1AIN(V3WV = t 1X> oo '0/. i i r i|iii\ iVT\t oc CO m PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG Published by CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS PLAYS. FIRST SERIES: The Dream Play, The Link, The Dance of Death — Part I and Part II $1.50««l PLAYS. SECOND SERIES: There are Crimes and Crimes, Miss Julia, The Stronger, Creditors, Pariah .... $1.50 net PLAYS. THIRD SERIES: Swanwhite, Simoom, Debit and Credit, Advent, The Thunder Storm, After the Fire (postage extra) SI. 50 net creditors, pariah 75 cents net miss julia. the stronger . . 75 cents net THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES 75 Cents net PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG THIRD SERIES 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 BJORKMAN AUTHORIZED EDITION NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1914 Copyright, 1913, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published October, 1913 CONTENTS PAGE Introduction 1 Swanwhite 11 Simoom 65 Debit and Credit 79 Advent 105 The Thunderstorm 181 After the Fire 229 907C1, INTRODUCTION INTRODUCTION The collection of plays contained in this volume is unu- sually 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 Stvanwhite had been drawn with direct reference to Miss Bosse, who had first attracted the attention of Strindberg by her spirited inter- pretation of Biskra in "Simoom." And Schering adds that it was Strindberg's bride who had a little previously intro- duced 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 pam- phlet named "Open Letters to the Intimate Theatre" (Stock- holm, 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 3 4 INTRODUCTION 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, fur there are no free passes that give entrance to his world of beauty. But one may be urged by his example into search- ing one's own dross-heaps for gold — and it is in that sense acknowledge my debt to the master. "Pushed ahead by the impression made on me by Maeter- linck, 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 mar- velled 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 play- ing with her dolls." On the stage, too — in Germany as well BS in Sweden — little Swanwhite has celebrated great triumphs. Whether that figure, and the play surrounding it, will also i I N THODUCTION 5 triumph in English-speaking countries, remains still to !><• seen. But if. contrary to my hopes, il 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 Strind- berg 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 character- istic 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 Swe- dish, so that you may pass from iambic to trochaic metre without giving offence to the ear — or to that subtle rhyth- mical susceptibility that seems to be inherent in our very pulses. But the rhythm dearest and most natural to the ge- nius of the Swedish language seems to be the falling pulse- l.eat manifested in the true trochee. The swing and motion of English, on the other hand, is almost exclusively, com- mandingly 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, 6 INTRODUCTION 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 Fnprinted." But, strange to say, it w r as 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 ecclesias- tical designation of the four weeks preceding Christmas. The subtitle, literally rendered, would be "A Mystery." Hut as this term has a much wider application in Swedish than in English, I have deemed it better to observe the dis- tinction which the latter language makes between mys- teries, 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 re- garded as a punishment broughl about by his previous atti- tude ..f materialistic scepticism. It is full of Swedenbor- INTRODUCTION 7 gian symbolism, which, perhaps, finds its most characteris- tic 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 sig- nifies 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 audito- rium 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. 8 [NTRODUC T ION The first of these plays t<> appear in hook form — though not the first one to be staged — was "The Thunder-Storm," designated on the front cover as "Opus I." Two of the prin- cipal 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 cafe — and the reduction of the stage-setting to quickly inter- changeable backgrounds and a few stage-properties. Con- cerning the production of "The Thunder-Storm," at the Inti- mate 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 retro- spect — the anticipatory conception appearing in "Swan- white." 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, 1 especially in the references to the postmarital relationship. "After the Fire" was published as "Opus II" of the cham INTRODUCTION ber-plays, and staged ahead of "The Thunder-Storm." lis Swedish name is Branda Tomtcn, meaning literally "the humed-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." SWAN WHITE (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 F lower Gardener Two Knights SWANWHITE An apartment in a mediaeval stone castle. The walls and the cross-vaulted ceiling arc whitewashed. In the centre of the rear icall is a triple -arched dooricay 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 rehite, 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 trails 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, pump- kins, 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 vxith 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 tiro columns at the head of the bed (and by none at the foot). The bed-clothing is pure white except for a coverlet 13 14 SWANWHITE 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 man- tel stands a vase with a white lily in it. In the left arch of the doorway, a peacock is asleep on a perch, witli 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 clotfies-closet, and Tova in the fruit-closet. The Duke enters from the rear. After him comes the Step- mother 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 SWANWHITE 15 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 atvay] Stop! Whither? [She raises the whip and strikes; Signe turns aside so that the lash merely cuts the air.] Swanwhite. [Comes fonvard from behind the bed arid falls on her knees] Stepmother — here I am — the guilty one ! She's not at fault. Stepmother. Say "mother"! You must call me "moth- er' ■"? 16 SWANWHITE Swaxwhite. I cannot! One mother is as much as any human being ever had. Stepmother. Your father's wife must be your mother. Swaxwhite. My father's second wife can only be my stepmother. Stepmother. You are a stiffnecked daughter, but my w hip is pliant and will make you pliant too. [She raises the whip to strike Swaxwhite. Duke. [Raising his sioord] Take heed of the head! Stepmother. Whose head? Duke. Your own! The Stepmother tvrns 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. Swaxwhite. [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. Swaxwhite. [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 yuur troth is promised S WAN WH ITE 17 Swanwhite. No — nor have I ever seen him. Is he hand some? 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 eaF, 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, ami 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 deport- ment 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 is SWAN WHITE him or anybody else. Fur it is prophesied that whosoever calls him by his name shall have to love him. Su anuhitk. Is he handsome? 1 )i Kt . Se is, because your eye sees beauty everywhere. S WAN WHIT JS. But is he beautiful? Di kk. Indeed be 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 have 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 permis- .siltle, then you may blow this horn [he takes a horn of carved , from under his cloak], and help will come. But do not use it till you are in danger — not until the danger is ex- treme. — Have you understood? Swanuhitk. How is it to be understood? I >i kk. This way: the prince is here, is in the court already. Is it your wish to see the prince? Swan white. Is it my wish? Di kk. Or shall I first bid you farewell? Sw an wiui k. The prince is here already? Di kk. Already here, and I — already there — far, far away where >lei kk. [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 t<> my sight will you be lost, for there above all-seeing we become, even as the all-ereating Lord himself. Goes out firmly, with a gesture that bids her not to follow. Sw ww hi i k/W/.v on her knees in prayer for the Duke; all tin rose-trees sway before a wind that passes with the sound qf a sigh; the peacock shakes Us wings and tail. Sw ww in n:. [Rises, goes to the peacock and begins to stroke its hack 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 be pretty and nice? You, with your many blue 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 • >ii 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 petoter-closet, baling the door slightly ajar so that through the opening she can watch the Prince; there she remains standing, risible to the spectators but not to the I'kim b. Pbdn B. [Enters through the middle arch of the doorway. //• ears armour of steel; whut shows of his clothing is black. Ilnvmg carefully observed everything in the room, he sits down at the table, takes off his helmet and begins to study it. His SWAN WHITE Ji back is turned toward the door behind ivhich 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 crowd- ing 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 sap- phires 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. SWANWHITE The Prince rises, boivs, with his hand to his heart, and gazes steadily at Swanwhite. Swanwhite. Are you the little prince? Pri.vi:. The faithful servant of the king, and yours! Sn \n white. What Tnessage does the young king send his bride? Prince, This is his word to Lady Swanwhite— whom lov- ingly he greets— that by the thought of coming happiness the long torment of waiting will be shortened. Su \n white. [Who has been looking at the Prince as if to .stud)/ him] Why not be seated, Prince? PBINCE. 