leaving me with a last impression of her bewitching figure, her little feet, which I had allowed to trample on me for ten years without a murmur. Only in my writings perhaps I had occasionally given vent to my feelings, but even there I had always tried to mislead the reader by concealing her real crimes. To steel my heart against grief and regret, I went at once into the saloon. I sat down to dinner, but an aching lump in my throat compelled me to rise, and I climbed again on deck. I watched the green hill gliding past, and thought of the little white cottage with the green shutters which crowned it. My children lived there, but the home was desolate, they were without protection, without means.... An icy pang shot through my heart. I was like the cocoon of the silkworm when the great steam-engine; slowly reels off the shining thread. At every stroke of the piston I grew thinner, and as the thread lengthened the cold which chilled me increased. I was like an embryo prematurely detached from the umbilical cord. What a complete and living organism is the family! I had thought so at that first divorce, from which I had recoiled conscience-stricken. But she, the adulteress, the murderess, had remained unmoved. At Constance I caught the train for Basle. What a wretched Sunday afternoon! I prayed to God, if God there was, to preserve even my bitterest foes from such agony. At Basle I was overwhelmed with an irresistible desire to revisit all those places in Switzerland where we had stayed together, to gladden my sad heart with memories of happy hours spent with her and the children. I stayed for a week in Geneva and some days at Ouchy, hunted by my misery from hotel to hotel, without peace or rest, like a lost soul, like the wandering Jew. I spent my nights in tears, haunted by the little figures of my beloved children; I visited the places they had visited; I fed "their" seagulls on the Lake of Geneva, a poor, restless ghost, a miserable phantom. Every morning I expected a letter from Marie, but no letter came. She was too clever to furnish her opponent with written evidence. I wrote to her several times a day, love-letters, forgiving her for all her crimes--but I never posted them. Doubtless, my judges, if I had been destined to end my days in a lunatic asylum, my fate would have come upon me in those hours of keenest agony and bitterest sorrow. My power of endurance was exhausted; I wondered whether Marie's confession had not been a ruse, so as to get rid of me and begin life all over again with her unknown lover, or, perhaps, to live with her Danish friend. I saw my children in the hands of a "stepfather" or the clutches of a "stepmother"; Marie would be quite rich with the proceeds of my collected works; she would perhaps write the story of my life as seen through the eyes of the unnatural woman who had come between us. The instinct of self-preservation stirred within me; I conceived a cunning plan. The separation from my family paralysed me mentally; I decided to return to them and stay with them until I had written the story of Marie's crimes. In this way she would become the unconscious tool of my revenge, which I could throw away when I had no further use for it. With this object in view I sent her a telegram, business-like, free from all sentimentality; I informed her that my petition for a divorce had been refused; pretended that I required a power of attorney from her, and suggested an interview at Romanshorn, on this side of the Lake of Constance. * * * * * I despatched the telegram with a sense of relief. On the following day I took the train and in due time arrived at the appointed place. The week of suffering was a thing of the past; my heart was beating normally, my eyes shone with added lustre; I drew a deep breath at the sight of the hills on the opposite shore, where my children lived. The steamer approached the landing stage; my eyes searched for Marie. Presently I caught sight of her on the deck, her face woe-begone, ten years older. The sight of her, suddenly grown old, wrung my heart. She walked with dragging footsteps, her eyelids were red with weeping, her cheeks hollow and drooping. At that moment all feeling of hatred and disgust was swamped by pity. I felt a strong temptation to take her into my arms, but I pulled myself together, drew myself up and assumed the devil-may-care expression of a young blood who had come to a tryst. When I looked at her more closely I discovered in her a strange resemblance to her Danish friend; the likeness was really extraordinary; she had the same expression, the same pose, the same gestures, the same way of wearing her hair. Had she played me this last trick? Had she come to me straight from her "friend"? Warned by these details, I recapitulated the part I meant to play. While I accompanied her to the hotel she was