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PLAYS BY AUGUST STRINDBERG
PLAYS. FIRST SERIES : The Dream Play, The
Link, The Dance of Death— Part I and Part II.
PLAYS. SECOND SERIES: There are Crimes
and Crimes,^Miss Julia, The Stronger, Credi-
tors, Pariah.
PLAYS. THIRD SERIES : Swanwhite, Simoom,
Debit and Credit, Advent, The Thunder
Storm, After the Fire.
PLAYS. FOURTH SERIES: The Bridal Crown,
^'The Spook Sonata, The First Warning, Gus-
tavus Vasa.
CREDITORS. PARIAH.
MISS JULIA. THE STRONGER.
THERE ARE CRIMES AND CRIMES
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
PLAYS
BY
AUGUST STRINDBERG
THIRD SERIES
SWANWHITE
SIMOOM
DEBIT AND CREDIT
, ADVENT
THE THUNDERSTORM
AFTER THE FIRE
TBANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
EDWIN BJORKMAN
AUTHORIZED EDITION
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1921
Copyright, 1913, by
CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS
Published October, 1913
T
vi
CONTENTS
PAQB
Introduction 1
Swanwhite 11
Simoom .... 65
Debit and Credit 79
Advent 105
The Thunderstorm . . < 181
After the Fire 229
90V :±
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.
" Swan white" was written in the spring of 1901, about the
time when Strindberg was courting and marrying his third
wife, the gifted Swedish actress Harriet Bosse. In the fall
of 1902 the play appeared in book form, together with "The
Crown Bride" and "The Dream Play," all of them being
issued simultaneously, at Berlin, in a German translation
made by Emil Schering.
Schering, who at that time was in close correspondence
with Strindberg, says that the figure of Swanwhite had been
drawn with direct reference to Miss Bosse, who had first
attracted the attention of Strindberg by her spirited 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,
* Swan white.' It is impossible either to steal or to borrow
from Maeterlinck. It is even difficult to become his pupil,
for there are no free passes that give entrance to his world of
beauty. But one may be urged by his example into search-
ing one's own dross-heaps for gold — and it is in that sense I
acknowledge my debt to the master.
"Pushed ahead by the impression made on me by 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
as in Sweden — little Swanwhite has celebrated great triumphs.
Whether that figure, and the play surrounding it, will also
INTRODUCTION 5
triumph in English-speaking countries, remains still to be
seen. But if, contrary to my hopes, it should fail to do so, I
want, in advance, to shift the blame from the shoulders of the
author to my own. In hardly any other work by 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-
beat 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 Imprinted." But, strange to say, it was not put on the
stage (except in a few private performances) until 1902,
although, from a purely theatrical viewpoint, Strindberg —
master of stagecraft though he was — had rarely produced
a more effective piece of work.
"Debit and Credit" belongs to the same general period as
the previous play, but has in it more of Nietzsche than of
Poe. Its central figure is also a sort of superman, but as
such he is not taken too seriously by his creator. The play
has humour, but it is of a grim kind — one seems to be hearing
the gritting of teeth through the laughter. Like "Simoom,"
however, it should be highly effective on the stage. It was
first published in 1893, with three other one-act plays, the
volume being named "Dramatic Pieces."
"Advent" was published in 1899, together with "There
Are Crimes and Crimes," under the common title of "In a
Higher Court." Its name refers, of course, to the ecclesias-
tical designation of the four weeks preceding Christmas.
The subtitle, literally rendered, would be "A Mystery."
But as this term has a much wider application in Swedish
than in English, I have deemed it better to observe the 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 brought about by his previous atti-
tude of 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 INTRODUCTION
The first of these plays to appear in book form — though
not the first one to be staged — was "The Thunder-Storm, "
designated on the front cover as "Opus I." Two of the 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,
especially in the references to the postmarital relationship.
"After the Fire" was published as "Opus II" of the cham-
INTRODUCTION 9
ber-plays, and staged ahead of "The Thunder-Storm." Its
Swedish name is Branda Tomten* meaning literally "the
burned-over site." This name has previously been rendered
in English as "The Burned Lot" and "The Fire Ruins."
Both these titles are awkward and ambiguous. The name I
have now chosen embodies more closely the fundamental
premise of the play.
The subject-matter is even more autobiographical than
that of "The Thunder-Storm" — almost as much so as "The
Bondwoman's Son." The perished home is Strindberg's own
at the North Tollgate Street in Stockholm, where he spent
the larger part of his childhood and youth. The old Mason,
the Gardener, the Stone-Cutter, and other figures appearing
in the play are undoubtedly lifted straight out of real life —
and so are probably also the exploded family reputation
and the cheap table painted to represent ebony — although
one may take for granted that the process has not taken place
without a proper disguising of externals.
There is one passage in this little play which I want to
point out as containing one of the main keys to Strindberg's
character and art. It is the passage where The Stranger —
who, of course, is none but the author himself — says to his
brother: "I have beheld life from every quarter, from every
standpoint, from above and from below, but always it has
seemed to me like a scene staged for my particular benefit,"
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 Flower Gardener
Two Knights
SWANWHITE
An apartment in a mediaeval stone castle. The walls and the
cross-vaulted ceiling are whitewashed. In the centre of the
rear wall is a triple-arched doorway leading to a balcony
with a stone balustrade. There are draperies of brocade
over the doorway. Beyond the balcony appear the top
branches of a rose-garden, laden with white and pink roses.
In the background there can be seen a white, sandy beach
and the blue sea.
To the right of the main doorway is a small door which, when
left open, discloses a vista of three closets, one beyond the
other. The first one is stored with vessels of pewter arranged
on shelves. The walls of the second closet are hung with
all sorts of costly and ornate garments. The third closet
contains piles and rows of apples, pears, melons, 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
with roses stand on the table, near which are placed two
gilded tabourets. Two swallows' nests are visible on the
rear wall above the doorway. A lion skin is spread on the
floor near the foreground. At the left, well to the front,
stands a white bed with a rose-coloured canopy supported
by two columns at the head of the bed {and by none at the
foot). The bed-clothing is pure white except for a coverlet
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,
with its back turned toward the audience.
In the right arch hangs a huge gilded cage with two white doves
at rest.
As the curtain rises, the three maids are seen in the doorways
of the three closets, each one half hidden by the door-post
against which she leans. Signe, the false maid, is in the
pewter-closet, Elsa in the clothes-closet, and Tova in the
fruit-closet.
The Duke enters from the rear. After him comes the Step-
mother carrying in her hand a wire-lashed whip.
The stage is darkened when they enter.
Stepmother. Swan white 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 Swan white?
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 t and then on a hair out of his long
beard] Her head should be cut off — put in a sack — hung on
a tree
Stepmother. So it should!
Duke. We are agreed! How strange!
Stepmother. It did not happen yesterday.
Duke. And may not happen once again.
Stepmother. [To Signe, who, still on her knees, has been
moving farther away] Stop! Whither? [She raises the whip
and strikes; Signe turns aside so that the lash merely cuts the
air.]
Swan white. [Comes forward from behind the bed and falls
on her knees] Stepmother — here I am — the guilty one ! She's
not at fault.
Stepmother. Say "mother"! You must call me "moth-
er'
"!
16 SWANWHITE
Swanwhite. I cannot! One mother is as much as any
human being ever had.
Stepmother. Your father's wife must be your mother.
Swanwhite. My father's second wife can only be my
stepmother.
Stepmother. You are a stiffnecked daughter, but my
whip is pliant and will make you pliant too.
[She raises the whip to strike Swanwhite.
Duke. [Raising his sword] Take heed of the head!
Stepmother. Whose head?
Duke. Your own !
The Stepmother turns pale at first, and then angry;
but she controls herself and remains silent; long pause.
Stepmother. [Beaten for the moment, she changes her tone]
Then will Your Grace inform your daughter what is now in
store for her?
Duke. [Sheathing his sword] Rise up, my darling child,
and come into my arms to calm yourself.
Swanwhite. [Throwing herself into the arms of the Duke]
Father! — You're like a royal oak-tree which my arms cannot
encircle. But beneath your leafage there is refuge from all
threatening showers. [She hides her head beneath his immense
beard, which reaches down to his waist] And like a bird, I will
be swinging on your branches — lift me up, so I can reach the
top.
The Duke holds out his arm.
Swanwhite. [Climbs up on his arm and perches herself on
his shoulder] Now lies the earth beneath me and the air
above — now I can overlook the rosery, the snowy beach, the
deep-blue sea, and all the seven kingdoms stretched beyond.
Duke. Then you can also see the youthful king to whom
your troth is promised
SWANWHITE 17
Swanwhite. No — nor have I ever seen him. Is he band-
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 ear, and close your little mouth's crimson
shell. Give heed, obey, and all will then be well with you.
Swanwhite. [Putting her fingers in her ears] With my eyes
I hear, and with my ears I see — and now I cannot see at all,
but only hear.
Duke. My child, when still a cradled babe, your troth was
plighted to the youthful King of Rigalid. You have not
seen him yet, such being courtly usage. But the time to tie
the sacred knot is drawing near. To teach you the 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
18 SWANWHITE
him or anybody else. For it is prophesied that whosoever
calls him by his name shall have to love him.
Swan white. Is he handsome?
Duke. He is, because your eye sees beauty everywhere.
Swanwhite. But is he beautiful ?
Duke. Indeed he is. And now be careful of your little
heart, and don't forget that in the cradle you were made a
queen. — With this, dear child, I leave you, for I have war
to wage abroad. — Submit obediently to your stepmother.
She's hard, but once your father loved her — and a sweet
temper will find a way to hearts of stone. If, despite of
promises and oaths, her malice should exceed what is permis-
sible, then you may blow this horn [he takes a horn of carved
ivory from under his cloak], and help will come. But do not
use it till you are in danger — not until the danger is ex-
treme. — Have you understood?
Swanwhite. How is it to be understood?
Duke. This way : the prince is here, is in the court already.
Is it your wish to see the prince?
Swanwhite. Is it my wish?
Duke. Or shall I first bid you farewell?
Swanwhite. The prince is here already?
Duke. Already here, and I — already there — far, far away
where sleeps the heron of forgetfulness, with head beneath his
wing.
Swanwhite. [Leaping into the lap of the Duke and bury-
ing her head in his beard] Mustn't speak like that! Baby
is ashamed!
Duke. Baby should be spanked — who forgets her aged
father for a little prince. Fie on her!
A trumpet is heard in the distance.
Duke. [Rises quickly, takes Swanwhite in his arms,
throws her up into the air and catches her again] Fly, little
SWANWHITE 19
bird, fly high above the dust, with lots of air beneath your
wings! — And then, once more on solid ground! — I am called
by war and glory — you, by love and youth! [Girding on his
sword] And now hide your wonder-horn, that it may not be
seen by evil eyes.
Swan white. Where shall I hide it? Where?
Duke. The bed!
Swanwhite. [Hiding the horn in the bed-clothing] There!
Sleep well, my little tooteroot! When it is time, I'll wake
you up. And don't forget your prayers!
Duke. And child! Do not forget what I said last: your
stepmother must be obeyed.
Swanwhite. In all?
Duke. In all.
Swanwhite. But not in what is contrary to cleanliness!
— Two linen shifts my mother let me have each sennight;
this woman gives but one! And mother gave me soap and
water, which stepmother denies. Look at my little footies!
Duke. Keep clean within, my daughter, and clean will
be the outside. You know that holy men, who, for the sake
of penance, deny themselves the purging waters, grow white
as swans, while evil ones turn raven-black.
Swanwhite. Then I will be as white !
Duke. Into my arms! And then, farewell!
Swanwhite. [Throwing herself into his arms] Farewell,
my great and valiant hero, my glorious father! May for-
tune follow you, and make you rich in years and friends and
victories !
Duke. Amen — and let your gentle prayers be my protec-
tion ! [He closes the visor of his golden helmet.
Swanwhite. [Jumps up and plants a kiss on the visor] The
golden gates are shut, but through the bars I still can see
your kindly, watchful eyes. [Knocking at the visor] Let up,
20 SWANWHITE
let up, for little Red Riding-hood. No one at home? "Well-
away," said the wolf that lay in the bed!
Duke. [Putting her down on the floor] Sweet flower of mine,
grow fair and fragrant! If I return — well — I return! If
not, then from the starry arch above my eye shall follow
you, and never to my sight will you be lost, for there above
all-seeing we become, even as the all-creating Lord himself.
Goes out firmly ; with a gesture that bids her not to follow.
Swanwhite falls on her knees in prayer for the Duke;
all the rose-trees sway before a wind that passes with the
sound of a sigh; the peacock shakes its wings and tail.
Swanwhite. [Rises, goes to the peacock and begins to stroke
its back and tail] Pavo, dear Pavo, what do you see and what
do you hear? Is any one coming? Who is it? A little
prince? Is he pretty and nice? You, with your many blue
eyes, should be able to tell. [She lifts up one of the bird's tail
feathers and gazes intently at its "eye"] Are you to keep your
eyes on us, you nasty Argus? Are you to see that the little
hearts of two young people don't beat too loudly? — You
stupid thing — all I have to do is to close the curtain! [She
closes the curtain, which hides the bird, but not the landscape
outside; then she goes to the doves] My white doves — oh, so
white, white, white — now you'll see what is whitest of all —
Be silent, wind, and roses, and doves — my prince is coming!
She looks out for a moment; then she withdraws to the
pewter-closet, leaving the door slightly ajar so that
through the opening she can watch the Prince; there
she remains standing, visible to the spectators but not
to the Prince.
Prince. [Enters through the middle arch of the doorway.
He wears armour of steel; what shows of his clothing is black.
Having carefully observed everything in the room, he sits down
at the table, takes off his helmet and begins to study it. His
SWANWHITE 21
back is turned toward the door behind which Swanwhite is
hiding] If anybody be here, let him answer! [Silence) There
is somebody here, for I can feel the warmth of a young body
come billowing toward me like a southern wind. I can
hear a breath — it carries the fragrance of roses — and, gentle
though it be, it makes the plume on my helmet move. [He
puts the helmet to his ear) "lis 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.
22 SWANWHITE
The Prince rises, bows, with his hand to his heart, and
gazes steadily at Swanwhite.
Swanwhite. Are you the little prince?
Prince. The faithful servant of the king, and yours!
Swanwhite. What message does the young king send his
bride?
Prince. This is his word to Lady Swanwhite — whom lov-
ingly he greets — that by the thought of coming happiness
the long torment of waiting will be shortened.
Swanwhite. [Who has been looking at the Prince as if to
study him] Why not be seated, Prince?
Prince. If seated when you sit, then I should have to
kneel when you stand up.
Swanwhite. Speak to me of the king! How does he
look?
Prince. How does he look? [Putting one of his hands up
to his eyes] I can no longer see him — how strange!
Swanwhite. What is his name?
Prince. He's gone — invisible
Swanwhite. And is he tall?
Prince. [Fixing his glance on Swanwhite] Wait! — I see
him now! — Taller than you!
Swanwhite. And beautiful?
Prince. Not in comparison with you!
Swanwhite. Speak of the king, and not of me!
Prince. I do speak of the king !
Swanwhite. Is his complexion light or dark?
Prince. If he were dark, on seeing you he would turn
light at once.
Swanwhite. There's more of flattery than wit in that!
His eyes are blue?
Prince. [Glancing at his helmet] I think I have to look?
SWANWHITE 23
Swanwhite. [Holding out her hand between them] Oh, you
—you!
Prince. You with t h makes youth!
Swanwhite. Are you to teach me how to spell?
Prince. The young king is tall and blond and blue-eyed,
with broad shoulders and hair like a new-grown forest
Swanwhite. Why do you carry a black plume?
Prince. His lips are red as the ripe currant, his cheeks are
white, and the lion's cub needn't be ashamed of his teeth.
Swanwhite. Why is your hair wet?
Prince. His mind knows no fear, and no evil deed ever
made his heart quake with remorse.
Swanwhite. Why is your hand trembling?
Prince. We were to speak of the young king and not
of me!
Swanwhite. So, you, you are to teach me?
Prince. It is my task to teach you how to love the young
king whose throne you are to share.
Swanwhite. How did you cross the sea?
Prince. In my bark and with my sail.
Swanwhite. And the wind so high?
Prince. Without wind there is no sailing.
Swanwhite. Little boy — how wise you are! — Will you
play with me?
Prince. What I must do, I will.
Swanwhite. And now I'll show you what I have in my
chest. [She goes to the chest and kneels down beside it; then she
takes out several dolls, a rattle, and a hobby-horse] Here's the
doll. It's my child — the child of sorrow that can never keep
its face clean. In my own arms I have carried her to the
lavendrey, and there I have washed her with white sand —
but it only made her worse. I have spanked her — but
24 SWANWHITE
nothing helped. Now I have figured out what's worst of
all!
Prince. And what is that?
Swanwhite. [After a glance around the room] I'll give her
a stepmother!
Prince. But how's that to be? She should have a mother
first.
Swanwhite. I am her mother. And if I marry twice, I
shall become a stepmother.
Prince. Oh, how you talk! That's not the way!
Swanwhite. And you shall be her stepfather.
Prince. Oh, no!
Swanwhite. You must be very kind to her, although she
cannot wash her face. — Here, take her — let me see if you
have learned to carry children right.
The Prince receives the doll unwillingly.
Swanwhite. You haven't learned yet, but you will ! Now
take the rattle, too, and play with her.
The Prince receives the rattle.
Swanwhite. That's something you don't understand, I
see. [She takes the doll and the rattle away from him and throws
them back into the chest; then she takes out the hobby-horse]
Here is my steed. — It has saddle of gold and shoes of silver.
— It can run forty miles in an hour, and on its back I have
travelled through Sounding Forest, across Big Heath and
King's Bridge, along High Road and Fearful Alley, all the
way to the Lake of Tears. And there it dropped a golden
shoe that fell into the lake, and then came a fish, and after
came a fisherman, and so I got the golden shoe back. That's
all there was to that ! [She throws the hobby-horse into the chest;
instead she takes out a chess-board with red and white squares,
and chessmen made of silver and gold] If you will play with
me, come here and sit upon the lion skin. [Ske seats herself
SWANWHITE 25
on the skin and begins to put up the pieces] Sit down, won't
you — the maids can't see us here!
The Prince sits down on the skin, looking very em-
barrassed.
Swanwhite. It's like sitting in the grass — not the green
grass of the meadow, but the desert grass which has been
burned by the sun. — Now you must say something about me!
Do you like me a little?
Prince. Are we to play?
Swanwhite. To play? What care I for that? — Oh —
you were to teach me something!
Prince. Poor me, what can I do but saddle a horse and
carry arms — with which you are but poorly served.
Swanwhite. You are so sad !
Prince. My mother died quite recently.
Swanwhite. Poor little prince! — My mother, too, has
gone to God in heaven, and she's an angel now. Sometimes
in the nights I see her — do you also see yours?
Prince. No-o.
Swanwhite. And have you got a stepmother?
Prince. Not yet. So little time has passed since she was
laid to rest.
Swanwhite. Don't be so sad! There's nothing but will
wear away in time, you see. Now I'll give you a flag to
gladden you again — Oh, no, that's right — this one I sewed
for the young king. But now I'll sew another one for you!
— This is the king's, with seven flaming fires — you shall have
one with seven red roses on it — but first of all you have to
hold this skein of yarn for me. [She takes from the chest a
skein of rose-coloured yarn and hands it to the Prince] One,
two, three, and now you'll see! — Your hands are trembling
— that won't do! — Perhaps you want a hair of mine among
the yarn? — Pull one yourself!
26 SWANWHITE
Prince. Oh, no, I couldn't-
Swanwhite. I'll do it, then, myself. [She pulls a hair from
her head and winds it into the ball of yarn] What is your name?
Prince. You shouldn't ask.
Swan white. Why not?
Prince. The duke has told you — hasn't he?
Swanwhite. No, he hasn't! What could happen if you
told your name? Might something dreadful happen?
Prince. The duke has told you, I am sure.
Swanwhite. I never heard of such a thing before — of one
who couldn't tell his name!
The curtain behind which the peacock is hidden moves;
a faint sound as of castanets is heard.
Prince. What was that?
Swanwhite. That's Pavo — do you think he knows what
we are saying?
Prince. It's hard to tell.
Swanwhite. Well, what's your name?
Again the peacock makes the same kind of sound with
his bill.
Prince. I am afraid — don't ask again!
Swanwhite. He snaps his bill, that's all — Keep your
hands still ! — Did you ever hear the tale of the little princess
that mustn't mention the name of the prince, lest something
happen? And do you know ?
The curtain hiding the peacock is pulled aside, and the
bird is seen spreading out his tail so that it looks as
if all the "eyes" were staring at Swanwhite and the
Prince.
Prince. Who pulled away the curtain? Who made the
bird behold us with its hundred eyes? — You mustn't ask
again !
SWAN WHITE 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?
£8 SWANWHITE
Prince. If you have talked to me like that, how did I talk
to you?
Swanwhite. Just think, he didn't notice it! — And now I
have got a brother of my own, and that is you! — My little
brother — take my hand!
Prince. [Taking her hand] My little sister! [Feels her
pulse beating under his thumb] What have you there, that's
ticking — one, and two, and three, and four ?
Continues to count silently after having looked at his
watch.
Swanwhite. Yes, tell me what it is that ticks — so steady,
steady, steady? It cannot be my heart, for that is here,
beneath my breast — Put your hand here, and you can feel
it too. [The doves begin to stir and coo] What is it, little white
ones?
Prince. And sixty! Now I know what makes that tick-
ing — it is the time! Your little finger is the second-hand
that's ticking sixty times for every minute that goes by.
And don't you think there is a heart within the watch?
Swanwhite. [Handling the watch] We cannot reach the
inside of the watch — no more than of the heart — Just feel
my heart!
Signe. [Enters from the pewter-closet carrying a whip, which
she puts down on the table] Her Grace commands that the
children be seated at opposite sides of the table.
The Prince sits down at the opposite end of the table.
He and Swanwhite look at each other in silence for
a while.
Swanwhite. Now we are far apart, and yet a little nearer
than before.
Prince. It's when we part that we come nearest to each
other.
Swanwhite. And you know that?
SWANWHITE 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
30 SWANWHITE
queen — and vowing that — you — shall take that daughter of
her own — that loathsome Lena
Prince. Indeed! — And you can hear it in the helmet?
Swanwhite. I can.
Prince. I didn't know of that. But my godmother gave
me the helmet as a christening present.
Swanwhite. Give me a feather, will you?
Prince. It is a pleasure — great as life itself.
Swanwhite. But you must cut it so that it will write.
Prince. You know a thing or two!
Swanwhite. My father taught me
The Prince 'pulls a black feather out of the plume on
his helmet; then he takes a silver-handled knife from
his belt and cuts the quill.
Swanwhite takes out an ink-well and parchment from
a drawer in the table.
Prince. Who is Lady Lena?
Swanwhite. You mean, what kind of person? You want
her, do you?
Prince. Some evil things are brewing in this house
Swanwhite. Fear not! My father has bestowed a gift
on me that will bring help in hours of need.
Prince. What is it called?
Swanwhite. It is the horn Stand-By.
Prince. Where is it hid?
Swanwhite. Read in my eye. I dare not let the maids
discover it.
Prince. [Gazing at her eyes] I see!
Swanwhite. [Pushing pen, ink and parchment across the
table to the Prince] Write it.
The Prince writes.
Swanwhite. Yes, that's the place. [She writes again.
Prince. What do you write?
SWANWHITE 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 y 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] "Pis a mirror.
32 SWANWHITE
Swanwhite. Woe to us then ! It is the witching mirror of
my stepmother, and she has seen it all.
Prince. And in the mirror I can see the fireplace — there's
a pumpkin hanging in it!
Swanwhite. [Takes from the fireplace a mottled, strangely
shaped pumpkin] What can it be? It has the look of an
ear. The witch has heard us, too ! — Alas, alas ! [She throws
the pumpkin into the fireplace and runs across the floor toward
the bed; suddenly she stops on one foot, holding up the other]
Oh, she has strewn the floor with needles
[She sits down and begins to rub her foot.
The Prince kneels in front of Swanwhite in order to
help her.
Swanwhite. No, you mustn't touch my foot — you
mustn't!
Prince. Dear heart, you must take off your stocking if
I am to help.
Swanwhite. [Sobbing] You mustn't — mustn't see my
foot!
Prince. But why? Why shouldn't I?