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! Su w white. What is his name? Prince. He's gone — invisible ■ Su \\u hue. 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! Su a\\\ hue. Speak of the king, and not of me! Prince. I rlo speak of the king! Su in WRITE. Is his complexion light or dark? PRINCE. If he were dark, on seeing you he would turn light at one-. Swanwhite. There's more of flattery than wit in that! Bis i es are blue? I'hinc b. [Glancing at his helmet] I think I have to look? SWANWHITE' 23 Swan white. [Holding out her hand between them] Oh, you —you! Prince. You with t k 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 U S W A N WHITE nothing helped. Mow I have figured out what's worst of all! I'kiv i.. And what is that? SwANWHlTE. [After a glance around the room] I'll give her a stepmother! 1'ki\< k. But how's that to be? She should have a mother Bret Suw white. I am her mother. And if I marry twice, I shall become a stepmother. l*i(■<•. [She takes the doU and the rattle away from him and throws them hark intn the chest; then she takes out the hobby-horse] Here u 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 thai 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; ■ id .y//. takes nut a chess-board with red and white squares, and chessmen made of silver and gold] If you will play with me, come here and >it upon the lion skin. [She seats herself S W A N W II I T E on the skin and begins to put up the pieces] Sit down, wont you — the maids can't see us here! The Prince sits down on the shin, looking very em- barrassed. SwANWHlTE. 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 — j T ou 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! SWAN WHITE Prince. Oh, no, I couldn't- Sw anwhite. I'll do it, then, myself. [She pulls a hair from fur head and winds it into the ball of yarn] What is your name? Piuvi:. Vou 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? Pamcs. The duke has told you, I am sure. Su anwhite. 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 ;irc Baying? Phi me. It's hard to tell. Swanwhite. Well, what's your name? Again tlie peacock makes the same land of sound with his bill. Prince. I am afraid — don't ask again! Swanwhite. He snaps his bill, that's all — Keep your bands 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 ? Tin- curtain hiding the peacock is pulled aside, and the turd is seen spreading oid his tail so tlwi 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 in! SWANWHITE 27 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 col- ouring 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? S \\ A N WHITE PRINCE. If you have talked to me like that, how did I talk t.p you? Sw w\\ iiitk. Just think, he didn't notice it!— And now I have gol a brother of my own, and that is you! — My little brother take my hand! PRINCE. [Talcing her hand] My little sister! [Feels her pulse heating 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. Su an white. 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 tick- ing — it is the time! Your little finger is the second-hand that's licking 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 luart! SlGNE. [Enters from the pewter-closet carrying a whip, which the puts down on the table] Her Grace commands that the children he seated at opposite sides of the table. The Prince sits down at the opposite end of the table. Ilr an -i 7 Sw w white look at each other in silence for (I nil lie. Sw \\ white. Now wc are far apart, and yet a little nearer t ban before. 1'kiv i.. It's when we part that we come nearest to each other. >w INWH3TE. And you know that? S W A N W II I T E 29 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 step- mother 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 roar- ing 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 step- mother is speaking — speaking to the steward — and men- tioning my name— and that of the young king, too! She's speaking evil words. She's swearing that I never shall be S W A \ W H I T E queen— and vowing that— you — shall take that daughter of her own — that loathsome Lena 1'iiiN. b. Endeed! And you can hear it in the helmet? Su \nu bite. I can. Prin< E. I didn't know of that. But my godmother gave me the helmet as a christening present. Su an u hi re. Give me a feather, will you? Phince. It is a pleasure — great as life itself. Swan white. But you must cut it so that it will write. Prince. You know a thing or two! SWAM WHITE. .My father taught me The Prince pulls a black feather out of the plume on his h< I met; then he takes a silver-handled knife from, his belt and cuts the quill. Swam WHITE takes out an ink-well and parchment from a drawer in the table. Prince. Who is Lady Lena? Swan WHITE. You mean, what kind of person? You want her, do you? PRINCE. Some evil things are brewing in this house Swan white. Fear not! My father has bestowed a gift on hi*- that will bring help in hours of need. Prince. What is it called? Swan white. It is the horn Stand-By. Prince. Where is it hid? Su \.\ white. Read in my eye. I dare not let the maids discover it. I'i;i\< e. [(lazing at her eyes] I see! SuwuinTK. [Pushing pen, ink and parchment across the tubb to the Prince] Write it. Th Prince u rites. Swanwrtts. Yes, that's the place. [She icrites again. I'hi\< B. What do you write? SWANWHI T E 31 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! Be- hold, 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. S W A X Will T E Swanwhtte. Woe In us then! It is the witching mirror of my Btepmother, and she has seen it all. Prin< e. And in tli.- mirror I can see the fireplace — there's a pumpkin hanging in it! Swanwhtte. [Takes from the fireplace a mottled, strangely shaped pumpkin] What can it he? 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 tlie other] (Hi. Bhe ha- strewn the floor with needles [She sits down and begins to ri/b her foot. Tin 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 uir! To-morrow I shall tell you, hut I can't to-day. PRINCE. But then your little foot will suffer — let me pull the needle out ! Swanwhtte. Go, go. go! — No, no, you mustn't try! — Oh, bad my mother lived, a thing like this could not have hap- pened! Mother, mother, mother! Prince. I cannot understand — are you afraid of me ? Swanwhtte. Don't ask me, please — just leave me — oh! Prince. What have I done? S\\ wuiiitk. Don't leave me, please — I didn't mean to hurt you l>ut 1 cannot tell If I could only reach the shore— the white sand of the beach S W A N W H I T E 33 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 pan- ther; 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? S4 SWAN WHITE Prince. The day is almost clone, Your Grace; the sun is Betting, and my l>ark is longing to get home. Stepmother, The day is too far gone — the gates are shut, the dogs lei 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?- Hut listen, Prince: how would like to sleep in our Blue Room? I'm mi:. By (iod, it is my will to sleep at home, in my nun 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 But- ler, 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 tin thousand good-nights unto your love — and so will Swan- vrhite, too, 1 think! A sunn 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! PBINCE. [Talccs her hand and says in a low voice] Good- night! — Oh, that it's granted me to sleep beneath one roof S W A X W HITE 35 with you, my Princess — your dreams by mine shall be en- folded— and then to-morrow we shall wake for other games and other Swan white. [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! Swanw t hite. 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 he. 4 . Swanwhite. A violet you gave me — that was you — y>ur soul! And now I drink you in — you're in my bosom, i- my heart — you're mine! Prince. And you are mine! Who is the rightful u wner, then? Swanwhite. Both! S W A N WHITE l'iiiN. i:. Both! Vou and I!— My rose! Sw AN WHITE. My violet! 1'ki\< e. My rose! Swwwhitk. My violet! Prince. 1 love you! Sw awvhite. Vou love met Phince. You love me! Su AN WHITE. / love you ! The stage grows light again. The rose on the table re- covers and opens. The faces of the Stepmother and the three maids are lighted up and appear beautiful, hind, 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 uitli a sunny smile. Swanwhitk. Look, look! The cruel one is smiling as at - ime memory from childhood days. See how Signe the I alse seems faith and hope embodied, how the ugly Tova lias grown beautiful, the little Elsa tall. PHINCE. Our love has done it. Swan white. So that is love? Blessed be it by the Lord! 1 he Lord Omnipotent who made the world! [She falls on her knees, weeping. Prince. You weep? Swan white. Because I am so full of joy. Prince. Come to my arms and you will smile. Su a \ white. There I should die, I think. Phince. Well, smile and die! - w white. [Rising] So be it then! [ The Prince takes her in his arms. 'mother. [Wakes up; on seeing the Prince and Swan- hiti. together, site strikes the table with the whip] I must *vi il< Oho! So w.- have got that far!— The Blue SWAN WHITE :; 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, yon 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 lliink, 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, lie il warm or cold! I wish that you may have no comb, of any 38 S W A N WHITE 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 your- self 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 Us 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 39 10 S W A N W II ITE doicn and jndls <,ff SwANWHITE's stockings. Having tkroum these under the bed, ske bends over her daughter's feet (U if to moisten them with her tears. After a while she wipes them with a white linen cloth and covers them with hisses. 