depressed and ill at ease, but she kept her self-possession. She questioned me very intelligently on the projected divorce proceedings, and when she found that I exhibited no trace of grief or emotion, she dropped her woe-begone aspect and began to treat me, as far as she dared, with a certain condescension. During the interview she reminded me so much of her friend that I was tempted to ask for news of the lady. I was especially struck by a very tragic pose, a favourite one of her friend's, a pose which was accompanied by a certain gesture of the hand which rested on the table ... ugh! I rang for wine. She drank greedily and became sentimental. I took the opportunity to ask after the little ones. She burst into tears; she said that she had suffered greatly during the past week; from morning till night the children had worried her with questions about their father; she did not see how they could get on without me. All at once she noticed the absence of my wedding-ring; she became agitated. "Your wedding-ring?" she gasped breathlessly. "I sold it in Geneva. There's no need to ask what I did with the money." She grew pale. "Then we are quits. Shall we make a fresh start?" "Is that what you call fair play? You committed an act fraught with tragic consequences for the whole family, for through it I am compelled to doubt the legitimacy of my children. You are guilty of having tampered with the lineage of a family. You have dishonoured four people: your three children of doubtful paternity and your husband, whom your infidelity has made a public laughing-stock. What, on the other hand, are the consequences of my act?" She wept. I remained firm. I said that the divorce proceedings must go on, that I should adopt the children--in the meantime she could remain in my house, if she liked. Would it not be the free life she had always been dreaming of? She had always cursed matrimony. She reflected for a moment. My proposal did not please her. "I remember you saying you would like the position of a governess in the house of a widower. Here's the widower for you!" "Give me time.... We shall see.... But in the meantime do you intend to live with us?" "If you ask me to." "We are waiting for you." And for the sixth time I returned to my family, but this time firmly resolved to use the remaining weeks to finish my story.... EPILOGUE Seated at my writing-table, pen in hand, I fainted; a feverish attack prostrated me. This very inopportune attack frightened me, for I had not been seriously ill for fifteen years. It was not fear of death, oh no. Death held no terrors for me; but I was thirty-nine years old and at the end of a turbulent career, my last word still unsaid, the promises of my youth only partly fulfilled, pregnant with plans for the future. This sudden cutting of the knot was far from pleasing me. For the last four years I had lived with my family in half-voluntary exile; I was at the end of my resources, and had settled down in a small town in Bavaria; I had come into conflict with the law, for one of my books had been confiscated, and I had been banished from my own country. I had but one desire left when I was thrown on my sick-bed--the desire for revenge. A struggle arose within me; I had not sufficient strength left in me to call for help. The fever shook me as one shakes a feather bed; it seized me by the throat and throttled me; it put its foot on my breast and scorched my brain, so that my eyes started from their sockets. I was alone with Death, who had crept in by stealth and was attacking me. But I was unwilling to die; I resisted, and an obstinate fight began. The tension of my nerves relaxed, the blood coursed through my veins. My brain twitched like a polypus that has been thrown into vinegar. But before loner I realised that I must succumb in this dance of death. I relinquished my hold, fell backwards and submitted to the fatal embrace of the dread monster. Immediately an indescribable calm came over me, a voluptuous weakness composed my limbs, and perfect peace soothed body and soul, which had lacked all wholesome recreation during so many years of toil. I fervently desired that it really should be the end. Slowly all will to live ebbed away. I ceased to observe, to feel, to think. I became unconscious, and a delicious sensation of blankness filled the void created by the cessation of the racking pain, the tormenting thoughts, the secret terrors. When I regained consciousness I found my wife sitting by my bedside and gazing at me with terrified eyes. "What is the matter with you dear?" she said. "Nothing; I am ill," I replied. "And there are times when illness is welcome." "What do you mean? You are jesting!" "No, it is the end at last ... anyhow, I hope it is." "Heaven forbid that you should leave us in these straits!" she exclaimed. "What is to become of us in a