Swanwhite. I cannot tell; I cannot tell. Go — go away
from me! To-morrow I shall tell you, but I can't to-day.
Prince. But then your little foot will suffer — let me pull
the needle out!
Swanwhite. Go, go, go! — No, no, you mustn't try! — Oh,
had my mother lived, a thing like this could not have hap-
pened! — Mother, mother, mother!
Prince. I cannot understand — are you afraid of me ?
Swanwhite. Don't ask me, please — just leave me — oh!
Prince. What have I done?
Swanwhite. Don't leave me, please — I didn't mean to
hurt you — but I cannot tell — If I could only reach the
shore — the white sand of the beach
SWANWHITE 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?
34 SWANWHITE
Prince. The day is almost done, Your Grace; the sun is
setting, and my bark is longing to get home.
Stepmother. The day is too far gone — the gates are shut,
the dogs let loose — You know my dogs?
Prince. Indeed! You know my sword?
Stepmother. What is the matter with your sword?
Prince. It bleeds at times.
Stepmother. Well, well! But not with women's blood, I
trust? — But listen, Prince: how would like to sleep in our
Blue Room?
Prince. By God, it is my will to sleep at home, in my
own bed
Stepmother. Is that the will of anybody else?
Prince. Of many more.
Stepmother. How many? — More than these! — One, two,
three
As she counts, the members of the household begin to pass
by in single file across the balcony; all of them look
serious; some are armed; no one turns his head to
look into the room; among those that pass are the 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
ten thousand good-nights unto your love — and so will Swan-
white, too, I think!
A swan comes flying by above the rosery; from the ceiling
a poppy flower drops down on the Stepmother, who
falls asleep at once, as do the maids.
Swanwhite. [Going up to the Prince] Good-night, my
Prince!
Prince. [Takes her hand and says in a low voice] Good-
night! — Oh, that it's granted me to sleep beneath one roof
SWANWHITE 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
Swanwhite. [In the same tone] You are my all on earth,
you are my parent now — since she has robbed me of my
puissant father's help. — Look, how she sleeps!
Prince. You saw the swan?
Swanwhite. No, but I heard — it was my mother.
Prince. Come, fly with me!
Swanwhite. No, that we mustn't! — Patience! We'll meet
in our dreams! — But this will not be possible unless — you
love me more than anybody else on earth! Oh, love me —
you, you, you!
Prince. My king, my loyalty
Swanwhite. Your queen, your heart — or what am I?
Prince. I am a knight!
Swanwhite. But I am not. And therefore — therefore do
I take you — my Prince
She puts her hands up to her mouth with a gesture as if
she were throwing a whispered name to him.
Prince. Oh, woe! What have you done?
Swanwhite. I gave myself to you through your own name
— and with me, carried on your wings, yourself came back
to you! Oh [Again she whispers the name.
Prince. [With a movement of his hand as if he were catching
the name in the air] Was that a rose you threw me?
[He throws a kiss to her.
Swanwhite. A violet you gave me — that was you — your
soul! And now I drink you in — you're in my bosom, in my
heart — you're mine!
Prince. And you are mine! Who is the rightful owner,
then?
Swanwhite. Both!
36 SWANWHITE
Prince. Both! You and I! — My rose!
Swanwhite. My violet!
Prince. My rose!
Swanwhite. My violet!
Prince. I love you !
Swanwhite. You love me!
Prince. You love me!
Swanwhite. 1 love you I
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,
kind, and happy. The Stepmother lifts up her
drowsy head and, while her eyes remain closed, she
seems to be watching the joy of the two young people
with a sunny smile.
Swanwhite. Look, look! The cruel one is smiling as at
some memory from childhood days. See how Signe the
False seems faith and hope embodied, how the ugly Tova
has grown beautiful, the little Elsa tall.
Prince. Our love has done it.
Swanwhite. So that is love? Blessed be it by the Lord!
The Lord Omnipotent who made the world!
[She falls on her knees, weeping.
Prince. You weep?
Swanwhite. Because I am so full of joy.
Prince. Come to my arms and you will smile.
Swanwhite. There I should die, I think.
Prince. Well, smile and die!
Swanwhite. [Rising] So be it then!
[The Prince takes her in his arms.
Stepmother. [Wakes up; on seeing the Prince and Swan-
white together, she strikes the table with the whip] I must
have slept! — Oho! So we have got that far! — The Blue
SWANWHITE 37
Room did I say? — I meant the Blue Tower! — There the
prince is to sleep with the Duke of Exeter's daughter! — Maids!
The maids wake up.
Stepmother. Show the prince the shortest way to the
Blue Tower. And should he nevertheless lose his way, you
may summon the Castellan and the Gaoler, the Equerry and
the Constable.
Prince. No need of that! Wherever leads my course —
through fire or water, up above the clouds or down in the
solid earth — there shall I meet my Swanwhite, for she is
with me where I go. So now I go to meet her — in the tower !
Can you beat that for witchcraft, witch? — Too hard, I think,
for one who knows not love!
[He goes out followed by the maids.
Stepmother. [To Swanwhite] Not many words are
needed — tell your wishes — but be brief!
Swanwhite. My foremost, highest wish is for some water
with which to lave my feet.
Stepmother. Cold or warm?
Swanwhite. Warm — if I may.
Stepmother. What more?
Swanwhite. A comb to ravel out my hair.
Stepmother. Silver or gold?
Swanwhite. Are you — are you kind?
Stepmother. Silver or gold?
Swanwhite. Wood or horn will do me well enough.
Stepmother. What more?
Swanwhite. A shift that's clean.
Stepmother. Linen or silk?
Swanwhite. Just linen.
Stepmother. Good! So I have heard your wishes. Now
listen to mine! I wish that you may have no water, be it
warm or cold! I wish that you may have no comb, of any
38 SWANWHITE
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 its own accord
and then closes in the same way behind her.
She enters the room and places the harp on the table. Then she
looks around and becomes aware of Swanwhite. At once
the harp begins to play. The lamps carried by the maids
go out one by one, beginning with that farthest away.
Then the three doors close one by one, beginning with the
innermost.
The golden clouds resume their former radiance.
The Mother lights one of the lamps on the stand and goes up
to the bed, beside which she kneels.
The harp continues to play during the ensuing episode.
The Mother rises, takes Swanwhite in her arms, and places
her, still sleeping, in a huge arm-chair. Then she kneels
39
40 SWANWHITE
down and pulls off Swanwhite's stockings. Having
thrown these under the bed, she bends over her daughter's
feet as if to moisten them with her tears. After a while she
wipes them with a white linen cloth and covers them with
kisses. Finally she puts a sandal on each foot which then
appears shining white.
Then the Mother rises to her feet again, takes out a comb of
gold, and begins to comb Swanwhite's hair. This finished,
she carries Swanwhite back to the bed. Beside her she
places a garment of white linen which she takes out of a
bag.
Having kissed Swanwhite on the forehead, she prepares to
leave. At that moment a white swan is seen to pass by
outside, and one hears a trumpet-call like the one heard
before. Shortly afterward the Mother of the Prince,
also in white, enters through the gate, having first hung
her swan plumage on it.
Swanwhite's Mother. Well met, my sister! How long
before the cock will crow?
Prince's Mother. Not very long. The dew is rising
from the roses, the corn-crake's call is heard among the grass,
the morning breeze is coming from the sea.
Swanwhite's Mother. Let us make haste with what we
have on hand, my sister.
Prince's Mother. You called me so that we might talk
of our children.
Swanwhite's Mother. Once I was walking in a green field
in the land that knows no sorrow. There I met you, whom I
had always known, yet had not seen before. You were la-
menting your poor boy's fate, left to himself here in the vale
of sorrow. You opened up your heart to me, and my own
thoughts, that dwell unwillingly below, were sent in search
SWANWHITE 41
of my deserted daughter — destined to marry the young king,
who is a cruel man, and evil.
Prince's Mother. Then I spoke, while you listened:
"May worth belong to worth; may love, the powerful, 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 white
and red ones.
Swanwhite's Mother. Your hand, my sister — let the
test begin!
Prince's Mother. Here is my hand, and with it goes my
son's! Now we have pledged them
Swanwhite's Mother. In decency and honour!
Prince's Mother. I go to open up the tower. And let
the young ones fold each other heart to heart.
Swanwhite's Mother. In decency and honour!
Prince's Mother. And we shall meet again in those green
fields where sorrow is not known.
Swanwhite's Mother. [Pointing to Swanwhite] Listen!
She dreams of him! — Oh foolish, cruel woman who thinks
that lovers can be parted! — Now they are walking hand in
hand within the land of dreams, 'neath whispering firs and
singing lindens — They sport and laugh
Prince's Mother. Hush! Day is dawning — I can hear
42 SWANWHITE
the robins calling, and see the stars withdrawing from the
sky — Farewell, my sister!
[She goes out, taking her swan plumage with her.
Swanwhite's Mother. Farewell!
She passes her hand over Swanwhite as if blessing her,
then she takes her plumage and leaves, closing the gate
after her.
The clock on the table strikes three. The harp is silent for
a moment; then it begins to play a new melody of even
greater sweetness than before. Swanwhite wakes up and
looks around; listens to the harp; gets up from the bed;
draws her hands through her hair; looks with pleasure at
her own little feet, now spotlessly clean, and notices finally
the white linen garment on the bed. She sits down at the
table in the place she occupied during the evening. She
acts as if she were looking at somebody sitting opposite her
at the table, where the Prince was seated the night before.
She looks straight into his eyes, smiles a smile of 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.
She points meaningly to the white 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 her nostrils
with some fragrance. Having caught something in the air
with one of her hands, she kisses the hand and then pre-
tends to throw something back across the table. She picks
up the quill and caresses it as if it were a bird; then she
writes and pushes the parchment across the table. Her
glances seem to follow "his" pen while the reply is being
written, and at last she takes back the parchment, reads it,
and hides it in her bosom.
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. Then
she rises, goes a little distance away from the table, and
turns around with a bashful expression to hold out one of
her feet. In that attitude she stays for a moment while
waiting for an answer. On hearing it she becomes 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 with a
gesture of invitation. Then she lies down beside the board,
arranges the men, and begins to play with an invisible
partner.
The harp is silent for a moment before it starts a new melody.
The game of chess ends and Swanwhite seems to be talking
with her invisible partner. Suddenly she moves away as
if he were coming too close to her. With a deprecating
gesture she leaps lightly to her feet. Then she gazes long
and reproachfully at him. At last she snatches up the
white garment and hides herself behind the bed.
At that moment the Prince appears outside the gates, which he
vainly tries to open. Then he raises his eyes toward the
sky with an expression of sorrow and despair.
Swanwhite. [Coming forward] Who comes with the 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?
44 SWAN WHITE
Prince. I sported and laughed; I wrote her name; I sat
upon the lion's skin and played at chess.
Swanwhite. You sported and you played — with whom?
Prince. With Swanwhite.
Swanwhite. It is he! — Be welcome to my castle, my
table, and my arms!
Prince. Who opens up the golden gates?
Swanwhite. Give me your hand! — It is as chilly as your
heart is warm.
Prince. My body has been sleeping in the tower, while
my soul was wandering in dreamland — In the tower it was
cold and dark.
Swanwhite. In my bosom will I warm your hand — I'll
warm it by my glances, by my kisses !
Prince. Oh, let the brightness of your eyes be shed upon
my darkness!
Swanwhite. Are you in darkness?
Prince. Within the tower there was no light of sun or
moon.
Swanwhite. Rise up, O sun ! Blow, southern wind ! And
let thy bosom gently heave, O sea! — Ye golden gates, do you
believe that you can part two hearts, two hands, two lips —
that can by nothing be divided?
Prince. Indeed, by nothing!
Two solid doors glide together in front of the gates so that
Swanwhite and the Prince can no longer see each
other.
Swanwhite. Alas! What was the word we spoke, who
heard it, and who punished us?
Prince. I am not parted from you, my beloved, for still
the sound of my voice can reach you. It goes through cop-
per, steel, 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!
46 SWANWHITE
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.
Prince. Then let us fly upon the wings of sleep
Swanwhite. Close to your heart !
Prince. In my embrace!
Swanwhite. Within your arms!
Prince. This is the promised bliss!
Swanwhite. Eternal bliss, that has no flaw and knows no
end!
Prince. No one can part us.
Swanwhite. No one!
Prince. Are you my bride?
Swanwhite. My bridegroom, you?
Prince. In dreamland — but not here!
Swanwhite. Where are we?
Prince. Here below !
Swanwhite. Here, where the sky is clouded, where the
ocean roars, and where each night the earth sheds tears upon
the grass while waiting for the dawn; where flies are killed
by swallows, doves by hawks; where leaves must fall and
turn to dust; where eyes must lose their light and hands
their strength! Yes, here below!
Prince. Then let us fly!
Swanwhite. Yes, let us fly!
The Green Gardener appears suddenly behind the
table. All his clothes are green. He wears a peaked
cap, a big apron, and knee-breeches. At his belt hang
shears and a knife. He carries a small watering-can
in one hand and is scattering seeds everywhere.
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.
Swanwhite. What was it? Who was he?
Prince. That was the green gardener.
Swanwhite. Green, you say? Was he not blue?
Prince. No, he was green, my love.
Swanwhite. How can you say what is not so?
Prince. My heart's beloved, I have not said a thing that
was not so.
Swanwhite. Alas, he does not speak the truth!
Prince. Whose voice is this? Not that of Swanwhite!
Swanwhite. Who is this my eyes behold? Not my
Prince, whose very name attracted me like music of the Neck,
or song of mermaids heard among green waves — Who are
you? You stranger with the evil eyes — and with grey hair!
Prince. You did not see it until now — my hair, that
turned to grey within the tower, in a single night, when I
was mourning for my Swanwhite, who is no longer here.
Swanwhite. Yes, here is Swanwhite.
48 SWANWHITE
Prince. No, I see a black-clad maid, whose face is black
Swanwhite. Have you not seen before that I was clad in
black? You do not love me, then!
Prince. You who are standing there, so grim and ugly
— no!
Swanwhite. Then you have spoken falsely.
Prince. No — for then another one was here! Now — you
are filling up my mouth with noisome nettles.
Swanwhite. Your violets smell of henbane now — faugh!
Prince. Thus I am punished for my treason to the king!
Swanwhite. I wish that I had waited for your king!
Prince. Just wait, and he will come.
Swanwhite. I will not wait, but go to meet him.
Prince. Then I will stay.
Swanwhite. [Going toward the background] And this is love!
Prince. [Beside himself] Where is my Swanwhite? Where,
where, where? The kindest, loveliest, most beautiful?
Swanwhite. Seek her!
Prince. 'Twould not avail me here below.
Swanwhite. Elsewhere then ! [She goes out.
The Prince is alone. He sits down at the table, covers
his face with his hands, and weeps. A gust of wind
passes through the room and sets draperies and cur-
tains fluttering. A sound as of a sigh is heard from
the strings of the harp. The Prince rises, goes to
the bed, and stands there lost in contemplation of its
pillow in which is a depression showing Swanwhite's
head in profile. He picks up the pillow and kisses
it. A noise is heard outside. He seats himself at
the table again.
The doors of the closets fly open. The three Maids
become visible, all with darkened faces. The Step-
mother enters from the rear. Her face is also dark.
SWANWHITE 49
Stepmother. [In dulcet tones] Good morning, my dear
Prince! How have you slept?
Prince. Where is Swan white?
Stepmother. She has gone to marry her young king. Is
there no thought of things like that in your own mind, my
Prince?
Prince. I harbour but a single thought
Stepmother. Of little 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. The Stepmother joins in.
Prince. Where is Swan white?
Stepmother. Follow in her traces — here is one!
[She hands him a parchment covered with writing.
Prince. [Reading] And she wrote this?
Stepmother. You know her hand — what has it written?
Prince. That she hates me, and loves another — that she
has played with me; that she will throw my kisses to the
wind, and to the swine my heart — To die is now my will !
Now I am dead !
Stepmother. A knight dies not because a wench has
played with him. He shows himself a man and takes 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 SWANWHITE
Prince. Where is Swan white?
Stepmother. My Magdalene is skilled in many crafts •
Prince. Including witchcraft?
Stepmother. She knows how to bewitch a princeling.
Prince. [Gazing at the parchment] And this was written
by my Swan white?
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-
SWANWHITE 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 up to the bed and scatter roses over it.
Then come Two Knights with closed visors. They take
the Prince between them toward the rear, where they
meet the false Magdalene, escorted by two ladies.
The bride is deeply veiled.
With a gesture of her hand the Stepmother bids all
depart except the bridal couple. She herself leaves
last of all, after she has closed the curtains and locked
the gates.
Prince. Is this my bride?
False Magdalene. Who is your bride?
Prince. I have forgot her name. Who is your 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 back,
52 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-
white stands revealed.
Swanwhite. [Dressed in a white garment, with a wreath of
roses on her hair] Who am I now?
Prince. You are a rose!
Swanwhite. And you a violet!
Prince. [Taking off the bandage] You are Swanwhite!
Swanwhite. And you — are
Prince. Hush!
Swanwhite. You're mine!
Prince. But you — you left me — left my kisses
Swanwhite. I have returned — because I love you!
Prince. And you wrote cruel words
Swanwhite. But cancelled them — because I love you.'
Prince. You told me I was false.
Swanwhite. What matters it, when you are true — and
when I love you?
Prince. You wished that you were going to the king.
Swanwhite. But went to you instead, because I love you !
Prince. Now let me hear what you reproach me with.
Swanwhite. I have forgotten it — because I love you!
Prince. But if you love me, then you are my bride.
Swanwhite. I am!
Prince. Then may the heavens bestow their blessing on
our union!
Swanwhite. In dreamland!
Prince. With your head upon my arm!
The Prince leads Swanwhite to the bed, in which he
places his sword. Then she lies down on one side of
SWANWHITE 53
the sword, and he on the other. The colour of the clouds
changes to a rosy red. The rose-trees murmur. The
harp plays softly and sweetly.
Prince. Good night, my queen!
Swan white. Good morning, O my soul's beloved! — I hear
the beating of your heart — I hear it sigh like billowing
waters, like swift-flying steeds, like wings of eagles — Give
me your hand!
Prince. And yours! — Now we take wing
Stepmother. [Enters with the Maids, who carry torches;
all four have become grey-haired] I have to see that my task
is finished ere the duke returns. My daughter, Magdalene,
is plighted to the prince — while Swanwhite lingers in the
tower — [Goes to the bed] They sleep already in each other's
arms — you bear me witness, maids!
The Maids approach the bed.
Stepmother. What do I see? Each one of you is grey-
haired !
Signe. And so are you, Your Grace!
Stepmother. Am I? Let me see!
Elsa holds a mirror in front of her.
Stepmother. This is the work of evil powers! — And then,
perhaps, the prince's hair is dark again? — Bring light this way!
The Maids hold their torches so that the light from them
falls on the sleeping couple.
Stepmother. Such is the truth, indeed! — How beautiful
they look! — But — the sword! Who placed it there — the
sword that puts at naught their plighted troth?
She tries to take away the sword, but the Prince clings
to it without being wakened.
Signe. Your Grace — here's deviltry abroad!
Stepmother. What is it?
Signe. This is not Lady Magdalene.
54 SWANWHITE
Stepmother. Who is it, then? My eyes need help.
Signe. 'Tis Lady Swanwhite.
Stepmother. Swanwhite? — Can this be some delusion of
the devil's making, or have I done what I least wished?
The Prince turns his head in his sleep so that his lips
meet those of Swanwhite.
Stepmother. [Touched by the beautiful sight] No sight
more beautiful have I beheld! — Two roses brought together
by the wind; two falling stars that join in downward flight —
it is too beautiful! — Youth, beauty, innocence, and love!
What memories, sweet memories — when I was living in my
father's home — when I was loved by him, the youth whom
never I called mine — What did I say I was?
Signe. That you were loved by him, Your Grace.
Stepmother. Then I did speak the mighty word. Be-
loved — so he named me once — "beloved" — ere he started
for the war — [Lost in thoughts] It was the last of him. — And
so I had to take the one I couldn't bear. — My life is drawing
to its close, and I must find my joy in happiness denied 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
is my hatred — my revenge? [She seats herself and looks long
at the sleeping couple] A song runs through my mind, a song
of love that he was singing long ago, that final night — [She
rises as if waking out of a dream and flies into a rage; her words
come with a roar] Come hither, men! Here, Steward, Cas-
tellan, and Gaoler — all of you ! [She snatches the sword out of
the bed and throws it along the floor toward the rear] Come
hither, men!
Noise is heard outside; the men enter as before.
SWANWHITE 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 cask
put the hussy. [The Prince and Swanwhite wake up]
Equerry! Gaoler! Seize the prince!
The Equerry and the Gaoler lay hands on the Prince.
Prince. Where is my sword? I fight not against evil, but
for innocence!
Stepmother. Whose innocence?
Prince. My bride's.
Stepmother. The hussy's innocence! Then prove it!
Swanwhite. Oh, mother, mother!
The white swan flies by outside.
Stepmother. Maids, bring shears! I'll cut the harlot's
hair!
Signe hands her a pair of shears.
Stepmother. [Takes hold of Swanwhite by the hair and starts
to cut it, but she cannot bring the blades of the shears together]
Now I'll cut off your beauty and your love! [Suddenly she is
seized with panic, which quickly spreads to the men and the
three Maids] Is the enemy upon us? Why are you 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 SWANWHITE
Swanwhite. My father's horn! Then help is near! But
— the prince?
Gardener. The prince will follow me. A secret passage,
underground, leads to the shore. There lies his bark. The
wind is favourable! Come!
[The Gardener and the Prince go out.
Swanwhite alone, blows the horn. An answering 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. He and Swanwhite are alone on
the stage.
Duke. My own beloved heart, what is at stake?
Swanwhite. Your own child, father! — Look — the spiked
cask over there!
Duke. How has my child transgressed?
Swanwhite. The prince's name I learned, by love 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. No more!
Duke. [To the Gaoler, pointing to the spiked cask] Away
with it! [To Swanwhite] Well, child, where is the prince?
Swanwhite. He's sailing homeward in his bark.
Duke. Now, when the tide is battering the shore? — Alone?
Swanwhite. Alone! What is to happen?
Duke. The Lord alone can tell!
Swanwhite. He's in danger?
Duke. Who greatly dares has sometimes luck.
Swanwhite. He ought to have!
SWANWHITE 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 hands
four times together.
The Butler enters.
Duke. Have made a pie of venison, richly stuffed with
onions, parsley, fennel, cabbage — and at once!
The Butler steals a sidelong glance at the Stepmother.
Duke. What are you squinting at? Be quick!
The Butler goes out.
Duke. [To the Stepmother] Now call the master of my
pleasure-garden.
Stepmother. He does not know!
Duke. And never will! But he must come! Call, quick!
The Stepmother clays 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 SWANWHITE
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
seen the prince and Lady Swanwhite fully dressed and with
a sword between them.
Duke. One for, and one against — two not germane. — I
leave it to the judgment of the Lord! — The flowers will speak
for him.
Tova. [Enters] My gracious master — noble lord!
Duke. What do you know?
Tova. I know my gracious mistress innocent.
Duke. O, child — so you know that! Then teach us how
to know it too.
Tova. When I am saying only what is true
Duke. No one believes it! But when Signe tells untruth,
SWANWHITE 59
we must believe! — And what does Swanwhite 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 lilies
placed in three tall and narrow vases of glass. The
Duke places the flowers in a semicircle on the table.
The Butler enters with a huge dish containing a
steaming pie.
Duke. [Placing the dish within the semicircle formed by
the three flowers] The white one stands for whom?
All. [Except Swanwhite. and the Stepmother] For 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
head — but the blue one, which stands for the king, flings
wide its gorge to drink the lust-filled air.
Duke. You've told it right! What more is there to see?
Tova. I see the red flower bend its head in reverent love
before the white one, while the blue one writhes with envious
rage.
Duke. You've spoken true! — For whom is Swanwhite
then?
Tova. For the prince, because more pure is his desire,
and therefore stronger, too.
All. [Except Swanwhite and the Stepmother] Swanwhite
for the prince!
Swanwhite. [Throwing herself into her father s arms] O,
father!
Duke. Call back the prince! Let every trump and bugle
summon him. Hoist sail on every bark! But first of all
— the spiked cask is for whom?
All remain silent.