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 SwANWHlTE back to the bed. Beside her she places a garment of white linen which she takes out of a bag. liming 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, inters through the gate, having first hung fa r 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. Su ww mi is MOTHER. Once I was walking in a green field in the land thai knows no sorrow. There I met you, whom I h;i<) always known, yet had not seen before. You were la- menting your poor hoy's fate, left to himself here in the vale of Borrow. You opened up your heart to me, and my own thoughts, thai dwell unwillingly below, were sent in search SWAN WHITE U of ray 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, pre- vail; 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 be- hind 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 trhite 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 Swanw'hite] 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 S W A N W II I T E the robins calling, and sec the stars withdrawing from the >ky - Farewell, my sister! [She goes out, taking her .swan plumage with her. Swanwhitk'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 dock 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 aroutud; listens to the harp; gets up from the bed; draws her hands through her hair; looks with pleasure at hi r own little feet, now spotlessly clean, and notices finally the white linen garment on the bed. She sits doien 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 recogni- tion, 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. Shr points meaningly to the while and red feathers on the hel- met, and leans forward as if whispering. Then she puts her head back and breathes deeply as if to fill tier nostrils with some fragrance. Having caught something in the air m'ih one of her hands, she kisses the hand and then pre- t> mis to throw something back across the table. She picks a ji 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 uritt, a, and at last .she takes back the parchment, reads it, and hides it in her bosom. SWANWHITE 43 She strokes her black dress as if commenting on the sad change in her appearance. Whereupon she smiles at an inau- dible answer, and finally bursts into hearty laughter. By gestures she indicates that her hair has been combed. Tlien she rises, goes a little distance away from the table, and turns around with a bashful expression to hold oxd one of her feet. In that attitude she stays for a moment while waiting for an answer. On hearing it she becomes em- barrassed 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 lion's skin trith 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 morn- ing 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? M SWANWHITE PRINCE. I Bported and laughed; I wrote her name; I sat upon tlif lion's skin and played at chess. Sw A N WHITE . You sported and you played — with whom? Prince. With Swan white. Swan white. 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, sun! Blow, southern wind! And let thy bosom gently heave, O sea! — Ye golden gates, do you believe thai you can part two hearts, two hands, two lips — that can by nothing be divided? Prince. Indeed, by nothing! Two solid tloors 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 cop- I'«t. ste< I. and stone to touch your ear in sweet caress. When SWANWHITE 45 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! M - SWAN WHITE 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 dream- land. I would meet you. Pbznce. 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. Xo 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 tln-ir strength! Yes, here below! Prince. Then let us fly! Swanwhite. Yes, let us fly! 'I'h i Green Gardener appears suddenly behind the table. All his clothes arc green. He wears a peaked , a b'uj apron, and knee-breeches. At his belt hang shears and a knife. He carries a small watering-can in mie hand and is scattering seeds everywhere. SWANWHITE 47 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. Swan white. 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. 18 SWANWHITE 1*ki\< E. \^ I see a blacks-lad maid, whose face is black w\ niTK. Have you not seen before that I was clad in black? You do not love me, then! Pkin. i:. You who are standing there, so grim and ugly — no! Su an white. Then you have spoken falsely. Piu\< E. No— for then another one was here! Now — you arc filling up my mouth with noisome nettles. S\v \\\\ m it:. Your violets smell of henbane now — faugh! Prince. Thus I am punished for my treason to the king! Su an white. I wish that I had waited for your king! Prince. Just wait, and he will come. Su a\ white. I will not wait, but go to meet him. Prince. Then I will stay. Su a\u BOTE, [doing 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 7 . Su anwhite. Elsewhere then! [She goes out. The Prince is alone. He sits down at tlie table, covers his face iritJi his hands, and weeps. A gust of wind passes through the room and sets draperies and cur- tains fluid ring. A sound as of a sigh is heard from tin strings of the harp. The Prince rises, goes to the bvil, and stands there lost in contemplation of its pillow in which is a depression showing Swanwhite's //. ml in profile. He picks up the pillow and kisses it. A noise is heard outside. He seats himself at tin tablr again. Tin doors of the closets fly open. The three Maids become visible, all with darkened faces. The Step- mi »i in. u enters from the rear. Her face is also dark. S W A N W II I T E 4!> Stepmother. [In dulcet tones] Good morning, my dear Prince! How have you slept? Prince. Where is Swan white? Stepmother. She lias 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 Swan white? Prince. She is too young for me, you mean? Stepmother. Grey hairs and common sense belong to- gether 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. TJie Stepmother joins in. Prince. Where is Swan white? Stepmother. Follow in her traces — here is one! [She hands him a parchment covered with ivriting. 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 an- other. 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. 50 SWAN WHITE Prince. Where is Swanwhite? Stepmother. My Magdalene is skilled in many crafts Prince. Including witchcraft? Stepmother. She knows how to bewitch a princeling. PRINCE. [( lazing 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 feel- ing 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] Blind- SWAN WHITE 51 fold 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 com- ing? 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 tip 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 then 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 bride- groom? False Magdalene. He whose name may not be men- tioned. 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 bad.. SWANWHITE 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 Swan- wiiite .stands- revealed. Swan white. [Dressed in a white garment, with a wreath of roses on her hair] Who am I now? Prince. You are a rose! Sw w white. And you a violet! Prince. [Taking off the bandage] You are Swan white! Sw wwiiite. And you — are Prince. Hush! Swan white. You're mine! Prince. But you — you left me — left my kisses Sw an white. I have returned — because I love you! Prince. And you wrote cruel words Swanwhtte. But cancelled them — because I love you.' Prince. You told me I was false. Swan white. What matters it, when you are true — and when I love you? PRINCE. You wished that you were going to the king. Sw ww iiite. But went to you instead, because I love you! PRINCE. Now let me hear what you reproach me with. Swan white. I have forgotten it — because I love you! Prince. But if you love me, then you are my bride. Swww kite. I am! Prince. Then may the heavens bestow their blessing on our union! Swanwhtte. In dreamland! Prxni i.. 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 SWAN WHITE 53 the sword, and he on the other. The colour of the clouds changes to a rosy red. The rose-trees murmur. Tin- 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 torcJies 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? Sfw tries to take away the sword, but tlw Prince clings to it without being wakened. Signe. Your Grace — here's deviltry abroad! Stepmother. What is it? Signe. This is not Lady Magdalene. 54 SWANWHITE Stepmother. Who is it, then? My eyes need help. Signs. "Tia Lady Swanwhite. Stepmother. Swanwhite? — Can this be some delusion of the devfl'a 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 my- self! 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 i> 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, Cas- tellan, and Gaoler — all of you! [She snatches the sword out of the bed and thro us it along the floor toward the rear] Come hither, men! Noise is heard outside; the men enter as before. SWANWHIT E 55 Stepmother. Behold! The prince, the young king's vas- sal, 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 ea.sk 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. [Takesholdof 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 trem- bling? 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! 56 SWAN WHITE Sww white. My father's horn! Then help is near! But — the prince? GABDENEB. The prince will follow me. A secret passage, underground, leads to the shore. There lies his bark. The u i lid is favourable! Come! [The Gardener and the Prince go out. Swanwhite alone, blows the horn. An answering sig- nal 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, lie and Swanw^hite 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 in- structed — 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. Xo more! Duke. [To the Gaoler, pointing to the spiked cask] Away with it! [To Swanwhite] Well, child, where is the prince? Su \\ white. 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! SWAN WHITE 57 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 Iiands 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. 