strange country, without friends, without means?" "There is my life insurance," I said, attempting to console her. "I know it isn't much, but it is enough to take you home." She had not thought of this, and she looked a little reassured as she continued-- "But you cannot lie here like this! I shall send for a doctor." "No, I won't have a doctor!" "Why not?" "Because--I won't!" The glances which we exchanged spoke volumes. "I want to die," I said, anxious to put an end to our conversation. "I am sick of life; the past is a tangled skein which I cannot unravel. It is time that my eyes closed for ever--that the curtain fell!" She remained unmoved. "Your old suspicion ... is it still alive, then?" she asked. "Yes, still alive. Drive away the spectre, you alone can do it." She assumed her favourite part of little mother, and gently laid her soft hand on my burning forehead. "Does that relieve you?" "Yes...." It was a fact. The mere touch of that light hand which rested so heavily on my life exorcised the evil spirit, the secret trouble which would not let me rest. Another and more violent attack of fever followed. My wife rose to make me some elder tea. Left by myself I sat up in bed and looked out through the window opposite. It was a large window in the shape of a triptychon, framed by wild vine; I saw a part of the landscape surrounded by green leaves; in the fore-ground the beautiful scarlet fruit of a quince tree rocked gently among the dark green foliage; apple trees, a little further off, studded the green grass; still further away the steeple of a small church rose into the radiant air, behind it a blue spot, the Lake of Constance, was visible, and far in the background the Tyrol Alps. We were in the height of summer, and, illuminated by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun, the whole scene formed a charming picture. From below rose the twittering of the starlings which sat on the vine-props in the vineyards, the chirping of the young chickens, the strident note of the crickets, the tinkling cowbells, clear as crystal. The loud laughter of my children, the directing voice of my wife, who was talking to the gardener's wife about my illness, mingled with these gay sounds of country life. And as I gazed and listened life seemed good to me, death to be shunned. I had too many duties to perform, too many debts to pay. My conscience tortured me, I felt an overpowering need to confess myself, to ask all men's forgiveness for the wrongs I had committed, to humiliate myself before some one. I felt guilty, stricken with remorse, I did not know for what secret crime; I was burning with the desire to relieve my conscience by a full confession of my fancied culpability. During this attack of weakness, the result of a sort of innate despondency, my wife returned carrying a cup in her hand; alluding to a slight attack of persecutional mania from which I had once suffered, she tasted the contents before offering it to me. "You may drink without fear," she said smilingly, "it contains no poison." I felt ashamed. I did not know what to say. And to make amends for my suspicion I emptied the cup at one draught. The somniferous elder tea, the fragrance of which recalled in me reminiscences of my own country where the mystic shrub is held sacred by the people, made me feel so sentimental that I there and then gave expression to my remorse. "Listen to me carefully," I said, "for I believe that my days are numbered. I confess that I have always lived a life of utter selfishness. I have sacrificed your theatrical career to my literary ambition.... I will tell you everything now ... only forgive me...." She tried to calm me, but I interrupted her and continued-- "In compliance with your wishes we married under the dotal system. In spite of it, however, I have wasted your dowry to cover sums which I had recklessly guaranteed. My greatest grief now is the fact that you cannot touch the proceeds of my works. Send for a notary at once, so that I can settle on you all my nominal or real property. ... Above everything, promise that you will return to the stage which you gave up to please me." She refused to listen any further, treated my confession as a joke, advised me to go to sleep and rest, and assured me that everything would come right, and that I was not on the point of death. I seized her hand, exhausted. I begged her to stay with me until I had fallen asleep. Grasping her little hand more firmly, I again implored her to forgive me for all the wrong I had done her. A delicious drowsiness stole over me and closed my tired eyelids. Under the radiations of her shining eyes, which expressed infinite tenderness, I felt as if I were melting away as ice melts in the rays of the sun. Her cool lips, touching my forehead, seemed to press a seal on it, and I was plunged into the depths of