Duke. Then I will say it: for the duchess; for the arch-
liar and bawd! — Know, evil woman, that though nothing
else be safe against your tricks, they cannot conquer love! —
Go — quick — begone !
The Stepmother makes a gesture which for a moment
seems to stun the Duke.
Duke. [Draws his sword and turns the point of it toward
the Stepmother, having first seated Swanwhite on his left
shoulder] A-yi, you evil one! My pointed steel will outpoint
all your tricks!
The Stepmother withdraws backward, dragging her
legs behind her like a panther.
Duke. Now for the prince!
The Stepmother stops on the balcony, rigid as a statue.
She opens her mouth as if she were pouring out venom.
SWANWHITE 61
The peacock and the doves fall down dead. Then the
Stepmother begins to swell. Her clothes become
inflated to such an extent that they hide her head and
bust entirely. They seem to be flaming with a fat-
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?
Swan white. 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 which rest white
and pink roses. His hair is dark again. His face
is youthful, rosy, and radiantly beautiful. There is
a smile on his lips.
62 SWANWHITE
•
The harp begins to play. The sun rises completely.
The magic bubble around the Stepmother bursts,
and she appears once more in her customary shape.
The bier is placed in the middle of the floor, so that the
rays of the rising sun fall on it.
Swanwhite throws herself on her knees beside the bier
and covers the Prince's face with kisses.
All present put their hands to their faces and weep.
The Fisherman has entered behind the bier.
Duke. The brief tale tell us, fisherman
Fisherman. Does it not tell itself, my noble lord? — The
young prince had already crossed the strait, when, seized by
violent longing for his love, he started to swim back, in face
of tide and wave and wind — because his bark seemed rudder-
less. — I saw his young head breast the billows, I heard him
cry her name — and then his corpse was gently dropped upon
the white sand at my feet. His hair had turned to grey that
night when he slept in the tower; sorrow and wrath had
blanched his cheeks; his lips had lost their power of smiling.
— Now, when death o'ertook him, beauty and youth came
with it. Like wreaths his darkening locks fell round his rosy
cheeks; he smiled — and see! — is smiling still. The people
gathered on the shore, awed by the gentle spectacle — and
man said unto man: lo, this is love!
Swanwhite. [Lying down beside the body of the Prince]
He's dead; his heart will sing no more; his eyes no longer will
light up my life; his breath will shed its dew on me no more.
He smiles, but not toward me — toward heaven he smiles.
And on his journey I shall bear him company.
Duke. Kiss not a dead man's lips — there's poison in themi
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
SWANWHITE 63
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 SWANWHITE
Swan white. Poor me — what can I do?
Stepmother. You can forgive, and you can love — Well,
then, my little Lady Almighty, you can do anything! — Be
taught by me who have no power at all. Go, cry the name of
your beloved, and put your hand above his heart! Then,
with the help of the Supreme One — calling none but Him
for helper — your beloved will hear your voice — if you believe!
Swan white. I do believe — I will it — and — I pray for it!
She goes up to the Prince, places one of her hands over
his heart, and raises the other toward the sky. Then
she bends down over him and whispers something into
his ear. This she repeats three times in succession.
At the third whisper the Prince wakes up. 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 takes place in Algeria at the present time.
SIMOOM
The inside of a marabout, or shrine. In the middle of the floor
stands a sarcophagus forming the tomb of the Mohammedan
saint (also called " mar about") 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 plant, a few palm leaves
and some alfa grass are thrown together on one spot.
FIRST SCENE
Biskra enters. The hood of her burnous is pulled over her head
so that it almost covers her face. She carries a guitar at
her back. Throwing herself down in a kneeling position
on one of the rugs, she begins to pray with her arms crossed
over her breast. A high wind is blowing outside.
Biskra. 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
68 SIMOOM scene i
Franks as Ali, the guide, though they don't know me as
Biskra, the maiden.
Yusuf. He is to do it himself, you say? How is that to
happen?
Biskra. Don't you know that the Simoom makes the brains
of the white people dry as dates, so that they have horrible
visions which disgust them with life and cause them to flee
into the great unknown?
Yusuf. I have heard of such things, and in the last battle
there were six Franks who took their own lives before the
fighting began. But do not place your trust in the Simoom
to-day, for snow has fallen in the mountains, and the storm
may be all over in half an hour. — Biskra! Do you still know
how to hate?
Biskra. If I know how to hate? — My hatred is boundless
as the desert, burning as the sun, and stronger than my love.
Every hour of joy that has been stolen from me since the
murder of Ali has been stored up within me like the venom
back of a viper's tooth, and what the Simoom cannot do, that
I can do.
Yusuf. Well spoken, Biskra, and the task shall be yours.
Ever since my eyes first fell upon you, my own hatred has
been withering like alfa grass in the autumn. Take strength
from me and become the arrow to my bow.
Biskra. Embrace me, Yusuf, embrace me!
Yusuf. Not here, within the presence of the Sainted one;
not now — later, afterward, when you have earned your reward !
Biskra. You proud sheikh! You man of pride!
Yusuf. Yes — the maiden who is to carry my offspring 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 SIMOOM 69
Yusuf. All right! I am now going to sleep beside the
spring. — Do I need to teach you more of the secret arts which
you learned from Sidi-Sheikh, the great marabout, and which
you have practised at fairs ever since you were a child?
Biskra. Of that there is no need. I know all the secrets
needed to scare the life out of a cowardly Frank. — The
dastard who sneaks upon the enemy and sends the leaden
bullet ahead of himself! I know them all — even the art of
letting my voice come out of my belly. And what is beyond
my art, that will be done by the sun, for the sun is on the
side of Yusuf and Biskra.
Yusuf. The sun is a friend of the Moslem, but not to be
relied upon. You may get burned, girl! — Take a drink of
water first of all, for I see that your hands are shrivelled,
and
He lifts up one of the rugs and steps down into a sort of
cellar, from which he brings back a bowl filled with
water; this he hands to Biskra.
Biskra. [Raising the bowl to her mouth] And my eyes are
already beginning to see red — my lungs are parching — I hear
— I hear — do you see how the sand is sifting through the roof
— the strings of my guitar are crooning — the Simoom is here !
But the Frank is not!
Yusuf. Come down here, Biskra, and let the Frank die
by himself.
Biskra. First hell, and then death! Do you think I'll
weaken? [Pours the water on one of the sand piles] I'll water
the sand, so that revenge may grow out of it, and I'll dry
up my heart. Grow, O hatred! Burn, O sun! Smother,
O wind!
Yusuf. Hail to you, mother of Ben Yusuf — for you are to
bear the son of Yusuf, the avenger — you !
The wind is increasing. The curtain in front of the
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!
Ytjsuf. 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 and 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!
Guimard. 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 it to
Guimard] Drink while it's cold.
Guimard. [Putting his lips to the bowl] It is cold — and yet
it does not still my thirst! I cannot drink it — I abhor water
— take it away!
Biskra. There's the dog that bit you!
Guimard. What dog? I have never been bitten by a dog.
Biskra. The Simoom has shrivelled up your memory — 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!
72 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
her teeth; the song seems to be coming from above] Biskra-
biskra, Biskra-biskra, Biskra-biskra!
Yusuf. [From below] Simoom! Simoom!
Guimard. What an infernal jugglery!
Biskra. Now I'll sing!
Biskra and Yusuf. [Together] Biskra-biskra, Biskra-bis-
kra, Biskra-biskra! Simoom!
Guimard. [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.
Guimard. You don't need to ask me, for I find everything
to be as you say it is.
Biskra. There you see, you worshipper of idols!
Guimard. I, a worshipper of idols?
Biskra. Yes, take out the idol you carry on your breast.
Guimard takes out a locket.
Biskra. Trample on it now, and then call on the only
God, the Merciful One, the Compassionate One!
Guimard. [Hesitating] Saint Edward — my patron saint?
Biskra. Can he protect you? Can he?
Guimard. No, he cannot! — [Waking up] Yes, he can!
Biskra. Let us see!
She opens the gate; the curtain flaps and the grass on
the floor moves.
Guimard. [Covering his mouth] Close the door!
Biskra. Throw down the idol!
SCENE n
SIMOOM 73
Guimard. No, I cannot.
Biskra. Do you see? The Simoom does not bend a hair
on me, but you, the infidel one, are killed by it! Throw down
the idol!
Guimard. [Throws the locket on the floor) Water! I die!
Biskra. Pray to the Only One, the Merciful and 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 is 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.
Guimard. Who is laughing?
Biskra. Elise — your wife.
Guimard. Oh, kill me! I don't want to live any longer!
Life sickens me like sauerkraut at Saint-Doux — You there —
do you know what Saint-Doux is? Lard! [He tries to spit]
Not a drop of saliva left ! — Water — water — or I'll bite you !
The wind outside has risen to a full storm.
Biskra. [Puts her hand to her mouth and coughs] Now you
are dying, Frank! Write down your last wishes while there
is still time — Where is your note-book?
Guimard. [Takes out a note-book and a pencil] What am I
to write?
Biskra. When a man is to die, he thinks of his wife — and
his child!
Guimard. [Writes] "Elise — I curse you! Simoom — I
die "
Biskra. And then sign it, or it will not be valid as a 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 SIMOOM scene n
whole line — they have no chance to load again — the Arabs
are firing at their leisure — the Franks are flying!
Guimard. [Rising] The Franks never flee!
Biskra. The Franks will flee when they hear the call to
retreat.
She blows the signal for "retreat" on a flute which she
has produced from under her burnoose.
Guimard. They are retreating — that's the signal — and I
am here — [He tears off his epaulets] I am dead !
[He falls to the ground.
Biskra. Yes, you are dead! — And you don't know that
you have been dead a long time.
[She goes to the ossuary and takes from it a human skull.
Guimard. Have I been dead?
[He feels his face with his hands.
Biskra. Long! Long! — Look at yourself in the mirror
here! [She holds up the skull before him.
Guimard. Ah! That's me!
Biskra. Can't you see your own high cheek-bones? Can't
you see the eyes that the vultures have picked out? Don't
you know that gap on the right side of the jaw where you had
a tooth pulled? Can't you see the hollow in the chin where
grew the beard that your Elise was fond of stroking? Can't
you see where used to be the ear that your George kissed at
the breakfast-table? Can't you see the mark of the axe —
here in the neck — which the executioner made when he cut
off the deserter's head
Guimard, who has been watching her movements and
listening to her words with evident horror, sinks down
dead.
Biskra. [Who has been kneeling, feels his pulse; then she
rises and sings] Simoom! Simoom! [She opens both gates;
scene ni SIMOOM 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! [He discovers her and takes her up in
his arms] Are you alive?
Biskra. Is the Frank dead?
Yusuf. If he is not, he will be. Simoom! Simoom!
Biskra. Then I live! But give me some water!
Yusuf. [Carrying her toward the cellar] Here it is! — And
now Yusuf is yours !
Biskra. And Biskra will be your son's mother, O Yusuf,
great Yusuf!
Yusuf. My strong Biskra! Stronger than the Simoom!
Curtain.
DEBIT AND CREDIT
(DEBET OCH KREDIT)
AN ACT
1893
CHARACTERS
Axel, Doctor of Philosophy and African explorer
Thure, his brother^ a gardener
Anna, the wife of Thure
Miss Cecilia
The 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
Wife. [Weeping] But it'll never be the same one — the one
my sister-in-law bid in.
Thure. We'll get another one then! — Now, just look at
that gorgeous hat over there ! I guess it must be one of those
royal chamberlains who's talking with Axel now.
Wife. What do I care about that!
Thure. Why, don't you think it's fun that a fellow who
has the same name as you and I gets to be so respected that
the King's own household people have to visit him? If I
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
84 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene in
we're here — But now you'll see! [He presses a button and a
Waiter enters] What do you want — a sandwich, perhaps?
[To the Waiter] Bring us some sandwiches and beer. — Wait
a moment! Get a drink for me — the real stuff, you know!
[The Waiter goes out] You've got to take care of yourself,
don't you know.
SECOND SCENE
Thure and his Wife. Axel. The Chamberlain.
Axel. [To the Chamberlain] At five, then — in full dress,
I suppose?
Chamberlain. And your orders !
Axel. Is it necessary?
Chamberlain. Absolutely necessary, if you don't want
to seem rude, and that's something which you, as a democrat,
want least of all. Good-bye, doctor!
Axel. Good-bye.
In leaving, the Chamberlain bows slightly to Thure
and his Wife, neither of whom returns the salute
THIRD SCENE
Axel. Thure and his Wife.
Axel. Oh, is that you, old boy? — It seems an eternity
since I saw you last. And this is your wife? — Glad to see
you!
Thure. Thanks, brother! And I wish you a happy re-
turn after your long trip.
Axel. Yes, that was something of a trip — I suppose you
have read about it in the papers
scene ra DEBIT AND CREDIT 85
Thure. Oh, yes, I've read all about it. [Pause] And then
father sent you his regards.
Axel. Oh, is he still sore at me?
Thure. Well, you know the old man and his ways. If
only you hadn't been a member of that expedition, you know,
he would have thought it one of the seven wonders of the
world. But as you were along, of course, it was nothing
but humbug.
Axel. So he's just the same as ever! Simply because I
am his son, nothing I ever do can be of any value. It means
he can't think very much of himself either. — Well, so much
for that! And how are you getting along nowadays?
Thure. Not very well, exactly! There's that old loan
from the bank, you know
Axel. Yes, that's right! Well, what happened to it?
Thure. Oh, what happened was that I had to pay it.
Axel. That's too bad! But we'll settle the matter as
soon as we have a chance.
The Waiter comes in with Thure's order on a tray.
Axel. What's that?
Thure. Oh, it was only me who took the liberty of 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 hi
Thure. Lord preserve us! — What do you think of that,
Anna?
His Wife turns and twists on her chair as if in torment,
quite unable to answer.
Axel. I suppose the old man will turn republican after
this, when he hears that His Majesty cares to associate with
me.
Thure. See here, Axel — you'll have to pardon me for 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.
This is just the time to get hold of a garden — this is the time
to start digging and sowing, if you are to get anything up in
time. Can't you get a place for us?
Axel. Where am I to get hold of a garden?
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 sick child, too ! And for my sake !
Thure. Oh, I guess it isn't quite as bad as it sounds.
Wife. Yes, so you say, who don't know anything about
it
Thure. Well, Axel, we'll see you later then.
Lindgren appears in the doorway.
Wife. [To Thure] Did you notice he didn't introduce us
— to the chamberlain?
Thure. Oh, shucks, what good would that have been?
[They go out.
FOURTH SCENE
Axel. Lindgren, who is shabbily dressed, unshaved, 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
fairly?
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.
Lindgren. And in the next moment you are gone again.
Which means that this would be the last I saw of you.
[He pours out another drink.
Axel. Will you do me the favour of not finishing the 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
a look at your botanical specimens, then?
Axel. No, I am going to describe them myself for the
Academy.
Lindgren. How about your ethnographical stuff?
Axel. No, that's not my own.
SCENE
iv DEBIT ANDCREDIT 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 !
Lindgren. You beast of prey!
Axel. You rodent, who couldn't become a beast of prey
— although that was just what you wished! And what you
want at this moment is not so much to rise up to me as to
pull me down to where you are. — If you have anything of
importance to add, you had better hurry up, for I am ex-
pecting a visit.
Lindgren. From your fiancee?
Axel. So you have snooped that out, too?
Lindgren. Sure enough! And I know what Marie, the
deserted one, thinks and says — I know what has happened to
your brother and his wife
Axel. Oh, you know my fiancee? For, you see, it so hap-
pens that I am not yet engaged!
Lindgren. No, but I know her fiance.
Axel. What does that mean?
Lindgren. 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.
W t aiter. 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. [7*0 the Waiter] Have my bill made out, see that
my trunk is packed, and bring me a carriage in half an hour.
94 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene vi
Waiter. [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 had 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
I'll 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
the ring she has given me.
Fiance. 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!
Fiance. 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 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene vn
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.
Fiance. 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 the door] Oh, your
presence is wholly superfluous — get out!
Fiance. Beware of that man, Cecilia! [He goes out
scene vin DEBIT AND CREDIT 9'/
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 vm
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 DEBIT AND CREDIT 99
NINTH SCENE
Cecilia alone for a moment. Then Marie enters.
Cecilia. Wasn't the door locked?
Marie. Not as far as I could see! — So it was meant to be
locked?
Cecilia. I haven't the honour?
Marie. Nor have I.
Cecilia. Why should you?
Marie. How refined! Oh, I see! So it's you! And I
am the victim — for a while!
Cecilia. I don't know you.
Marie. But I know you pretty well.
Cecilia. [Rises and goes to the door at the left] Oh, you do?
[Opening the door and speaking to Axel] Come out here a
moment!
TENTH SCENE
Cecilia. Marie. Axel.
Axel. [Entering; to Marie] What do you want here?
Marie. Oh, one never can tell.
Axel. Then you had better clear out.
Marie. Why?
Axel. Because what there was between us came to an
end three years ago.
Marie. And now there is another one to be thrown on the
scrap heap?
Axel. Did I ever give you any promises that were not
kept? Have I ever owed you anything? Have I ever said
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 you !
Marie. No, but there was a time when you did know me.
And I remember that when we met in the streets we called
each other by our first names. [To Axel] And now you are
going to marry her? No, you know, you are really too good
for that!
Axel. [To Cecilia] Have you known that woman before?
Cecilia. No.
Marie. You ought to be ashamed of yourself? I simply
didn't recognise you at first because of your swell clothes
Axel gazes intently at Cecilia.
Cecilia. [To Axel] Come — I'll go with you!
Axel. [Preoccupied] In a moment ! Just wait a while ! I
am only going in to write another letter — But now we'll
close the door first of all.
Marie. No, thank you, I don't want to be locked in as
she was a while ago.
Axel. [Interested] Was the door locked?
Cecilia. [To Marie] You don't dare say that the door was
locked !
Marie. As you expected it to be locked, I suppose you
had tried to lock it and had not succeeded
Axel. [Observes Cecilia; then to Marie] It always seemed
to me that you were a nice girl, Marie. Will you let me
have my letters back now?
Marie. No.
Axel. What are you going to do with them?
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
Lindgren. What's that? — Hm — hm!
Axel. [Looking at his watch] Just wait a few minutes — I
have only to write a couple of letters.
Cecilia starts to go with him.
Axel. [Holds her back] Just a few minutes, my dear —
[He kisses her on the forehead] Just a few minutes!
[He goes toward the left.
Lindgren. Here's the note — you might sign it while you
are at it.
Axel. Give it to me!
[He goes out with an air of determination.
TWELFTH SCENE
Cecilia. Marie. Lindgren.
Lindgren. Well, girls, are you on good terms again?
Marie. Oh, yes, and before we get away, we'll be on still
better terms.
Cecilia makes a face.
Marie. I should like to have some fun to-day.
Lindgren. Come along with me! I'll have money!
Marie. No!
Cecilia sits down with evident anxiety near the door
through which Axel disappeared — as if seeking sup-
port in that direction.
Lindgren. Let's take in the fireworks to-night — then we
can see how a great man looks in red light — what do you say
to that, Cissie dear?
Cecilia. Oh, I'll be sick if I have to stay here longer!
Marie. Well, it wouldn't be the first time.
Lindgren. Scrap, girls, and I'll watch you! Fight till
the fur flies — won't you?
scene xin 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
104 DEBIT AND CREDIT scene xm
are his posthumous writings. "To Miss Cecilia" — seems
to contain some round object — probably an engagement ring
— there you are! — "To my brother Thure" [He holds up
the letter to the light] — with a piece of blue paper inside —
must be a note — for the amount involved! You're welcome!
The Fiance appears in the doorway at the right.
Thure. [Who has opened his letter] Do you see that he
helped us after all
Wife. Oh, in that way!
Lindgren. And here's my note — without his name — He's
a strong one, all right! Diable!
Marie. Then the fireworks will be called off, I suppose?
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
The Franciscan
The Playmate
The Witch
The Prince
Subordinate characters, shadows, etc.
> bei
being the same person
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 whitewashed 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 wall, 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 snuff-box. She has the general appearance of a " witch."
At the right is a small expiatory chapel containing an image of
the Holy Virgin. The fence in front of it is hung with
wreaths and nosegays. A prie-dieu is placed against the
fence.
Judge. Life's eve has at last brought the sunshine which
its morning promised us. Early rains and late rains have
blessed meadow and field. And soon the songs of the 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 Lady. Take care, take care! There are many who
envy us, and evil eyes are watching us.
Judge. Well, let them! That's the way it has always
been. And yet I have prospered.
Old Lady. So far, yes. But I don't trust our neighbour.
He has been going around the village saying that we have
cheated him out of his property — and much more of the same
kind which I don't care to repeat. Of course, it doesn't
matter when one has a clean conscience and can point to a
spotless life. Slander cannot hurt me. I go to confession
and mass, and I am prepared to close my eyes whenever my
hour may strike in order to open them again when I shall
stand face to face with my Judge. And I know also what I
am going to answer then.
Judge. What are you going to answer?
Old Lady. Like this: I was not without fault, O Lord,
but even if I was but a poor, sinful human creature, I was
nevertheless a little better than my neighbour.
Judge. I don't know what has brought you to these
thoughts just now, and I don't like them. Perhaps it is the
fact that the mausoleum is to be consecrated in a few days?
Old Lady. Perhaps that is it, for, as a rule, I don't give
much thought to death. I have still every tooth left in my
mouth, and my hair is as plentiful as when I was a bride.
Judge. Yes, yes — you have eternal youth, you as well as
I, but just the same we shall have to pass away. And as 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 with
a small mirror. 1 It is vibrating as if it were reflected
by running water.
Judge. What is it? What is it?
Old Lady. On the mausoleum. Don't you see?
Judge. It's the reflection of the sun on the river. It
means
Old Lady. It means that we'll see the light of the sun for
a long time to come
Judge. On the contrary. But that's all one. The best
1 Id Sweden such spots are called "sun-eats."
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.
Neighbour. [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
vines, I should have asked?
Neighbour. The vines, yes — there's mildew on them, and
the starlings are after them, too.
Judge. Well, well! There's no mildew on my vines, and
I have neither seen nor heard of any starlings.
Neighbour. Fate does not distribute its gifts evenly: one
shall be taken and the other left.
Old Lady. I suppose there are good reasons for it?
Neighbour. I see! The reward of the righteous shall not
fail, and the wicked shall not have to wait for their 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
gone to the mausoleum, where she is busying herself
with the flowers.
ACT I
■ I
ADVENT
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
112 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?
Neighbour. 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!
Neighbour. And that's why his ghost has to come back
here. Have you never seen him, Judge?
Judge. I have never seen anything at all!
Neighbour. But I have seen him. As a rule, he appears
at the time when the grapes are harvested, and then they
hear him around the wine-press down in the cellar.
Judge. [Calling out] Caroline!
Old Lady. What is it?
Judge. Come here!
Neighbour. And he will never be at peace until he has
suffered all the torments his victim had to pass through.
Judge. Get away from here! Go!
Neighbour. Certainly, Judge! I didn't know you were
so sensitive. [He goes out.
Old Lady. What was the matter?
Judge. Oh, he told a lot of stories that upset me. But —
but — he is plotting something evil, that fellow!
Old Lady. Didn't I tell you so! But you always let your
tongue run whenever you see anybody — What kind of fool-
ish superstition was he giving you?
Judge. I don't want to talk of it. The mere thought of
ACT I
ADVENT 113
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
114 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
here any more!
Adolph. That's plain talk ! Well, I'll go, but not alone
Old Lady. So-o — you imagined that Amelia, our own child,
should follow you out on the highways, and that all you
would have to do would be to unload one child after another
on us! But we have already thought of that and put a stop
to it
act i ADVENT 115
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
the 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 rigid 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!
Ysk
■ .-
c
116 ADVENT act i
Adolph. May Heaven reward you — according to your de-
serts — and may the Lord protect my children ! [He goes out.
Judge. What was that? Who was it that spoke? It
seemed to me as if the voice were coming out of some huge
underground hall.
Old Lady. Did you hear it, too?
Judge. God help us, then! — Do you remember what he
said about the sun? That struck me as more peculiar than
all the rest. How could he know — that it is so? Ever since
my birth the sun has always burned me, and they have told
me this is so because my mother suffered from sunstroke
before I was born — but that you also
. r t Old Lady. [Frightened] Hush! Talk of the devil, and-r-
X^ Isn't the sun down?