58 S W ANWHITE 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 to- gether 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 n 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. Dike. O, child — so you know that! Then teach us how to know it too. Tova. When I am saying only what is true 1 >i kk. No one believes it! But when Signe tells untruth, SWAN W HITE 50 we must believe! — And what does Swan white say herself? Her forehead's purity, her steady glance, her lips' sweet inno- cence — 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 lilirs 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 Swan- white. 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 inno- cence 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 Swan- white's flower. All. Swanwhite is innocent. Tova. The red one, too— the prince's lily— closes its 60 SWANWHITE bead -hut 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 HlL'e. Dike. You've spoken true! — For whom is Swanwhite then? Tova. For the prince, because more pure is his desire, and therefore stronger, too. Ai,l. [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. SWANWHITE 61 The peacock and tlie 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 pat- tern 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 to- ward 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 dif- ferent 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 ichich 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. SWA N W II I T E The harp begins to play. The sun rises completely. Tin 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. Swaxwhite throws herself on her knees beside the bier and covers the Prixce'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 SWAN \Y II I T E 68 by willing it; and what was loved in life has little worth beyond. Swanwhite. And love? Should then its power not ex- tend 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 sun- beams pricked. The stake for her — let her without delay be burned alive! Swanwhite. Burn her? — Alive? — Oh, no! Let her de- part 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 mir- acles 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! 64 SWAN WHITE >\\ anwhite. Poor me — what can I do? Si bfmother. 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 tJie 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. Swan- white 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 taken 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 occu- pied 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 plaid, 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. La ilaha ilia 'llah! 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 67 G8 SIMOOM scene i Franks as Ali, the guide, though they don't know me as IJi^kra, the maiden. Y i -i r. He is to do it himself, you say? How is that to happen? Biskba. 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, afterw 7 ard, when you have earned your reward ! Biskra. You proud sheikh! You man of pride! Yusuf. Yes — the maiden who is to carry my offspring un- der 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! SCENE I M.MOOM Yusur. 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 70 SIMOOM scene ii 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. [Point- ing 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 arid makes him lie down on the floor with his feet on the sand] Are you com- fortable now? Guimard. [Staring at her] I feel all twisted up. Put some- thing 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! ( 1 1 imakd. I thought so. Give me a stool now — under my head. scene ii SIMOOM 71 Biskra. [Pulls out the aloe plant and pushes it under Gui- mard's legs] There's a stool for you. Guimard. And then water! — Water! Biskra. [Fills the empty bowl with sand and hands ii 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 — be- ware 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! Si- moom! SIMOOM SCENE II 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 lu r 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-bis- kra, Biskra-biskra! Simoom! GuiMABD. [Rising] What are you, you devil who are sing- ing 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. (iriMARD. 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? BiSKBA. Can he protect you? Can he? Guimabd. 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. Guimabd. [Covering his mouth] Close the door! Biskra. Tlirow down the idol! scene ii SIMOOM 78 Guimard. No, I cannot. Biskra. Do you see? The Simoom does not bend a liair on me, but you, the infidel one, are killed by it! Throw down the idol! Guimard. [Throics the locket on the floor] Water! I die! Biskra. Pray to the Only One, the Merciful and Compas- sionate 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? 74 SIMOOM scene ii 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 let- ters 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 con- sole 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 i- Charles! And she is calling Jules! Elise — my beloved scene ii SIMOOM 75 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. Gttimard. 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 tes- tament. Guimard. What shall I sign? Biskra. Write: La ilaha ilia 'llah. 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 Faith- ful, 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 76 SI M O O M scene ir whole line — they have no chance to load again — the Arabs an- Hriiii,' at their leisure — the Franks are flying! (iriMAHD. [Rising] The Franks never flee! Biskha. 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 shdl 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 tli<- breakfast-table? Can't you see the mark of the axe — here in the neck — which the executioner made when he cut <>1F the deserter's head Guimard. nho has been watching her movements and listening to tier words with evident horror, sinks down dead. Biskra. [Who has been kneeling, feels his pulse; then she rites and sings] Simoom! Simoom! [She opens both gates; scene in SIM O O M 77 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! [lie 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 Fiance 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 Aby. 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. 81 82 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene i 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 W'ife. [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 tin- same name as you and I gets to be so respected that the King's own household people have to visit him? If I scene i DEBIT AND CREDIT 83 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 mar- ried 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 Si DEBITAND CREDIT scene hi we're here— But now you'll see! [He presses a button and a Wattes enters] What do you want — a sandwich, perhaps? [To tin 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 re- t urn after your long trip. Axel. Yes, that was something of a trip — I suppose you have read about it in the papers scene iii DEBIT AND CREDIT 85 Thube. 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 tin- 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 order- ing 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 morn- ing! 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. 86 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene m Thure. Lord preserve us! — What do you think of that, Anna? His Wife turns and twists on her chair as if in torment, quite tinable 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 get- ting 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 sure- ties 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 bor- row 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. Thia is just the time to get hold of a garden — this is the time \>> -tart 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? scene in DEBIT AND CREDIT 87 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 rea- sonable 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 88 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene iv prove worse than the first. — Oh, merciful heavens, to think that you have a siek child, too! And for my sake! Thube. Oh, I guess it isn't quite as bad as it sounds. Wife. Yes, so you say, who don't know anything about it THUBE. Well, Axel, we'll see you later then. Lindgren appears in tlie 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, ap- parently 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? scene iv DEBIT AND CREDIT 89 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 deter- mined your scientific career; that I, who then was as straight as anybody, exercised a favourable influence on your slov- enly tendencies; that, in a word, I made you what you are; and that, finally, when I applied for an appropriation to un- dertake 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 fairlv? 90 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene iv 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 ora- torical 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 con- scious 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. Llndgren. 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 bot- tle? 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 B look at your botanical specimens, then? Axel. No, I am going to describe them myself for the Academy. LtNDGREN. How about your ethnographical stuff? Axel. No, that's not my own. scene iv DEBIT AND CREDIT 91 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 sym- pathy 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? 92 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene iv 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! Lixdgrex. You beast of prey! Axel. Y r ou 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 ex- pecting a visit. Lindgren. From your fiancee? Axel. So you have snooped that out, too? Lindgren. Sure enough! Ajid I know what Marie, the deserted one, thinks and says — I know what has happened to vour brother and his wife Axel. Oh, you know my fiancee? For, you see, it so hap- pens thai I am not yet engaged! LiMx.HEN. No, but I know her fiance. Axel. What does that mean? LlNDGREN. Why, she has been running around with an- other 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 scene vi DEBIT AND CREDIT 93 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 Fiance, 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 Fiance enters. Lindgren. [Observing the newcomer closely] Well, good-bye, Axel — and good luck! [He goes out. Axel. Good-bye. SIXTH SCENE Axel. The Fiance [much embarrassed] Axel. With whom have I the honour ? Fiance. 