ineffable bliss. * * * * * It was broad daylight when I awoke from my stupor. The rays of the sun fell on a Utopian landscape. To judge from the matutinal sounds which rose from below, it must have been above five o'clock. I had slept soundly during the whole night without dreaming or waking up. On the little table by my bedside stood the cup which had contained the elder-tea; the chair on which my wife had been sitting when I fell asleep was still in its place. I was covered with her cloak; the soft hairs of the fox skins with which it was lined tickled my chin. My brain felt as refreshed and rested as if I had slept for the first time in ten years. I collected my thoughts, which had been rushing hither and thither in wild disorder, and with this powerful, well-drilled and disciplined army I prepared to meet those attacks of morbid remorse which frequently accompany physical weakness. Looming large, filling my mind completely, were the two ugly blots which, under guise of a confession, I had revealed to my wife on the previous day; the two dark blots which had spoiled my life for so many years. I resolved to re-examine them at once, to dissect those two "facts" which up to now I had allowed to pass unchallenged, for I had a vague presentiment that they were unsound. "Let me see," I said to myself, "what have I done that I should look upon myself as a selfish coward, who has sacrificed the artistic career of his wife to his ambition? Let me see what really happened...." At the time of our betrothal she was playing very small parts. Her position in the artistic world had sunk to a very modest one, once her want of talent, character and originality had made her second appearance in public a fiasco. She lacked all the essentials which go to make a successful actress. On the day before our wedding she was playing the part of a society woman in a very commonplace play; she had only a dozen words to speak. For how many tears, how much misery was our marriage made responsible! It robbed the actress of all charm, and yet she had been so fascinating as Baroness, divorced from her husband that she might devote her life entirely to art. It was true, I was to blame for this deterioration, which, after two years' weeping over steadily shrinking parts, resulted in her leaving the stage. At the very moment when her engagement came to an end I had a success, an undoubted success, as a novelist. I had already conquered the stage with small, unimportant plays. Now I was burning to write a play which would create a sensation; it should be one of those spectacular plays which delight audiences; my purpose, of course, was to help my wife to a re-engagement. It was a repugnant task, for one of my most cherished dreams was the reform of the drama. In writing my new play I sacrificed my literary faith. But I meant to force my wife on a hostile public, throw her at their heads with all the means in my power, move heaven and earth to make her popular. All my efforts were in vain. The public would have none of the divorced wife who had married a second time; the manager hastened to cancel a contract which brought him no advantage. "Well, was that my fault?" I asked myself, voluptuously stretching my limbs, well satisfied with the result of this first self-examination. Was there a greater blessing than a good conscience? With a lighter heart I continued my musing-- A miserable year passed, was wept away, despite the happiness it brought us in the birth of a little girl. And all of a sudden my wife had another attack of stage mania, more violent than the previous one. We besieged the agencies, stormed the managerial offices, advertised ourselves hugely--but everywhere we failed, all doors were closed to us, everybody threw cold water on our schemes. Disillusioned by the failure of my drama, and on the point of making a name in science, I had sworn never again to write a play round an actress, more especially as this sort of work had no attraction for me. In addition, I was little disposed to break up our home merely to satisfy a passing whim of my wife's, and therefore I resigned myself to bearing my share of the incurable sorrow. But after a time I found the task beyond my strength. I made use of my connections with a theatre in Finland, and, thanks to my efforts, my wife was engaged for a number of performances. I had made a rod for my own back. For a whole month I was widower, bachelor, head of the family, housekeeper. In compensation my wife, on her return, brought home with her two large packing-cases full of wreaths and bouquets. But she was so happy, so young and so charming, that I took at once the necessary steps to secure a fresh engagement for her. I knew that by doing this I was running the risk of having to leave my country, my friends, my position, my publisher--and for what? For a woman's