- Vv «— 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!
Judge. Have you heard the story that this spot here used
to be a place of execution?
Old Lady. So you have found that out, too?
Judge. Yes — and you knew it? — Well, suppose we gave
this property to the convent? That would make the ground
ACT I
ADVENT 117
sacred, and it would be possible to rest in peace in it. The
income might go to the children while they are growing up,
and it would mean an additional gain, as Adolph would be
fooled in his hope of inheriting from us. I think this a 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 Y>
Franciscan. [Enters] The peace of the Lord be with you, yY
Judge, and with you, madam!
Judge. You come most conveniently, Father, to hear some-
thing that concerns the convent — — J
Franciscan. I am glad of it.
The spot of light appears again on the mausoleum.
Old Lady. And then we wanted to ask when the 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 ADVENT
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
buy your pardon, and you want to steal heaven itself, you
who have already stolen from the Lord.
Old Lady. What is it I hear?
Franciscan. When you were sick and near death you
made a vow to the Lord that in case of recovery you would
give a monstrance of pure gold to the convent church. Your
health was restored and you gave the holy vessel, but it was
of silver — gilded. Not for the sake of the gold, but because
of your broken vow and your deception, you are already
damned.
Old Lady. I didn't know it. The goldsmith has cheated
me.
Franciscan. You are lying, for I have the goldsmith's
bill.
Old Lady. Is there no pardon for it?
V^ Franciscan. No! For it is a mortal sin to cheat God.
^ >c \*30ld Lady. Woe is me!
Franciscan. The settlement of your other crimes will
have to take place within yourself. But if you as much as
touch a hair on the heads of the children, then you shall learn
who is their protector, and you shall feel the iron rod.
Old Lady. The idea — that this infernal monk should
dare to say such things to me! If I am damned — then I
want to be damned! Ha, ha!
Franciscan. Well, you may be sure that there will be no
blessing for your house and no peace for yourself until you
have suffered every suffering that you have brought on oth-
ers. — May I speak a word with you, Judge?
The Judge approaches.
Old Lady. Yes, give him what he deserves, so that one
may be as good as the other.
ACT I
ADVENT 119
b
<C
Franciscan. [To the Judge] Where did you get the idea
of building your tomb where the gallows used to stand?
Judge. I suppose I got it from the devil!
Franciscan. Like the idea of casting off your children
and robbing them of their inheritance? But you have also
been an unrighteous judge — you have violated oaths and — Jfc
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 ha s, been legal 1 v
acquired*
Franciscan. That, you see, is the worst part of all — that
you regard your crimes as lawful. Yes, I know that you Afr**
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.
120 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, b oth h uman and
3 divine, but we must have pajjfi»ee:
Amelia. I am willing to believe that justice is done, in
t y spite of all appearances to the contrary, But I cannot love
my mother, and I have never been able to do so. There is
r ,s \ ...
something within me that keeps telling me that she is not
only indifferent to me but actually hostile.
f • It " I
/s
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!
«
m ADVENT act i
Thyra. Oh, you beautiful sun! But didn't he go to bed
a while ago?
Eric. Perhaps he is allowed to stay up longer than usual
because he has been very good all day.
Thyra. But how could the sun be good? Now you are
stupid, Eric.
Eric. Of course the sun can be good — doesn't he make
the grapes and the peaches?
Thyra. But if he is so good, then he might also give us a
peach.
Eric. So he will, if we only wait a little. Aren't there any
on the ground at all?
Thyra. [Looking] No, but perhaps we might get one
from the tree.
Eric. No, grandmother won't let us.
Thyra. Grandmother has said that we mustn't shake the
tree, but I thought we could play around the tree so that
one might fall down anyhow — of itself.
Eric. Now you are stupid, Thyra. That would be 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,
what a nice tree!
Thyra. But now you must give me half, for it was I who
said that the tree had to be shaken
Old Lady. [Enters with a big birch rod] So you have been
shaking the tree — now you'll see what you'll get, you nasty
children
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 r
are innocent. May God preserve you! And don't forget
your evening prayer! "^^T
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 the mauso-
leum and moves without a sound across the stage
toward the right; between every hvo figures there is
a distance of five steps:
Death with its scythe and hour-glass.
The Lady in White — blond, tall, and slender; on one
of her fingers she wears a ring with a green stone that
seems to emit rays of light.
The Goldsmith, with the counterfeit monstrance.
The Beheaded Sailor, carrying his head in one hand.
The Auctioneer, with hammer and note-book.
The Chimney-Sweep, with rope, scraper, and broom.
The Fool, carrying his cap with the ass's ears and bells
at the top of a pole, across which is placed a signboard
with the word "Caul" on it.
The Surveyor, with measuring rod and tripod.
The Magistrate, dressed and made up like the Judge;
he carries a rope around his neck; and his right hand
is raised to show that the forefinger is missing.
The stage is darkened at the beginning of the procession
and remains empty while it lasts.
When it is over, the Judge enters from the left, followed
by the Old Lady.
Judge. Why are you playing the ghost at this late hour?
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 \>e after yours! A pleas-
ant old age this will be forCPhilemon an$l 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 y
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] J^
Old Lady. Pray! Pray for us! *—-* V\
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 T£ 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
devil! Is this ma squerade never goin g to end?
Old Lady. But why do you look at ittEenT~
Judge. I see it right through my hand — I see it in the
dark, with my eyelids closed !
Old Lady. But now it's over.
The Procession has passed out.
Judge. Praised be — why, I can't get the word out! — I
wonder if it will be possible to sleep to-night? Perhaps we
had better send for the doctor?
Old Lady. Or Father Colomba, perhaps?
Judge. He can't help, and he who could won't! — Well,
let the Other One do it then !
The Other One enters from behind the Lady Chapel.
He is extremely thin and moth-eaten. His thin, snuff-
coloured hair is parted in the middle. His straggly
beard looks as if it were made out of tow. His clothes
are shabby and outgrown, and he seems to wear no
linen. A red woollen muffler is wound around his
neck. He wears spectacles and carries a piece of
rattan under his arm.
Judge. Who is that?
ACT I
ADVENT 127
The Other One. [In a low voice] I am the Other One!
Judge. [To his wife] Make the sign of the cross! I can't!
The Other One. The sign of the cross does not frighten
me, for I am undergoing my ordeal merely that I may wear it.
Judge. Who are you;
3
<
\
The Other One. I became the Other One because I wanted
to be the First One. I was a man of evil, and my punish- '
ment is to serve the good.
Judge. Then you are not the Evil One?
The Other One. I am. And it is my task to torment
you into finding the cross, before which we are to meet some
time.
Old Lady. [To Judge] Don't listen to him! Tell him
to go!
The Other One. It won't help. You have called me, and
you'll have to bear with me.
The Judge and the Old Lady go out to the left.
The Other One goes after them.
Curtain.
\ v
ACT II
\0
r
A huge room with whitewashed walls and a ceiling of darkened
beams. The windows are small and deeply set, with bars
on the outside. The room is crowded with furniture of
every kind: wardrobes, chiffoniers, dressers, chests, tables.
On the furniture are placed silver services, candelabra,
candlesticks, pitchers, table ware, vases, statues, etc.
here is a door in the rear. Portraits of the Judge and the Old
Lady hang on the rear wall, one on either side of tJie door.
A harp stands beside a small sewing-table with an easy chair
near it.
Amelia is standing before a table at the right, trying to clean a
coffee-set of silver.
The sun is shining in through the windows in the background.
Neighbour. [Enters] Well, child, how is your patience?
v ftt-j Amelia. Thank you, neighbour, it might be worse. But
\I never had a worse job than this silver service here. I have
\ worked at it for half an hour and cannot get it clean.
^ Neighbour. That's strange, but I suppose there are rea-
j^ A sons for it, as the Judge says. Could you sleep last night?
fc y Amelia. Thank you, I slept very well. But do you know
^ that father spent the whole night in the vineyard with his
\P
rattle-
Neighbour. Yes, I heard him. What kind of foolish idea
was that?
Amelia. He thought he heard the starlings that had come
to eat the grapes.
128
act ii ADVENT
Neighbour. Poor fellow! As if the starlings were abroad
nights! — And the children?
Amelia. Well, the children — she is still keeping them in
the cellar, and I hope she won't forget to give them something
to eat.
Neighbour. He who feeds the birds will not forget your
children, my dear Amelia. And now I'll tell you something
which, as a rule, shouldn't be told. There is a small hole in
the wall between the Judge's wine-cellar and my own. When
I was down there this morning to get the place aired out, I
heard voices. And when I looked through the hole, I saw
Eric and Thyra playing with a strange little boy.
Amelia. You could see them, neighbour? And
Neighbour. They were happy and well
Amelia. Who was their playmate?
Neighbour. That's more than I can guess.
Amelia. This whole dreadful house is nothing but secrets.
Neighbour. That is true, but it is not for us to inquire
into them.
Judge. [Enters, carrying a rattle] So you are in here con-
spiring, neighbour! Is it not enough that your evil eye has
brought the starlings into my vineyard? For you do have
the evil eye — but we'll soon put it out. I know a trick or two
myself.
Neighbour. [To Amelia] Is it worth while to set him
right? One who doesn't believe what is told him ! [He goes out.
Amelia. No, this is beyond us!
Judge. Tell me, Amelia, have you noticed where your
mother is looking for things when she believes herself to be
alone?
Amelia. No, father.
Judge. I can see by your eyes that you know. You were
looking this way. [He goes up to a chest of drawers and hap-
130
ADVENT
ACT II
V
pens to get into the sunlight] Damn the sun that is always burn-
ing me! [He pulls down one of the shades and returns to the
chest of drawers] This must be the place! — Now, let me see!
The stupidest spot is also the cleverest, so that's where I must
look — as in this box of perfume, for instance — And right I
was ! [He pulls out a number of bank-notes and stocks] What's
this? Twelve English bills of a pound each. Twelve of
them! — Oho! Then it is easy to imagine the rest. [Pushes
the bills and securities into his pockets] But what is it I hear?
There are the starlings again ! [He goes to an open window and
begins to play the rattle] Get away there!
Old Lady. [Enters] Are you still playing the ghost?
Judge. Are you not in the kitchen?
Old Lady. No, as you see, I am not. [To Amelia] Are
you not done with the cleaning yet?
Amelia. No, mother, I'll never get done with it. The
ilver Won't clean, and I don't think it is real.
Old Lady. Not real? Let me see! — Why, indeed, it's
quite black! [To the Judge, who in the meantime has pulled
down another shade] Where did you get this set from?
Judge. That one? Why, it came from an estate.
Old Lady. For your services as executor! What you got
was like what you gave!
Judge. You had better not make any defamatory remarks,
for they are punishable under the law.
Old Lady. Are you crazy, or was there anything crazy
about my remark?
Judge. And for that matter, it is silver — sterling silver.
Old Lady. Then it must be Amelia's fault.
A Voice. [Coming through the window from the outside] The
Judge can turn white into black, but he can't turn black into
white!
Judge. Who said that?
ACT II
ADVENT 131
Old Lady. It seemed as if one of the starlings bad been
speaking.
Judge. [Pulling down the remaining shade] Now the sun
is here, and a while ago it seemed to be over there.
Old Lady. [To Amelia] Who was it that spoke?
Amelia. I think it was that strange school-teacher with
the red muffler.
Judge. Ugh! Let us talk of something else. t. s~
Servant Girl. [Enters] Dinner is served. k^^?^ /
[She goes out; a pause follows.
Old Lady. You go down and eat, Amelia.
Amelia. Thank you, mother. [She goes out.
The Judge sits down on a chair close to one of the chests.
Old Lady. [Sliding up to the chest of drawers wherejhe box
of perfume stands] Are you not going to eat anything?
Judge. No, I am not hungry. How about you?
Old Lady. I have just eaten. [Pause.
Judge. [Takes a piece of bread from his pocket] Then you'll
excuse me, I'm sure. .
Old Lady. There's a roast of venison on the table. ' MM^^Y
Judge. You don't say so!
Old Lady. Do you think I poison the food?
Judge. Yes, it tasted of carbolic acid this morning.
Old Lady. And what I ate had a sort of metallic taste
Judge. If I assure you that I have put nothing whatever
in your food
Old Lady. Then I don't believe you. But I can assure
you
Judge. And I won't believe it. [Eating his bread] Roast
of venison is a good thing — I can smell it from here — but
bread isn't bad either. [Pause.
Old Lady. Why are you sitting there watching that chest?
132 ADVENT act n
Judge. For the same reason that makes you guard those
perfumes.
Old Lady. So you have been there, you sneak-thief!
Old Lady. To think of it — such words between us! Us!
. [She begins to weep.
Judge. Yes, the world is evil, and so is man?" •
Old Lady. Yes, you may well say so — and ungrateful
above all. Ungrateful children rob you of the rent; ungrate-
ful grandchildren rob the fruit from the trees. You are
right, indeed: the world is evil
Judge. I ought to know, I who have had to witness all
the rottenness, and who have been forced to pass the death
sentence. That is why the mob hates me, just as if I had
made the laws ■
Old Lady. It doesn't matter what the people say, if you
have only a clean conscience — [Three loud knocks are heard
from the inside of the biggest wardrobe] What was that? Who
is there?
Judge. Oh, it was that wardrobe. It always cracks when
there is rain coming. [Three distinct knocks are heard again.
Old Lady. It's some kind of performance started by that
strolling charlatan.
The cover of the coffee-pot which Amelia was cleaning,
opens and drops down again with a bang; this hap-
pens several times in succession.
Judge. What was that, then?
Old Lady. Oh, yes, it's that same juggler. He can play
tricks, but he can't scare me. [The coffee-pot acts as before.
Judge. Do you think he is one of those mesmerists?
Old Lady. Well, whatever it happens to be called
Judge. If that's so, how can he know our private secrets?
ACT II
ADVENT 133
Old Lady. Secrets? What do you mean by that?
A clock begins to strike and keeps it up as if it never
meant to stop.
Judge. Now I am getting scared.
Old Lady. Then Old Nick himself may take me if I stay
here another minute! [The spot of sunlight appears suddenly on
the portrait of the Old Lady] Look! He knows that secret,
too!
Judge. You mean that there is a portrait of her behind
yours?
Old Lady. Come away from here and let us go down and
eat. And let us see whether we can't sell off the house and
all the rest at auction
Judge. You are right — sell off the whole caboodle and
start a new life! — And now let us go down and eat.
The Other One appears in the doorway.
The Judge and the Old Lady draw back from him.
Judge. That's an ordinary human being!
Old Lady. Speak to him!
Judge. [To The Other One] Who are you, sir?
The Other One. I have told you twice. That you don't
believe me is a part of your punishment, for if you could be-
lieve, your sufferings would be shortened by it.
Judge. [To his wife] It's — him — sure enough! For I feel
as if I were turning into ice. How are we to get rid of him?
— Why, they say that the unclean spirits cannot bear the
sound of music. Play something on the harp, Caroline. i#^
Though badly frightened, the Old Lady sits down at \
the table on which the harp stands and begins to play U^TM
a slow prelude in a minor key.
The Other One listens reverently and with evident
emotion.
Old Lady. [To the Judge] Is he gone?
134 ADVENT
act n
The Other One. I thank you for the music, madam. It
lulls the pain and awakens memories of better things even
in a lost soul — Thank you, madam! — Speaking of the auc-
tion, I think you are doing right, although, in my opinion,
an honest declaration of bankruptcy would be still better —
Yes, surrender your goods, and let every one get back his
own.
/ Judge. Bankruptcy? I have no debts
The Other One. No debts !
Old Lady. My husband has no debts!
The Other One. No debts! That would be happiness,
indeed!
Judge. Well, that's the truth! But other people are in
debt to me
The Other One. Forgive them then!
Judge. This is not a question of pardon, but of pay-
ment
The Other One. All right! Then you'll be made to pay!
— For the moment — farewell! But we'll meet frequently,
and the last time at the great auction ! [He goes out backward.
Judge. He's afraid of the sun — he, too! Ha-ha!
The Other One. Yes, for some time yet. But once I
have accustomed myself to the light, I shall hate darkness.
[He disappears.
Old Lady. [To the Judge] Do you really think he is —
the Other One?
Judge. _Of course, that's not the way he is supposed to
look ^but th en times are changing and we with them.' They
used to say that he had gold and fame to give away, but this
fellow goes around dunning
Old Lady. Oh, he's a sorry lot, and a charlatan — that's
all! A milksop who doesn't dare to bite, no matter how
much he would like to! .
Jr
0^' c
/VXwA^-
fr\)
act n
ADVENT 135
The Other One. [Standing in the doorway again] Take
care, I tell you! Take care!
Judge. [Raising his right hand] Take care yourself!
The Other One. [Pointing at the Judge with one hand as
if it were a revolver] Shame!
Judge. [Unable to move] Woe is me!
The Other One. You have never believed in anything
good. Now you shall have to believe in the Evil One. He
who is all goodness can harm nobody, you see, and so he
leaves that to such villains as myself. But for the sake of
greater effectiveness, you two must torture yourselves and
each other.
Old Lady. [Kneeling before The Other One] Spare us!
Help us! Mercy! r
The Other One. [With a gesture as if he were tearing his yj *>
clothes] Get up, woman! Woe is me! There is One, and
One only, to whom you may pray! Get up now, or — Yes, ^
now you believe, although I don't wear a red cloak, and don't. n
carry sword or purse, and don't crack any jokes — but be- ;. *
ware of taking me in jest! I am serious as sin and stern as
retribution! I have not come to tempt you with gold and
fame, but to chastise you with rods and scorpions — [The
clock begins to strike again; the stage turns dark] Your time
is nearly up. Therefore, put your house in order — because
die you must! [A noise as of thunder is heard] Whose voice is
speaking now? Do you think he can be scared off with your
rattle when he comes sweeping across your vineyard? Storm
and Hail are his names; destruction nestles under his wings,
and in his claws he carries punishment. Put on your caul
now, and don your good conscience.
[The rattling of the hail-storm is heard outside.
Judge. Mercy!
The Other One. Yes, if you promise repentance.
136 ADVENT act ii
Judge. I promise on my oath-
The Other One. You can take no oath, for you have
already perjured yourself. But promise first of all to set
the children free — and then all the rest!
Judge. I promise! Before the sun has set, the children
shall be here!
The Other One. That's the first step ahead, but if you
turn back, then you'll see that I am as good as my name,
which is — Legion!
He raises the rattan, and at that moment the Judge 6e«
comes able to move again.
Curtain.
ACT III . p ,
A wine-cellar ', with rows of casks along both side walls. The
doorway in the rear is closed by an iron door.
Every cask is marked with the name of the urine kept in it.
Those nearest the foreground have small shelves above the
taps, and the shelves hold glasses.
At the right, in the foreground, stands a wine-press and near it
are a couple of straw-bottomed chairs.
Bottles, funnels, siphons, crates, etc., are scattered about the
place.
Eric and Thyra are seated by the wine-press.
Eric. I think it's awfully dull.
Thyra. I think grandmother is nasty.
Eric. You mustn't talk like that.
Thyra. No, perhaps not, but she is nasty.
Eric. You mustn't, Thyra, for then the little boy won't
come and play with us again.
Thyra. Then I won't say it again. I only wish it wasn't
so dark.
Eric. Don't you remember, Thyra, that the boy said we
shouldn't complain
Thyra. Then I won't do it any more — [The spot of sun-
light appears on the ground) Oh, look at the sun-spot!
[She jumps up and places her foot on the light.
Eric. You mustn't step on the sun, Thyra. That's a sin !
Thyra. I didn't mean to step on him. I just wanted to
137
138 ADVENT
act in
have him. Now see — I have him in my arms, and I can pat
him. — Look! Now he's kissing me right on the mouth.
The Playmate enters from behind one of the casks; he
wears a white garment reaching below his knees, and
a blue scarf around the waist; on his feet are sandals;
he is blond, and when he appears the cellar grows
lighter.
Eric. [Goes to meet him and shakes hands with him] Hello,
little boy! — Come and shake hands, Thyra! — What's your
name, boy? You must tell us to-day.
The Playmate merely looks at him.
Thyra. You shouldn't be so forward, Eric, for it makes
him bashful. — But tell me, little boy, who is your papa?
Playmate. Don't be so curious. When you know me
better, you'll learn all those things. — But let us play now.
Thyra. Yes, but nothing instructive, for that is so tedious.
I want it just to be nice.
Playmate. [Smiling] Shall I tell a story?
Thyra. Yes, but not out of the Bible, for all those we
know by heart
The Playmate smiles again.
Eric. You say such things, Thyra, that he gets hurt
Playmate. No, my little friends, you don't hurt me —
But now, if you are really good, we'll go and play in the
open
Eric. Oh, yes, yes! — But then, you know, grandmother
won't let us
Playmate. Yes, your grandmother has said that she
wished you were out, and so we'll go before she changes her
mind. Come on now!
Thyra. Oh, what fun! Oh
The door in the rear flies open and through the doorway
is seen a sunlit field planted with rye ready for the
act in ADVENT 139
harvest. Among the yellow ears grow bachelor s-buU
tons and daisies.
Playmate. Come, children! Come into the sunlight and
feel the joy of living!
Thyra. Can't we take the sun-spot along? It's a pity to
leave it here in the darkness.
Playmate. Yes, if it is willing to go with you. Call it!
Eric and Thyra go toward the door, followed by the
spot of light.
Eric. Isn't it a nice little spot! [Talks to the spot as if it
were a cat] Puss, puss, puss, puss!
Playmate. Take it up on your arm, Thyra, for I don't
think it can get over the threshold.
Thyra gets the spot of light on her arm, which she bends
as if carrying something.
All three go out; the door closes itself. Pause.
The Judge enters with a lantern, the Old Lady with
the birch rod.
Old Lady. It's cool and nice here, and then there is no
sun to bother you.
Judge. And how quiet it is. But where are the children?
[Both look for the children.
Judge. It looks as if they had taken us at our word.
Old Lady. Us? Please observe that I didn't promise
anything, for he — you know — talked only to you toward
the end.
Judge. Perhaps, but this time we had better obey, for I
don't want to have any more trouble with hail-storms and
such things. — However, the children are not here, and I sup-
pose they'll come back when they get hungry.
Old Lady. And I wish them luck when they do! [The rod
is snatched out of her hand and dances across the floor; finally
140
ADVENT
ACT III
A
*
I"
it disappears behind one of the casks] Now it's beginning
again.
Judge. Well, why don't you submit and do as he — you
know who! — says? I, for my part, don't dare to do wrong
any longer. The growing grapes have been destroyed, and
we must take pleasure in what is already safe. Come here,
Caroline, and let us have a glass of something good to brace
us up ! [He knocks on one of the casks and draws a glass of wine
from it] This is from the year of the comet — anno 1869,
when the big comet came, and everybody said it meant war.
And, of course, war did break out.
[He offers a filled glass to his wife.
Old Lady. You drink first!
Judge. Well, now — did you think there might be poison
in this, too?
Old Lady. No, really, I didn't — but — we'll never again
know what peace is, or happiness!
Judge. Do as I do: submit! [He drinks.
Old Lady. I want to, and I try to, but when I come to
think how badly other people have treated us, I feel that
I am just as good as anybody else. [She drinks] That's a
very fine wine! [She sits down.
Judge. The wine is good, and it makes the mind easier.
— Yes, the wiseacres say that we are rapscallions, one and all,
so I can't see what right anybody has to go around finding
fault with the rest. [He drinks] My own actions have always
been legal; that is, in keeping with prevailing laws and con-
stitutions. If others happened to be ignorant of the law,
they had only themselves to blame, for no one has a right to
ignorance of that kind. For that reason, if Adolph does not
pay the rent, it is he who breaks the law, and not I.
Old Lady. And yet the blame falls on you, and you are
made to appear like a criminal. Yes, it is as I have always
ADVENT^J <,U€M,4-
said: there js no justice in this world. If you had done right,
you should have brought suit against Adolph and turned out
the whole family. But then it isn't too late yet
[She drinks.
Judge. Well, you see, if I were to carry out the law strictly, I [cU"
then I should sue for the annulment of his marriage, and that I
would cut him off from the property
Old Lady. Why don't you do it?
Judge. [Looking around] We-e-ell! — I suppose that would
settle the matter once for all. A divorce would probably
not be granted, but I think it would be possible to get the
marriage declared invalid on technical grounds
Old Lady. And if there be no such grounds?