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? Fiance. 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. 94 DEBIT A N D C R E 1) I T scene n \\ \iter. [Bowing and leaving] Yes, Doctor. Axel. [Goes up to the Fiance and sits down on a chair beside him] Now let's hear what you have to say? Fiance. [After a pause, with unction] There were two men living in the same city, one rich and the other poor. The rich man hud sheep and cattle in plenty. The poor man owned nothing but one ewe lamb Axel. What does that concern me? Fiance. [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? Fiance. [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 1*11 show you the door. But be quick about it, and get straight to the point, without any frills Fiance. [Holding out his snuff-box] May I? Axel. No, thanks. Fiance. A great man like you has no such little weak- nesses, 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 fiancee. Fiance. [Startled] Who was? Axel. Because she has broken with you. Fiance. I know nothing about it. Axel. [Talcing a ring from the pocket of his waistcoat] That's strange, but now you do know. And here you can see tin ring she has given me. 1- [ANCE. So she has broken with me? Axel. Yes, as she couldn't be engaged to two men at the scene vi DEBIT AND CREDIT 95 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 mo- ment you came in. Fiance. I didn't do anything of the kind. Axel. Cowardly and disingenuous — cringing and arro- gant at the same time! Fiance. [Gently] You are a hard man, Doctor. Axel. No, but I may become one. You showed no con- sideration for my feelings a moment ago. You sneered, which I didn't. And that's the end of our conversation. Fiance. [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? Fiance. Put yourself in my place, Doctor Axel. Yes, if you'll put yourself in mine. Fiance. 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! FiANcfe. 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? Fiance. You are now reminding me of my humble po- sition 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 96 I) E B I T A XI) CREDIT scene vii 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. FlANCE. 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 pur- pose. How do you think that victim liked you? Fiance. 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 Fiance. Cecilia. Fiance. Cecilia! Cecilia draws back from him. Fiance. You seem to know your way into this place? Axel. [To the Fiance] You had better disappear! Cecilia. I want some water! Fiance. [Picking up the whisky bottle from the table] The bottle seems to be finished! — Beware of that man, Cecilia! Axel. [Pushing the Fiance out through tJie door] Oh, your l>r< sence is wholly superfluous — get out! Fiance. Beware of that man, Cecilia! [He goes out. scene viii DEBIT AND CREDI T 97 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 impres- sion 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 98 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene viii fellow pictured in those stories? And as you are neverthe- less 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. scene x I) E 15 IT AND C K EDI T 90 NINTH SCENE Cecilia alone for a moment. Tfien 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 100 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene x 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 yon! 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 v/e'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? scene xi DEBIT AND CREDIT 101 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! 102 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene xn Lixdgrex. 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. Lixdgrex. 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 doion with evident anxiety near the door through which Axel disappeared — as if seeking sup- port in that direction. Lixdgrex. 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! M \kik. Well, it wouldn't be the first time. Lindgren. Scrap, girls, and I'll watch you! Fight till the fur flies won't you? scene xiii DEBIT AND CREDIT 103 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 senti- mental 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 1U4 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene xiu arc 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 Fiance appears in the doorway at the right. Thube. [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! Diablel Marie. Then the fireworks will be called off, I suppose? Fiance. Was there nothing for me? Lindgren. Yes, I think there was a fiancee — 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 The Other One ) hdng ^ mme person 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 The Court-room Act V. The Drawing-room The "Waiting-room" 106 ADVENT ACT I The background represents a vineyard. At the left stands a mausoleum. It consists of a small whitewaslied brick build- ing 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 ivall, at the foot of which ap- pear 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 sn uff-box. She has the general appearance ofa <( 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 vint- agers will be heard all over the country. Old Lady. Don't talk like that; somebody might hear you. 107 108 ADVENT act i 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 Ladv. 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 fad that the mausoleum is to be consecrated in a few daj r s? 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 L but ju^t the same we shall have to pass away. And as for- tune has smiled on us, we have wanted to avail ourselves of the privilege of resting in ground belonging to ourselves. act i ADVENT 109 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 icith 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 1 In Sweden such spots are called "sun-cats." 110 ADVENT act i pillow for one's head is a good conscience, and the reward of the righteous never fails.— There's our neighbour now. Nkighbour. [Enters] Good evening, Judge. Good eve- ning, madam. Judge. Good evening, neighbour. How goes it? It wasn't yesterday we had the pleasure. And how are your \ ines, 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 punish- ment. 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. The Old Lady has in the meantime left her seat and (join; to the mausoleum, where she is busying herself with the flowers. act i ADVENT 111 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 l K > ADVENT act i legend has it, that this vineyard once was a battle-field, and that this explains why the wine from it is so fiery? N kighbour. No, that isn't what I have heard. My fa- ther 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! \ kighbour. 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 — I. ut — he is plotting something evil, that fellow! Old Lady. Didn't I tell you so! But you always let your ton^m- run whenever you see anybody — What kind of fool- i-h superstition was he giving you? Judge. I don't want to talk of it. The mere thought of act i ADVENT US 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 con- science. 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 busi- ness instead. Adolph. Yes, I think that's wiser, too. And, as the sub- ject 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 1H ADVENT act i 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 your- self, 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 bere 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 act i ADVENT llfi 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 hun- ger 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 tin- evil that has been rumoured. And now I know what our neighbour meant when he said that you couldn't — en- dure 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 fore- finger 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! 11C ADVENT act i Adolph. May Heaven reward you — according to your de- serta —and may the Lord protect my children! [He goes out. .It dgb. Whal was that? Who was it that spoke? It seemed to me as if the voice were coming out of some huge underground hall. Old Lad v. 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 won- der if I dare to speak of it Old Lady. Go on! •I i dge. 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 act i ADVENT 117 sacred, and if would be possible to rest in peace in it. The income mighl 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 re- markably 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 con- demnation proceedings should be started — what would hap- pen 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 some- thing that concerns the convent Franciscan. I am glad of it. The spot of light appears again on tlie mausoleum. Old Lady. And then we wanted to ask when the conse- cration 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 pri- vate. [He moves over to the right. Old Lady. [Following him] Father? Franciscan. [Speaking in a subdued voice] You, madam, 118 A 1) V ENT act i enjoy a reputation in this vicinity which you don't deserve, for you are the worst sinner that I know of. You want to Kay 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. W 7 ell, 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 oth- ers. — May I speak a word with you, Judge? The Judge approaclies. Old Lady. Yes, give him what he deserves, so that one may be as good as the other. act i ADVENT 110 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 easting 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 con- secrated, and you may consider it a blessing if you are per- mitted 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 be- cause 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! — Fare- well! [He goes out. l,(i ADVENT act i 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 righteous- ness! 