whim.... But let that pass! Either a man is in love or he isn't.... Fortunately for me, my correspondent had no room in his company for an actress without a repertoire. Was that my fault? At the thought of it I literally rolled over in my bed with pleasure. What a good thing an occasional little self-examination is! It unburdens the heart ... it rejuvenated me. But to proceed. Children were born to us at short intervals. One--two--three. But again and again her yearning for the stage returned. One ought to persevere! A new theatre was being opened. Why not offer the manager a new play with a good part for the leading actress, a sensational play, dealing with the "woman question" which loomed so large at the time? No sooner thought than done. For, as I have already said, either a man is in love, or he isn't. The play was produced. It contained a splendid part for the leading actress, magnificent dresses (of course), a cradle, much moonshine, a villain; an abject husband in love with his wife (myself), a wife about to become a mother (a stage novelty), the interior of a convent--and so on. The actress had an extraordinary success, but from the literary point of view the play was a failure, an awful failure ... alas! She was saved. I was lost, ruined. But in spite of everything, in spite of the supper which we gave to the manager at a hundred crowns per head; in spite of a fine of fifty crowns which we had to pay for illegal cheering, late at night before the agent's office--in spite of all our efforts, no engagement was offered to her. It was not my fault. I was blameless in the matter. I was the martyr, the victim. Nevertheless, in the eyes of her sex I henceforth was a ruffian who had ruined his wife's career. For years I had suffered remorse on this account, remorse so bitter that it poisoned my days and robbed my nights of peace. How often had the reproach been publicly flung into my face! It was always I who was guilty!... That things came about in quite a different way, who cared? ... One career had been ruined, that I admit ... but which, and by whom? A horrible thought came into my mind; the idea that posterity might blame me for this ruined career seemed to me no laughing matter, for I was defenceless and without a friend capable of stating the facts undisguised and unmisrepresented. * * * * * There remained the spending of her dowry. I had once been made the subject of a paragraph entitled: "A squanderer of his wife's fortune." I also, on another occasion, had been charged with living on my wife's income, a charge which had made me put six cartridges into my revolver. Let us examine this charge also, since an investigation has become desirable, and after due examination let us pronounce sentence. My wife's dowry consisted of ten thousand crowns in doubtful shares; I had raised a mortgage on these shares with a bank of mortgages, amounting to fifty per cent of their face value. Like a bolt from the blue the general smash came. The shares were so much waste-paper, for we had omitted to sell them at the right moment. I was consequently compelled to pay the full amount of my mortgage: fifty per cent of the face value. Later on my wife received twenty-five per cent of her claim, this being the proportion which the creditors received after the bank's failure. How much did I squander? Not one penny, in my opinion. The holder of the shares received the actual value of her unsaleable investments which my personal guarantee had increased by twenty-five per cent. Truly I was as innocent in this connection as in the other. And the anguish, the despair which had more than once driven me to the verge of suicide! The suspicion, the old distrust, the cruel doubts, began to torture me afresh. The thought that I nearly died as a scoundrel almost drove me mad. Worn out with care, overwhelmed with work, I had never had time to pay much attention to the dark innuendoes, the veiled allusions. And while I, completely absorbed in my daily toil, lived unsuspectingly from day to day, slanderous rumours had been started, which became more and more insistent and definite, although they had no other foundation than the talk of the envious and the idle gossip of the cafés. And I, fool that I was, believed everybody, doubted no one but myself. Ah!... Was I really never insane, never ill, no degenerate? Was I merely fooled by a trickster whom I worshipped, whose little embroidery scissors had cut off Samson's locks when he laid his weary head on the pillow, worn out by heavy toil, exhausted by care and anxiety on her account and the children's? Trustful, unsuspicious, I had lost my honour, my manhood, the will to live, my intellect, my five senses, and alas! much more even, in this ten years' sleep in the arms of the sorceress. Was it possible--the thought filled me with shame--that a crime