Judge. [Showing the influence of the wine] There are tech-
nical grounds for everything, if you only look hard enough.
Old Lady. Well, then! Think of it — how that good-for-
nothing is wishing the life out of us — but now he'll see how
"the natural course of events" makes the drones take to the
road
Judge. Ha-ha! You're right, quite right! And then, you
know, when I think it over carefully — what reason have we
for self-reproach? What wrong have we done? It's mean
to bring up that about the monstrance — it didn't hurt any-
body, did it? And as for my being guilty of perjury: that's
a pure lie. I got blood-poison in the finger — that's all — and
quite a natural thing.
Old Lady. Just as if I didn't know it. And I may as well
add that this hail -storm a while ago — why, it was as plain a
thing as if it had been foretold in the Farmexls Almanac! • ,\ _,\
Judge. Exactly! That's what I think too. And for that
reason, Caroline, I think we had better forget all that fool
talk — and if you feel as I do, we'll just turn to another priest
and get him to consecrate the mausoleum.
142 ADVENT act ra
Old Lady. Well, why shouldn't we?
Judge. Yes, why shouldn't we? Perhaps because that mes-
merist comes here and talks a lot of superstitious nonsense?
Old Lady. Tell me, do you really think he is nothing but
a mesmerist?
Judge. [Blustering] That fellow? He's a first-class charla-
tan. A che-ar-la-tan !
Old Lady. [Looking around] I am not so sure.
Judge. But I am sure. Su-ure! And if he should ever
come before my eyes again — just now, for instance — I'll
drink his health and say : here's to you, old humourist! [As he
raises the glass, it is torn out of his hand and is seen to disap-
pear through the wall] What was that? [The lantern goes out.
Old Lady. Help!
[A gust of wind is heard, and then all is silence again.
Judge. You just get some matches, and I'll clear this
matter up. For I am no longer afraid of anything. Not of
anything!
Old Lady. Oh, don't, don't!
The Other One. [Steps from behind one of the casks] Now
we'll have to have a talk in private.
Judge. [Frightened] Where did you come from?
The Other One. That is no concern of yours.
Judge. [Straightening himself up] What kind of language
is that?
The Other One. Your own! — Off with your cap! [He
blows at the Judge, whose cap is lifted off his head and falls
to the ground] Now you shall hear sentence pronounced: you
have wanted to sever what has been united by Him whose
name I may not mention. Therefore you shall be separated
from her who ought to be the staff of your old age. Alone
you must run the gauntlet. Alone you must bear the qualms
of sleepless nights.
act in ADVENT 143
Judge. Is that mercy? P> ,. J? f
The Other One. It is justice; it is the law: an eye foA
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 with the rattan.
'i,cx>V
The scene changes to a garden with cypresses and yew-trees
clipped in the shape of obelisks, candelabra, vases, etc.
Under the trees grow roses, hollyhocks, foxgloves, etc. At
the centre of it is a spring above which droops a gigantic '
fuchsia in full bloom. 1
Back of the garden appears a field of rye, all yellow and ready
to be cut. Bachelor s-buttons and daisies grow among the , .
rye. A scarecrow hangs in the middle of the field. The
distant background is formed by vineyards and light-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 "Cbrist'i Blood-drops."
r AjS
144 ADVENT act hi
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.
Thyra. Of course, Eric, don't you see, otherwise the
children could tell where the nests are, and then they would
take away the eggs, and that would make the birds sorry,
and they couldn't have any children of their own.
Eric Don't talk like a grown-up, Thyra.
Playmate. [Putting a finger across his lips] Hush ! Some-
body 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 white.
Playmate. Now you are white again. And now you must
go behind that rose-bush there and put on new clothes.
Chimney-Sweep. Why do I get all this which I don't
deserve?
Playmate. Because you don't believe that you deserve it.
Chimney-Sweep. [Going behind the rose-bush] Then I thank
you for it, although I don't understand what it means.
146 ADVENT act in
Thyra. Was he made a chimney-sweep because he had
been bad?
Playmate. No, he has never been bad. But he had a
bad guardian who took all his money away from him, and
so he had to go out into the world to earn a living — See
how fine he looks now!
The Chimney-Sweep enters dressed in light summer
clothes.
Playmate. [To the Chimney-Sweep] Go to the arcade
now, and you'll meet somebody you love — and who loves
you!
Chimney-Sweep. Who could love me?
Playmate. Go and find out.
The Chimney-Sweep goes across the stage to the arcade,
where he is met by the Lady in White, who puts her
arms around him.
Thyra. Who is living in there?
Playmate. [With his finger on his lips] Polly Pry! — But
who is coming there?
The Old Lady appears on the road with a sack on her
back and a stick in her hand.
Eric. It's grandmother! Oh, now we are in for it!
Thyra. Oh, my! It's grandmother!
Playmate. Don't get scared, children. I'll tell her it's
my fault.
Eric. No, you mustn't, for then she'll beat you.
Playmate. Well, why shouldn't I take a beating for my
friends?
Eric. No, I'll do it myself!
Thyra. And I, too!
Playmate. Hush! And come over here — then you won't
be scolded. [They hide.
Old Lady. [Goes to the spring] So, this is the famous spring
act in
ADVENT 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? Eric and Thyra with
a strange boy! What can it mean? For they are not here.
It must be an oracle spring. [She takes a cup that stands by
the spring, fills it with water and drinks] Ugh, it tastes of 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 y
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 III
[He waves 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, where you cannot follow me. But now,
when I leave you here, don't forget what I have told you:
that you mustn't touch the tree!
Eric. We'll obey! We will! But don't go away, for it
will soon be dark!
Playmate. How is that? Anybody who has a good 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!
He kisses their foreheads and goes out between the bushes;
when he reappears in the background, he is carrying
a cross with a banner like that carried by the Christ-
Child in old paintings; the Angelus bell begins to ring;
as he raises the banner and waves it in greeting to the
children, he becomes surrounded by a clear, white
light; then he goes out.
Eric and Thyra kneel and pray silently while the bell
is ringing.
act ra 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 pine woods. Moonlight.
The Witch stands waiting.
Old Lady. Well, at last, there you are.
Witch. You have kept me waiting. Why have you called
me?
Old Lady. Help me!
Witch. In what way?
Old Lady. Against my enemies.
Witch. There is only one thing that helps against your
enemies: be good to them.
Old Lady. Well, I declare! I think the whole world has
turned topsyturvy.
Witch. Yes, so it may seem.
Old Lady. Even the Other One — you know who I mean
— has become converted.
Witch. Then it ought to be time for you, too.
Old Lady. Time for me? You mean that my years are
burdening me? But it is less than three weeks since I danced
at a wedding.
Witch. And you call that bliss! Well, if that be all, you
shall have your fill of it. For there is to be a ball here to-
night, although I myself cannot attend it.
Old Lady. Here?
Witch. Just here. It will begin whenever I give the
word
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 thenqtieen 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, the stage changes to represent the bottom
of a rocky, kettle-shaped chasm. It is closed in on three
sides by steep walls of black rock, wholly stripped of veg-
etatiorL-A-t the left, in the foreground, stands a throne.
At the righfrip a platform for the musicians.
A bustjrfj?an 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.
7
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 tlm-^pwdjie has to play.
The Seven Deadly Sins enter and group themselves around
^^- .y.A/> f fi.rnnp. as follows:
Pride Covetousness
Lust Anger
Gluttony Envy
Sloth
Finally the Prince enters. He is hunchbacked and wears a
soiled velvet coat with gold buttons, ruffles, sword, and high
boots with spurs.
The ensuing scene must be played with deadly seriousness, with-
out 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 Ceremonies! 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 153
Prince. Only in part. I can perceive a connection be-
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 you were
proud and wanted no assistance, you have now to bear your
own sufferings.
Prince. What have I done, then?
Master of Ceremonies. What a sublime question !
Prince. But why don't you tell?
Master of Ceremonies. As our task is to torture each
other by truth-telling — were we not called "heroes of truth"
in our lifetime? — I shall tell you a part of your own secret.
You were, and you are still, a hunchback
Prince. What is that?
Master of Ceremonies. There you see! You don't know
what is known to everybody else. But all those others
pitied you, and so you never heard the word that names your
own deformity.
Prince. What deformity is that? Perhaps you mean that
I have a weak chest? But that is no deformity.
Master of Ceremonies. A "weak chest" — yes, that is
your own name for the matter. However, people kept the
disfigurement of your body hidden from you, and they tried
to assuage your misfortune by showing you sympathy and
kindness But you accepted their generosity as an earned
tribute, their encouraging words as expressions of admiration
due to your superior physique. And at last you went so far
in conceit that you regarded yourself as a type of masculine
154 ADVENT
ACT IV
v
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?
■ f\ Master of Ceremonies. Right? I am filling the sad-
y I „ \§s 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.
a \y Prince. I don't want to do it.
Master of Ceremonies. Try to do anything but what
you must, and you'll experience an inner discord that you
cannot explain.
Prince. What does it mean?
Master of Ceremonies. It means that you cannot all
of a sudden cease to be what you are: and you are what
you have wanted to become. [He claps his hands.
The Old Lady enters, her figure looking as aged and
clumsy as ever; but she has painted her face and her
head is covered by a powdered wig; she wears a very
low-necked, rose-coloured dress, red shoes, and a fan
made out of peacock feathers.
Old Lady. [A little uncertain] Where am I? Is this the
right place?
Master of Ceremonies. Quite right, for you are in the
place we call the "waiting-room." It is so called [he sighs],
because here we have to spend our time waiting — waiting
for something that will come some time
Old Lady. Well, it isn't bad at all — and there is the music
— and there is a bust — of whom?
Master of Ceremonies. It's a pagan idol called Pan,
because to the ancients he was all they had. And as we, in
,p fc^ a
ACT IV
ADVENT 155
this place, are of the old order, more or less antiquated, he
has been put here for us to look at.
Old Lady. Why, we are not old
Master of Ceremonies. Yes, my Queen. When the new
era opened [he sighs], we couldn't keep up with it, and so we
were left behind
Old Lady. The new era? What kind of talk is that?
When did it begin?
Master of Ceremonies. It is easy to figure out when the
year one began — It was night, for that matter; the stars
were shining brightly, and the weather must have been mild,
as the shepherds remained in the open
Old Lady. Oh, yes, yes — Are we not going to dance here
to-night?
Master of Ceremonies. Of course, we are. The Prince
is waiting for a chance to ask you
Old Lady. \To the Master of Ceremonies] Is he a real
Prince?
Master of Ceremonies. A real one, my Queen. That
is to say, he has full reality in a certain fashion
Old Lady. [To the Prince, who is asking her to dance] You
don't look happy, my Prince?
Prince. I am not happy.
Old Lady. Well, I can't say that I find it very hilarious —
and the place smells of putty, as if the glazier had just been
at work here. What is that strange smell, as of linseed-oil?
Prince. [With an expression of horror] What are you say-
ing? Do you mean that charnel-house smell?
Old Lady. I fear I must have said something impolite —
but then, it isn't for the ladies to offer pleasantries — that's
what the cavalier should do
Prince. What can I tell you that you don't know before?
Old Lady. That I don't know before? Let me see — No,
156 ADVENT act iv
then I had better tell you that you are very handsome, my
Prince.
Prince. Now you exaggerate, my Queen. I am not ex-
actly handsome, but I have always been held what they call
"good-looking."
Old Lady. Just like me — I never was a beauty — that is,
I am not, considering my years — Oh, I am so stupid! —
What was it I wanted to say?
Master of Ceremonies. Let the music begin!
The musicians appear to be playing, but not a sound is
heard.
Master of Ceremonies. Well? Are you not going to
dance?
Prince. [Sadly] No, I don't care to dance.
Master of Ceremonies. But you must: you are the only
presentable gentleman.
Prince. That's true, I suppose — [pensively] but is that
a fit occupation for me?
Master of Ceremonies. How do you mean?
Prince. At times it seems as if I had something else to
think of, but then — then I forget it.
Master of Ceremonies. Don't brood — enjoy yourself
while youth is with you and the roses of life still bloom on
your cheeks. Now! Up with the head, and step lively
The Prince grins broadly; then he offers his hand to
the Old Lady, and together they perform, a few steps
of a minuet.
Old Lady. [Interrupting the dance] Ugh ! Your hands are
cold as ice! [She goes to the throne] Why are those seven ladies
not dancing?
Master of Ceremonies. How do you like the music,
Queen?
\>e ^
•X, s>°
act iv / lADVEN Tfr ' 157
Old Lady. It's splendid, but they might play a little more
forte
• Master of Ceremonies. They are soloists, all of themX
and formerly each one of them wanted to make himself heard \
above the rest, and so they have to use moderation now.
Old Lady. But I asked why the seven sisters over there
are not dancing. Couldn't you, as master of ceremonies,
make them do so?
Master of Ceremonies. I don't think it would be of any
use trying, for they are obstinate as sin — But please assume
your throne, my Queen. We are going to perform a little
play in honour of the occasion
Old Lady. Oh, what fun! But I want the prince to -
escort me
Prince. [To the Master of Ceremonies] Have I got to
do it?
Old Lady. You ought to be ashamed of yourself — you
with your hunch!
Prince. [Spits in her face] Hold your tongue, you cursed
old hag!
Old Lady. [Cuffs him on the ear] That'll teach you !
Prince. [Jumps at her and knocks her down] And that's
for you!
All the rest cover their faces with their hands.
Prince. [Tears off the Old Lady's wig so that her head ap-
pears totally bald] There's the false scalp! Now we'll pull
out the teeth!
Master of Ceremonies. Enough! Enough!
He helps the Old Lady to rise, and gives her a kerchief
to cover her head.
Old Lady. [Crying] Goodness gracious, that I could let
myself be fooled like that! But I haven't deserved any bet-
ter, I admit.
158 ADVENT act iv
Prince. No, you have deserved a great deal worse. You
should leave my hunch alone, for otherwise hell breaks
loose — It's a miserable thing to see an old woman like you
so foolish and so degraded. But, then, you are to be pitied
— as all of us are to be pitied.
All. We are all to be pitied!
Prince. [With a sneer] The queen!
Old Lady. [In the same tone] The prince! — But haven't
we met before?
Prince. Perhaps — in our youth — for I am old, too. You
had too much frippery on before — but now, when the disguise
has been taken away — I begin to distinguish certain fea-
tures
Old Lady. Don't say anything more — don't say anything
more — Oh, what have I come to — what is happening to
me?
Prince. Now I know: you are my sister!
Old Lady. But — my brother is dead! Have I been de-
ceived? Or are the dead coming back?
Prince. Everything comes back.
Old Lady. Am I dead or am I living?
Prince. You may well ask that question, for I don't know
the difference. But you are exactly the same as when I
parted from you once: just as vain and just as thievish.
Old Lady. Do you think you are any better?
Prince. Perhaps! I am guilty of all the seven deadly
sins, but you have invented the eighth one — that of robbing
the dead.
Old Lady. What are you thinking of now?
Prince. Twelve years in succession I sent you money to
buy a wreath for mother's grave, and instead of buying it
you kept the money.
Old Lady. How do you know?
act iv ADVENT 159
Prince. How I came to know of it is the only thing that
interests you about that crime of yours.
Old Lady. Prove it!
Prince. [Taking a number of bills from his pocket] Here is
the money!
The Old Lady sinks to the ground. A church bell be-
gins to ring. All bend their heads, but nobody kneels.
Lady in White. [Enters, goes up to the Old Lady, and
assists her in rising] Do you know me?
Old Lady. No.
Lady in White. I am Amelia's mother. You have taken .
the memory of me away from her. You have erased me
from her life. But now you are to be wiped out, and I shall
recover my child's love and the prayers my soul needs.
Old Lady. Oh, somebody has been telling tales to that
hussy — then I'll set her to herd the swine
The Prince strikes her on the mouth.
Lady in White. Don't strike her!
Old Lady. Are you interceding for me?
Lady in White. It is what I have been taught to do.
Old Lady. You hypocrite! If you only dared, you would
wish me buried as deep as there are miles from here to the
sun!
Master of Ceremonies. Down with you — monster!
[As he touches her with his staff she falls to the ground
Again the scene is changed while the curtain remains up. The
/ bust of Pan sinks into the earth. The musicians and the \
throne with its attendant sins disappear behind pieces of
scenery that are lowered from above. At last the cross-'
roads with the surrounding pine woods appear again, and
the Old Lady is discovered lying at the foot of a sign-post.
The Witch is standing beside her.
A
160 ADVENT act iv
Witch. Get up!
Old Lady. I cannot — I am frozen stiff
Witch. The sun will rise in a moment. The cock has
crowed. The matin bells are ringing.
Old Lady. I don't care for the sun.
Witch. Then you'll have to walk in darkness.
Old Lady. Oh, my eyes! What have you done to me?
Witch. I have only turned out the light because it troubled
you. Now, up and away with you — through cold and dark-
ness — until you drop!
Old Lady. Where is my husband? — Amelia! Eric and
Thyra! My children!
Witch. Yes, where are they? But wherever they may be,
you shall not see them until your pilgrimage is ended. Now,
up and away! Or I will loose my dogs!
The Old Lady gropes her way out.
The court-room. In the background is the desk of the presiding
judge, decorated in white and gold with the emblems of
justice. In front of the desk, covering the centre of the
floor, stands a big table, and on it are placed writing-
materials, inkstand, Bible, bell, and gavel.
The axe of the executioner hangs on the rear wall, with a pair of
handcuffs below it and a big black crucifix above.
'i>
/
The Judge enters and makes his way into the room on
tiptoe. The bell rings. The gavel raps once on the
table. All the chairs are pulled up to the table at
once. The Bible is opened. The candles on the table
become lighted.
For a moment the Judge stands still, stricken with horror.
Then he resumes his advance toward a huge cabinet.
Suddenly the doors of this fly open. A number of docu-
ments are thrown out, and the Judge picks them up.
A.
ACT IV
ADVENT 161
Judge. [Reassured] This time I am in luck! Here are
the accounts of my guardianship; here is the contract for
the lease — my report as executor — all of it! [The handcuffs
on the wall begin to clank] Make all the noise you please! As
long as the axe stays still, I won't be scared. [He puts the
documents on the table and goes back to close the door of the cab-
inet, but this flies open again as soon as he shuts it] Every-
thing has a cause: ratio sufficient. This door must have a/
spring with which I am not familiar. It surprises me thai
I don't know it, but it cannot scare me. [The axe moves
the wall] The axe moved — as a rule, that foretells an execu-
tion, but to-day it means only that its equilibrium has be-
come disturbed in some way. Oh, no, nothing will give
me pause but seeing my own ghost — for that would be be-
yond the tricks of any charlatan.
The Ghost enters from behind the cabinet; the figure
resembles in every way the Judge, but where the eyes
should be appear two white surfaces, as on a plaster
bust.
Judge. [Frightened] Who are you?
Ghost. I am not — I have been. I have been that un-
righteous judge who is now come here to receive his sentence.
Judge. What have you done then, poor man?
Ghost. Everything wrong that an unrighteous judge might
do. Pray for me, you whose conscience is clear
Judge. Am I — to pray for you?
Ghost. Yes, you who have caused no innocent blood to
be shed
Judge. That's true; that's something I haven't done. And
besides, as I have always obeyed the letter of the law, I
have good reason to let myself be called a righteous judge —
yes, without irony!
162 ADVENT
ACT IV
Ghost. It would, indeed, be a bad moment for joking, as
the Invisible Ones are sitting in judgment
Judge. What do you mean? Who are sitting in judg-
ment?
Ghost. [Pointing to the table] You don't see them, but I
do. [The bell rings; a chair is pushed back from the table] Pray
for me!
Judge. No, I won't. Justice must take its course. You
must have been a great offender to reach consciousness of
your guilt so late.
Ghost. You are as stern as a good conscience.
Judge. That's just the word for it. Stern, but just!
Ghost. No pity, then?
Judge. None whatever.
Ghost. No mercy?
Judge. No mercy!
The gavel raps on the table; the chairs are pushed away.
Ghost. Now the verdict is being delivered. Can't you
hear?
Judge. I hear nothing.
Ghost. [Pointing to the table] And you see nothing ? Don't
you see the beheaded sailor, the surveyor, the chimney-sweep,
the lady in white, the tenant
Judge. I see absolutely nothing.
Ghost. Woe unto you, then, when your eyes become opened
as mine have been. Now the verdict has been given: guilty!
Judge. Guilty!
Ghost. You have said it — yourself! And you have already
been sentenced. All that remains now is the big auction.
Curtain,
ACT V
The same room as in the second act, but it is now arranged for
the auction. Benches are placed in the middle of the room.
On the table behind which the auctioneer is to preside stand
the silver coffee-set, the clock, vases, candelabra, etc.
The portraits of the Judge and the Old Lady have been taken
down and are leaning against the table.
The Neighbour and Amelia are on the stage.
Amelia. [Dressed as a scrub-woman] Before my mother left,
she ordered me to clean the hallway and the stairs. It is
winter now, and cold, and I cannot say that it has been any
pleasure to carry out her order
Neighbour. So you didn't get any pleasure out of it?
Well, my child, I must say that you demand rather too much
of yourself. But as you have obeyed, and stood the test,
your time of trial shall be over, and I will let you know your
life's secret.
Amelia. Speak out, neighbour, for I dare hardly trust my
good resolutions much longer.
Neighbour, Well, then! The woman you have been call-
ing mother is your stepmother. Your father married her
when you were only one year old. And the reason you have
never seen your mother is that she died when you were born.
Amelia. So that was it! — How strange to have had a
mother and yet never to have seen her! Tell me — did you
ever see her ?
163
164 ADVENT
ACT V
Neighbour. I knew her.
Amelia. How did she look?
Neighbour. Well, how did she look? — Her eyes were blue
as the blossom of the flax — her hair was yellow as the dry
stalks of wheat
Amelia. And tall and slender — and her hand was small and
white as if it had touched nothing but silk in all her days — -
and her mouth was shaped like a heart, and her lips looked
as if none but good words had ever passed them.
Neighbour. How can you know all that?
Amelia. Because that is the image which appears in my
dreams when I have not been good — And then she raises her
hand as if to warn me, and on one of her fingers there is
a ring with a green stone that seems to radiate light. It is
she! — Tell me, neighbour, is there a picture of her in the
place?
Neighbour. There used to be one, but I don't know
whether it's still here.
Amelia. So this one is my stepmother? Well, God was
good when he let me keep my mother's image free from stain
— and hereafter I shall find it quite natural that this other
\ woman is cruel to me.
f\ p Neighbour. Cruel stepmothers exist to make children
kind. And you were not kind, Amelia, but you have become
so, and for that reason I shall now give you a Christmas
present in advance.
He takes the portrait of the Old Lady out of its frame y
when in its place appears a picture in water-colours
corresponding to the description given above.
Amelia. [Kneeling in front of the picture] My mother —
mother of my dreams! [Rising] But how can I keep the
picture when it is to be sold at auction?
/
v
ACT V
ADVENT 165
Neighbour. You can, because the auction has already
taken place.
Amelia. Where and when was it held?
Neighbour. It was held elsewhere — in a place not known
to you — and to-day the things are merely to be taken away.
Amelia. What a lot of queer things are happening! And
how full of secrets the house is! — But tell me, where is my
stepmother? I have not seen her in a long time.
Neighbour. I suppose it must be told: she is in a place
from which nobody returns.
Amelia. Is she dead?
Neighbour. She is dead. She was found frozen to death
in a swamp into which she had stumbled.
Amelia. Merciful God have pity on her soul!
Neighbour. So he will in time, especially if you pray for her.
Amelia. Of course I will.
Neighbour. How good you have become, my child — as
a result of her becoming so bad!
Amelia. Don't say so now when she is dead
Neighbour. Right you are! Let her rest in peace!
Amelia. But where is my father?
Neighbour. That's a secret to all of us. But it is sweet
of you to ask for him before you ask for your own Adolph.
Amelia. Adolph — yes, where is he? The children are
crying for him, and Christmas is near. — Oh, what a Christ-
mas this will be to us!
Neighbour. Leave to each day its own trouble — and now
take your Christmas present and go. The affairs connected
with the auction are to be settled, and then you'll hear news.
Amelia. [Takes the portrait of her mother] I go, but no
longer alone — and I have a feeling that something good is
about to happen, but what I cannot tell.
[She goes out to the right.