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 >pit<- 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 <»nly indifferent to me but actually hostile. act i ADVENT 121 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 peniten- tiary are suffering justly, so there is no honour in that; but to be permitted to suffer unjustly, that's a grace and a trial out 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! [22 ADVENT act i Thyra. Oh, you beautiful sun! But didn't he go to I><-<1 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 ex- actly 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, \\ hat a nice tree! Thyra. But now you must give me half, for it was I who "-aid that the tree had to be shaken Old Lady. [Enters with a big birch rod] So you have been sinking the tree — now you'll see what you'll get, you nasty children act i ADVENT 123 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 fin- ger 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 ap- parent? Amelia. Give me a great and good word for the night, so that I may sleep on it as on a soft pillow. 124 ADVENT act i Neighbour. You shall have it. Let me think a mo- ment. — 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 tfie mauso- leum and moves without a sound across the stage toward the right; between every two figures there is a distance of five steps: Death ivith 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 tlie Judge; In carries a rope around his neck; and his right hand is raised to slww 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 tin ( )i.n Lady. .Ii dob. Why are ,\ou playing the ghost at this late hour? ACT I ADVENT 125 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 pleas- ant 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] 126 ADVENT act i 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 f sleepless nights. act ra ADVENT 143 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 along. [He beats the air vrith 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 yellotv and ready to be cut. Bachelor s-buttons and daisies groiv among the rye. A scarecroio hangs in the middle of the field. The distant background is formed by vineyards and light-col- oured 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." 1 The Swedish name of this plant is "Christ's Blood-drops." IU ADVENT act iii Thyra. You should cross yourself, Eric, when you men- tion 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. Thvra. 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! Some- l>ody 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. ACT III ADVENT 145 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 be- lieve 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! 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 whiie. 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. 140 ADVENT Acrm 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! Thyua. 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 act in A 1) V E N T 147 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? Erie 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 cop- per — 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 con- trary, 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 perspira- tion 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. 148 ADVENT act hi [//c wares his hand; the spot of sunlight strikes the Judge, ma- king 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, whore 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 con- science 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 Christ- mas! — Good night, my little friends! //- kisses thrir foreheads and goes out between the bushes; when fie 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, lie becomes surrounded by a clear, white light; then he goes out. Eric and Thyra kneel and pray silently ichile the bell is ringing. Acrm ADVENT 149 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 fine 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 150 act iv ADVENT 151 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 dan- cing 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 ac- quires." [She blows a whistle] Without curtain-fall, tfw 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 veg- etation. 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: hen- bane, burdock, thistle, onion, etc. 152 ADVENT act iv 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 move- ments 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 un- derneath. 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 suffer- ing 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 icears a soiled velvet coat with gold buttons, ruffles, sword, and high boots with spurs. The ensuing scene must be played with deadly seriousness, with- otd a trace of irony, satire, or humour. There is a sugges- tion of a death-mask in the face of every figure. They move noiselessly and make simple, awkward gestures that con- vey the impression of a drill. Prince. [To the Master of CeremoniesI Why do you disturb my peace at this midnight hour? Master of Ceremonies. Always, brother, you are ask- ing why. Have you not seen the light yet? act iv ADVENT I,; Prince. Only in part. I can perceive a connection !><•- tween 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 yes- terday. 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 yon 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' 1 — 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 L54 ADVENT act iv 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 sad- dening 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 re- sembling 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 ri-.iUe that educated people can do things like that to each other? Prince. This is a place of education for the badly edu- cated; and those who have behaved like scoundrels are treated like such. Judge. Bui 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 por- tion. act v ADVENT 173 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 weighed — and invariably found wanting. Judge. [Sits down at the table] I could never have be- lieved 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 ster- eoscopes. 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, 174 ADVENT act v you grafter, you forger, you robber of orphans, you false pleader? Now have a look in the peep-show and take in the great Bpectacle: "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 Christ- mas 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 de- cayed, 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 How 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 m... ,11 ihc lamp that shed its light on bays and groves dur- ing the amorous nights of my youth — I can remember only ACT V ADVENT 175 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 some- thing 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— 176 ADVENT act v 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 let- ter 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 bur voice] May I speak a word with you, madam? Old Lady. [Rising in evident alarm] What is it about? Man i.v 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. Tin: 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. Tin: Other One. That's just what is meant, and it is very Dice of you to admit that there are things you don't under- stand. •I i dge. Granting that I am now in the realm of the dead — act v ADVENT 177 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 de- spair! No mercy, no hope, no end! The Other One. Quite right! Here you find only jus- tice 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, 178 ADVENT act v 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 Othek Oxe. 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 uith shadows that are gazing up at the rocks in the rear. Chorus I. [Tiro 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, reveal- ing a tableau: the crib with the child and the mother; the shepherds adoring at the left, the three Magi at the right. ACT V ADVENT 17!) Chorus III. [Two sopranos and two altos. ] Gloria in excelsis Deo Et in terra pax Hominibus bonae voluntatis! Curtain. THE THUNDERSTORM (OVADER) 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 IH — In Front of the House THE THUNDERSTORM 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 mantel-shelf stands a large photograph between two candelabra and some vases con- taining flowers. A young girl in a light dress is just serving the final course. 183 184 THE THUNDERSTORM scene i Tin 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 be- gins 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, canta- loupes 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 r.ither as if everybody were hiding. I have lived here ten years, and during the first two years we had for neighbours ;i strange family that kept very quiet in the daytime. But al night they began to stir about, and then carriages would come and fetch things awav. Not until the end of the second scene i THE THUNDERSTORM I ., year did I learn that they had been running a private san- atorium, and that what was being taken away at night were dead bodies. Consul. Horrible! Starck. And they eall 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 trag- edies 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 mv pots. [He disappears into the gateway. Master. [Still inside, has risen from the table and lighted u 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? 18G THE THUNDERSTORM scene i Consul. Just the confectioner- M vster. 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 — al- most 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 li nis.