had been committed in these fogs in which I had lived for years like a phantom? An unconscious little crime, caused by a vague desire for power, by a woman's secret wish to get the better of the man in the duel called matrimony? Doubtless I had been a fool! Seduced by a married woman; compelled to marry her to save her honour and her theatrical career; married under the dotal system and the condition that each should contribute half of the expenses, I was ruined after ten years, plundered, for I had borne the financial burden on my own shoulders entirely. At this very moment when my wife denounced me as a spendthrift, incapable of providing the necessities of life; when she represented me as the squanderer of her so-called fortune; at this very moment she owed me forty thousand crowns, her share of the expenses, according to the verbal agreement made on our wedding day. She was my debtor! Determined to settle all accounts once and for ever, I jumped out of bed like a man who has dreamed that he is paralysed, and on awakening flings away the crutches with which he had walked in his dream. I dressed quickly and ran down-stairs to confront my wife. Through the half-open door my enraptured gaze met a charming spectacle. She lay, stretched out at full length, on her tumbled bed, her lovely little head buried in the pillow over which the flood of her golden hair waved and curled; her transparent nightgown had slipped off her shoulders, and her virginal bosom gleamed white under the lace insertion; the soft, red-and-white striped coverlet betrayed the swelling curves of her graceful, fragile body, leaving her bare feet uncovered--tiny arched feet with rosy toes and transparent flawless nails--a genuine work of art, perfect, fashioned in flesh after the model of an antique marble statue: and this was my wife. Light-hearted and smiling, with an expression of chaste motherliness, she watched her three little ones as they were climbing and tumbling about among the flowered down pillows, as if on a heap of newly mown flowers. The delightful spectacle softened me. But a whispering doubt in my heart warned me: "Beware of the she-panther playing with her cubs!" Disarmed by the majesty of motherhood, I entered her room with uncertain steps, timid as a schoolboy. "Ah! You are up already, my dear," she greeted me, surprised, but not as pleased as one might have expected. I stammered a confused reply, smothered by the children, who had climbed on my back when I stooped to kiss their mother. Was it possible? Could she really be a criminal? I pondered the question as I went away, subdued by her chaste beauty, the candid smile of those lips which could surely never have been tainted by a lie. No, a thousand times no!... I stole away, convinced of the contrary. And yet doubt remained, doubt of everything: of my wife's constancy, my children's legitimate birth, my sanity; doubt which persecuted me, relentlessly and unremittingly. It was time to make an end, to arrest the flood of sterile thoughts. If only I could have absolute certainty! A crime had been committed in secret, or else I was mad! I must know the truth! To be a deceived husband! What did I care, as long as I knew it! I should be the first to laugh at it. Was there a single man in the world who could be absolutely certain that he was his wife's only lover?... When I thought of the friends of my youth, now married, I could not pick out one who was not, to some extent, hoodwinked. Lucky men whom no doubts tortured! It was silly to be small-minded. Whether one is the only one, or whether one has a rival, what does it matter? The ridicule lies in the fact of not knowing it; the main thing is to know all about it. Yet if a man were married for a hundred years he would still know nothing of the true nature of his wife. However deep his knowledge of humanity, of the whole cosmos, he would never fathom the woman whose life is bound up with his own life. For this reason the story of poor Monsieur Bovary is such pleasant reading for all happy husbands.... But as far as I was concerned I wanted the truth. I must have it. For the sake of revenge? What folly! Revenge on whom? On my favoured rivals? They did but make use of their prerogative as males! On my wife? Did I not say one ought not to be small-minded? And to hurt the mother of my darlings? How could I do it? But I wanted to know; I wanted to know everything. I determined to examine my life, carefully, tactfully, scientifically; to make use of all the resources of psychology: suggestion, thought-reading, mental torture--none should be neglected; I determined to probe the deepest depths, not even despising the well-worn, old-fashioned means of burglary, theft, interception of letters, forged signatures.... I determined to make the most searching investigations.... Was that monomania, the paroxysm