166
ADVENT
ACT V
^
X
T
e
v
P
t
c
*
■ (
V
Neighbour. But I know! Yet you had better go, for
what is about to happen here should not be seen by chil-
dren.
He opens the door in the rear and rings a bell to summon
the people to the auction. The people enter in the
following order: The Poor, a large number of them;
the Sailor; the Chimney-Sweep; the Neighbour,
who takes his place in front of the rest; the Widow
and ^Fatherless Children; ^Surveyor; The
Other One, carrying the auctioneer s hammer and
a pile of documents.
The Other One. [ Takes his place at the table and raps with
the hammer] At a compulsory auction held at the court-house
for the disposal of property left by the late circuit judge, the
items now to be described were bid in by the Court on behalf
of absent creditors, and may now be obtained and taken
away by their respective owners.
Judge. [Enters, looking very aged and miserable] In the
name of the law — hold !
The Other One. [Pretends to throw something at the Judge,
who stands aghast and speechless] Don't speak of the law!
Here the Gospel is preached — but not for you, who wanted
to buy heaven with stolen money. — First: the widow and
her fatherless children. There is the silver set which the
judge accepted from you for his false report as executor.
In his stained hands the silver has turned black, but I
hope that in yours it will once more turn white. — Then
we come to the ward, who had to become a chimney-sweep,
after being cheated out of his inheritance. Here are the re-
ceipted bills and the property due to you from your guardian.
And you need not thank him for his accounting. — Here
stands the surveyor who, although he was innocent, had to
serve two years in prison because he had made an illegal
act v ADVENT 167
partition — the maps handed to him for the purpose hav-
ing been falsified in advance. What can you do for him,
Judge? Can you undo what has happened, or restore his
lost honour?
Judge. Oh, that fellow — give him a bill and he'll be sat-
isfied! His honour wasn't worth a penny, anyhow.
The Other One. [Slaps the Judge on the mouth, while the
rest spit at him and mutter with clinched fists] Here is the
brother of the sailor who was beheaded in spite of his inno-
cence. Can you restore his brother to life? No! And you
cannot pay for his life with yours, as it is not worth as
much. — And finally we come to the neighbour whom you
cheated out of his property in a perfectly legal way. Not
familiar with the tricks of the law, the neighbour has, con-
trary to prevailing practice, placed the judge's son-in-law
in charge of the property as life tenant, wiping out his pre-
vious indebtedness and making him also legal heir to the
property.
Judge. I appeal to a higher court!
The Other One. This case has passed through all the
instances except the highest, and that far you cannot reach
with your stamped papers. For if you tried, all these poor
people whom you have robbed of their living would cry
out: Guilty! — Thus we are done with all that could be prop-
erly disposed of. What remains here still undisposed of goes
to the poor: clocks, vases, jewelry and other valuables that
have served as bribes, graft, tips, souvenirs — all in a per-
fectly legal way because evidence and witnesses were wanting.
You poor, take back your own ! Your tears have washed the
guilt from the ill-gotten goods. [The Poor begin to plunder]
And now remains the last item to be sold by me. This pau-
per here, formerly a judge, is offered to the lowest bidder for
board at the expense of the parish. How much is offered?
^
u V i lv } Till
168 ADVENT
ACT V
[Silence] No offer? [Silence] First, second, third time — no
offer? [To the Judge] There, you see! Nobody wants you.
Well, then, I have to take you myself and send you to your
well-earned punishment.
Judge. Is there no atonement?
The Other One. Yes, punishment atones. — Take him
into the woods and stone him in accordance with the law
of Moses — for no other law was ever known to him. Away
with him! [The people pounce on the Judge and jostle him.
The scene changes to the "waiting-room" The same setting
as in the second scene of the fourth act: a kettle-shaped
chasm surrounded by steep black rocks. {The same people
are on the stage.)
In the background appear a pair of huge scales for the weighing
of newcomers.
The Judge and the Old Lady are seated opposite each other at
a small table.
Judge. [Staring in front of himself as if lost in a dream]
Hush! — I had a dream! They were throwing stones at me —
and yet I felt no pain — and then everything turned black and
vacant until this moment — How long it may have lasted,
I cannot tell — Now I am beginning to hear again — and
to feel. It feels as if I were being carried — oh, how cold it
is — they are washing me, I think — I am lying in something
that has six sides like a cell in a honeycomb and that smells
like a carpenter shop — I am being carried, and a bell is
ringing — Wait! Now I am riding, but not in a street-car,
although the bell is ringing all the time — Now I am sinking
down, down, as if I were drowning — boom, boom, boom:
three knocks on the roof — and then the lessons begin — the
teacher is leading — and now the boys are singing — What
act v ADVENT 169
can it be? — And then they are knocking on the roof again,
incessantly — boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom — si-
lence — it's over! [He wakes up] Where am I? I choke! It's
so stuffy and close here! — Oh, it's you! — Where are we?
Whose bust is that?
Old Lady. They say it is the new god.
Judge. But fie looks lilie~a~g5at.
Old Lady. Perhaps it is the god of the goats?
Judge. "The goats on the left side — " What is that I
am recalling? >
Prince. It is the god Pan. > \ i*0\JW
Judge. Pan?
o'
Prince. Exactly! Just exactly! And when, in the night,
the shepherds — no, not those shepherds — catch sight of a
hair of his hide they are seized with panic
Judge. [Rising] Woe! I don't want to stay here! Woe!
Can't I get out of here? I want to get out!
[He runs around, looking vainly for a way out.
The Other One. [Enters dressed as a Franciscan friar]
You'll find nothing but entrances — no exits!
Judge. Are you Father Colomba?
The Other One. No, I am The Other One.
Judge. As a monk?
The Other One. Don't you know that The Other One
turns monk when he grows old; and don't you think it is
well that he does so some time? But, seriously speaking —
for here everything is serious — this is my holiday attire,
which I am permitted to wear only this one day of the year
in order that I may remember what I have had and what 1
have lost.
Judge. [Alarmed] What day of the year is it to-day?
170 ADVENT act v
The Other One. [Bending his head with a sigh] It is
Christmas Eve!
Judge. [Approaching the Old Lady] Think of it, it is
Christmas Eve? — And you know I don't dare to ask where
we are — I dare not — but let us go home, home to our chil-
dren, to our own [He cries.
Old Lady. Yes, let us go from here, home to ourselves,
that we may start a new life in peace and harmony
The Other One. It is too late !
Old Lady. Oh, dear, sweet fellow — help us, have mercy
on us, forgive us!
The Other One. It is too late!
Judge. [Taking the Old Lady by the hand] I am choking
with dread! Don't ask him where we are; I don't want to
know! But one thing I do want to know: will there ever
be an end to this?
The Other One. Never! — That word "end" is not known
to us here.
Judge. [Crushed] No end! [Looking around] And does the
sun never enter this place of damp and cold?
The Other One. Never, for those who dwell here have
not loved the sun !
Judge. It is true: I have cursed the sun. — May I confess
my sins?
The Other One. No, you must keep them to yourself
until they begin to swell and stop up your throat.
Old Lady. [Kneeling] O — I don't know how to pray!
She rises and walks restlessly back and forth, wringing
her hands.
The Other One. Because for you there is no one to whom
you might pray.
Old Lady. [In despair] Children — send somebody to give
me a word of hope and pardon.
ACT V
ADVENT 171
The Other One. It will not be done. Your children have
forgotten you — they are now rejoicing at your absence.
A picture appears on the rocky wall in the rear: the
home, with Adolph, Amelia, Eric, and Thyra
around the Christmas tree; in the background, the
Playmate.
Judge. You say they are seated at the Christmas table
rejoicing at our misfortune? — No, now you lie, for they are
better than we!
The Other One. What new tune is that? I have always
heard that you were a righteous man
Judge. I? I was a great sinner — the greatest one that
ever was!
The Other One. Hm! Hm!
Judge. And if you say anything of the children you are
guilty of a sin. I know that they are praying for us.
Old Lady. [On her knees] I can hear them tell their rosa-
ries: hush — I hear them!
The Other One. You are completely mistaken- What
you hear is the song of the workmen who are tearing down
the mausoleum.
Judge. The mausoleum! Where we were to have rested
in peace!
Prince. Shaded by a dozen wreaths.
Judge. Who is that?
Prince. [Pointing to the Old Lady] She is my sister, and
so you must be my brother-in-law.
Judge. Oh — that lazy scamp !
Prince. Look here ! In this place we are all lazy scamps.
Judge. But we are not all hunchbacks!
Prince. [Strikes him a blow on the mouth] Don't touch the
hunch or there will be hell to pay!
172 ADVENT act v
Judge. What a way to treat a man of my ability and high
social position ! What a Christmas !
Prince. Perhaps you expected your usual creamed cod-
fish and Christmas cake?
Judge. Not exactly, but there ought to be something to
feed on
Prince. Here we are keeping a Christmas fast, you see.
Judge. How long will it last?
Prince. How long? We don't measure time here, because
it has ceased to exist, and a minute may last a whole
eternity.
Old Lady. We suffer only what our deeds have deserved
— so don't complain
Prince. Just try to complain, and you'll see what hap-
pens. — We are not squeamish here, but bang away without
regard for legal forms.
Judge. Are they beating carpets out there — on a day like
this?
Prince. No, it is an extra ration of rod all around as a re-
minder for those who may have forgotten the significance of
the day.
Judge. Do they actually lay hands on our persons? Is it
possible that educated people can do things like that to each
other?
Prince. This is a place of education for the badly edu-
cated; and those who have behaved like scoundrels are
treated like such.
Judge. But this passes all limits!
Prince. Yes, because here we are in the limitless! Now
get ready! I have already been out there and had my por-
tion.
'
/
act v ADVENT 173
Judge. [Appalled] What humiliation! That's to strip you jA
of all human worth!
Prince. Ha ha! Human worth! Ha ha! — Look at the\ )oof
scales over there. That's where the human worth is weighed ] r
— 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 spectacle : " From the Cradle to the Grave." There
is your whole biography and all your victims — just have a
look now. That's right!
Judge looks in the stereoscope ; then he rises with horror
stamped on his face.
Witch. I hope this slight attention may add to the 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 flow out of a dung-heap and the blue
arch above it looks like a smoky roof — Of the sun itself I
can recall nothing but the name; and what was called the
moon — the lamp that shed its light on bays and groves 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. [.4 small, lean man with grey clothes, grey
face, black lips, grey beard, and grey hands; he speaks in a very
low voice] May I speak a word with you, madam?
Old Lady. [Rising in evident alarm] What is it about?
Man in Grey. [Smiling a ghastly, malicious smile] I'll tell
— out there.
Old Lady. [Crying] No, no; I won't!
Man in Grey. [Laughing]; It isn't dangerous. Come
along! All I want is to speak to you. Come now!
[They go toward the background and disappear.
Prince. [To the Judge] A little Christmas entertainment
is wholesome.
Judge. Do you mean to maltreat a woman?
Prince. Here all injustices are abolished, and woman is
treated as the equal of man.
Judge. You devil!
Prince. That's all right, but don't call me hunchback, for
that touches my last illusion.
The Other One. [Steps up to the table] Well, how do you
like our animal magnetism? It can work wonders on black-
guards !
Judge. I understand nothing of all this.
The Other One. That's just what is meant, and it is very
nice of you to admit that there are things you don't under-
stand.
Judge. Granting that I am now in the realm of the
dead
ACT V
ADVENT 177
N
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! y^
The Other One. Quite right! Here you find only jus3
tice and retribution — especially justice: an eye for an eye J ^ '
and a tooth for a tooth! Just as you wanted it! } Ls L \.
Judge. But among men there is pardon — and that you O*'
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. )S2-
Judge. Oh, God is good! i V~
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,
nU
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 Other One. Now you overestimate yourself again.
But rise up. We are about to celebrate Christmas in our
own fashion. — The light of the sun cannot reach here, as you
know — nor that of the moon. But on this night, and on this
alone, a star rises so far above the rocks that it is visible from
here. It is the star that went before the shepherds through
\* the desert — and that was the morning star.
[He claps his hands together.
' The bust of Pan sinks into the ground. The Old Lady
returns, looking reassured and quietly happy. With
a suggestion of firm hope in mien and gesture, she
goes up to the Judge and takes his hand.
The stage becomes filled with shadows that are gazing up
at the rocks in the rear.
Chorus I. [Two sopranos and an alto sing behind the stage,
accompanied only by string instruments and a harp. ]
Puer natus est nobis;
Et Alius datus est nobis,
Cujus imperium super humerum ejus;
V. a ' Et vocabitur nomen ejus
I #• ' 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 179
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 III — 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 confectionery 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 scenei
The Master's brother, the Consul, appears in front of the
house, coming from the left, and knocks with his walking-
stick on the sill of one of the dining-room windows.
Consul. Will you soon be through?
Master. I'll come in a moment.
Consul. [Saluting the confectioner] Good evening, Mr.
Starck. It's still hot
Starck. Good evening, Consul. Yes, it's the dog-day
heat, and we have been making jam all day.
Consul. Is that so? It's a good year for fruit, then?
Starck. It might be worse. Well, the spring was cold,
but the summer turned out unbearably hot. It was hard
on us who had to stay in the city.
Consul. I got back from the country yesterday — one 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
rather as if everybody were hiding. I have lived here ten
years, and during the first two years we had for neighbours
a strange family that kept very quiet in the daytime. But
at night they began to stir about, and then carriages would
come and fetch things away. Not until the end of the second
scene i THE THUNDERSTORM 185
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 call it the Silent House.
Consul. Yes, there isn't much talking done here.
Starck. More than one drama has been played here,
nevertheless.
Consul. Tell me, Mr. Starck, who lives up there on the
second floor, right above my brother?
Starck. Up there, where the light comes through the red
shades — a tenant died there during the summer. Then the
place stood empty for a month, and a week ago a new family
moved in. I haven't seen them. I don't know their name.
I don't think they ever go out. Why did you ask, Consul?
Consul. Whew — I don't know! Those four red shades
look like stage curtains behind which some sanguinary 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 m\
pots. [He disappears into the gateway.
Master. [Still inside, has risen from the table and lighted a
cigar; he is now standing at the open window, talking to his
brother outside] I'll be ready in a moment. Louise is only
going to sew a button on one of my gloves.
Consul. Then you mean to go down- town?
Master. Perhaps we'll take a turn in that direction — ■
Whom were you talking with?
186 THE THUNDERSTORM scenei
Consul. Just the confectioner-
Master. Oh, yes — a very decent fellow — and, for that
matter, my only companion here during the summer.
Consul. Have you really stayed at home every night —
never gone out?
Master. Never! Those light evenings make me timid.
They are pleasant in the country, of course, but here in the
city they produce the effect of something unnatural — 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 jew moments later he can be seen coming out of the
house on the side facing the square; he stops at the
corner to drop a letter in the mail-box; then he comes
around the corner to the front of the house and sits
down on the bench beside his brother.
Consul. But tell me: why do you stay in the city when
you could be in the country?
Master. I don't know. I have lost my power of motion.
My memory has tied me for ever to these rooms. Only
within them can I find peace and protection. In there —
yes! It is interesting to look at your own home from the
outside. Then I imagine that some other man is pacing
back and forth in there — Just think: for ten years I have
been pacing back and forth in there!
Consul. Is it ten years now?
Master. Yes, time goes quickly — once it is gone. But
when it is still going it seems slow enough. — That time the
house was new. I watched them putting down the hard-
wood floor in the dining-room and painting the doors; and
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 anything 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 accounts,
both with life and with people, and I have already begun to
pack for the journey. Of course, the solitude has its draw-
backs, but when there is nobody who can make any demands
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 he disappears into the house
again.
Consul. That fellow must have a lot of correspondence.
Master. It looked to me like circulars.
Consul. But who is he?
Master. Why, that's the new tenant up there on the
second floor.
Consul. Oh, is that so ! What do you think he looked like?
Master. I don't know. Musician, conductor, a touch of
muscial comedy, with a leaning to vaudeville — gambler —
Adonis — a little of everything
Consul. 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
scene i THE THUNDERSTORM 189
bands as he 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
putting things in order and wiping the glassware on
the buffet.
Consul. Are you still pleased with Louise?
Master. Very.
Consul. Isn't she going to marry?
Master. Not that I know of.
Consul. Is there no 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 or your goods
Master. Do you mean to say that my honour suffered any
harm?
Consul. Don't you know?
Master. What do you mean?
Consul. In leaving you, she killed your honour.
Master. Then I have been a dead man for five years
without knowing it.
190 THE THUNDERSTORM scenei
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
scenei THE THUNDERSTORM 191
Master. If I am, leave me alone! A clear conscience —
comparatively clear, at least — has always been the diving-suit
that has enabled me to descend into the vast deeps without
being suffocated. [Rising] To think of it — that I got out
of it with my life! And now it's all over! — Suppose we
take a turn down the avenue?
Consul. All right, then we can see them light the first
street lamp of the season.
Master. But won't the moon be up to-night — the harvest-
moon?
Consul. Why, I think the moon is full just now
Master. [Going to one of the windoivs and talking into the
dining-room] Please hand me my stick, Louise. The light
one — I just want to hold it in my hand.
Louise. [Handing out a cane of bamboo] Here it is, sir.
Master. Thank you, my girl. Now turn out the light
in the dining-room if you have nothing to do there. We'll be
gone a little while — I cannot tell just how long.
The Master and the Consul go out to the left. Louise
remains standing by the open window. Starck comes
out of the gateway.
Starck. Good evening, Miss Louise. It's awfully hot! —
So your gentlemen have disappeared?
Louise. They have gone for a stroll down the avenue —
the first time my master has gone out this summer.
Starck. We old people love the twilight, which covers up
so many defects both in ourselves and others. Do you know,
Miss Louise, my old woman is getting blind, but she won't
have an operation performed. She says there is nothing to
look at, and that sometimes she wishes she were deaf, too.
Louise. Well, one does feel that way — at times.
Starck. Of course, you are leading a very quiet life in there,
with plenty of everything, and nothing to worry about. I
192 THE 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
scenei THE THUNDERSTORM 193
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 erateful of
bottles] Excuse me, but does Mr. Fischer live here?
Louise. Mr. Fischer? Not so far as I know.
Starck. Perhaps Fischer is the name of that fellow on
the second floor? Around the corner — one flight up.
The Liquordealer's Man. [Going toward the square] One
flight up — thanks. [He disappears around the corner.
Louise. Carrying up bottles again — that means another
sleepless night.
Starck. What kind of people are they? Why don't they
ever show themselves?
Louise. I suppose they use the back-stairs, for I have never
seen them. But I do hear them.
Starck. Yes, I have also heard doors bang and corks pop
— and the popping of other things, too, I guess.
Louise. And they never open their windows, in spite of
the heat — they must be Southerners. — Why, that's lightning
— a lot of it! — I guess it's nothing but heat-lightning, for
there has been no thunder.
A Voice. [Is heard from the basement] Starck, dear, won't
you come down and help me put in the sugar!
Starck. All right, old lady, I'm coming! [To Louise] We
are making jam, you know. [As he goes] I'm coming, I'm
coming! [He disappears into the gateway again.
Louise remains standing at the window.
Consul. [Enters slowly from the right] Isn't my brother
back yet?
Louise. No, sir.
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
Fischer a while ago — up on the second floor.
Consul. On the second floor — Fischer! Red shades that
make the place look like a drug-store window at night! I
fear you have got bad company in the house.
Louise. What is a Boston club?
Consul. Oh, there need be no harm in it at all — in this
case I don't know, however. — But how did the post-card — ?
Oh, it was he who dropped it a while ago. Then I'll put it
back in the box. — Fischer? I have heard that name before.
In connection with something I cannot recall just now —
May I ask a question, Miss Louise: does my brother never
speak of — the past?
Louise. Not to me.
Consul. Miss Louise — one more question
Louise. Excuse me, but here comes the milk, and I have
to receive it. [She leaves the dining-room.
The Milkmaid appears from the right and enters the
house from the square.
Starck. [Comes out again, takes off his white linen cap t 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
here you have quiet at least: never any rattling carriages,
and still less any street-cars — it's just like the country.
Starck. Of course, it's quiet, but it's too quiet for busi-
ness. I know my trade, but I am a poor salesman — have
scenei THE THUNDERSTORM 195
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 "0-oh" is heard from the
apartment on the second floor.
Starck. What, in the name of Heaven, are they up to in
that place? Are they killing each other?
Consul. I don't like this new and unknown element that
has come into the house. It is pressing on us like a red
thunder-cloud. What kind of people are they? Where do
they come from? What do they want here?
Starck. It's so very dangerous to delve in other people's
affairs — you get mixed up in them yourself
Consul. Do you know anything about them?
Starck. No, I don't know anything at all.
Consul. Now they're screaming again, this time in the
stairway
Starck. [Withdrawing into the gateway and speaking in a
low voice] I don't want to have anything to do with this.
Gerda, the divorced wife of the Master, comes running
from the house into the square. She is bareheaded,
with her hair down, and very excited. The Consul
approaches her, and they recognise each other. She
draws back from him.
Consul. So it's you — my former sister-in-law?
196 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. [Bevrildered] 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 u£ 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
straight into the dining-room to read the papers. Stand
still and he won't notice you. — But you must go back to
your own rooms
Gerda. I can't! I can't go back to that man.
Consul. Who is he, and what?
scenei THE THUNDERSTORM 197
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 THUNDERSTORM 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 newspaper in
his hand; he goes into the house pensively by the back
door, while 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.
Gerda. He is looking at us!
Consul. Don't move!
scenei 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
into the pantry. Another door to the right of it leads to the
hallway. At the left stands a buffet with a telephone on it.
A piano and a tall clock stand at the right. There are
doors in both side walls.
The Master is in the room, and Louise enters as the curtain
rises.
Master. Where did my brother go?
Louise. [Alarmed) He was outside a moment ago. He
can't be very far away.
Master. What a dreadful noise they are making up above !
It is as if they were stepping on my head! Now they are
pulling out bureau drawers as if they were were preparing for
a journey — running away, perhaps. — If you only knew how to
play chess, Louise!
Louise. I know a little
Master. Oh, if you just know how to move the pieces,
that will be enough — Sit down, child. [He sets up the chess
pieces) They are carrying on up there so that they make the
chandelier rattle — and the confectioner is heating up down
below. I think I'll have to move soon.
Louise. I have long thought that you ought to do so 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 grow
beautiful.
Louise. But you may live twenty years more, and that is
too long a time to live among memories which, after all, must
fade and which may change colour entirely some fine day.
Master. How much you know, my child! — Begin now
by moving a pawn — but not the one in front of the queen,
or you will be mate in two moves.
Louise. Then I start with the knight
Master. Hardly less dangerous, girl !
Louise. But I think I'll start with the knight just the
same.
Master. All right. Then I'll move my bishop *s pawn.
Starck appears in the hallway, carrying a tray.
Louise. There's Mr. Starck with the tea-cakes. He
doesn't make any more noise than a mouse.
[She rises and goes out into the hallway to receive the tray,
which she then carries into the pantry.
Master. Well, Mr. Starck, how is the old lady?
Starck. Oh, thank you, her eyes are about as usual.
Master. Have you seen anything of my brother?
Starck. He is walking back and forth outside, I think.
Master. Has he got any company?
Starck. No-o — I don't think so.
Master. It wasn't yesterday you had a look at these
rooms, Mr. Starck.
Starck. I should say not — it's just ten years ago now
Master. When you brought the wedding-cake. — Does the
place look changed?
Starck. It is just as it was — the palms have grown, of
course — but the rest is just as it was.
202 THE THUNDERSTORM scene h
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. [She disappears again.
Master. Well, Mr. Starck, won't you sit down and chat a
little — or perhaps you play chess?
Starck. I can't stay away from my pots, and the oven
has to be heated up at eleven. It's very kind of you, 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 THUNDERSTORM 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! [He sits down at the table and begins to drum
with his fingers on it; tries to read the newspaper, but tires of it;
lights matches only to blow them out again at once; looks re-
peatedly at the big clock y 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 corning 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?
Master. Perhaps.
Consul. It's certain then. And if now you had the choice
between solitude and the past?
Master. No ghosts, however!
Consul. How about your memories?
Master. They don't walk. They are only poems wrought
by me out of certain realities. But if dead people walk, then
you have ghosts.
Consul. Well, then — in your memory — who brings you
the prettiest mirage: the woman or the child?
scene n THE THUNDERSTORM 205
Master. Both! I cannot separate them, and that's why
I never tried to keep the child.