- WB8 new. I watched them putting down the hard- \\<)<><1 floor in the dining-room and painting the doors; and scene i THE THUNDERSTORM 187 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 ex- periences 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 sum- mer, 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 anj'thing of them either? Master. I never ask any questions about the other ten- ants. 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 accounK 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 188 THE THUNDERSTORM scene i 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 ten- ants, 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 fie 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? M \sti;k. I don't know. Musician, conductor, a touch of muscial comedy, with a leaning to vaudeville — gambler — A 'Ion is ;i little of everything ( lONSUL. Black hair should have gone with that pale com- plexion 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 bcenei THE THUNDERSTORM 189 hands as lie dropped the letters into the box suggested shuf- fling 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 flitting 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 fiance 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 ur 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. 190 THE THUNDERSTORM scene l 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 miscon- ception scene i THE THUNDERSTORM 191 Master. If I am, leave me alone! A dear conscience comparatively clear, at least — has always been the diving-suit that has enabled me to descend into the vast deeps without being suffocated. [Riving] 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 remaiyis 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 wa> — at times. Starck. Of course, you are leading a very quiet life in there, witli plenty of everything, and nothing to worry about. I 1 ii j T HE THUNDERSTORM scene 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 dig- nified, graceful, measured — with nobody blurting out things, and all thinking it a duty to overlook the less pleasant fea- tures 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 re- grets, 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 de- pends on how the child's stepfather turns out. Starck. I have been told that the wife refused alimony at scene i THE THUNDERSTORM L93 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 beau- tiful 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! [lie 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. 194 THE THUNDERSTORM scene i 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 1'i^her 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 per- fectly 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 lure you have quiet at least: never any rattling carriages, and still lesa any street-cars — it's just like the country. Starck. Of course, it's quiet, but it's too quiet for busi- ness. I know my trade, but I am a poor salesman — have scene i T II E THUND E RSTORM 1 96 always been, and can't learn — or it may be something else. Perhaps I haven't got the proper manner. For when cus- tomers 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. [Witfidrawing 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 doton, 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? 19G THE THUNDERSTORM scene i 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 hap- pening 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 recog- nise 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 Btraight 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? bcenei THE THUNDERSTORM l!>, 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 ! How- ever, 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 198 THE THUNDERSTOR M scene i 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 hus- band 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 neicspaper in his hand; he goes into the house pensively by the back door, ichile the Consul and Gerda remain motion- less, 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 mantel- shelf, 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. I rEBDA. He is looking at us! Consul. Don't move! scene i THE THUNDERSTORM 199 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 info 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 M \ster. 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 any- how. Master. Anyhow? 200 scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 201 Louise. It isn't good to stay too long among old memories. Master. Why not? As time passes, all memories "row 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. 202 THE THUNDERSTORM scene n 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, with- out 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. [Site 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, how- ever 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 scene ii THE THUNDERS T < ) II M 203 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 ! [lie 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 re- peatedly 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! Bos- ton 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 Fan- taisie Impromptu, Opus 66, on the piano — but only the first part of it. 204 THE THUNDERSTORM scene n 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? M \ster. 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 tin- prettiesl mirage: the woman or the child? scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 205 Master. Both! I cannot separate them, and that's why I never tried to keep the child. Consul. But do yon think yon did right? Did the possi- bility of a stepfather never occur to you? Master. I didn't think that far ahead at tin- 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 re- warded 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 ej'es 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 stand- ing 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 oughl 206 THE THUNDERSTORM scene n to have company. This summer in the city seems to have been rather hard on you. Mastek. Only these last few weeks. The sickness and that death up above — it was as if I had gone through it my- self. 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, un- discovered, nameless. And before I fall asleep my hear- ing 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 un- recognisable 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 vn t lie 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 house- scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 207 wife at her linen closet; the good fairy that preserves and re- news; 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 re- mained 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 prom- ised, 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 £08 THE THUNDERSTORM scene n 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. Gekda. Where? Consul. [Pointing toicard 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, Bret 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 begin- ning, absent-mindedly, to arrange the pieces) Music-halls — oh, I have been there myself. Consul. You? Gerda. I have accompanied on the piano. scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 209 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 aivay, 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 lim- its. And he'll help you for the child's sake. oio THE THUNDERSTORM scene ii 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 situa- tion. 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 — ever3 T thing 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 ex- pression of consternation on her face. M wn.k. My eyes? Oh, I am getting a little near-sighted. Hut 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 scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 211 gambling club — There now! Somebody got on the wire to listen. [He rings again. Louise appears in the door to the hallway without briny 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 tfw 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 differ- ence 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? 212 THE THUNDERSTORM scene ii 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, man- ner 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 for- mal 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. M vster. Have you? That's more than I know. Gerda. Didn't you read the papers in the suit? M \ster. No-o! I left that to my lawyer. [He sits down. GEBDA. And the decision of the court? M \stkh. Xo, why should I? As I don't mean to marry again, I have no use for that kind of documents. I'ause. Gerda seats herself. sceneii THE THUNDERSTORM 218 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 thai 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 oper- ating-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 i>U THE THUNDERSTORM scene n 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 .vou know what an uncle is? That's an elderly scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM *15 friend of the house and the mother. And I know that at school I am also passing as her uncle. — But all that is dread- ful 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 re- habilitation. [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 pidl on her gloves with such violence that buttons are scattered right and left. Master. [Taking out the money] Eigh teen-seventy-two. That's just right. Louise. I should like to see you a moment, sir. 216 THE THUNDERSTORM scene ii .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 <>f solace to my mind in finding justice exists in this world. Life is very quick in its movements, and now you find your- self where I was. Oerda. Her eighteen years against my twenty-nine — I am old— too old for him! scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 2V t 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 eight- een — 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? 