of rage of a lunatic? It is not for me to say. I appeal to the reader for a verdict after a careful study of my confession. Perhaps he will find in it elements of the physiology of love, some light on the pathology of the soul, or even a strange fragment of the philosophy of crime. _September_ 1887--_March_ 1888. * * * * * CONCLUDING REMARKS OF THE AUTHOR This is a terrible book, I fully admit it, and I regret that I ever wrote it. How did I come to write it? I had to wash my corpse before it was laid in its coffin. Four years ago, if I remember rightly, a friend of mine, a writer, a declared enemy of the indiscretions--of others--said to me one day when talking about my first marriage-- "Do you know, it would make excellent copy for the sort of novel which I should like to write." Certain of my friend's applause, I decided there and then to write it myself. "Don't be angry with me, dear old fellow, that I, as the original owner, make use of my property." I also remember, it is twelve years ago now, a remark my future mother-in-law made to me one evening when I was watching her daughter carrying on a flirtation with a group of young men-- "Wouldn't she make a splendid heroine for a novel?" "With what title?" "A passionate woman!" Happy mother, who died in the nick of time, I have carried out your suggestion. The novel has been written. I can die in peace. MS. 1888. The other day I met again the hero of this novel. I upbraided him for having induced me to publish the story of his first marriage. He is married again, father of a sweet little girl, and looks ten years younger. "Dear old boy," he said in reply to my reproaches, "the sympathy which everybody felt for the heroine of the novel, when it was first published, absolves me. You! may gauge from this fact the great depth of the love I bore her, for not only did it survive so much brutality, but it communicated itself even to the reader. This, however, has not prevented a French academician from denouncing my constancy as weakness, my steadfast loyalty to my family, including my children, baseness, in view of my wife's brutality, inconstancy and dishonesty. I wonder whether this man would consider an insignificant Caserio superior to an eminent Carnot, simply because the former stabbed the latter? "Moreover, this book, which you had wanted to write yourself, is only the woof of a fabric the richness of which is known only to those of my countrymen who have followed my literary career as it unfolded itself side by side with the sorrows of my heart, without suffering to be influenced. I could have left the battlefield. I remained steadfastly at my post. I fought against the enemy at home, day and night. Was this not courage? "The 'poor, defenceless woman' was backed by the four Scandinavian kingdoms, where she counted nothing but allies in her war against a man who was sick, solitary, poor, and threatened with confinement in a lunatic asylum because his intellect rebelled against the deification of woman, this penultimate superstition of the free-thinkers. "The dear souls who conceal their revengeful thoughts under the term 'divine justice' have condemned my 'Confession' in the name of their Nemesis divina, bringing spurious evidence for their assertion that I had deceived the husband of Marie's first marriage. Let them read the scene where the Baron throws his wife into my arms, when I stood before him with clean hands and confessed to him my guiltless love for the wife he neglected. Let them remember the important fact that I took upon my young shoulders the whole burden of our fault, to save his position in the army and the future of his little girl. Let them then say whether it is just to punish an act of self-sacrifice by an act of brutal revenge. "One must be young and foolish to act as I have acted, I admit that. But it will not happen again--never again.... But ... enough of it! And then ... no ... good-bye!" He walked away quickly, leaving me under the spell of his perfect honesty. I never again regretted having published the story of this idealist, who has now disappeared from literature and the world. But I abandoned my former intention to write "The Confession of a Foolish Woman," because, after all, it goes too much against common-sense to allow a criminal to give evidence against her victim. French Original Edition, 1894. It was the outspoken account of his first marriage, written in self-defence and as a last testament, for he intended to take his life as soon as the book was finished. For five years the sealed manuscript, which was not meant for publication, was in the safe keeping of a relative. Only in the spring of 1893, under the pressure of circumstances and after public opinion and the press had attacked him in the most unjust manner, did he sell the book to a publisher. "Separated," 1902. THE END