Consul. But do you think you did right? Did the possi-
bility of a stepfather never occur to you?
Master. I didn't think that far ahead at the time, but
afterward, of course, I have had — my thoughts — about —
that very thing.
Consul. A stepfather who abused — perhaps debased —
your daughter?
Master. Hush!
Consul. What is it you hear?
Master. I thought I heard the "little steps" — those little
steps that came tripping down the corridor when she was
looking for me. — It was the child that was the best of all!
To watch that fearless little creature, whom nothing could
frighten, who never suspected that life might be deceptive,
who had no secrets! I recall her first experience of the malice
that is in human beings. She caught sight of a pretty child
down in the park, and, though it was strange to her, she went
up to it with open arms to kiss it — and the pretty child 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 eyes suddenly shot strange glances as if some
evil beast had appeared behind those eyes. It scared me
literally so that I had to see if some other person were 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 ought
206 THE THUNDERSTORM scene n
to have company. This summer in the city seems to have
been rather hard on you.
Master. Only these last few weeks. The sickness and
that death up above — it was as if I had gone through it 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
*m the altar of my home. I want no other one. [Pause] That
must be Louise putting things to rights in the linen closet.
It has such a clean smell, and it reminds me — oh, the 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
208 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.
Gerda. Where?
Consul. [Pointing toward the left] There.
Gerda. [Shocked] And here he has been going for five
years?
Consul. Ten years — five of them alone!
Gerda. Of course, he loves solitude.
Consul. But I think he has had enough of it.
Gerda. Will he turn me out?
Consul. Find out for yourself! You take no risk, as he
is always polite.
Gerda. I didn't make that centrepiece
Consul. That is to say, you risk his asking you for the
child.
Gerda. But it was he who should help me find it again
Consul. Where do you think Fischer has gone, and what
can be the purpose of his flight?
Gerda. To get away from the unpleasant neighbourhood,
first of all; then to make me run after him. And he wanted
the girl as a hostage, of course.
Consul. As to the ballet — that's something the father
must not know, for he hates music-halls.
Gerda. [Sitting down in front of the chess-board and 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 away, but sinks down on the chair
again) Oh!
Consul. Now I leave you. Don't think of what you are
to say. It will come of itself, like the "next move" in a game
of chess.
Gerda. I fear his first glance most of all, for it will tell me
whether I have changed for better or for worse — whether
I have grown old and ugly.
Consul. [Going out to the right] If he finds you looking
older, then he will dare to approach you. If he finds you as
young as ever, he will have no hope, for he is more diffident
than you think. — Now !
The Master is seen outside, 'passing by the door leading
to the pantry; he carries a letter in his hand; then he
disappears, only to become visible again a moment
later in the hallway, where he opens the outside door
and steps out.
Consul. [In the doorway at the right] He went out to the
mail-box.
Gerda. No, this is too much for me! How can I possibly
ask him to help me with this divorce? I want to get out!
It's too brazen!
Consul. Stay! You know that his kindness has no lim-
its. And he'll help you for the child's sake.
210 THE THUNDERSTORM sceneii
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 — everything all right — nothing serious at all.
— If it's hot? Well, there has been a lot of thundering, right
over our heads, but nobody has been struck. False alarm! —
What did you say? Fischer? — Yes, but I think they are going
to leave. — Why so? I know nothing in particular. — Oh, is that
so? — Yes, it leaves at six-fifteen, by the outside route, and it
gets there — let me see — at eight-twenty-five. — Did you have
a good time? — [With a little laugh] Oh, he's impossible when
he gets started ! And what did Marie have to say about it? —
How I have had it during the summer? Oh, well, Louise
and I have kept each other company, and she has got such
an even, pleasant temper. — Yes, she is very nice, indeed! —
Oh, no, nothing of that kind!
Gerda, who has begun to understand, rises with an ex-
pression of consternation on her face.
Master. My eyes? Oh, I am getting a little near-sighted.
But I feel like the confectioner's old wife: there is nothing to
look at. Wish I were deaf, too! Deaf and blind! The
neighbours above make such a lot of noise at night — it's a
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 being
seen by the Master; Gerda stares at her with mingled
admiration and hatred; Louise withdraws toward the
right.
Master. [At the telephone] Is that you? The cheek of it
— to break off our talk in order to listen! — To-morrow, then,
at six-fifteen. — Thank you, and the same to you! — Yes, I
will, indeed! — Good night, mother! [He rings off.
Louise has disappeared. Gerda is standing in the
middle of the floor.
Master. [Turns around and catches sight of Gerda, whom
he gradually recognises; then he puts his hand to his heart] O
Lord, was that you? Wasn't Louise here a moment ago?
Gerda remains silent.
Master. [Feebly] How — how did you get here?
Gerda. I hope you pardon — I just got to the city — I was
passing by and felt a longing to have a look at my old home —
the windows were open [Pause.
Master. Do you find things as they used to be?
Gerda. Exactly, and yet different — there is a 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 n
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.
Master. Have you? That's more than I know.
Gerda. Didn't you read the papers in the suit?
Master. No-o ! I left that to my lawyer. [He sits down.
Gerda. And the decision of the court?
Master. No, why should I? As I don't mean to marry
again, I have no use for that kind of documents.
Pause. Gerda seats herself.
scene n THE THUNDERSTORM 213
Master. What did those papers say? That I was too old?
Gerda's silence indicates assent.
Master. Well, that was nothing but the truth, so that
need not trouble you. In my answer I said the very same
thing and asked the Court to set you free again.
Gerda. You said, that ?
Master. I said, not that I was, but that I was about to
become too old for you!
Gerda. [Offended] For me?
Master. Yes. — I couldn't say that I was too old when we
married, for then the arrival of the child would have been
unpleasantly explained, and it was our child, was it not?
Gerda. You know that, of course ! But
Master. Do you think I should be ashamed of my age?
— Of course, if I took to dancing and playing cards at night,
then I might soon land in an invalid's chair, or on the 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
214 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 215
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 pull 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 n
Master. [Rises and goes to the door, where Louise ivhispers
something into his ear] Oh, mercy
Louise goes out.
Master. I am sorry for you, Gerda!
Gerda. What do you mean? That I am jealous of your
servant-girl?
Master. No, I didn't mean that.
Gerda. Yes, you meant that you were too old for me, but
not for her. I catch the insulting point — She's pretty —
I don't deny it — for a servant-girl
Master. I am sorry for you, Gerda!
Gerda. Why do you say that?
Master. Because you are to be pitied. Jealous of my
servant — that ought to be rehabilitation enough.
Gerda. Jealous, I
Master. Why do you fly in a rage at my nice, gentle
kinswoman?
Gerda. "A little more than kin."
Master. No, my dear, I have long ago resigned myself — ■
and I am satisfied with my solitude — [ The telephone rings, and
he goes to answer it] Mr. Fischer? No, that isn't here. — Oh,
yes, that's me. — Has he skipped? — With whom, do you say?
— with Starck's daughter! Oh, good Lord! How old is she?
— Eighteen ! A mere child ! [Rings off.
Gerda. I knew he had run away. — But with a woman! —
Now you're pleased.
Master. No, I am not pleased. Although there is a sort
of solace to my mind in finding justice exists in this world.
Life is very quick in its movements, and now you find your-
self where I was.
Gerda. Her eighteen years against my twenty-nine— I
am old — too old for him!
scene ii THE THUNDERSTORM 217
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 sceneh
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 THE THUNDERSTORM 221
Master. Do you think he should be told?
Louise. For Heaven's sake, no!
Master. But I fear it isn't the first time she gave him
trouble.
Louise. He never speaks of her.
Master. It's horrible! I wonder if we'll get to the end of
it soon? [The telephone rings again] Now it's ringing again.
Don't answer. I don't want to hear anything. — My child —
in such company! An adventurer and a strumpet! — It's
beyond limit! — Poor Gerda!
Louise. It's better to have certainty. I'll go in — You
must do something !
Master. I cannot move — I can receive blows, but to
strike back — no!
Louise. But if you don't repel a danger, it will press closer;
and if you don't resist, you'll be destroyed.
Master. But if you refuse to be drawn in, you become
unassailable.
Louise. Unassailable?
Master, Things straighten out much better if you don't
mess them up still further by interference. How can you want
me to direct matters where so many passions are at play?
Do you think I can suppress anybody's emotions, or give them
a new turn?
Louise. But how about the child?
Master. I have surrendered my rights — and besides —
frankly speaking — I don't care for them — not at all now,
when she has been here and spoiled the images harboured in
my memory. She has wiped out all the beauty that I had
cherished, and now there is nothing left.
Louise. But that's to be set free!
Master. Look, how empty the place seems in there — as
222 THE THUNDERSTORM scene ra
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 in 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 hi
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
the tickets, but when she discovered that they were for third
class she threw them in his face and walked out to the cab-
stand.
scenehi THE THUNDERSTORM W5
Master. Ugh!
Consul. As soon as I had established a connection 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 in
Consul. Disappeared.
Master. Then I may have them after me again. [Pause]
Did you see if they went with him?
Consul. He went alone.
Master. Well, then we are done with that one, at least.
Number two — there remain now — the mother and the child.
Consul. Why is the light burning up there in their rooms?
Master. Because they forgot to turn it out.
Consul. I'll go up
Master. No, don't go! — I only hope that they don't come
back here! — To repeat, always repeat, begin the same lesson
all over again!
Consul. But it has begun to straighten out.
Master. Yet the worst remains — Do you think they
will come back?
Consul. Not she — not since she had to make you amends
in the presence of Louise.
Master. I had forgotten that! She really did me the
honour of becoming jealous! I do think there is justice in
this world!
Consul. And then she learned that Agnes was younger
than herself.
Master. Poor Gerda! But in a case like this you mustn't
tell people that justice exists — an avenging justice — for it
is sheer falsehood that they love justice! And you must deal
gently with their filth. And Nemesis — exists only for the
other person. — There it's ringing again? That telephone
makes a noise like a rattlesnake!
Louise becomes visible at the telephone inside. Pause,
Master. [To Louise] Did the snake bite?
Louise. [At the window] May I speak to you, sir?
Master. [Going up to the window] Speak out!
scene m THE THUNDERSTORM 227
Louise. The lady has gone to her mother, in the country,
to live there with her little girl.
Master. [To his brother] Mother and child in the country
— in a good home! Now it's straightened out! — Oh!
Louise. And she asked us to turn out the light up-stairs.
Master. Do that at once, Louise, and pull down the
shades so we don't have to look at it any longer.
Louise leaves the dining-room.
Starck. [Coming out on the sidewalk again and looking up]
I think the storm has passed over.
Master. It seems really to have cleared up, and that
means we'll have moonlight.
Consul. That was a blessed rain !
Starck. Perfectly splendid!
Master. Look, there's the lamplighter coming at last!
The Lamplighter enters, lights the street lamp beside
the bench, and passes on.
Master. The first lamp! Now the fall is here! That's
our season, old chaps! It's getting dark, but then comes
reason to light us with its bull's-eyes, so that we don't go
astray.
Louise becomes visible at one of the windows on the
second floor; immediately afterward everything is dark
up there.
Master. [To Louise] Close the windows and pull down
the shades so that all memories can lie down and sleep in
peace! The peace of old age! And 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, who is) . ,, , __
__ > brother of Rudolph
Arvid Walstrom )
Anderson, a mason (brother-in-law of the gardener)
Mrs. Anderson, wife of the mason
Gustafson, a gardener (brother-in-law of the mason)
Alfred, son of the gardener
Albert Ericson, a stone-cutter (second cousin of the hearse-
driver)
Mathilda, daughter of the stone-cutter
The Hearse-Driver (second cousin of the stone-cutter)
A Detective
Sjoblom, a painter
Mrs. Westerlund, hostess at " The Last Nail" formerly a
nurse at the dyers
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 walls can be seen an orchard in bloom.
At the right is the front of a small inn, the sign of which is
a wreath hanging from a pole. Tables and benches are
placed outside.
At the left, in the foreground, there is a pile of furniture and
household utensils that have been saved from the fire.
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
during the day, but the heat made the buds go into bloom
scene i AFTER THE FIRE 233
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 scenei
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 235
Mrs. Westerlund. 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-cutter'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 I
Hearse-Driver. Oh, he had slabs of cork with pins on
'em, and a lot of flies — something beyond us here — but I
guess that's the proper way — can I go out to the kitchen now?
Mrs. Westerlund. Yes, if you use the back door, I think
you can get something wet
Hearse-Driver. But I want to have a word with the dyer
before I drive off — I've got my horses over at the stone-
cutter's, who's my second cousin, you know. Haven't got
any use for him, as you know, too, but we're doing business
together, he and I — that is, I put in a word for him with the
heirs, and so he lets me put my horses into his yard — just let
me know when the dyer shows up — luck, wasn't it, that he
didn't have his works here, too
[He goes out, passing around the inn.
Mrs. Westerlund goes into the inn by the front door.
Anderson, who has finished eating, begins to dig again.
Mrs. Anderson. Do you find anything?
Anderson. Nails and door-hinges — all the keys are 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 and his brother what went off to America, though they
say he's back now. The father, he was a real man, he was,
but the boys were always a little so-so. Mrs. Westerlund
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 when they come and borrow money of me — I can't say
no — darned fool that I am! And then I got in the way of
that policeman, who snared me with all sorts of questions. I
should have kept my mouth shut, like the painter over there,
but I can't, and so I let out this, that, and the other thing,
and he put it all down, and now I am called as a witness!
Anderson. What was it you said?
Gustafson. I said I thought — that it looked funny to me
— and that somebody must have started it.
Anderson. Oh, that's what you said!
Gustafson. Yes, pitch into me — I've deserved it, goose
that I am !
Anderson. And who could have started it, do you think?
— Don't mind the painter, and my old woman here never
carries any tales.
SCENE I
AFTER THE FIRE 239
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 the 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 —
and I was to make a crown of it, and I've clean forgotten it —
well, if I ain't the worst fool that ever walked the earth! [He
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 that myrtle!
Wreath, too, you say — have you got enough for it? — No? —
Well, then I'll let the whole wedding go hang, that's all there
is to it! — Let them walk up to the minister's and have him
splice them together, but it'll make the stone-cutter mad as a
hornet. — What do you think I should do? — No, I can't —
haven't slept a wink the whole night. — It's too much for a
poor human creature. — Yes, I am a ninny, I know — go for
me, will you! — Oh, there's the pot — thanks! And then I
need scissors, which I haven't got — and wire — and string —
where am I to get them from? — No, of course, nobody wants
to break off his work for a thing like that. — I'm tired of the
whole mess — work fifty years, and then have it go up in
smoke! I haven't got strength to begin over again — and
the way it comes all at once, blow on blow — did you ever!
I'm going to run away from it! [He goes oat.
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 look
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 run 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 a
tiny place for such a lot of destinies! There's the dining-
room with the frescoed walls: palms, and cypresses, and a
temple beneath a rose-coloured sky — that's the way I dreamt
the world would look the moment I got away from home.
And the stove with its pale blossoms growing out of conches.
And the chimney cupboard with its metal doors — I 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?
244 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
dived into the water, and then mother said: "Yes, Rudolph,
he has courage! " That was meant for me — for me whom you
had stripped of all courage and self-assurance. But then came
the day when you had stolen some apples, and you were too
cowardly to own up to it, and so you put it on me.
Rudolph. Haven't you forgotten that yet?
Stranger. I haven't forgotten, but I have forgiven. —
From here, where I am sitting, I can see that very tree,
and that's what brought it into my mind. It's over there,
you see, and it bears golden pippins. — If you look, you'll see
that one of its biggest branches has been sawed off. For it
so happened that I didn't get angry with you on account of
my unjust punishment, but my anger turned against the
tree. And two years later that big branch was all dried up
and had to be sawed off. It made me think of the fig-tree
that was cursed by the Saviour, but I was not led into any
presumptuous conclusions. — However, I still know all those
trees by heart, and once, when I had the yellow fever in
Jamaica, I counted them over, every one. Most of them are
still there, I see. There's the snow-apple which has red-
striped fruit — a chaffinch used to nest in it. There's the
melon-apple, standing right in front of the garret where I
scene i AFTER THE FIRE 247
used to study for technological examinations; there's the
spitzenburg, and the late astrachan; and the pear-tree that
used to look like a poplar in miniature; and the one with pears
that could only be used for preserves — they never ripened,
and we despised them, but mother treasured them above
all the rest; and in that tree there used to be a wryneck
that was always twisting its head around and making a nasty
cry — That was fifty years ago !
Rudolph. [Irately] What are you driving at?
Stranger. Just as touchy and ill-tempered as ever! It's
interesting. — There was no special purpose back of my chat-
ter — my memories insist on pushing forward — I remember
that the garden was rented to somebody else once, but we
had the right to play in it. To me it seemed as if we had
been driven out of paradise — and the tempter was standing
behind every tree. In the fall, when the ground was strewn
with ripe apples, I fell under a temptation that had become
irresistible
Rudolph. You stole, too?
Stranger. Of course I did, but I didn't put it off on you !
— When I was forty I leased a lemon grove in one of the
Southern States, and — well, there were thieves after the trees
every night. I couldn't sleep, I lost flesh, I got sick. And
then I thought of — poor Gustafson here!
Rudolph. He's still living.
Stranger. Perhaps he, too, stole apples in his childhood?
Rudolph. Probably.
Stranger. Why are your hands so black?
Rudolph. Because I handle dyed stuffs all the time. —
Did you have anything else in mind?
Stranger. What could that have been?
Rudolph. That my hands were not clean.
Stranger. Fudge!
248 AFTER THE FIRE
SCENE I
Rudolph. Perhaps you are thinking of your inheritance?
Stranger. Just as mean as ever! Exactly as you were
when eight years old !
Rudolph. And you are just as heedless, and philosophical,
and silly!
Stranger. It's a curious thing — but I wonder how many
times before we have said just what we are saying now?
[Pause] I am looking at your album here — our sisters and
brothers — five dead!
Rudolph. Yes.
Stranger. And our schoolmates?
Rudolph. Some taken and some left behind.
Stranger. I met one of them in South Carolina — Axel
Ericson — do you remember him?
Rudolph. I do.
Stranger. One whole night, while we were on a train to-
gether, he kept telling me how our highly respectable and
respected family consisted of nothing but rascals; that it had
made its money by smuggling — you know, the toll-gate was
right here; and that this house had been built with double
walls for the hiding of contraband. Don't you see that the
walls are double?
Rudolph. [Crushed] So that's the reason why we had clos-
ets everywhere?
Stranger. The father of that fellow, Ericson, had been in
the custom-house service and knew our father, and the son
told me a lot of inside stories that turned my whole world of
imagined conditions topsyturvy.
Rudolph. You gave him a licking, I suppose?
Stranger. Why should I lick him? — However, my hair
turned grey that night, and I had to edit my entire life over
again. You know how we used to live in an atmosphere of
mutual admiration; how we regarded our family as better
SCENE I
AFTER THE FIRE 249
than all others, and how, in particular, our parents were
looked up to with almost religious veneration. And then I
had to paint new faces on them, strip them, drag them down,
eliminate them. It was dreadful ! Then the ghosts began to
walk. The pieces of those smashed figures would come to-
gether again, but not properly, and the result would be a
regular wax cabinet of monsters. All those grey-haired gen-
tlemen whom we called uncles, and who came to our house to
play cards and eat cold suppers, they were smugglers, and
some of them had been in the pillory— Did you know that?
Rudolph. [Completely overwhelmed] No.
Stranger. The dye works were merely a hiding-place for
smuggled yarn, which was dyed in order to prevent identi-
fication. I can still remember how I used to hate the smell
of the dyeing vat — there was something sickeningly sweet
about it.
Rudolph. Why did you have to tell me all this?
Stranger. Why should I keep silent about it and let you
make yourself ridiculous by your boasting about that revered
family of yours? Have you never noticed people grinning at
you?
Rudolph. No-o! [Pause.
Stranger. I am now looking at father's bookcase in the
pile over there. It was always locked, you remember. But
one day, when father was out, I got hold of the key. The
books in front I had seen through the glass doors, of course.
There were volumes of sermons, the collected works of great
poets, handbooks for gardening, compilations of the statutes
referring to customs duties and the confiscation of smuggled
goods; the constitution; a volume about foreign coins; and a
technical work that later determined my choice of a career.
But back of those books there was room for other things, and
I began to explore. First of all I found the rattan — and, do
250 AFTER THE FIRE scene i
you know, I have since learned that that bitter plant bears
a fruit from which we get the red dye known as "dragon's
blood": now, isn't that queer! And beside the rattan stood
a bottle labelled "cyanide of potassium."
Rudolph. I suppose it was meant for use over at the works.
Stranger. Or elsewhere, perhaps. But this is what I had
in mind: there were some bundles of pamphlets with illus-
trated covers that aroused my interest. And, to put it plain,
they contained the notorious memoirs of a certain chevalier —
I took them out and locked the case again. And beneath the
big oak over there I studied them. We used to call that oak
the Tree of Knowledge — and it was, all right! And in that
way I left my childhood's paradise to become initiated, all
too early, into those mysteries which — yes!
Rudolph. You, too?
Stranger. Yes, I, too! [Pause] However — let us talk of
something else, as all that is now in ashes. — Did you have
any insurance?
Rudolph. [Angrily] Didn't you ask that a while ago?
Stranger. Not that I can recall. It happens so often
that I confuse what I have said with what I have intended to
say, and mostly because I think so intensely — ever since that
day when I tried to hang myself in the closet.
Rudolph. What is that you are saying?
Stranger. I tried to hang myself in the closet.
Rudolph. [Speaking very slowly] Was that what happened
that Holy Thursday Eve, when you were taken to the hos-
pital — what the rest of us children were never permitted to
know?
Stranger. [Speaking in the same manner] Yes. — There you
can see how little we know about those that are nearest to us,
about our own homes and our own lives.
Rudolph. But why did you do it?
SCENE I
AFTER THE FIRE 251
Stranger. I was twelve years old, and tired of life! It
was like groping about in a great darkness — I couldn't un-
derstand what I had to do here — and I thought the world
a madhouse. I reached that conclusion one day when our
school was turned out with torches and banners to celebrate
"the destroyer of our country." For I had just read a book
which proved that our country had been brought to destruc-
tion by the worst of all its kings — and that was the one whose
memory we had to celebrate with hymns and festivities. 1
[Pause.
Rudolph. What happened at the hospital?
Stranger. My dear fellow, I was actually put into the
morgue as dead. Whether I was or not, I don't know — but
when I woke up, most of my previous life had been for-
gotten, and I began a new one, but in such a manner that
the rest of you thought me peculiar. — Are you married again?
Rudolph. I have wife and children — somewhere.
Stranger. When I recovered consciousness I seemed to
myself another person. I regarded life with cynical calm:
it probably had to be the way it was. And the worse it
turned out the more interesting it became. After that I
looked upon myself as if I were somebody else, and I observed
and studied that other person, and his fate, thereby rendering
myself callous to my own sufferings. But while dead I had
acquired new faculties — I could see right through people,
read their thoughts, hear their intentions. In company, I
beheld them stripped naked — Where did you say the fire
started?
Rudolph. Why, nobody knows.
Stranger. But the newspapers said that it began in a
^his refers to King Charles XII of Sweden, whose memory Strindberg hated
mainly because of the use made of it by the jingo elements of the Swedish upp^r
classes.
252 AFTER THE FIRE
SCENE I
closet right under the student's garret — what kind of a stu-
dent is he?
Rudolph. [Appalled] Is it in the newspapers? I haven't
had time to look at them to-day. What more have they got?
Stranger. They have got everything.
Rudolph. Everything?
Stranger. The double walls, the respected family of smug-
glers, the pillory, the hairpins
Rudolph. What hairpins?
Stranger. I don't know, but they are there. Do you know?
Rudolph. Naw!
Stranger. Everything was brought to light, and you may
look for a stream of people coming here to stare at all that
exposed rottenness.
Rudolph. Lord have mercy! And you take pleasure at
seeing your family dragged into scandal?
Stranger. My family? I have never felt myself related
to the rest of you. I have never had any strong feeling either
for my fellow men or myself. I think it's interesting to watch
them — that's all — What sort of a person is your wife?
Rudolph. Was there anything about her, too?
Stranger. About her and the student.
Rudolph. Good! Then I was right. Just wait and you'll
see! — There comes the stone-cutter.