218 THE THUNDERSTORM scene n 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 219 220 THE THUNDERSTORM scene m 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 execu- tioner? 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! scene in T HE T H U N D E H S T K M 22 1 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 cud 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 THE THUNDERS T O R M scene hi 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 scene m THE THUNDERSTORM 223 not telling the truth? What did she say when she tele- phoned? 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 224 THE THUNDERSTORM scene m my independence centred in her under the form of a bound- less 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 sup- pose 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 de- partment, 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. As 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 tli<- tickets, but when she discovered that they were for third class she threw them in his face and walked out to the cab- stand. scene in THE THUNDERSTORM 225 Master. Ugh! Consul. As soon as I had established a eonnection with the man, Gerda hurried up and got hold of the child, disap- pearing 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 circum- stances 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? 226 THE THUNDERSTORM scene m Consul. Disappeared. Master. Then I may have them after me again. [Pause] Ditl 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! scexe in r P IT E T II U N D E R S T () R M 22 Louise. The lady has gone to her mother, in the country, to live there with her littl<> 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 vhis fall I move away from the Silent House. Curtain. AFTER THE FIRE (BRANDA TOMTEN) A CHAMBER PLAY 1907 CHARACTERS Rudolph Walstrom, a dyer The Stranger, icho is t brother of Rudolph Arvid Walstrom Anderson, a mason {brother-in-law of the gardener) Mrs. Anderson, wife of tJie 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 Sjoblom, a painter Mrs. Westerlund, hostess at " The Last Nail," formerly a nurse at the dyer's Mrs. Walstrom, 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 re- mains on the walls, and a couple of brick stoves are still standing. Beyond the ivalls 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. Sjoblom, 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 231 232 AFTER THE FIRE scene i 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 'luring the day, but the heat made the buds go into bloom scene i AFTER THE FIRE ! :.; 3 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 rea- son 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 Wal- strom, 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 any- body 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! 234 AFTER THE FIRE scene i 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 Sjoblom already at work with his putty— just think of it, that Mrs. Westerlund got off as well as she did — morning, Sjoblom, 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. scene i AFTER THE FIRE 185 Mrs. Westeklund. I don't think they're burying any- body, but I've heard they're going to put up a monument over the bishop — worst of it is that the stone-eutter's daugh- ter 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 testi- fying. 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? 236 AFTER THE FIRE scene] Hearse-Driver. Oh, be had slabs of cork with pins on 'em, and a lot of flies— something beyond us here — but I guess t hat's the proper way— can I go out to the kitchen now? Mks. Westerlund. Yes, if you use the back door, I think you can get something wet Hi: vrse-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 hang- ing 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 him- self ami his brother what went off to America, though they say Ik's hack now. The father, he was a real man, he was, hut the boys were always a little so-so. Mrs. Westerlund scene i AFTER THE FIRE 237 over here, she used to take care of Rudolph, and the two brothers never could get along, but kept scrapping and fight- ing 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, quar- relling 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! 238 AFTER THE FIRE scene i Gustafson. [Enters with a basketful of funeral wreaths and other products of his trade] I wonder if I am going to sell any- thing 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 whin 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. SCENE I AFTER THE FIRE 289 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 regu- lar 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? 240 AFTER THE FIRE scene i Gardener. Mr. Walstrom. 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 sup- pose? Stranger. What bishop? Gardener. Bishop Stecksen, don't you know — who be- longed 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 iiie ruins carefully as he passes by. Mrs. Anderson. Perhaps he came on account of the in- surance. 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 — ami 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 scene i AFTER THE FIRE 241 opens the inn door] Mrs. Westerlund, can I have the myrtle now, and I'll do the job!— I say, can I have thai 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?— Xo, 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! [lie goes out. Rudolph Walstrom. [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 l<><>k 242 AFTER THE FIRE scene i 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. Wester- lund, even the painter over there — we are all of us under sus- picion — 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 any- thing 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 rim away, but cannot move] Arvid! Stranger. Rudolph! Rudolph. So it's you! scene i AFTER THE FIRE 243 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 ;i 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 remem- ber 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? ^44 AFTER THE FIRE scene i 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, SCENE I AFTER THE FIRE 245 an ornament, a hieroglyph, which only then can be inter- preted: 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 photo- graph album] That's the book of our family fate. Grand- father and grandmother, father and mother, brothers and sis- ters, relatives, acquaintances — or so-called "friends" — school- mates, 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 suf- fered a shipwreck and passed through an earthquake — but, however life shaped itself, I always became aware of con- nections and repetitions. I saw in one situation the result of another, earlier one. On meeting this person I was re- minded 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." 246 AFTER THE FIRE scene i 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 remem- ber exactly how this false idea became fixed in your mind. We were learning to swim, and one day you told how you had t ! Ericson. And when my father failed to catch yours he was discharged. Stranger. And you want to get even with me becaus< your father was a good-for-nothing? Ericson. Why did you say a while ago that there was dy- namite in the cellar? Stranger. Now, my dear sir, you are telling lies again. I said there might be dynamite in the cellar, and everything im- possible, of course. 266 AFTER THE FIRE scem.ii Kiucson. And in the meantime the student has been ar- rested. 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. s< i:\-e ii AFTER T HE FIRE 267 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 rela- tive 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 occu- pation 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. 268 A FTER T II E F I R E scene □ 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 withdraics 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 gar- den, and now everything will grow much better — provided they don't put up a still higher house scene ii A FT E R Til E F I H E 269 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 mi- fortune 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? 270 AFTER THE FIRE scene ii 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! SCENE II AFTER THE FIRE 271 Alfred. [Gets hold of her hand and they dance out together] Hey and ho! Here we go! Stranger. [Coming fonoard] Bravo ! The Detective enters and talks in a low tone to the Stranger, who ansioers in the same way. This lasts for about half a minute, whereupon the Detective leaves again. Mrs. Walstrom. [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. Walstrom. 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. Walstrom. 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. WalstrSm. 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. Walstrom. You were innocent then? Stranger. I was. Mrs. W'alstrom. How curious! And to this day my hus- 272 AFTER THE FIRE scene n hand is still talking of the Nemesis that has pursued you be- cause you seduced another man's wife. Stranger. I fully believe it. But your husband repre- sents 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. Walstrom. Of course he is a coward! Stranger. And yet he boasts of his courage, which is noth- ing but brutality. Mrs. Walstrom. 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. Walstrom. 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. Walstrom. 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. Walstrom. 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. Wm.sthom. When nothing stands the test of being touched, what are you then to hold on to? Stranger. Don't you know? Mrs. Walstrom. Tell me! Tell me! Stranger. Sorrow brings patience; patience brings experi- bceneu A FT KR T IF E F [RE ence; experience brings hope; and hope will not bring us to shame. Mrs. Walstrom. Hope, yes! Stranger. Yes. hope! Mrs. Walstrom. 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 yuii happen to be born without a film over your eyes, then yon see life and your t'