Stranger. You know him?
Rudolph. And so do you. A schoolmate — Albert Ericson.
Stranger. Whose father was in the customs service and
whose brother I met on the train — he who was so very well
informed about our family.
Rudolph. That's the infernal cuss who has blabbed to the
papers, then!
Ericson enters with a pick and begins to look over the
ruins.
scene i AFTER THE FIRE 253
Stranger. What a ghastly figure!
Rudolph. He's been in jail — two years. Do you know
what he did? He made some erasures in a contract between
him and myself — —
Stranger. You sent him to jail ! And now he has had his
revenge !
Rudolph. But the queerest part of it is that nowadays he
is regarded as the most honest man in the whole district.
He has become a martyr, and almost a saint, so that nobody
dares say a word against him.
Stranger. That's interesting, indeed!
Detective. [Entering, turns to Ericson] Can you pull
down that wall over there?
Ericson. The one by the closet?
Detective. That's the one.
Ericson. That's where the fire started, and I'm sure you'll
find a candle or a lamp around there — for I know the people!
Detective. Go ahead then!
Ericson. The closet door was burned off, to be sure, but
the ceiling came down, and that's why we couldn't find out,
but now we'll use the beak on it! [He falls to with his 'pick]
Ho-hey, ho-ho! — Ho-hey, leggo! — Ho-hey, for that one! —
Do you see anything?
Detective. Not yet.
Ericson. [Working away as before] Now I can see some-
thing! — The lamp has exploded, but the stand is left! — Who
knows this forfeit for his own? — Didn't I see the dyer some-
where around here?
Detective. There he is sitting now. [He picks the lamp
from, the debris and holds it up] Do you recognise your lamp,
Mr. Walstrom?
Rudolph. That isn't mine — it belonged to our tutor.
Detective. The student? Where is he now?
254 AFTER THE FIRE
SCENE I
Rudolph. He's down-town, but I suppose he'll soon be
here, as his books are lying over there.
Detective. How did his lamp get into the cook's closet?
Did he have anything to do with her?
Rudolph. Probably!
Detective. The only thing needed now is that he identify
the lamp as his own, and he will be arrested. What do you
think of it, Mr. Walstrom?
Rudolph. I? Well, what is there to think?
Detective. What reason could he have for setting fire to
another person's house?
Rudolph. I don't know. Malice, or mere mischief — you
never can tell what people may do — Or perhaps there was
something he wanted to cover up.
Detective. That would have been a poor way, as old rot-
tenness always will out. Did he have any grudge against
you?
Rudolph. It's likely, for I helped him once when he was
hard up, and he has hated me ever since, of course.
Detective. Of course? [Pause] Who is he, then?
Rudolph. He was raised in an orphanage — born of un-
known parents.
Detective. Haven't you a grown-up daughter, Mr. Wal-
strom?
Rudolph. [Angered] Of course I have!
Detective. Oh, you have! [Pause; then to Ericson] Now
you bring those twelve men of yours and pull down the walls
quick. Then we'll see what new things come to light.
[He goes out.
Ericson. That'll be done in a jiffy. [Goes out.
[Pause.
Stranger. Have you really paid up your insurance?
Rudolph. Of course!
SCENE I
AFTER THE FIRE 255
Stranger. Personally?
Rudolph. No, I sent it in as usual.
Stranger. You sent it — by somebody else! That's just
like you! — Suppose we take a turn through the garden and
have a look at the apple-trees.
Rudolph. All right, and then we'll see what happens after-
ward.
Stranger. Now begins the most interesting part of all.
Rudolph. Perhaps not quite so interesting if you find
yourself mixed up in it.
Stranger. I?
Rudolph. Who can tell?
Stranger. What a web it is!
Rudolph. There was a child of yours that went to the
orphanage, I think?
Stranger. God bless us! — Let's go over into the garden!
Curtain.
SECOND SCENE
The same setting as before with the exception that the walls have
been torn down so that the garden is made visible, with its
vast variety of spring flowers — daphnes, deutzias, daffodils,
narcissuses, tulips, auriculas — and with all the fruit-trees
in bloom.
Ericson, Anderson and his old wife, Gustafson, the Hearse-
Driver, Mrs. Westerlund, and the painter, Sjoblom,
are standing in a row staring at the spot where the house
used to be.
Stranger. [Entering] There they stand, enjoying the mis-
fortune that's in the air and waiting for the victim to appear —
he being the principal item. That the fire was incendiary
they take for granted, merely because they want it that way.
■ — And all these rascals are the friends and comrades of my
youth. I am even related to the hearse-driver through my
stepmother, whose father used to help carry out the coffins —
[He speaks to the crowd of spectators] Look here, you people, I
shouldn't stand there if I were you. There may have been
some dynamite stored in the cellar, and if such were the case
an explosion might take place any moment.
The curious crowd scatters and disappears.
Stranger. [Stoops over the scrap-heap and begins to poke in
the books piled there] Those are the student's books — Same
kind of rot as in my youth — Livy's Roman history, which is
said to be lies, every word — But here's a volume out of my
256
scene ii AFTER THE FIRE 257
brother's library — "Columbus, or the Discovery of America"!
My own book, which I got as a Christmas gift in 1857. My
name has been erased. This means it was stolen from me —
and I accused one of our maids, who was discharged on that
account! Fine business! Perhaps it led to her ruin — fifty
years ago ! Here is the frame of one of our family portraits ;
my renowned grandfather, the smuggler, who was put in the
pillory — fine! — But what is this? The foot-piece of a mahog-
any bed — the one in which I was born! Oh, damn! — Next
item: a leg of a dinner-table — the one that was an heirloom.
Why, it was supposed to be of ebony, and was admired on
that account! And now, after fifty years, I discover it to be
marie of painted maple. Everything had its colours changed
in our house to render it unrecognisable, even the clothes of us
children, so that our bodies always were stained with various
dyes. Ebony — humbug! And here's the dining-room clock
— smuggled goods, that, too — which has measured out the
time for two generations. It was wound up every Saturday,
when we had salt codfish and a posset made with beer for
dinner. Like all intelligent clocks, it used to stop when any-
body died, but when I died it went on just as before. Let
me have a look at you, old friend — I want to see your insides.
[As he touches the clock it falls to pieces] Can't stand being
handled! Nothing could stand being handled in our home
— nothing ! Vanity, vanity ! — But there's the globe that was
on top of the clock, although it ought to have been at the
bottom. You tiny earth: you, the densest and the heav-
iest of all the planets — that's what makes everything on you
so heavy — so heavy to breathe, so heavy to carry. The
cross is your symbol, but it might just as well have been a
fool's cap or a strait- jacket — you world of delusions and de-
luded! — Eternal One — perchance Thy earth has gone astray
in the limitless void? x\nd what set it whirling so that Thy
258 AFTER THE FIRE scene n
children were made dizzy, and lost their reason, and became
incapable of seeing what really is instead of what only seems?
— Amen! — And here is the student!
The Student enters and looks around in evident search
of somebody.
Stranger. He is looking for the mistress of the house.
And he tells everything he knows — with his eyes. Happy
youth! — Whom are you looking for?
Student. [Embarrassed] I was looking
Stranger. Speak up, young man — or keep silent. I un-
derstand you just the same.
Student. With whom have I the honour
Stranger. It's no special honour, as you know, for once I
ran away to America on account of debts
Student. That wasn't right.
Stranger. Right or wrong, it remains a fact. — So you were
looking for Mrs. Walstrom? Well, she isn't here, but I am
sure that she will come soon, like all the rest, for they are
drawn by the fire like moths
Student. By a candle!
Stranger. That's what you say, but I should rather have
said "lamp," in order to choose a more significant word.
However, you had better hide your feelings, my dear fellow,
if you can — I can hide mine! — We were talking of that lamp,
were we not? How about it?
Student. Which lamp?
Stranger. Well, well! Every one of them lies and denies]
— The lamp that was placed in the cook's closet and set fire
to the house?
Student. I know nothing about it.
Stranger. Some blush when they lie and others turn pale.
This one has invented an entirely new manner.
Student. Are you talking to yourself, sir?
scene n
AFTER THE FIRE 259
Stranger. I have that bad habit. — Are your parents still
living?
Student. They are not.
Stranger. Now you lied again, but unconsciously.
Student. I never tell a lie!
Stranger. Not more than three in these few moments!
I know your father.
Student. I don't believe it.
Stranger. So much the better for me! — Do you see this
scarf-pin? It's pretty, isn't it? But I never see anything of
it myself — I have no pleasure in its being there, while every-
body else is enjoying it. There is nothing selfish about that,
is there? But there are moments when I should like to see it
in another man's tie so that I might have a chance to admire
it. Would you care to have it?
Student. I don't quite understand — Perhaps, as you said,
it's better not to wear it.
Stranger. Perhaps! — Don't get impatient now. She will
be here soon. — Do you find it enviable to be young?
Student. I can't say that I do.
Stranger. No, youth is not its own master; it has never
any money, and has to take its food out of other hands; it is
not permitted to speak when company is present, but is
treated as an idiot; and as it cannot marry, it has to ogle other
people's wives, which leads to all sorts of dangerous conse-
quences. Youth — humbug!
Student. That's right! As a child, you want to grow up
— that is, reach fifteen, be confirmed, and put on a tall hat.
When you are that far, you want to be old — that is, twenty-
one. Which means that nobody wants to be young.
Stranger. And when you grow old in earnest, then you
want to be dead. For then there isn't much left to wish for.
— Do you know that you are to be arrested?
260 AFTER THE FIRE scene ii
Student. Am I?
Stranger. The detective said so a moment ago.
Student. Me?
Stranger. Are you surprised at that? Don't you know
that in this life you must be prepared for anything?
Student. But what have I done?
Stranger. You don't have to do anything in order to be
arrested. To be suspected is enough.
Student. Then everybody might be arrested!
Stranger. Exactly! The rope might be laid around the
neck of the whole race if justice were wanted, but it isn't.
It's a disgusting race: ugly, sweating, ill-smelling; its linen
dirty, its stockings full of holes; with chilblains and corns —
ugh! No, an apple-tree in bloom is far more beautiful. Or
look at the lilies in the field — they seem hardly to belong here
— and what fragrance is theirs!
Student. Are you a philosopher, sir?
Stranger. Yes, I am a great philosopher.
Student. Now you are poking fun at me!
Stranger. You say that to get away. Well, begone
then! Hurry up!
Student. I was expecting somebody.
Stranger. So I thought. But I think it would be better
to go and meet
Student. She asked you to tell me?
Stranger. Oh, that wasn't necessary.
Student. Well, if that's so — I don't want to miss
[He goes out.
Stranger. Can that be my son? Well, if it comes to the
worst — I was a child myself once, and it was neither remark-
able nor pleasant — And I am his — what of it? And for that
matter — who knows? — Now I'll have a look at Mrs. Wester-
lund. She used to work for my parents — was faithful and
SCENE II
AFTER THE FIRE 261
good-tempered; and when she had been pilfering for ten years
she was raised to the rank of a "trusted" servant. [He seats
himself at the table in front of the inn] There are Gustafson's
wreaths — just as carelessly made as they were forty years
ago. He was always careless and stupid in all he did, and
so he never succeeded with anything. But much might be
pardoned him on account of his self-knowledge. "Poor fool
that I am," he used to say, and then he would pull off his
cap and scratch his head. — Why, there's a myrtle plant! [He
knocks at the pot] Not watered, of course ! He always forgot
to water his plants, the damned fool — and yet he expected
them to grow.
Sjoblom, the painter, appears.
Stranger. I wonder who that painter can be. Probably
he belongs also to the Bog, and perhaps he is one of the threads
in my own web.
Sjoblom is staring at the Stranger all this time.
Stranger. [Returning the stare] Well, do you recognise me?
Sjoblom. Are you — Mr. Arvid?
Stranger. Have been and am — if perception argues being.
[Pause.
Sjoblom. I ought really to be mad at you.
Stranger. Well, go on and be so! However, you might
tell me the reason. That has a tendency to straighten mat-
ters out.
Sjoblom. Do you remember
Stranger. Unfortunately, I have an excellent memory.
Sjoblom. Do you remember a boy named Robert?
Stranger. Yes, a regular rascal who knew how to draw.
Sjoblom. And I was to go to the Academy in order to be-
come a real painter, an artist. But just about that time —
colour-blindness was all the go. You were studying at the
Technological Institute then, and so you had to test my eyes
262 AFTER THE FIRE scene n
before your father would consent to send me to the art classes.
For that reason you brought two skeins of yarn from the dye
works, one red and the other green, and then you asked me
about them. I answered — called the red green and the green
red — and that was the end of my career
Stranger. But that was as it should be.
Sjoblom. No — for the truth of it was, I could distinguish
the colours, but not — the names. And that wasn't found out
until I was thirty-seven
Stranger. That was an unfortunate story, but I didn't
know better, and so you'll have to forgive me.
Sj6blom. How can I?
Stranger. Ignorance is pardonable! And now listen to
me. I wanted to enter the navy, made a trial cruise as mid-
shipman, seemed to become seasick, and was rejected! But
I could stand the sea, and my sickness came from having
drunk too much. So my career was spoiled, and I had to
choose another.
Sjoblom. What have I got to do with the navy? I had
been dreaming of Rome and Paris
Stranger. Oh, well, one has so many dreams in youth, and
in old age too, for that matter. Besides, what's the use of
bothering about what happened so long ago?
Sjoblom. How you talk! Perhaps you can give me back
my wasted life
Stranger. No, I can't, but I am under no obligation to do
so, either. That trick with the yarn I had learned at school,
and you ought to have learned the proper names of the colours.
And now you can go to — one dauber less is a blessing to
humanity! — There's Mrs. Westerlund!-
Sjoblom. How you do talk. But I guess you'll get what's
coming to you!
Mrs. Westerlund enters.
SCENE II
AFTER THE FIRE 263
Stranger. How d'you do, Mrs. Westerlund? I am Mr.
Arvid — don't get scared now! I have been in America, and
how are you? I am feeling fine! There has been a fire here,
and I hear your husband is dead — policeman, I remember,
and a very nice fellow. I liked him for his good humour and
friendly ways. He was a harmless jester, whose quips never
hurt. I recall once
Mrs. Westerlund. O, merciful! Is this my own Arvid
whom I used to tend
Stranger. No, that wasn't me, but my brother — but never
mind, it's just as well meant. I was talking of your old man
who died thirty-five years ago — a very nice man and a par-
ticular friend of mine
Mrs. Westerlund. Yes, he died. [Pause] But I don't
know if — perhaps you are getting him mixed up
Stranger. No, I don't. I remember old man Westerlund
perfectly, and I liked him very much.
Mrs. Westerlund. [Reluctantly] Of course it's a shame
to say it, but I don't think his temper was very good.
Stranger. What?
Mrs. Westerlund. Well — he had a way of getting around
people, but he didn't mean what he said — or if he did he meant
it the other way around
Stranger. What is that? Didn't he mean what he was
saying? Was he a hypocrite?
Mrs. Westerlund. Well, I don't like to say it, but I be-
lieve
Stranger. Do you mean to say that he wasn't on the
level?
Mrs. Westerlund. N — yes — he was — a little — well, he
didn't mean exactly what he said — And how have you been
doing, Mr. Arvid?
Stranger. Now a light is dawning on me! — The miserable
264 AFTER THE FIRE
SCENE II
wretch! And here I have been praising him these thirty-five
years. I have missed him, and I felt something like sorrow
at his departure — I even used some of my tobacco allowance
to buy a wreath for his coffin.
Mrs. Westerlund. What was it he did? What was it?
Stranger. The villain! [Pause] Well — he fooled me — it
was Shrove Tuesday, I remember. He told me that if one
took away every third egg from a hen she would lay so many
more. I did it, got a licking, and came near getting into
court. But I never suspected him of having told on me. —
He was always hanging around our kitchen looking for tid-
bits, and so our maids could do just what they pleased about
the garbage — oh, now I see him in his proper aspect! — And
here I am now getting into a fury at one who has been thirty-
five years in his grave? — So he was a satirist, he was — and I
didn't catch on — although I understand him now.
Mrs. Westerlund. Yes, he was a little satirical all right
— / ought to know that!
Stranger. Other things are coming back to me now — and
I have been saying nice things about that blackguard for
thirty-five years! It was at his funeral I drank my first
toddy — And I remember how he used to flatter me, and call
me "professor" and "the crown prince" — ugh — And there
is the stone-cutter! You had better go inside, madam, or
we'll have a row when that fellow begins to turn in his bills.
Good-bye, madam — we'll meet again !
Mrs. Westerlund. No we won't. People ought never
to meet again — it is never as it used to be, and they only get
to clawing at each other — What business did you have to
tell me all those things — seeing everything was all right as
it was [She goes out.
Ericson, the stone-cutter, comes in.
Stranger. Come on!
scene n AFTER THE FIRE 265
Ericson. What's that?
Stranger. Come on, I said!
Ericson stares at him.
Stranger. Are you looking at my scarf-pin? I bought
it in London.
Ericson. I am no thief!
Stranger. No, but you practise the noble art of erasure.
You wipe out!
Ericson. That's true, but that contract was sheer robbery,
and it was strangling me.
Stranger. Why did you sign it?
Ericson. Because I was hard up.
Stranger. Yes, that is a motive.
Ericson. But now I am having my revenge.
Stranger. Yes, isn't it nice!
Ericson. And now they will be locked up.
Stranger. Did we ever fight each other as boys?
Ericson. No, I was too young.
Stranger. Have we never told lies about each other, or
robbed each other, or got in each other's way, or seduced each
other's sisters?
Ericson. Naw, but my father was in the customs service
and yours was a smuggler.
Stranger. There you are! That's something, at least!
Ericson. And when my father failed to catch yours he
was discharged.
Stranger. And you want to get even with me because
your father was a good-for-nothing?
Ericson. Why did you say a while ago that there was 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 is
possible, of course.
266 AFTER THE FIRE scene n
Ericson. 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.
scene ii AFTER THE 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 AFTER THE FIRE
scene n
Stranger. Yes, but how does she behave?
Ericson. Oh, what does it matter? — Of course, being an
educated person, she behaves politely, but nevertheless, you
know, she can get nasty, too, when her blood gets to boiling.
Stranger. But that doesn't make me much wiser.
Ericson. [Patting him on the shoulder] No, sir, we never
get much wiser when it's a question of human beings.
Stranger. Oh, you're a marvel! — And how do you like
my brother, the dyer? [Pause.
Ericson. Oh, his manners are pretty decent. And more
than that I don't know, for what he keeps hidden I can't find
out, of course.
Stranger. Excellent! But— his hands are always blue,
and yet you know that they are white beneath the dye.
Ericson. But to make them so they should be scraped,
and that's something he won't permit.
Stranger. Good ! — Who are the young couple coming over
there?
Ericson. That's the gardener's son and my daughter, who
were to have been married to-night, but who have had to
postpone it on account of the fire — Now I shall leave, for I
don't want to embarrass them. You understand — I ain't
much as a father-in-law. Good-bye! [He goes out.
The Stranger withdraws behind the inn, but so that he
remains visible to the spectators.
Alfred and Mathilda enter hand in hand.
Alfred. I had to have a look at this place — I had to
Mathilda. Why did you have to look at it?
Alfred. Because I have suffered so much in this house
that more than once I wished it on fire.
Mathilda. Yes, I know, it kept the sun out of the gar-
den, and now everything will grow much better — provided
they don't put up a still higher house
SCENE II
AFTER THE FIRE 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 mis-
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 forward] Bravo!
The Detective enters and talks in a low tone to the
Stranger, who answers in the same way. This lasts
for about half a minute, whereupon the Detective
leaves again.
Mrs. 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. Walstrom. How curious ! And to this day my hus-
272 AFTER THE FIRE scene n
band 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. Walstrom. 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-
scene ii AFTER THE FIRE 273
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 you happen to be born
without a film over your eyes, then you see life and your fel-
low creatures as they are — and you have to be a pig to feel at
home in such a mess. — But when you have been looking long
enough at blue mists, then you turn your eyes the other way
and begin to look into your own soul? There you find some-
thing really worth looking at.
Mrs. Walstrom. And what is it you see?
Stranger. Your own self. But when you have looked at
that you must die.
Mrs. Walstrom. [Covers her eyes with her hands; after a
pause she says] Do you want to help me?
Stranger. If I can.
Mrs. Walstrom. Try.
Stranger. Wait a moment! — No, I cannot. He is inno-
cently accused. Only you can set him free again. But that
you cannot do. It's a net that has not been tied by men
Mrs. Walstrom. But he is not guilty.
Stranger. Who is guilty? [Pause.
Mrs. Walstrom. No one! It was an accident!
Stranger. I know it.
Mrs. Walstrom. What am I to do?
Stranger. Suffer. It will pass. For that, too, is vanity.
Mrs. Walstrom. Suffer?
Stranger. Yes, suffer! But with hope!
Mrs. Walstrom. [Holding out her hand to him] Thank you!
Stranger. And let it be your consolation
274 AFTER THE FIRE scene ii
Mrs. Walstrom. What?
Stranger. That you don't suffer innocently.
Mrs. Walstrom walks out with her head bent low.
The Stranger climbs the pile of debris marking the site
of the burned house.
Rudolph. [Comes in> looking happy] Are you playing the
ghost among the ruins?
Stranger. Ghosts feel at home among ruins — And now
you are happy?
Rudolph. Now I am happy.
Stranger. And brave?
Rudolph. Whom have I got to fear, or what?
Stranger. I conclude from your happiness that you are
ignorant of one important fact — Have you the courage to
bear a piece of misfortune?
Rudolph. What is it?
Stranger. You turn pale?
Rudolph. I?
Stranger. A serious misfortune!
Rudolph. Speak out!
Stranger. The detective was here a moment ago, and he
told me — in confidence
Rudolph. What?
Stranger. That the premium on your insurance was paid
up two hours too late.
Rudolph. Great S ! what are you talking of? I sent
my wife to pay the premium.
Stranger, And she sent the bookkeeper — and he got there
too late.
Rudolph. Then I am ruined? [Pause.
Stranger. Are you crying?
Rudolph, I am ruined!
Stranger. Well, is that something that cannot be borne?
SCENE II
AFTER THE FIRE 275
Rudolph. How ani I to live? What am I to do?
Stranger. Work!
Rudolph. I am too old — I have no friends
Stranger. Perhaps you'll get some now. A man in mis-
fortune always seems sympathetic. I had some of my best
hours while fortune went against me.
Rudolph. [Wildly] I am ruined!
Stranger. But in my days of success and fortune I was
left alone. Envy was more than friendship could stand.
Rudolph. Then I'll sue the bookkeeper.
Stranger. Don't!
Rudolph. He'll have to pay
Stranger. How little you have changed! What's the use
of living, when you learn so little from it?
Rudolph. I'll sue him, the villain! — He hates me because
I gave him a cuff on the ear once.
Stranger. Forgive him — as I forgave you when I didn't
demand my inheritance.
Rudolph. What inheritance?
Stranger. Always the same ! Merciless! Cowardly! Dis-
ingenuous! — Depart in peace, brother!
Rudolph. What inheritance is that you are talking of?
Stranger. Now listen, Rudolph — my brother after all:
my own mother's son! You put the stone-cutter in jail be-
cause he did some erasing — all right! But how about your
own erasures from my book, " Christopher Columbus, or the
Discovery of America"?
Rudolph. [Taken aback] What's that? Columbus?
Stranger. Yes, my book that became yours!
Rudolph remains silent.
Stranger. Yes, and I understand now that it was you
who put the student's lamp in the closet — I understand every-
276 AFTER THE FIRE
SCENE II
thing. But do you know that the dinner-table was not of
ebony?
Rudolph. It wasn't?
Stranger. It was nothing but maple.
Rudolph. Maple!
Stranger. The pride and glory of the house — valued at
two thousand crowns!
Rudolph. That, too? So that was also humbug!
Stranger. Yes!
Rudolph. Ugh!
Stranger. Thus the debt is settled. The case is dropped
— the issue is beyond the court — the parties can with-
draw
Rudolph. [Rushing out] I am ruined!
Stranger. [Takes his wreath from the table] I meant to
take this wreath to the cemetery — to my parents' grave —
but I will place it here instead — on the ruins of what was
once their home — my childhood's home! [He bends his head in
silent prayer] And now, wanderer, resume thy pilgrimage!
Curtain.
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